Work Text:
Sometimes, Prowl was certain his sparkmate was just an overcharged, too-horny sparkling. And, despite all of Prowl’s complaints and pointed quips, he secretly enjoyed the attention Jazz constantly ravaged him with. Jazz did not bother to keep it a secret that he desired him, even around other mechs, which, admittedly, did annoy Prowl from time to time. Most mechs on the ship held Prowl in what he would consider a healthy blend of respect and fear, so very rarely was he ever on the receiving end of the teasing they assaulted Jazz with.
The attention Jazz constantly showered the former Enforcer with was always fueled with an undercurrent of half-joking flirtations. He was, as Jazz liked to say, ‘handsy’ with Prowl, a feat that most other mechs would lose said servo over. Jazz seemed to have a particular fascination with Prowl’s doorwings, though, ever since their first night together, by the human’s fountain, Jazz tended to fiddle with them in private.
It was a trait that Prowl found fascinating, if for nothing more than how much of a commodity they were to him. It wasn’t to say that Jazz tended to favor Prowl’s doorwings more than other parts of his frame, not by any means. Any part of Prowl he had access to, Jazz would rub and touch and drum his digits over, if not his mouth or glossa. There were very few spots of Prowl that Jazz had not explored, and, despite his fascination with them, his doorwings were proportionally the largest.
If Prowl flapped them in irritation, Jazz’s helm would follow the motion. If they pitched up an angle, Jazz’s keen optics were trained on them, visor gleaming. If, as he sometimes did, Prowl stimulated them during their interfacing, Jazz would nearly melt, a shower of praise falling from his lips at the mere sight. It was a puzzle that Prowl had been slowly turning over in his processor over the many months they had been official, and, if nothing else, Prowl loved puzzles. This most certainly was a puzzle Prowl was determined to solve; he just needed to wait for the right opportunity.
Prowl, having been an Enforcer in what felt like a previous life, was built for pursuit and patience. His processor was cool, calculating and capable of handling immense amounts of data at once. Ever since the first night that they had interfaced, the night they officially got together, Prowl had been compiling a mental list of the movements of his doorwings that made Jazz’s helm snap to attention, the ones that made his venting hitch, the ones that made his engine rev.
The strongest response was definitely when Prowl himself stimulated them, which seemed to make Jazz’s processor short circuit. After that, any large motion, such as scanning a room, stretching, irritated flaps, or sudden movements: these made Jazz’s helm snap up to watch with a fascination usually well hidden. Perhaps Prowl was getting better at reading the saboteur, or perhaps Jazz felt little need to hide himself around Prowl.
Finally, Jazz always seemed interested, but not as physically moved when Prowl would have conversations with them. It was usually something quick like, ‘Enough’, or ‘Yes/no’. These brief conversations were usually with Bluestreak, and usually when Prowl was in the midst of something taking up more processor space than he could justify breaking his concentration on to vocalize aloud.
Finally, Prowl felt confident in his gathered list of data. Perhaps, in retrospect, it would have been easier to simply ask Jazz what his fascination with them was, but historically direct questions were sometimes difficult to coax a straight answer out him. Being the head of Special Ops, Jazz’s literal job was to be as slippery and sneaky as possible, and usually that meant that if Jazz didn’t want to answer a question he wouldn’t and the asker would be none the wise.
Prowl was certain that Jazz would come find him. It was unusual for Prowl to ping him on their comms, as being a pragmatic mech he found work related conversations easier and quicker over their direct comm links as opposed to having to make every little thing a meeting. Prowl knew Jazz would probably be suspicious after receiving a ping to come to Prowl’s office, and though he did have work related things he could discuss with his lover (the word still sent thrills down Prowl’s backstrut, though he would never admit it), this was a golden opportunity to kill two birds with one stone (another Earth metaphor Jazz had introduced to him).
The door to Prowl’s office slid open and Jazz stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a shink. Prowl didn’t need to look up from his datapad to know it was him; Jazz’s EM field was unmistakable to him now, as familiar as Prowl’s own. Jazz crossed the room with long, easy strides. Jazz stepped behind Prowl’s desk and embraced him, pressing a kiss to Prowl’s chevron.
“Hey, Prowler. I got yer ping.” Jazz pushed some datapads (destroying the careful organization Prowl had made, much to Prowl’s dismay) aside and sat on the desk to Prowl’s left, pedes swinging easily.
“So I see.” Prowl stretched his admittedly aching backstrut, making a show to flex his doorwings as much as he could. Jazz’s helm followed them, his engine making a nearly imperceptible hitch.
“Y’been in here all day, sweetspark? Don’t yer backstrut ache?” Jazz tilted his helm, a pursed frown on his lips. It was true that Prowl had been putting in some extra overtime recently, but the datapads were piling up and there was only so much time in a cycle. Prowl vented a little, mindful to keep his EM field as close to his protoflesh as possible.
“I have, yes. The most recent mission Sunstreaker and Sideswipe ran was…” Prowl searched for the right word. “A disaster, to say the least.” Prowl pinched the bridge of his olfactory sensor. The two of them had been careless during their battle with a Seeker trine, and the collateral damage to the city directly caused by their trigger-happy, battle-hungry selves was immense, which, Prowl thought, was still an understatement.
