Chapter Text
Who turned off the Ark’s fragging climate controls? At least, that was the first question that slipped into Jazz’s processor as he slowly booted up from recharge with a long groan. His frame was scorching hot and he ached in the worst of places, most notably between his legs. But when a sluggishly searching servo made contact with the wall, he was shocked to find it soothingly cool to the touch. “What the frag?” He grumbled and forced himself upright to sit on the edge of the berth.
Even the floor was surprisingly cold under his peds. Jazz tried to run a diagnostic check but the results on his HUD just came back as gibberish, only deepening his consternation. “A shower, maybe I just need…” the porsche’s words trailed off as he rose and nearly stumbled his way to his personal washrack. A whimpering sigh escaped him the moment the icy solvent hit his frame, filling the room with a plume of steam as if he’d been running the shower scalding hot.
Jazz stood under the showerhead for what seemed like hours until his frame finally seemed to cool off enough to let him think straight. At least, straight enough. There was a persistent fuzz that clung to the edges of his processor and an annoyingly heavy warmth that seemed to pulsate in his abdomen. What was worse, he was beginning to notice over activity in his sensor net. Especially as he attempted to dry off. The lightest touch from the plush towel sent shivers up his spinal struts.
“Someth’n ain’t right… I need ta… I need ta see Ratchet…” Jazz gasped as he tugged the towel between his thighs, unable to discern if it was pain, or pleasure.
The brisk corridor air made his frame rattle. It would seem the heat he’d discharged throughout the night had raised the temperature of his quarters. With a servo braced against the wall, Jazz trundled his way to the med bay. He received looks of concern and the occasional inquiries on his well being from each mech he passed in the hall. He’d give his best smile and nod, insisting he was just hungover. That appeared to satisfy most of them.
The nanosecond the med bay doors hissed shut behind him, Jazz dropped the act and let his cooling fans run full blast. His plating flared up, doing what it could to release as much heat as possible. “R-Ratchet? You in here?” he called out weakly.
“Jazz?” the old medic’s voice answered. He popped out from his office, and after a quick scan of his optics came rushing over to the spy’s side. “Primus you look like slag! C’mon, come lie down.”
“I feel like slag Ratch…” He responded with a half smile. Ratchet guided Jazz over to a medberth, arms ready to catch the lithe mech should he collapse. He could feel the heat radiating off of him and didn’t dare touch him unless he had too.
Once Jazz was reclining on a medberth, Ratchet grabbed a chair and set about hooking him up to various scanners that he then attached to a medical port in his arm. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that you’re burning up, kid. When did you start feeling like this?” The medic’s optics were intense, his demeanor nothing but serious.
“I dunno, I woke up like this. Ratchet, am I dying or something?”
“Probably not.” The red and white mech smirked as he began reading the diagnostic report that fed into his HUD. “What are your other symptoms? Don’t leave anything out.”
“Probably?! Ratchet, that ain’t very reassuring mech! What if it’s a deadly virus! I-”
“Jazz, focus!”
“I… Ok. Uh… I’m hot. Real hot. But that’s obvious. My HUD ain’t work’n. I think? S’all gibberish. Can’t read it. My frame’s aching. ‘N sensitive as all frag! Was drying off after a cold shower ‘n the towel set off my sensor net…”
“Uhuh. The gibberish is most likely from your processor overheating. I see it. Now, where does your frame ache the most?” There was a long pause. “Jazz.” There was a weight attached to the way he’d said his name. He didn’t even seem to be looking at him now, his optics focused on the lines of code streaming into his HUD.
“W-where does it ache the most? Kind of embarrassing actually.” Jazz smiled sheepishly. Ratchet’s deadpan expression didn’t falter. “It’s uh… Well between my legs…” He muttered.
“How high up? Gotta be specific Jazz.”
“C’mon Ratch, do I really gotta say it?”
“Yup. I can’t make assumptions.” Ratchet said flatly. Mech had one hell of a poker face.
“My valve Ratchet…” the spy finally said after a long sigh.
