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If there was a reason for Jazz dwelling so heavily on the topic, he would like to know so he could bottle it. Regardless, he has been dwelling, really ruminating, on the subject from the moment he had booted out of recharge.
He collects his daily ration from the mess hall, interrupts the Twins in the middle of planning a particularly dumb prank, debriefs Hound, and all the while he is extremely glad they don’t have any Outliers with telepathy on the Ark.
If they do, then serve them right for not telling anyone - they deserve the full blast of Jazz’s overactive imagination mulling over sucking spike.
He just can’t think of anything else; keeps thinking of how it feeling licking up the underside, the tickle of charge on his tongue from the activated nodes, how platelets feel over fat protoform, the ozone taste of transfluid, the weight on his tongue, the weight in his throat.
Dear Primus, it has him revved up. He’s been running stealth mods hard the whole cycle to keep his fans quiet and flushing coolant regularly to dump the resultant heat that builds in his frame. There’s no distracting himself. He just needs to get down on his knees and suck someone’s spike - and when he says someone, he means Prowl.
And Prowl - damn him, has been ignoring Jazz’s messages. He’s only sent a few - depending on your definition of ‘few’, of course - when the urge had been overwhelming, but not received a single response, negative or positive.
Ok, maybe it’s not Prowl’s fault. Possibly. He’s out of the Ark, on one of the few patrols he rosters himself for, and depending on where he is on the planet he might not be receiving or able to reply.
Whatever, no matter what has caused it and why Prowl isn’t responding - Jazz is suffering, and he’s suffering alone. It’s making him increasingly fractious as well, and when he finds himself biting his tongue at one of Mirage’s normally very entertaining sarcastic comments, he gives up on being a social creature and lurks back down into the subterranean closet that he has co-opted as an office. Only his Spec Ops mechs know where it is, and they know better than to chase him down here - and have learnt better than to ask what’s bothering him - so Jazz can sit in the dim light of an emergency light and try not to sulk.
The first warning is a distant whoop of sirens, the noise echoing from the surface high above. Jazz doesn’t think much of it, busy balancing a tenth datapad into a pyramid on his desk top, but then his inbox starts to ping with incoming messages.
Warnings from Smokescreen and Beachcomber that he’s done something to really slag Prowl off and he might want to vacate the area for a while. Warnings from Mirage and Bumblebee that Prowl was on the hunt through the Ark and his hideyhole better be damn secure. A message from Ratchet that he was on third shift this cycle, so if Jazz could wait until then to seek medical assistance that would be great.
There is a shriek of tyres down the corridor, the metallic whirr of a t-cog activating and then the door to Jazz’ office opens. He considers making a leap for the ventilation grate above his desk, but Prowl is already storming in like a thundercloud on pedes, looking especially stern and therefore particularly handsome. Jazz’s imagination slaps his brakes on and makes him sit up and try to look pert and obedient.
“You’re awful,” says Prowl, with no greeting. He’s dust blown, his engine is running hard, and he’s turned the sound down but not the lights off on his siren bar. He’s raced back to the Ark clearly, broken his own rules about racing in the corridors.
“Sorry?” says Jazz, trying to sound genuinely repentant. If he’s not then any hope of getting near Prowl’s spike might be dashed, and he’s just not mentally prepared for that eventuality.
“You send me all those messages, all that filth,” snarls Prowl, his sirens blipping, and, oops. he has been receiving Jazz’s messages after all. “While I'm halfway across the fragging state with my brother and the dopiest beach buggy spat out of any hotspot on Cybertron, and can’t do anything about it. And all you offer right now is sorry?”
Jazz makes a noise of realisation and can’t help the smirk that flickers to his mouth. Prowl’s scowl deepens a little more. He lunges forward, has Jazz dragged out of his chair and shoved against the wall in a swift movement. A more twitchy mech might think it aggressive, but Jazz recognises his Prowler in a hot and heavy mood a parsec away.
