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shadow_vector2010-03-29 08:30 am
Fic: Statistic
Verse: G1
Rating: NC-17
Warning: sticky, also some idiot writing a pairing she sucks at,
Pairing: Jazz/Prowl
Prompt was: Prowl, Jazz pain, knife, bloodplay, NO master/slave relationship, NO game.
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wicked3659 , who gently (and very Britishly) corrected my characterizations and other stupid things. This is not, being me, fluffy!Jazz x Prowl. And it’s my first time writing the pairing. So…*nerves*. Give me a pair of psychotic Decepticons and I will smut your eyes out. Prowl and Jazz? A constant struggle. I don’t know how y’all regular Prowl/Jazz writers do it! These two are tough to write! o_O
Prowl waited anxiously by the open bay door. Jazz’s mission should have gotten back a while ago. It wasn’t like Jazz to stay radio silent this late in a mission. Not…if the mission had gone well. Prowl had a distinct and illogical sense of foreboding. Nonsense, he told himself: Jazz could handle himself.
Only…this time two of the minibots had gone with him and Prowl couldn’t, of course, say the same about them. New Army Autobots, the older mechs like Ironhide had distinguished them, and NOT as a compliment. They had to move beyond training at some point, Prowl had argued. And what better opportunity than a simple reconnaissance mission to the still-under-construction Decepticon orbital platform Ruination? Prowl had checked himself—Ruination’s perimeter defenses were not yet activated. Perfectly safe.
Then…why hadn’t he heard from Jazz? It did not make sense. Even if the mission had gone awry—terribly awry—he would have known if a distress signal activated.
Prowl was accessing his chrono one more time when he heard the hum of an approaching intersystem drive. This must be them. He felt his shoulder gyros yield in relief he didn’t dare admit. He had faith in Jazz. It would be a betrayal to even think otherwise. He glanced back at the medic team that assembled and waited for every away team’s return. Just in case, he told himself.
The bay doors ground open, the large metal doors pushing aside, the sound swallowed as vacuum sucked the atmosphere out into space. Prowl activated his magnets, his heels clicking solidly against the deck plating in slow deliberate steps as he cleared the door for the small shuttle’s return.
The shuttle limped in, one white side scored and scorched with black from laser fire, the front stabilizers rippled from weapons-heat. Plating had crackled like raku from the heat changes which told Prowl a story of a long assault and heavy weapons.
They had gone in recon, silent, lightly armed.
Prowl moved anxiously to the shuttle door. He heard banging or thumping from inside, before the door whined half open—warped on its track. He saw Jazz’s blessedly-familiar white shoulder appear and the hand shove at the door, forcing it aside with a servo-whining effort.
“Fraggin’ medic!” Jazz called. Ratchet jumped forward, two others rustling behind him to assemble a portable repair frame.
Jazz managed to pry the door open wide enough to exit, hauling Bumblebee’s smoke-scored form out with him. The yellow minibot’s optics were twitchy and tight from pain, and he was somehow missing a hand. “Gears’s in there,” Jazz snapped. He was helping Bumblebee limp down the short exit ramp, when his optics lit on Prowl. “Slag,” Jazz swore, and thrust Bumblebee into the arms of one of the junior medics.
He stormed over to Prowl and stood there, for a long moment, quivering with rage, his fists tight balls.
“The mission?”
Jazz’s trained hand leapt out, grabbing Prowl by the chin, turning his face to the shuttle, where he could see the limp form of Gears being hauled out by the medics. Gears. Barely recognizable—his armor looked…blasted off, bits of it torn and warped in a way that looked like a grenade explosion. Prowl’s optics fell to the pink trail of energon tracing a line on the floor across to the repair cradle.
“That,” Jazz hissed, “is how the mission went.”
“What happened?”
He felt the fingers tighten under his jaw. “What happened was that you sent me into the enemy’s midst with two useless New Army idiots who hadn’t the slaggin’ sense to keep their afts down.”
“That is not report-language,” Prowl said, jerking his chin out of Jazz’s hand. He’d made his point. Time for Prowl to make his. He outranked Jazz and he would be damned if he were disrespected by Jazz in front of other mechs.
