Chapter Text
The transport drew down in a slow arc over Iacon central, lurching slightly in the thermals rising from the busy streets. Jazz, who had been recharging lightly in a back seat, was jolted awake just in time to peer out at his own neighbourhood.
Well, Prowl's neighbourhood really; Jazz was just crashing at his pad in an indefinite manner, putting on steel-brewed energon for the mech in the mornings and greeting him with a kiss when he came back from work. Avoiding talking about what exactly this arrangement was to either of them, that sort of thing.
From this level he could see the individual streets - there was that nice little cafe that did those silicon wafers that Jazz could eat his own frame-weight in, the one bar in town that Prowl could be persuaded to come out to, the slightly scruffy park where the market set up every so often. As the transport dropped further, he could even see the golden yellow paint of a mech leaning over to touch up the sign at the front of Sideswipe’s shop.
For Jazz, this was how a plan often fell upon him - pure serendipity. He was a flexible mech in more ways than one; after all, who was he to say that the glimpse of Sunstreaker almost falling off a ladder wasn’t a sign from Primus that he should pay a visit to his erstwhile subordinates. Prowler despaired of this method, but he often smiled when he did it, to show that this was merely a foible that entertained him rather than truly irked.
Jazz had been in Protihex for a few cycles, having picked up a decent gig there, and his travelling supplies were running low after all. Spending every night on stage meant he needed to be glammed up and so shiny it was difficult to look at him in a direct light, so his polish was feeling particularly light.
OK, it was Prowl’s polish. Jazz suspected he might have some apologies to make about stealing the last tin. He could start by buying a new one.
Sunstreaker had retreated back inside the shop by the time Jazz ambled through the door, although he was still audibly grumbling around in the back about scratches to his finish. By the counter, Sideswipe was applying himself to a pair of datapads with a thoughtful expression; he looked up with a winning smile when he heard the door, which morphed to a knowing look when he saw who it was.
“He already bought another tin,” he said. “Grumbling about someone’s sticky digits the entire time.”
“Well, hello to you too ‘Sides.” Jazz leant on the counter to call out, “Hey Sunny!”
The reply was barely audible but definitely rude. Jazz barked a laugh and hopped up to perch on the countertop, ignoring Sideswipe’s half-hearted noise of complaint.
“I’m gonna be on the sofa for orns, Sides,” he said. “Orns! I’ve slept in more comfortable fox-holes. What d’ya recommend to save a mech some aching back-struts?”
“Depends how much that mech’s got to spend,” said Sideswipe, putting the datapads aside. Peacetime had been good to him and his twin, but Jazz did sometimes think that the merchant’s smile was similar to the bloodthirsty grin he had worn as a frontline warrior.
“Business’s been good lately,” said Jazz. “I’ve gotta coupla spare credits to my name.”
Sideswipe ducked out from behind the counter, sweeping through the aisles of his small shop and returned with an armful of goodies which he laid out beside Jazz. “I think this probably covers the run from ‘grovelling subordinate’ to ‘woe-struck conjunx’,” he said, cheekily. “Pick what you want.”
Jazz gave him a half-sparked glare, but surveyed the supplies anyway. In the end he selected an expensive bottle of wax, a plush new cleaning cloth and a bottle of engex just because. Wherever that put him on the spectrum between grovelling and woe-struck, he didn’t care to think, but Sideswipe’s grin was irrepressible as he rang up the purchases.
As Jazz handed over his credit stick, he received the ping of an incoming comm-call and stepped back to take it when he recognised Smokescreen’s calling code.
“You better be back in Iacon,” said the mech shortly. “I can’t take another moment of this moon-struck fool.”
“You just dumped that poor mech, Smokey.” Smokescreen was a prolific dater, but not proving one for monogamy. “Give him a few cycles to cry it out and then tell him to hit the road,” advised Jazz, rolling his optics for Sideswipe’s benefit.
“What? No, not him! Prowl!”
Jazz reset his optics in confusion. “Prowl? What’s wrong with him?”
"His tac-unit's on the fritz again," said Smokescreen. "And I'm guessing that he's been missing your aft for some reason, because it's all sorts of focussed on you ."
The tac-unit wasn't quite a double edged sword: Jazz didn't think he had seen a weapon with quite as many edges as the battle computer had, perhaps some sort of spherical saw blade. It made Prowl simultaneously distractible and focussed, taciturn and curious, hot-tempered and cool-headed, withdrawn and obsessive.
It didn't always quite function the way it was supposed to either - Prowl's tendency to fizz at the seams whenever his variables got too exciting was testament to this. Sometimes it picked up on something from Prowl's subconscious and went a bit overboard.
"He's been extolling your virtues," added Smokescreen in a put upon voice, "For about two cycles now."
