Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jazz’s optics narrowed behind his visor as he watched Prowl squirm in his seat. Oh, sure, it wasn’t much of a squirm, just a minute shifting of his hips and fidgeting of his wings, but it was far more body language than he usually showed. Especially during the post-battle briefings, when he was usually in complete control of himself.

                Ratchet, the only other mech that might notice such unusual behavior out of their Second in Command, wasn’t at the briefing. Though causalities in battle had become less common since their arrival on Earth, the medic was still often kept busy with triage right after a battle.

                Keeping an audial on the debrief, Jazz discreetly watched Prowl shift. At one point, the tactician even raised a hand to rub briefly at his chest plating. Was he hiding an injury? It was something he did sometimes, dismissing his own injuries until the medbay was finished treating everyone else. It was a habit Jazz was trying to get him to stop; though, like many personal things with Prowl, it was slow going.

                Though Prowl had absolute confidence in the realm of battles and tactics, he was painfully shy and uncertain in matters that his tactical computer couldn’t break down into percentages and probabilities. He did not socialize not because he was a cold-sparked drone, as was often suggested by the crew, but because the intense amount of non-tactical input could easily overwhelm him. In worse-case scenarios, large amounts of stimulus he was unprepared for could even crash him, something Jazz had only seen in person once. After that, Jazz went out of his way to rebuke the more juvenile minded of the crew who thought it might be funny to crash their Commanding Officer.

                Jazz had started with a goal to draw Prowl out of his shell and get the tactician out of his office every once in a while. It had quickly evolved into more than that, when Jazz found himself seeking Prowl out after hard missions. The Praxian was a rock in a storm, with a steady, solid field and a calm, soothing voice. Jazz didn’t need to put up any kind of front for Prowl, as Head Tactician, he already knew every detail of what Jazz really was. A spy, a saboteur, a killer.

                Prowl took benefit from Jazz’s company as well. Social and Interpersonal skills, some of the most difficult features of life to the Tactician, came to Jazz with ease. Prowl had difficulty even holding hands in public, or receiving a chaste kiss on the cheek, from Jazz without freezing up for a few kliks. Jazz had offered to stop, as much as he wanted to show affection to the mech he was maybe, sort of courting he didn’t want to make Prowl uncomfortable, but the tactician had encouraged him to continue. The only way to soothe his tactical systems was to gather data for it to base conclusions on, even if said data gathering was terribly embarrassing.

                As the officer’s meeting came to an end, Prowl strode out as a pace just short of running. Jazz watched after him, frowned at the sight of the Praxian’s stiff-winged, straight-backed speed walk. It was a sign that Prowl was deeply uncomfortable with something, and since the meeting had gone rather well, Jazz assumed that it must be some kind of physical discomfort. Confronting him over whatever pain or injury he was hiding in the hallways would get him nothing but an angry, defensive Praxian, so Jazz carefully loitered until enough time had passed for Prowl have reached his quarters before heading in that direction.

                The door to Prowl’s quarters was locked, of course, but no lock had ever stopped Jazz for long. Especially not one that he had encrypted himself.

                Stepping into Prowl’s hab, Jazz instantly spotted the Praxian. He was bent over his desk, which was splattered with brightly glowing, fresh energon. A worrying amount, indicative of more than just a minor injury.

                “Prowl?!”

                The Praxian shot upright and stared at Jazz in shock, optics glowing bright with fear and anxiety. Both of his arms shot to his chest, trying to cover himself up, but it wasn’t quite fast enough. Jazz’s mouth dropped open, and he stared right back.

                Prowl’s chest plating was folded back and out of the way, but revealed underneath wasn’t some grievous injury. Instead, bulging out from the Praxian’s protoform, was a pair of bountiful, swollen fuel pouches. Fresh energon dripped from their nozzles and through Prowl’s fingers, adding to the mess that was starting to pool on the floor.

                “Prowler, w-what?” Jazz’s normally quick CPU struggled to process what he was seeing. Every mech had fuel pouches, of course. A pair on the chest, used to store energon during excess times for when things got lean, or filled to fuel young sparklings. In that way, they strongly resembled the breasts on humans, just another of the strange ways that Cybertronians and Human Beings were similar. But why were Prowl’s so full, when the Autobots had plenty of fuel? And why was he emptying himself all over his desk and the floor?

                “Jazz?” Prowl’s optics were glowing near white, a sign that his tactical computer was working hard. Clearly, he was having trouble coming up with the proper response for this situation.

                Recognizing the sign of the tactician starting to lock up, Jazz put a hand on Prowl’s shoulder and gently ushered him over to his couch to sit. “Alright, come on, Prowler. Have a sit down, vent for a minute.”

                Prowl obeyed, awkwardly lowering himself down without removing his arms from across his chest. Not that he was succeeding in hiding much, as swollen protoform bulged out of his grasp. Jazz was trying not to stare, but it was very, very hard. It wasn’t exactly something Jazz brought up often, but he had long had a fetish for fuel pouches. There was just something about their shape, their weight. He had had his filled a few times before long missions where fuel would be scare, which usually led to a fun filled evening fondling himself and self-pleasuring to overload. Looking at Prowl’s, which were far larger than his had ever been, Jazz could definitely feel some heat and pressure building behind his panel.

                “I have a medical condition.” Prowl finally managed as his processor started to slow back to normal parameters. “My fuel systems direct a portion of my intake to my pouches, and do not stop when they are full. It cannot be turned off, so I typically go to Ratchet when things get. Uncomfortable.”

                “But he’s busy with triage right now, so ya came back to your quarters ta take care of things yourself.” Jazz filled in. “Ya know, I’d have been happy to help.” More than happy, really.

                “You do not need to feel obligated.” Prowl’s voice was even, but his wings twitched in that way they did when he was terribly embarrassed. “I have been dealing with this .  . . issue since before the war.”

                “Ain’t no obligation.” Jazz denied. Taking a chance, he reached forward and gently pulled Prowl’s arms away from his body. The Tactician was obviously reluctant to move, but allowed Jazz to expose him and reveal the full extent of his.  .. condition.

                Jazz felt his mouth go dry as he continued to stare. Prowl’s pouches were full and heavy, the nozzles quite swollen with energon still dribbling from them. In that moment, Jazz suddenly felt very thirsty. They were perhaps the hottest thing Jazz had ever seen, these pouches. No, these breasts. They were so amazing, Jazz felt compelled to use the many, wonderful words the humans had for their similar parts. Bosoms, boobs, tits. He wanted to babble all those words with his face pressed between Prowl’s.

                “Primus, Prowler, you’re beautiful.” Jazz found the words spilling from his mouth before his processor caught up with what he was saying.

                Prowl’s wings shot upright and his brow furrowed as he analyzed Jazz’s words. The saboteur winced, but couldn’t take the words back. Not that he had lied, no, he just wasn’t sure if their relationships was at a point where he could just blurt something like that.

                “You are teasing me.” Prowl finally concluded, though there was a hint of question in his voice.

                “No, no. I ain’t jokin’.” Jazz immediately denied. “Would never joke ‘bout something like this. Yer gorgeous, every part of ya. I could sit here all day an’ look at ya. An’ I’d happily do more than that, if ya let me.”

                “You are serious.” Prowl seemed shocked by that realization. “You don’t find this strange, or offputting?”

                “Prowl, I like every single part of ya, no matter what you or anyone else thinks.” Jazz chuckled. “In fact, I must admit I’ve always had a bit of a thing fer full pouches. If anything, this just makes you even hotter.”

                Maybe, it would be easier to just show Prowl. Jazz reached up and gently placed a hand on the breast nearest to him, fingers stroking the taut protoform. It was just so soft, warm and softly glowing from the reservoir of energon inside. Letting his thumb brush over one of the hard, stiff nozzles, Jazz was treated to the sound of Prowl whimpering as a bit of fuel spurted out.

                “Yer awful full, aren’t ya?” Jazz commented softly, giving the pouch a little squeeze to test the pressure inside. Energon squirted with enough force to spatter onto Jazz’s chest, and Prowl’s moan turned into an embarrassed chirp. In response, Jazz simply wiped up the mess on his plating with his hand before slowly licking it from his fingers. He didn’t miss how Prowl’s optics fixated on the flash of his glossa lapping up the energon. “Hmm, tastes sweet.”

                “Jazz, you don’t have too-“ Prowl almost stuttered on the words, he was as flustered as Jazz had ever seen him.

                “I want to.” Jazz quickly cut him off. Interested to see just how far Prowl would let him go, Jazz leaned in to lap up some of the fuel dribbling down the Praxian’s breast. His protoform was so smooth under Jazz’s glossa, the light taste of sentio metallico barely noticeable beneath the thick tang of pre-processed energon straight from the tap. This wasn’t just reserve fuel, this was the heavy, mineral rich stuff produced for sparklings. It made Jazz even more curious just what sort of ‘condition’ this was, but that was a question for later.

                Prowl’s fans spun on to try and cool his overheated frame, lower lip pinched between his denta as he tried to muffle the sounds he was making. Still, his back arched and pushed his bosoms further out to Jazz so he could continue his ravishment.

                “I- I don’t understand.” Prowl managed to get out, having to work hard to keep his voice from just being a moan. “Being drained. Shouldn’t feel so good.”

                “An’ why shouldn’t it?” Jazz had given into temptation and was now using both hands so he could massage both breasts. “These bits are as sensitive as any other part of ya. More so, in fact, except maybe for your wings. You can let your body feel good.”

                “When Ratchet drains me-“

                “Ratchet’s a great doc, but he ain’t yer lover.” Jazz had no doubt that Ratchet was as professional as possible when helping Prowl with his condition, despite some rumors to the contrary, the medic could actually be kind and discreet with such difficult things as chronic, uncontrollable health issues, but there was a world of difference between ‘professional’ and ‘erotic’ touch. “I bet he never does anythin’ like this.”

                Quivering in anticipation, Jazz wrapped his lips around one of Prowl’s nozzles and sucked.

                The Praxian threw his head back, optics flaring and frame shaking as his field flared with pleasure. A loud cry left his mouth as one hand flew up to grip Jazz’s helm, while his other clenched hard around his own thigh.

                Jazz, meanwhile, nearly overloaded behind his own panel as sweet, thick fuel flooded his mouth. Only by sheer force of will did he manage to keep his spike retracted as he fulfilled perhaps his greatest fantasy. He had gotten to fondle some pouches in his time, here and there with partners willing to indulge his kink, but actually getting to drink fresh, sparkling-grade energon from Prowl’s amazing bosoms was better than he ever could’ve imagined.

                Prowl squeezed Jazz’s audial horn as his breast was kneaded and suckled from, drawing a happy purr from the Polyhexian. His tactical computer kept trying to initialize, to analyze just why Jazz might be doing this, but the heat and pleasure coursing through his body kept shutting the computer back down before it could actually come to any conclusions. Surprisingly, Prowl found that he was okay with this. It was so much easier to just enjoy what was happening in the moment.

                As he felt the pressure in the pouch he was drinking from decrease, Jazz let his lips pull from the nozzle with a wet pop and looked up at Prowl with a smirk. “How was that?”

                It took Prowl a moment to remember how to initialize his vocalizer and actually form words. “Very. . . um, very pleasant.” He looked down at Jazz rather shyly. “However. You have only drained one.”

                Jazz’s smirk grew into a broad smile. “As ye command, sir.” But first, he needed to get more comfortable. He stood briefly, just long enough to swing a leg over Prowl’s thighs and settle himself in the Praxian’s lap. Wiggling his hips a little to get himself nicely in place, Jazz ran a hand from Prowl’s narrow, trim waist up to the impressive jut of his chest to rest the neglected breast in his palm. It was satisfyingly heavy and full, the underside damp with all the energon that had been dribbling out. More beaded at the tip of the nozzle as Jazz watched, an individual droplet quivering at the tip for a moment before running down the heavy curve. Gently, Jazz lapped up the spilling fuel, listening with satisfaction as Prowl’s fans clicked up to a higher setting. He would love to draw out this teasing for the rest of the evening, but he knew that being so full was terribly uncomfortable for the Praxian.

                Licking his way up Prowl’s breast, Jazz let his glossa circle the hard nozzle a few time, wringing whimpers and cut-off glyphs of encouragement from the Praxian, before latching on and suckling. One of Prowl’s hands returned to Jazz’s helm, stroking the sensitive audial horn there, while the other gripped the Polyhexian’s shoulder. Prowl didn’t seem to quite know what to do with himself, back arched and head and wings pressed back into the couch cushions while his thighs trembled underneath Jazz’s aft.

                As sweet fuel flooded Jazz’s mouth, he couldn’t help but grind his panel against Prowl’s thighs to try and get some friction on the over-heated components. He was pretty sure lubricant was oozing out from between his panel seams, and forcing his spike to remain retracted was bordering on painful, but Jazz didn’t want to stop drinking and interrupt the mood to ask for more. Hopefully, Prowl would be up for more of this again, and they could talk about mixing interfacing in then.

                Of course, judging from the noises Prowl was making, interfacing might not even be necessary. As Jazz began mixing in some nips and licks with his suckling, the Praxian whined and gasped, vents panting as his hands fluttered awkwardly over Jazz’s helm and back. One hand kept coming back to the sabetour’s horns, and he rumbled his encouragement at the sensation.

                Even with his vents roaring at full speed, Prowl’s frame was still heating up under Jazz’s ministrations, and a bit of electrical charge zapped between their bodies as a sign of their growing charge. Jazz only intensified his efforts, hands squeezing at the beautiful breasts under him and he pressed his face into their wonderful softness.

                “Ah, Jazz!” Prowl gripped the back of the sabetour’s helm hard as his optics flared brightly. A matching glow leaked from the seams just above his cleavage that covered his spark, and with a loud cry and a surge of electrical charge, the Praxian overloaded.

                As close as he was pressed, the power surge drew Jazz along with it. The sabetour’s yell was muffled by the protoform his face was buried in, and he absently noticed the feeling of transfluid spurting out from behind his modesty panel. He would have to clean that out later.

                Slumping against Prowl, Jazz rested his helm against the pair of pillows in front of him and panted to try and cool his overheated frame. His tank was pinging him irritably, reminded him that he’d overfilled it, but in that moment, Jazz couldn’t bring himself to care.

                When Prowl started to shift underneath him, Jazz reluctantly removed himself from the Praxian’s lap to sit beside him on the couch once more. “Prowler? How’dya feel?”

                Prowl lifted his helm and looked at Jazz wearily, clearly still recovering from his overload. “That was- that was-.” He stammered, processor having trouble stringing two words together. “I think I enjoyed that.”

                Jazz grinned. “Well then, how about we get ya cleaned up and ta berth, and we can talk about doin’ this again tomorrow, huh?”

                “Yes. I would like that.”

Chapter Text

                ~Then~

                Ratchet stepped aside to let Prowl enter the medibay, gesturing for the Praxian to follow him to his usual private exam room. Prowl had messaged him the cycle before requesting an appointment for a non-urgent medical issue, through from the stiff-backed, awkward stride of the Praxian, Ratchet suspected that things were a little more urgent than he wanted to admit.

                As Prowl sat down on the berth in the private room, a bright pink line of energon trickled from out of his chest seams to run down his abdominal plating. With a huff of irritation, Prowl removed a stained rag from his subspace and mopped at the stream of fuel.

                “Slaggit, Prowl.” Ratchet groused as the door shut behind him and locked. “I’ve told you to come to me before you start leaking.”

                “It is fine.” Prowl dismissed the medic’s concern. “I only began to leak halfway through my shift.”

                “You know what energon will do if it congeals in your seams.” Ratchet countered as he dug around in one of the cabinets for the parts of the machine he would need. “If you get your chestplates stuck shut, you will not be happy. And I will not be happy. So, you had better not let it get to that point.”

                “I won’t.” Prowl reassured. He slowly folded his chest plating aside, cleaning out the hinges as he did, until his swollen fuel pouches were fully freed. His nozzles continued to drip, forcing the Praxian to press his rag to one, then the other, in an attempt to not make a mess again.

                “You wouldn’t have that problem if you’d come to me a few cycles ago.” Ratchet couldn’t help but get in one last jab as he assembled the parts of the homemade machine he’d cobbled together for these sessions. There was a canister to hold the drained energon, a small suction pump, and two short lengths of tubing with soft silicone cups at the end.

                Prowl did not bother to respond to that, he just stared off over Ratchet’s shoulder as the medic ran out the tubing to make sure there were no kinks or tangles. Though Ratchet might have been irritated about the Tactician’s tendency to neglect himself, his touch was gentle and professional as he pressed the cups over Prowl’s swollen nozzles and flicked on the suction.

                Energon immediately began to flow from the Praxian’s enormous pouches, a sign of just how much pressure had built up inside, and Prowl let out a hiss of relief. His wings drooped from their rigid set, getting as close to relaxed as Ratchet ever saw him. Still, he deliberately did not look down at himself or the equipment hooked to his body.

                Knowing that this process would take a while, Ratchet leaned against a cabinet to keep an eye on the suction machine to make sure it didn’t malfunction or overflow. Prowl, meanwhile, pulled out a few report datapads to read and distract himself as he usually did. Ratchet knew how much the Praxian hated these sessions, and hated that they were necessary even more. He had originally tried to deal with his condition by starving himself, but Ratchet had put a stop to that as soon as he found out. It took quite a few lectures, and some threats, to get Prowl start fueling as regularly as his frame needed, which of course also meant he had to come in to have his pouches drained more frequently. The medic wished he could do more, but the coding that was supposed control the filling of his pouches had been so thoroughly corrupted that there was no fixing it without completely reprogramming the Tactician. Which was a step Ratchet refused to take, and fortunately, Prowl did want to take such drastic measures.

                The private exam room was silent except for the regular thudding of the suction pump on the draining machine, until, finally, it shut itself off. Prowl finally looked down at himself at that point, tugging the cups from his nozzles and wiping up any lingering drops of energon. His pouches were now empty and had retracted back to his chest, giving him a flat, almost normal appearance except for his still stiff nozzles. Prowl closed his chestplates back up, thanked Ratchet for his assistance, and strode back out of the medbay.

                With a sigh, Ratchet unhooked the now-full energon canister from the suction machine and placed a cap over it. He would add the energon to the medbay’s supply of med-grade after he finished cleaning and disinfecting the drainage cups and tubing. In a few cycles, he would have to check in with Prowl to make sure the Praxian was still fuelling properly and hadn’t dropped back into his starvation habits.

                ~Now~

                Jazz sauntered into the medbay, giving First Aid a jaunty wave as he looked around for the bay’s fearsome master. Ratchet, however, spotted the saboteur first and stalked towards him. “Alright, Jazz, what have you done to yourself now?”

                “Whoa there, Ratch. I’m perfectly fine, promise.” Jazz held up his hands in self-defense. “Was just hopin’ to have a lil’ private chat with ya.”

                Ratchet frowned, but gestured Jazz into his office. “So, what do you need to talk about?”

                “Well, ya know I’m seein’ Prowl, right? And ya know about his lil’.  . .issue.” Jazz made an illustrative gesture in front of his chest.

                “Yes, I’ve been treating Prowl for his condition. If you want to know anything more, though, you’ll have to ask him.” Ratchet was very strict about patient confidentiality, and as Second in Command, only Optimus had the authority to order information about Prowl.

                “Don’ worry, Ratch. Ain’t about that.” Jazz shifted, seeming almost nervous about what he was going to ask. “What I was curious about is if a mech, like say myself, was intendin’ to get his regular fuel straight from another mech’s pouches, like say Prowl’s. Would there be any health concerns?”

                It took Ratchet a moment to process just what he was being asked. It wasn’t exactly something that had come up before in his career. “No, that should be fine. As long as he is okay with it, of course. In fact, for someone who slags themselves as frequently as you do, the richer energon would probably be good for you.”

