A random Prowl/Jazz lemonish one-shot, anyone? Sure! 8D This is actually for my readers of Where You and I Collide who all banded together to help meet an awesome goal. I'm so sorry it took a couple months to write this, but I couldn't seem to find a "plot" good enough.
Special shout out to Chloo, who was so awesome with her multiple reviews. Crazy insane, but so awesome!
I hope everyone enjoys! A little bit of PJ lovin' to make your days better! Feed your addictions, people! 8D
Addicted to You
"I'm so addicted to
All the things you do
When you're going down on me
In between the sheets"
-Saving Abel, "Addicted"
That's what he was.
But damn if Jazz didn't enjoy the sting of it. Addiction with the kind of mix of pleasure and pain that brought him to a high that made him melt in all the right places. It was the kind of addiction he didn't want cured. He wanted to revel in it.
For once in his too-long life, he didn't want to master it. Didn't want to control it, not even in his signature fashion of complex Machiavellian moves.
Actually, he'd given up trying to control it a long time ago. It wasn't something to be controlled. The more he tried to grasp it, the weaker it became until it was as fragile as glass. The harder he held on, the more it slipped through his fingers. This addiction had no master but itself. This was the kind of addiction that came with no rhyme of reason; it was meant to be free, to ravage through his frame, to turn him inside out, and make him feel a thousand times better for it.
It was a hardcore, under his plating, dug right into his Primus-damned spark addiction.
His addiction was Prowl.
There simply was something about the mech that was addicting. Hard to put into words- hell, it was hard to put into thoughts when Jazz tried to think about it- but there was no denying that Prowl was an addictive bot. There was an indecipherable element about the mech that made him into the purest drug for a creature such as Jazz. A puzzle for the puzzle master. A riddle for the riddler. For someone who lived to break others, to encounter a spark that refused to be broken was... enthralling.
No, more than enthralling. It was enticing. Temptation incarnate.
Damn well irresistible.
Unlike most bots who cowed under even the slightest prodding from Jazz, Prowl would stare back with the utmost defiance. Every time their optics met, the wild storm of Jazz's gaze colliding with the stoic challenge of Prowl's, it was very nearly erotic. Jazz, being the type of mech that he was, was not accustomed to resistance. Sure, bots usually tried to hold some kind of defence against him if he were burrowing into their minds to steal every petty secret of their lives, but they couldn't very well keep him out for long. Prowl, however, was the embodiment of resistance. Refused to bow to him. Never moved an inch.
Who would have guessed being stubborn could be so erotic?
He was the immovable wall to Jazz's unstoppable force.
At first... Oh Primus, at first, Jazz had wanted to break that wall. He'd wanted Prowl to crumble. He wanted to master and control the mech. How rich did he imagine the sweetness of forcing the tactician to bow to his will. How powerful it would have been to proclaim to the universe who was the greater force. Sometimes, when frustration was high and resentment ran deep, Jazz wanted to lash a bridle and reins to the mech and ride him into the ground. Grind down every last bit of resistance Prowl could summon, turn it to dust, and scatter it to the winds.
Jazz wanted to own Prowl.
In those dark orns of the very beginning when he was a mad rush of narcissism, egomania, uncontrolled madness and invincibility, Jazz had only ever wanted to reaffirm that he was the best. He could only ever be the quickest, the cleverest, the most dangerous. If he was not the greatest, then who was he? Rivals were all a threat that had to be destroyed.
But like any good, spark-deep addiction, Jazz's obsession with Prowl crept up on him while he wasn't looking. His addiction took its heinous time sowing its seeds, twisting its growing roots as deep as could be, tangling into such a knot that it was impossible to extract. Before Jazz knew what had become of himself, he was irrevocably tied to Prowl in a way that meant if Prowl were to die, Jazz would no longer exist.
At first, it came as the desire to no longer destroy. Simply keep Prowl around, like a pet. The challenges the tactician offered were unlike any other Jazz had faced in a life time. He offered something unique and novel; a mind as sharp as a sword and as deadly as a trap. To lose such a prize would mean Jazz would have to go a lifetime more without an equal to... understand him.