“Report language!” Jazz’s own optics turned to the injured mechs, the damaged shuttle. He paused, as if taking in the shuttle’s true condition for the first time. “You’re slaggin’ worried about pretty language when you almost got all three of us killed?”
“I?” Blatant challenge. “You were the tactical commander.”
Jazz went rigid with fury. “I. Work. Alone. It was your glitch-stupid idea to saddle me with these incompetents!”
Prowl stared him down. “They’re not incompetent as much as inexperienced. As you were once.” Another reminder. Jazz was unforgiving of any mech who was less capable than he was.
“I knew enough to listen to my superiors,” Jazz said.
Prowl let that one hang. Nothing he could say would be quite as obvious as letting that statement’s falsity sour the air between them. Jazz subsided, or, more likely, regrouped.
“At least I knew enough not to take a jetpack full throttle when the enemy was out on maneuvers. Slaggin’ idiot. How many times we tell them how hot those thrusters run?”
“It was your job to restrain them.”
“My job! My job is my mission and my mission was recon.”
“Your mission had two objectives: training and recon.”
“Consider,” Jazz hissed, “them slaggin’ trained in why you shouldn’t light up IR with hot throttled jetpacks.”
“That does not count as appropriate training.” His own worry had curdled into irritation at Jazz for this…needless and completely puerile confrontation.
Jazz’s blue optics were colder than oceans. “That your idea of humor?”
“Is it?” Prowl looked back, steadily. Jazz’s emotional outburst had no place here. This was not how an army operated. Jazz had to get himself under control, remember he was a soldier. Remember Prowl was his superior.
“Probably,” Jazz muttered, “About as good as your op-plan.”
Prowl’s optics narrowed. “My operation plan had a 78% chance of success baseline.” He knew Jazz could read the implication clearly enough, even through his rage. “Did you succeed in collecting the data or did you fail in that mission objective as well?” he added, mildly.
Jazz’s shoulders bunched. “I got your slaggin’ data. Thanks for noticing the COST.” He yanked the datatrack from the compartment on his thigh armor, and slammed it against Prowl’s chassis. Prowl’s fingers closed on the datatrack.
“You’ve never complained before,” Prowl said, coolly. The hotter Jazz got, the colder Prowl’s systems went.
“You haven’t listened, sitting here safe in your fraggin’ LOGIC with your fraggin’ tactics boards and algorithms,” Jazz sneered.
Prowl glared at Jazz from under his chevron. This was bordering on insubordination. He knew Jazz was upset and was willing to make allowances, but…that had its limitations. “Errors in implementation are statistic factors as well.”
“Statistic factors? That all I am?” Jazz shoved against Prowl’s chassis with both hands. “Did you factor THIS in?” He shoved again, harder, sending Prowl staggering back a pace.
“This is not the time nor the place, Jazz,” Prowl admonished. His optics flicked to the medics working, engrossed, on the injured minicons. This display of emotion had no place here. “Control yourself.”
Jazz’s blades whipped out of nowhere. He spun them in his hands, the sleek metal blades flying in an almost graceful dance, one blade diving for Prowl’s right optic. The silver metal hung there, a monofilament’s width above the plasglass of Prowl’s optic. “Control enough?” Jazz hissed.
“Put those away.”
“Or what?” Jazz sneered. “Have to change your percentages again?” He stepped in, his chassis scraping against Prowl’s. “Hate to make you have to do math when two mechs might be dying, ya know.”
“This is inappropriate behavior. I understand that you are…upset.”
“Upset?! Upset?” The blades spun again, too fast for even Prowl’s optics to follow, blurring into an arabesque of silver, this time coming to rest against Prowl’s energon lines—one in his throat, and one and the vulnerable join in his underarm. “Damn slaggin’ right.”
“Jazz. Stop. Now.” Prowl pushed at the white mech. Enough, he thought. More than enough.
