Chapter Text
It was a good drive, as far as drives went. Easily in the top ten. The roads were deserted, the weather was clear. Jazz played aloud his favorite tracks of Eurythmanian alt-pop, letting the notes drift from his windows over to Prowl. At every curve Prowl saw himself in Jazz’s rearview mirror, his smooth drive wheels leading them, not close enough to talk, but always keeping Prowl within listening range. The music was the one thing they shared, and Prowl let it pull him along, helpless like a fish dragged by a net.
When they got back to base, Prowl went straight to the bar. Everyone was still groaning, draping themselves over the nearest convenient surfaces; so hardly anyone noticed when he grabbed the first bottle he saw that had neither been opened, nor smashed. Prowl took a long swig — the taste wasn’t bad, merely unpleasant. He hated it, it was the furthest thing imaginable from what he tasted on Jazz last night. No matter, it would accomplish his objectives.
He consumed the entire bottle in half a cycle. If Ratchet had been nearby and conscious, he would have yelled. But Prowl knew his system. Anything less, tac-net would have talked him out of it. Hard, fast, and brutal was the only way.
Deeming his level of intoxication sufficient, Prowl went looking for Jazz.
“Would you like to accompany me to my habsuit?” he said, cutting to the chase.
Jazz looked at Prowl like he just grew a second head.
“I am in full possession of my faculties, except for tac-net.” That was a lie, he shut down most peripheral processes adjacent to tac-net, but whatever. “I am propositioning you. For s—“
“Okay okay, I got it!” Jazz said. Then he stared. “How much did you drink?”
“Enough,” Prowl said. That was also a lie. No amount of fuel in the world could prepare him for the hurt of Jazz gently putting a hand on his shoulder, deeply ex-venting, and saying, “Prowl, please. I need you to go to sleep.”
“I see.”
Prowl went looking for another bottle.
***
This time, he stood up from the bar, only to promptly keel over.
“Wow, wow!” Somebody caught him just in time. It was also Jazz, how convenient. Prowl made sure not to slur his words,
“Is this sufficient?”
Jazz redirected some energy from keeping Prowl off the floor to staring at him again.
“Pardon?”
Prowl rephrased his question, proud at how clearly he enunciated,
“Is my current level of drunkenness comparable to yours last night, when you decided we should engage in—“
“Oh Primus,” Jazz cut in. “This— are you trying to get back at me? But—“ He looked away, worrying his lips. Then his visor light focused on Prowl, “You’re the logical one. Tell me what you want.”
***
There were, by latest estimates, close to a billion things that Prowl wanted. Lengthiness aside, the list would also be completely irrelevant. It was not about what Prowl wanted. When it came to Jazz, he simply had objectives.
They had arrived at Prowl’s habsuite, Jazz not bothering to hide that he knew the passcode. He poured Prowl into the bed, was about to beat a safe retreat when Prowl caught his hand.
“Stay?”
From Prowl’s vantage point, Jazz seemed to be silently screaming into his other palm.
Fine. Change of strategy then.
Prowl tugged, hard. Used his weight and rolled with it until Jazz ended up on his bed and Prowl ended up on top of him, just like last time. He knew normally Jazz could twist then pin him with one hand, but he also knew that Jazz would not hurt him in this state. With his head on Jazz’s bumper like this, Prowl just wanted to sleep, he was comfortable. Still, he had objectives. He tugged on Jazz’s arms,
“Up.”
Jazz had completely lost control of the situation.
“—say what?”
Prowl was impatient.
“Sit. Up.”
The wall was— right there. He wanted Jazz against it. He said it and let Jazz work it out until he had his way. Mainly, Jazz sitting with Prowl straddling his lap and Prowl liked this better.
“Oh, fuck me,” Jazz vented hard, right before Prowl kissed him again. See, Prowl liked this taste much better. It was morning fuel (—half-finished cube crumbled as he ran to catch Prowl—), chrome additives with a bitter aftertaste. Now Prowl knew how Jazz liked his fuel. He said so out loud.
Jazz’s grinding gears went silent.
“Better,” Prowl noted that fact. “Turn these off too,” he tapped at Jazz’s visors.
“What? Why?” Jazz said, already winding down his optical processes.
Because it’s unfair, that’s why. Prowl waited for the visors to go dark. He knew Jazz could echolocate down to a speck of dust in this room, it did not matter. He only wanted— freedom. Somewhere he did not have to hide.
