Work Text:
Nothin' is as it has been
And I miss your face like hell
And I guess it's just as well
But I miss your face like hell
Rivers and roads
Rivers and roads
Rivers 'til I reach you
As Jazz’s spike slips out of his mouth, Prowl raises his helm, makes direct optic contact with Jazz, and licks his lips. Despite the last fizzles of his overload skittering across his plating, Jazz lets out a rumbling, throaty groan, half-pressurized spike twitching at the sight.
Despite the many, many data entries he has collected, he is still astounded by how quickly Jazz can bounce back from an overload. With a few expert flicks of his wrist, servo sliding down the warm metal, Jazz is already bucking up into the touch, practically raring to go. After a couple of strokes, he lets go of Jazz’s spike and settles back, letting out a soft moan coupled with a contented flutter of doorwings when Jazz grips his hips, teasing over transformation seams, then slides in. Prowl nuzzles closer, servos finding the ridges in Jazz’s armor that he usually holds onto, and rolls his hips up into Jazz.
When the overload washes over him, and he becomes twitchy with overstimulation, Jazz knows to draw back, pressing a soft kiss against Prowl's mouth. He savors the taste, noting that Jazz has opted for a bismuth additive in his energon rations, rather than his usual citrine. He absently flicks through his database, indexing the new entry, when his TacNet pings with an observation.
On average, in a session of interfacing, Jazz will coax between one and three overloads from Prowl. If he is patient, perhaps four, although this is rare. He is slow to recover between climaxes, and any contact during this recovery period is either uncomfortable or downright painful. Prowl knows this about himself, and has come to accept it. At one point, he attempted to manually dial down the sensitivity settings in his interface array sensors in an attempt to see if he could last a bit longer. This, unfortunately, resulted in an inability to overload at all, so he quickly gave up on the idea.
He has yet to; however, find an upper limit on Jazz’s seemingly boundless energy. After Jazz tugs him by the servo towards the washracks, he lets the warm solvent soak into his joints and muses. Jazz has certainly had partners in the past, both long-term and casual. This does not bother Prowl, considering he, too, has several exes, but he doubts that Jazz keeps records as meticulous as his own. It does not hurt to ask, though, simply to sate his own curiosity, and add to the growing database he has reserved solely for data about Jazz.
“What is the maximum amount of times you have overloaded in one session?” Prowl asks as he works at a paint transfer marring his inner thigh.
Jazz nearly chokes. “What?”
“I said, what is—”
“No, no. I heard what you said. I'm just… a lil’ surprised, is all.”
“Are you going to answer my question?”
“I'm gettin’ there! Hold on, let me think.” A few kliks as Jazz turns off the solvent spray and hums. “I dunno, Prowler, I lose count after a while. If I had to guess… seven? Eight?”
“Okay.” Prowl wipes droplets of solvent from his armor, flaring his plating and rattling his doorwings to make sure no moisture stays trapped against his protoform.
“Okay? Anythin’ to add?” Jazz asks, incredulous.
“No.” Prowl sweeps past him to sit at his tiny habsuite desk. Despite the post-interface sleepiness seeping into his comfortably warm frame, he has some reading he would like to get done. Jazz follows and hops up on the edge of the desk, nearly sending a small stack of datapads crashing to the ground.
How Jazz, graceful, fluid, deadly SpecOps commander, can be so clumsy sometimes also astounds Prowl.
“Where is this comin’ from?” Jazz insists, leaning in to rest the side of his helm against Prowl's.
“Curiosity. Data collection. Not insecurity, if you're wondering,” Prowl says, optics fixed on his reading.
“Curiosity,” repeats Jazz as he mutters under his breath.
When Jazz eventually bores of sitting and watching Prowl read, he hops off the desk and goes to the berth. Prowl remains at his desk. If he goes with Jazz to lay down, curled against the other bot's frame, Jazz will inevitably begin petting his doorwings. This is, of course, a distraction technique designed to trick him into slipping off to recharge, and he will not stand for it.
As he reads, his processor keeps flicking back to their washrack conversation. Hmm…
It takes a few deca-orns, as Prowl has limited free time to work on side projects, but eventually, his work is complete. He gives it one last check, then nods to himself. He pings Jazz, asking him to meet in private. Although they spend much of their time together, Jazz still has other friends and enjoys recreational activities far more than Prowl. Typically, Prowl uses this time to either catch up or get ahead on work, or to sit quietly by himself, enjoying a moment of calm silence. Occasionally, he catches up with Bluestreak or Smokescreen, or he puts in a few extra joors at the shooting range.