“Ah they’re barely older ‘n sparklings, let em be messy. Least no one was hurt.” Jazz waved them off. Prowl fluttered his doorwings in annoyance, allowing the instinctive action, which he usually would have resisted, to follow through. Again, Jazz’s helm watched them with curiosity.
“So,” Jazz started, vocalizer a little staticky. “What’d ya need me for, Prowler? Not that I don’t want ‘ny excuse to come see you.” Jazz grinned. His digits drummed a little tune on the desk, a little jazz number that he’d played for Prowl a few cycles prior, Prowl recognized the tune immediately. If his memory banks were to be trusted, it was something about the singer wanting to be taken to Earth’s moon, or something to that extent. Prowl was never one for Earth music, but Jazz loved it, and he loved cared deeply for Jazz, so he indulged him. Jazz was prone to getting a song stuck in his processor for days on end, which was a little quirk that Prowl found endearing.
“Well, I’ve noticed that your reports have been a little sparse recently.” Prowl emphasized his words with another rotation of his doorwings, wincing involuntarily at a pinch in his left doorwing joint. He’d entered sleep cycle on it wrong several cycles prior and since then he’d had an annoying little pinch in it.
“H-Huh?”
“Your report on the recent mission you embarked on with Mirage?” He flexed them up, extending them under the guise of another stretching of his backstrut.
“What uh-“ Jazz’s attention flickered between the movements of Prowl’s wings and the steady, steely gaze Prowl affixed him with. “What about it?”
“There’s a section here in the middle that barely describes anything. I understand your work is of a more secretive nature,” Prowl reached up with his right servo and gripped his left doorwing, pulling it towards the right gently in an attempt to stretch out the kinked cables he’d been battling. “But it is imperative that your reports include as much detail as possible.”
Jazz did not respond, his helm transfixed on Prowl’s doorwing. His engine purred salaciously; his venting hitched. A lapse in attention was unusual for the special agent, but a thrill of devious satisfaction wriggled through Prowl’s circuits at the sight of his lover so transfixed on such a mundane task.
“Jazz?”
“Wh- Sorry, Prowler, I uh, got distracted.” Jazz turned his helm back to Prowl’s, a nearly imperceptible flush on his faceplate.
“Is there a better time? We could always reconvene at a later date.” Prowl released his doorwing, allowing it to spring back to its natural position. Again, Jazz’s helm snapped to follow the motion. The tune he’d been drumming on Prowl’s desk faltered, a steady, repeatable beat skipped. Prowl cocked his helm at him, feigning innocence.
“Jazz?” The Chief Tactical Officer Prowl dissolved then into the softer, more genuine, less reserved Prowl reserved solely for Jazz. Jazz turned his helm back to his lover,
“Yeah, Prowler?” Jazz’s vocalizer was fuzzy with static, digits stilled completely on the desk.
“I have a knot in the joint of my doorwing for several cycles now, do you think you would be able to assist me with this? I had considered asking Ratchet for help, but I fear he would impose a restriction I simply cannot afford to have right now.” Prowl wasn’t lying. He had genuinely considered asking the Medic for assistance, and it was true that Ratchet tended to put work second over the health of the crew, which, annoyingly, made perfect sense for him to do.
Jazz hesitated. Jazz, who jumped at the opportunity to touch the tactician, hesitated touching such a sensitive part of him. Curious, Prowl noted.
“If you have concerns about another heat occurring, it should be quite some time before I would be due for another-“
“No, no. I just don’ wanna hurt you s’all.” Jazz hopped down and moved behind Prowl, his field suddenly pulled tight under his plating. “I know they’re real sensitive fer you. Trust me, Prowler, I’d bend you over yer desk here and now if you want, so I’m not pressed ‘bout somethin’ like another heat.” Jazz’s engine revved at this, his vocalizer dipping an octave, and Prowl could practically hear the grin on his face. A shiver raced down Prowl’s backstrut at that, and he hoped that Jazz hadn’t noticed, though he knew he probably did.
“It is true that my doorwings are… more sensitive than most, and I do trust you, Jazz.” Prowl pulled Jazz’s servo around to press a kiss to it, his metal skin hot under Prowl’s lips. “Though, I assure you, I will inform you if I feel any discomfort.” Prowl splayed his door wings out to allow the other mech better access to the small joint. The movement was foreign to him, for Prowl to expose his entire back during a never-ending war was nearly a breech in protocol- or at least, that’s what it felt like. For a few sparkbeats, nothing happened. No contact, no quiet hitching, no engine revving. Perhaps Prowl had gone too far with his experiment.
Soft, probing digits found their way to the delicate joint wedged between Prowl’s hexalateral plating and the back of his chassis. Jazz gently rubbed the angry joint, his nimble digits melting the knot with ease, the cables unraveling themselves from their afflicted position. Relief rolled over Prowl’s cables, coaxing a long-held hum at the ability to move without a twinge of pain, however slight it was.
“So, who told you?” Jazz asked suddenly, his digits moving to Prowl’s left doorwing joint, though Prowl admittedly had no pain there. His tone was tight, unreadable. Prowl frowned.
“Hm?” Prowl peeked over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of Jazz.
“Was Mirage, wasn’t it?” Jazz pursed his lips, his digits working diligently at the soft, malleable metal of Prowl’s joint. Admittedly, the pleasing, relaxing ripples Jazz’s massage was sending through Prowl’s frame were threatening to shut his processor down, but Prowl shook the feelings off and allowed them a slight twitch.
