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Jazz sauntered across the nearby hallways of the ark, his demeaner nothing short of enthusiastic as he gracelessly flaunted his door wings with playful expertise that had a multitude of bots’ parading his worth with coy intent.
“Lookin’ good, Jazz!” one bot whistled, leaning against another mech in yellows.
The other purred with a cheer, “How about comin to my habsuite sometime? ay!” He slapped the other on the shoulder guard with a languish posture, tipping a cube over and onto the panelled floors of the hideous oranges.
Clearly, Somebot had gotten the high-grade out—and not invited him? Cheeky.
Jazz could only think the party was dull,lifeless and lacked the real fun when he was the reason show these orns as he finally reached his habsuite, his charge crackled along his plating setting a lurid static like buzz across his black plating and he found himself almost doubling over the door.
He definitely doesn’t get paid enough for this.
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Jazz was starting to think that the liquified substance he had accidentally tipped all over himself in Wheeljacks lab while snooping around was in fact, anything but an oil-frame relaxer.
While it must have been something akin to that as it did soothe pivot joints. It also has his plating aching beyond release, spark spinning momentarily and his vents on overdrive with the occasional drip of coolant beading off his optical ridges
Could it have been an aphrodisiac instead? That isn’t possible. Aphrodisiacs came in herbs or powders. But who’s to say that Wheeljack hasn’t created a liquidated substance now? Jazz grunted, he might be in a lot more trouble than he first thought if this is a first test.
Guttural groans leave his intake from rocking back and forth between his servo to wrench out any of his excess charge that crackled, danced and sent unbidden jolt after jolt across the outer rim of his valve.
Even though, jazz mourns the loss of his heated palm, the grinding does absolutely nothing in solving his (happy) problem. So, he inserts a first digit for the first of the solar-cycle past across his petalled folds and inside, driving it in and out with erratic movement—
A constant ping from his inner systems does no favours in making this easier for him and with that liquid still drenching his plating, seeping through his seams and the wired tubes of his thighs…Immediately, his callipers squeeze down in earnest. his hyper-sensitive to the stimulation being a major issue—the insertion of his digit not fully seated in for him to give out a long moan that rung through the walls, floor and up on his berth and to his digits in reverberations.
‘Cmon! Almost there—’ Jazz moved, grinding against his digits as he scissors himself apart. That did it—his overload approaches and it was approaching fast.. The spec ops bots plating clamps and his frame spasms—
It never came and Jazz curses under his breath.
UGH!
Jazz groaned, throwing his helm back on the pillow. Why did he have to go in that lab and be nosey? Now look where he’s at.
This is absolute torture.
He definitely couldn’t do this alone. He was stymied by the issue, but he had to because like pit! is letting anybot seeing him like this—legs spread apart far and wide for everybot to see, fans roaring, (probably) the most vulgar look on his white faceplates that put even the best of buy-bots to shame. Though, an invitation to bring somebot here was tempting... he’d rather not have anyone see him in such a vulnerable state. Just because he interfaced a lot, doesn’t mean he does not value his pride and image.
Jazz supposed he’d have to wait it out. Try and push out a couple overloads old style, then drift into recharge (and worry about the consequences later).
Hold that thought—because his habsuite door is knocked on by one he could guess to be.
“Jazz.”
Prowl.
‘Argh, C’mon prowl, couldn’t have come around another time!?’ Though jazz, ignoring the rhythmic precise tapping of prowls servo on the door so he glide his servo back to his interface array. The spec ops’ bit the bottom of his derma, caress the folds, he squeezed his optics shut and grinded against his ebony digits.
“Jazz..?” The voice came back, Clear-cut. Typical. but something was different?
His tone sounded concerned. Weird. Unlike any Jazz has ever heard.
Jazz’s optics burst open. “Y-yeah!” Oops, might have said that in the wrong tone. Jazz cleared his intake, flickering his visor upwards. “Wha’ is it, ma mech?” He asked, attempting to sound calm and collected.
There was a starchy silence behind the door for a while, until he could hear the soft clickity startup of prowls vocaliser. “May I come in?”
Come in?
Yeah, sure! Come in why don’t cha. See what good ol’ jazz has been doin and the mess he’s made of himself!—Absolutely fraggin not. But unfortunately, he couldn’t turn down a mech like prowl.
So, he does the sanest thing and jumps off his berth, hides the interface toys he planned to use.
“Yeah’! ah! gimme a klik—” Jazz pants, He was sure Prowl had to have heard when he almost tripped over an electro-bass guitar he had found on Earth, since he heard shuffling, though it never dawned on him to even bother noticing as he manually rode a protocol for his array to close, whilst wiping the excess fluids off his thighs, abdomen and servos, then—finally he lets the door hiss, separate and reveal the familiar frame of prowl.
“Long time no see, ma mech!” He smirks to the strategist, gesturing a servo to invite the mech in.