Understanding became enjoyment. Jazz slowly but surely became aware of the electric tingle that shot down his spinal column every time Prowl entered a room. Every time their optics met, it meant a new challenge. A new game. A meeting of the minds with no holds barred, no move out of bounds. They clashed like titans at war, and still could smirk at each other in the aftermath.
Enjoyment became a mild partnership.
Partnership became friendship.
Friendship became... more.
And then came the realization that without Prowl, there was no Jazz. Without Jazz, there was no Prowl.
They were polar opposites with more in common than either would care to admit. One lived for logic and order, the other loved to throw caution to the wind and still come out on top, and yet both were so supremely elite in their functions that they stood apart from the rest. Too different to be understood by others. Embedded in their sparks was a primal, passionate calling that constantly sought to be stirred to life, challenged, worked raw for the satisfaction. So very few could offer that to either of them. They could only find solace in each other.
Just like that, obsession was founded.
An addiction was fostered and fed.
Like the wild thing he was, Jazz liked to feed his most favourite addiction.
"How about it, Prowler? Just you an' meh, a little sparring match out in the training range? A meetin' of the minds and bodies," teased the saboteur as he leaned against the edge of the hard desk, his most tempting smile in place.
"No," Prowl flatly replied.
Jazz's smile stretched wider. Whenever he heard Prowl say 'no' it was a sexy little challenge being issued. In his head he would hear Prowl's voice, that sexy smooth timbre with the no-nonsense Simfur accent, 'I dare you to change my mind, Jazz. If you're half the mech you think you are, change my mind. Do it. I dare you.' It was amazing how much could be heard in one simple 'no' when you had the right kind of imagination. Plus determination.
Jazz was looking for his fix, and Prowl was definitely his drug of choice.
"Why not?" Jazz asked, not allowing the subject to drop.
"That's not an answer."
Prowl flicked his gaze up, glared for a moment, and then returned his attention to his work. "And yet, that's all the answer you're getting."
Jazz could hardly suppress the shiver than ran through him. On the best of orns, he despised being dismissed by anyone. Hated how little it made him feel. When Prowl did it, it wasn't always a dismissal. It was more challenge. Even if he didn't mean it to be.
"What if that answer isn't good enough for meh?" the saboteur wondered, leaning forward, his blue gaze glinting.
"It will have to be good enough."
"Ah don't want good enough," Jazz countered. "Ah want the best. That's why Ah'm here."
Prowl glanced up again, this time with a different light in his too-sharp, too-enticing optics. Oh Primus, the smirk that nearly crossed Prowl's mouthplates... it nearly dropped Jazz to his knees. It was a barely-there curve. A taunt. A tease. Not quite a crack in his supposedly emotionless mask, but enough of a hint at the passion that laid beneath that Jazz was hooked anew.
"Maybe... later," Prowl offered, the blueness of his optics deepening for just a moment.
Prowl's fingers tightened around the data pad he was handling, a telltale sign he was quickly becoming affected by the intentness of the saboteur's stare. "After my shift, when we will have time to indulge in a proper sparring match. That is what I consider later." He paused a moment, and when he next spoke, his words were too well chosen, too deliberate, not to have a second meaning. "I wouldn't mind taking some of my frustrations out on you- you're an excellent fighter. You... know how to take me."
"Ah love it when ya talk dirty ta meh," Jazz purred.
Prowl rolled his optics, although his barely-there smirk was making another appearance.
Jazz leaned back, tilting his head just a bit. He surely did know how to take Prowl, liked to give as good as he got. Few knew how truly passionate Prowl could be. When it was just the two of them, the heat that radiated between the two of them could melt the sun. That was another detail that became delectably addictive. The high that came from the heat, the passion, knowing he was the sole mech who could arouse Prowl to such a degree that he let go of his inhibitions and became wild.