“Told me about what?” Prowl leaned back into his sparkmate’s touch, the tiny, selfish voice buried deep, deep, deep within the logistics algorithms of his processor urging him to savor the attention Jazz was showering him with.
“Yo- Oh scrap.” Jazz’s engine hitched again, but at a higher, more anxious pitch than the ones that Prowl enjoyed eliciting from him. He tilted his head back to look up at the shorter mech behind him, whose servos had stilled, still gently wrapped around the joint of Prowl’s left doorwing.
“Is… everything alright, Jazz?” Prowl’s optics flickered over the familiar, comforting faceplate of his sparkmate, drinking in the details of his flushed face. Over their months of courtship, Prowl had found it frustratingly difficult to make Jazz flush in much of any capacity, this challenge only increased due to the blue cast from his visor.
Jazz, a trained saboteur, was not easy to get any kind of rise out of, insults and flirtations alike rolling off of his plating as though they were nothing. And yet, from Prowl simply allowing him to exist near one of his most sensitive appendages, Jazz’s face was one of the most brilliant blues Prowl had seen.
“I uh,” Jazz turned his helm away, his bottom lip bit between his denta. “Should… prolly tell ya somethin’, Prowler.” Jazz pulled his servos away and spun Prowl’s chair around so that they were face to face. Prowl allowed all of this, refusing to remove his steely gaze, despite Jazz’s reluctance to face him.
“I have-“
“You have a doorwing kink.” Prowl finished for him, the faintest ghost of a bemused smile pulling on his lips. Jazz balked, his servos hovering uncertainly in the air between them. Prowl settled a servo on Jazz’s overheating faceplate and stood up to press a gentle kiss to his lips.
“Who told y-“
“My Jazz,” Prowl cocked an optic ridge at the Special Ops Agent, “I am the Chief Tactical Officer of the entire Autobot Army; taking in vast quantities of data and extrapolating the meaning off of it is my job. I simply noticed.” Prowl leaned back against his desk, a bad habit he’d started to pick up from Jazz. “And you aren’t quite as subtle as you might think you are.” Prowl crossed his arms across his chassis as he regarded the shorter mech with bemusement. Jazz was very still, his engine, a usually deep, throaty purr, bordering on a high-pitched whine.
“And yer… just fine with that?” Jazz finally asked after what felt like an eternity.
“I am. Why would I not be? I know you did not pursue me simply for a part of my frame.” Prowl fluttered his doorwings again, taking immense satisfaction in the way Jazz’s helm still followed the movement, despite the proverbial cat being out of the proverbial bag. Earth metaphors were strange, Prowl decided.
“Well, I dunno. Most mechs ain’t the most welcomin’ to part of em bein’ part of a kink.” Jazz shifted on his pedes. “Makes ‘em uncomfortable.”
“Do you want to touch them?”
“I- I mean, ‘course I do, Prowl, that’s the whole point.” Jazz splayed his servos in exasperation, his field finally slipping out from underneath his plating. Jazz’s embarrassment was nearly tangible, easily the most dominating feeling in his field. Prowler frowned.
“It is not a bad thing, Jazz.” Prowl pulled his lover’s servos into his own, stepping forward so their chassis were nearly touching. “I’m flattered that you find a part of me so enrapturing it steals your attention away.” Prowl ghosted his servos over Jazz’s arms, sliding them up his frame until they cradled his helm, thumbs resting on the highs of his cheeks.
“Prowler, every part of you steals my attention.” Jazz leaned into Prowl’s servos, a soft, rumbling purr working its way out of his vocalizer. “Pit, you steal my attention.” Jazz pressed a kiss to Prowl’s palm, sending flickers of pleasure up Prowl’s frame. Prowl pressed a gentle kiss to his partner’s lips, leaning down and into him. Jazz’s arms draped themselves around Prowl’s neck, one servo on the back of his helm, the other lazily exploring the curves of the back of his chassis.
Prowl leaned into his lover’s embrace, tilting his helm ever so slightly, content to lead their dance for a change. Jazz was always so forward, so eager to ravish Prowl’s frame, so impatient to touch, it was a little unexpected that he was being so passive for once.
That familiar, lovely heat began to rise beneath Prowl’s plating, and he found his fans clicking on. Jazz’s near perfect audials must have heard them as well, as his engine rumbled then, a deep, throaty sound that sent echoes bouncing through Prowl’s own chassis.
“Didn’t y’have work t’do, Prowler?” Jazz purred against the taller mechs lips. “’Cause, I gotta say, this don’t seem like work t’me.” Jazz’s servos traced their way down Prowl’s frame to settle on his hips, which he pulled flush with his own, his servos pausing only once on their descent to ghost over Prowl’s headlights, sending delightful shivers down his backstrut. Jazz’s lips planted themselves on Prowl’s neck, nipping and sucking at the delicate cabling just under his jaw, sending waves of pleasure through Prowl’s system and making his processor fuzzy. There was his usual Jazz.