Prowl’s thick thigh shunts up between Jazz’s legs, grinds up hard against his panel, so he’s even more pinned against the wall, and it’s hot as all hells but there’s something he has been wanting to do all cycle.
“Lemme make it up to you,” he croons, leaning in to brush his mouth over Prowl’s taut cheek. “I’ve really been thinkin’ bout it all day, Prowler, gettin’ to suck your spike. Now you've raced back, all those things I sent to you, you can do ‘em to me right now.”
The lenses in Prowl’s optics cycle wider, his dentae creak audibly in his clenched jaw; his thigh is so tight in between Jazz’ legs that he’ll have to sand off the paint transfers. His sirens wail again and then he cuts off them sharply.
“Get on your knees,” says Prowl, “And do it then.”
Even if Prowl isn’t quite as teed off as he might appear to be, he’s clearly not planning on making it easy for Jazz. He drops down to his knees so quickly he definitely chips the paint on his knee guards, and Prowl keeps his plates defiantly closed tight.
Well it wasn’t as if persuading Prowl to open his plates hadn’t been part of his fantasy anyway. He can lap and mouth over the edges of his interface covers, get the tip of his tongue into the tight seams as he runs his hands over those big thighs. Primus, even if he didn’t get to suck Prowl’s spike right now this would be one of his favourite places to be, worshipping at the feet of this glorious frame. Prowl cups his helm, encourages his mouth back to his codpiece when he strays to shock his tongue on hot wires or throbbing cables.
“Open up, Prowler,” he whines, pressing open mouth kisses to the plates. He can feel the armour deform slightly with the pressure underneath. “I want your spike, and I'm gonna get what I want in the end.”
The armour plating twitches, and Jazz presses home his advantage, stroking up and down his thighs again, reaching up to trail his fingers over that tight little waist.
“Please, Prowler,” he croons, and Prowl can never resist him that long. The plate parts and slides away, and Jazz has a front row seat to a lovely sight as his spike pressurises.
Prowl’s spike is just about as familiar to him as his own by now, exactly the right length for his frame type but just that extra bit girthy, with twin lengths of nodes along the bottom and circling the head. The platelets are tiny and delicate, beaded black and white aside from the stripe of red right between the blue sensor nodes. The nodes themselves are already plumping out, not quite tense with pressure yet.
This is exactly what Jazz has been thinking about all cycle, this spike just right there for his use. He runs his glossa over his lips, savouring the anticipation for one more moment, and then licks up a long line from the base to the node below the tip.
Prowl hisses gently, cants his hips forward a little more so he can see past his own bumper. He keeps his hand on Jazz’s helm, grasping around the edge of his audial horn to try to direct him, but Jazz is having too much fun to be controlled right now. The first taste on his tongue is hours of dreaming come true. Prowl always tastes good, like fresh wax and polish and tart metals, with the sweet tang of lubricant, and Jazz wriggles in glee.
He plays around, licking and lapping, not quite sucking Prowl off just yet, just enjoying playing with his spike. He teases the very tip again and again, sucks over the nodes until they’re thick and standing out proud, keeps the rest warm in his servo as he mouths and plays.
“Get on with it,” growls Prowl eventually, and Jazz knows when not to push his luck. The taste is thick and heavy on his tongue, the mineral tang of lubricant dripping at the tip, inescapable. He laps over it, circles his glossa around the end before letting it push past his lips and onto the cushion of his tongue. He keeps it shallow, bobs his head only to kiss the first ring of nodes around the flare of the tip and then back again, not bothering to suck just yet. He wants Prowl to get really wound up first. If he plays his cards right, extends his tongue to reach the nodes outside his mouth, make Prowl feel his spike distend the side of his cheek, cast his optics up beseechingly….
Prowl’s grip on his audial tightens and pulls, and Jazz finally goes obediently, bowing his helm a little more so the end of his spike just kisses against the back of his intake. In a less practised mech, with less fancy coding, it might be uncomfortable, but it just makes Jazz groan.
