Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“So soft… so squishy. So perfect, Prowler.” 

Prowl blushed at every word, and he melted under every touch. Jazz wasn’t usually one to keep his servos to himself when there was loving to be done, but even this seemed like a stretch. It probably didn’t help, though, that Prowl had kept Jazz at a distance and out of the loop for a better part of that day. 

It hadn’t been intentional. At least, he hadn’t meant for it to become intentional. It was just one of those days. One of those months had turned into one of those weeks, and the piling up of bad one-of-those-weeks had turned into one of those days—a day where he simply couldn’t peel himself from his desk, nor could he pry himself from his room. Even worse, he couldn’t snatch his fingers out from the inside of the snack bags no matter how hard he tried. 

The weight he had been putting on while running around earth and adapting to a new environment hadn’t been a bad thing, but it hadn’t been much of a good thing, either. Prowl wasn’t used to the strange new world, the new rules, or the new routines. He was still wading through the deep end and trying to find his way back to safe ground, which meant fumbling around until he found what best suited him… and even that disappeared often. 

There was no set routine, no strict guidelines. He was thrown this way and that, and the stress was getting to him. Prowl always thought it better to take his frustrations out on ‘Cons like the rest of his team or plans like he was comfortable doing back ho—er, back on Cybertron, as this was his home now. Sort of. Not quite. Eventually, maybe. It wasn’t something to be proud of, his own self-help habits, but they did help, and they did keep him occupied. At the same time, they did do some pretty irreparable damage, and all of it went straight to his midsection.

Jazz didn’t care. He had been told as much from day one, when he first started noticing the negative effects of a habit he’d long before managed to keep in check. It was embarrassing to witness, and it was just as embarrassing to explain away to everyone else who noticed, but Jazz… well, Jazz didn’t care. Jazz didn’t mind. If anything, Jazz liked it. 

He liked the new look on Prowl, he’d always say. If it helped him cope, Jazz was okay with it. Prowl, on the other servo… 

Prowl hated the new look. He hated the new weight. Most of all, he hated his inability to adapt to change. 

It was hard to think about said shortcomings when the same things he had been berating himself about were now being covered from top to bottom in soft, tender kisses and caressed like it was the most valuable thing Jazz owned. Even in the privacy of their quarters, where Prowl was free to lie back and squirm as Jazz pampered him and loved on him and cooed over every last inch of his frame, he still felt ashamed. 

Maybe he was just embarrassed. It was pretty embarrassing to be blushing so hard over something as simple as Jazz showing him some of the usual, albeit directed, affection. 

There was no need for explanations when his shift had finally ended and Prowl found himself going straight back to the barracks to fall face-first into his berth. The only issue with his plan had been that he had anticipated coming back to an empty room, which of course hadn’t happened. This, however, was almost better… in the roundabout sort of way, that is.

“You baffle me, Prowler,” Jazz said between kisses, lifting his helm up just long enough to meet Prowl’s gaze. It was difficult—the mech’s face was covered by his servos, and had been from the moment Jazz began his pampering until then. “You’re so smart, and so talented, and you do so much good for our faction…”

He paused, gently pinching a roll of fat on the side of Prowl’s frame. It was squishy between his fingers, and the mesh gave way easily. It didn’t fail to make the smile on his face grow a little wider.

“…yet you can’t seem to see it all for yourself.”

Prowl didn’t have the wherewithal to respond while Jazz was still down there rubbing at his belly and kissing his rolls. He tried to, at least, but the muffled sound of words catching in his throat only served to deepen his blush and make him squirm all the more. 

It was true, he knew, but he would never admit it. He never could. It was what Jazz was so helpful for—reminding him, reassuring him, loving on his belly and cooing over his frame. It made earth tolerable, at least, and it made the miserable days seem less miserable. 

Speaking of which…

“I—“ Prowl tried to say, his voice hoarse and his words catching. He was as dazed as he was embarrassed, but he wanted to apologize. He wanted to explain himself, and reassure Jazz like Jazz reassured him. “Ah… today. It…”

“Bad day?” Jazz cut in, his gaze soft. “I could tell. Didn’t wanna bother you till you came back to the room, but… yeah. Figured I could help out a bit.”

He did, too. As always, he did. Jazz went right back to caressing and cooing and comforting, and Prowl went back to blushing and (attempting to avoid) squirming. 

