Prowl paused to collect his words as Jazz looked at him expectantly.
“Jazz, do you remember the conversation we had a while before we left for our different units?” the tactician asked.
“Which one, we had lotsa differen’ conversations before we left. To which one would ya be referrin’ to?” asked the smaller silver ‘bot. Prowl glared at Jazz briefly – the saboteur wasn’t making this at all easy.
“The one we had about taking our friendship further, and becoming physically and emotionally closer and more intimate. The one where I foolishly decided that it wasn’t the right time, that we should wait till later.”
“Yeah, I remember that one.” said Jazz. So what’re ya saying? That the right time is now, or that ya still wanna wait?” Jazz asked, cocking his head at the black-and-white mech in front of him, but making no other move.
It was Prowl who closed the distance, laying one hand on the silver mech’s shoulder.
“I think the right time is now, that is, if you do too?” he asked the smaller ‘bot. “What do you think?” he asked, fighting to keep control as his inner fears mushroomed. Had Jazz changed his mind, or found somebody else in his absence. After getting Jazz back, was he going to effectively lose him again?
“Ya know what I think, Prowlie?” Jazz said.
“What?” Prowl asked.
“I think we’re wastin’ precious time, man.” Jazz said. Then he had magnetised his hands and feet and crawled up the slightly larger ‘bot so Jazz’s hands were on his shoulders, and they were face to face. Then Jazz leaned in before Prowl could say any more, and pressed his metal lips to Prowl’s.
Prowl’s reaction was almost instinctive. He lifted his arms to circle the saboteur’s body, to support and embrace him at the same time. He returned the kiss with equal intensity, revelling in the feel of Jazz’s engine purrs which were sending vibrations through his own chassis. Somewhere in his processors, the possibility that this was neither the time nor the place to start interfacing briefly stirred, but was swept away as quickly by the rising tide of emotion. Prowl had been accused often enough of being unemotional, but the simple truth was that he was simply good at disguising the depths to which his emotions ran. Given the correct trigger, he was as emotional as any other ‘bot, and by Primus, Jazz had just hit the spot!
Jazz shifted position, trying to hike himself higher up on Prowl, and Prowl staggered: Jazz was only a little smaller than him and the configuration of the two joined ‘bots was distinctly top-heavy. Prowl backed up, felt his aft hit the edge of something large and flat, and turned, briefly using an arm to sweep aside the objects that lay atop it. Luckily they were either not breakable or of a tough material: as the objects from the top of the Prime’s desk scattered over the floor, Prowl lay Jazz atop the Autobot leader’s desk, and carefully pulled the magnetised hands from his shoulders as he broke the kiss.
He released Jazz’s hands to use his own to pin the saboteur’s shoulders to the desk as he pressed his lips to the silver ‘bot’s neck seam, kissing it and teasing it with his metal glossa, probing and rubbing at the sensitive edges. Jazz squirmed, crying out as his lover stimulated an area that was sensitive in almost all Cybertronians, be they mech or femme, Autobot or Decepticon. His body twisted on the desk as he arched up, and his arms rose and his hands sought and found the back of Prowl’s cranial unit. The sharp-tipped digits gently explored the tactician’s helm, probing and pressing into every crack and seam they found, sending hot pulses firing along Prowl’s circuitry.
His hands lifted from Jazz’s shoulders to slide up his neck and settle about his audios, caressing and stroking the delicate structures lovingly. Jazz’s audios, he realised, were definitely sensitive: the silver ‘bot beneath him cried out as he fingered the textured equipment, moaning and gasping in a manner that could not be interrupted as anything other than desire.
At that point, Prowl himself twitched as those clever fingers discovered and explored his sensitive sensor-chevron.
“Jazz-AH!” he cried, arching at the contact and faltering in his own digital manipulation. His jerk pulled him free of the teasing silver appendages, and Jazz looked up uncertainly at his two-tone partner. who immediately brought his heads back down and began stroking the audios again.
“No, J-Jazz, please don’t st-stop.” Prowl stuttered out, his vents cycling faster and more erratically. Jazz replaced his fingers on the chevron and stroked the two prongs in a manner that knocked any last lingering doubts of the suitability of what they were doing and where straight into subspace.
