Fiction - The Game
Jazz didn’t know what to make of this game.
Prowl had cornered him as soon as he had entered their quarters, wearing that innocent smile that only turned up one corner of his delicious mouth.
It was enough to get Jazz’s compliance and Prowl had sat down on the berth explaining the rules of the game.
Thus Jazz was now stood there, legs apart, arms above his head, palms turned upwards and fingers linked together. Prowl approached him, playing with something that clinked and jangled in his right hand. The tactician unfurled his palm showing five round discs.
It was simple; Jazz had to hold the little discs between each of his linked fingers. He would win the game only if he did not drop any of the rounded discs. He was permitted to talk but no movement was allowed.
Jazz had wanted to laugh, this game would be easy to win, but he wasn’t about to ruin his lover’s fun.
Prowl’s innocence in certain areas always made Jazz love the mech that little bit more.
Prowl reached up and carefully slotted each of the smooth discs between Jazz’s joined fingers, ensuring they were lightly balanced. His body was pressed close and Jazz was holding himself back from teasing Prowl’s headlights with his glossa.
The datsun moved away before Jazz could press that advantage, standing serenely before the saboteur, a smile of sweetness gracing his tantalising lips.
Jazz smiled back, wickedly and Prowl dropped his gaze, peeking up at Jazz from under his chevron. A shy look painting his faceplates, coupled with that ever present smile that Jazz found too hot for the mech’s own good.
“Are you ready?” Prowl asked and Jazz nodded. “Remember, you cannot move, nor try to reposition the discs, they must remain as I have placed them in order for you to win.”
Jazz nodded, “Got it,” he answered, not hiding the arousal that was floating through him.
Once this little game was out the way Jazz was going to have his own fun with Prowl.
His optics took in the silent, motionless tactician as they stared at each other. Jazz’s optics devoured the pleasing chassis that he knew so intimately. His gaze traced every curve, and the barely-there angles. His lover was energon candy to the optic. Tall, graceful, a keen learner when it came to the berth. There was nothing more he could ever want than what he had with Prowl as his lover. Well maybe a bonding would be nice, but it was too soon to broach that with Prowl.
His systems were starting to heat as the silence of the room made his processor find ways to keep him from being bored. Visuals of slamming Prowl down on to the berth and tasting every part of him had his grin turning feral.
Prowl just dipped his head further, the faintness of an energon pink flush tinting what Jazz could see of his cheeks as they melded into this helm.
He couldn’t help the sigh that slipped out, vents opening wider to allow for the heat to be drained from his body.
Prowl finally moved, approaching the shelving unit that was situated behind were Jazz was stood.
The saboteur’s optics followed him as far as he could without turning his head, he could hear Prowl moving objects, data pads he assumed, on the shelves.
“Pavo Cristatus.”
The word came from over his left shoulder suddenly, and Jazz had to force his servos to not react. His head quivered as he stopped himself just in time from looking over his shoulder at the tactician.
“What?” he murmured, audios listening intently to Prowl.
His audios, fine tuned as they were, picked up on the subtle shift of joints and armour. Prowl’s voice came over his right shoulder this time and Jazz grinned, expecting it. “I said,” Prowl replied in a whispering tone, “Pavo Cristatus.”
Jazz’s audios listened to the words falling from those kissable lips. Every part of him was concentrating on each syllable and subtle nuance of Prowl’s Praxian accent; he nearly jumped when his sensors screamed at the gliding brush of something over his aft.
Jazz’s optics widened, his smile disappearing as systems registered pleasure and energon thrummed through cables, upping his arousal.
He swallowed, and his fingers almost tightened, which would have dislodged the thin discs but at the last moment he reigned in his passion, stilling himself.
“Very good Jazz,” the words rumbled into his audio, and Jazz knew at that very moment he was totally slagged.
Prowl stepped surely around coming to face the saboteur. Jazz chanced a look down with his optics as Prowl pulled something colourful through his fingers.
He held up the object. It was long with spindles, shaded an iridescent blue-green, with what appeared to be an emerald eye, and blue pupil marking it.
“Pavo Cristatus,” Prowl spoke once more, showing off the object to Jazz, the object drifted down one of Jazz’s cheeks to his chin and along his lips. Its touch satin smooth, stimulating sensors Jazz hadn’t had touched in quite a while (well at least a day), and never quite in this way. “Otherwise known as,” Prowl didn’t cease his teasing movements, “the common, or Indian, Peafowl.”