“Eager t-to stop, are we?” Prowl quipped back as he leaned his helm to the side to allow Jazz better access. His waistguard was beginning to feel uncomfortably tight, and his plating was beginning to grow itchy with desire. He fought the urge to grind his hips against Jazz’s, refusing to play into his ego. In response, Jazz bit down on his neck and sucked hard, letting his lips pop off after earning himself a quiet, staticky moan from the former Enforcer.
“Who said ‘nthin’ ‘bout stoppin’, sweetspark?” Jazz grinned against Prowl’s neck. “M’not stoppin’ ‘till I get yer wings flappin’.” Prowl groaned at the promise, processor quickly becoming lust-addled. They should stop, a voice in Prowl’s processor whispered. Prowl had so much work to do, so many datapads to sort through and meetings to organize. He should tell Jazz to stop, to let him get back to work.
“Prove it,” Prowl challenged, his servos reaching up to clasp Jazz’s audials. Jazz’s engine revved hard, his vents hitching at the sensation. Jazz groaned into Prowl’s delicate neck plating, his servos clenching on Prowl’s waist, sending sparks of sharp pleasure directly to Prowl’s valve.
“Fer a tactician, y’sure don’t know how t’pick yer battles.” Jazz purred darkly against Prowl’s throat. A defiant ripple of his pride flared in Prowl at his lover’s challenge, and that was simply not something Prowl could lay down and take. Still, Prowl groaned as Jazz’s servos began to rub at his closed waist guard, the friction causing his already-aching valve inside to nearly quiver.
“I assure you; I know exactly what I’m doing.” Prowl retracted his panel. Immediately, Jazz’s digits delved into the swollen appendage, curling and probing, searching for that internal node that would make Prowl see stars soon enough. Prowl curled into Jazz’s frame; quiet, restrained moans already coaxed from his throat.
“Don’t think y’do, Prowler.” Jazz moved down Prowl’s neck, down to where his neck cables met his chassis. “You got no idea what you do t’me.” Jazz vented hard before sinking his denta into Prowl’s cables. Again, Prowl’s circuits were flooded with sharp, sparking pleasure with just a tinge of pain.
“A-Ah,” Prowl gasped, his voice thick with static. Jazz’s assault on his senses was relentless, his two middle digits plunging deep inside of him, his lips, tongue, and glossa working his neck over until Prowl was certain he would have deep blue bruises tomorrow.
“I love the way y’sound when yer like this,” Jazz nipped kisses back up Prowl’s neck. “Yer so stunnin’, yer face all flushed like this.” That superheated coil that had been slowly beginning curl in Prowl’s tanks was beginning to bring him to a boil, and Prowl knew that at this rate he would never last.
“‘Nd its all just fer me.” Jazz leaned to Prowl’s audials. “I wanna hear yer voice, sweetspark. I wanna hear what I do t’you.” Prowl moaned, his optics blurry with static. He turned his faceplates into Jazz’s neck, where he bit his lip, determined to make this harder for Jazz. It was becoming alarmingly easy for Jazz to poke and curl his digits exactly where he knew would make Prowl come undone, and Prowl desperately wanted to wrest some control back into his corner of the ring. Jazz tutted beside him.
“Aw, Prowler, don’t tell me yer shy alluva sudden.” Jazz’s vocalizer was dark and thick with lust. “I wanna hear you say m’name.” Jazz’s digits slowed to a brutal pace, each thrust slow and deliberate, scissoring his digits apart to scrape along Prowl’s walls as much as he could. Desperation pooled in Prowl’s core as that coil began to unravel itself in his tanks. Prowl bit back a whimper as he clung to Jazz’s chassis, his digits curling desperately around the edge of his plating.
“Prowler,” Jazz coaxed. He pressed his thumb against Prowl’s external node, lazily tracing around it with the wide, flat pad of the digit. Sharp, sticky bolts of pleasure raced through Prowl’s circuits to that unraveling coil in his tanks. The special agent’s pace was as terrible as it was wonderful: just fast enough to keep Prowls engine purring, but just slow enough to make sure he would never reach his peak.
Prowl trembled in his lover’s arms, a thin layer of coolant gathering across his plating. Desperation clawed at his processor, desire battling against his stubborn pride, a battle which Prowl knew he would lose soon enough.
“I know y’think yer winnin’,” Jazz began, trailing gentle kisses up and down Prowl’s neck cables. “But seein’ you like this, shakin’ ‘nd tremblin’ in my arms, clingin’ to my platin’? This is more ‘n enough fer me.” Jazz’s glossa darted out and licked a stripe down Prowl’s throat, dragging a desperate, static-filled groan out as it did so.
“There he is,” Jazz’s digits began to pump quickly in and out of Prowl’s valve once again, slick and noisy with transfluid. Pleasure echoed through Prowl’s frame, his pride crumbling away as that superhot, coiled cable in his tanks began to boil again.
“J-Jazz-!” Prowl gasped. He all but fell back against his desk, his doorwings splayed out underneath him, sending datapads scattering across the floor of Prowl’s office. Jazz’s frame immediately leaned over him, his hips spreading Prowl’s legs apart as he moved his way between his knees.
“There’s my Prowler,” Jazz purred, though Prowl could barely hear him over the sensations assaulting his systems. Jazz’s digits had reignited the superheated coil in his tanks, which was dangerously close to boiling over, the coil rapidly drawing taut.