Jazz responds after a few breems, and within the joor, slips into Prowl's quarters. He is scuffed and dirty, and he bounces on his pedes with a grin, still thrumming with energy. Ah, he must have been racing, or perhaps playing a friendly game of Cube. Perfect. He will still be amped up, on the verge of overcharge already.
“Back for more, sweetspark?” Jazz purrs, optics flicking up and down Prowl's frame.
On a typical night, Prowl would glare, doing absolutely nothing to dissuade Jazz, and insist he hit the washracks before touching him.
Today, he holds out a datapad instead.
Jazz takes it, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “What am I meant to do with this?”
“Read it,” says Prowl dryly.
“Okay, yeah, I know that, but what is it?”
“A gift. Read it,” insists Prowl. He sits at his desk, sitting backwards in his chair with his front bumper propped against the back of it. He waits, quietly, a flicker of anxiety beginning to seep into his spark, and his HUD pings with a spinrate warning. He dismisses it, but he cannot help but wonder if he is making a mistake, and Jazz will hate this, or laugh at him, or—
“Prowler.” Jazz says, quietly. “I think I nearly overloaded readin’ this. Sweet Primus.”
Prowl looks up and a small, shy smile forms. “So you agree?”
Jazz sets the datapad aside and strides forward to take Prowl by the arm. “If you don't frag me right now, I'm gonna—”
Prowl's servo shoots out, grabbing Jazz by the wrist and spinning him as he steps forward, shoving Jazz down and over the desk. “Or you'll what? Either behave yourself, or you can spend the rest of the night self-servicing, thinking of me.”
Jazz gasps and squirms, but he allows Prowl to pin him, despite the fact that he is perhaps the most wiggly, flighty escape artist that Prowl has ever had the pleasure and displeasure of dealing with.
Prowl leans in to whisper in his audial, voice darkening. “Good.” He slides a teasing digit along the underside of Jazz's bumper, reaching up to scratch the hard to reach drag link, smoothing along the warm metal. He finds the edge of a wire harness near the back side of Jazz's headlight assembly, and twists his digits around it, pulling lightly.
“Prowler, you're bein’ a tease,” Jazz whines.
Prowl removes his servo and growls. “What did I say?”
Jazz quiets, and Prowl grins. Usually, Jazz is the talkative one, and Prowl either whimpers or whines softly until Jazz has reduced him to begging. It intrigues him, to stand on the other side of the divide, and see Jazz practically vibrate with the effort it takes to not run his mouth every klik of the orn.
He's already set a timer, and within record time, Jazz’s panels click open as he resumes sliding his digits down a sway bar. He adds the data entry with a pleased hum. “Two breems and fourteen kliks. 86.71% faster than usual.”
When Prowl leans over Jazz, sliding a leg between his thighs, he moans and tries to grind into the plating, but Prowl stills him. “Shh,” he murmurs against Jazz’s helm. “Let me take care of you.”
Jazz grips the edge of the desk and shudders as Prowl reaches both servos up, slipping digits into transformation seams and scraping against delicate sensor nodes and soft protoform. Drops of lubricant begin trickling down his leg as Jazz writhes against him, and he drags his tongue down Jazz’s neck, nipping at the cables. He catches one between his teeth and bites, riding the edge of the stress-strain curve, letting the metal just barely begin to deform.
He turns up the sensitivity in his sensor net, doorwings flicking as he feels the air currents ghost against the broad planes. He can just barely hear Jazz’s venting begin to grow ragged, fans stuttering.
“I cleared our schedules for tomorrow,” he whispers. “Nobody will be looking for us.”
Jazz mumbles something, and Prowl cranes his helm, digging a digit harder into a seam. “What was that? I couldn't quite hear you.”
“Frag, I'm gonna—”
Prowl grabs Jazz’s hips and pulls him down hard into his leg, and Jazz keens, throwing his helm back.
“That's one,” Prowl says, voice growing rough. The while loop runs, counter ticking up. He grinds harder against Jazz, dragging the overload out as charge flickers across their frames.
He does not let Jazz rest. As soon as he pulls his leg away, and Jazz whimpers at the loss of contact, he replaces it with his servo, sliding his digits against the weeping folds. Leftover charge dances across the tips of his digits as he traces around the glowing anterior node, but does not touch it.