Jazz had no clue what a peafowl was and right now he didn’t care as a tremble began in his arms as the object swished over his shoulder, delicately igniting circuits and warming cables.
“Not to be confused, of course,” Prowl withdrew the object, giving Jazz a reprieve, “With the Congo Peafowl.”
Jazz gushed out the heat from his vents, focusing on the discs perched between shivering fingers. He could feel them moving, shifting a little; one was wavering with its precarious balance.
“Such concentration,” Prowl remarked, bringing the object up again this time teasing Jazz’s other cheek, sweeping it over an audio, sending a tickling sensation ringing through Jazz’s processor, before once more following the line of his chin.
“Of course, this comes from one of the males,” Prowl continued airily, as though nothing of this situation was affecting the tactician.
The sleek touch ran over trembling lips, down his chin to his neck, where it trailed so slowly over the soft rubber. His neck was one of his weakest points be it battle or interfacing and Prowl knew it.
Prowl glided the feather along his shoulder, so it curved down, the satin spindles flickering along his back before absently pulling it back.
“You may have heard of this creature, they call it a Peacock. And this is one of its feathers.”
The silken whip as it lashed against his back and neck, forced a moan from the saboteur, his knees wobbled nearly creasing in on him.
The discs tilted minutely.
He wavered between upright and all out collapse, his entire body was now suffering from minute trembles, and Jazz knew the game was far from over.
His optics pleaded for a reprieve, to give him just enough time to get his traitorous body back under control. The wicked smile that crept across Prowl’s lips, spiking the inferno in him once more, told Jazz he would not be granted that time.
“They are part of the tail,” Prowl resumed his lecture, voice dropping an octave. The feather teased a fiery trail down Jazz’s chest, finding and swirling around one headlight. “Sometimes referred to as the ‘train.’”
A flick of his wrist caused the feather to snap against the headlight, the tingle spread through the glass like ripples in a pond. Jazz cursed, and Prowl laughed.
“Are you enjoying the game, Jazz?” Prowl lowered his head, canting it slightly, as his lips wavered over Jazz’s mouth. All Jazz had to do was move and he could taste those lips, but then the game would be over and something inside him hated to lose.
The teasing returned to Jazz’s chest, flowing down to his bumper as it skittered across the rim. Every so often it would slide beneath the rim and caress hidden circuits. Jolts shot through his body, pooling in his processor that was rapidly churning over intense data that was translated to ultimate pleasure.
He held fast to the whimpers that were straining his vocaliser for release. Shifting his concentration to his fingers and those five damnable little discs that prevented him from slamming Prowl to the floor and off-lining him with as many intense overloads as he could wring out of that sexy frame.
The feather continued its travel, now reaching the other headlight, and Prowl tapped the feather gently against the headlamp absently, each touch sending a lash of delight through Jazz.
The feather swished across his entire chest area dragging out the teasing feel of softness, ramping sensors up, creating higher sensitivity to the brushing strokes.
Prowl moved the feather down, skimming it over the unprotected midsection, dragging over his speakers and leaving not one part of his midsection untouched.
The whimpers broke free and Jazz moaned long and loud, fighting against any movement of body and hands.
A quiver was beginning to run through his body gaining momentum with ever swipe, lash and caress of the feather.
“Do you know why the males have such ornamental tails, Jazz?” Prowl queried conversationally, and Jazz couldn’t help the growl. He would have revenge on Prowl for this, he swore it.
The feather blazed a trail down to his leg, skimming around his thigh, tickling at his knee joint, and skittering over his foot, before reversing its trail. Jazz off-lined his visor, slammed his mouth shut and threw every part of his concentration into holding the discs. A tremble ran through his joined fingers and the discs shimmied with the motion.
He managed to control the trembles enough as the feather attacked his other leg, before returning to swishing at his mid section like some pet’s tail.
“When the train is extended, it fans out behind the male, looking as though the tail possesses a hundred eyes.” The feather trickled its way lower, Jazz visibly gulped; trying to hold back the shudder he could feel building. “It is said that the Greek Goddess Hera placed the eyes on the Peacock from her slain giant, Argus.”
The feather swirled around in lazy circles that grew bigger as Prowl moved to his next destination.
“The truth though is that the feather is used for one purpose really.”
Jazz couldn’t hold back the begging cry as the feather skimmed lower, between his legs, caressing the seam lightly.
Prowl moved closer, his lips whispering against his audio, so near yet still not touching, “They are used to attract a mate.”
The feather lashed up, snapping against the delicate seam, curving up and whipping against his aft.