“J-JaAzz-“ Prowl barely recognized the voice that came from his throat, so thick with pleasure and static. Moans bubbled past his lips against his will, any sense of self-control abandoned on the floor with his datapads. Prowl’s servos scrambled for something- anything to hold onto, the lack of perceived control beginning to make his already unraveling processor spiral. Optics lids heavy, his vision blurry, Prowl looked up into Jazz’s faceplates, which wore a self-satisfied grin, his visor gleaming bright and brilliant.
“J-JazZ!” Prowl gasped as his digits found the sweet internal node they’d been intentionally dancing around. Prowl’s vision was growing very fuzzy, pointed, white stars dancing across his vision whenever Jazz’s delving digits brushed against his internal node. Prowl’s self-restraint was gone, probably the same place his processor went whenever Jazz touched him. That superheated coil was taut, his tanks boiling. His plating felt like it was on fire. He felt like Jazz could see through him, see into the very algorithms that created his very being.
“M'here, Prowler.” Jazz pressed a kiss to Prowl’s lips. “C’mon, sweetspark, overload fer me.” Jazz purred. He moved back to his assault on Prowl’s neck cables, licking and biting and suckling at anything he could find a hold on, coaxing desperate, needy moans out of Prowl’s vocalizer. It wasn’t enough; it was too much. The coolness of Jazz’s glossa on his heated cables, the incessant, quickening pace of his digits inside of his aching valve, the sharp spikes of pleasure from Jazz’s denta biting and nipping at his neck cabling. His legs were shaking with pleasure, twitching every so often despite himself. Prowl knew he was about to come undone.
Determined to try and bring Jazz down with him, Prowl’s trembling servos grasped at Jazz’s sensory horns, his thumbs clumsily rubbing the sensitive protrusions on his lover’s helm. Jazz’s venting hitched immediately, and he bit down hard on Prowl’s cables, sharp lightning bolts of pain giving Prowl the final push he needed over his peak. All at once the taut coil in his boiling tanks snapped, and Prowl overloaded.
He could barely even comprehend the babbling nonsense that fell out of his mouth, mostly jagged, half-formed syllables of Jazz’s name and embarrassing, mewling moans dragged forcefully out of his overworked vocalizer. Briefly, the tiny portion of Prowl’s processor that still functioned wondered if his office had been soundproofed (he was pretty sure it hadn’t, but that was a problem Prowl would address at a later time).
Prowl’s entire frame locked up as he curled into Jazz’s form, tucking his face into Jazz’s neck as best as he could as he rode out his overload. Jazz’s kisses on his neck had returned to their gentle, sweet nature as he waited for the vice-like grip of Prowl’s valve to free his stilled digits.
Dimly, Prowl was aware of his doorwings twitching as the last few pleasant echoes of his overload worked their way out of his system. He winced slightly as Jazz removed his slick, probably cramped digits from his valve, leaving him with a regrettable feeling of emptiness. A deep flush rose to his faceplate at the lewd sound of his own transfluid sloshing to the floor below him met his audials.
Jazz kissed Prowl, pulling himself back enough to get access to his lover’s lips. Prowl, still venting hard, did his best to comply, though he was certain he was a half-step behind him the whole time. He found the sharp, metallic taste of Energon on Jazz’s lips, his Energon, Prowl realized with a start. Primus, how hard had Jazz bitten him?
“M’sorry, sweetspark. Didn’t mean t’bite yer neck that hard.” Jazz pressed a gentle, apologetic kiss to the dull, throbbing ache that was making itself known on Prowl’s neck. Sure enough, on Prowl’s HUD there was a notification about a small Energon leakage. Prowl sent the notification away and leaned his helm on Jazz’s pauldron.
“I win.” Prowl murmured, the words out before his overworked processor could think better of them. Jazz’s engine rumbled as he chuckled.
“How d’you figure that one, sweetspark?” This was a dangerous game, Prowl knew. Jazz seemed to have a never-ending desire for Prowl and his frame, and Prowl was already very spent and sore. But Prowl, curse himself, was prideful. Jazz made him come completely undone with just his mouth and his digits, and Prowl refused to let that lie. However, Jazz was prideful too, and his insatiable lust for Prowl might be a battle that Prowl might lose.
“If my memory banks serve, and, trust me, they do,” Prowl shifted on the desk, pulling his lover closer to him, their faces nearly touching. “Your bluster was that you, quote, “Weren’t stopping until my wings were flapping.”.” Prowl gave his doorwings a flutter to emphasize the lack of flapping they were doing.
“Therefore, I win.” Prowl slid himself forward, trying to move his hips off of his desk, but the immovable force that was Jazz stood fast between his knees. Jazz grinned and settled his somewhat-sticky servos on Prowl’s hips, curling his digits into the malleable metal skin there, sending little pinpricks of pleasant pain to Prowl’s abused valve.
“Sure did, Prowler.” Jazz pulled Prowl’s hips flush with his own, spreading his open and hooking his arms at the elbows under the bend of Prowl’s knees. Prowl (barely) restrained an undignified noise at the sudden manhandling, though, he thought deviously, it seemed like the saboteur had taken the bait.
“Y’see me movin’ yet?” Jazz grinned down at him, his face bathed in brilliant blue. He flipped Prowl onto his front with an inelegant clunk as his desk scootched forward across the floor. Prowl stood on the very tips of his pedes as Jazz’s servos ran themselves over his aft and thighs, squeezing and rubbing whatever they could reach.