                “Oh, don’t worry. Prowl’s more than okay with me drinkin’ from him.” Jazz gave a salacious grin as he headed for the door. “Thanks, Ratch!”

                “No problem. Now please, never tell me about your interface life again unless there’s grievous injury involved.” Ratchet already knew far more about the intimate activities of the army than he ever wanted. “Maybe not even then.”

                Jazz only laughed as he walked out.

                Ratchet shook his head, but he couldn’t help but hope that just maybe, he wouldn’t have to deal with a stiff, embarrassed Praxian suffering through awkward drainings anymore. Prowl deserved someone who cared for every part of him.

Chapter Text

                Jazz smiled as he onlined his visor to his favorite sight in the universe: the fabulous tits of his wonderful boyfriend. It had taken some time, and some talking, but he had finally convinced Prowl to recharge with his chest armor retracted. The Praxian’s large, soft breasts made wonderful pillows and were delightful to snuggle, and as a bonus, it was helping Prowl be less embarrassed about having his chest exposed. Though Jazz had no intention of sharing the glory of his boyfriend’s amazing bosoms with anyone else, he did want Prowl to be comfortable when they were alone. He still didn’t seem to like to look at or touch himself, though he was getting much less shy about allowing Jazz to touch him.

                Gently, Jazz cupped one of Prowl’s breasts and ran his thumb over the nozzle. That got a sleepy chirp and a twitch of wings out of the Praxian as he began to wake up. Prowl’s powerful tactical unit required deep defrag cycles and had a long boot-up time, which meant he was adorable in the mornings as his muddled processor slowly came online. Jazz had a variety of mods that let him boot much faster, a requirement for snatching recharge while in enemy territory, which was the only reason Prowl felt comfortable enough to take his time in the mornings.

                “Mornin’ babe.” Jazz murmured, pressing a kiss to Prowl’s chevron. The Praxian’s face scrunched at the touch, optics flickering a dim blue as he muttered something that vaguely sounded like ‘morning’ in response.

                Jazz’s next kiss went lower, to the armor plate that shielded Prowl’s spark. The low, rumbling idle of the Praxian’s powerful interceptor engine increased slightly in tempo to a pleased purr. Letting his hands wander over the curves of Prowl’s plating, Jazz nipped and licked at the tempting breasts before him while his fingers traced the seams of his boyfriend’s narrow waist and broad aft. He danced briefly over the panel that hid Prowl’s valve, but didn’t linger too long. As erotic as they sometimes got, actual interface was somewhere they hadn’t gone yet. Jazz was happy to wait until Prowl was ready, so his hands travelled upwards instead to play with the Praxian’s wings.

                “Mmf.” Prowl twitched his wings away from Jazz’s wandering fingers, but couldn’t truly escape without actually moving the rest of his frame. Which would require waking up fully.

                As Jazz continued to tickle and tease the hinges and seams of Prowl’s wings, the Praxian finally gave in and rolled in the berth. Not away from his boyfriend as might be expected, instead, Prowl shifted the other direction until he was laying fully on top of Jazz.

                Jazz let out a wheeze from his vents as Prowl’s weight settled on his frame, though it came out rather muffled as his face ended up buried in the Praxian’s cleavage. The soft breasts enveloped his entire helm, until the only sound Jazz could hear was Prowl’s sparkbeat and the rumble of his engine.  

                As much as Jazz could’ve happily stayed there for the rest of the cycle, it wouldn’t do for the two top officers of the army to skip their shifts. Time to get a little more insistent. Jazz sent Prowl a ping over his comms, since his face was thoroughly smothered, as he rubbed his thumbs teasingly over the Praxian’s sensitive nozzles. ::Prowler, darlin’. You’d better get up soon, or I’m gonna squeeze these tits ‘til ya squirt all over the berth.::

                If there was one thing he could rely on, it was Prowl’s fondness for keeping things clean. With a put-upon grumble, the Praxian finally pushed himself up until he was sitting on the berth. “You agreed. Energon stays in your mouth.” He mumbled, stretching his wings out to their full span and arching his back in a way that thrust out his chest in a very appealing way.

                “I know, I know.” It hadn’t taken much for Jazz to agree to their deal. He could squish and play with Prowl’s breasts as much as he wanted, as long as any energon went into his mouth and not onto the furniture or floor. Fortunately, into his mouth was exactly where he wanted it anyway. “But it got you up, didn’t it?”

                Prowl just frowned, full lower lip pushing out into an adorable pout. Jazz couldn’t help but give him a kiss, giving that lip a little suck before getting off the berth to fetch a cube of fuel. Prowl was never truly awake until he got a shot of energy in the morning.

                As he sipped at his fuel, which was a special, high-energy blend meant specifically to give his powerful processors a boost, Prowl’s optics brightened up to their normal levels and his wings perked up from their tired slump. Jazz had once tried Prowl’s special fuel and thought his engine was going to redline and explode, so he now preferred to take his breakfast a different way.

                When Prowl put aside his empty cube, Jazz took the chance to lean in and enjoy his own morning fuel. Now that he was drinking from Prowl regularly, the Praxian did not get to the point of uncomfortable fullness, which meant that Jazz got take a little time to enjoy licking and teasing before getting down to business. Prowl rested a hand on Jazz’s helm, gently stroking an audial horn in encouragement as the Polyhexian suckled. It still surprised Prowl somewhat just how good it felt to have Jazz drink from him, even when he wasn’t doing it erotically. This was turning into his favorite morning ritual.

                “So, I have been thinking-“ Prowl started, stroking Jazz’s helm softly. The Polyhexian hummed to show he was listening, a little too busy with the tit in his mouth to actually say anything. “I was thinking that we should talk after shift today. About interfacing.”

                That got Jazz to pull away from his breakfast to stare at Prowl with a bright visor. “You serious, Prowler?”

                “Like I said, I have been thinking about it.” Which, in Prowl-speak, meant that he had been running through every possible variable with his tac-net and turning over the idea in his processor for weeks. “I greatly enjoy your company. We have been spending more time together, and have been getting more intimate which each other. I believe that interfacing is the next logical step to take.”

                It was such a Prowl answer that Jazz almost laughed. “Yeah, that sounds great, babe. But do ya want to interface?”

                That made the Praxian pause for a moment, contemplating the answer. “Yes, I believe I do. But we can discuss this more after shift. You still have a task to complete.”

                “Yes, sir.” Jazz grinned and returned to his breakfast. Prowl liked the pressure inside his pouches to be even, complaining that being ‘lopsided’ distracted him, so Jazz had to be careful to drink the same amount from each. It was a task he certainly didn’t mind.

                Jazz didn’t get much work done during his shift that day, too excited over the thought of getting to interface with his lover to actually focus on the things he should be doing. Fortunately, there wasn’t much on his plate, so he could take a little time to fondle his spike behind his desk and fantasize.

                Prowl was certainly a physically attractive mech, and it was a common joke among the Autobots that everyone had a Thing for the Second in Command. Most, however, were offput by his stern, calculating work personality. And since Prowl did not socialize, that face was all they knew.

                It had taken Jazz a little work to get past that emotionless façade, but he was so glad he did. Prowl was shy, caring, and so uncertain about things outside of his work life. He had admitted he had only interfaced with one mech before, long before the war, and wasn’t sure when, or if, he would be ready to do so again. Jazz had reassured the Praxian that he did not mind waiting, that they could move at whatever pace Prowl was comfortable with.

                And, of course, just when Jazz had thought he couldn’t fall any more in love with the mech, he had found that Prowl also fulfilled his greatest fetish. Jazz thanked Primus every day that Prowl allowed him to play with his pouches. Though Jazz still wasn’t sure of the story behind Prowl’s condition, he knew that the Praxian had hated his condition and been terribly embarrassed by it since before the war. It had become one of Jazz’s goals to show Prowl the positive side of his frame as well.

                As soon as shift ended, Jazz dashed back to Prowl’s quarters to wait for his boyfriend. Fortunately, he wasn’t left waiting long. Apparently, for once, Prowl had left his office promptly at the end of his shift instead of working overtime. He stepped into his quarters and cycled his optics in surprise when he saw Jazz sprawled out on the couch with legs open to try and create a tempting scene.

                “Hey, lover.” Jazz purred, shifting a little to make room for Prowl on the couch. “How was your shift?”

                “Uneventful.” Prowl said shortly, optics roaming over Jazz’s frame while his wings twitched in interest. Gingerly, he sat next to the saboteur, his reserved body language a dramatic contrast to Jazz’s relaxed sprawl. “I take it that you are interested in adding interface to our relationship?”

                “Whenever you’re ready, Prowler.” Jazz confirmed with a grin. When the Praxian didn’t respond for a moment, though, Jazz dropped his flirtatious attitude and sat up to place a comforting hand on Prowl’s shoulder. “I mean it. Ya can still say no if ya ain’t ready. But if ya are, I’m here for ya.”

                “I want to.” Prowl looked into Jazz’s visor, optics shining with determination. “You make me feel very good, and I want more.”

                “I can do that. You wanna spike or valve?” Jazz was a flexible mech, in more ways than one, and could enjoy a ‘face in just about any position. “Any crazy kinks ya wanna try?”

                Once again, Prowl paused to deeply consider the question. One of the things that Jazz loved about the mech, he never did anything by halves. Everything got the same careful deliberation, and once a decision had been made, it was nigh impossible to dissuade him.

                “I would like to spike. I want to be over you, in control.” Prowl finally stated. “And I believe it’d be best to keep this rather simple for now.”

                “I can dig it.” Jazz was already shivering at the thought of Prowl dominating him. “If I could make one request, tho? Would ya open yer armor for me?” Because Jazz would live if Prowl decided that breastplay needed to stay separate from interfacing, but getting to combine the two would be a dream come true.

                In response, Prowl’s outer chest armor opened and folded aside to reveal his bosoms. He shivered briefly as cool air touched his normally well-protected protoform, but managed to resist the urge to curl in or cover himself. “Shall we move to the berth?”

                In the attached berthroom, Jazz arranged himself on his back on the berth and opened his panels. “How d’ya want me?”

                “Like that is fine.” Prowl’s voice had lowered to a husky growl, and a thread of something new crept through his EM field. Interest, with an undercurrent of lust. The Praxian slid up onto the berth with smooth motions, looming over Jazz like a hunter over his prey. Jazz suppressed a shiver. Any mech who saw Prowl now would not wonder how he came into his name.

                White hands caressed Jazz’s chest plating before slowly travelling south, lingering over smooth abdominal plates and narrow hips as Prowl re-familiarized himself with already charted territory. Jazz arched into his partner’s touch, eager to encourage more, more, more. As Prowl ventured down towards the juncture of Jazz’s legs, though, he got a little more hesitant. This was new for him, a place on the Polyhexian he had not yet explored.

                He wasn’t about to let Prowl get shy now. Jazz wanted more of that energy he had felt earlier, the lust and passion that had snuck into the Praxian’s field. Knowing that Prowl depended on reactions, Jazz loosened his hold on his vocalizer and practically pressed his valve into the Praxian’s hand. “Oh yeah, Prowler. Right there! Y’can touch me anywhere ya want, I’m all yours.”

                Prowl’s touch became more confident as he circled the swollen mesh of Jazz’s valve with interest, dipping a finger briefly inside to test how wet the Polyhexian was. The answer was very. “You are so slick already.” Prowl commented with some surprise, easily sliding in a second finger.

                “Well y’ got me so excited this morning.” Jazz let out a hum of encouragement as he felt a thumb circle his anterior node, not quite touching the sensitive electrode. “Couldn’t – nnn, couldn’t stop thinkin’ about ya all day.”

                “So wet, only from thinking about me?” Prowl moved his fingers in and out slowly, scissoring them apart to see how flexible the calipers were. They opened easily to accept a third finger, more lubricant dribbling out to ease the way. Directing a little charge to the tips of his digits, Prowl ran his fingers over the electro-receptive nodes lining the inside of Jazz’s valve, the brief little connections making the Polyhexian twitch his hips and let out a little whine.

                “Yer hot as th’ smelter, Prowl. ‘Course I’m wet, thinkin’ about ya.” Jazz bucked his hips as those fingers curled inside his valve, “Gnnn! If I’d known you were such a fraggin’ tease tho-!”

                “Oh, am I a tease?” Prowl preferred to have as much information as possible before formulating a plan of attack, but, in this case, he figured he had enough data to achieve an acceptable possibility of success. With a click, Prowl let the plating of his codpiece slide aside so that his spike could pressurize and pulled his hand from Jazz’s valve to wipe fingers dripping with slick along his length.

                Losing the fingers in his valve made Jazz feel terribly empty, but he pushed that aside to admire the novel sight of his partner’s spike. It was neither the largest, nor the most extensively modded Jazz had ever taken, but he couldn’t help but think it might be the prettiest. Of course, that might be because it belonged to Prowl. The Praxian’s spike appeared to be factory-original, primarily white with black plating on the underside and an attractive double row of red biolights separating the two.

                As Prowl pressed slowly into Jazz’s valve, his spike proved to feel as good as it looked. Jazz tossed his head back and moaned in encouragement as he was filled to perfection. It had been too long since Jazz had gotten to interface with some mech he truly desired, as opposed to forcing himself to pretend to enjoy a quickie with a target he meant to eliminate. Prowl knew that his lover frequently had to interface with Decepticons and other enemies (for mecha were never less guarded than just after overload), and the Tactician did not judge him for it. Once again, Jazz thanked Primus that he had found Prowl.

                Finally hilting himself fully, Prowl paused for a moment to get used to the tight fit around his spike. His wings quivered as he bit his lip and forced himself just a little bit further, until his pelvic plating met Jazz’s and the ridge at the base of his spike hit the Polyhexian’s anterior node with a zap of electrical charge. It had been a very, very long time since Prowl had used his spike like this, not since his last sexual partner before the war, and he was finding it hard to control himself.

                “Are you ready for me to move?” Prowl asked, voice tight with the effort it was taking to hold still.

                “If y’ don’t, I might never forgive ya.” Jazz answered back in a joking tone, a bit of static marring his voice.

                Steadying himself, Prowl pulled himself back out of Jazz’s tight, wet heat before slamming himself in once more. He braced both hands up near his partner’s shoulders, his pendulous breasts scraping along Jazz’s protruding bumper with every thrust as Prowl found a steady rhythm.

                Visor glitching briefly from the charge building in Jazz’s frame, the Polyhexian finally slide the optical enhancer aside to get an unobstructed view of the incredible sight of Prowl working away above him. The Praxian’s entire body was moving in time with his thrusts, wings bobbing and tits swinging like a hypnotizing metronome. Jazz could hardly take his optics off the tantalizing sight of the jiggling, bouncing boobs of his boyfriend, the soft slap of them meeting Prowl’s tight abdominal plating with every thrust mixing with the chuff of air from the Praxian’s vents and the crackle of charge building between their bodies.

                “That’s it, Prowler. Yer doin’ so good, so perfect,” Glyphs of encouragement and praise fell endlessly from Jazz’s lips as he moved along with his partner, giving himself fully into the pulse of their arrays and the swing of their bodies. He didn’t need to keep an audial out for enemy soldiers, or plan how he was going to eliminate his target after hacking them when they were lost in pleasure. There was only him, and Prowl, all alone and completely safe in their familiar quarters.

                Prowl’s rhythm steadily increased as his charge rose higher and higher, transfluid tank swelling in anticipation of the coming spike overload. And when it came, his entire body shuddered as he emptied himself into his partner’s valve. Jazz clenched down hard on that spike inside him as he was brought over the edge as well. As Prowl’s frame began to relax, exhaustion sweeping in as his overload retreated, Jazz pulled him down so that he could be happily smothered between soft breasts once more. He craved that closeness, to be as near as possible to the comfort of Prowl’s pulsing spark, and the best place to find that was with a pair of pouches enveloping his helm.

                “Thank you.” Prowl spoke softly once he had recovered enough to re-engage his vocalizer. “Thank you for waiting for me to be ready.”

                Jazz removed his face from his warm hiding place just far enough to reply. “I’d wait for ya forever, Prowler. I love ya.”

                Prowl’s hands moved to cradle Jazz’s helm, pressing him in closer to his breast. “I love you too, Jazz.”

Chapter Text

                Prowl entered his quarters after a long shift, tired and frustrated from a day dealing with petty pranks from the crew, chasing after mecha to try and get a proper report out of them, and butting heads with Optimus Prime over battle strategies. In short, the same sort of stress he had been dealing with since the beginning of the war.

                At least now he had a reason to go back to his quarters at end of shift, instead of lingering in his office for joors past when he should’ve left to try and get just a little more done. Jazz had returned from a short intel mission, which meant that he was there waiting in their shared quarters when Prowl walked in. As was becoming his habit, Prowl opened his chest armor when the door to his hab shut behind him and sunk into Jazz’s offered embrace.

                “Hey, babe.” Jazz gently steered his tired Praxian lover over to the couch and eased him down. “Ya look tired.”

                Prowl only hummed in response, relaxing joint by joint as Jazz began to massage his frame. He couldn’t quite suppress a sharp intake of his vents when Jazz teasingly tweaked one of his nozzles, though. Jazz immediately pulled back, a guilty expression coming over his face.

                “Ah, shoot. Didn’t hurt ya, did I, love?” Jazz gave the abused breast an apologetic rub, softly running a thumb over the area where silver protoform met the translucent silicone of the stiff nozzle.

                “It is only sore.” The discomfort of the initial touch, like prodding a fresh weld, had merely caught Prowl by surprise. “Being compressed all cycle underneath my armor can make the nozzles uncomfortably sensitive when released.”

                “I see.” Jazz figured it would be best to continue his rubdown then, using both hands to gently knead and squish both breasts. Poor things, forced to spend all day stuck tight inside an armored cage.

                As Prowl began to relax once more, Jazz couldn’t help but put voice to the question that kept coming to mind. “Prowl, y’mind if I ask ya something? Ya don’ have to answer if ya don’ want, but I’ve been wondering. How’d ya end up with yer pouches like this? Was it a codin’ error you were framed with, like yer glitch? Or was there an accident-?”

                “No, I was not built like this.” Prowl’s voice was quiet and solemn, but not upset. “Nor was it an accident. The mech that did this to me knew exactly what he was doing.”

                “Ya mean, somebody did this to ya on purpose?” That was an answer that had never even occurred to Jazz. “Why?”

                “It happened when I was still an Enforcer. I had just transferred out of Praxus to Iacon City-“

                ~THEN~

                Prowl of Praxus was the latest transfer to the Iaconii Enforcer Corps. Only a few vorns old, the Praxian had already made a name for himself in his home city for organizing the Enforcers there against the Praxian crime lords and eliminating their entire operation. Many prominent names had ended up in prison, and Officer Prowl had earned several commendations. Then he had been sent to Iacon, to try and shape up the Iaconii officers into a similar formidable force.

                Iacon was not Praxus, however. In the highly insular City-state, the majority of Enforcers were Cold-Constructed and built specifically for their job. In Iacon, Cold-cons were mainly built for heavy labor, and the Enforcers were made up mostly of kindled mecha who didn’t appreciate some young, upstart Construct coming in and telling them how to do their jobs. So instead of being put into a position where his powerful tactical processor could be put to use, Prowl was assigned a partner (one of the only other cold-cons in the force) and put into standard rotation in the Mechaforensics department.

                His partner Tumbler didn’t seem to like him any more than anyone else in the department, but, at least, tolerated Prowl’s quirks and habits. Sometimes that tolerance turned into something more, working out the frustrations and stresses of their often unpleasant and macabre job together in berth after late-night work shifts. There weren’t feelings or affections mixed into it, and Prowl wasn’t even sure if he enjoyed the activity, but there were times, in the early morning with Tumbler in recharge beside him, when Prowl could pretend he was liked for who he was and that kept him coming back.

