Untitled
I didn't get much sleep the other night. Woke up to this dream goin' through my head. Had to write it out.
Possible prologue? Dunno. Ain't decided yet @.@ But SLAG if it wouldn't be a good beginnin' to somethin'!
Warning: ProwlxJazz interfacing scene within.
Title: Untitled
Rating: M
Pairings: ProwlxJazz
Characters: Prowl, Jazz
Author’s Note: Random interfacing scene.
Warnings: Slash
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Prowl kept himself as flush as he could comfortably manage against the other black and white's back, pressing him bumper first into the wall. Jazz's hands were kept secured just above his head, the darker wrists held tightly by the white servos. Prowl reveled in each heated gasp he managed to pull out of his lover, hitting all the right places with both glossa and spike. The rubbery, somewhat metallic taste of the Porsche’s neck cabling proved to be just as intoxication a combination as the electric impulses traveling through his spike, passing through his hips and lower back before finally cascading into his sensory network. He could feel Jazz’s body tensing with every inward thrust, making him want to drive deeper into his port. The pace was agonizingly slow, but despite their chosen locale, Prowl wasn’t to draw this out.
The water-diluted solvent and chemical spray of their stall hid most of the sounds they couldn’t help but vocalize. While not uncommon for mechs to be caught interfacing here, the wash racks weren’t a preferred rendezvous point for the two officers. The racks had been empty this time, and it was the off-orn. The tactician’s battle computer and logic centre led him to a workable figure. With barely more than a 5 percent change anybody would be in here within the next joor, they had plenty of time.
Jazz had needed this.
Freeing up one of his hands, Prowl mapped a path down the visored mech’s body before following it, the derma plating of his hand picking up the wetness where the shower’s steam had condensed on the plating. They weren’t directly under the spray, mostly using it for audio cover. The Datsun-former paused his hand on the saboteur’s dark hips, feeling the tension on the outside plates as the wires within tensed and released with his thrusts. He continued on to Jazz’s overheated crotch plate next, cupping it while he felt for the unlocking clasp. Before too long, he had it open, relieving the pressure on the thick spike inside. Only half pressurized, Prowl amended that with a few firm strokes. Jazz groaned, resting his helm on the wall, lip components parted as he attempted to cool his internals with the cooler air.
Prowl pumped in time with his thrusts, increasing the speed. Jazz automatically spread his stance out a little wider, off lining his visor, servos pulling into fists. “Nnh… Harder.”
It was more of a command than a request. In response, the servo on the spike squeezed minutely harder, accompanied by a firmer thrust. This time, it was Prowl who groaned as he sank himself deep, the sudden clenching of the wiring preventing him from hilting. On the next thrust, he pressed fully inside, hips clanging against the saboteur’s aft. He shuddered, registering the wonderful slickness of the lubricants leaking from the port. His own port ached from lack of use. Usually he was the one who received this, mostly due to his preference for it, and it wasn’t often Jazz asked for this.
It seemed the Porsche’s impatience for the much needed overload ruled out his usual cautions. A few moments more and he pushed back, connecting the tip of Prowl’s spike to the socket within. The connection instantly flooded with unfiltered sensory data. Prowl felt everything, from Jazz’s desperation to his sheer need. Not just from any ‘bot, but from Prowl. Jazz had NEVER allowed a connection before. Not with anybody, yet something was making him absolutely require the feeling of Prowl connected to him fully, to feel everything from Spark pulse to tactile touch.
Prowl barely had enough time to file the oddness away for future review before Jazz sent through a Spark pulse, and he groaned long and deep, releasing the mech’s still trapped servos to grasp him around his waste, leaning his forehead against Jazz’s upper back. The tactician had connected to other mechs in the past before, but never had he tasted an energy so EXQUISITE.
A handful of astroseconds was all Prowl needed to regain his senses, pulsing back as he inserted the digits of one servo up underneath his lover’s bumper, going for the sensors just underneath. Every ’bot had some sensors more sensitive than others. Vorns of time in the Special Operations division had dulled many of Jazz’s sensory network connections, rendering his hot spots much hard to find than the average mech’s. Prowl took the challenge personally, and had found and stored to file more than one location which made Jazz’s engine rev, and two which made him all but short-circuit. With a pulse perfectly timed with a tweak of a wire, he had him keening into his touch. Prowl heard Jazz offline his vocalizer.
Through feel, Prowl finally found a smaller, secondary fuel line a little further up In the past, when Jazz had told him to go for it, he’d thought he’d hurt him by wedging his servo up inside like that. It hadn’t taken him long to decipher the static and mechanical whines he’d received as anything BUT pain. Just like now. Prowl grabbed it and pulled, and Jazz arched into the stimulation, emitting a sharp, mechanical whine of pure bliss. The pulses they were still sending each other over their connection had continued as a beautiful background to the tactile, and only one more Spark pulse sent them both over the edge into overload.
Moments later, as the powerful systems surge slowly dissipated, they could only stand there, overheated bodies steaming, shaking, while the chemical shower washed the spilled transfluids and lubricants away.
Practiced ease allowed him to dislodge his hand from underneath the bumper, then disconnected his spike from the internal socket, easing himself out of the now almost too sensitive valve. The shower stall on a timer, the spray flow ended. Prowl lowered the both of them to the ground, using the wall to lean back against. The only sound in the room outside the occasionally ripping of liquid was the whir of cooling systems.
