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Jazz would have been lying if he had said he had thought Prowl was as chilly and frigid as the rumours and gossip has suggested. He had made his career in rumours and gossip for too long to not have a feeling for the truth. Prowler was just too slagging hot to have not been rolling in invitations to frag at some point. And if Prowler did something, he made a point to do it correctly and thoroughly.
Jazz had always appreciated a mech who did a job properly.
What he had not expected was that Prowler was such a fragging machine in the berth.
The thought occurs to him when Prowl has Jazz down on his knees, doing such a slagging good job of getting every valve node with his spike that Jazz has long since slumped forward onto his bumper.
It’s like he had put every megabyte of his superpowered processor into identifying and learning how Jazz’ frame responded. Right now he’s working on angling his spike just right so the ridges on the underside thumped along Jazz’ anterior plexus in the best kind of way, and overload blows through his system like a solar flare.
When his processor finishes roiling, Prowl is leaning over him, vents rumbling and engine growling, and Jazz briefly manages to think he might get a chance to show off some talent of his own before he realises his valve is slick with more than lubricants. When Prowl eases up off, he’s sleepy opticked and his EM field is rich with satisfaction, so Jazz counts it an overall win for a first go round.
Next time, Jazz tells himself, he’ll get Prowler at his mercy, show him exactly what Jazz can do in a berth space, and then the next time he’s nearly folded in two under that broad frame and can’t even think about anything aside from how his ceiling node is getting absolutely pounded. He can’t control the proprioception sensors in his legs for at least a joor afterwards.
The third time is much the same, and the fourth and the fifth, and by then Jazz is starting to worry.
Much like Jazz himself, Prowl’s not the sort of mech to tolerate mediocrity, not in any aspect of his life at all, and if Jazz can’t perk up his ideas he’s going to run the risk of not getting back into his panels. Every time he tries to bring it up, though, Prowl reads his opening salvos as a come-on - which might be Jazz’s fault a bit, but he can’t help but flirt - and then Jazz ends up a shuddering mess on whatever flat surface is close enough. Again and again and again.
Instead he ambushes Prowl in his office, with the thought that it was 50/50 Prowl might decline interface in his most sacrosanct environment, so Jazz could maybe get his words out without being trapped himself.
It was either that or in the middle of the mess hall, and Jazz isn’t a shy mech but he thinks he might rather just die than have anyone else know he's so easily disassembled by anyone.
“Can I help?” asks Prowl, in the blandest possible manner, when Jazz lets himself into his office and relocks the door behind him. Purposefully he doesn’t answer until Prowl rolls his optics and lifts his attention from his screen.
Jazz is not used to being the tongue tied one, not any more than he is used to being the one incapable of anything but shuddering insensible on the berth. There must be better ways to phrase it, but he’s damned if he can think of anything smart, so he gives up.
“I ain’t gettin’ the chance I want to frag you senseless, because you’re too good at fraggin’ me, and it’s gettin’ on top of my ego.”
Prowl cycles his optics, opens his mouth, pauses, cycles his optics again. “And that’s a problem?”
“Not a problem,” he says, “But I’ve gotta uphold my reputation, you know, and it's hard to hold onto it when I’m the one getting overloaded so hard I can’t move. Every time.”
Prowl’s expression eases into something a little more comprehending, and he leans back in his chair.
“I see,” he says. “We are more similar than I had realised. I do get pleasure from making certain my lovers are enjoying themselves.”
“And, trust me, I’m enjoyin’ myself,” says Jazz fervently. “I really really am. But you’re too good at it for me to be able to reciprocate. You gotta give me a chance!”
Prowl has stood up and stalked into Jazz’ space. Both of them are starting to run hot just from the discussion. It was a very good idea not to do this in the mess hall, Jazz realises, and also that his 50/50 calc on how sacred Prowl considered his office is definitely off.
He’s not the chief tactician for a reason.
“I just want to make it very clear, I have no dissatisfaction in our encounters until now,” Prowl says, and Jazz is down bad given how high his internal temperature spikes at that. “But if you want some reciprocity, I am more than happy to play along.”
“You say the sweetest things to me,” says Jazz. He's being shuffled backwards now, Prowl’s hands on his hips and waist to shepherd him, until his back hits the wall. He lifts a leg to brace against Prowl’s hip, panels coming into contact with a sizzle. “Mech, you gonna rail me against this wall right now?”
Prowl’s smile is dangerous when he leans in to nip Jazz’ lower lip. “Exactly right.”
“Gonna have to wait for my turn to make you moan, I guess.” Jazz says without any rancour, and chokes on his words as Prowl bites his neck cables and slides his servo over Jazz’ mouth.
“I’d invite you to do the same right now,” says Prowl, “But given where we are, maybe I ought to keep you quiet instead.”