                Even though he consistently uncovered important evidence and brought criminals to justice, Prowl knew that his working methods irritated Enforcer Command, not to mention anyone forced to work with him, and perhaps that was why he was assigned to another task nobody wanted.

                The Department contracted with a scientist who invented new weapons and containment devices for the Enforcers, and someone had to regularly check in with him to sign off on new inventions and check on the progress of others. Apparently, there was also a less talked-about side task of trying to curb the mech’s less than legal, or ethical, side projects.

                To Prowl’s surprise, the scientist, an eccentric mech named Mesothulas, had heard of him. Had been following his career in Iacon, in fact, and was fascinated by Prowl’s powerful processor. Mesothulas eagerly solicited the Praxian’s opinion on various projects, which Prowl was more than happy to give. It was novel for him to be so genuinely appreciated, he didn’t notice how Mesothulas’s interest was more of an obsession.

                Until one cycle, during a normal check in, everything suddenly went black for Prowl as something unseen knocked him unconscious.

                When Prowl awoke, he was laying on a berth surrounded by a broad variety of medical and scientific equipment. A large tube had been stuffed into his mouth and down his primary intake, pumping in a thick energon mixture, and an inhibitor collar around his neck had cut off any control of his body. The collar was an invention he had helped Mesothulas perfect, and he knew there was no way of getting it off himself. He was well and truly stuck.

                That also meant that he could do nothing to stop the energon pumping into his tank, even though his fuel tank was already pinging him that it was full. Mesothulas bustled back in at that point, voice full of cheer and excitement as he explained his brilliant project to his helpless captive. Prowl had no choice but to listen as Mesothulas manually pried open his chest plating, revealing the Praxian’s swelling fuel pouches, and hooked up tubing to his nozzles.

                Mesothulas’s latest project would be his magnum opus, you see. He would take over control of the creation process from Primus and bring to life his own Cybertronian. Not through Cold Construction, which relied on receiving a randomly generated spark from Vector Sigma, or by Kindling, where the creators had no control over how their creation turned out. No, Mesothulas was determined to create the perfect mech, the ultimate Cybertronian. And he had chosen Prowl to assist him. Wasn’t the Praxian lucky?

                Proudly, Mesothulas showed off the basic frame he had constructed to hold the artificial photonic crystal he had fabricated. The last ingredients he needed was a surge of spark energy to activate the crystal, and several litres of sentio metallico. And Prowl would provide both. Not that he had any choice in the matter.

                The spark energy was collected by forcing open Prowl’s chest and attaching a device to the Praxian’s laser core. As Prowl’s spark flared, the photonic crystal inside the device began to glow and pulse, until it had become a spark itself. Mesothulas squealed in delight and rushed to install the newborn spark into the prepared frame.

                For the required sentio metallico, Mesothulas had come up with another brilliant invention. He had discovered how to refine the mineral and energy rich energon naturally produced by new carriers for their sparklings into the living metal, with the help of an infusion of fresh transfluid. Mesothulas had provided the transfluid himself, and Prowl would supply the sparkling energon.

                To the Praxian’s alarm, when he tried to access the coding that controlled the filling of his fuel pouches, he found that the coding had been hacked apart and butchered. He could not turn it off, could do nothing to stop his pouches from swelling larger and larger with energon.

                Once Mesothulas had decided that Prowl’s pouches had gotten big enough, he turned on a machine to then suck the energon out through the Praxian’s nozzles. The energon was then converted to sentio metallico and pumped into the chamber containing the artificial construct. The tubing shoved down Prowl’s intake, constantly supplying him with fresh energon, made sure that the Praxian’s pouches wouldn’t run dry.

                Unfortunately for Mesothulas, he hadn’t managed to de-activate the emergency retrieval beacon embedded in Prowl’s frame. Just as the scientist was cackling over the success of his greatest work, several squads of Enforcers broke down the door to his lab. Mesothulas was quickly forced onto the ground and placed in stasis cuffs, the scientist crying out for his beloved creation until someone slapped a vocal inhibitor on him as well.

                Another group of Enforcers, including Tumbler, came over to assist Prowl, though none of them could keep their snickers down when they saw the predicament their fellow Enforcer was in. Prowl glared as best he could, until Tumbler finally took pity on him and pulled the feeding tube from his mouth. “Quite the mess you’ve gotten yourself in, huh Prowl?”

                “Just get this collar off me.” Prowl wasn’t in the mood to be laughed at. As soon as the inhibitor collar was removed, he ripped the tubing off his pouches and attempted to close up his chest plating. Unfortunately, the function would not engage. His hinges had been damaged when the plating had been forced open. Scowling, Prowl wrapped an arm over his protruding fuel pouches in a vain attempt to cover himself and sat up.

                As other Enforcers led Mesothulas away and started taking image captures of the lab, Prowl was escorted to a transport to be taken back to the precinct to be looked at by a medic and have his statement taken. The sight of him struggling to contain his oversized chest never failed to amuse his coworkers, much to Prowl’s chagrin. Fortunately, a medic was at least allowed to come in and close up his armor plating before he had to sit down in front of his Commander and give a statement.

                The full medical exam that came afterwards didn’t go nearly as well. Whatever Mesothulas had done to his coding, the medic said that it was not repairable. There was nothing she could do to turn off the command codes telling his pouches to fill. Prowl went to the washracks and squeezed at his pouches until they were empty and no more energon came out, but knew that they would just fill themselves up again in time.

                Mesothulas was sent to prison for a variety of offences, including kidnapping an Enforcer, forced frame modification, forced coding modification, and ‘crimes against Primus.’ The last one referred to his creation of an artificial mechling who, to Prowl’s great surprise, had actually come online. The Praxian was called in to see the creation, who was being held in a small, isolated hospital room, since his spark signature matched that of the immature frame. The mechling, who Mesothulas had called ‘Ostaros,’ looked up at Prowl with innocent blue optics that were the exact same shade as the Praxian’s own.

                No matter what his creator had done, this mechling, this Ostaros, did not deserve to become the experiment of yet another scientist. Ostaros knew nothing of the world, would have no ability to keep from being exploited and studied for his novel spark and frame.

                Prowl was able to successfully argue for creator rights to Ostaros, given his part in the creation of the mechling, as unwilling as it was. But Prowl was not ready to be a creator, did not have any idea how to mentor another. He was still quite young, even by Cold-Construct standards, with a personality that turned other people off and an inability to form positive relationships with other mecha. It was for this reason that Prowl took Ostaros to one of the only mechs he trusted to look after and properly raise the artificial mechling and would not be swayed by any offer to give Ostaros over for research. Kup was a cantankerous old mech, but had been a fair trainer to all the Enforcers he’d been assigned over the vorns, including Prowl. As the Praxian predicted, Kup took on Ostaros with a promise he’d raise the mechling like any other Cybertronian.

                It was one problem solved, but there were more. Prowl was still the butt of many jokes around Headquarters, where the story of his big, round pouches had spread like wildfire. Suggestions that he quit his job as an Enforcer and instead become a dancer at one of the semi-legal clubs where those on stage performed without any armor were popular and said both to his face and behind his back. As were cracks about ‘Praxians and their big bumpers.’

                Tumbler wasn’t terribly helpful either, only offering to try to use Mnemosurgery to fix his partner once he’d gotten his license. Though Prowl thought mnemosurgery was useful for some things, like examining memories to solve murder cases, he did not trust anyone inside his processor and told Tumbler so. The other mech did not take it well, and that pretty much ended their relationship outside of work.

                Then Prowl left the Enforcers all together for the Security Forces and was alone once more. But at least in the Security Forces, there was no one cracking jokes about his frame. No one knew of his ‘problem’ at all. And Prowl was happy to have it that way.

                ~Now~

                As Prowl finished his story, he felt a sense of exhaustion come over him. He’d never told anyone else the entire tale, and had no idea how Jazz would react. But the Polyhexian only continued to cradle him and pressed a kiss to his chevron.

                “I’m sorry that all happened to ya, Prowl.” Jazz said softly. Never could he have imagined a story like that was behind the Praxian’s condition. “If I ever do anythin’ to make you uncomfortable or upset, you tell me, alright?”

                “You do not make me uncomfortable.” Prowl denied, happy to lay there in his partner’s arms. “That my frame can bring you such joy is of great relief to me. I have hated this part of me for so long, but now I see it bring you genuine happiness and comfort, and that pleases me.”

                Jazz gave him another kiss for that, this time on the lips. He kept it chaste, though, figuring that Prowl was probably more in the mood for cuddling than ‘facing. “So what happened to tha’ mechling? Ostaros?”

                “He now uses the name Springer.” Prowl explained, smirking just a little at the look of surprise that came over Jazz’s face. “Yes, he turned out to be indistinguishable from any other Cybertronian. Kup did well with him, and I am proud. I do sometimes wonder, though, if I should have kept him myself.”

                “I think ya did what ya felt was best for him.” Jazz reassured. “Some madmech created him from ya without ever askin’ if ya wanted a kid, and ya still made sure he went ta someone who’d treat him good. From what I know of Kup, ya couldn’t’ve picked a better mech.”

                “Yes, that is what I tell myself when I question myself.” Prowl still got occasional updates from Kup about Springer, and though he worried about the mech going into the Wreckers, he was glad to hear that Springer had surpassed both his creators in his ability to connect with others.

                “What happened to Mesothulas?” Jazz wondered as they continued to cuddle on the couch. “Ya said he went ta jail, he deactivate there?”

                “I do not know.” Prowl admitted. “There was a Decepticon prison break where he was being held early in the war. He may have gotten out with them, or he may have died. There wasn’t enough left of the facility once the Decepticons were done with it to know for sure.”

                Jazz didn’t really like the sound of that, and pulled Prowl closer. He’d never let anyone else touch his Prowler again. He’d cut them apart himself if anyone tried. 

Chapter Text

                Jazz pulled up in front of a small storefront in the city, looking over the clothing on display on the mannequins in the window. This certainly looked like the right place.

                Activating his holoform, Jazz went into the store and took an impressed look around at the items on display. Humans had so many interesting ways to spice up their version of interfacing, Cybertronians should really start taking notes.

                There would be time for that later. A store employee walked up to Jazz with a smile on her face, asking if he needed help with anything.

                “Actually, yeah. I heard you folks do custom orders?” Jazz had done a fair amount of looking to try and find a shop that might be willing to make what he had in mind, and was crossing his fingers their ‘we can make products in any size’ statement really meant any size. “I got somethin’ in mind for mah boyfriend, but he needs somethin’ in a pretty.  .. unique size.”

                “Sure, we can make any of our products in any size!” The employee chirped. “All we need is measurements to work on.”

                “Yeah, I got some numbers.” Jazz borrowed a piece of paper and a pencil from the counter girl and scribbled down the measurements he had very carefully taken of Prowl while the Praxian had been recharging.

                Looking over the offered numbers, the shop employee frowned in confusion. “Um, sir, are you sure about these? They don’t make much sense. Is this in feet and inches?”

                Jazz chuckled. “Mebbe it’ll be easier ta explain if ya come look outside.” He vanished his holoform, garnering a shocked gasp from the girl helping him, and returned his consciousness to his actual body outside. Transforming, Jazz knelt down and very, very carefully knocked his finger on the store’s window.

                The store employee stepped outside and gaped up at Jazz, who couldn’t help but grin, “So, how’s about makin’ a custom order for someone o’ my dimensions?”

                Stepping into his quarters, Prowl gave the Polyhexian mech seated on his couch a curious look. Jazz had sent him a private comm earlier in the day requesting that Prowl leave his office on time, because he would have a surprise waiting for him once he got back to his quarters.

                “Heya, babe.” Jazz turned down the music he had been listening to and hopped to his pedes so he could give his boyfriend a quick kiss.

                “Hello, Jazz.” Prowl returned the kiss with a little flutter of his wings, quickly finding the strain of the work day melting away at the soft affection. “So, what is this ‘surprise’ you commed me about?”

                “Well, I got ya a lil’ somethin’.” Jazz slipped a hand into his subspace and produced a flat, giftwrapped box. (The Polyhexian had tipped the human shop handsomely for finding a box of suitable size and wrapping the gift of him.) “Go on, open it up.”

                Prowl accepted the box and carefully picked at the gift wrapping with the tip of one of his retractable claws. The wrapping was gently removed and set aside, then Prowl slit open the tape sealing the box and pulled out a piece of red fabric. It was of obviously Earthen origin, silky to the touch with a tight, strong weave. Holding up the fabric, it seemed to be some sort of garment. Prowl looked up at Jazz curiously. “What is it?”

                “Maybe it’ll be easier ta show ya.” Jazz took the piece and gestured for Prowl to open his armor. Once the Praxian did so, Jazz held up the gift to his chest and things started to make a little more sense.

                Soft, triangular pieces of fabric cupped his breasts, supporting and cradling the heavy pouches when a pair of straps were hooked into armor pieces up by his shoulders and a second pair were clasped behind his back just under his wings. Prowl lifted a hand and ran a finger over the garment, noting the delicate gold embroidery around the edges and bits of lace along the straps.

                “A bra?” Prowl asked, relatively sure that was the correct human term.

                “You been complaining about how sore yer nozzles get under yer armor all day.” Jazz ran his thumb over the nub of Prowl’s nozzles, which were now covered by a padded part of the support garment. “Now, they’ll be protected from gettin’ rubbed at all day. I made sure ya’d be able to transform while wearin’ it.”

                Indeed, the bra had been designed in such a way that Prowl’s chestplates would still be able to close over it. The only indication he was wearing anything at all would be the band that went around his back, and even that blended in well with his plating. “I see. Thank you.”

                “It also makes ya look smeltin’ hot.” Jazz commented, looking over Prowl with blatant interest. “Which is why I ordered some matchin’ pieces too.”

                Intrigued, Prowl watched as more pieces of fabric were pulled out of the box. He was still getting used to Jazz calling him beautiful and sexy, but was doing better at believing that the saboteur meant it. Prowl knew his frame was considered ‘hot’ by others; Praxus had built their Enforcers to be aesthetically pleasing, and Praxian frames in general were somewhat of a fetish outside of their home city-state. But Jazz was different than the people Prowl had encountered in the past. He saw Prowl as more than just an object of desire, but as an entire person to love. A person who happened to be ‘smelting hot.’

                And so, though Prowl didn’t quite understand what the appeal was himself, he stood and allowed Jazz to carefully dress him in the rest of the outfit the saboteur had purchased. Because Jazz was obviously getting enjoyment from this, and that made Prowl happy.

                A matching pair of red panties came after the bra, the smooth fabric hugging his modesty panel and the curves of his aft. Jazz made sure the panties settled over Prowl’s hips just so, then slid his hands back to fondle that supple Praxian behind.

                That wasn’t all, though. Jazz picked up a lacey belt next, buckling it around the narrowest point of Prowl’s waist and arranging the garter straps to hang symmetrically. Most delicate of all were a pair of stockings, which clipped to his ankles just above his rear tires and rose to the top of his thighs to be held up by the garter belt.

                Once everything was on, Jazz stood back to admire his handiwork. Prowl stood there awkwardly, unsure if he should pose or do something ‘sexy’, but Jazz didn’t seem to mind. There was only appreciation, and lust, in his field and on his faceplates.

                “Primus, y’ look even better than I could’ve dreamed.” Jazz slid aside his visor, allowing Prowl to see the way his pale, near-white optics roved over his frame. “Would ya open yer panels for me?”

                Prowl opened his modesty panels agreeably, his spike pressurizing automatically as the panel over it transformed away. The fabric bulged as his spike pushed out against it, and Jazz’s optics were drawn to the tantalizing outline of his shaft being pushed to one side by the panties. After a moment, Prowl opened the panel over his valve as well, wingtips shivering as the fabric shifted over his anterior node.

                Eagerly, Jazz stepped forward and pressed a kiss to Prowl’s lips. One hand wrapped around his back to toy with the Praxian’s wing hinges, while the other drifted down to rub against the bulge of his spike. Prowl moaned into Jazz’s mouth as the heel of the saboteur’s hand ground against his spike through his panties, the fabric sliding over his nodes a novel and entirely pleasant sensation. Prowl whined and bucked his hips against Jazz’s hand, starting to understand the appeal of the human-style garments now.

                “Yer so gorgeous, Prowl.” Jazz breathed as he pulled away from Prowl’s mouth. “I jus’ wanna taste ya.” He dropped to his knees, which put his face right at the level of his lover’s crotch plating, and gently tugged the panties down until Prowl’s spike sprang free of the restrictive fabric. The Praxian gasped as Jazz wrapped one hand around his member, stroking and tugging the spike to full hardness until lubricant seeped from between the plates to stain the fabric panties a dark maroon.

                Both of Prowl’s hands flew to Jazz’s helm, gripping his audial horns like a lifeline as deft fingers played his spike like an instrument. Looking down, all Prowl could see past the deep valley of his cleavage was Jazz’s aft, wiggling happily as the saboteur explored his prize. He could feel everything, though, every touch and brush of fingerpads over the nodes and ridges of his spike. Every once in a while, Jazz let his hand wander down to the Praxian’s valve, brushing the fabric over Prowl’s anterior node and sending a bolt of electricity up his backstrut.

                “Ah, Jazz-“ Prowl bit his lip to try and suppress the noises his vocalizer wanted to make as soft lips and a warm, wet glossa teased the head of his spike. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, except for Jazz to keep going. He needed more. “I want- I need-“

                “It’s alright, Prowler. I got ya.” Jazz’s EM field flowed out to mingle with Prowl’s, crackling with charge and enjoyment but still reassuring. He licked his way up the underside of the spike bobbing in front of him, glossa taking the time to circle each one of the brightly glowing biolights as Jazz enjoyed the mixing taste of lubricant, transfluid, and polish. A taste that was uniquely Prowl.

                Once he had worked his way from base to tip, Jazz parted his lips to swallow the rounded head of Prowl’s spike. The Praxian’s hips jerked unconsciously as he was enveloped in the warm, wet heat of his partner’s mouth, and Jazz’s hands drifted up to grip onto Prowl’s aft to help hold him steady. Nothing ended a session faster than your lover thrusting straight into your purge trigger; swallowing a spike to the hilt required experience and careful planning.

                Jazz liked to think he was quite talented at sucking spike. Certainly, none of the ‘Cons he had blown had ever complained. Just threw their helms back in bliss as they spilled down the saboteur’s throat, before he stood up and slit theirs.

                There would be none of that this evening. Jazz’s only mission this time was to bring strut-melting pleasure to his Praxian partner. His gaze flicked upward as he worked the spike in his mouth further down his intake, but all Jazz could really see was the twin mounds of Prowl’s breasts. His partner’s face was out of sight somewhere above his prominent chest, but he certainly seemed to be enjoying himself if the needy little noises he was making were any indication.

                Throat bulging outward from the heft of the spike filling his intake, Jazz finally felt his olfactory ridge touch Prowl’s pelvic plate. His chin was buried in damp, soaked fabric, and all he could smell was the sweet, heedy scent of lubricant. Prowl’s field teeked of nothing but pleasure, no sign of the frustration and stress that usually lingered around him. The hands on Jazz’s audial horns tightened and twitched without rhythm as Jazz started to bob, moving and sucking along the spike stuffed in his mouth. A little shock of charge zapped between them every time the electro-receptors on Jazz’s glossa encountered the electrodes along Prowl’s spike, making both mechs moan and their engine’s rev.

                As Jazz’s own charge grew, he removed a hand from Prowl’s aft and reached down between his own legs to take his spike in hand, tugging along his own length urgently as he worked to bring them both to overload.

                “I’m gonna- Jazz. I’m going to-“ Prowl gasped, unable to quite form the right words through the thick haze of pleasure filling his frame. Jazz knew what was coming, though, and his engine thrummed happily as thick transfluid filled his mouth and spilled down his throat. Determined to draw every last drop of transfluid out of Prowl’s tank, Jazz sucked and swallowed until the spike in his mouth began to depressurize and nothing more dribbled out.