Something about this position, Prowl bent over his own desk, datapads scattered haphazardly around him, with Jazz’s hips pressing his hard into the edge, made Prowl’s tanks run hot. A surge of excitement raced down Prowl’s backstrut at the lewdness of it all, making his wings give an involuntary flutter.
“Already rarin’ to go, huh, sweetspark?” Jazz’s vocalizer was deep and filled with self-satisfaction as he slid a digit over Prowl’s leaking valve. Sharp bolts of overstimulated pleasure shot up Prowl’s spine, and he found himself whimpering at the motion. Jazz’s engine revved as he slid his servos up and over Prowl’s aft, pressing over his plating and up his backstrut until he got to the base of his chassis. Jazz’s roaming digits tapped a rhythm up Prowl’s chassis until they reached the base of his doorwings.
“I could get used t’seein’ this.” Jazz’s servos were on Prowl’s wings, digits exploring the smooth curving dips and raises that constructed them. Shockwaves of pleasure echoed through Prowl’s frame, and a very undignified mewl made its way out of his throat.
Prowl’s face felt like it was about to melt off. Every subtle shift, every intentional squeeze, experimental tracing of a shape, every movement of Jazz’s servos on his doorwings was making his valve ache with need, not to mention the fact that each caress and touch made his wings flutter and move as if they had a mind of their own.
“Sensitive, huh?”
“V-very,” Prowl gasped as Jazz swirled a digit around the bolts that connected his wing to his chassis. “Esp-ecially after overloading,” Prowl’s vocalizer was thick with static, and he found himself covering his mouth with his servos, suddenly remembering the thought he’d had about soundproofing his office prior.
“I’ll keep that in mind, my Prowler.” Prowl could practically hear the slag-eating grin on his sparkmate’s face. “Didn’t think I’d heard that earlier, didja?” Jazz pulled Prowl’s arms and servos behind his back and-wait- click.
“Jazz? Are these my stasis cuffs?” Prowl peeked over his shoulder, an uncomfortably familiar glow emenanting from his now-restrained servos. They were a remnant of his life before the war. Just a simple pair of cuffs for restraint. Prowl had many, as one could never be too prepared, but he usually only took them out when going in the field. Jazz’s arms caged him in, and he leaned over Prowl’s back, resting a pleasing weight over the former Enforcer.
“Borrowed these from yer room, Prowler. Hope you don’t mind.” Jazz purred before he pressed a kiss to the side of Prowl’s helm. “Yer not gettin’ out of moanin’ my name this time, sweetspark.” Prowl’s faceplates grew impossibly hotter. He really, really hoped that his door was locked. The last thing he wanted was for some mech to come in looking for him only to find Prowl cuffed and bent over his own desk with Jazz practically drooling over him.
“Someone could hear me,” Prowl protested half-sparkedly. Admittedly, he found the idea of being cuffed and wholly at Jazz’s mercy thrilling.
“Let ‘em hear then. Let ‘em know who’s yers,” Jazz’s purring vocalizer was suddenly much closer than it had been previously, the mech’s frame nearly settled over him, doorwings splayed out beneath his chassis. He pressed a kiss to Prowl’s audials before he stood back up.
Jazz’s wandering servos slid along the leading edge of Prowl’s doorwings, and he pulled them back towards himself ever so gently. A quiet moan bubbled out of Prowl’s throat at the pleasant stretch. Every where Jazz’s servos touched felt hot, like Jazz was slowly trying to roast Prowl beneath him.
The ache in his valve was growing intense, and Prowl’s processor was starting to feel fuzzy with lust again. He pushed his hips back into Jazz’s, chasing some kind of friction on his valve. Jazz let out a little grunt of surprise as their hips connected, but only slightly. Jazz was a little further to the left than Prowl had anticipated.
“Y’really weren’t lyin’ when y’said that yer wings were sensitive, huh?” Jazz slipped one of his digits into Prowl’s valve. “Oh, yer soaked, Prowler.” Jazz’s engine revved at the discovery, and Prowl flushed.
“Why on Earth would I lie about tha-Ah!“ Prowl began but cut himself off with a gasp as Jazz’s second digit probed in to join its companion. Jazz’s digits scissored apart, spreading the delicate membranes of Prowl’s valve. Prowl shivered in anticipation for Jazz’s spike, uncharacteristically impatient. Prowl normally did not mind when Jazz teased him or took his time, but the more Jazz’s heat was behind him, the more he was bent over, the stronger the ache in his legs grew, the more and more desperate Prowl became.
“Jazz,” Prowl tipped his hips up, shivering at the cool air on his more exposed valve. “Please,” Prowl’s pride had curled up and died in a hole somewhere, or he’d finally lost his processor, as he tended to do whenever Jazz touched him.
“Beggin’ now? Who ‘re you and what didja do with Prowl?” Jazz’s tone was light, playful, but a darker undercurrent raced underneath it. “I dunno… this might be my favorite view of you, Prowler. M’thinkin’ I wanna admire you for a bit.” Jazz stepped back, removing any feasible option for Prowl to stimulate himself on. Desperation clawed at his processor, and he whimpered again.
