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The berth was more than large enough for the two of them. It had definitely been made for a frame about three times bigger, but they had few crew-members that size and seniority had privileges.
They still ended up recharging mostly on top of each other. Prowl was surprisingly tactile in private, and Jazz liked the company at his back as he slept. The knowledge of Prowl behind him kept his overactive sensor suite calm, even when Prowl was the one fidgeting and waking them up.
Jazz's internal chronometer flashed; it was only half way through the sleep cycle, and his systems were still mid defrag, foggy and muddled. To his back Prowl was wriggling slightly, adjusting and readjusting, finally rolling away and leaving a cold gap down Jazz’ back struts.
He grumbled sotto voce, plating sealing down uncomfortably to protect his protoform from the cooler air, and peered back over his shoulder.
Ah. Prowl, instead, was running hot. He was awake, optics dimly lit, lips pursed and hands on his interface covers, spike pressurising into his digits as Jazz watched. He shivered as he stroked himself, squeezing his tip a little just near the tip the way he liked it, but there was no easy satisfaction in his field, and Jazz was getting colder.
Jazz wriggled himself, shuffling back so his aft bumped Prowl’s closest hip, letting his hand drift back to warm plating and then to pat his own leg invitingly. Prowl makes a quiet sound of surprise and doesn’t move until Jazz bumps back again; then he can obviously resist no more. He has to lift up to avoid catching a door wing, and then slips back close again, settling his upper arm over Jazz’s waist, spreading his palm over his belly possessively.
Bumpers and back plates get in the way slightly for their torsos, but from the waists down things are much easier. Prowl’s spike moves between Jazz’s thighs smoothly; he doesn't thrust but grinds a slow pace back and forth and Jazz opens his valve panelling so he has something soft to push against. Prowl murmurs wordlessly, but doesn’t change the angle of his spike to thrust inside.
Instead he keeps grinding his spike between Jazz’s thighs, rubbing against his valve lips and bumping into his node in just the right sort of way, and even though Jazz is not entirely sure he’s fully out of recharge mode he’s still getting all wet and warm. Sleepily he thinks that It would be nice if Prowl would just frag him, fill him all the way inside, but he just keeps up that slow friction. He does reach down to rub Jazz’s anterior node with the same pace and for a few moments it ameliorates the urge to be fragged.
A curl of pleasure starts low in his belly, starting to squeeze around his internals, and it’s enough to have him groaning softly and wordlessly. It is just enough right now, but the more it builds the more Jazz wants, the more he thinks about how he’s empty and not being fragged, and if he was then Prowl would be enjoying himself more as well. He can’t resist that train of thought, reaches down between his own thighs, pushes Prowl’s hand away and cups the front of his valve so on the next pass he directs that lovely blunt spikehead into his valve.
Prowl sinks halfway on the first push, moans sweetly and pushes in as close as he can, once again restricted by their armour. Jazz cants his hips over, flatter to the berth, half rolling onto his front so Prowl has to follow him to stay buried. He lifts his left thigh up so there’s more room and Prowl blankets him, frags into him deeper, trips every set of nodes Jazz has.
It’s exactly what Jazz had been thinking of. He’s warm again as well, face turned side in his pillow, his servo down between his own legs, playing his node in slow rhythmic circles; Prowl mostly on top of him, vents blowing hot ozone and plates pinging with heat. His core nodes are getting rubbed with that slow pressure, slick and firm, slow but not gentle. It’s the sort of thing he can feel in his tanks, totally possessed and opened and used in the best sorts of way.
What he would like now would be to kiss Prowl, but they couldn’t manage it in this position. Instead he bites his own glossa, chews his own lower lip until he can fumble for Prowl’s hand and slips two digits into his mouth just to have something to suck, tangle with his tongue, hook into his cheeks. Prowl makes a garbled noise, pushes down harder and rocks his hips heavy as he frags Jazz’s mouth with his fingers, pushing a third finger between his lips to plunder his mouth more thoroughly. His weight falls further over Jazz's back as he reaches down and under, pushes his other hand against Jazz’s where he’s rubbing his node.
It could last forever and Jazz would be happy like this, with his beautiful mech on top of him, inside him, nothing to think about but that spike splitting him open, that frame hot and heavy on his back, the sizzle of hot air from Prowl’s core blowing directly into his own gawping vents. But it’s too good to last forever, and that curl of pressure in his belly has turned into a straining knot, tightening and tightening until it springs open in the hot throb of overload.
His valve squeezes and ripples around Prowl’s thick spike, crushing into his nodes in heavy pulses, and his frame jerks with it, unable to move away. He moans around Prowl’s digits, bucking up into his frame, but Prowl is immovable. He keeps fragging Jazz through his overload, pumping his hips in that lazy way, pressing his hand even harder over Jazz’s node. There is no escape, just more frame shaking pleasure, and Jazz can’t even beg for mercy around the digits he has stuffed into his own mouth.
He’s held there and fragged with the same single mindedness that only Prowl can manage when he has a goal in mind, and another overload rocks through him, intense enough to make his vocaliser whine a line of high static. His processor swims with the surplus of charge, his chronometer fritzing on whether the pleasure lasts moments or forever and he doesn’t care which it is.
Prowl groans, low and long, and buries himself as deep as he can, vents popping open and closing as snaps of charge course his system. Transfluid spills in thick pulses deep in Jazz’s valve, searing over the deep nodes in a heavy wash of static charge that makes him shudder and moan, a smaller wave of static washing his fuses. He thrusts in small circles, never pulling back enough so any can ooze out, grinding deep and spending one last pulse before settling finally.
They lay there, a pile of softly clinking metals, engines falling down into neutral quiet again. Prowl is mostly on top of Jazz still, too heavy and definitely too warm - Jazz’s system is whining quiet complaints about the heady steam his vents have been forced to inhale - but neither of them seem to want to move. It’s not comfortable, but it also is in some protoform-deep way, to be so close, locked together in wordless intimacy.
Finally, Prowl reluctantly removes his fingers from Jazz’s tongue - he kisses the slick digits as they brush on his lips - and then makes to roll back and away. But that would make Jazz cold again, so he matches the movement, rolling back so they’re on their sides again, Prowl’s spike still slick in his valve, not quite depressurised yet. Prowl’s hand keeps cupping Jazz’s anterior node, still trapping his own hand there, obviously not hugely keen on separating yet either.
They’ll regret it when the night cycle is done, sticky with dried fluids in intimate seams, processors sluggish with inefficient defrags, but neither of them move further and fall back into recharge, nearly on top of each other.