“Stop me, if you’re so slaggin’ tough.” Jazz flicked the blades against the backs of his hands, using his fingers to grab for an arm bar on Prowl. Prowl hesitated, a beat too long, thinking—logically—that there was no way Jazz would do this to him in front of the medics. No matter how engrossed they were, enraged he was. Too late, he tried to respond, and found his arm jammed in a straight line, pain shooting up his sensor net, inner cables taut and trembling.
“Jazz,” Prowl said, reasonably, “Let go.” With a sense of relief, he saw the medics finish their triage, rolling Gears, bound on the repair frame hurriedly away. Ratchet shot a worried look over his shoulder as he shooed Bumblebee ahead of him. That, at least, was gone. It didn’t change that Jazz had started this in front of them, though. Jazz was out of control.
“Tactic your way out of this one,” Jazz goaded.
Fine. Prowl rolled his thumb under, getting his elbow to bend upward, twisting low to come in with a left handed hook to Jazz’s midsection.
Jazz’s stomach plates dented at the blow, earning Prowl a satisfying ‘oof’ from Jazz, before the white mech flicked out his blades again, nicking Prowl in the elbow he still held. Pink energon ran over his fingers. “This,” Jazz said, “could be a fatal injury. If I wanted.”
“Assault on a superior officer,” Prowl snapped. “If *I* wanted.”
“You wouldn’t slaggin’ dare.”
Prowl’s optics were cold. “I do not lack the courage to tell the truth,” he said.
Jazz read it as an insult, an accusation. He shoved Prowl’s arm up and back, his leg coming around for a heel trip. Jazz was, openly, Prowl’s superior in hand to hand—the white and black mech went down, hard, on his aft. He had the skill, and foresight, to grab Jazz’s forearm with his hand, forcing the other mech to fall with him. His injured elbow burned as the rubber lips of the sliced energon line grated against each other.
“Shut up,” Jazz’s voice was harsh in his audio. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What am I talking about?” Prowl countered. Jazz, trying to hide behind some mystery. Prowl had the personnel files. He knew everything about Jazz. Knew how he worked. “You think you’re a mystery to me, Jazz?” He pitched his voice soft, refusing to rise to Jazz’s rile. He pushed back, twisting up with his hips, throwing one leg up and around Jazz’s hip, using the momentum to flip them over. He shook his hand free, straddling Jazz’s frame. “You’re no mystery.” Simple creature, Jazz was, really. His emotions were… unpredictable, and Prowl had to admit that was part of his attraction to the white mech.
Jazz snarled, bucking up against Prowl’s frame, grappling Prowl down on top of him, his blades scraping against Prowl’s sleek sides. Prowl gasped at the pain, retaliating by dragging one of his feet down Jazz’s shin, metal shrieking against metal. He heard Jazz suck in a vent through gritted teeth. The sound crossed in Prowl’s systems, reading not as pain but as desire. He felt an answering surge in his own sensornet, sparkling, white, electric.
“No mystery at all.” He dropped his mouth against Jazz’s, feeling at first the adamant protest, the refusal to admit the desire that underlay his anger, that he found Prowl’s aloofness, Prowl’s logic just as alluring as Prowl found his wild emotions. Prowl felt the knives skitter lightly across his armor, almost gentle touches, tantalizing in their potential threat. The mouth bit against his, denta raking over his lips, growl vibrating, echoing in his own mouth.
The next few kliks were long struggles, the two of them wrestling with each other, grappling with their own mixed desires—desire, pride, dominance. Neither willing to submit to the other, neither willing to own to their open need. Prowl not wanting to admit to anything so low as sexual desire: Jazz not wanting to give in to his lust over his anger. Both of them fighting their respective pride.
Jazz’s hands pushed at Prowl, working for leverage points on his shoulder armor, trying to create distance. Prowl could feel the battered rough metal of Jazz’s fingertips across his sleek enamel, digging for seams, trying to push in and under the armor plates, firing Prowl’s own arousal. He could smell the acrid scent of space combat above the more familiar Jazz odors of oil and black rubber. He heard a growl build in his own throat, his own hands clutched back at Jazz.
Jazz’s hips surged under his, trying to flip Prowl’s weight off. Prowl rocked forward, letting the move drop his chassis onto Jazz’s, his face a finger’s width from the saboteur’s.