It was just the two of them now, and the room was getting a little warm.
Jazz drummed his claws across the ledge of the desk, feeling the first licks of withdrawal. He wasn't the kind of mech to purposely deny gratification when it was sitting right in front of him.
Prowl didn't even look up from his work this time as he spoke. "You're staring."
"It's too nice a view." Jazz curled a wicked smile, which he knew Prowl could feel passing over the length of his frame. A tiny shiver passed through the tactician. That only made the saboteur want the him more. Prowl was the grand master of denying gratification. It was challenge incarnate to get him to give in.
Jazz's energon heated another degree as he perused his lover's frame. It was the same frame he had first seen the mech in the orn they met- Jazz being the interrogator, Prowl the prisoner. A plain, storm-grey wash of paint clinging to an average, though vaguely sporty frame. A general design dictated by Security Response. A carved faceplate with no specialized design. The only splashes of colour came from his handsome blue optics and the intriguing bright red chevron atop his head. The brightness of the crest made Jazz want to trace his claws along it, fondle it and send little magnetic pulses through it. A pair of doorwings lifted from the mech's back, begging for someone to touch them, dip their fingers into the creases and stroke the aching tension wires anchoring them to the tactician's back.
Prowl was not an overly handsome mech, but once you got to know him, his true beauty became obvious. It was the kind of enthralling beauty that came with knowing him, being intrigued by him. He held an utter lack of vanity, but upheld strict rules of personal cleanliness. Quiet and reserved, yet such a force to be reckoned with that even storm clouds would tremble. His smiles were so rare that you had to save the memory to your hard drive every time you saw one, just in case you never saw it again. His faceplate may have been generic, but as soon as you saw passion infuse into the features, there was no looking away. Once you saw past the mask to the real Prowl, he was gorgeous.
Even in its strange kind of way, Prowl's logic was a turn on. A big, hot, make-you-squirm turn on. The way he tried to understand and make sense of every little nuance of the world around him. And you wanna know what else was a huge turn on? Every time Jazz did something on purpose just to confuse the frag out of Prowl. Sometimes a confused Prowl could be just as hot as when he was being a know-it-all.
Jazz smirked as he mused to himself. Yep, he was so fragging addicted, there was no hope for him left.
Unable to take the staring anymore, Prowl sighed and gave his lover the attention he was silently goading for. "Don't you have something you should be doing?"
Prowl snorted a noise of annoyance. "As in work, Jazz. Don't you have work to do?"
"Ah am working," Jazz replied easily, leaning forward once more to deliver a potent smile. "Ah'm working on you."
"That is not actual work," the tactician pointed out flatly.
"Sure it is; it's not like ya make it easy fer meh."
"You are so aggravating sometimes."
Jazz laughed. "An' your always as delightful as a fresh coat of paint." He reached out and flicked the topmost data pad from the nearest pile to the floor.
Prowl stared for a moment, his optics narrowing. "Pick that up."
A scowl marred his features. "Pick it up, Jazz."
Optic ridges shot up, mouthplates curving. "Make meh."
The tactician's gaze flashed dangerously as he rose from his seat. "This is no time for your games."
In a fluid movement of silver, Jazz swept the entire desk clean. He met Prowl's stunned-horrified gaze with a look of defiant challenge. "If this were a game, Ah'd be winning."
"You- you-!" That cool mask of indifference cracked, revealing an enticing hint of churning emotion beneath. Tempting like a drug, begging for Jazz to have a taste.
"Come on, Prowler. Don't let meh get away with somethin' like that." He held out a hand, palm up, beckoning the other mech. "Come get meh. Ah know ya want to."
Prowl's mask shattered, his faceplate coming alive with the most lurid fashion of emotions. An enthralling mixture of anger and lust. He cast one last look to his cleared desk, to his now data pad-strewn floor, before launching across the distance separating himself from his lover. Jazz laughed loud as he went to the floor, not minding the powerful rush that hit as he collided with the floor.