"Didn't think I had that many."
"It's gotten repetitive," said Smokescreen dourly, "Until this morning, when he graduated to physical attributes."
"Ah ha," said Jazz. This was not an unknown side effect of the tac-unit, but one Jazz was happy to reap the benefits of. He had been away for too long.
"I've sent him home," continued Smokescreen, "I thought I should give you a few breems warning in case you need to do anything before you get trapped in the berth for the rest of the cycle."
"Cheers, Smokey. I owe ya a drink."
"You owe me a bottle ."
Sideswipe’s shop was almost halfway between the precinct and their flat. Jazz knew the route like the back of his own servo, as often as he had driven it, and he knew how long it took Prowl to drive it in a whole variety of moods.
This gave him several breems to finish up his chat with Sideswipe, subspace his goods and stroll outside, just as the wail of a siren started to echo up the street. Most mechs wouldn’t hear a difference, but with Jazz’ specialist audials they were instantly recognisable - he had tuned them to perfection himself, set them to chords that consistently sent shivers down his back-struts.
Moments later Prowl streaked past, lights flashing and sirens blaring, the roadway trembling with the roar of his pursuit engine at full blast.
Jazz stepped out into the street, engaging his integral speaker systems to boost his voice, and called out, “Hey, copper!”
Even with one thing on his mind, Prowl wasn't the sort to ignore a potential call for help. His engine screeched into reverse to aid braking and he swung a sharp u-turn. Jazz could feel the moment enforcer grade scanner swept over his frame, and then Prowl flipped into root mode.
"I thought you would be at home, in recharge," he said, pacing forward a few steps and pausing when Jazz coyly matched him backwards.
"Caught a few winks on the transport instead." He stretched luxuriously; more than one set of optics zeroing on the stretch of his abdomen and the curl of his back. Prowl was torn between ogling him and glaring at the passers-by who were fortunate enough to be exposed to Jazz in a flirty mood.
"Smokey sent me some interesting messages," continued Jazz, as if he wasn't aware that he now had an audience. "Said ya were a bit distracted for some reason?"
Prowl's engines snarled .
"Oooh boy," said Sideswipe, who had stuck his helm out of his shop to listen in. "What'd you do?"
"Existed," said Jazz merrily. Prowl was starting to advance again, optics sharp and focused, every movement controlled and smooth and hungry . Jazz was gonna get it. "I think he's got my bumpers on his brain."
"Yuck," said Sideswipe, "I thought he was gonna beat you up."
"Ooh, somethin's gonna get beaten up if I'm lucky.” Jazz grinned, skipping back another step to keep himself out of lunging range.
"Oh yuck yuck yuck." The merchant made a gesture like he was going to purge. "Urgh, take the foreplay elsewhere you perverts, Primus."
So Jazz did. He leapt and twisted into his transformation sequence, darting sideways even before his seams had locked down, so he had a clear shot at the open road. It took Prowl a klik to follow, but it truly was only a klik as Jazz felt the nudge of a bull bar clatter against his rear quarter. All it did was give him a flirty wriggle of the rear end as he accelerated away.
At these games they were well-matched - Jazz was agile and quick to make use of any shortcuts, Prowl was quicker and more than stubborn enough to keep up. Jazz had to find the cut throughs or he'd be caught easily on the extended straight aways; Prowl had to keep trying to herd him back to the long boulevards or risk losing his prey in the smaller winding streets.
Not that Jazz was trying too hard to run. Prowl would catch him in the end - he just wanted to get close enough to home they were less likely to be fined for public indecency.
Just to work his mate up a little further, he picked a circuitous route that doubled back on itself, making sure that on every corner they were so close he could feel the heat radiating from Prowl’s supercharged engine. Every time his siren whooped but he never called for his prey to stop, so Jazz was free to run.
By the time their apartment block was on his scanners, Prowl was mechanometers from his bumper, siren wailing victoriously. Eking a few last jolts of speed from his engine Jazz gave himself enough breathing space to transform and slingshot himself through the lobby and into the lift.
He hammered the door button as he did, swivelling just in time to see Prowl scrape through the closing doors and collide with him.
Jazz was normally difficult to pin down and revelled in it, but Prowl was determined and skilled at holding weaselly suspects.
Although maybe not quite like this, Jazz hoped.
He had been slammed back into the rear wall, Prowl bearing down on him like an avalanche, one servo squeezing Jazz' wrists above his helm and the other cupping Jazz’ aft. He wrapped both thighs over Prowl's hips, so his position felt a little less precarious, and grinned.
"Guess ya caught me," he said, testing the grip on his wrists and finding it unmovable.
"You wanted to be caught," rumbled Prowl, his optics ranging over Jazz' face like he wanted to memorise every angle of him.