Possible prologue? Dunno. Ain't decided yet @.@ But SLAG if it wouldn't be a good beginnin' to somethin'!
Warning: ProwlxJazz interfacing scene within.
Title: Untitled
Rating: M
Pairings: ProwlxJazz
Characters: Prowl, Jazz
Author’s Note: Random interfacing scene.
Warnings: Slash
------------- ------------- -------------
Prowl kept himself as flush as he could comfortably manage against the other black and white's back, pressing him bumper first into the wall. Jazz's hands were kept secured just above his head, the darker wrists held tightly by the white servos. Prowl reveled in each heated gasp he managed to pull out of his lover, hitting all the right places with both glossa and spike. The rubbery, somewhat metallic taste of the Porsche’s neck cabling proved to be just as intoxication a combination as the electric impulses traveling through his spike, passing through his hips and lower back before finally cascading into his sensory network. He could feel Jazz’s body tensing with every inward thrust, making him want to drive deeper into his port. The pace was agonizingly slow, but despite their chosen locale, Prowl wasn’t to draw this out.
The water-diluted solvent and chemical spray of their stall hid most of the sounds they couldn’t help but vocalize. While not uncommon for mechs to be caught interfacing here, the wash racks weren’t a preferred rendezvous point for the two officers. The racks had been empty this time, and it was the off-orn. The tactician’s battle computer and logic centre led him to a workable figure. With barely more than a 5 percent change anybody would be in here within the next joor, they had plenty of time.
Jazz had needed this.
Freeing up one of his hands, Prowl mapped a path down the visored mech’s body before following it, the derma plating of his hand picking up the wetness where the shower’s steam had condensed on the plating. They weren’t directly under the spray, mostly using it for audio cover. The Datsun-former paused his hand on the saboteur’s dark hips, feeling the tension on the outside plates as the wires within tensed and released with his thrusts. He continued on to Jazz’s overheated crotch plate next, cupping it while he felt for the unlocking clasp. Before too long, he had it open, relieving the pressure on the thick spike inside. Only half pressurized, Prowl amended that with a few firm strokes. Jazz groaned, resting his helm on the wall, lip components parted as he attempted to cool his internals with the cooler air.
Prowl pumped in time with his thrusts, increasing the speed. Jazz automatically spread his stance out a little wider, off lining his visor, servos pulling into fists. “Nnh… Harder.”
It was more of a command than a request. In response, the servo on the spike squeezed minutely harder, accompanied by a firmer thrust. This time, it was Prowl who groaned as he sank himself deep, the sudden clenching of the wiring preventing him from hilting. On the next thrust, he pressed fully inside, hips clanging against the saboteur’s aft. He shuddered, registering the wonderful slickness of the lubricants leaking from the port. His own port ached from lack of use. Usually he was the one who received this, mostly due to his preference for it, and it wasn’t often Jazz asked for this.
It seemed the Porsche’s impatience for the much needed overload ruled out his usual cautions. A few moments more and he pushed back, connecting the tip of Prowl’s spike to the socket within. The connection instantly flooded with unfiltered sensory data. Prowl felt everything, from Jazz’s desperation to his sheer need. Not just from any ‘bot, but from Prowl. Jazz had NEVER allowed a connection before. Not with anybody, yet something was making him absolutely require the feeling of Prowl connected to him fully, to feel everything from Spark pulse to tactile touch.
Prowl barely had enough time to file the oddness away for future review before Jazz sent through a Spark pulse, and he groaned long and deep, releasing the mech’s still trapped servos to grasp him around his waste, leaning his forehead against Jazz’s upper back. The tactician had connected to other mechs in the past before, but never had he tasted an energy so EXQUISITE.
A handful of astroseconds was all Prowl needed to regain his senses, pulsing back as he inserted the digits of one servo up underneath his lover’s bumper, going for the sensors just underneath. Every ’bot had some sensors more sensitive than others. Vorns of time in the Special Operations division had dulled many of Jazz’s sensory network connections, rendering his hot spots much hard to find than the average mech’s. Prowl took the challenge personally, and had found and stored to file more than one location which made Jazz’s engine rev, and two which made him all but short-circuit. With a pulse perfectly timed with a tweak of a wire, he had him keening into his touch. Prowl heard Jazz offline his vocalizer.
Through feel, Prowl finally found a smaller, secondary fuel line a little further up In the past, when Jazz had told him to go for it, he’d thought he’d hurt him by wedging his servo up inside like that. It hadn’t taken him long to decipher the static and mechanical whines he’d received as anything BUT pain. Just like now. Prowl grabbed it and pulled, and Jazz arched into the stimulation, emitting a sharp, mechanical whine of pure bliss. The pulses they were still sending each other over their connection had continued as a beautiful background to the tactile, and only one more Spark pulse sent them both over the edge into overload.
Moments later, as the powerful systems surge slowly dissipated, they could only stand there, overheated bodies steaming, shaking, while the chemical shower washed the spilled transfluids and lubricants away.
Practiced ease allowed him to dislodge his hand from underneath the bumper, then disconnected his spike from the internal socket, easing himself out of the now almost too sensitive valve. The shower stall on a timer, the spray flow ended. Prowl lowered the both of them to the ground, using the wall to lean back against. The only sound in the room outside the occasionally ripping of liquid was the whir of cooling systems.