Ratchet simply nodded in understanding. “And have you been feeling especially horny lately?”
The porsche shot Ratchet a dirty look, “Wh- what kinda question is that?!” How could this mech say such a thing so seriously?! If Jazz wasn’t already running hot, his face plates would have certainly heated up at such a blunt question. He had to stop and think about it. But Primus was hard to think right now!
“Maybe I can refine the question again. Have you sought out partners for interfacing, or self serviced more frequently than usual?” There was a tinge of annoyance in his tone.
“Mech, that’s personal! Why you asking me all this slag anyway?” Jazz scowled at the medic.
Ratchet rolled his optics and shook his helm. “Because if I’m reading this correctly, you’re in heat.”
“I know I’m hot Ratchet! That’s why I’m-”
“Shut up! Your IN heat. A procreation cycle! Ringing a bell?”
Jazz just stared at Ratchet, completely slack jawed. “I’m… A procre- What?”
Ratchet groaned and rubbed a servo down his face plates. “Why does no one ever- Ok. I guess you are young. This is probably your first one. Doesn’t help that not every mech has the code. But lucky you, you do! Most mechs had a counter code installed when the war was breaking out. I sure as slag did. Well, that’s not true, I had mine deactivated way before that. I can do that for you. AFTER it runs its course.”
“But that doesn’t- what even… WHAT?” Jazz sputtered.
“Primus Jazz your frame wants you to frag until you’re sparked! It wants you to produce a newspark, a sparkling, offspring! A tiny you running around. Which is the last damn thing I- we need right now!” Ratchet grumbled furiously.
Jazz was utterly dumbfounded. “A sparkling? But I can’t… I don’t want… Not right now…” he barely whispered, a servo resting over his spark chamber. Ratchet deflated a little with a sigh.
“I know, I’m sorry. But you’re gonna be miserable if you don’t deal with this. In fact, it’s dangerous if you try to ignore it or handle it alone. Your frame is overheating as it is. You’ll go into a full meltdown and potentially damage your processor. Or go rabid.” he shrugged.
“R-rabid?” Jazz scrunched his nose.
“Some mechs just lose control. Survival code takes over. It’s uh, not pretty. You’ll attack the first mech you come into contact with and well… You’ll get that sparkling one way or another.”
Jazz nodded slowly as he began to understand. “S-so what do I do doc?”
“Well, first I’ll run you through a cold shower again, it’ll give you some time. You gotta act fast though Jazz. You need to seek out a willing party to help you through this. I suggest you take your time in the shower to think about that.” Ratchet stated as he began unhooking the scanners. As he prepared to stand. Jazz reached out to grip his arm,
“But, why can’t I just y’know… Take care of this on my own?”
If Ratchet had to put words to it, he’d say Jazz looked afraid. The medic pursed his lips and lowered himself back onto the chair. “Because, unless you got a really fancy false spike lying around, self servicing ain’t going to cut it kid. If you want to prevent your processor from melting into a pile of slag, you’re going to need some pretty intense overloads to release all that heat.”
As Jazz digested his words, a grimace was replaced with a hopeful smile and a brightened vizor. “Wh-what about you Ratch?”
Ratchet narrowed his optics. “What about me?”
“Couldn’t you help me? I mean, you already understand all this ‘n… ‘N I trust ya! No reason any-”
Ratchet held up a servo and quickly shook his helm, “Nuh uh, nope. No can do Jazz.”
“But-”
“Look, I don’t have the time Jazz. I can’t just clear my entire schedule to frag you into oblivion until this wears off! Knowing my luck I’d be railing you through the berth right as the twins come in looking like they just lost a fight in the pits. I’m sorry Jazz. I just can’t. But I know there are plenty of mechs aboard the ark that would enjoy your company. Maybe if I wasn’t the damn CMO…”
This time, as Ratchet rose from the chair, Jazz let him go. With a drawn out sigh, he swung his legs over the side of the berth and let them dangle. He started running through a list of names when Ratchet spoke up again.