“Jazz!” Prowl’s valve ached with desire, swollen and sore. He pulled futilely against his stasis cuffs, which did nothing aside from dig into his plating. Prowl was acutely aware of the slow leaking of his valve, which, he was sure, was pooling on the floor below him. He felt like he’d been electrocuted, desperate energy pulsing through every circuit in his frame.
Jazz merely revved his engine in response. He leaned against the wall behind Prowl, arms crossed over his chassis, grinning quite smugly. Prowl laid his helm against his desk, trying to get the coolness of it to hopefully turn whatever remnants of his processor were left in it to kick back on. He flapped his doorwings in annoyance, though they were still buzzing from the attention Jazz had been showering them with.
“Jazz, so help me Primus,“ Prowl scowled over his shoulder at his lover. “If you do not get your aft back over here-“ Prowl revved his engine threateningly. Jazz shook his helm and chuckled, but he did oblige.
“Alright, alright. Jus’ couldn’t resist,” Jazz’s panel slid open with a shink. “Yer all bundled up like a present fer me, Prowler.” Jazz’s servos slid up Prowl’s thighs, sending ripples of anticipation up his backstrut. The special ops agent’s digits dipped into Prowl’s valve for just a moment, gathering transfluid for his spike, Prowl guessed, but it was enough to make him ache impossibly more. His valve was throbbing at this point, the delicate ring inside of him pulsing with every sparkbeat.
“You ready, sweetspark?” The tip of Jazz’s spike settled against Prowl’s valve, and he set a comforting servo on Prowl’s hip, thumb rubbing soothing circles. Prowl nodded and did his best to relax, though it was easier said than done. His entire body was pulsing with excitement, making him a little fidgety if he was honest.
Jazz slowly pushed his way in, spike parting the overheated walls of Prowl’s valve. Maybe it was the new position, or the fact that he’d already overloaded that day, but Prowl couldn’t restrain the keen that drew itself from his vocalizer, though he did turn his face into his pauldron in a pathetic attempt to muffle the sound. Tears pricked at the corners of his optics at the stretch, sharp sparks of pain and pleasure racing through him at his lover’s stretch.
“Shhh... S’okay, Prowler, ‘ve got you,” Jazz rubbed those soothing circles into Prowl’s hip with one thumb, his other servo reaching up to take one of Prowl’s restrained servos. Prowl squeezed his lover’s servo as best as he could, the oversensitivity of his valve heightening his sensations significantly more than his prior estimations.
Once Jazz had fully sheathed himself and their hips were flush, Jazz paused, allowing them both a few moments to adjust and vent with one another. Prowl’s doorwings were already twitching, and a thin layer of coolant had settled over his plating. Jazz shifted on his hips, causing Prowl to clench up reflexively.
Jazz doubled over, pressing his chassis on Prowl’s back as a groan coaxed itself out of his throat, thick with static. His servos gripped Prowl’s hips tight, nearly bruising. He vented hard and fast in Prowl’s audials, and his spike twitched delightfully inside of him.
“P-Prowler, sweetspark,” Jazz vented, “Do that again.” Jazz’s vocalizer was all heady rumbles, his engine running hot on Prowl’s back. Prowl obliged, pressing his hips up and into Jazz’s and clenching. Jazz moaned Prowl’s name, low and deep, his vocalizer sending vibrations through Prowl’s helm.
Jazz stood himself back up and began to move at a slow, hard pace. With each thrust, Jazz was sure to hit every node and bundle of nerves along his spike’s path. Prowl was seeing stars before long, the superheated coil in his tanks making itself known. Though he tried to muffle his wanton moans, the sensations Jazz was sending through his aching valve proved to be too much, and before long his vocalizer was sore. Jazz’s strong thrusting shunted Prowl into his desk, the tops of his thighs becoming a victim of paint transfer, he was sure. Blissful shudders of pleasure rocked his system as Jazz’s spike split him in two, or so it felt like.
Dimly, Prowl became aware of a steady breeze just as Jazz’s pace picked up speed. Prowl gasped as Jazz grabbed the crossbar of his stasis cuffs and pulled him back towards himself, somehow pushing impossibly deeper inside of him.
“T-Told ya, Prowler,” Jazz gloated between his own staticky moans. Prowl, optics fuzzy with pleasure, peeked over his shoulder. His doorwings were indeed flapping as though they were true wings, though he was too blissed out of his processor to quip back at his lover. He splayed them out, but allowed the flapping motion to continue, as he knew how much Jazz loved it, even if his ego was going to be enormous after this.
“F-Frag-“ Jazz faltered, the steady rhythm he’d been keeping previously replaced with a desperate, uneven chase. Prowl’s tanks were boiling by this point, and he was vaguely aware that he was babbling incoherently, somewhere between iterations of ‘Jazz’, gasps, and broken syllables of English and Neocybex.
“J-JaZZ- Ah!” Prowl needed to do something, anything. His servos were itching to grab and squeeze, his mouth desperate to bite down on something other than his own lip. The deprivation was only proving to fuel the nonsense spilling from his lips. He wasn’t even rightly sure of what he was saying, though he was pretty sure he slipped into Praxian for a little while.
“Prowler-!“ Jazz’s visor gleamed brightly. As Prowl neared his own climax, that hot, broiling coil in his tanks growing taut, he tipped his wings back as far as he could, offering them to the other mech as a last action before his circuits completely fried.