                Pulling back off the thick head of Prowl’s spike with a wet pop, Jazz gave the slit at the tip a few last licks to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, then gave his own member a few more hard tugs until his own overload washed over him. Jazz’s transfluid splattered wetly across the deck, Prowl’s pedes, and the red stockings that covered his legs.

There was a long moment where the only sound in the habsuite was the whirring of cooling fans as both mechs worked to bring their temperatures back down. Jazz gently tucked Prowl’s depressurized spike back into its housing, then tugged the Praxian’s panties back up into place before slowly climbing back to his pedes.

“I think. I may have ruined your gift.” Prowl managed once he had recovered from his overload. The combination of lubricant from his valve and spike, along with Jazz’s own oral lubricants, had completely soaked through his panties and the fabric now clung tightly against his pelvic plating.

“It’ll wash out.” Jazz said with a chuckle, having planned for this when he had ordered the garments. “So, did ya like yer present?”

“Very much so.” Prowl may not have quite understood the appeal of wearing lingerie, but the reaction it brought from Jazz made things more than worth it.

“Good, cause I got all kinds of ideas for more outfits.” Jazz made a note to send a hefty tip to the human store he’d ordered from before sending in some more designs.

Prowl gave him a shy smile. “I can’t wait.”

Chapter Text

“So,” Jazz asked one evening as he and Prowl cuddled in bed. “Have you ever thought about trying roleplay?”

That little question had led Jazz to where he was now, sitting on their couch strumming his electro-bass as he carefully sank back into a personality he hadn’t used since before the war. He was no longer Jazz, head of Autobot Special Operations, nor was he Meister, or Ricochet, or any of the other many names and faces he had worn through his career. No, now he was just Jazz of Polyhex, a poor street musician in an unfamiliar town, busking the sidewalks in hopes of a few spare shanix and maybe an offer for a more reputable gig. He was young, innocent, and certainly not capable of killing a mech in a dozen different ways without cycling an optic.

Jazz was no longer in a small habsuite on a crashed warship, but instead on a street corner in bustling Praxus back when the city was full of elegant mecha with pretty sensor wings going about their daily business. Few had the time to spare for a foreign-framed, scruffy street musician, but maybe, if he was lucky, someone would stop and toss him a few creds.

Absorbed as he was in his music, Jazz hardly noticed a mech walking up to him until a white pede kicked aside his open instrument case. Startled, Jazz looked up into the stern visage of a Praxian Enforcer. He was so struck by the officer’s beauty; Jazz nearly dropped his instrument. All Praxians were lovely to look at, of course, but the Enforcer was especially striking, with wide hips, a narrow waist, and a broad pair of wings framing his helm. What really caught his attention, though, was the way the Enforcer’s chest plating was partially open, revealing a bulging pair of breasts barely being contained by the mech’s bumper.

“I said ‘where is your performance permit’, Polyhex.”

The Enforcer’s voice broke through his reverie, as Jazz realized he was being spoken to. “Uh, permit?”

“Street musicians must have a performance permit.” The Enforcer informed him, a frown on his pretty white faceplates. “There is a fine for performing without a permit.”

“A fine?!” Jazz wouldn’t be busking street corners if he had creds in the first place. “I really don’ have anything, Officer.”

“Nothing at all? Well, if you don’t have any shanix, then I’m sure an. Alternative form of payment can be found.” The Enforcer stepped boldly into Jazz’s space, field mingling with the musician’s provocatively. It left no doubt as to what, exactly, he meant by an ‘alternative payment.’

“Oh, uh-“ Jazz’s processor went blank even as his array began to heat up, showing just what it thought about getting to ‘face with the pretty Enforcer.

“You can either settle your fine with me, or spend the rest of your visit in the station lockup, it is your choice.”

Put that way, it wasn’t really much of a choice at all. “Uh, right here?” In the street, where anyone could see?

“I assumed you enjoyed performing in public.” The Enforcer raised an optic-ridge skeptically, a bit of sarcasm leaking into that emotionless voice. Before Jazz could come up with an answer, though, the other mech grabbed his electro-bass and tossed it aside before yanking the musician forward. “Very well, we shall go somewhere a little more.  . .private.”

“My bass!” Jazz looked forlornly at his precious instrument, not wanting to leave it behind.

“One of my colleagues will be by in a klik to impound it. Incentive for you to do a good job.” The Enforcer produced a pair of stasis cuffs and, in a practiced motion, cuffed Jazz’s hands behind his back. “And these are to prevent you from trying to get away.”

The cuffs sent a low-level pulse through him, not enough to lock up Jazz’s frame, but with enough strength to disable his transformation cog. He gave the cuffs a quick tug, but they held strong. (The cuffs were standard Enforcer-type, he could have them off in a klik.  .. . but no. Jazz the Muscian didn’t know how to short out stasis cuffs.)

Jazz was marched around a corner into a darkened alley before being unceremoniously forced to his knees. The Enforcer stepped around in front of him, pedes on either side of Jazz’s knees and the performer suddenly found himself with a face-full of Praxian valve.

“Well? Get going. Do well enough, I might even give you a treat afterwards.” The Enforcer ran a hand over his prominent chest to emphasize just what Jazz’s ‘treat’ might be if did a good job. Eagerly the musician buried his face between the Officer’s legs and got to work.

The valve he was presented with was still cool and dry, so first Jazz had to work to warm it up. He ran his glossa over the soft protoform lips, warm ventilations encouraging them to plump and swell and reveal the anterior node tucked up at the apex of the valve opening. As soon as the red, glowing electrode peeked out, Jazz gave it a nibble and earned himself a sharp gasp as the thighs on either side of his head trembled.

(No words followed the gasp, and Jazz worried that Prowl might have forgotten his lines. Perhaps trying to act while being eaten out was too much for the Praxian. But then, a hand forced him more firmly between his partner’s legs and that sharp, commanding voice spoke again)

“Deeper! Really get in there, you needy slut!” The Enforcer barked, holding Jazz’s helm in an iron grip. “You can use that mouth for something more useful than singing!”

Jazz did his best to obey, glossa finding the slit between swelling valve lips and delving inside. The calipers quickly opened up at the intrusion and lubricant started to slick up the channel, telling Jazz that he was making good progress. A long, shuddering moan from the Enforcer above him was an even better sign, so Jazz tipped his head back and ventured deeper. Two hands now held his helm in place, gripping the musician’s audial horns in a grip that was almost crushing.

“There’s a good busker.” The Enforcer was clearly struggling to keep his voice steady, vents now whirring loudly as his frame tried to dump heat. “Keep. Keep this up. And I might buy you.”

He couldn’t manage any more words, though, because as Jazz sucked hard on his anterior node the Officer overloaded with a gush of fluid from his valve. Electrical charge flowed with it, tingling across all the sensors in Jazz’s mouth deliciously. The musician’s own charge was nearing tipping point, but there was little he could do about it. With his T-cog non-functional, he couldn’t open up his own modesty plating, leaving his spike pressing against its cap uncomfortably and his valve drooling lubricant out through his seams.

Once the Enforcer’s legs were steady once more, he released his grip on the musician’s horns and stepped back to regard the mech still cuffed and on his knees. Jazz was aware there was lubricant starting to run down his thighs, though he kept his gaze on the Officer standing over him and hoped the mech would take pity on him.

“Did having your face shoved in my valve turn you on, slut?”

“Y-yes, sir!” Jazz answered quickly, hoping that if he stayed compliant he would get his promised reward.

. “Such a good boy,” A smirk pulled at the Enforcer’s lips. “I suppose you should get a treat then.”

With a loud click, the Officer’s bumper folded back to release his ample chest, breasts swinging and bouncing as they were freed. Jazz’s gaze was drawn to them, watching them sway under their own weight.

“Oh, you like these, don’t you?” The Enforcer chuckled and leaned forward over his prisoner, tits dangling overhead tantalizingly just out of reach. Jazz strained upwards, trying to get closer, but couldn’t do much with his arms still cuffed behind his back.

To Jazz’s disappointment, the cuffs remained on as the Officer hauled the musician back to his pedes and reached a hand down between Jazz’s legs. Smooth white fingers rubbed over his pelvic plating and dipped teasingly between his seams, making Jazz wish he could pressurize his spike, or open the cover over his valve, or anything other than just kneel there Trying to open up his panels only got him a warning zap from the stasis cuffs on his wrists, drawing a sharp whine from his vocalizer.

Finally, mercifully, that hand on his crotch found his manual release catch and slide it aside to reveal his array. Jazz gasped as cool air brushed against his overheated inner components, lubricant freely dripping from his valve now that the panel blocking it had been opened.

“Primus, you’re so wet.” The Enforcer tried to sound disgusted, but Jazz could tell just how turned on he was from the way his engine revved as a finger easily slid into the musician’s slick channel. “Did you enjoy servicing me that much?”

“Yes, yes. Oh, more, please!” Jazz would say anything if it meant his captor would continue.

“How am I to deny such a well-trained spike slut?” The Enforcer released his own modesty panel, allowing a sleek, black and white spike to pressurize. “Are you ready for your reward?”

“I’m ready. So ready, please, I need it.” Jazz stared up hungrily at the spike bobbing in front of him, with the gorgeous twin mounds of the Officer’s breasts above it and that stern, beautiful face staring down from atop it all.

With one, smooth motion, the Enforcer hauled Jazz to his pedes and stepped back to sit on a convenient ledge, bringing the musician down to straddle his lap. Jazz yelped as he was roughly forced down onto the Officer’s spike, feeling the hard component bury itself to the hilt in his wet heat. There was a sharp burn in Jazz’s valve as calipers were forced wider with no preparation, but, with his current state of arousal, it quickly subsided into a pleasant ache that throbbed in time with his sparkbeat.

The Enforcer’s hands stayed on Jazz’s hips just long enough to make sure the musician wasn’t about to slide back out of his lap, before moving up to the mech’s helm to pull him forwards into his cleavage. Jazz lost all sense of sight and of sound as his face was buried in between the enormous breasts, blocking out all sensation except for the soft press of warm protoform against his face and helm. When the Enforcer spoke, his voice rumbled through Jazz’s struts before the muffled sounds reached his audials. “Now, Dance.”

Jazz did his best to obey, rolling his hips and clenching his calipers as he attempted to give a lap dance despite his restraints. He couldn’t grasp anything for leverage with his wrists still cuffed, could barely rise up off the spike inside him with his knees spread so wide by the Enforcer’s thighs, but oh he tried. One of the Officer’s hands stayed on the back of his helm, keeping the musician’s face firmly pressed against his bosom, while the other went to Jazz’s aft to force him down harder and harder onto the spike inside him with every bounce of his frame.

With Jazz’s primary vents blocked, the auxiliary fans in his frame whirred to life as they did their best to dump the heat rapidly building, but there was no escaping the spike that thrust against his ceiling node every time Jazz was pulled back down. None of Jazz’s babbling words could be heard, muffled as he was by the boobs his face was trapped between, and if the Enforcer was saying anything, it couldn’t be heard over the roaring of his pursuit engine vibrating his entire frame.

Electrical charge crackled between the two bodies as both Enforcer and Civilian approached their overloads, Jazz tripping first with his back arched and arms straining against the stasis cuffs. That brought the Officer over as well, transfluid filling the valve he was buried in to gush out around his spike.

Jazz came back to himself a few kliks later, dizzily noticing that his hands were no longer bound and he could ventilate through his mouth once more. He carefully raised himself until the spike he had been enjoying slipped out of him and looked at the mech who’s lap he was seated in.

Prowl seemed to be just as thoroughly blown as he was, blue optics struggling to focus as he attempted to assist Jazz in moving to sit on the berth beside him.

“So. Was that- was I okay?” Prowl asked once he had regained enough coherency to speak.

“Mech, you were amazing.” Jazz promised, giving his lover a quick peck on the lips. “Everythin’ I’ve ever dreamed abou’.”

“You are an odd mech, to have dreamed about being taken advantage of sexually by an Enforcer.” Prowl had never quite understood the appeal of ‘bad cop’ fantasies, though he had to admit, the sight of Jazz cuffed at his pedes and overwhelmed with desire had been incredibly appealing.

“Not any Enforcer, my sexy Enforcer.” Jazz corrected, leaning in for another kiss. He was so incredibly thankful that Prowl had agreed to try this roleplay, even if Jazz had needed to prepare a script for him beforehand. “Do ya think this is somethin’ we could try again?”

“I think that can be arranged.” Prowl said with a small smile. “Although, we might need to find stronger cuffs.”

Jazz looked down at the floor where a twisted, scorched pair of stasis cuffs lay, ruined. “Whoops.”

Chapter Text

::Prowl, can you come down to Wheeljack’s lab?::

A slight frown tugging at his faceplates, Prowl sent an acknowledgement ping to the sudden comm from Ratchet and tidied up the analysis he had been doing on their most recent battle. As he left his office and headed for the labs, he couldn’t help but wonder just why he was being summoned. A quick check of the base comm channels confirmed that there hadn’t been any explosions or other chaos from the lab levels, so why did they need the Second in Command?

Arriving at Wheeljack’s lab, Prowl let himself in and looked around in surprise. Everything was utterly normal. A variety of experiments were scattered about, bubbling or humming or whirring away, but none were smoking or throwing off sparks or doing anything concerning.

“Ratchet, Wheeljack.” Prowl gave the two mechs standing in the lab a polite nod. Ratchet looked visibly annoyed, while Wheeljack appeared sheepish and contrite. Not entirely unusual with the two, though usually those expressions were accompanied by Wheeljack missing one or more of his limbs. “What do you need from me?”

“Well, someone here built a shrink ray.” Ratchet glared at Wheeljack, who ducked his helm. “But hasn’t come up with a way of reversing it.”

Prowl had a sudden sinking feeling, and wondered just what, exactly, the scientist had accidently managed to shrink. “What was hit?”

“Not what. Who.” Ratchet gestured at the table he stood next to.

“Hey, Prowler!”

The familiar voice took Prowl by surprise, and he looked down at the table in shock. Jazz’s voice had been oddly high in pitch and tinny, as though coming from very far away. Or, from someone very small.

“Jazz?” Prowl peered down at the tiny saboteur waving at him from atop the table. Jazz was now a scant three or four feet tall, roughly the height of a human youth, though he still had the same proportions he did as a full-sized mech. He had simply, as Ratchet had said, been shrunk.

“He’s perfectly fine, as far as I can tell.” Ratchet noted. “Just smaller.”

Smaller indeed. Jazz was almost toy-sized compared to the average Cybertronian. “How long do you estimate until Jazz’s condition can be reversed?”

“I’m already working on a solution!” Wheeljack said eagerly. “Fortunately, reversing the effects of the gun shouldn’t take nearly as long as building it in the first place. I hope to have something workable as early as tomorrow.”

Well, at least this hopefully wouldn’t last to long. Prowl nodded sharply. “Good, comm me when you have something. Until then, I shall keep an optic on Jazz.” Carefully, the Praxian scooped up his tiny boyfriend in one hand.

“Awww, Prowl.” Jazz pouted, “But think of all th’ things I could do this size!”

“I am. And that is why I will be keeping an optic on you until a solution is found.” Prowl dipped his wings respectfully to Ratchet and Wheeljack before taking his leave.

“So where we headed, Prowler?” Jazz gripped tightly to one of Prowl’s fingers as the Praxian walked through the halls, taking in his new perspective on the world with interest. Oh, the things he could get up to. The pranks he could pull!

“My office. I am not yet finished with my shift.”

“Yer office?” Sitting and watching Prowl read reports was really not how he wanted to spend his limited time at his current size. “Aww, come on, Prowl. Can’t ya take the afternoon off, have a lil’ fun?”

“I still have to finish analyzing the data from the last battle. We cannot afford to be caught unawares. Especially with our third-in-command out of commission.”

Jazz got the impression this was one argument he wasn’t going to win. Well, there went his plans to get back at the twins for the last little prank they had pulled on him. With a huff, Jazz let his gaze wander from the empty hallways to the big, beautiful bumper taking up the entire view behind him. Well. Maybe there was still a way he could have some fun.

Once they had reached Prowl’s office and were safely inside with the door shut, Jazz made his request. “Hey, Prowler. Would’ja open yer plating for me?”

Prowl looked down at him with a slight frown. “We are in my office.”

“Ain’t like we gonna be ‘facing or anything.” As much as Jazz liked the idea, Prowl had been very adamant that interfacial activity stay in their quarters. “Lock th’ door and you’ll have plenty ‘a time to close up before anybody comes in.”

His boyfriend thought about it for a moment longer before agreeably opening his chest armor. Jazz stared down at the deep valley of cleavage now revealed to him and grinned. Today, Prowl was wearing a black bra with delicate silver embroidery around the edges, the fabric pushing his breasts up and together in a very enticing way. The twin globes of protoform looked so soft, and comfortable. Before Prowl could react, Jazz took a running leap off his hand to land right between the Praxian’s bosoms.

“Jazz!” Prowl stared down in surprise at the tiny saboteur trying to wiggle upright in his cleavage.

“That was great!” Jazz finally managed to re-orient himself so that he was lounging on his back, buoyed up by the protoform under him.  “Primus, this is amazin.’ They’re so soft!” He pressed a hand into one breast and watched how it sunk in.

“Uh, yes.” Prowl wasn’t entirely certain what to do with the shrunken Polyhexian relaxing in his cleavage, craning his neck awkwardly to peer down at Jazz. “Are you done now? I need to get back to work.”

“Ain’t stoppin’ ya.” Jazz waved a hand in the air. “Go right ahead an’ work. I’ll just chill here. Then ya won’t even have to keep track o’ me or worry about me sneakin’ off.”

Jazz made a decent point. Prowl sighed. “Fine, but please do not distract me.”

As Prowl walked over to his desk, every step he took make his breasts jiggle and shake. Jazz found himself getting sucked down between the two full pouches. Unable to find purchase on the smooth protoform, there was little he could do to prevent getting drawn deeper and deeper. It was like being caught in that quicksand humans always had in their movies. Jazz giggled briefly at the thought that he was caught in an actual ‘booby trap’ before everything went dark.

Prowl sat down at his desk and looked down to see that Jazz had vanished. He could still feel his boyfriend’s slight weight between his pouches, but the only thing sticking out of his cleavage was a single servo. Then, even that disappeared. “Jazz?!”

::I’m fine!:: He received a ping on his comms a moment later. ::Jus’ a lil’ stuck. Real comfy in here, tho. You get to work!::

::If you are sure-:: Well, at least this way he wouldn’t get to worry about Jazz getting away from him. Prowl picked up one of the datapads he had set aside earlier and got back to work.

Meanwhile, Jazz wiggled about as he tried to make sense of his new location. Protoform pressed in on him from all sides, warm and soft and trapping him in place. All the settings on his visor were useless, for there was nothing to see, and the only thing his audials could pick up was the pulse of Prowl’s spark and the hum of his systems. It was surprisingly comforting, to have his boyfriend all around him like this.

Jazz was stuck with a sudden feeling of safety. Nothing could bother him here, cradled in Prowl’s bosom. The Praxian would notice anything amiss long before Jazz did. There was nothing for Jazz to do except relax.

And so he did. Slowly, Jazz slipped deeper and deeper into Prowl’s cleavage, every little movement the Praxian made jiggling his softer bits and shifting Jazz along with them. He let himself be moved, until he had fabric pressing against his back instead. He’d been shifted down until he was underneath one of Prowl’s breasts, the padded fabric of the mech’s bra supporting Jazz as the weight of tit pressed down from above. One of Prowl’s stiff nozzles loomed above him, and Jaz debated whether he felt like struggling upwards to mess with it when there was a noise from outside his fabric and protoform prison. Someone knocking on the office door.