Jazz couldn’t hold on anymore as sensors finally gave into the throbbing, the stimulus enough to send his body into spasm as the overload cascaded through him, arching his back.
And all through it the only sound Jazz could really hear was the clinking of five silvery metal discs hitting the floor.
Prowl had cornered him as soon as he had entered their quarters, wearing that innocent smile that only turned up one corner of his delicious mouth.
It was enough to get Jazz’s compliance and Prowl had sat down on the berth explaining the rules of the game.
Thus Jazz was now stood there, legs apart, arms above his head, palms turned upwards and fingers linked together. Prowl approached him, playing with something that clinked and jangled in his right hand. The tactician unfurled his palm showing five round discs.
It was simple; Jazz had to hold the little discs between each of his linked fingers. He would win the game only if he did not drop any of the rounded discs. He was permitted to talk but no movement was allowed.
Jazz had wanted to laugh, this game would be easy to win, but he wasn’t about to ruin his lover’s fun.
Prowl’s innocence in certain areas always made Jazz love the mech that little bit more.
Prowl reached up and carefully slotted each of the smooth discs between Jazz’s joined fingers, ensuring they were lightly balanced. His body was pressed close and Jazz was holding himself back from teasing Prowl’s headlights with his glossa.
The datsun moved away before Jazz could press that advantage, standing serenely before the saboteur, a smile of sweetness gracing his tantalising lips.
Jazz smiled back, wickedly and Prowl dropped his gaze, peeking up at Jazz from under his chevron. A shy look painting his faceplates, coupled with that ever present smile that Jazz found too hot for the mech’s own good.
“Are you ready?” Prowl asked and Jazz nodded. “Remember, you cannot move, nor try to reposition the discs, they must remain as I have placed them in order for you to win.”
Jazz nodded, “Got it,” he answered, not hiding the arousal that was floating through him.
Once this little game was out the way Jazz was going to have his own fun with Prowl.
His optics took in the silent, motionless tactician as they stared at each other. Jazz’s optics devoured the pleasing chassis that he knew so intimately. His gaze traced every curve, and the barely-there angles. His lover was energon candy to the optic. Tall, graceful, a keen learner when it came to the berth. There was nothing more he could ever want than what he had with Prowl as his lover. Well maybe a bonding would be nice, but it was too soon to broach that with Prowl.
His systems were starting to heat as the silence of the room made his processor find ways to keep him from being bored. Visuals of slamming Prowl down on to the berth and tasting every part of him had his grin turning feral.
Prowl just dipped his head further, the faintness of an energon pink flush tinting what Jazz could see of his cheeks as they melded into this helm.
He couldn’t help the sigh that slipped out, vents opening wider to allow for the heat to be drained from his body.
Prowl finally moved, approaching the shelving unit that was situated behind were Jazz was stood.
The saboteur’s optics followed him as far as he could without turning his head, he could hear Prowl moving objects, data pads he assumed, on the shelves.
“Pavo Cristatus.”
The word came from over his left shoulder suddenly, and Jazz had to force his servos to not react. His head quivered as he stopped himself just in time from looking over his shoulder at the tactician.
“What?” he murmured, audios listening intently to Prowl.
His audios, fine tuned as they were, picked up on the subtle shift of joints and armour. Prowl’s voice came over his right shoulder this time and Jazz grinned, expecting it. “I said,” Prowl replied in a whispering tone, “Pavo Cristatus.”
Jazz’s audios listened to the words falling from those kissable lips. Every part of him was concentrating on each syllable and subtle nuance of Prowl’s Praxian accent; he nearly jumped when his sensors screamed at the gliding brush of something over his aft.
Jazz’s optics widened, his smile disappearing as systems registered pleasure and energon thrummed through cables, upping his arousal.
He swallowed, and his fingers almost tightened, which would have dislodged the thin discs but at the last moment he reigned in his passion, stilling himself.
“Very good Jazz,” the words rumbled into his audio, and Jazz knew at that very moment he was totally slagged.
Prowl stepped surely around coming to face the saboteur. Jazz chanced a look down with his optics as Prowl pulled something colourful through his fingers.
He held up the object. It was long with spindles, shaded an iridescent blue-green, with what appeared to be an emerald eye, and blue pupil marking it.
“Pavo Cristatus,” Prowl spoke once more, showing off the object to Jazz, the object drifted down one of Jazz’s cheeks to his chin and along his lips. Its touch satin smooth, stimulating sensors Jazz hadn’t had touched in quite a while (well at least a day), and never quite in this way. “Otherwise known as,” Prowl didn’t cease his teasing movements, “the common, or Indian, Peafowl.”