Prowl took his hands from the saboteur’s delicate audios and placed them on his waist to move the little silver ‘bot further on to the table, and sighed in relief as he slid on next to him, balanced on his side. He used one hand to prop himself up: the other he began running along Jazz’s waist and hip, up and down and along the smooth curved lines of his thighs. Prowl had to admire Jazz’s style: not only had he chosen an alt that looked good as a car, but one that made the translation to robot beautifully. Jazz’s gorgeously curved limbs could be attributed to the designers of the Solstice he had scanned.
Jazz sighed and the blue hue of his visor dimmed as he began to hum in pleasure. Prowl looked down at his friend with a sudden surge of gratitude. This beautiful, gorgeous mech had chosen to offer himself to him, and like an idiot, he had almost thrown that chance away. He thanked Primus that he’d been given this glorious second chance. Jazz had had the right of it earlier: they had been wasting time, and Prowl did not intend to waste another astrosecond. Sliding down a little, he began running his fingertips over Jazz’s radiator grille and bestowing kisses on that gloriously curved waist.
Jazz cried out and arched again, and Prowl took that opportunity to slide one of his hands under Jazz’s body and stroke that wonderfully supple spinal structure. The hand stroked up and down and Jazz reached for Prowl’s own back, but as Prowl’s head was down at Jazz’s waist, Jazz could only reach the head again: one hand went to the chevron again as the other traced down to Prowl’s own audios.
Jazz whined in desire: he had never realised the staid tactician had such skill in interfacing, never realised how much passion the mech possessed deep inside, hidden beneath his accepted reserve. He felt privileged to be the one who was able to help him shed the reserve like an old, unwanted alt, to be the one to release that passion. He had always suspected there were hidden depths to Prowl, and as the tactician cried out and his grip tightened, Jazz was thankful that he was in a position now to plumb them.
Prowl caressed the silver mech’s back, then wriggled his other arm under Jazz’s back. Propping himself up on his elbows, he used one hand to lift Jazz from the table surface, enough that he could touch and begin to caress one of his sensitive doorwings. Jazz twitched and cried out again, the touch was driving him towards overload, but he couldn’t touch Prowl’s own door wings, didn’t want to go into overload and leave Prowl still needful, still charged. Much as he wanted to overload he tried to fight it, he wanted to give Prowl pleasure the way Prowl was giving pleasure to him. He had no idea that Prowl was closer to overload than he realised: Prowl got a charge from caressing his lover as much as from being caressed by him.
Unaware of the smaller mech’s dilemma, Prowl caressed the lines of the door wing, dipped his head again to touch his glossa against Jazz’s chest and teasingly probe at his seams and catches with it. Prowl felt Jazz’s charge building as the smaller ‘bot bucked and squealed in desire. Prowl wanted to make Jazz overload, could feel that he himself was close to the edge. Jazz’s touches to his sensitive audios and his sensor array were pushing him closer to that overload, although e suspected that Jazz would be the first to go. He didn’t mind, when he rebooted maybe he could get Jazz to finish what he had started?
Both the mechs were so preoccupied that neither of them heard the door to the office open and then close. Nether was aware that they were no longer alone in the office, that they were being watched, that the watcher could see the situation. Jazz’s optics were flashing on and off as he tried to hold back his impending overload, and Prowl’s optics were focused on Jazz’s chest, so neither of them saw the watcher silently approach.
The touch of hands on Prowl’s doorwings was unexpected but skilled, and Prowl was too far gone at that point to wonder whose hands they were. They were too big and the wrong configuration to be Jazz’s, but Prowl was beyond reasoning this and beyond caring. The skilled caresses were all he needed to throw him straight into one of the biggest overloads he had ever experienced. Energy crackled over his frame as he arched into the hands and screamed Jazz’s name, even as the safeties kicked in and temporarily shut him down to guard against overheating.
Jazz himself was equally close to overloading, and as the energy of Prowl’s overload washed over him, it pushed Jazz into overload as well. He arched, cried out, and his limbs locked, he shook violently as his engine revved up to it’s maximum. Then he too went limp, and the blue of his visor dimmed as he slid into a light recharge.
Optimus Prime looked down with content at the two mechs. He had seen How Jazz was holding back, guessed the problem and acted accordingly.
Anything to help…