His optics darken as he teases at Jazz’s headlight again, and it involuntarily flickers on and off with a quiet hum.
“I've paid off three speeding tickets and two traffic citations this cycle alone on your behalf.” He slides two digits into Jazz, twisting them up against a cluster of sensory-rich nodes. Another moan slips from Jazz’s mouth, and he curls his digits. “Is this why? You've been running around with all this pent-up charge, feel the need to show off to those human cops?”
He adds another digit. “That's fine. I'll help you out, just this once. Burn some charge off, and then you'll behave?”
Jazz jerks, gasping. “Prowl—”
Prowl growls again, idling his engine higher and finally rubbing hard, firm strokes into Jazz’s anterior node.
Electricity snaps, blue-white arcs of light and the faint scent of ozone. The counter ticks up.
He debates retracting his own panels, considering how uncomfortably tight and warm they've grown, but he does not want to have to drag himself through the post-overload bliss to keep going, so he decides to wait. He spins Jazz around so he can look at his face and strokes the edge of Jazz’s jaw.
Prowl goes for a different approach this time, taking Jazz's chin and holding him still as he kisses him, nipping at the edge of his lip. Jazz opens up readily, moaning into him. Prowl pushes his legs further apart, settling between them, pressing as close as he can while he slips one servo down to brush the barest hint of a stroke against Jazz's spike.
Jazz reaches up to cling to him, to slide his own servos down Prowl's frame and find all of the familiar, sensitive transformation seams, to press against twitchy doorwing joints, but Prowl quickly catches his wrists and slams him back against the desk.
“Mhmm…” Jazz whines into his mouth, and Prowl nips him again before drawing back, drinking in the sight in front of him. Jazz’s lips are still slightly parted, lubricant streaking his thighs and gleaming in the low light. He is still trembling slightly from the effects of his last overload, but he doesn't shy away from Prowl’s touch against his overheated plating.
He brushes the pad of his thumb against Jazz’s lower lip, and Jazz lets it slide into his mouth, lapping at Prowl's servo and cleaning the aftermath of his own overload. It sends warm, tingling shocks down Prowl's arm, and he lets out a quiet rumble. “That's better.”
Prowl grasps the warm, thrumming spike again with clever precision, digging his digits into sensor nodes that he has tracked the location of with adoring diligence. Jazz shivers, thrusting into his servo, and he palms the shaft of the spike, smearing lubricant over the tip and down the sensor-rich underside.
When he sinks to his knees, doorwings canted, he makes sure to look up at Jazz and smile. Jazz muffles a curse behind a servo, and despite the visor, Prowl can tell the other bot's optics are fixated on him. He drags his tongue long and slow down Jazz’s spike, mouthing softly at it, licking over every ridge. He takes his time. They have all night, and he is in no rush. He feels no desire to sacrifice quality for quantity when he knows he can deliver both.
Jazz's trembling servo ghosts down the back of his helm before coming around to trace the sharp lines of his chevron, teasing at the heat sink. He raises his helm, pulling away and snarling like a feral cyber-hound guarding its last scrap of fuel. He will let Jazz touch him later and take his own share of the pleasure, but for now, he wants his focus unhindered.
“Frag, Prowler,” whispers Jazz hoarsely, leaning back and placing a servo on the edge of the desk to steady himself.
Digits dip into transformation seams down the sides of Jazz's legs as Prowl resumes his task with steadfast determination. His reward comes swiftly as Jazz writhes, metal plating screeching against the surface of the desk hard enough to make red-hot sparks spray in brilliant pinpricks.
Prowl gently licks the last of the transfluid from the twitching slit. The tick of the counter sends a twinge of delight down his spinal strut, and his doorwings flutter. He stands and moves his servos up Jazz’s sides, stroking along the softer, more flexible abdominal plating, letting him come down from the edge for a moment.
Jazz lurches forward, nuzzling his face into the crook of Prowl's neck as Prowl holds him. He feels Jazz begin to grow restless again, shifting his weight from one pede to another with a subtle roll of his hips. With a nudge, he pulls Jazz's legs apart with the side of his knee and slips his digits back into Jazz’s valve, brushing against the anterior node with every stroke. He frags him slowly and lazily, letting charge build in buzzing flickers until Jazz’s spike repressurizes into his waiting servo. He picks up the pace, thrusting with long, hard, twisting motions while grasping Jazz’s spike with firm, steady digits.