"I certainly ain't complainin’ right now."
Prowl rumbled again, a whole frame sound that vibrated through Jazz' frame deliciously, and kissed him. Jazz moaned into the kiss, melting under the passion. He hitched himself in tighter, luxuriating in Prowl's field, hot with lust.
The lift was slow, but luckily no one else called for it. Jazz wouldn't have been bothered anyway; not with how Prowler was still kissing him, slow as oil and just as sweet. With how Prowl's servo was squeezing his aft, Jazz doubted that he would allow them to be interrupted either. Even the arrival of the lift at their floor barely distracted them.
"Think this is our stop," murmured Jazz eventually, against Prowl's mouth. "Unless you wanna get real adventurous on me…"
The mech’s field trembled with indecision, but in the end his common sense won out against his libido. He eased his weight off Jazz, letting him set his pedes back to the floor, but it took Jazz slipping out from between him and the wall to get Prowl to move. He trailed after Jazz, fingers entwined tightly and his whole frame nearly trembling. Jazz lured him along the corridor to their front door, unlocking it remotely and slipping inside.
In the sanctity of their home, Prowl let his grasp slip away and leant heavily against the door. When Jazz looked askance at him, he ex-vented shakily.
"If you do not want… this," he said, "Make it known now. For cycles I have thought of little but you and.." He made a grasping gesture, like he wanted to snatch Jazz up and possess him totally.
Well, he wasn’t the only mech who had been without for some time, nor the only one who had had time to dwell over what they were missing. Jazz had whiled away the spare moment between gigs remembering the rumble of Prowl's engine, and the pull of his mouth when he overloaded. He had no tac-unit to warp his focus, but he had always loved playing with fire.
"Prowler," he purred, dropping his vocaliser into the smoothest, sultriest purr he could manage. "Mech, come frag me."
Prowl leapt on him, a full force lunge that brought them both down to the floor. He kissed him so hard he nearly split Jazz’ lip on a sharp denta, snarling something in the affirmative. Jazz pushed up into the pressure as hard as he could, nipping back until Prowl growled at him.
“Grumpy since you ain’t been gettin’ any, huh?” he teased, just because he couldn’t resist. It earned him a dark look and more of Prowl’s weight pressing down on him.
“I’m going to frag you,” said Prowl, in a low tone that made Jazz’ spark feel about four sizes too big in his chamber, “Until you are a sobbing wreck, only capable of begging for more.”
“Promises...” said Jazz, laying the unnecessary bait with glee.
Sometimes Jazz’ big mouth got him in trouble; sometimes he was rather counting on it. This was one of those times. Prowler had the positional advantage and some tricky enforcer skills, and both of those equated Jazz being flipped onto his front before he even knew it. A servo landed hard on his aft as he pushed himself up onto hands and knees, and then Prowler’s weight was draped over his back before he even had time to yelp a complaint.
“Open those panels,” Prowl snarled. He was a burning hot weight, vents spitting boiling air and static sizzling where his cables ran closest to the surface. He barged his own knees between Jazz’ own, making him spread his thighs further, and one of his servos groped over the codpiece. When asked so nicely, Jazz could only obey and he gasped as Prowl sunk two digits deep into his valve the klik his plating had flipped back.
“Ah!” He was already warm and ready, only warming more as Prowl fragged him expertly, rubbing every node until he was panting. His Prowler was too good with his servos, knew exactly where to touch him to make him sing out. Thoroughly distracted, he hadn’t noticed when Prowl had snapped his own codpiece open, but the moment his digits withdrew the blunt tip of a spike pushed deep abruptly and he gasped again. “Holy frag!”
Damn, Prowler was pent up! He went hard immediately, pounding in, gripping Jazz’ hips to haul him back into every thrust, and somehow it didn’t seem enough for him. Pressing in deep, he leant forward and pulled at Jazz’ elbows, dragging them back until they almost touched behind his back. It was on the verge of possible even for Jazz; his back arched, chest thrust out, the weight of his frame off balance and forced back further onto Prowl’s pelvis. But it did drive Prowl’s spike right into a ceiling node, and dear Primus , the first thrust made Jazz’ vocaliser squeal.
Prowl didn’t pause, just set up a steady rhythm that had his pelvic armour clattering noisily to Jazz’ aft. Combined with the involuntary squeaks that were being driven out of him by that spike stroking his mesh the exact right way, Jazz was very grateful that he’d insisted on soundproofing the joint. When Prowl got him like this, it was nigh impossible to control his vocaliser.
He moaned shamelessly with every thrust, bowing his head down to ease some of the strain along his back-struts, only to throw it back when Prowl scored another direct hit on his nodes. His digits were clenching and stretching compulsively, just about able to scrabble over Prowl’s belly plating but never able to get a good grip. Every part of him sizzled with voltage already but he wouldn’t give Prowler the satisfaction of calling out for him just yet; he bit into his lower lip and choked down his louder sounds.