The loud clicking of plating transforming was Jazz’s only warning before he was mashed firmly into the boob he was under. Now it was the hard, unyielding surface of Prowl’s chest armor pressing against his back, mooshing Jazz’s entire front into soft protoform. He couldn’t even twitch or vent from the pressure, and Jazz took a moment to feel sorry for Prowl’s boobs. Poor things were squashed like this all day long under the Praxian’s armor.

Mercifully, Jazz only had to endure the crush for a few moments before whoever Prowl had been talking to left and the Praxian re-opened his armor.

::Are you alright, Jazz?:: Prowl sent over comm, checking on his tiny passenger.

::Fine. Jus’ a lil’ flatter than I was.:: Jazz joked, shifting around to reassure himself that everything could still move.

::I apologize. It did not occur to me to warn you until after I had already closed my armor.::

::S’alright, Prowler. Yer tits make pretty good cushions.:: Jazz chuckled and managed to wiggle himself upwards until he could give one of the Praxian’s nozzles a prod. That got him a reproachful poke from one of Prowl’s fingers as he fished down into the cup of his bra for his tiny lover. Jazz could do little to escape as he was plucked back out of his cozy location and set back atop Prowl’s cleavage.

“Behave down there, I only have one more document to review.” Prowl instructed as he went back to work. Jazz pouted and flopped back down onto the breasts under him. Might as well take a nap while Prowl finished up.

To Jazz’s great disappointment, he was not allowed to ride in Prowl’s cleavage on the way back to their shared quarters. He instead had to sit in his boyfriend’s hands for the walk and think about all the things he wanted to do before he was returned to his normal size. Namely, the parts of Prowl’s body that he wanted to explore.

As Prowl sat down on the couch, he opened his chest armor and gave Jazz a wonderful view of his chest. If he thought the Praxian had big tits before, now they seemed absolutely enormous. Jazz’s tank gave him a ping and he licked his lips. This would be a challenge, but a fun one.

“Say, Prowler. I’m feelin’ a bit low. Mind if I get a drink?”

“Are you sure this will work?” Prowl questioned, even as he peeled back one of the panels on the front of his bra to reveal his nozzle. (a handy feature Jazz had made sure was included in all of his bras)

“Can’t hurt to try.” Jazz grinned as he was brought up to tit level, reaching out to encircle both hands around his boyfriend’s nozzle. His fingers barely touched around the soft silicone, and there was no way Jazz would be able to get his mouth to fit around it. Okay, plan B.

Opening his mouth as wide as he could, Jazz tightened his grip and squeezed. A jet of fuel shot out of Prowl’s nozzle and right into Jazz’s face. The energon flooded his mouth, making him sputter and release his grip. Pink liquid dripped down his frame as he coughed, aspirating little pink droplets out his vents.

“Jazz!” Prowl lifted up the sputtering mini-Polyhexian in concern. “Are you alright?”

“Yep. Fine.” Jazz coughed a few more times. “That didn’t work quite how I thought it would.” He licked some of the energon off his arms. “Tasty, though.”

“Allow me try something else.” Prowl lowered him back down until Jazz was juts below one of his breasts, then carefully pinched his own nozzle so that energon dribbled out, instead of forcefully squirting. Jazz stood under the flow and opened his mouth to gulp down the sweet fuel.

His shrunken size meant his fuel tank was equally small, so it only took few drips to have Jazz full up. With disappointment, he gave Prowl a thumbs up to indicate that the Praxian could stop.

Though his hunger was now sated, Jazz was still covered in energon. And it was getting sticky. Fortunately, Prowl had a solution for that as well. He set Jazz down on the low table in front of the couch and went to the washrack to get a rag and to fill a small cube with solvent. He sliced a corner off the rag to make something a little easier for Jazz to handle, then set both down so that the tiny saboteur could wipe himself off.

As he did so, Jazz couldn’t help but glance over and see what he was level with now. Prowl’s crotch plating. It was giving him all kinds of other naughty ideas.

“So, lover. How else do you propose we spend the evening?” Jazz questioned with a grin.

Prowl raised an optical ridge. He knew that tone, but couldn’t see how they would be able to make it work. “Do you have any ideas?”

“A few. Why don’t ya open up yer covers for me, and I’ll show you?” As Prowl did so, Jazz took a running leap off the table and managed to land on the couch between his lover’s legs. The Praxian’s revealed valve and spike loomed above him, and Jazz’s processor worked to figure out how he was going to do this.

Using his magnets, Jazz clambered up his lover’s pelvic plating to stand next to his erect spike. It was nearly the same height as the shrunken Polyhexian, and girthy enough that Jazz figured he would only barely be able to wrap his arms around it.

Still, it was worth a try. Jazz extended his own equipment, miniscule in comparison, and pressed his entire front against the hard spike in front of him. The same mods that allowed Jazz to magnetize his pedes and servos meant that he could manipulate electrical fields with them as well. Directing a charge to his fingertips, Jazz danced his hands along the glowing nodes that separated the colored plating of Prowl’s spike. That got him an encouraging hiss of air from the larger mech’s vents and a zap of electrical charge in return, energy flowing between the two frames. Jazz rocked his hips and rutted against the spike as large as his body, rubbing his entire body along the delicate interlocking plates. Lubricant began to seep from between the small plates, easing the friction between Jazz and the spike he was rubbing again and heightening the electrical charge dancing between the two.

As tiny as he currently was, Jazz could feel an overload approaching far too quickly. He couldn’t could hold the same level of charge as his much larger partner. But, he did have a variety of mods that allowed him to dump or ground out charge to hold off overload. Jazz redirected the energy building in his frame back into the electrodes of his hands and therefor into Prowl.

It certainly seemed to be working. Prowl’s spike was growing stiffer and thicker under Jazz’s ministrations, filling with transfluid in anticipation of overload.

“Come on, Prowler. Give it to me.” Jazz licked and nipped at the nodes closest to him, letting charge zap over the electro-sensitive receptors on his glossa. Prowl’s engine thundered behind him, vibrating the plating all around Jazz, and the Praxian’s roaring vents were trying in vain to dump the heat building in his body.

Prowl gasped as overload hit him, curling inwards as his hips rocked and transfluid spurted from his spike. He panted and slumped back as the overload trickled away, optics onlining to see Jazz stlll standing on his pelvic plating, coated helm to pede in transfluid.

Jazz sputtered and futilely attempted to wipe the thick, silver goop from his visor with an equally coated fore arm. His own overload had been almost nothing compared to the positive eruption that had been produced by Prowl.

“Jazz!” Gingerly, Prowl picked up the filthy saboteur and held him up to eye level. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“Don’ be sorry.” Jazz chuckled and licked at the transfluid dripping down his faceplates. “Kind of the inevitable result o’ that, after all. I think I could do to be cleaned up, though.”

“Oh, yes. Allow me to go get some more solvent-“

“Or,” Jazz stopped Prowl before he could be set down, “Ya could lick me clean.”

Prowl paused, looking at Jazz curiously. That could work. He offered the index finger of his other hand to his tiny boyfriend. “Here, hold on tightly. I do not wish to swallow you.”

“That’s an adventure I don’t feel like havin’.” Jazz joked as he activated his magnets and latched on tightly to Prowl’s finger. “Alright, ready.”

Prowl tipped his helm back and opened his mouth, raising his arm to dangle Jazz over his face. Gently, Jazz was lowered down until a warm, wet glossa wrapped around his lower body

Once again, Jazz found himself being enveloped by a part of Prowl’s frame. His glossa was warm and soft, like his boobs were, but also wet with oral lubricants and decorated with the tiny bumps of electro- and chemo-receptors for analyzing fuel. A glossa was also mobile, meaning it could wrap around him and suck at his limbs in an effort to get all the transfluid off. Prowl’s glossa came up between his legs and pressed against his open interfacing equipment, rubbing ruthlessly and making Jazz squirm helplessly. The rough texture of the glossa ran harshly over his exposed valve and anterior node until Jazz overloaded with a cry.

There was no escape, not with Prowl all around him. The warm heat from his primary vent wafted over Jazz’s frame as the enormous glossa continued to envelope his frame, searching out any other pockets of transfluid on his plating.

Finally, Prowl must have decided he was clean. Lips closed over Jazz’s wrists, hard denta just inches from Jazz’s helm as he was pulled so slowly through those lips until he was freed with a Pop. Venting heavily, Jazz was set back down on the table. He was clean of transfluid now, and instead was coated in a layer of oral lubricant that dripped off him slowly.

“Damn, Prowler.” Jazz laughed once his ventilations normalized. “You sure got a way with your mouth.”

That actually drew a chuckle from Prowl as he stood to fetch some more solvent. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Now stay still, you’re still filthy.”

With a clean rag and some fresh solvent, Prowl picked up his tiny Jazz and started wiping him clean. Jazz went limp and allowed himself to be manipulated, finding it surprisingly soothing to be cared for so totally. Part of it was the knowledge that there was little he could do to resist, he was, after all, barely a fraction of the size of Prowl. A fact that would’ve been terrifying had it been any other mech holding him in the palm of his hand.

“There, clean again.” Prowl set him back down on the table, wiped clean of all the fluid and lubricant that had coated him.

“Thank ya, Prowler.” Jazz looked up at his partner and was again struck by just how small he was. How Prowl loomed over him, towering and breathtakingly gorgeous. He could do whatever he wanted to Jazz, should he wish to, but he wouldn’t. Would never dream of doing anything Jazz did not ask for. “Guess I’ll just have to get filthy again.”

“Oh?” Prowl raised an optic ridge skeptically. “And how do you plan to do that?”

Jazz looked at him, once more at the level of the larger mech’s pelvic plating, and had a pretty good idea. “Would ya let me at yer valve?”

Prowl’s wings twitched in surprise. Though he had allowed Jazz’s mouth on his valve, he had not yet let anything else inside him. “And what will you do there?”

“Oh, I have a few ideas.” Most of which involved him getting completely enveloped by his lover once more. “Will ya trust me, Prowl?”

In response, Prowl allowed the cover to his valve to slide aside. With a grin, Jazz leapt to the couch and contemplated his new challenge.

He’d gotten up close and personal with Prowl’s valve before, of course, but never had the component seemed so intimidating. The earlier overload had warmed up his valve and opened it up, revealing his glowing anterior node and the wet, glistening entrance to his frame. At his current size, Jazz could just wrap his lips around Prowl’s node and give it a suck, earning him a sharp gasp and a twitch of the thighs that were like white walls on either side of him.

Licking at Prowl’s anterior node fondly, relishing in all the little noises it wrung from the vocalizer of the mech towering above him, Jazz let his hands run down the plump lips of the valve at his front. He loved finding those hidden parts of a hard mech that were soft and yielding, kneading the valve lips with his hands until they grew hot and slick with arousal.

Pulling away from Prowl’s anterior node, Jazz contemplated the dripping opening before him and closed all of his vents. Time to explore where he had never gone before.

At his current size, Jazz about as long as the average spike, and not nearly as girthy. He slipped into Prowl’s valve easily, The inside was pitch black, of course, so Jazz worked entirely by feel as he wiggled himself further inside. All around him were smooth walls of warm, soft protoform, behind which were firm rings of calipers that alternately clenched down and released on his frame as he tried to shuffle himself deeper. Where the calipers pressed in, the protoform was decorated in ridges of electro-receptors and sensitive nodes, each sparking and flexing as Jazz brushed past him.

Jazz managed to get himself inside until just his lower legs stuck out, but couldn’t find the purchase on the slick walls of Prowl’s valve to push himself any further. That wouldn’t do. He would need a little assistance. ::Hey, Prowler. Give a mech a push?::

Prowl’s voice came back over the comm, a little uncertain. ::Are you sure? I do not want you to get stuck.::

::Naah, ain’t gonna get stuck, Prowler. Yer valve ain’t that deep.:: Jazz reassured. ::Th’ calipers will push me back out, don’ worry.::

::If you are sure-::

Jazz felt something touch his pedes, before he was suddenly stuffed all the way into the valve until his face was shoved into the ceiling node at the top. Ah, perfect. The ceiling node, actually a ring of sensors that surrounded the valve separating channel from gestation chamber that gave the entire array its name, was the most sensitive place on a mech’s frame. Fitting that it was buried so deeply.

Prowl had apparently kept his fingers buried in his valve, because Jazz was jammed almost uncomfortably up against the top of the channel. That was alright, he could work like this.

Activating his external sound system, Jazz chose the most bass-heavy song he had and cranked up the sound until his entire frame vibrated with it. The calipers around him clenched and released repeatedly, flexing with pleasure, and Jazz once again diverted charge to his hands and pedes to stimulate the nodes he was surrounded by. It was almost intoxicating, having this power to play with Prowl’s most intimate, sensitive parts. Places that no other mech would ever go. Prowl had said that his only previous partner had enjoyed spiking his valve, but a mech who just knew how to ram a rod into an orifice didn’t know the art of interface. Jazz would spoil his partner in ways he never dreamed of.

More and more lubricant seeped from the seams in the mesh all around him, making Jazz glad he’d shut all his vents. Soft, but unyielding mesh clamped down tightly all around his frame, holding him in place pressed against the ceiling node as charge grew towards overload.

Jazz let his own circuits trip as Prowl’s did, frame stiffening as best it could as he shuddered through his overload. It meant that, by the time he noticed the valve his back was pressed against open, it was too late to do anything and he had already been drawn through.

Heated air rushed from all of Prowl’s vents with a woosh as he came down from his second overload, helm thrown back in pleasure. After a few moments, his processor managed to boot back up to its proper speed and Prowl noticed something was wrong. Frowning, he dug his fingers into his valve, but couldn’t feel anything inside. Couldn’t feel Jazz.  

::Jazz?:: He commed in concern, ::Are you alright?::

::Yep, fine. Jus’ got a lil’ problem.:: Jazz sounded sheepish, even over comm. ::I might’a gone through yer gestational valve.::

::What?!:: Prowl checked his frame alerts on his HUD and sure enough, there was a small, flashing warning about a foreign intrusion in his gestation chamber. ::But, I have a baffle! My valve should not have opened.:: That was one of the way contraceptive codings worked, by preventing the valve from opening, and thus admitting transfluid into the gestation chamber, at overload.

::Must have an error or somethin.’ You’ll hafta bring it up to Ratchet when we a. Get this sorted out.::

Prowl grimaced. If there was one thing Ratchet hated more than stupidity-caused injuries, it was interfacing mishaps. They were never going to hear the end of this one.

No time like the present to face the inevitable. Prowl gently shut his valve cover and gave his thighs a quick wipe to clean up any fluids or stains, before getting up to head for the medbay.

::Prowl- to- Ratchet.:: Prowl did his best not to let his voice waver as he commed for Ratchet.

::Ah, Prowl. Good. I was just about to comm you. Bring Jazz by the lab, Wheeljack thinks he’s got the shrink ray figured out.::

::Actually, could we meet you at the medbay? There is a slight.  . .problem.::

There was a long pause from Ratchet’s end of the line. ::What kind of problem::

::I’ll explain when we get there.:: Prowl closed the line and steeled himself as he turned towards medbay. Ratchet could smell fear.

Inside Prowl, Jazz was curled up in a little ball inside the tight space of his gestation chamber. Since the Praxian was not carrying, the component was compacted into its usual, dormant size. It wasn’t nearly as comfy as some of the other places on (or in) Prowl’s frame he’d been that day, but it wasn’t all bad. Jazz wrapped his arms around his knees and relaxed into the feeling of Prowl all around him. All the humming, rumbling sounds his systems made as he moved, backed by the thrum of his sparkpulse and the gentle rocking of his gait as he walked. If not for the knowledge that he had gotten his aft stuck inside Prowl’s frame, Jazz thought he could almost recharge like this.

Prowl, too, couldn’t help but focus on how close he felt to Jazz. He couldn’t actually feel his shrunken partner inside him, Jazz’s frame was just too small and light, but he could feel the saboteur’s EM field enveloped in his, as close as it was possible to get. He liked knowing Jazz was close, having their fields tangled and meshed until one couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended. But, he would’ve been just as satisfied if Jazz had decided to curl up in his bra for the rest of the day instead of getting more.  .. creative.

Ratchet looked distinctly unimpressed as he opened the door to the medbay and beckoned Prowl inside. “Alright, where’s the miniature pest? What did he do this time?”

“Well, Jazz was using his new size to explore my array, and, well-“ Despite his even voice, Prowl felt his faceplates heating up as he rested a hand over his lower abdomen, just above his pelvic girdle.

Ratchet’s optics followed his hand, expression growing more thunderous as he realized just what Prowl was saying. “No. You didn’t- Jazz I would expect something like this from, but you? Prowl? You’re supposed to be the smart one.”

Prowl cringed. “Jazz seemed very sure he couldn’t get stuck.”

“There’s a reason valve toys are supposed to have flared bases!” Ratchet gestured Prowl onto one of the medberths with a jerk of his arm. “Foreign intrusions to a gestation chamber are a pain in the aft to remove.”

“I have a baffle; I didn’t think it would be an issue.” Prowl explained as he got up onto the berth and reclined back, settling his pedes into the stirrups mounted to the end. He had a sinking feeling he knew what would need to happen.

“You, of all mechs, should be able to quote the statistics on baffle malfunction.” Ratchet grumbled as he plugged himself into Prowl’s medical port and had a look at his systems. “Yep, yours is out of date.”

It was true. Baffle failure rates were low, but not zero, and the chance of failure rose if the coding was allowed to expire. “You can get him out, right?”

“Sure, I can get Jazz out. But you aren’t going to like it.” Ratchet warned. “Gestational valves are a type of check valve, they only allow things to pass one way. And by that I mean fluids, not shrunken idiots. The only time the valve opens fully to let objects pass in the other direction is during emergence.”

Prowl was afraid that would be the case. He sighed. “Go ahead, then.”

Ratchet found the line of coding that controlled emergence and manually activated it, watching for a moment to make sure it was running correctly. “Alright. It’ll take a few minutes for you to dilate enough for him to fit. Fortunately, Jazz is a lot smaller than a sparkling, so it won’t take hours like usual. Tell that idiot to stay put and not try to force his way out. Let your frame push him out. If he tries to leave on his own, you’re going to be in a lot of pain.”

It was already deeply unpleasant. Prowl’s attention was drawn to a deepening ache in his pelvic girdle even as he relayed Ratchet’s instructions to Jazz. His internals were shifting, re-arranging themselves to shorten his valve channel and shift his gestation chamber lower. The fact that his chamber was not full of fluids to dampen the sensation meant that Prowl felt every single shunt of a part into an unfamiliar place. Ratchet watched with a smirk on his face, seeming to enjoy the Praxian’s discomfort.

After about five minutes of watching Prowl’s hands flex and clench against the berth, Ratchet fetched a valve scanner and told him to open up. Prowl fixated his optics on the ceiling as the scanning wand was inserted and Ratchet checked the results.

“Alright, looks like you’re open enough. I’m going to kick you into the second phase of emergence. Get ready.” Ratchet tripped another part of his coding and Prowl let out a shocked grunt as his entire midsection clenched.

Another tight contraction, and Prowl could feel a small object sliding through his gestational valve and into his channel. Happily, with Jazz being far tinier than a full-term sparkling, he slid out after only one good push and Prowl’s emergence protocols shut off.

“Well, then.” Ratchet put his hands on his hips and glared down at lubricant-coated miniature Polyhexian sitting between Prowl’s thighs. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Hey, Ratch.” Jazz attempted to find his pedes, but was too slick from the lubricant all over his frame and just slipped in the growing puddle underneath him. “You know me, always like an adventure. Give a mech a hand cleanin’ up?”

Ratchet threw a rag onto him that completed smothered him before stomping off with a grumble to fetch Wheeljack and his un-shrinking gun.