"This is more like it," the saboteur gasped, throwing his weight to roll both of them over. He came out on top.
"You could not wait, could you? Not even for a little while more!" Prowl exclaimed, frustration tangled with desire. He was almost smiling again, trying hard to resist. "You are a glutton."
"More like addict. Ah wanted ya now," Jazz goaded, grinding his weight against Prowl's armour. "An' you want meh, too. Don't deny it."
Prowl was a smart mech: didn't bother to deny it.
They were not graceful as they wrestled across the floor. Hands grappling. Legs tangling. The desk screeched as it was shoved out of the way by their combined weight. A filing cabinet rattled ominously. Both mechs happened to be very proficient at circuit-su, though neither had their minds on proper form at the moment. The rewards of getting straight to the down and dirty appealed in a far more tempting fashion.
"That's the way, Prowl," Jazz goaded, his voice turned low and gritty as he wrestled and groped at his lover's frame. "Give meh what ya got."
"Glutton," the tactician grunted, though it was more like an endearment.
A crazed kind of fever took over. The heat that had begun to simmer now bloomed to life, boiling their energon. Their insides sang to life with the churning, living, arousing velvet heat that caressed them from the inside out, outside in. Want settled deep in their minds, in their frames. It was the kind of want that took over, blinding them to all else. It narrowed their worlds until there was only the two of them.
The perfect drug that shut the rest of the world away.
Jazz wanted more.
More. More. More.
He arched into Prowl's storm-grey body, revelling in the electric contact. Sensation raced through them. Their gasps mingled. Their hands lingered. Suddenly, Prowl growled. The vibration of it passed through his frame, into Jazz's, causing the saboteur to groan.
For a thrilling moment, the world spun as Prowl used his superior size to take control. He was on top, one hand gripping Jazz's wrists, pinning him to the floor. His free hand was grabbing at his interface panel, pulling out the cable from the discreet panel in his shoulder. Jazz's panel popped open eagerly. Access totally granted. Cable came to port, and then Prowl tugged Jazz's cable, gave it a rough caress, before inserting it into his own port.
They synchronized. The world turned upside down. Storms collided.
That unmovable wall went head-to-head with the unstoppable force, flooding ecstasy through their connection.
Jazz dug his claws into Prowl's back, unleashing a wild burst of electromagnetism. Prowl's sudden cry of pleasure only amped their desire up another notch. Coiled the tension tighter. Threw their passions higher.
Prowl curled his mind around Jazz's. So many thought processes happening at once. So ordered. So knowing. He knew Jazz too well. Knew where to touch, where to caress. Knew exactly what thoughts to think, what secret places to touch, to make the saboteur moan and writhe.
"So good," Jazz panted, straining against his lover. "So damn fragging good."
"The best," Prowl managed to gasp.
Without warning, they were coming to the verge. Cresting over. Lights erupted before their optics. Frames tightened and flew apart at the same time. Limbs spasmed. Armour ground until sparks appeared. Pure, unadulterated sensation gripped them, flooded them, turned them inside out. Rapturous waves of passion, desire, lust, and delicious release.
They floated on the high long after their frames stopped twitching.
Jazz found himself on top again. He didn't remember how he got there or when. Prowl watched him from the floor, flat on his back, vents heaving for air. No mask of difference shielded his features, he was open under Jazz's gaze. The saboteur knew he was the same for Prowl. The tactician could probably see into his optics and know every secret.
There was no crash after the high. Only a gentle, blissful drift back to reality. Jazz shifted, lowering his faceplate to his lovers. Their foreheads brushed intimately. Warm air mingled between them alongside electricity.
"Wow," Jazz breathed, grinning. "That was so worth it."
Prowl shuttered his optics, taking a deep drag of air. "I agree."
Jazz pulled away, met his lover's gaze. He knew everything he saw in that adoring stare was reflected in his own gaze.
They were both so fragging addicted, it was insane.
There was no helping either of them. No hope for a cure.
And they wouldn't have it any other way.