“You know, speaking of the twins. Those two have a lot of energy. I don’t doubt for a nanosecond that they would be more than willing. Eager even.” He smirked as he folded his arms over his chassis.
“Maybe if I didn’t care about my slagg’n privacy! I’m sure they would be up for the task, but no thanks!” Jazz groused.
“Well if privacy is what you’re after, that certainly narrows your list of candidates.”
“Don’t I know it…”
Ratchet started heading for the washracks, beckoning with a red servo for Jazz to follow. “Are there even any mechs that you’ve ever been interested in? Maybe start there.” He asked as he guided the porsche to sit on a bench.
“Sure, but with my line of work…” His words trailed off. There was one such mech that he’d had optics for since the day he met him. Just thinking about him put a smile on his lips. He certainly wouldn’t mind having those perfect white servos all over his frame, dipping into seams and plucking wires. His fingers gripped the bench as a soft, unbidden moan escaped his vocalizer. A throbbing ache pulsed between his legs, causing him to squeeze his thighs together.
Ratchet could only snicker as the poor mech struggled not to writhe on the bench. “Seems there is a somebody you are very interested in.” He turned on the shower, letting cold solvent rain down on Jazz’s hot frame once more.
“Oh Primus! You coulda warned me mech!” Another, louder moan spilled from his lips as he nearly doubled over.
“Now what’s the fun in that?” Ratchet stood there with servos on his hips, looking quite amused with himself. “After you’ve cooled off, I suggest you go find your mech, loverboy.”
“Frag off Ratchet!” He growled, baring his perfectly sharp dentae as he sat there hunched over under the spray. “You say that like it’s easy! No… No he ain’t interested in me. Pretty sure he ain’t interested in nobody. If he is, he sure don’t show it. He’s got way more important things to do…” Jazz slumped, looking pathetic under the downpour of cold solvent.
Ratchet cocked an optic ridge and rubbed his chin. “Well, there’s two mechs that immediately come to mind as aloof and unapproachable. And I think we both know Optimus is out of the question.” He paused. Jazz scrunched up his nose and shook his helm. “Good. If you’re talking about who I think you’re talking about… A certain, cold sparked tactician?” He gave Jazz an incredulous expression. Of all the mechs, he’s into him? “Then, I think you’re absolutely wrong.” Jazz jerked his helm up to gawk at the medic, slack jawed and utterly perplexed. “I can’t say he’s got the hots for you, but he knows you’re an exceedingly valuable asset to our cause. And he also knows more than anyone, how to be discreet.”
Jazz was a clever mech. He was known for his ability to think on his peds and just go with the flow. It made him unpredictable. He was chaos incarnate. And despite how much the tactician loathed unpredictable chaos, he admired and appreciated Jazz more than he’d ever let on. But he’d never expected his unpredictable nature would land the spy right on his desk. Literally.
“Can I help you Jazz?” Prowl halted in the doorway to his office, datapad in his servo as usual. His tone was flat, unamused by the mech sitting quite provocatively on his desk. Leaned back on his servos, legs spread and dangling over the edge. So, inviting. And there was something else. A heat that permeated through the room, accented by a peculiar scent. He simply returned his attention to his datapad.
Any other mech and Prowl would have immediately barked at them to vacate his office. But as much as he wasn’t expecting this, it wasn’t out of character for Jazz. He was possibly one of the biggest flirts on the Ark. And Prowl was certainly not spared. If anything, he received the brunt of it.
He understood it to an extent, acknowledging that his personality could have the effect of drawing out one’s more mischievous behavior. He was well aware of the bets that subordinates made, challenging each other to get a rise out of the tactician. Prowl was hardly phased by it these days. But this was different.
Slight movement caught his attention as Jazz spread his legs just a little more, his lower lip snagged on a fang. “Yeah, you can help me Prowl.” His voice oozed with need.
Prowl narrowed his optics and studied the mech with mounting concern. “Jazz? Are you-”
“Ratchet says I’m in heat Prowl! Says I need to deal with it before I go rabid or someth'n…” Jazz almost keened as he canted his hips, presenting himself.