It makes Prowl groan as well, high tuned engine roaring and turbo crackling. This is one of those things that Prowl would never ask for but definitely loves Jazz doing, getting on his knees and choking on his spike. Jazz knows he likes the wet softness of his tongue and the tightness of his throat, alive with the warm pulse of his cables and the vibration of his vocaliser. In return, Jazz gets to disassemble his favourite mech, this fabulous competent person, with his mouth alone.
It's not really the right position to swallow Prowl’s spike down easily, but Jazz can adapt. If he spreads his own knees a little more, ducks his helm down a bit… The slide into his throat is heady, stretching delicate tubing to just the right side of discomfort.
He deep throats Prowl’s spike like a champion, fucks his own throat with that lovely spike until his processor is swimming with overheat warnings and he’s dizzy with it. He has to pull back to gasp and pant to cool down and when he looks up Prowl has that beautiful stunned look on his face. This time he looks up as he swallows Prowl to the base, watches as Prowl holds his gaze for as long as he can until he has to drop his helm back against the wall and shunt his hips forward into Jazz’s face.
He fucks himself like this, drawing back just enough to let the tip brush the back of his mouth and then swallowing down deep. He can focus on the feel of girth stretching his intake, forcing his jaw wide. The nodes are palpable, salty with charge against his tongue and delicious. His own valve is throbbing with pleasure beneath his panels.
He slurps ostentatiously as he pulls off, strokes firmly just to keep Prowl’s engine whining in the high gears for a few moments as he considers him. Any annoyance has fled entirely, and Prowl is fully in Jazz’s grasp by now, optics dazed with high charge and wings taut with strain. He always looks good when Jazz is rocking his world and right now is no exception.
Jazz has been thinking about this too much not to fully satisfy himself. Yeah, he could get Prowl beyond all hot and bothered like this, but what he wants is a little bit more esoteric. Prowl grumbles as he kneels back, stands up, slipping out of his grasp like a live wire sparking, but he has a plan.
He knocks his artfully built pyramid of datapads to the floor and arranges himself over his own desktop, drops his helm back over the edge and gives Prowl a wide grin of invitation.
“Come on, you can frag my intake properly like this.”
Prowl manages to pry himself off the wall and follows, caressing Jazz’s mouth with a thumb as he comes close enough, far too gentle for a mech who had just had his spike down Jazz’s throat moments ago.
“You want it like this?” Prowl asks. He always asks, even when they’ve clanged plating so thoroughly Jazz is sure there’s no part of him that Prowl hasn’t touched in some way and vice versa. It's endearing, except when Jazz is nearly shivering with how much he wants to choke on his spike.
“How long did I spend talkin’ about it?” says Jazz, nuzzling that lovely spike pressing to his cheek. Yeah like this, Prowl can slide right into his intake, frag his mouth like he was fragging a valve, and the thought is hot enough he might just overload, his own valve clenching emptily. “Yeah I want it, frag my throat. You know I like it.”
He does like it too, especially the way Prowl does it: teasing him first with pressure across his lips, smearing lubricant on his mouth to lure his tongue out and then sliding in carefully. He doesn’t thrust in hard or fast initially, just rocks his hips gently, as if Jazz hadn’t been on his knees seconds ago, debasing himself willingly and happily.
Jazz wriggles keenly, rubbing his thighs together, reaching one hand up to rub over the tight plates of Prowler’s belly, the other tracing down his own flanks, heel of his palm over his own codpiece. He’s kept himself tucked away and ignored until now, but even the slight pressure pops the plating back and his spike pressurises keenly. A few fingertips away his anterior node is pulsing with lust and his valve is soaking slick. He barely needs to touch himself at all to make his hips buck up.