Jazz’s servos were on them in a moment, gripping and rubbing and thumbing over the quilted leather of the insides of his doors. Prowl keened under the assault, his wings still desperately trying to squirm despite being held by Jazz’s strong servos. Jazz’s deep, rumbly noises were starting to grow louder and more erratic as they both neared the peak.
The coil in Prowl’s tanks snapped under the assault on his senses, and he all but wailed Jazz’s name as he overloaded for the second time that evening. His entire body seized up under the white-hot pleasure, and his doorwings nearly flailed. He arched his backstrut into Jazz, who pressed down into him, mashing his squirming hips into his desk as he rode out his own overload, digits curled into Prowl’s hips hard enough to bruise.
Jazz laid his body on top of Prowl’s back as they both rode out the last few echoes of their overloads. For a moment, the two of them simply vented hard, well-spent and content to simply exist with one another. As Prowl’s processor slowly trickled back to life, he became aware of the many aches assaulting his frame.
His shoulder joints were screaming from the stasis cuffs, his abused valve throbbing, and a dull yet sharpening pain radiating from his neck where Jazz had bitten him. Prowl’s doorwings were sore from the tugging (not that he minded), and he shifted a little uncomfortably under Jazz’s weight. Jazz pressed a kiss to the side of Prowl’s helm.
“Love you, Prowler.” Jazz murmured into his audials. Prowler leaned into Jazz as best as he could, gently touching their helms together, if only a bit awkwardly.
“I love you too, Jazz.” Saying the affirmations aloud still sent shivers down Prowl’s backstrut, straight to make his spark skip a few spins.
Carefully, as gently as he could, Jazz pulled himself out of Prowl, leaving him feeling both a little empty and a little relieved. A hot trail of transfluid immediately leaked out of Prowl though, presumably to join the puddle on the floor, and he shivered at the slippery sensation. Prowl heard Jazz reach into his subspace, before a cloth began to dab at Prowl’s intimates as Jazz started to clean him up.
“Jazz, can you take these off now? My shoulders are quite sore.” Prowl stood up at the hips, wincing at the ache in his backstrut and the burning in his aft. Prowl’s panel slid back into place with a shink, as Jazz fumbled around in his subspace for the keys. Prowl turned his back to his lover and held out his wrists. Jazz’s (Prowl’s) keyring jingled as he tried them on the cuffs. Prowl made a mental note to categorize them later after he’d had a hot wash.
“Uh,”
“’Uh?’ What does that mean, Jazz?” A spark of anxiety shot down Prowl’s backstrut.
“It… don’t seem like any of these keys fit, babe.” Jazz’s voice was hoarse from overuse, his field prickly with guilt and a smidge of anxiety.
“Jazz… are you kidding?” Prowl turned to face him; optic ridges knit in concern. Jazz shifted awkwardly on his pedes.
“I’m uh, ‘fraid not.” Jazz, sensing Prowl’s rising panic, put his servos on his furious lover’s pauldrons. “But-! I can get them off: theres a disarmer in the armory. We just have to get you there.”
“Get me there?? Like this?” Prowl rattled his stasis cuff and flared his wings. “I look like you just-“
“Fragged yer brains out?” Prowl could practically hear the optic ridge waggle.
“… Yes, exactly.” Prowl glanced down at his form. He was a mess: the paint on the tops of his thighs was scuffed from the edge of his desk, his hips were bruised, the metal starting to swell a dark purple, with some of his transfluid having left very faint purple stains on his inner thighs, not to mention the restrains binding his wrists behind his back.
“Scrap, m’so sorry, Prowler. I didn’t mean to get you actually stuck.” Jazz’s face was so genuine, Prowl couldn’t find it in his spark to hold a grudge. He vented hard.
“I… I can be mad at you later. Let’s just get these off before someone sees us.” Prowl made his way to the door. Jazz nodded and followed suit. Together, they slunk through the halls as quietly as possible to attract as little attention as possible. If anyone saw them, Jazz knew Prowl would never forgive his spontaneous stunt, and he probably wouldn’t forgive himself for it either.
They were not as lucky as they might have hoped.
A few halls away from the armory, disaster struck. Jazz and Prowl rounded the corner only to come face to face with Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, who were likely up to something nefarious the way that their heads snapped to meet the two lieutenants.
Prowl’s field tensed up and he snapped it under his plating as close as he could. Jazz could barely even sense it, despite literally holding his elbow to guide him around. The twins gawked at them, and Jazz knew any hope of a stealth mission died right then and there. Still, Prowl twitched his doorwings to the proper position and marched onwards, trying (and failing) to hide the limp he was walking with. Unfortunately, the entire ship would be buzzing about the SIC being paraded through the hallway in stasis cuffs after clearly having a good frag.
The two speedwalked through the hallway, and Jazz’s fine-tuned audials only barely caught the raucous cacophony of laughter that echoed down the hallway after they had turned the corner into the armory. Prowl glowered at him, and Jazz was pretty sure that if looks could kill he would be a dead mech then and there.
“I love you, Prowler?” Jazz offered a nervous grin to his sparkmate, whose icy optics stared daggers into him.
“I’m still deciding how I feel about you.” Prowl grumbled, though Jazz could feel in the small ripple in his EM field that it was half-sparked at worst.