Fortunately, Wheeljack’s invention worked as promised, and soon Jazz was seated on the medberth full-sized and only a little lube-stained. Ratchet pressed a couple of safe-interfacing handouts into their servos as he shoved the pair of his medbay, with a reminder to Prowl that he’d better keep anything and everything out of his valve until things had had the chance to fully close back up.

“So.” Jazz said cheerfully as they walked back to their quarters. “Think I can get Wheeljack to make a lil’ personal version of that shrink gun? For fun?”

Prowl just fixed him with an unamused look.

Chapter Text

The battle had been long and hard. Autobots limped back to the Ark, exhausted but (barely) victorious. Medbay was already bustling, taking care of the worst of the wounded while those who could walk were sent to quarters to be treated later. Prowl, with deep dents in his wings and a slowly leaking gash up one arm, coordinated it all with the same calm steadiness that he had directed the battle. It was a state of emotionless order that could not last.

Jazz stood by, waiting for the after-battle cleanup to be done and for Prowl to finish reporting to Optimus. He had some scorched plating from blaster fire, but it was nothing his self-repair couldn’t take care of. All of Jazz’s attention was on Prowl, taking in the tactician’s stiff frame and the quick, repetitive twitching of his wings. In another Praxian, such frame language would indicate agitation, but in Prowl, it meant that he was still in battle mode. The small, fast movement of his wings was because they were gathering as much data as possible, reading every minute detail of the world around him. Such sensitivity was a great boon in a fight, but detrimental to Prowl in day to day life.

As Jazz waited for Prowl to finish up his administrative tasks, he grooved quietly to the music playing over his internal speakers. Every mech had their own way of cooling down after a fight, and for Jazz, it was a special “post-fight” playlist, featuring songs of high energy that gradually slowed, helping him come back down from that post-battle high. Nobody needed a twitchy saboteur still itching to kill wandering around base, they needed calm, friendly Jazz to reassure them everything was good again.

And they also needed a Second-in-Command who was conscious, which is why Jazz was there the second Prowl saluted Prime and turned to head back to his quarters. Prowl was capable of processing an amount of input that would overwhelm any ordinary mech, both from his own sensors and from the systems of soldiers on the battlefield, but it came at a cost.

Running his battle computer at full power suppressed every other system in Prowl’s processor, particularly his emotional subroutines. It was necessary during a fight, but not sustainable. His emotions and other processes would try to reactivate, whether or not his tactical computer was still at full power. If it was, his entire processor would crash and reboot to find equilibrium.

Or, as Jazz had discovered, you could bring him down slowly by blocking out the input his tactical computer needed to operate. In the time he’d been dating Prowl, Jazz had come up with a few different ways of doing that.

Entering their quarters, Jazz watched as Prowl stood in the center of the room, optics too-bright and wings twitching as he took in the familiar space. Jazz’s sensitive audials picked up a subtle sub-sonic buzz coming from Prowl, the Praxian using the sound wave echoes on his wings to map out the room. There was nothing new to process, though, everything was exactly the same as it was when Prowl had left his hab.

“Hey, Prowl.” Jazz stepped forward once Prowl had finished scanning and mapping the room. “Th’ fight’s over. Ya want help cyclin’ down?”

“Jazz,” Prowl’s optics flashed as he nodded, clearly struggling to process his personal desires through the overwhelming hum of his tactical systems. His voice was a flat monotone. “Yes. I need to cycle down.”

“Okay, that’s good.” Jazz went to fetch his small kit of sensory deprivation toys. “Ya remember yer word?”

“Quartz.” Prowl responded automatically. A word that he could use if he was about to crash or had another problem, when using a full sentence was too much for his processor.

“Good, good. Here we go. First, yer optics.” Jazz lifted up a padded blindfold, designed to block out every wavelength of light that a mech could see in, and gently slipped it over Prowl’s helm.

Now blinded, the Praxian’s wings twitched harder, working to replace his optics. Subsonic waves rippled through the room again, but nothing had changed.

“S’alright. It’s jus’ you and me.” Jazz soothed, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. He knew Prowl could still ‘see’ him by tracking the airflow in the hab. That would have to be taken care of next. “You trust me, yeah Prowl?”

“Yes.” Prowl got out after a moment of thought. “Yes, I trust you.”

Jazz held up a pair of padded sleeves, the perfect size to slip over a Praxian’s wings and designed to block every form of input they could receive. Carefully, Jazz worked the cover over one wing, then the other. This was the trickiest part of the cool-down process. Now completely blinded, Prowl might panic or lash out. A tactician he might be, he was also a formidable fighter. Jazz, of course, was better, but he didn’t wish to harm his lover, or to be harmed by him.

“Jazz?” Prowl’s voice had taken on some emotion now. It was small, and a little scared. It was disconcerting to hear from a mech normally so formidable, but Jazz knew it was a necessary part of the process.

“I’m still here. Still right here.” Jazz soothed, running his hands down Prowl’s frame. “I got ya, Prowl.”

There was a soft whine from Prowl’s frame as his powerful tactical processor began to cycle down. It no longer had enough input flowing in to keep running at full power. But Jazz knew he would still be trying to find escape, still running hundreds of plans to determine what to do next. Jazz would simply have to remove all those options.

Taking out a pair of cuffs, soft and padded but unbreakable, Jazz tugged Prowl’s arms behind his back and locked his wrists together. The Praxian did not resist, a good sign that he wasn’t as keyed up as usual. Prowl tugged at the cuffs, and Jazz could almost see the moment his tactical unit decided they couldn’t be picked or broken.

“Yer doin’ real good, babe. So good.” Jazz kept up a soft murmur of praise, letting Prowl know that he was still right there even if he could no longer see. Next, Jazz removed a long coil of steel cable, treated with a rubber covering so that it would not abrade or rub uncomfortably.

Gently, Jazz pushed down on Prowl’s shoulders until the Praxian sank to his knees, wobbling a little as he struggled to keep his balance with his arms cuffed and wings muffled. Jazz made sure to support him until he was steady, then began the artful process of trussing Prowl up in ropes and knots. He’d gotten the idea from a human book. Humans had so many incredible ideas for making intimacy more interesting, and Jazz was an eager student.

Jazz ran the cables over and around Prowl’s frame, lashing thighs to shins, wrists to aft, shoulders to wings, until the only thing left that the Praxian could move was his helm.

At first, Prowl wiggled in his bonds, testing them for weak points that wouldn’t be found. His fans sped up as his processor searched for a solution, but there wasn’t one. Didn’t need to be one, because he was safe.

“I’m right here, Prowl. Right with ya.” Jazz ran his hands down Prowl’s arms and over his waist, tracing the lines of the knots he had tied. After another moment of struggle, Prowl went limp in his bonds and his fans began to cycle down.

“There we go.” Jazz cradled Prowl’s helm, pleased to feel the heat that accompanied him running at full power was starting to dissipate. “Ya here with me?”

Prowl hummed, still working to find the words that accompanied emotions and feelings. “The battle?”

“Won. Ya did an amazing job.” Jazz promised, smoothing his thumbs over the soft protoform beneath Prowl’s optics. “Time ta come back to me.”

Prowl’s wings slumped as far as they could, and his frame relaxed until he was in danger of toppling over. Jazz quickly wrapped his arms around him, stroking gentle hands up and down his backstrut. Slowly, Prowl sank into the blackness of not having see, not having to move, not having to think. His optics burned as cleanser bubbled up, reacting to the tide of emotion starting to take over his processes now that terabytes of tactical data no longer flowed. Jazz just as quickly wiped them away, continuing to hold Prowl as he worked to re-order his processor and find stability.

Jazz settled into humming and petting, providing just enough audial and tactile stimulation that Prowl wouldn’t be lost completely. He apparently had bad memories of complete deprivation, of spark containment, in his days being tested on in the med-centers of Praxus when the Enforcers had been desperate to try and ‘cure’ him of his glitch. The glitch that was the only reason he could even operate the tactical systems that had guttered all others, overwhelmed and burned out by the system’s incredible demands.

Time had no more meaning as Jazz hummed and rocked back and forth slightly, holding Prowl against him until the Praxian let out a long, contented sigh.

“How ya doing, Prowl?”

“I am well.” Prowl’s voice was back to normal, no longer fearful, but also not an emotionless monotone. “Thank you, Jazz.”

“Any time.” As much as Prowl needed to be carefully brought down after battle, Jazz found his peace in caring for another mech, instead of killing them. It re-centered the both of them, playing their own, private roles.

Jazz removed the bonds just as carefully as he had applied them, letting Prowl regain his movement, his sight, and his wings slowly so as not to be overwhelmed. Finally, the two stood and moved to the berth, still in eachothers arms, enjoying the peace, and the quiet, that could be so hard to come by in war.

Chapter Text

Ratchet was surprised to receive a comm request for a non-urgent appointment from Prowl, but simply scheduled the Praxian to be seen after his duty shift without comment and made sure his usual private room was empty.

As Prowl walked into the medbay, Ratchet was satisfied to see that he wasn’t walking unusually stiffly or awkwardly. He still walked like he had a rod up his aft, of course, but that was nothing unusual for him.

“Prowl.” Ratchet gave him a nod of acknowledgement. “Your usual?”

“Yes, please.” Prowl flicked his wings and followed the medic into the private exam room.

“Been awhile since I’ve seen you.” Ratchet commented as he set up the pumping equipment. “What brought you back?”

“Jazz has been taking care of my issue lately.” Prowl explained as he sat on the berth. “However, he is away on a mission for another two weeks and I am feeling rather. Full.”

“I see.” Honestly, Ratchet was rather glad that Prowl had found another way to take care of his health. The Praxian certainly seemed to be doing better both mentally and physically since he and Jazz had gotten more serious.

Bringing over the pump, Ratchet motioned for Prowl to open his chestplates. When he did, the medic raised his optical ridges in surprise. “Are you wearing a bra?”

“Ah, yes.” Prowl’s wings twitched in embarrassment as he reached behind himself to unclasp the garment. “Jazz buys them for me. I appreciate the extra support, and it keeps things from. Chafing behind my armor during the day.”

“I see.” The white lace looked a little out of place on the serious Praxian, but Ratchet didn’t feel the need to say anything more to his easily embarrassed patient. It did make his “issue” more obvious, though. Ratchet was pretty sure that protoform wasn’t supposed to bulge out around the fabric cups of the bra like his breasts were trying to escape their confinement.

Prowl removed the fabric and set it aside, sitting calmly as Ratchet pressed silicone cups over his nozzles and switched on the pump. Unlike every other time they had done this, now Prowl actually watched in interest as energon began to flow down the tubing of the pump instead of staring at the wall or a datapad. He was also much more relaxed overall. Clearly, Jazz had been good for him.

It was another surprise when Prowl switched off the pump himself and removed the suction cups before his pouches were completely empty.

“You’re okay stopping here?” Ratchet checked to make sure even as he collected his equipment. Never before had Prowl left without getting every last drop drained out of him.

“Yes, this is fine. I will be okay now until Jazz return from his mission.” Prowl carefully put his bra back on, pouches now resting comfortably in the fabric instead of struggling against it.

“Alright. But come back if you get full again before he returns.” Ratchet knew if he didn’t remind Prowl, the Praxian would put his own health off until problems became impossible to ignore.

“Yes, Ratchet.” Prowl responded in a practiced tone as he closed his armor back up and headed for the exit. “Thank you.”

“Now get out of here. And get some recharge!” Rachet yelled after Prowl as he left. The parting rebuke was so gentle it was almost an endearment from the medic. He couldn’t be too angry after seeing such a genuine improvement in someone who was once one of his most troublesome patients.

                Prowl felt a wave of relief when he received a ping from Jazz that he had arrived back at the Ark. Per protocol, the saboteur would first check in with medbay for a processor scan to make sure nothing nasty was lurking in his head, before making a full report to Prime and Prowl.

                As Jazz stood in the Prime’s office and gave his report, Prowl watched him carefully. His mission had gone well, and the saboteur had not been physically injured, but time spent in enemy territory wore on any mech. And indeed, Jazz’s frame language was far stiffer than it normally was, his movements quick and clipped as opposed to the more languid, easy-going motions he usually favored. Jazz was exceptionally good at masking, but Prowl knew him far too well not to notice how on-edge the mech was.

                Once the debrief was complete, Prowl walked with Jazz back to their quarters, staying silent until the door was securely shut and locked behind them with Jazz’s own specially-encrypted lock. Finally, air whooshed from Jazz’s vents and his shoulders slumped. Prowl stepped forward to gently take his hands. “What do you need?”

                “Hold me?” Jazz requested, uncharacteristically soft and unsure.

                “Of course.” Prowl wrapped his arms around Jazz and pulled the other mech close. Cautiously, Prowl extended his EM field, feeling Jazz relax even further. Where most found Prowl’s unnaturally flat field off-putting, to Jazz it just reminded him he was home. He had explained it once, that the feel of the Praxian’s field was something the ‘Cons would never be able to replicate, not even if they replaced Prowl with a copy or had inserted Jazz into an elaborate virtual reality program.

                For this reason, Prowl also opened his chest plating and allowed Jazz to snuggle his face into his bosom. The Praxian’s unique condition was so secret, it was only something they two (well, and Ratchet) knew about. Another reassurance that Jazz was hugging the real Prowl, and not some artificial construct designed to strip his processor of all data.

                Prowl sent a comm to the small music player in their room, turning it on to a specific playlist. Jazz loved to create music playlists for a variety of situations and reasons, but this one was special, put together just for when he needed comfort after an undercover mission. One more thing to remind him that he was home, in the real Ark with the real Prowl.

                Slowly, the pair made their way over to the berth and laid down, Jazz curling into Prowl’s front and tucking his face as deep into his cleavage as he could. Prowl gently stroked a hand up and down Jazz’s back and just held him. The Praxian was no good at comforting words, but that was okay, because he knew that Jazz didn’t trust words. They were too often lies in his line of work. But there were things that Jazz did trust, and Prowl as more than happy to offer them.

Chapter Text

“So, I’ve been wondering.” Jazz was in one of his favorite positions, flat on his back with Prowl rutting into him, those big tits swinging in front of his face. “How big can these get?” He reached up and palmed the breasts above him, squishing them a little in his hands.

“Large enough my chest plates will no longer close.” Prowl responded absently, hips never losing their rhythm. “I have never tried to find a maximum.”

Well didn’t that just give Jazz all kinds of ideas? At least, until Prowl started to pick up speed and Jazz found himself unable to think about much of anything.

It was another few days before Jazz brought the topic up again. He was helping Prowl out of his bra in the evening when he paused to stare at his boyfriend’s naked breasts thoughtfully. “Would ja let me try a lil’ experiment some time?”

“What kind of experiment?” Prowl calmly folded up his bra and set it in the drawer where he kept his collection of lingerie. He had gotten so used to Jazz staring at his boobs it didn’t bother him anymore.

“A kinky one.” Jazz pressed himself up between Prowl’s wings and reached around to cup his boobs in his hands. “I wanna see how big these can get. Would’ja let me try that?”

Prowl thought about it, unconsciously relaxing back into his boyfriend’s hold. So far, every suggestion Jazz made had turned out quite enjoyable for them both. He saw no reason to deny the mech now. “As long as nothing is changed permanently.”

“I promise. I’ll even check with Ratch’ first.” The medic would probably roast him for asking, but Jazz wanted to be certain that everything they did was safe. He had already learned his lesson about attempting something unfamiliar without getting medical advice first.

As he expected, Jazz left the medbay with his audials tingling after his “conversation” with Ratchet, but his plan had been given the green light. Now, all he had to do was gather the toys he would need.

Prowl left his office on time, stopping by the Mess to collect an energon ration as Jazz had requested. Apparently, for what he had planned, Prowl needed a full fuel tank. He knew what that meant, of course, and Prowl still wasn’t entirely sure whether to be excited or nervous.

Sipping at his energon, Prowl walked back to his quarters and entered. Jazz was already there, and things had been set up for a sexy evening. The lights were dim, one of his sexy time playlists was playing softly, and Jazz had an array of items spread out on the berth. There was a set of standard cuffs, specially reinforced to prevent accidental breaking, a length of delicate golden chain with large clamps on the end, a collar, and an enormous platter of energon treats.

“Evenin’, Prowler.” Jazz purred with a flirtatious grin. “Ready to have some fun?”

“I am ready for whatever you have planned.” Prowl sat down on the berth and opened his plating, exposing himself to whatever his boyfriend had in mind. He hadn’t been drained in several days, at Jazz’s request, and even his largest bra was straining to contain him. A sigh of relief escaped his vents as his chest was freed from the constriction of his armor. “I am grateful you are ready tonight, by tomorrow I don’t think my armor would close anymore.”

Jazz let out strangled groan just at the thought, and his optics were immediately drawn to Prowl’s chest. His gaze was clear because Jazz had retracted his visor, revealing his pale silver optics and rewarding Prowl’s vulnerability with some of his own.

Watching his boyfriend’s face with some satisfaction, Prowl deliberately squished his boobs together as he reached up to release the shoulder straps of his bra. Jazz let out a little whine as the Praxian’s tits sprang free of their fabric restraints, protoform pushed taut and round from the pressure of the fuel contained inside.

Jazz vented deeply to center himself as Prowl finished removing his bra, not wanting to end the party before it could start. As tasty as Prowl looked now, things could get much, much better.

Picking up the collar, Jazz carefully buckled it around Prowl’s neck. It was a type called a ‘posture collar’, made to force Prowl to hold his chin high, and featured a large, golden ring on the front for hooking things to. “That alright?”

“Yes,” Prowl regarded his partner with cool, blue optics. “I will use my word if I become uncomfortable or am in pain, you need not worry.”

“Good, good.” Jazz nodded. He never wanted Prowl to try and force himself beyond his limits in some misguided attempt to please his partner. Especially important here. Ratchet had said that fuel pouches didn’t technically have a ‘maximum,’ there was simply a point where the fullness went from uncomfortable to painful. Jazz wanted to see how big Prowl’s could get, but he didn’t want to accidently go that far.

Prowl agreeably brought his wrists forward so that they could be buckled together in front of him, crossing his legs to get a little more comfortable for what Jazz had planned. Jazz had promised him that he would be back to normal by shift start the next day, as long as he held to that, Prowl was fine with almost anything else.

A pair of heavy, golden clamps were fixed over Prowl’s nozzles, the sharp pinch fading quickly to a dull ache. They would make sure that nothing leaked out of the Praxian’s tits until Jazz let it. Several chains dangled from the clamps. One fixed the two nozzle clamps together, the other two ran from the clamps up to the ring on Prowl’s collar. That would keep his boobs nice and perky no matter how heavy they got.

Jazz sat back and took a moment to admire his boyfriend, all nicely tied and chained up before him and waiting to do whatever he wished. “Primus, yer so gorgeous. Alright, time for some treats for my Pretty Prowler.”

Opening his mouth, Prowl let out a pleased hum as Jazz set the first sweet on his glossa. It had taken some time and experimentation, but Jazz had managed to decently recreate a variety of energon treats from before the war. Jellied energon was filled or dusted with a variety of minerals, from mica flakes to bismuth swirls to iron oxide glazings. For a little earthen twist, Jazz had shaped them into a mimicry of human ‘doughnuts,’ inspired by the stereotype that they were a favorite food of police officers, though these were small enough to be eaten in a bite or two. Prowl cycled his optics and dipped his wings at the sight, obviously aware of where Jazz had gotten his inspiration, but said nothing as he bit into another and felt sweet liquid mercury splash across his chemoreceptors.

“Y’ like that one?” Jazz grinned as Prowl let out a pleased hum and his wings gave a little wiggle at the taste of the mercury-filled donut. “Here, got another for ya.”

He pressed another one into Prowl’s mouth, letting his fingers linger on the Praxian’s lips. A bit of Mercury dribbled out of the donut and down Prowl’s chin, and Jazz gently ran his thumb over the silver drops.