Prowl scoffs, “Hardly a ‘long time’ since we had seen each other in the meeting room.” He said, blue optics flitted to the mess of the habsuite.
“Yeah, yeah!” He waves him off, “So, what can I do for ya?” He asks, leaning against the wall because his array aches. Jazz silently hisses, fidgeting to release any of that built-up charge.
Prowls unrelenting gaze persisted. Jazz watches the enforcer pivot his body slightly towards him. “Your report.” Prowl bluntly states, giving the smaller mech a funny look when he looks to be lost in space.
“Huh?” He dumbly asks, scratching his helm.
“You haven’t handed in your debriefing report this cycle.” said prowl, extending a hand. “Where is it?”
Jazz stalls, his visor dims. He ponders for a moment before giving an answer, “Don’t got one.”
“You—do not have one?” Prowls servo twitches.
“Yep!” he declared, swaying his frame against the wall with his dermas slightly parted.
Prowl’s servo falls to his side, and his optics narrow into slits. “Jazz. Why is your core temperature rising in uncontrollable amounts?”
Slag.
“Non’ya business now get out before—” Jazz stops himself, an idea dawns on him and… he suddenly finds himself being far too interested in the mech right in front of him.
“You wish for me to leave?”
“N-no…”
Surely this was a bad idea, but he couldn’t stop from flaunting over, spreading his door wings in a playful way, and for a sultry smile to grace his faceplates. “Prowler…don’t go, don’t leave from here—stay for the night?” Jazz pleads, pursuing his derma and tracing a digit across the front of prowl’s bumper.
The enforcer gives a soft sound, that jazz didn’t expect at all. “Jazz…this is highly unprofessional—going against p-protocol.” He gets cut off as jazz dips his digit under the white mesh of his cheek, having his vents hitch.
“Wasn’t meant to ever be professional, prowler.” Jazz leans into his audial, whispering in a velvety purr, “Neither does it have to be if you just let those walls break and let yourself loose…”
“Jazz…” He muttered, seemingly unimpressed. his fans clicking on and the pigmented blue blush on his faceplate spoke otherwise.
Jazz pulled away, locking his visor with the taller mechs cyans. “Think about it prowler—you have me right here… right now, all to yerself…What’s stopping ya’?” He crooned, straining his helm upright.
That was true.
Particularly because beneath the layers of strategic die-hard logic, Prowl could never lie that he had never wanted a mech like jazz. How could he possibly not when he is liked by many, is highly sociable and talkative, desirable and most of all fraggin delectable to look at when passing by the ark halls.
Even if his logical processor deemed this ridiculous and irrational. Prowl was but a mech, who like all—has desires that he intends to fulfil. Like pit he’d ruin a chance like this again.
“You will say not a word about this to anyone. Do I make myself clear?” He demanded.
Jazz feverishly sighed with a clouded visor then replied, “Ma dermas are sealed.” with a zip motion and slams their dermas together.
Prowls tilted, servo going to the smaller mechs lower back to find his array.
Jazz gasps, leaning in with parted dermas as the enforcers digits rub the panel whilst snaking his glossa inside with the others own and hums when he can hear the panel hiss beneath his servo.
Sticky wet residue is already drenching his fingers, but he doesn’t care as he guides the smaller mech to the berth, tosses him on there and crawling on top to connect their lips again, revelling in the sweetened flavour of high-grade before pulling away, to kiss down jazz’s neck cables, bumper, lights that elect gasps. Moans. Primus forbidden sounds which are so very exquisite from the mech beneath, Prowls pressurized spike prods and pushes, threatening to bulge the metal from his arousal. He trails down to the mech’s panel that is dripping wet, plump and… already prepped?
Well, that was good on Prowl’s part. Particularly, explaining why jazz had been so called “busy”. Though, he didn’t understand why he’d pass aside his duties for pleasure. His ambrosian scent should send alarm bells off but it was never his business in the first place to know what Jazz does every lunar-cycle. So, he shrugs it off to raise the smaller mechs legs up and blow on the outer rim of that ebony valve.
The aquamarine pulse triumphally and Prowl leans in, trailing his glossa up once. Teasing the squish. “Oh.” Jazz gasps, hips rising off the berth to get more of that moist heat.
Interesting reaction.
Prowl licks again, pouncing the flatted foundation of his glossa diligently enough to feel Jazz shudder, tremble and vibrate his armor. He trails up and down the folds to his glowing anterior node which makes Jazz careen, excess charge crackling down to prowls glossa as the smaller mech blissfully becomes aware of his lewd moans.
With the tiny singe of electric, Jazz tips over to his overload, far too quickly to which prowl found himself surprised, but he wasn’t exactly done with him just yet. “Should I be concerned by your short-lived overload?” he questioned, studying the others faceplates.
Jazz whines from the lack of touch. He couldn’t take it anymore. He had to be taken, whether or not Prowl is persistent in enacting this...—THIS fraggin dawdling foreplay or not.