“They could have died out there,” Jazz snarled, his visor glinting with scarcely-restrained emotion.
“Statistically, an acceptable loss. “ It would not even have radically altered the casualty statistics for the joor. War happened. It offlined mechs. It was a numbers game, but they were far from being bled white.
Jazz’s mouth pinched into a hostile line. “I could have died. Statistically acceptable, too?”
“Less so.” As a tactician, Prowl factored into the formula Jazz’s long service and experience as far more valuable than two completely callow minibots. It was simple logic.
“Less so,” Jazz echoed. Prowl felt the servos bunch under him, the powerful body coiling for a strike. Suddenly, Jazz twisted up and, sweeping one of Prowl’s supporting knees out from under him, flipped them both over. Jazz on top of Prowl, his hand on the center of Prowl’s grille. Prowl winced in pain at the wrench of one of his doorwings against the floor.
“Less so,” Jazz repeated. “Show you, ‘less so.’” His free hand tore at Prowl’s interface hatch, fingers wiping a hard arc around the valve until the cover released. Prowl pushed up, but Jazz simply threw more of his weight into the arm on Prowl’s chassis, pinning him to the floor above and below his center of gravity.
Jazz’s mouth twitched, flickering between desire and a hurt kind of anger at Prowl’s casual dismissal of his worth. A smile haunted Prowl’s own mouth, feeling Jazz’s lust rising in the other mech, a force Jazz couldn’t resist, couldn’t bring himself to fight. Prowl’s own desire answered back, a warm tide lapping around his sensornet shimmering blue white like Jazz’s visor. He released a vent of air, feeling the hot puff escape him, brush Jazz’s cheek like a gentle caress.
“Show me more,” he breathed.
Shifting his hips, Jazz snarled, sinking his spike into Prowl’s valve, denta gritted. As though this were an assault. As though Prowl didn’t want this. How little Jazz knew.
Prowl tilted his hips up into each of the desperate thrusts, feeling the spike slick and tingling across his valve nodes, the rawness of the contact exactly what he wanted. He wanted Jazz like this: rough, wild, untamed. Gentle, considerate, mild…he could have that with any mech. Only Jazz could give him this. He could feel Jazz’s rage turn to passion. He lifted his head, his hands pulling Jazz’s face closer, closing the distance between their mouths.
Jazz’s kiss was hungry, fierce, his body arching and contracting over Prowl’s, his hands almost frantic over Prowl’s arms, body.
“No,” Jazz said abruptly, tearing his mouth from Prowl’s. “Not like this.”
Prowl’s hands tightened around Jazz’s shoulders, sliding one inner thigh along Jazz’s hip. “Yes. Like this.”
“No. Not until you feel something.” One hand flicked out, the blade slipping into his hand, nicking just under Prowl’s chin. Prowl flinched, a tremor running down his frame, his net scattering alarms of pain like pebbles. He felt a hot line of energon on the outside of its hose, then the greater heat of Jazz’s glossa, at first licking, then fastening on to suck at the wound, the energon buzzing against his glossa—Prowl could feel it, a sort of hot effervescence against his throat. He squirmed , the bubbling tingle seeming to travel through his sensor net as well, an unfamiliar sensation. He was not sure he liked it.
Jazz gave a sound that was half-growl, half-groan, his mouth still on Prowl’s throat, his hands slicking down Prowl’s sides. Jazz shifted his weight, his spike rocking in Prowl’s valve, sliding against the nodes. The lubricant, which had been heated from the friction of Jazz’s initial drive, slowly cooled, the fading charges dying in intermittent sparkings, which caused the valve to twitch against Jazz’s spike. The sensation was…intriguing. He curled his own pelvic frame up, cupping into Jazz’s move. “Jazz,” he croaked. Jazz stifled whatever he was about to say with one hand: Prowl could feel burrs from Jazz’s injured fingertips across his cheekplates, taste the metal of Jazz’s palm against his mouth.
“I don’t want to hear anything from you,” Jazz said, coldly, lifting his mouth from Prowl’s throat. Their optics met for a long strange trembling moment, anger and lust and unspoken tension, the push-pull of their mutual attraction, crackled between them. “Just give me what I want.”