“You spoil me,” Prowl said softly as his glossa flicked out to lick up any lingering traces of energon and mercury on his lips. He had always had a secret craving for sweet treats, but they had been hard to come by for a Cold-Constructed Enforcer, and even harder to come by since the war had begun.

“An’ you deserve every second of it.” Jazz replied sincerely. “Here, try one o’ the iron ones.”

Prowl ate another, letting the taste and tingle of energon linger on his glossa for a moment. He had topped off his fuel tank at the end of shift, so his frame was busily converting everything for secondary storage in his pouches. Every bite he took was having a visible effect as his breasts slowly swelled larger and larger. Being so full was warm and satisfying, even if the pressure behind his nozzles was a smidge uncomfortable. But he didn’t have to worry about being found out, or about leaking through his chest plates, and his bosoms weren’t being compressed between heavy plating. Letting them swing freely, with no one to see but Jazz, well, Prowl thought he could take plenty more.

Jazz continued to push donuts into Prowl’s mouth, taking in every little pleased twitch of his lips and wiggle of his wings. The Praxian’s optics were dim and unfocused, his processor clearly cycling down as he slowly shut down any threads not required for his only current task: consuming the treats being pressed to his lips. As much as Jazz loved seeing his tits grow, he liked to see Prowl in this relaxed, floating state just as much. The mech spent far too much time wound up tight trying to keep their entire rag-tag army alive.

“Look at ya, yer doing so well.” Jazz praised, giving Prowl another treat before shifting to massage his breasts. They looked achingly full, straining against the delicate golden chains that were holding them up. Silver protoform was growing thinner as it stretched, letting through the faint glow of the energon contained inside. Prowl’s boobs were nearly the size of his helm, now, and half of the plate of treats had been demolished. “D’ya want more sweets?”

Prowl moaned softly as his chest was massaged, opening his mouth to accept another donut. The treat paused before actually making it into his mouth, though, and the Praxian frowned.

“Come on, Prowl. Use yer words.” Jazz teased gently.

“Yes. More.” Prowl managed to get the words out past the fuzzy warmth that seemed to have filled his processor. His pouches were full, beyond anything he had let them reach before, but Prowl knew they could take more. Not for forever, but just for tonight, it would be fine. “I want to keep going.”

“Well then, yer wish is my command.” Jazz said with a grin, reaching for another donut.

Satisfied, Prowl let himself sink back into that warm, fuzzy place where nothing really mattered except the tingle of energon and splash of filling on his glossa, earning him more praise and adoration from the mech in front of him. Every time he moved, the chain on his nozzles tugged and caused a sharp prinprick of sensation on his neural net, which was answered by a throb from his array. At some point, the covers to his spike and valve had opened, lubricant drooling uselessly onto the berth. Prowl wasn’t entirely sure if the feeling of growing pressure inside his frame was arousal or the still-swelling weight of his pouches. Maybe it was both.

Prowl wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he swallowed a mouthful of energon treat, licking his lips to get any stray flakes of iron oxide, and opened his mouth for another that didn’t come. Frowning, Prowl onlined his optics (when had they offlined?) to see that the plate was empty. He’d eaten every donut.

Looking down at himself, Prowl was amazed at how enormous his chest had grown. Each tit was easily bigger than his helm, round and full with the weight of all the fuel inside. They glowed softly in the dark room as well, the protoform stretched thin enough for the pink cast of charged energon to show through. Prowl shifted, biting his lip as his pouches tugged at the chains clamped to his nozzles.

“Y’ did such a good job, Prowler.” Jazz crooned, massaging his servos over the sore, swollen breasts before him. “Ate ever’ single treat, I’m so proud of you.”

The Praxian let out a soft whine in response, arching his back to press his chest further into Jazz’s gentle hands.

“I’m impressed how much fuel you can hold.” Jazz commented, continuing to knead his boyfriend’s boobs. The mesh was so taut, his fingers could barely sink into them. “Lookit this, could fuel an entire regiment for cycles.”

He slipped a servo down into the tight space between the two breasts, which felt almost forge-hot from the scorching heat coming off the paneling over Prowl’s spark. Jazz rubbed his fingers over the seam in the center of Prowl’s chest, directing a little spark to his fingertips to directly stimulate the charged spark underneath. The Praxian’s engine roared in response, all of his vents flaring in a sharp gasp as he overloaded.

Jazz gently cradled Prowl as he slumped forward, frame going limp as he rebooted from his overload. The Praxian came to faster than usual, groaning into Jazz’s plating as his bosom pressed into the other mech’s bumper. Usually, there was a glow that came after overload, circuits pleasantly drained and empty. Instead, Prowl just felt as full and heavy as he had before.

“Ain’t done yet, Prowler.” Jazz said with a chuckle, wiggling the hand that was still trapped between his lover’s enormous breasts. “’Cause I can think of somethin’ much better than mah fingers to put between these two lovelies.”

Carefully, Jazz guided Prowl down to lay on his back, arranging a couple of pillows to support his wings and helm. His tits strained against the chains holding them together when gravity was trying to force them apart, and Prowl bit his lip as he tried to look up over the twin mounds blocking his vision. The collar clamped tightly around his neck prevented him from lowering his chin that far, forcing him to stare up at the dark ceiling of their quarters. He felt so hot and swollen, it was a shock when cool artificial lubricant was drizzled over his chest.

“Sorry ‘bout that.” Jazz commented, not looking contrite at all as he rubbed his hands through the lube to make sure it got all the way down into his cleavage. “Gotta make sure everything is nice an’ slippery, though.”

Once Jazz was satisfied everything was sufficiently slicked up, he pressurized his spike and moved to straddle Prowl’s chest. The Praxian’s arms, still cuffed at the wrist, were forced against his frame as Jazz set his knees on either side of Prowl’s elbows, careful to not accidently kneel on the bottom mech’s wings.

“Frelling pit, Prowler.” Jazz moaned deeply as he slid his spike between his boyfriend’s tits. The channel was hot and wet, protoform pressing in at him from all sides. It was very little like a valve, where rippling calipers would squeeze at him, instead there was just a steady pressure from every angle.

Jazz thrust into Prowl’s bosom, watching the way the movement rippled through the swollen protoform hugging his spike. With every roll of his hips, the chains clamped to Prowl’s nozzles went slack before snapping taut once more, earning him a little gasp every time. Overload approached far too soon, and though Jazz had half a processor to dump charge and hold it off, he had promised Prowl he wouldn’t leave him in this state all night.

Transfluid spurted out both the top and bottom of Prowl’s cleavage before Jazz gently eased himself out. Silver fluid now decorated his upper chestplate and his abdominal plating, not to mention his tits.

“Aww, lookit that. Yer a mess.” Jazz undid the chain that was holding the Praxian’s breasts together, letting the heavy pouches fall to either side to better show off the silver splattered across his plating. “Guess I’d better clean ya up.”

Prowl could do little more than whine and dig his ankles into the berth padding as Jazz licked at his chest, stimulating his already very full pouches even further. The pressure was so intense, he could barely think of anything except the burning desire to be emptied. The rough glossa rubbing a his over-taxed protoform wasn’t helping in the slightest.

“Jazz. Please.” Prowl begged, bound wrists tugging insistently at the aft seated firmly on top of him. “I need- I need-“

“Someone feeling a lil’ full?” Jazz let his thumb brush over a tightly clamped nozzle, relishing the high whine he got in response. “Al’right, alright. Guess I’ll take mercy on ya.”

He positioned his mouth over one nozzle and eased the clamp off with his denta before quickly sealing his lips in place. The jet of energon hitting the back of his intake was almost instant, forcing Jazz to swallow quickly so that it didn’t spurt out of his mouth. Prowl stiffed underneath him, back arching as his frame crackled through a second overload, the glorious feeling of release too much for his charged frame.

Once the pressure in one pouch had been eased, Jazz repeated the process on the second, Prowl panting through a third, exhausting overload.

“Ya alright?” Jazz asked once Prowl seemed somewhat coherent again. He removed the mech’s collar and helped him to sit up.

“Yes, fine.” Prowl felt limp and spent, leaning back against the wall to support him. He looked down at himself and pursed his lips. “I am still rather large.” He wasn’t certain he’d be able to close his chest armor in the morning.

“Don’ worry, Prowler. My tank is full, but I got a backup.” Jazz produced a familiar pump and pair of tubes. “Nicked this offa Ratchet just in case I couldn’t handle the job solo.”

“Is he aware you have it?” Prowl allowed his boyfriend to press the cups over his nozzles and activate the pump. Bright pink energon began to flow through the clear tubing and into the tank almost immediately, making Prowl sigh. While being drained was always a relief now, after multiple overloads, the sensation threatened to send him straight to recharge.

“Don’ worry, I’ll have it back before he notices it’d gone.” Jazz promised.

“What will you do with the energon?”

“I have some ideas.”

His ‘ideas’ involved making himself a variety of energon snacks out of the harvested fuel, which led to Jazz’s new favorite activity. Namely, eating his “special snacks” in the rec room and refusing to share, visor searching out Prowl knowingly while the Praxian went stiff and marched out before anyone could spot his blush.

Chapter Text

Prowl had never been worked so hard, not even in the darkest moments of the war. This might count as such, if he was honest. Because, without any alarms or sign of intrusion, Optimus Prime had vanished. The science team had detected some kind of lingering radiation, but couldn’t say where it had come from, what it meant, or where their Prime had gone.

At first, everyone had blamed the Decepticons. Until Spec Ops had been dispatched to the Nemesis and discovered that Megatron had vanished as well. The resulting anarchy amongst Decepticon command led to scattered, uncoordinated attacks; which weren’t difficult to repel but took time away from trying to find their Prime.

Now elevated to Head Commander of the Autobot Army, Prowl rarely left his office as he tried to manage everything. And then, all hell broke loose when he vanished too.

Jazz held his helm in his servos as he sat at his rarely used desk. What remained of command was in Chaos, trying to figure out how they would manage without their Prime or their Chief Tactical Officer. And Jazz was trying to figure out how he would manage without his partner.

Everything was falling apart, when finally the science department made an announcement. The lingering radiation they sensed had a unique energy signature: one that could be tracked. Jazz would have to plan out this rescue mission very carefully. He would need cunning and skill, of course, but might also need a whole lot of fearless brawn. And, just his luck, the Wreckers had arrived on Earth only a few weeks earlier.

Jazz activated his comm: “Springer, could ya come to my office?”

Prowl was standing in a well-lit office on Cybertron. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed a breathtaking view of Iacon restored. Towers gleamed in the bright sunlight, and a few flightframes flew by in the air traffic lanes, their frames lightweight and narrow without mounted weaponry or heavy war-time armor.

“You did well, Prowl.” Optimus Prime stood in front of him, tall and proud with gleaming, polished plating. “The war has ended and the people are happy, all thanks to your advice and strategies.”

“I was simply doing my duty, Sir.” Prowl dipped his wings in embarrassment at the praise, unused to being thanked so heartily. He felt lighter, more free. No longer did he wear the heavy-weight armor of wartime, and no longer did he have to make the decision of whether to sacrifice the lives of few to save many.

“I only wish I had listened to you sooner.” Optimus smiled, “Now then, home with you. I know you’ve got a loving Conjunx waiting.”

Prowl saluted before turning and heading out of the office. Outside the tower, the streets were full of happy, smiling mecha. He transformed and joined traffic, his Enforcer pursuit-alt allowing him to smoothly cut through the afternoon rush on the street to return to his residential building. His hab was on the top floor, with large windows and lots of natural light. The most beautiful sight, though, was seeing Jazz standing in the door with a mechling in his arms.

The mechling giggled and reached out stubby arms eagerly. Prowl smiled as he swept his creation up into his arms. “Did someone miss his sire?”

“He’s not the only one who missed you.” Jazz leaned in to give Prowl a kiss on the lips. “We did too.” He fondly ran a hand down to his abdominal plating, which was pressed out round and heavy with their second child.

“I shall have to do something about that.” Prowl smiled against his Conjunx’s mouth, a hand joining his to feel their offspring kick. In his arms, their first creation cooed at the loving actions of his creators-

“Nyeh heh heh, how sweet.”

Prowl jerked at the oddly familiar voice that seemed to come from all around. The Jazz and the sparkling in his arms faded away like smoke, followed by the habsuite around him, until all that was left was darkness.

“W-what?” Prowl’s optics onlined, and he struggled against the bonds that suddenly had him trapped in place. He could barely move a micro-meter, trussed up helm to pede in some sort of strong, sticky white rope.

“A Positive Reinforcement Prison. Your idea, I think. A program that shows whatever the mech desires most.” There was a shift above him, and Prowl struggled to see who was speaking. “Of course, Enforcer Command thought it was too kind.”

“Mesothulas?”

“No, not anymore.” A hulking shape descended into Prowl’s view, a terrifying mechanical imitation of an earthen spider but hundreds of times in size. “I’ve made myself better, improved and perfected myself. I’m called Tarantulas now.”

“What do you want?” Prowl was still reeling, both from being abruptly yanked from his fantasy and from the sudden appearance of his old torturer.

“I want you. I want us.” Tarantulas purred, mandibles clicking as he leaned himself down intimately close. “Nothing ever inspired me like you and your brilliant processor. Come back to me.”

That was the absolute last thing Prowl wanted to do, but he needed to keep his captor talking until he could figure out a strategy for escape. “And what would we be doing? There is still a war on.”

“Not anymore.” Tarantulas gave his irritating little laugh again. “Without their figureheads, your factions will dissolve into petty bickering and sparkling fights. You’re too good for that. Neither faction deserves you.”

“You kidnapped Prime and Megatron.” Prowl realized with some shock.

“I couldn’t let them come between us.” One of Tarantulas’ furry legs, tipped with a little pad and two small claws, gently stroked his captive’s face. “You will be my muse once more, and I will create what most Cybertronians could never imagine.”

“Another ‘Perfect Cybertronian’?” Prowl guessed.

“Ostaros, my greatest creation.” Tarantulas’ eight glittering optics focused on Prowl sharply. “What did happen to our child? My lovely boy.”

“I forged documents for him and had an exo-frame built. He enlisted in the war, indistinguishable from any other mech.” Prowl spun lies mixed with truth without hesitation. “He died early on in the war.”

“NO.” Tarantulas slammed his front legs down on either side of Prowl, making the web vibrate. “He can’t be dead! Not my Ostaros!”

“He is.” Prowl worked to summon up a sympathy he did not feel. “I’m sorry, Tarantulas.”

“Ostaros.” Tarantulas whined the name, almost like a sob, before recovering. “My first creation is gone, but we will make more. Won’t we, Prowl? The problem with Ostaros was that you didn’t love him like I did. You didn’t get to know him like I did, when I was constructing his frame. You’ll be much more intimate with our next batch. You’ll love them, like I do.”

Prowl didn’t like the sound of that at all. “What are you-“

“Shhh, just relax.” Tarantulas pressed one paw over Prowl’s mouth, muffling his protests, while his other legs sliced through the webbing over the Praxian’s lower body. Before Prowl could even think to try and kick or escape, his ankles had been spread wide and webbed back down into place. As a furry paw rubbed at the cover to his array, Prowl had a horrible idea of what Tarantulas had in mind.

Struggling harder did nothing, however. The sticky webbing held Prowl tight, along with the many legs trapping him. Then a cable found its way into a dataport, and Prowl lost control of his frame altogether.

There was nothing Prowl could do except scream inside his processor as he watched coding being altered and rewritten. His valve cover clicked open without his consent, and lubricant spilled out. He was heating up and becoming aroused against his will, touches that should hurt registering only pleasure instead.

Tarantulas’ bulbous abdomen lowered down; a long, thick appendage extended from between his spinnerets. It was girthier than any spike, but somehow, still managed to spear Prowl to the hilt. Electricity sparked across his vision as Prowl overloaded, entire body shaking from the force. And it didn’t stop.

There was an intense pressure on his gestational valve, forcing its way through the narrow aperture and into the gestation chamber beyond. His valve opened at the intrusion, wider and wider as fluid began to flood in. This was no spurt of transfluid from a lover, though. This kept going and going, until Prowl’s abdomen began to round out from the pressure.

Then, something else pressed at the entrance to his gestation chamber. Something far larger and more solid. Prowl’s vision whited out as the heat inside him only increased, molten hot as the first object passed through his valve and another came close behind.

Prowl had no idea how much time had passed before finally, mercifully, Tarantulas drew back from his valve and left his Praxian prey weak and limp.

“You look so beautiful, carrying our children.” Tarantulas reverently stroked Prowl’s belly, which stuck out round and firm; further than even his bumper. “Now, they just need your spark.”

The webbing around his chest was sliced through next, but Prowl still had no control over his frame. There was nothing he could do as his chest plating clicked open, revealing not only his breasts, but the cover over his spark chamber.

"I see your little Polyhexian toy has been enjoying my gift.” Tarantulas snickered as he ran a claw over the lace edging of Prowl’s bra. “He’ll never be able to satisfy you. You need someone to stimulate your mind, not just your frame.”

Prowl wanted to scream that Jazz was more than capable of satisfying him. All of him. The protest echoed around his processor, unable to make it to his vocalizer. The slimy tendrils of Tarantulas’ mind inside his own prodded at a certain command prompt, making the plating over his spark chamber part and transform aside. Prowl’s sparklight reflected off Tarantulas’ beady optics as the spider lowered himself down-

“GET ‘CHER PAWS OFFA HIM!”

A dark shape dropped from above, plating painted matte stealth-black. The only colored part of Jazz was his visor, burning bright blue in rage as he sliced through the cables connecting Prowl to Tarantulas before kicking the spider away.

Several more mecha jumped down from somewhere unseen to dogpile onto Tarantulas, while Jazz turned to his lover to cut him free.

“Jazz.” Prowl finally had control over his frame again, but still couldn’t seem to move as the saboteur carefully freed him. “You- what?”

“Scientists managed to track ya down, babe. Don’ worry, I brought a lil’ Wrecker backup.”

“Wreckers?” Indeed, over Jazz’s shoulder, Prowl could just see Tarantulas grappling with Springer and the others. There was a certain irony to it. Suddenly, Prowl realized that Jazz probably had no idea just who they were fighting. “Wait, that’s Mesothulas!”

“What? That-“ Jazz glanced between the spider and his lover, taking in the dramatic alterations that had been done to Prowl’s frame. “Primus, I’m sorry, babe. He got you again, did this to you-“

“Don’t apologize, make sure he doesn’t escape!” The last thing they needed was the mad scientist at large once more.

“Right! But first-“ Jazz tugged Prowl from the web and lept down to the floor of the half-cave, half-lab they were in. The Praxian wobbled before his back found a wall and he slid down to sit, too unbalanced by the additional mass added to his frame to stay on his pedes. Jazz pulled a blanket from subspace and used it to cover up Prowl’s front before he ran to join the fray.

As tough as the Wreckers were, Tarantulas was no easy target. Not with his many limbs, both in alt and in root mod, his agile reflexes, and his ability to mass-shift from minuscule to massive size in the cycle of an optic. Wreckers went flying with dented, sparking plating and limbs ripped from their frame, until only Springer was left in the fight. But the green triple-changer was pinned, sharp claws nanometeres from his optics.

Jazz looked for an opening, but couldn’t see any obvious weak spots on Tarantulas’ frame. A weakness wasn’t always physical, though.

“Hey! You really gonna kill yer precious Ostaros?!” Jazz hollered.

The spider immediately froze, optical band glowing brightly as he stared down at the mech under him. A mech with such familiar faceplates and optics- “Ostaros?”

That was all the opening Jazz needed. He slapped an inhibitor claw onto Tarantulas, followed by an electrical shock strong enough to knock the spider into stasis.

“The pit was that about?” Springer stared at the unconscious Tarantulas as he regained his pedes. “Who’s Ostaros?”