“Prowler’ … I can’t take this much longer- MmM’ give it to me—” He drawled, overlooking his question to clutch the enforcers own array, his digit tracing seams to found the latch.
The heated contact stings. Prowl opens his panel willingly to the dense squishiness of a dripping angular tipped spike. Abound white ridges twinge, beady vinous biolights that remind Jazz of humans high-grade quiver in raw need.
Oh.
Oh..
This is something Jazz didn’t expect, but he can’t stop his excess drooling or soothing out the ache of his heated overworked array.
Fraggers got a beauty on him.
Prowl repositions to settle between the others shiny milky white thighs. How tantalizing. his spike twitches, teasing the tip against Jazz’s valve, partnering the flower-petalled folds of that tight little valve fluidly. Simultaneously, moan after moan is drawn out from the contact and Jazz can already feel his lines bubbling with such WANT. Prowl’s EMP flaring with covet that burnt.
Glad from not being the only one, The smaller mech avidly grabs the spike, lining that gorgeous spike up with shaky servos—right to the dripping rim of his entrance, just about enough for the strategist to push in smoothly and seat himself fully inside.
Jazz shivers, the sheer girth being somewhat an interesting task. It was a tight fit, tucked neatly to the core but he could take it— Would take it, long as it meant he got one of the best frags of his life.
“Jazz…” Prowl spoke low, like the sweetest piece of raw music ringing through jazz’s audials.
“Shall I start moving?” Jazz nods before wiggling in a tremor as the enforcer slowly thrusts, gripping for leverage on those fabulous bumper lights—fingering below. Exploring the circular sides. Digging between the seams, his olfactory sensors overflowing with the intoxication of Jazz’s polish, lubricants and ozone.
Primus.
It felt like a deadly trap. Ushering Prowl deeper inside, he gripped the smaller bot’s hips, raising him off the berth to pound straight into that ornament valve of delectation and to watch those faceplates shift from surprise to intense libido.
Such a vulgar display. He would be the only one experiencing. Prowl couldn’t stop from wondering how it would be if any autobot could see just how sensual Jazz looked right now, quivering, shaking and desperately trying to meet his relentless thrusts. Surely, they’ll be able to hear him enough throughout the habsuite walls.
Jazz tosses his helm back, moaning. His door wings thumping erratically on foundation of the berth, his enrapture profoundly mounting him on each processor shattering pulsed thrust.
Yes! This is what he needed!
His back arches, he wraps his leg struts tightly round the strategist hard enough for thin paint to smudge, rub, scrape off and create sparks that fly and dance cross their frames.
Already feeling his second heaven sent overload nearing. “Close—super fraggin’ close! Keep up that pa—pace!” He stops short, keening when Prowl throws his leg over his shoulder, shifting for attention and delving intensely to the deepest parts Jazz didn’t think were possible. Systematically ramming right through his gestation chamber and bristling every single node. He was so certain that the tactician is fastidious enough to get in the way of pleasing a bot enough.
What the frag?!
Jazz gapes at the sinister smirk on Prowls faceplates.
‘Oh that glitch.’ He thought, underestimating his performance. Finally experiencing his release. Joints squeak, plating locks, sparks and clamps. His valve tightly squeezes round Prowl before a mind-shattering overload knocks him out.
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Jazz boots up, feeling the sharpened ache in his poor spinal strut—thighs, bumper and especially his array. He is so confused on what happens, given that he is dripped in lubricants and fluid, he searches his memory banks prior to the crash, only for him to hear a heavy groan as something—No. Somebody shifts ON his berth.
His visor flickers, meeting a pair of sapped blues. “Primus! Prowler!” He exclaimed, recoiling.
“You’re awake. I predicated you would have onlined 2.567 kliks later.” Prowl drones, sitting up.
Awake? From what?—
Holy. slag.
He banged prowl—he banged the one mech without a primus forsaken interfacing life in the ark. Well, Prowl banged him. Pretty good too if he knocked him offline for…what? Jazz checked his chronometer. A whole three joors. Fabulous.
He honestly didn’t know Prowl had that in him for being so reticent and aloof. But, they always tell you to watch out for those quiet ones…
Jazz yanks the mech back down, the berth squeaks as he snuggles into prowls frame, suffocated by the heat he expelled significant coolant building in his fans.
“Jazz?” Prowl asks, shocked by the smaller mechs behaviour even if they had just interfaced. It was odd that Jazz would “cuddle” into someone.
“Mmm?” He inaudibly mumbles, not budging when Prowl nudged him.
“Jazz—I need to…go, I have paperwork, I must get to prime…” Prowl says, till he sighs at the mechs internals whirling in hushed tones and tightening grip he had no ways of getting out of.
Unable to do anything but lay there, he snuggles closer. Planting a kiss on one of the protrusions of Jazz’s helm. Oddly enough, it reminded prowl of those earthling felines. What were they called? kurts? Cets? Cats. Yeah thats the one.
The smaller mech made a soft sound and Prowl finally powered down his systems, falling into recharge.