His doorwings give a smug twitch as they pick up the subtle shift in air currents when Jazz’s ventilations quicken. Prowl leans in close. “Drop them.”
“H-huh?” Jazz whimpers, writhing against him. He bites at his lower lip, vocalizer hissing in a warm haze.
“Your stealth mods. Drop them.” Prowl has never asked this of Jazz before. Jazz has never offered, and Prowl has always assumed that Jazz has a good reason for keeping them tuned up, even in the relative safety of the Ark. He knows that Jazz lets them down slightly, just enough for him to hear the slightest hitch of a ventilation or the vibration of a pedestep, the faint clink of armor plating shifting and circuitry humming. This is mostly so he doesn't have to dodge Prowl's sidearm shoved against his helm when he sneaks up behind Prowl.
Even Prowl does not know the full extent of Jazz’s tech specs, what parts Jazz even has control over, and what has been deeply, intrinsically changed in the long, brutal march of ceaseless war, despite having one of the highest classification levels of the entire Autobot army. Perhaps the only two bots alive who know, are Jazz himself, and Optimus Prime.
He doesn't want this halfway effort. He wants all of Jazz, bared for him to see. He waits quietly, watching Jazz deliberate and worry at his lower lip, the soft metal glinting as the tip of his tongue darts out ever so slightly.
Prowl is about to drop the issue. Jazz rarely refuses him, considering it is rare for Prowl to request anything of him in the first place, but he doesn't want to push Jazz if it is truly a vulnerable topic. “It's okay—” he begins to say, when suddenly, sensor data floods into his TacNet. Numbers scroll across his HUD, and he scrambles to download and convert the information as it comes.
It is as if a wave of Jazz has washed over him, cascading over his doorwings in a heady warmth better than any oil bath he has ever taken. His doorwings go rigid, practically vibrating to catch every air current and pressure shift, every sound and temperature gradient. Prowl moans, optics flickering offline for a brief moment, then surges forward to kiss him. He can feel Jazz’s systems thrumming below him, the new sensation racing across his own sensor net and straight to his processor.
He curls his digits, still buried in Jazz, up and twists his wrist so he can thumb at the glowing anterior node, all while giving Jazz’s spike a firm squeeze, digits circling around the tip and stroking at the softer metal there.
Jazz screams into his mouth, vents seizing as his calipers cycle down on Prowl’s digits. He thrashes against Prowl, and his plating, scorching hot, creaks as wisps of smoke curl up through the gaps. With another flick of Prowl’s wrist and a firm squeeze, Jazz’s spike twitches in his servo, transfluid spilling in scalding jets.
The quiet ping of his while loop running, Jazz’s soft, sobbing gasps, and the sudden sensory input of feeling all of Jazz, humming and warm beneath his servos has Prowl’s panels finally sliding back with a sharp rasp of metal. He pulls his servos away and grasps at Jazz’s hips, pulling him fully up onto the desk, and pushes into Jazz with a single, desperate thrust. He buries himself to the hilt, pausing for a moment to collect himself as the last twitches of Jazz’s successive overloads clench around his spike.
Jazz scrabbles for him, looping his arms around Prowl’s neck and clinging to him. When Jazz moans long and low directly into Prowl's audial, he almost overloads then and there. The heat of Jazz's valve, calipers still fluttering in rhythmic squeezes, and his TacNet humming happily with the sensor data washes away any stress or worries gnawing at his spark. The ever-present exhaustion weighing down his frame, the terror and grief and loss of millennia of slow-marching carnage, slips away like water through his digits.
Each moan that slips from Jazz’s lips sends charge darting down the planes of his doorwings, and he stifles a cry of his own as he moves in steady, measured thrusts. Jazz arches into him, the additional joints and range of motion modded into his frame allowing him to twist in ways that are hypnotizingly sinful to watch. His legs lock around Prowl's waist, knees bumping into the lower edge of his doorwings. The extra contact against the sensitive structures, already tuned up to the max and trembling with the effort it takes to catch as much data as possible, has Prowl tipping over the edge.
Jazz goes stiff under him, pressing himself as close to Prowl as possible. He feels the slight shudder, the faint, acrid sharpness of sparking circuitry with a flash of ozone. With a grunt, he shifts Jazz’s leg, digits digging into his hip as he drives deeper into the soft, tight heat. Electricity flashes in brilliant flares around them, and Prowl fights through the sharp overstimulation to prolong the overload, grinding against the other bot as his trembling servo finds Jazz’s anterior node.