It was nice, the pampering. Jazz knew just what to do, and he knew just where to touch. He pinched and he rubbed, he stroked and he kissed, and with every second that passed Prowl slipped further out of his own processor and further into the current moment, with him. It was the magic fix, the one that did the trick every time.

Jazz knew him too well. Prowl couldn’t bring himself to care. 

It was nice. It was what he wanted just as much as it was what he needed, and the best part? He didn’t even have to ask. He didn’t have to beg, either. Jazz was simply right there, ready to help and ready to comfort. 

Prowl couldn’t shake the shame, and he couldn’t shake the embarrassment. He could shake off the assumption that he didn’t deserve this, though, and he could replace it with the reminder that he did, just as much as he knew Jazz cared. When the affection slowed and Jazz moved on to curling up by his belly and resting his helm atop Prowl, Prowl didn’t resist. He didn’t squirm, either. 

He needed this. They both did. It never got easier to give in and allow Jazz to care, but it did get easier to acknowledge the affection for what it was and believe that Jazz did, indeed want this just as much as Prowl did, and just as much as he wanted Prowl. So, when Jazz fell into a doze and snored his way through snuggling close to Prowl’s belly, Prowl didn’t resist. He didn’t feel ashamed, either, and that was a first. 

Chapter Text

Jazz wasn’t expecting to get any sort of response out of Prowl so soon after finding him, but to his surprise, a tender servo on the shoulder was just enough of an approach for him to earn a sad, sulky sigh—frame droop and all.

“Still sulking in here, big guy?” Jazz said, peering over Prowl’s shoulder and avoiding getting nicked in the helm by the angry mini-flutters of the grumpy mech’s door wings. “Thought you’d be up for chatting by now.”

It didn’t seem possible, but Prowl somehow managed to sink even lower into his seat, his chin resting flat against the tabletop. He sighed again, his shoulders drooping lower, and brought Jazz’s leaning frame with him.

“What, you too?” Prowl grumbled back, tilting his helm ever so slightly until Jazz could catch sight of the dimmed optics glaring weakly back at him. “Already been called all different sorts of names today, but I don’t think any of them hit as hard as ‘big guy.’”

Jazz drew back and hissed in sympathy. Oops.

“Ah… sorry,” he said with a gentle pat on Prowl’s shoulder. “Just wanted to come and check in on ya.“

So far, even that was going pretty poorly, but definitely not as poorly as the train wreck of a mission Prowl had just come home from.

Intel usually got him where he needed to go and told him what he needed to learn, and today was no different. Jazz hadn’t even needed to utilize his eavesdropping tools and casual conversation starters, either. It had been a bright red flag when Prowl came back flustered and moody, and things had become even more clear when he brushed off Jazz’s greetings in favor of shouldering past and heading straight for the break rooms—the old ones, that is, the ones he always ran off to when he was in need of a good, long sulk.

He usually didn’t pry, especially not where Prowl was concerned. Still… he couldn’t help it. Worry was a valid reason for digging up information, as was a nervous looking Autobot left standing in the wake of Prowl’s dramatic exit. The buildup and background to this little pity party had all but fallen into his lap this time around.

Hearing that it hadn’t been a good mission was all Jazz needed to know. Staying for the extra little details and finding out that poor Prowl had been subject to a hell of a lot of criticism was simply an extra benefit, and Jazz took up those opportunities every time they came. It was always easier than getting answers out of Prowl himself, after all. Add in what sounded like a few days worth of back and forth about the poor mech’s growing waistline and you had a disaster only Jazz knew how to fix.

It wasn’t a great situation, but it also wasn’t anything new. Luckily for them both, Jazz knew what to do.

“Come on, Prowler. Don’t make me prod,” Jazz pressed. He had moved to squeezing both Prowl’s shoulders. The situation was dire. “I wanna help.”

“I don’t need help,” Prowl said with a dismissive wave. He lifted his helm up off of the table at least, even just to turn back and glare at Jazz head-on. “Let me sulk in peace.”

Jazz made a show of thinking about it for a moment. He held a digit held to his chin and hummed aloud, his pede tapping against the floor.

“Mm… nah. You’ve sulked enough. It’s Jazz-gets-the-answers-outta-you time now.”