Not that Prowl was unaffected either - his systems were roaring, vents whistling under the strain of his fans. His field was alight with pleasure, twining through Jazz’ own like a mirror image. Every part of him was focused on destroying Jazz’ self-control, fulfilling his goal to have his lover wailing for him. He tugged back even harder on his grip, so Jazz could feel his shoulder gimbals shift further back, to get a little more leverage into every thrust.
“Oh frag!” The words escaped involuntarily. Every hard thrust was now nosing directly into the plump mesh of his anterior plexus, where the sensory cables wove together up the front of his valve. It radiated up his spinal struts, throbbed down into direct pulses in his anterior node. He would have given several important pieces of armour to be able to reach down and stroke himself in tandem, but Prowl held him firm so he was forced to wait, panting out further curses as every slide home drove his charge up higher. “Dear Primus, Prowler..!”
“That’s it,” snarled Prowl, vocaliser layered with hot static. He essayed a few brutal slow thrusts, grinding in deep until Jazz whined again. “Overload for me.”
Jazz always melted for a gravelly, lust-ridden voice - always, always did and damnit Prowler knew it - and this time was no exception. The boiling sweep of overload coursed up his frame, all-encompassing and overwhelming. HIs valve clenched and flexed, rippling with Prowl’s slow thrusts, sending fluid bolts of pleasure to add to his overload.
“Holy slag…” he moaned, his pleasure audible with the skips in his vocaliser. “Ooh, don’t stop…”
With his leverage on Jazz’ back, Prowl pushed him down, so he was face first on the floor. The metal was a cool relief on his overheated face plates, helping to eke away some of the fuzzy static after such a quick overload. When his elbows were released they splayed out at his sides, and it took his overclocked processors a moment to coordinate the effort to bring them up to brace against the weight over his hips.
Prowl kept going, shuffling forward to straddle Jazz’s hips a little more so his spike remained on target, and fragged him with short sharp thrusts that made his knees quake. He loved being ridden long past his overload, until his systems were bubbling with the shocks of his first climax and starting to shake with an oncoming fresh one. Pinned like he was, with Prowler bracing one hand between his shoulder blades and the other gripping the inside of his thigh to keep his aft high, he could slither one of his freed arms down under his frame and up to the crux of his thighs.
Under his digits his node throbbed fiercely, a thumping tempo to echo the pounding his valve was getting. When he slid his servo up further, he could feel the thick girth of Prowl’s spike plunging in deep, slick droplets of his lubricant drawn out on each backstroke, the mesh of his valve lips plump and sensitive from the friction. The heel of his hand ground against his node like this, his fingers bracing the spike pumping into his mesh, giving Prowl a little more pressure.
The mech’s field was roiling with charge now, like being immersed in a supernova, all of it focused on Jazz’ frame in supplication below him. The sensation was crushing, overwhelming; Jazz was addicted, utterly and totally at Prowl’s mercy, whining out his designation as a second overload swept up and over him. With a few last hard thrusts, Prowl snarled his own climax, burying himself deep in his lover’s flexing, soaked meshes to pump out his transfluids.
“Oooh…” Jazz squirmed under the sensation, heat pooling in his belly. He could feel the throb of Prowl’s overload through the digits braced over his spike, the pulse and ripple of the protoform beneath the platelets. The sensation was uniquely satisfying, and Prowler barely needed to hold him to keep him pinned.
With the last of his climax spent, Prowl shifted back, lifted his weight off Jazz’ back. When his spike slipped free on a final backstroke, transfluid seeped out of his slack calipers. Droplets oozed between his digits to puddle on the floor, and Jazz wriggled in well-used glee; whenever you needed a trip to the wash-racks after, you knew that the ‘facing had been good.
“Don’t go too far,” warned Jazz, feeling the cold air start to seep over his frame as Prowler rested back on his heels. He shimmied over onto his back, keeping his thighs spread to encourage Prowl to settle back over him again - and also because his valve ached in a deliciously well-used way. Obediently Prowl leant down, bent to press the centre of his chevron to Jazz’ forehead; a tender gesture that made something in Jazz’ spark jolt. To avoid the feeling he immediately resorted to flirty glibness.
“Ain’t quite fulfilled your promise,” he teased, resetting his vocaliser a few times first to clear the strain-induced wheeze. “‘Cause I ain’t beggin’ yet.”
“Ah, but I am not even close to being done with you,” said Prowl, his tone laden with dark, sultry promise, optics still lit with obsessive hunger.
Well, wasn’t that just what Jazz had been hoping for.