They held each others’ gaze, too stubborn, too proud to look away. Jazz clutched one hand around Prowl’s helm, his pelvic frame dragging against Prowl’s, as he resumed, abruptly, thrusting his spike into Prowl’s valve. Prowl pulled Jazz’s body down onto him, trying to pull his face into another kiss, his systems reacting to the spike’s action, the charge building across his nodes, but Jazz resisted, optics locked, his neck servo’s straining under the downward pressure of Prowl’s hand. The tactician shuddered, suddenly, a little surprised by the intensity, as if his body was resisting his processor’s control.
Prowl saw spatters of his energon, like flat pink jewels, flecking Jazz’s mouth. Prowl felt a strange and sudden need to lick those pink droplets, feel his own energon tickle against his glossa, a physical echo of the scintillant charge rising across his net. His mouth worked under Jazz’s covering hand, his glossa flicking into the joints of Jazz’s fingers.
Those hands—so capable, so lethal. He could taste the char from weapons discharge, his glossa smooth and nimble over the battle-roughened plates. Jazz trembled—Prowl could feel it travel down the arm servos. He could see Jazz fighting with himself, his expressive mouth running through a gamut of emotions, as still, his body surged against Prowl’s, his breath ragged and hot, venting against Prowl’s chassis.
Their bodies twined together, understanding, admitting what their processors did not want to acknowledge—the perfection of their fit, the complementarity of their personalities, how they completed each other. Strength to strength. Even their frames fit perfectly together : one rough, one smooth, their almost-matching limbs striving together, arms and legs and torsos moving into and over each other, familiar and yet distant. Too distant for Jazz. Who always, always wanted more.
“More,” Jazz whispered, taking his free hand and driving the thumb into a sensitive nerve cluster in the underarm. Prowl couldn’t prevent the gasp from escaping, the air bursting from between Jazz’s fingers. His valve clutched at Jazz’s intrusion, his fingers tightening around Jazz’s doorwing mountings.
Jazz’s visor dimmed for a klik, delving deeper into the moment—his spike fighting the tight embrace of Prowl’s valve, the lubricant heating again from the friction, spreading warm and liquidy across his panel, making a slow trail to his own still-covered valve. Prowl wrapped one leg around his hips, goading him, pulling him, taking, not resisting. The hands, pulling at his wings, were driving him wild with the way they shot hot signals of not-quite-pain across his net. Prowl was…everything to him. With only the one failing: that everything with Prowl was a battleplan. Even this, even as he maddened Jazz with his touches, with the way his hips rose to meet him, Jazz knew that this was all…planned. Unspontaneous. As hard as he had tried to push Prowl into spontaneity, even the touches on his doorwings were familiar, followed a pattern.
Gah! Jazz switched his position, stifling his cry of frustration, rolling Prowl on top of him, flattening his own wings against the floor, the movement so fast one of Prowl’s hands got pinned between his helm and the ground. He wrapped his arms tightly around Prowl’s frame, driving his spike, his hips, his entire frame up, up and into Prowl’s valve. He felt a rush of desire as he heard Prowl whimper in his audio, a sound of animal pleasure. Prowl’s optics were closed, mouth parted slightly, his entire body suddenly tremblingly alive. Jazz raked his hands down Prowl’s back, under the wing mountings, to the hip fairings, feeling the sinuous response snaking down the backstruts, following his touch.
Yes, he thought. Yes. Finally, Prowl was outside of the safe nest of his logic, feeling the wildness, the vibrant chaos of his own emotions, his own body. Life, Jazz would call it: the thrill he felt in combat, the rise of the pure will to live like a hot green desire shooting through his net, determined to outface the odds, to return alive. And always, always, Jazz had given in to that green desire and it had brought him safely home. It was raw and wild and untamed and everything, everything Jazz was, and he wanted Prowl to see it, to sense it, to KNOW it, not just in a cold, clinical academic sense, but to feel the rush of pain and fear and the furious will toward release.