Prowl didn’t even have a chance to protest. One moment he was turning back to melt into the table again, and the next his chair was being spun around. He sat up in surprise, his optics wide and his servos gripping the armrests.

Perfect. Jazz stood satisfied and triumphant with his servos propped on his hips just long enough for the shock to subside before he sunk to his knees and shuffled up to Prowl’s lap.

“Fine,” he said with a shrug, “if you aren’t gonna cooperate…”

Once again, Prowl didn’t even get the chance to speak. He was halfway through opening his mouth and preparing to tell Jazz off when the interruption came, and with it, the embarrassment. They were still alone, thank Primus, and would remain alone until he dared to walk out of that break room. It was a damn good thing because slag, if anyone else came in and saw them right about now—

“Jazz,” Prowl warned, one servo still tightly gripping the armrest while the other covered his face. He couldn’t watch. He could hardly stand to feel it. “Don’t you dare.”

“Don’t what?” Jazz asked, all innocence and naivety as he stroked his thumb over the ever-prominent curve of Prowl’s growing belly. “Pamper you? Remind you how soft, curvy, and delicious you look?”

Prowl loved to hate it, he knew, but only because of how difficult it was to admit to the truth—and the truth was that he liked his new look. He was healthier, of course, and the weight suited him. Jazz sure liked it, too. Hell, he could never get enough.

Jazz took his good old time cooing over Prowl’s soft midsection. The longer it took him, the better; he got to enjoy it that much more, and Prowl remained melted in a pile of blushing metal and twitchy door wings the entire time. He gave the pudgy rolls gentle squeezes and trailed tender kisses up and down the lines and seams of Prowl’s fatty mesh, all while mumbling under his breath about how good Prowl felt and how great he looked.

“Always so hard on yourself,” he said, his words muffled between loud, emphatic kisses. “Mmmmwah. Those ‘Cons out there don’t know what they’re missing.”

He glanced up at Prowl, who had already shifted to burying his face in both servos and peeking out through the cracks between his fingers. It was so easy… it worked like a charm every time, and better yet, Jazz loved it.

Prowl loved it, too. He could tell by the constant, frantic fluttering of the chubby mech’s doorwings between each kiss peppered up and down his belly.

“You seem to forget pretty easily too, you silly mech,” Jazz teased, a playful pat against Prowl’s belly added for emphasis. “Luckily you’ve got me to remind you.”

Prowl made a sharp, strangled sound behind his servo, but attempted to respond all the same.

“Nngh… not sure that’s much better,” he said, hoarse and uncertain.

Jazz couldn’t help his snickering. “You know you love it.”

He most certainly did. Jazz did, too, and he was happy to remind Prowl just as much as many times as Prowl needed. It never got old when it was the mech’s belly in need of some loving.

The brunt of the shock had worn off by then, and Prowl was nothing more than a goopy pile of a mech slouched in his seat and suffering under Jazz’s ministrations. His frown had held out just a little longer, and Jazz caught sight of it quick. He could still see it poking through Prowl’s fingers, hiding just out of sight—but not hidden well enough.

“What?” he said, pulling back just enough to catch a glimpse of Prowl’s poorly hidden face. “Not convinced yet?”

Prowl shifted slightly, his frame relaxing under Jazz’s touch, and his belly softening under Jazz’s servos.

“Maybe,” he said, cryptic and cagey as he stared at anything but Jazz’s visor, “maybe not.”

“Getting there then.” Jazz nodded. He rested his helm atop Prowl’s lap, his gaze still lingering on the soft, pudgy rolls that made up the fat belly he bore anymore.

It was hard to wash clean all of the damage other bots did, like always. Prowl took things to heart, especially the criticisms. It was what Jazz was there for, though—a buffer between the bad stuff and a reminder of how much Prowl’s improvements were valued. He was quick to go right back to pampering Prowl’s belly, much to Prowl’s embarrassment. 

“How about a little bit more TLC then, huh? Let’s do away with all the garbage and remind that big brain of yours what’s important here.”

Prowl shifted again, his face flushed dark and his expression unreadable. He liked it, Jazz could tell. He was hot to the touch and flustered as slag, but he liked it.

“Standby, big guy,” Jazz said, the teasing remark repurposed and reused. “Let the pro do the healing.”