When he can bear the sensation no longer, he pulls out, Jazz’s still convulsing calipers gripping weakly at his spike, and their combined fluids spill from Jazz’s weeping, swollen valve with a sordid dripping sound.
“Fragging… Primus, Prowler,” Jazz manages to gasp, fans spinning on high in the most delightful whirring noise Prowl has ever heard, as he keeps his legs locked around Prowl, leaning back on his elbows. Prowl sets a servo on the wall to steady his trembling legs and takes a moment to slow his ventilations, blinking away the fuzzy, static haze settling over his processor. He tunes his doorwings back down, pinning them against his back with a shiver as the room seems to dull, his frame settling back into its usual baseline of sensory input. His optics rove over Jazz, whose colors gleam a little brighter, a little sharper in the absence of his stealth mods.
“I’m not done yet,” Prowl rasps, sweeping Jazz into his arms and managing to stagger to the berth, depositing Jazz into it with a rather ungainly, ungraceful plop, but the romantic sentiment is still there. Jazz giggles, an odd, fluttery sound to come from such a decorated, feared special agent. He shuffles, getting comfortable against the berth padding, and spreads his legs wide. When he catches Prowl staring, he hesitates for a moment, looking up at the tactician, before the sound of gears whirring and glass clinking graces Prowl’s audials. His visor transforms and slides away, and Prowl stares directly into his optics.
Deep, burning red. The color of human blood as it spills from a freshly torn wound, bright and sharp against the dark grey of his faceplating. Prowl does not look away. He quietly, reverently reaches out and sets the palm of his servo against Jazz’s face, thumb stroking the plating just under his optics, then lowers his helm. With long, gentle swipes, he laps at Jazz’s valve, the tang of lubricant and transfluid coating his tongue.
Jazz moans at the sight, vents hitching. Digits trail down the side of Prowl’s helm, then settle against the back, a steady, grounding presence. The contact is slow and soft, a contrast to the frantic, overcharged scramble of earlier. His tongue teases at the now oversensitive anterior node, probing cautiously at it, then retreats to slide into the entrance of the still leaking valve, curling at the edges and cluster of nodes just beyond the first seal.
When Jazz’s cries pitch higher, he becomes bolder, sucking at the anterior node as he stiffens the tip of his tongue to catch the underside in tiny flicks. There is pressure against the side of his helm as Jazz’s thighs squeeze around him, and he shifts a little to ensure the sharp edge of his chevron does not dig into the metal.
He continues sucking at Jazz’s anterior node, increasing the pressure and intensity of his swirling motions. Jazz twists under him, digits scrabbling and catching against the smooth plating of his helm. He pushes his hips up, desperately grinding against Prowl, frantically chasing the high. Prowl redlines his engine with a sudden, powerful burst, and the deep rumble shakes their frames.
Jazz's frame snaps taut, gears screeching as his plating rattles. His cries come in breathless, broken gasps as lubricant, thick and sharp, spills into Prowl's mouth. It is rich in ions, and the current nearly burns his mouth. For Jazz, he would bear the physical repercussions of Kohlrausch's Law a thousand times over. When Jazz finally stills, and Prowl finishes licking away the last of the gushing lubricant, he raises his helm and wipes at his mouth with the back of his servo, smearing fluid across the plating.
He waits, stroking the side of Jazz's leg as he settles back on his knees, until Jazz finally raises his helm and grins weakly at him. When Prowl's optics, blazing with hunger, shift to Jazz’s twitching spike, his grin only grows wider.
His own valve twitches in anticipation, desire coiling in his lower internals as he hovers above Jazz. He slowly sinks down, the tip sliding in with ease, then settling down past each ridge. The slight thickness towards the base stretches him, rubbing against the sensitive ring of nodes near the entrance of his valve. When he has taken the entire length, he pauses for a moment, vocalizer clicking uselessly as he squeezes his optics shut and focuses on the electric hum of Jazz’s systems. He can hear his own spark whooshing in his audials, warmth flooding his chest and internals as he begins to rock his hips.
Jazz’s servos come up to touch his doorwings, sliding down the smooth metal of the dorsal plane, then teasing at the edge where glass meets the sealed edge of a window. They flick involuntarily, and Jazz laughs quietly before massaging the joints with quick, deft digits.