Prowl’s vents grew more uneven as he tried to fight them, fight his own rising desire. Jazz’s hips drove into him, Jazz’s feet flat on the floor, knees bent between Prowl’s legs to give him leverage to drive deeper into Prowl, his hands clawing at the slick-shiny enamel of Prowl’s pelvic frame, fighting his own desire, determined to break Prowl out of his cold shell first before he gave in.
Prowl locked his mouth on Jazz’s, his glossa eager, intrusive, pushing into Jazz’s mouth, tasting for the remnants of his own energon, tasting, Jazz thought, everything that was life and meaning. The kiss ruptured when an overload tore through the both of them, forcing cries of primal satisfaction from both of them.
Prowl lay, shivering, in Jazz’s clutch. Jazz forced his arms to release, with a hiss of hydraulics, to a less demanding embrace. He reached one hand and gently stroked the red chevron, his blades tucked away in his wrist catchments. The harshness was over, and now, he knew, was the time for tenderness.
“Not just a statistic,” Jazz whispered, knowing Prowl would know what he meant. That he wanted to be, to Prowl, more than a battle stat. More than a piece to move around a tactical board.
“No,” Prowl said. “More than that.” He lifted his head into Jazz’s touch, allowing Jazz’s fingers to trace the chevron’s taper, then travel over to his audio. Prowl normally hated such tenderness, and these few rare moments when he allowed them, when he allowed that he enjoyed them, were bright jewels in Jazz’s cortex. “I cannot allow myself to be overwhelmed with worry,” he added, softly, “or else it would seem I doubted you.”
“But you were here. Waiting.”
“Yes. Knowing you would return.”
Jazz felt the nuance keenly. His arms tightened around Prowl’s shoulders. “Sorry about the scene.”
“Are you?” A flicker of a smile on Prowl’s normally-stern mouth, his optics flickering down their still joined bodies, their cooling fans humming in synchrony.
Jazz’s smile took root in Prowl’s, and he reached up, as Prowl leaned down, their mouths joining in a gentle , lingering kiss.
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I hope it came out that they actually, in the end, respect each other and care about each other.
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excellent work here, darling.
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I love a good 'bawwwwww' fic. I just...can't write that way. Thankfully, fanfic's a pretty big place and I hope there's room for darker PxJ, too.
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*flatlines*
oh god so hot. I can die happy now. Thank you.
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I normally skip Prowl/Jazz stuff. It just seems to happy and impossible. The 2IC and 3IC in a relationship? Yeah right... I don't see that unless it is in the movies.
Wow you made them... real in a way. Indescibable.
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I wrote it because someone requested--otherwise I'd stick with my naughty, naughty 'cons. :P
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What a ride, I loved it! It's a great look into their dark sides and I really enjoyed how you noted the reasons why these two just...work; the reasoning behind the attraction and such.
Jazz's anger was hot and very IC, imo. I find it very believable he could behave this violently when pushed to his limits. And his desire to make Prowl "feel"...rawr!
The tenderness at the end was the perfect touch, especially with Prowl's little jab.
Squee. ^_^
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Wonderful job! I love your portrayal of them. I've been hankering to read some more real, gritty P/J. Thanks for sharing. :)
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That being said, I don't see myself flooding the world with the pairing. I gots mah 'cons to smut up!
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I'm always happy when their partnership isn't all sunshine and rainbows. VERY nice.
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Seriously, though - hot and amazing, and a nice change-of-take on the pairing ^^
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*Flying Glomp Hug* Thank you so much this is exactly the type of feel (to the story) I wanted.
Now I must find a believable excuse for the twisted/satisfied grin I'll be sporting at work tomorrow
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I looooooove it XDDD I adore Prowl/Jazz (pretty much all versions I'd have to say) but darker versions of them are hard to come by. You know as well as anybody that there's some part of Jazz that's super deadly and dangerous and I love that part of him! (Unfortunately I can never make him that way... everything I write turns into fluff and about half the time I don't even know how but it does *rolls eyes*)
Knife/Blood play don't fall very high on my list of kinks but wow! I definitely found it pretty hot here so kudos for being able to do dark Prowl/Jazz so fantastically!!!
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