“Tell ya later.” It would have to be up to Prowl to figure out what to tell Springer. For now, they needed to get both criminal and captive back to the Ark. Not to mention the injured Wreckers picking themselves up off the ground.

“There will be a full debrief soon.” Prowl had managed to get himself back to his pedes, a heavy waddle obvious in his gait even through the blanket he still had draped about himself. “But first, we need to find out what he’s done to Prime.”

“A job for my team.” Jazz wrapped a supportive arm under Prowl’s wings. “Come on, lets get ya to Ratchet and see what that creep did to ya.”

Prowl shuddered and turned away, wings low as he leaned into Jazz's embrace. At least this time, he had support. 

Chapter Text

Prowl sat on the berth in his usual private medbay room, reclined back with his legs spread slightly to make room for his heavy belly to rest in his lap. Ratchet had taken several scans of his abdomen, and come to a conclusion.

“Eggs?” Jazz looked between the medic and his boyfriend incredulously. “What kinda eggs we talkin’ about here?”

“As far as I can tell, there’s a basic frame covered in sentio metallico around a photonic crystal, with a flexible shell.” Ratchet looked through the scan results. “There’s five of them. It looks like there’s also pre-programmed nanites inside, presumably to shape the frame once a spark is lit.”

“They aren’t alive, though, right?” Prowl confirmed. He wanted to make absolutely certain.

“No, there’s no spark present.” Ratchet reassured him.

“I want them out, as quickly as possible.”

“I’m afraid the easiest way to get them out will be the same way they went in.” Ratchet gently pressed on Prowl’s belly, feeling the shape of the eggs inside. “Feels like they’re adhered to your gestation chamber, I’ll see about putting together some lubricant to unstick them and help them out. Until then, best to let your emergence protocols run their full course.”

Prowl grimaced. He was afraid that would be the medic’s answer. Still, he allowed Ratchet to access his medical port and trigger the relevant process. There was a distinct shift deep in his pelvic girdle, but unlike the last time he had gone through this process, the beginning of emergence caused only pleasure to cascade across his neural net.

“That monster rewired your pain circuits for pleasure.” Ratchet explained at Prowl’s surprised gasp. “I thought I’d be nice and wait to fix it until after you’re done.”

Jazz immediately moved in to hold Prowl’s hand as Ratchet left the room, “Hey, Prowler. How do y’ want me? What should I do?”

Prowl rolled his head back and scraped his wings against the berth, trying to find some kind of stimulation. Every time a part inside him shifted for the coming emergence, a bolt of electricity shot up his backstrut and straight to his spark. It wasn’t quite enough to get him to overload, though, leaving him frustratingly charged up. Prowl attempted to reach for his valve, wanting to rub his node or put his fingers inside, or something, but his sheer girth made getting his servo anywhere near his array impossible. “Touch me? Please?”

Jazz sent a quick comm off to Ratchet, who reassured him that an overload or two would do Prowl no harm (and in fact, probably be helpful.) And then sent a follow up to “get to it already.”

“Alright, Prowler. I got ya.” Jazz ran his free hand up the Praxian’s thigh and had barely brushed his anterior node when Prowl overloaded into his hand.

Panting, Prowl gazed up at Jazz with hazy optics. “Jazz. I love you.”

“Love you too, Prowler.” Jazz was a little surprised to hear the statement from his lover, not because he didn’t think Prowl meant it, but because the Praxian wasn’t the sort to make such emotional admissions.

“No, I love you.” Prowl said again, more firmly. He clutched the hand holding his possessively. “Tarantulas said. He said that you don’t satisfy me, but you do. You see every part of me and you appreciate all of it. You satisfy all of me.”

For once, it was Jazz who was caught speechless. He bent down to press his forehelm to Prowl’s chevron, retracting his visor to look straight into his lover’s optics. “An’ I love every part o’ you.”

Prowl tilted his head to give Jazz a kiss, though he ended up moaning into his lover’s mouth as components inside his frame clenched and shifted. The sheer weight of the eggs and fluid inside him had him pinned to the berth, unable to arch his back or rock his hips like he so desperately wanted.

“Alright, babe, alright.” Jazz took pity on his lover and inserted a few fingers back into his hot, wet valve. The calipers inside flexed, clamping down one moment and opening the next as they worked to widen the canal for the impending emergence. Prowl whined and squirmed on the berth, unable to keep still through the overwhelming pleasure that kept rippling through his frame. He couldn’t quite manage to reach Jazz, with the weight of the eggs and fluid in his gestation chamber pinning him to the berth, so Prowl’s hands found his way to his swollen belly instead.

Jazz stared even as he worked four fingers into his lover’s valve, wondering if his whole hand would be able to slip inside next. Prowl was flushed and needy, his normally pale white faceplate flushed pink and his optics blown wide. Energon leaked steadily from his swollen tits, though Prowl seemed too distracted to notice, and the great, round curve of his belly loomed over him. Jazz had a sudden vision, imagining what it would be like to have Prowl under him like this, but with their sparkling filling his gestation chamber instead of a wacko’s science experiment. Having kids wasn’t something they had discussed yet, but Jazz found he suddenly wanted to see that more than anything.

“I had a dream, while I was in that web.” Prowl’s voice was faint and a little slurred, almost like he was over-energized or drugged, though Ratchet had confirmed there was nothing in his systems. “You were there. We had a sparkling, an’ you were carrying again.”

Clearly, Prowl’s processor was thinking along the same line as Jazz’s. “That sounds real nice. You’d wanna have kids wit’ me?”

“Yes.” Prowl breathed out. “Yes, more than anything.”

“Then we’ll have to do that. Though,” Jazz hesitated. “Ya should know, I can’ carry.”

“You can’t?” Prowl stared up at Jazz with fuzzy optics, hips still rocking against the berth as he tried to frag himself on his partner’s fingers almost mindlessly.

“Nah, ya remember that time Megatron ripped me in half?”

Prowl did, faintly. It had been some time ago, before the war had left Cybertron and before Prowl and Jazz had started seeing eachother. Everyone thought Jazz was done for, but Ratchet had managed to work a miracle and pieced the saboteur’s two halves back together.

“Gestation system took a hit, and Ratch didn’t have the parts.”

“Oh.” Yes, that made sense. Gestation systems were complex and delicate, and nigh impossible to replace. “Then I will carry.”

“Ya’d do that?” Jazz was a little surprised, after all Tarantulas had done to him.

“Yes. If I was like this because of you,” Prowl ran a hand over the curve of his belly. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Well then. How ‘bout we pretend. Jus’ for tonight?” Jazz carefully worked himself deeper into Prowl’s valve, until his whole hand was engulfed by the Praxian’s flexing calipers. “You, swollen and heavy wit’ my sparklin’s. Would ya like that?”

“Yes. Oh, yes!” Prowl’s pedes shifted against the berth as his valve was fisted wider and wider. He had never given much thought to carrying, but to think of it now? To have a part of Jazz inside him? To feel the sparklings grow, and start to move. Their fledgling EM fields brushing against his? The eggs inside Prowl shifted as his internals flexed and the Praxian overloaded with a crackle of sparks.

Jazz pulled his servo from his partner’s valve as fluid gushed out in larger quantities than he’d ever seen. It clearly wasn’t lubricant or electro-conductive fluid. Jazz took a quick snapshot and pinged it to Ratchet.

The medic entered a klik later, calm mask in place as he looked over the panting, messy Praxian lying on the berth. “Alright, Prowl. Your seal has opened, those eggs will be coming out soon. But we’re going to need to add some more lubricant to loosen things up. Whatever this fluid is, it’s adhering them to your insides.”

Ratchet handed Jazz the largest syringe he’d ever seen, full with clear, goopy liquid.

“I think you can figure out what to do with that.” Ratchet commented. “Ping me if anything seems to be going wrong. Tearing, bleeding, or something gets stuck. But this should go pretty smoothly.” He pinged Jazz a folder with additional instructions before leaving again.

Oh, Jazz could figure out what to do with it, indeed. He held up the syringe of lube, “Ya ready for this, Prowler?”

Prowl gave a faint moan. The relief of pressure that came with his seal opening had been so nice, he wasn’t particularly looking forward to getting stuffed again. But, he also wanted to get this over with. There was only so much his systems could take. Even with his pain sensors turned off, Prowl was having trouble handling how much input his processor was trying to deal with.

“Alright, here we go.” Jazz slid the syringe into Prowl’s valve and slowly depressed the plunger. The Praxian squirmed and panted as his belly grew firm again under his hands, swelling until his fingers could barely press into his protoform.

Jazz left the syringe stuffed in his partner like the planet’s biggest valve plug to make sure the fluid didn’t leak back out before it could do its job. Then, following the second part of Ratchet’s instructions, he moved both hands to Prowl’s middle to massage the taut protoform and try to work the eggs loose.

The firm shape of the eggs rolled under Jazz’s hands as they came free, and he allowed himself to fantasize for a moment that the movement was the kicking of a sparkling instead.

Prowl’s engine was roaring and his vents were steaming as the wonderful feeling of the massage on his swollen midsection mixed with the rhythmic clench and push of his internals. Something was building, like an oncoming overload only so much more, and Prowl wasn’t sure if his processor would be able to handle it.

Curling forward as best he could around the bulk of his middle, everything in Prowl’s frame suddenly squeezed. The syringe in his valve was forced out as his calipers clenched down, only for the solid stretch to be replaced by something else even larger. The first egg was pressing against his ceiling node, forcing his gestational valve to stretch around its mass.

“Come on, babe. Here it comes.” Jazz’s massage changed angles to help encourage eggs to move down towards the exit. He could feel Prowl’s frame flex under his servos with another contraction, a whine leaving the Praxian’s vocalizer as the smooth surface of the egg slid slowly past every sensor inside his valve.

The first egg fell to the berth with a thud and a flood of lubricant, wringing yet another overload out of Prowl’s systems. There was barely a pause before the second egg moved into position, giving Prowl no time to rest or gather strength. It was just waves of pleasure overwhelming every circuit, until Prowl was lost in the sensations. His world narrowed to the stretch of his valve around the eggs and the feel of Jazz’s servos massaging at his midsection.

Finally, the last egg passed and Prowl was left limp and exhausted on the medberth. He twitched on occasion as his internals shifted back to their default configuration, but had no energy to do anything more. Jazz collected the eggs and put them aside for Ratchet to take care of, then gently cleaned the fluids from his lover with some rags and solvent.

Ratchet entered after Jazz sent him a ping and went to check over Prowl. Aside from low energy levels, the Praxian seemed fine, so Ratchet set him up with an energon drip and manually slipped him into recharge.

“He’s going to need to rest for a few days, to get his strength back up and let his gestation systems recover.” Ratchet told Jazz. “I want to keep him overnight, then I’ll fix his coding and you can take him back to his hab.”

“Thanks, Doc.” Jazz took one last look at Prowl, recharging peacefully on the berth, before heading for the door. “Look after him for me, would ja? I got a prisoner ta interrogate.”

Chapter Text

Prowl winced as he gingerly sat down in the chair behind his desk. His pain receptors had been re-activated and now everything ached from his chest down. Particularly his valve, which gave a harsh throb as he sank back into his, normally rather comfortable, office chair. Ratchet had only just released him from the medbay, with orders to go back to his quarters and rest, but there was something Prowl had to do first.

Sure enough, the door to his office chimed not a minute later. Prowl sent a command for the door to open. “Come in, Springer.”

The large, green Wrecker strode into the room, looking Prowl up and down critically. Those piercing blue optics, exactly like Prowl’s own, searched for any sign of weakness. Prowl straightened his back and raised his wings, making sure there would be none to find.

“Prowl.” Springer greeted gruffly, crossing his arms over his impressive chest. “You’re looking. Better.”

Understatement of the vorn. Anything was better than how he had been a few hours ago, caught in a giant web with his frame grossly inflated. “Yes. Ratchet does good work.” Prowl flicked a wing dismissively, indicating he would speak no more on that subject. “Please, sit.” He gestured to the visitor chair across from him.

“I think I’ll stand.” Springer didn’t budge.

“Very well.” Prowl refused to be intimidated by the much larger triple-changer. It wasn’t too hard, for every time he looked at Springer’s optics, he instead saw the scared little mechling fresh out of his test tube. “I understand you have some questions about what happened today.”

“You’re slaggin’ right I do!” Springer uncrossed his arms and shifted in agitation. “What was that thing that kidnapped you? And why was it calling me ‘Ostaros’? Who the frag is Ostaros?”

It was a line of questioning that Prowl had hoped would never come up. But now that it had, he owed Springer an answer. “That is a .  .. complicated answer. You may not like what I am going to say.”

“I usually don’t.”

Prowl sighed. “Fine. It is a story that begins before the war. I was a freshly constructed Enforcer who had just transferred to Iacon-“

“What does this have to do with anything?” Springer interrupted impatiently.

“Please. I will tell this as briefly as I can.” Prowl waited a moment for another interruption, but when none came, he began again. “I had just transferred to Iacon and, as you might imagine, made myself rather unpopular. So, I was assigned as liaison to the Iaconi Enforcer’s pet scientist. He has since greatly altered his frame and started calling himself ‘Tarantulas’, but when I knew him, he was Mesothulas, a brilliant, but also rather over-zealous inventor. A close optic had to be kept on him, lest he forget what little ethics he had.

“Mesothulas was .  . .fascinated with me, you might say, from the first moment we met. Obsessed might be a better word. He had a secret project he was working on, outside of the contract work for the Enforcers. He wanted to create what he considered ‘the perfect lifeform’, better than a Cold Construct or a sparkling produced from kindling.

“I went for a routine visit when I was knocked unconscious and awoke later strapped to a table.” Prowl struggled to keep his voice detached and clinical. He would not go into the details he had given Jazz, though. Not even if Springer asked. “Mesothulas.  . . used me. Harvested spark energy and sentio metallico from my frame to bring online his creation: a mechling he called Ostaros.

“Mesothulas was arrested almost immediately afterwards, but something had to be done with the mechling. I didn’t feel as though I could raise him myself, so I gave him to the mech who had trained me to raise.” Prowl raised his gaze to Springer’s identical optics. “Kup raised you very well, better than I could have hoped.”

“You- what are you saying?” Springer’s confident stance had faded, now he just looked terribly confused and lost. “I’m some kind of mad-mech’s experiment? A- a thing grown in a lab, from bits of you? I don’t remember anything like that!”

“No, I imagine you wouldn’t. Sparks don’t encode memories into long-term storage very well for the first few days of life.” A fact Prowl had been grateful for, it had made forging Springer’s documents so much easier. “I am sorry, I did not intend for you to find out like this.”

“I’m sure you didn’t intend on me finding out at all!” Springer spat, large hands clenching at his sides as he started to pace restlessly. “So what am I, really? Just some artificial thing, grown in a lab?”

“As far as I have been able to tell, you are a Cybertronian, like any other. That no one has every suspected differently is proof enough. Not even Ratchet has noticed anything.”

“No, but Jazz has, is that right? He was the one that knew I was Ostaros.” Springer had been going over the fight again and again in his processor.

“I told him.” Prowl admitted, “Mesothulas made some permanent changes to my frame, and Jazz wished to know the cause.”

Springer looked over him again, obviously wondering just what sort of ‘permanent changes’ Prowl meant, before deciding he didn’t care. “So you told Jazz you had a- what am I to you, anyway? Am I supposed to call you ‘Creator’ now, and we can be some happy family with Sire the eight-legged freak, Carrier the emotionless calculator, and their bastard creation?”

Prowl winced at being referred to as an ‘emotionless calculator,’ but he had been called worse in his career. By Springer, even. “I don’t expect anything from you, now that you know. If you want to try having a closer relationship, I am sure we can work something out. If you never want to see me again, well, I will respect that too. Whatever you want.”

“Whatever I-“ Springer growled, engine rumbling with his emotional distress. He continued his pacing, fists clenched at his sides, and Prowl wondered if he would throw a punch. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time one of their conversations had ended with Prowl on the ground with a dented cheek.

Springer didn’t lash out with his fists, though. He just finally gave an explosive sigh before turning back to regard Prowl. “I need some time to think. Maybe talk to Kup, he’s more of a creator to me than you, or that thing in the brig, will ever be. Don’t contact me, I’ll find you if I ever want to see you again. I haven’t decided yet.”

With that Springer spun on his heel and stalked out of Prowl’s office. Once he was gone, Prowl let out a heavy vent and slumped in his chair.

“Guessin’ he didn’ take the news well, huh?” Silent as a shadow, Jazz slipped into Prowl’s office and palmed the door shut behind him.

“No.” Prowl confirmed. “Though he did take it better than I had predicted. I am undented, and all my furniture is intact.”

“Well, that’s somethin’ at least.” Jazz came around behind Prowl to rub his hands over his partner’s wing hinges. “You must be sore as pit. Come on, I’ll take ya back to our quarters.”

With a groan, Prowl pushed himself to his pedes and shakily stepped out from behind his desk. His legs didn’t seem to want to support him. “Yes, I think it would be good to lay down. How are things going in the brig?”

Jazz frowned even as he slipped under one of Prowl’s wings to help support the wobbly Praxian. “Not great.”

“Tarantulas isn’t talking?”

“Oh, he talkin’ alright. Can’t shut him up.” Jazz’s scowl deepened. “Says he trapped Prime n’ Megs in some kinda pocket torture dimension. Percy n’ Jack are tryin’ ta decipher the notes in his lab right now.”

Prowl nodded with a thoughtful hum. “Yes, I believe I remember him inventing such a thing. Enforcer command shot it down, decided that placing criminals into a dimension of eternal pain was unethical. Why are you so frustrated, isn’t it good that the prisoner is talking?”

“Well, yeah, I guess. But-“ Jazz grumbled, voice lowering. “I wanted ta torture him a lil’. Get him back for what he did ta ya.”

“Oh.” Prowl stared at Jazz with some surprise, before his harsh glare softened and he leaned in to give his partner a brief kiss. “Thank you for wanting to avenge me, my Jazz. But torturing him won’t undo all that he has done. It is enough for me that he stay in the brig, secure and captive, for the rest of his days. You rescued me this time, before he could do anything permanent. I am forever grateful.”

Jazz flushed and ducked his helm. “I promised I’d keep ya safe. An’ there ain’t no way he’s getting’ out. We’ve got every security measure Red’s invented, and then some. No transformin’, no mass shiftin’, hell he can’t twitch a claw without an alert going out.”

“I have every faith that your operatives, and the security team, have it well in servo.” Prowl let more of his weight lean on Jazz as they started moving again. “Now then, would you be up to give me a massage back in our quarters?”

“I’d love to.”

As Jazz had said, Perceptor, Wheeljack, and the rest of the science team were kept busy over the next few weeks figuring out a way to open a gateway into the ‘Noisemaze’ dimension where Optimus and Megatron were trapped. Finally, they succeeded, and the two bedraggled leaders staggered out. Apparently, there was a temporal difference between the Noisemaze, and their dimension. Though the two leaders had only been gone for about a month, it had seemed like years had passed in the Noisemaze. It was a wonder that the two hadn’t gone completely mad.

Indeed, both were surprisingly sane considering they had been stuck in a torture dimension for a couple decades. The biggest shock was that they were acting.  . .friendly. Apparently, a few decades had been enough for the two enemies to learn to work together to survive. Megatron stepped out arm in arm with Optimus Prime, ready to sit down and discuss peace.

There was quite a bit of complaint on both sides, but the Autobots were able to trust their Prime, even if they didn’t trust Megatron. The Decepticon leader, meanwhile, called on his loyal followers to continue on with him into peace. And to his disloyal followers, well, they were invited to find their own way out of the solar system before Megatron found them.

The war had gone on so long, though, that with the exception of a few standouts, most Cybertronians were simply tired of fighting and looking forward to an end. An end, and a new beginning. The War was over, and the Rebuilding of Cybertron had begun. Prowl sighed. There was going to be a lot of paperwork to do.