Prowl’s optics widened. Unlike Jazz, he knew what that meant. He’d never experienced it himself, but a knowledge hungry mech like Prowl was quite educated on the matter. “Ah. And you have chosen me to assist you through the process.” A statement.
“Will you help me Prowl? P-please? I trust ya more than any mech… Please!” Jazz begged with a whimpering moan as his entire frame trembled. Just the sight of Prowl drove him wild. His presence, only a stride away made him want to go absolutely feral. Primus, he wanted the black and white mech bad.
“I appreciate your trust Jazz. But, are you truly certain that you want me? Isn't Ratchet likely more capable?” Prowl took a tentative step forward.
“Yes I want you! 'Sides, Ratchet said he ain't got the time. Frag- Prowl… I’m trying real hard not to jump ya right now. Look, I know I flirt with just about everyone. But it don’t mean nothing. Makes it so much easier to flirt with you for real and get away with it though.” He flashed the tactician with a toothy grin, fangs and all.
Prowl didn’t respond immediately. His optics trailed over Jazz’s frame as he considered what he had just said. All that wanton behavior directed at him… Had been genuine? His processor stalled, attempting to calculate a logical explanation as to why anyone would find him desirable in such a manner. He certainly didn't see himself as such. He was a tool, a means to an end to this war. He never tried to be anything else. So why-
“Prowl, stop thinking. I know what you’re trying to do. Quit it!” he huffed and whined. The spy wiggled and slipped off the desk, daring to close the distance between them. He tugged the datapad out of the slack jawed mech’s servos and tossed it. Normally that would elicit the tactician’s ire, but he simply stared at Jazz in silent trepidation.
Only when he felt the touch of fingers curling around his servos did he refocus. “We should… my quarters?” Prowl whispered, face plates straining to keep his typically stolid composure.
Jazz shook his helm with an apologetic smile as he took a step back towards the desk with Prowl in tow. “Uh uh. Can’t. Need you now…”
Prowl glanced over his shoulder at the closed door panel. He transmitted a wireless command from his HUD, which was answered with the sound of locking mechanisms falling into place. A red light on the exterior side of the door panel would indicate: Do not disturb. To the unsuspecting mech, that meant Prowl was in a mood and to avoid at all costs.
That was all the confirmation Jazz needed. His modesty panels snapped open with an audible click and he was suddenly pressing his entire frame into the tactician. As he mouthed at exposed neck cables, white servos slid down his lithe frame to cup his aft. Prowl pushed back against him and lifted the smaller mech onto his desk. His fingers danced down Jazz’s thighs, tracing over seams.
Meanwhile, the porsche was fondling every inch of his bumper, teasing headlights and slipping agile fingers into any gap they could find. He tongued and nipped at Prowl’s neck up to his jawline, careful not to sink sharp fangs in too deep. He suddenly yelped and clawed at that tactician’s chassis as cold fingers found the slick petals that hid the entrance to his quivering, leaking valve.
“You are the true definition of a mech in heat… You are, well, hot.” Prowl intoned frankly as he palmed at Jazz’s soft swollen lips. But there was the slightest wavering in his words that gave away how bothered he really was. It took every bit of restraint he had to resist the urge to simply ravish him. His fingers continued to explore and spread Jazz’s glistening hot folds, prompting a series of whimpers from the trembling mech. Primus, he was soaking wet, his palm already coated in a layer of slick lubricant.
The heat was building rapidly in his own frame, especially behind his codpiece. Every lick, every teasing nibble on the cords of his neck sent pleasure tingling down his struts. His spike was primed and ready, pressing firmly against the inside of his modesty panels just begging to be released. Not yet.
“Prowl! Please! Please please please frag me!” Jazz begged, letting his thighs fall open further as he attempted to grind himself helplessly against Prowl’s servo.
“Apologies Jazz, but I am at least a full size class above yours. I cannot just shove my way into you without being reasonably certain that I will not harm you.” He said very matter of fact.