Prowl bites his lip as he stifles a groan, grinding against the metal surrounding Jazz’s array, every centimeter of the spike buried deep inside him rubbing against the slick walls like a long-forgotten itch. The sensation of fullness and closeness is only amplified by the frame-melting sense of comfort radiating from his back, where Jazz is still working at his doorwing joints, and the contented buzz of his TacNet playing with new variables. He leans forward, and the shift in position causes Jazz’s spike to jab at the upper wall of his valve, dragging a small whimper from his throat.
He holds Jazz’s face in his servos, despite the fact that the usually pristine, white metal is now stained with all sorts of fluids, and kisses him. Kisses the slope of his forehelm, kisses the metal just under his optics, kisses the corner of his mouth. Jazz lets out an appreciative sigh, but he quickly grows impatient and lunges to capture Prowl’s mouth in a proper, searing kiss. Prowl whines softly, all ability to convert numbers to words having long since scattered. The world around them has blurred away. The only things that remain are Jazz’s mouth on his, the digits stroking his doorwings, and the spike twitching in his valve.
When the overload washes over him, he squirms, only for Jazz’s servos to steady him against the breaking wave of pleasure. He gasps against Jazz, deepening the kiss until he feels the spurt of molten transfluid flood his valve. The conductive liquid sizzles with charge, ions snapping across electrodes. He lets himself go limp, swept away in the tide.
After soaking in the blissful quiet of post-overload haze, he onlines his optics to see Jazz staring at him, his own optics half shuttered, mouth slightly open. His gaze flicks down Jazz’s frame, and he tilts his helm. Jazz gives him a tiny shake of the helm and pings his private comms channel three times in rapid succession. He’s tapping out.
He rolls off of Jazz and lays there, too stunned to speak for a moment as his armor contracts and creaks with lingering heat.
“Frag,” Jazz says, vocalizer half eaten by static.
“Frag,” agrees Prowl, wincing as he goes to sit up. He extends a servo to Jazz, and they stumble their way into the washracks, leaning on each other and the wall.
As they stand under the lukewarm solvent spray, letting it cool their armor and wash away the dried, streaked aftermath of their coupling that is sprayed all over their plating, Prowl’s HUD pings with a comms message.
<<What the Pit were you two doing? If you’ve broken your shoulder again, I am not fixing it>>
Prowl scowls, curling a lip in displeasure. What is Ratchet doing, comming him at this time of night? Jazz touches a servo to his face, smoothing away his disgruntled expression.
<<My off-duty activities are none of your business>>
<<It’s my business when I can hear you howling through the walls. It sounded like Jazz was dying in there>>
Prowl’s doorwings go rigid. <<Your quarters are by the medbay. What are you talking about?>>
<<Oh, so it’s illegal for a medic to spend his own off-duty joors enjoying the company of a friend?>>
Primus fraggin’ damn it. Of course this was the one night that Ratchet decided to visit Ironhide and sit around drinking illicit high-grade, commiserating about whatever it is that ancient, rusty bots commiserate about.
He feels Jazz’s servo stroke the side of his arm, and he relaxes, turning off the solvent spray and going to the drying vents, working at paint transfers with a microfiber cloth. He can’t help but let one doorwing flick in a smug gesture as he sends Ratchet a diagnostic data packet, containing his current vital signs as well as Jazz’s, considering his emergency field scanners are now working on the other bot’s frame, with his stealth mods temporarily down.
<<Best vitals I’ve seen from either of you in centavorns. Carry on, then>>
“I need to invest in sound-proofing,” Prowl says to Jazz as they settle back into the berth, an intertwined tangle of limbs and clinking armor.
“Oh no,” Jazz breathes, optics going wide.
Prowl can’t help but stare, taking in every novel microexpression and scrambling to catalogue them. “I must also apologize.”
“For what?” Jazz’s nasal ridge scrunches slightly as he squints. Prowl’s HUD pings with a spinrate warning as his spark practically vibrates out of his chest.
“Well, I’m afraid I did not quite exceed your record.” The while loop has stopped running, and he reviews the results. “Only eight overloads? I believe I can do better.”
Jazz’s small, contented smile broadens, and it creates tiny wrinkles at the edges of his optics. Prowl’s vents stutter and stall. Has Jazz really been holding out on him this entire time? He could have been indexing so many microexpressions.
“Don’t worry, Prowler. Ya got plenty of time to push the boundaries.”
Prowl presses the side of his helm to Jazz’s bumper, listening to the steady whoosh of his spark, and begins rewriting strategies to break their personal records.