It’s three cycles later when Jazz finally gets his chance, and he suspects Prowl does it the way he does just to be difficult. They’ve got a really banging rhythm going, and Jazz is on the verge of something fragging stunning. Charge builds and builds and Jazz’s fingers knot in the teflon sheets just as he’s about to overload.
And Prowl, abruptly, pulls away; the shriek it draws from Jazz’ misfiring vocaliser is atonal in near despair.
The mech flops down with not quite enough care for someone with such imposing wings and when Jazz raises his head he has the temerity to be smirking.
“You slagger,” he manages when his vocaliser finishes leaking static.
“Why am I doing all the work?” Prowl pats his own thigh, next to where his spike is jutting obscenely upright, biolights burning bright under a sheen of Jazz’ own lubricant. “I thought you came with a reputation. Get on up.”
Jazz is going to die, or kill Prowl ,or possibly both. What a fragging time to remember a conversation from three cycles ago. “Well threaten me with a good time, why dontcha.”
He clambers over with more enthusiasm than grace and casts his thigh over Prowl’s lap, stroking the soaking folds of his valve up the underside of that glorious spike. It’s just a lovely one too, just the right size, protoform plump under delicate platelets, nice fat sensor clusters in ridges that rub just right on Jazz’s nodes. Prowl’s smug expression loses its edge when Jazz rubs himself down tightly. Serves him fragging right too.
“I thought you wanted a chance to make me moan,” Prowl murmurs, chasing a kiss with a nip to Jazz’ lip. “If you want to waste the chance, I’ll happily take over again, and make sure you get an overload that resets all your fuses.”
“Shush.” He lets Prowl chase him up for more kisses, dragging gently on his lower lip, and then pushes him right back to the berth top and squeezes down hard. “Watch and learn.”
He could definitely trip himself into a great overload just like this, especially watching Prowl bite his own lower lip, but hands are starting to drift up his thighs and if he’s not on his game Prowl will take over again and Jazz will have no hope.
“Ah ah,” he warns, and Prowl lifts his hands up like an innocent. “Don’t distract the workers now.”
Prowl is going to say something pithy and flirty and probably unfairly sexy, so Jazz has to move quick to forestall him; a quick slide forward and then back down. The tip of Prowl’s spike lurches over his valve lips and node and makes them both jerk and groan, and while Prowl is reeling, Jazz cocks his hips, does the same thing and -
“Frag,” he chokes on his own in-vents. That spike is just made for him, bullies its way right up against his sensory plexus, butts right up to the top of his valve where the ceiling node is. It’s just thick enough to spread him to the point where he really likes it, where he can feel the pressure in the protoform around his valve. And if he squeezes down, draws his callipers in tight…
The noise that Jazz makes is not dignified, but, happily, neither is the one that Prowl makes either. The mech is developing a heady flush across his cheeks, optics wide and stunned. When Jazz flexes his callipers again - the sort of slow wave from the bottom to the top - his mouth moves and his vocaliser completely fails to activate for a few long moments.
“Like that?” He wriggles in place, getting his knee plates steady on the berth top.
“Yes!” says Prowl, vocaliser whining static. “Dear Primus, how are you doing that?”
Jazz isnt sure its that impressive a skill, but he was built in the functionalist days with an entertainment frame, and definitely had worked hard for his shanix over the years. And maybe, the thought occurs like a sharp little needle through the rush of pleasure, maybe Prowl has been so thorough to all of his lovers none of them have bothered to return in kind?
Well, Jazz won't stand for that sort of unfairness.
“Professional secrets,” he says, his cheeky grin slightly spoiled by the lurch of pleasure that rolling his hips grants him. He probably won’t be standing for much anyway after this to be fair. “Just you settle back and let me take care of you.”
He starts slow and careful, rolling his hips, flexing his core in slow sinuous waves, more of a grind than anything. He can let the charge build and build, until he can feel the flicker of sparks, and then relaxes down all at once. The little bereft noise Prowler makes when he does is music to his audial, so fragging sexy he does it twice more, and Prowl’s digits are grasping helplessly at his hips to encourage it on.
“This is cruelty,” whines Prowl, and Jazz kisses him for it.
“Revenge,” he says happily. “I was on the verge of something really fraggin’ great earlier when you stopped.”
Since Prowler likes the roll and grind so much, Jazz keeps it in the repertoire, but now adds a little lift and drop down. Keeps it slow and gentle at first, just to find the limits of where he should rise to and once he knows exactly, he can increase the tempo, work a bit faster, get the friction going more. It is good, especially when he sinks down with a bit more force, getting all that pressure deep inside.
Prowl watches, optics hazy bright with charge and face now flushed with pleasure. His hands roamed Jazz’s thighs, clutched his hips, cupped over his aft. He’s fighting the urge to control the pace, like the obedient mech he is, and Jazz grabs his hands to place them on his bumper as a reward.