“I don’t care! I’m losing my slagging mind here! Please- Oh! Oh frag!” Jazz cried out, tossing his helm back as he was rewarded with a prodding finger that slipped into his dripping wet valve.
“I promise Jazz, I’ve got you.” Prowl cooed reassuringly.
After a few exploratory pumps, a second finger was inserted. “Prowl! Oh oh oh! I’m-! Aaaah!” With one steadying servo on the spy’s back, Prowl jerked his other and finger fucked him until he tripped into a small overload, gushing obscenely with lubricants as he clung desperately to the tactician for dear life.
Prowl gave him a few minutes to recover before he pried his arms loose from around his neck. "C'mon, lean back on my desk." He instructed softly as Jazz came around. He complied with barely a nod and braced himself. Prowl admired the sight of him, optics trailing down the length of his frame and resting on the sticky mess between his thighs with a satisfied smirk. Beautiful.
He took a small step back and allowed his own modesty panels to retract. A smooth, black and white spike with orange biolights sprung free with a hiss, fully pressurized. He was surprisingly well endowed, narrow at the base but flared in thickness towards the middle with a delicious upwards curve at the tip, perfect for stroking the most sensitive node clusters. Jazz purred with delight, calipers fluttering with anticipation.
"Mmmph… If I wasn't so desperate to be fragged senseless I'd suck ya dry," Jazz hummed with a salacious grin.
"Perhaps you will get your chance." Prowl replied with a surprisingly sordid smile of his own. Using his lubricant slick servo, Prowl gave his length a few pumps. He stepped up to bat, lining up the head of his spike with Jazz's entrance. "Are you ready?" He knew the answer, but for his own peace of mind prefered to hear it.
"Slag yes! C'mon Prowl, you gotta frag me strutless!" Jazz whined pathetically as he tried to push himself onto Prow’s spike.
"My apologies." The tactician chuckled softly and pressed in, the tip of his spike sliding through slick folds and pushing past the outer ring of his valve. Jazz clenched his jaw tight as he was slowly stretched open, vents hitching with a whimper.
Prowl moved his servos to grip Jazz by the hips. With a slight push, the tip of his spike finally popped in completely, squeezed tightly by the first ring of calipers. Doorwings flicked upright in alarm as Jazz cried out sharply. "Are you alright?" He asked, tone laced with concern as he surveyed Jazz's grimacing visage.
"Yeah yeah, you're just- Frag kinda big. Keep going! C'mon, I want it all baby!" Jazz insisted as seductively as he could and tried to nudge Prowl’s aft with the heel of his peds. It was a tight fit, a bite of pain mixed with wonderfully searing hot pleasure that made him ache for so much more.
Prowl responded with another push of his hips. Inch by inch, Jazz was split open wide and speared to the hilt on the tactician's throbbing spike. By the time he'd reached the back of his valve Jazz felt so delightfully full, keening softly as he leaned back heavily on his servos with vizor dim and his mouth hanging open.
Prowl had to give himself a moment to adjust as his processor descended into a cloud of vent stuttering pleasure. Primus, he was so incredibly tight and burning hot! It felt exquisite! Not that Prowl had much to compare it to. He wasn't exactly a promiscuous mech. After regaining a semblance of composure he began to withdraw from Jazz's needy, quivering valve, eliciting another soft moan as the upward tip of his spike dragged over every node cluster on its way out.
Just before slipping free, Prowl thrust back inside to the sound of Jazz spitting curses with an even louder moan. "Oooh frag that's good! Keep going! More! Please Prowl!" He begged, so heady with lust and intense need.
Tightening his grip on Jazz's hips, Prowl began with a slow, steady rhythm, plowing into the smaller mech again and again. Soon his office was filled with a litany of Jazz's gasping cries and the cacophony of their frames clashing together on his desk. He was more thankful than ever that the walls of his office were soundproof.