And now he had it. Prowl heard himself laugh, he had never felt so relieved. Jazz looked the picture of composure, though the thrumming under his armor gave him away. Prowl knew how— how he could be sensitive, to movement, to sound, how his engine ran hot how he felt so warm how he always smelled faintly of dried energon. Prowl knew he liked to be kissed on the neck, liked Prowl to squeeze his thighs as he rode him. But he wanted to know more. He scooted down, the distance between thought and action drastically reduced. He pressed warmed cheeks against Jazz’s equally hot panels, feeling them, wanting them. Waited for Jazz’s rod to extend as they opened. Focused on the mechanism, the clicks and whirs of a living body. Let the reality envelop him. He wanted Jazz, he got Jazz, right in front of his optics.
“Prowl, baby, I’m begging you—“ Jazz put his hand on Prowl’s cheek again, lifted his face; he looked concerned. Prowl couldn’t get it, he did not understand Jazz at all. He held on to that hand, kept it there, kept it even as he took Jazz in his mouth and sucked on the head and let the taste fill him. He just— he wanted, wanted to feel happy. He was very happy licking Jazz up and down, sucking around the head again and again, moving a bit further each time until he could feel it rest against his soundbox. Prowl let Jazz jerk under him when he swallowed, keeping that hand on his face the entire time. That way Jazz could feel himself push against the inside of Prowl’s cheeks; that way Prowl could feel the tips of his claws come out, just barely, unwilling to hurt Prowl even as his hips jerked in desperation, transfluid pumping, overflowing Prowl’s mouth and dripping around his rod.
Completed, one objective. Prowl licked Jazz clean. He laid his head on Jazz’s trembling thigh, just resting, already missing the weight on his tongue. He barely heard what Jazz was saying, something resigned, something reverent, Prowl felt his optics prickle but he would not do anything about it. Steps needed to be taken before Prowl could say his goodbye. He could choose to be selfish, he could cling; or he could get it over with as quickly as possible before this thing destroyed their work relationship. Prowl felt Jazz’s gentle sonar washing over his wings, reverberating over every object in this small room. Like Jazz was mapping the space, leaving his mark here. Prowl wanted him to stay. He wanted to feel Jazz’s strangely soothing voice between his wings, always. He just could not— could not fathom the impossibility of it all.
So. Prowl made himself move. He worked his way up Jazz’s body, caressing him, appreciating him. Making his own body get used to letting go, one small kiss at a time. When he finally settled, readying himself to take Jazz one last time, he felt Jazz call his name. Prowl had no idea why it was this that broke him.
He let Jazz join in preparing him. He should not — this wasn’t one of the objectives. But Jazz had such quick fingers, and Prowl had always wanted to know— His own felt clumsy, so Jazz took over, guiding him, pushing them both deeper until Prowl was arching with static on his lips. He felt— adored, which was impossible, it felt even more impossible when Jazz asked,
“Who was it?”
He repeated, “Who?”
“Who hurt you? Who left you?” Not questions to ask when two fingers deep in someone. What did Jazz want? Prowl felt trapped, he resisted a moan,
“Everyone. Everyone but—“
—but you, even drunk he couldn’t say it. Would be a lie soon enough.
This time, it just hurt. A lot, all over. Prowl ground himself down, not hiding his pain; Jazz could not see so he did not need to hide anymore. From himself, from Jazz, from Primus. He took Jazz’s hand and kissed it again and pressed it on his face to forget how much it hurt to exist. He rocked his body forward, moved against imminent system shutdown, against warnings; desperate for this one damn thing, one final objective that kept popping up no matter how many times Prowl tried to delete it. Jazz was talking to him, wrapping his arms around him; fevered words and soft lips raining on his face. Prowl was happy, he was, he really was. He did not notice his own overload, but he did notice Jazz saying one thing to him. One thing.
Objective completed.
***
Prowl wished he could die now. Then have Prime revive him, only so he could die again.
He could not let go, no matter what he tried. His system would not comply. He clung to Jazz like a sparkling, acutely aware of the embarrassment radiating off his platings.
“—passed out on top of me. Anyway,” Jazz concluded, “I think it was really sweet.”
“Please stop,” Prowl said, burying his head even further. This was not his life. In a fit of panic, he did not get drunk, he did not— do all of those things. It simply was not him. He could feel Jazz’s full-body smugness, it was terrible.
“Baby, hey,” Jazz played with his nape some more. “Wanna tell me that thing you said again? May be louder this time?”
“I said ‘please stop’,” Prowl watched his own defenses crumble, aware there was no way he could escape at this point. He needed to get his plans together. If they looked anything like last night’s plan, he was slagged.
“A’right. Playing hardball, ain’t cha?” Jazz stopped his hand. Prowl whined, he resumed massaging Prowl’s throbbing head again. “How’s this, I say it, and you say it. At the same time?”
That seemed like a fair proposal.
“Acceptable. But,” Prowl added, “no more drinking.”
“Deal,” Jazz said, rolled him into the bed this time, and kissed him.
End.