He’s not as gifted as some mechs in that department, but he knows he’s got nice curves to his chrome, the sort of headlights that are hard not to palm. His vents are gawping open for cooler air, just wide enough for digits to creep in, his seams ticklish with charge. Turn about is fair play, so he can get his hands on that gorgeous bumper below him as well - more to brace when he shifts his knees back and starts to bounce. His first essay just misses the best nodes by a fraction, but it makes Prowl’s engine roar, so he can’t bother to adjust, just keep up the pace until the mech is gasping.
“Just a little more, sweetspark,” Jazz promises and, just when the time is right, sinks tight to the base of that lovely spike and rolls his hips again. Prowl moans, dropping his helm back, hands squeezing so hard on Jazz’ bumper that he’ll have dents. “That’s it, show me how you like it.”
The dam broken, Prowl moans and hisses and whines desperately as Jazz fucks himself on his spike, finally opens his mouth to pant out superheated air his vents could no longer effectively clear from his processor. His optics are overbright and fiercely desperate and he clutches onto Jazz like a mech on a life preserver, and it’s all so slagging hot Jazz can’t bear it.
He overloads with a shout, shunting down hard to really get the best grounding pressure on his nodes, clenches down and buckles forward until he knocks his helm on that glorious bumper.
When he manages to straighten, Prowl looks at him desperately. “Please,” he gasps, tugging at Jazz’s hips. “Please let me frag you. Primus, you’re so - “
Jazz stretches up, lets his frame arch so his bumper juts out appealingly. His systems are still sparking with his own overload, not as sensor numbing as the ones Prowl has given him, but good enough he is feeling generous. He leans forward, gets a little extra distance between them, so Prowl can brace his knees up and thrust up. On the first one, he gets Jazz right against his ceiling node, and he can’t help yelping, and then can’t stop as Prowl absolutely pounds him. He’ll be sore for cycles afterwards, have paint scuffs down to the metal over his aft, and it’s perfect.
Prowl frags up into him hard, holding his hips so he can drag Jazz down against his thrusts up, and his beautiful stern face is contorted with pleasure, just using Jazz’s valve as a fragtoy until he can’t get just quite what he needs anymore.
He half throws Jazz over onto his back amid the rumpled sheets, and pounces up over him again, bends him in half holding his thighs so his knees are nearly by his shoulders. Prowl’s an avenging god looming over Jazz’s frame, wings high and broad, optics glowing nearly white, and Jazz might write a fragging hymn about how that spike feels splitting him open again.
As fuse-blowing fantastic it has been to be berthed so well before, it’s even better to see Prowl lost in his own pleasure, fragging Jazz rough and hard and without any consideration - Jazz cannot put words to how slagging hot it is seeing the mech nearly snarling with effort, fingers gripping his thighs in denting pressure. Even though his system has no more charge left to build, Jazz’s systems still roar with pleasure, and his vocaliser is whining a stream of half garbled pleas, begging for Prowl to use him more, frag him as hard as he wants.
He finds himself promising a whole series of absolutely degenerate things, if Prowl will just overload for him like this; the promise of any and every part of his frame at Prowl’s service, in any and all configurations, hell he’ll even behave at the next Command Meeting even.
Prowl can’t seem to decide if he’s watching his own spike splitting Jazz open, or watching Jazz’s mouth as he begs helplessly, and finally, finally, he slams deep and pulls back, thick pulses of transfluid spilling over Jazz’s node and valve lips. The overload courses over him visibly, static crackling in blue shards along the edges of his plating and shorting his optics into abrupt darkness. Every pulley and gear pings into high tension and abruptly shudders into relaxation, and slumps down on his heels.
“Come ‘ere,” purrs Jazz, and helps Prowl down to the sheets beside him. The mech is still sizzling hot, vents popping open and closed and mouth hanging open to add to the cooling effect. Jazz would like to drape over him, nuzzle into where his vocaliser is hissing constant static, but his poor mech is too hot, so he gives him a little space and watches fondly as he cools off.
“Right,” says Prowl, finally managing to reset his vocaliser enough to speak. His optics have relit, in a foggy low light. It has taken him a gratifyingly long time, so Jazz has been luxuriating both in the well fragged sensation and the big old wave of smugness. He rolls over to cast himself over Prowl’s still twitching side, and purposefully drapes a thigh over Prowler’s waist just to tease. “Right,” the mech repeats, sounding strained again, and digs fingers into the underneath of Jazz’s thigh to pluck wires until they twang.
“That reputation is well earned. I can see why you might want to keep it.”
“Ta, Prowler,” says Jazz. “I would offer to big you up to the gen pop in return, but I ain’t runnin’ the risk of havin’ to share.”
“No complaints from me,” sighs Prowl, and tweaks the wires again. “Especially if you’ll do even half of those things you mentioned earlier.”
Jazz is like 50/50 sure he doesn't mean behaving in the next command meeting.