"Harder! Pleeeaaase! F-frag I'm so close harder harder harder!" Jazz collapsed as he arched his back, servos scrambling to hold onto anything. He was answered by the hard slam of the tactician's hips and sounds of restrained grunts as Prowl began to thrust with fervor. Jazz lost all sense of himself, vision whiting out as he devolved into a keening mess of pure blissful ecstasy.
Calipers bore down and gripped the thick spike through its relentless onslaught as it pounded over and over against Jazz's ceiling node, making him scream out in frenzied satisfaction. Every sensory node that lined his valve sang at the constant stimulation. Charge was building rapidly, arcs of electricity danced between their frames. Their unified sounds of pleasure were laced with static.
Prowl bucked wildly as if he was trying to meld into Jazz, deeper, harder. He knew it was coming, teetering so perilously on the edge of climax. He fell first, crashing hard into overload as his charge burst through his frame like a tidal wave. The tactician cried out, optics flared blinding white as he spilled molten transfluid into Jazz’s quivering valve.
Jazz was barely cognizant when Prowl’s overload enveloped him, sending him into a full frame lockup until his own charge burst and wrenched a bellowing scream from his vocalizer. His back arched as his valve fluttered fitfully around Prowl’s pulsating spike, hot fluids filling his channel to the point of overflowing with a messy gush. He was so exquisitely full, so thoroughly filled with tantalizing wet hot pleasure. He was utterly strutless, mindless melted puddy on Prowl’s desk. Pure bliss.
Prowl was barely standing, his legs trembling weakly, cooling fans on full blast. Once his optics fully reset, he lazily scanned them over Jazz’s limp frame. A drunken smile graced his lips with a soft chuckle. What a magnificent view. He felt a sense of pride that the spy’s current state was the result of his own doing. He traced white fingers delicately down a thigh still loosely wrapped around his waist. He found himself quite enamored.
The sound of a few clicks signaled a reset as Jazz slowly came to. His vizor lit up and a soft groan escaped his lips as he shifted. His vents sucked in hard as it cycled air to his cooling fans. His processor was the last thing to reboot. Prowl waited patiently until Jazz acknowledged his presence with a goofy snaggletooth grin.
“Hey.” Prowl greeted him softly.
“Hey lover. Has anyone ever told you you should smile more often?” Jazz giggled, smile growing wider.
“Only the select few that have seen it. How are you feeling?” The tactician asked as he stroked his servo up and down Jazz’s thigh.
“Like I’m not about to combust. In other words, a hell of a lot better. All thanks to the most devilishly handsome mech I know. What would the Autobots do without you?” Jazz stretched his frame with a soft purr. He bit his lip, the motion reminding him that Prowl was still very much nestled inside his tender valve. He gave a quick squeeze, pulling a gasp from Prowl’s lips with another amused giggle.
“Jazz!” Prowl chastised playfully as the ornery spy gripped his oversensitive spike. "Do you think you can handle a walk to my quarters now? Or- Or yours. Whichever you would feel most comfortable in…" He asked after regaining his composure.
"Yeah I think so. Seems like you've sated me for now. Ain't gonna jump ya in the halls. 'Less ya want me to…" Jazz smirked mischievously.
"I'd prefer to keep our subordinates endlessly wondering if their SiC does in fact, enjoy interfacing. Now, what is your preference in destination?" The tactician intoned flatly with an arched optic ridge.
Jazz hummed in thought for a moment before responding. "Well since you'll be taking care of me, makes sense to stay at your place. Even if it is a bit uh…"
"Boring?"
"You said it, not me! You should let me decorate. Wouldn't be the first mech that requested my artistic flare. Oh I could set up a nice little sitting area with a deep space blue backdrop. Baby, you'd look stunning sitting there all prim and proper."
Prowl lightly shook his helm with an amused chuckle, charmed by Jazz's enthusiasm. "Perhaps. I suppose it wouldn't do any harm to indulge you. But I digress. We should get cleaned up first and foremost." Slowly the tactician began to withdraw from Jazz's valve, resulting in a small, disappointed chuff from the mech sprawled out on his desk.