“Jazz..” Prowl hisses, temptation rising. He pushes forward that little bit more, jerks back as if shocked, but the servo that had been cupping Jazz’s cheek grasps over his throat, just above his vocaliser. Jazz won’t let him hold back any more. He scrapes his finger tips down Prowl’s flank, catches him at the hip, gets digits into a transformation seam and plinks a lust-taut wire with the edge of a claw. It gets him what he wants - Prowl thrusting forward, his spike sinking deep and Jazz’s own optics roll at the sensation. Just fragging right.
Prowl gasps, groans, his hand on Jazz’s throat squeezing lightly - he must feel his own spike distending the intake beneath, must really like it by the static shock that grounds against Jazz’ vocaliser. His other hand reaches and lands on Jazz’s bumper, groping his headlights frantically.
Oh frag, it’s good. The thrusts jostle Jazz’s frame, seem to reverberate deep into his core, stimulating something he couldn’t put a digit on if he tried. He can shove two fingers into his valve though, grind his palm hard on his anterior node, and that’s good enough. He frags himself in rhythm with the punishing thrusts down his intake, and nearly arches up off the desk top. His valve clenches hungrily over his fingertips, charge threatens to crackle.
Prowl thrusts as deep as he can, the girth of him stretching Jazz’s jaw as wide as it can go. His throat feels similarly abused, a toy for his lover to use for his own pleasure. Another pulse of pleasure makes Jazz writhe on the table top at the thought; this in turn makes Prowl pull back entirely and Jazz can’t help whining in loss, reaching out with both hands to pull him back in.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” he pleads, “Prowler please, frag my throat, don’t stop.”
“Primus, you’re just-” Prowl cuts himself off, pushes his spike back into Jazz’s mouth, into his intake, “You feel so good… you’re so good to me…”
The praise is almost intolerable. Jazz moans fiercely, keeps his grip tight on Prowler’s hips so he won’t pull away again, pushes his chest up into the fingers hooking around the edge of his bumper. He's getting that glorious dizzy sensation again as he overheats, and the swell of sensation gives way to the wash of overload.
His vocaliser, strained and sensitive, screeches with feedback, a heavy vibration that judders his frame to the shoulders and Prowler has a front line seat for the sensation. He can manage one more thrust and reaches overload himself. Jazz feels the pulse of transfluid as a hot rush deep in his intake, heady with charge, and then the spike of electrical pressure that cracks to the conductors in his neck. Prowl pulls back, spills the last of his overload into Jazz’s mouth, onto his lips, just so he can get the best of that ozone taste, and it’s heaven.
Prowl sits heavily on the desk chair, thighs sprawled, door wings drooping. He’s venting heavily via his mouth as well, normally stern mouth slick with his own oral secretions where he has bitten his own lips. He looks beautiful; Jazz tries to tell him as much, but his vocaliser will squeal for joors after the jolt of charge it just received. It makes him grin, especially when Prowl flushes at the sound.
For a few moments, Jazz doesn’t bother to move. It must be a fun tableau, he thinks, Prowl all loose limbed and lazy opticked, Jazz’s vocaliser humming chords uncontrollably, silver transfluid thick on his lips and chin. He wipes it off with a couple fingers, laps it up with purposefully slow movements of his glossa, making sure Prowl can see him swallow.
Finally starting to look more put together, Prowl beckons lazily. The room swims slightly as Jazz swings himself around, so he pauses on the edge of the desk and then freezes when Prowl’s hands land on his thighs.
His panels are hanging open still; valve sopping wet and puffy with friction, and his spike still mostly hard with residual charge. Prowl is eyeing him with the sort of intensity that normally only maps of battlefields get.
“Sweetspark, what you got happenin’ in that dangerous processor of yours?” he asks, voice splitting triplicate. “You’re gonna make me nervous.”
Prowl says nothing, smiles that dangerous smile he gets before he commits a war crime - Jazz cannot be blamed for finding it as hot as he does - and bows his helm.