Jazz had no clue what a peafowl was and right now he didn’t care as a tremble began in his arms as the object swished over his shoulder, delicately igniting circuits and warming cables.
“Not to be confused, of course,” Prowl withdrew the object, giving Jazz a reprieve, “With the Congo Peafowl.”
Jazz gushed out the heat from his vents, focusing on the discs perched between shivering fingers. He could feel them moving, shifting a little; one was wavering with its precarious balance.
“Such concentration,” Prowl remarked, bringing the object up again this time teasing Jazz’s other cheek, sweeping it over an audio, sending a tickling sensation ringing through Jazz’s processor, before once more following the line of his chin.
“Of course, this comes from one of the males,” Prowl continued airily, as though nothing of this situation was affecting the tactician.
The sleek touch ran over trembling lips, down his chin to his neck, where it trailed so slowly over the soft rubber. His neck was one of his weakest points be it battle or interfacing and Prowl knew it.
Prowl glided the feather along his shoulder, so it curved down, the satin spindles flickering along his back before absently pulling it back.
“You may have heard of this creature, they call it a Peacock. And this is one of its feathers.”
The silken whip as it lashed against his back and neck, forced a moan from the saboteur, his knees wobbled nearly creasing in on him.
The discs tilted minutely.
He wavered between upright and all out collapse, his entire body was now suffering from minute trembles, and Jazz knew the game was far from over.
His optics pleaded for a reprieve, to give him just enough time to get his traitorous body back under control. The wicked smile that crept across Prowl’s lips, spiking the inferno in him once more, told Jazz he would not be granted that time.
“They are part of the tail,” Prowl resumed his lecture, voice dropping an octave. The feather teased a fiery trail down Jazz’s chest, finding and swirling around one headlight. “Sometimes referred to as the ‘train.’”
A flick of his wrist caused the feather to snap against the headlight, the tingle spread through the glass like ripples in a pond. Jazz cursed, and Prowl laughed.
“Are you enjoying the game, Jazz?” Prowl lowered his head, canting it slightly, as his lips wavered over Jazz’s mouth. All Jazz had to do was move and he could taste those lips, but then the game would be over and something inside him hated to lose.
The teasing returned to Jazz’s chest, flowing down to his bumper as it skittered across the rim. Every so often it would slide beneath the rim and caress hidden circuits. Jolts shot through his body, pooling in his processor that was rapidly churning over intense data that was translated to ultimate pleasure.
He held fast to the whimpers that were straining his vocaliser for release. Shifting his concentration to his fingers and those five damnable little discs that prevented him from slamming Prowl to the floor and off-lining him with as many intense overloads as he could wring out of that sexy frame.
The feather continued its travel, now reaching the other headlight, and Prowl tapped the feather gently against the headlamp absently, each touch sending a lash of delight through Jazz.
The feather swished across his entire chest area dragging out the teasing feel of softness, ramping sensors up, creating higher sensitivity to the brushing strokes.
Prowl moved the feather down, skimming it over the unprotected midsection, dragging over his speakers and leaving not one part of his midsection untouched.
The whimpers broke free and Jazz moaned long and loud, fighting against any movement of body and hands.
A quiver was beginning to run through his body gaining momentum with ever swipe, lash and caress of the feather.
“Do you know why the males have such ornamental tails, Jazz?” Prowl queried conversationally, and Jazz couldn’t help the growl. He would have revenge on Prowl for this, he swore it.
The feather blazed a trail down to his leg, skimming around his thigh, tickling at his knee joint, and skittering over his foot, before reversing its trail. Jazz off-lined his visor, slammed his mouth shut and threw every part of his concentration into holding the discs. A tremble ran through his joined fingers and the discs shimmied with the motion.
He managed to control the trembles enough as the feather attacked his other leg, before returning to swishing at his mid section like some pet’s tail.
“When the train is extended, it fans out behind the male, looking as though the tail possesses a hundred eyes.” The feather trickled its way lower, Jazz visibly gulped; trying to hold back the shudder he could feel building. “It is said that the Greek Goddess Hera placed the eyes on the Peacock from her slain giant, Argus.”
The feather swirled around in lazy circles that grew bigger as Prowl moved to his next destination.
“The truth though is that the feather is used for one purpose really.”
Jazz couldn’t hold back the begging cry as the feather skimmed lower, between his legs, caressing the seam lightly.
Prowl moved closer, his lips whispering against his audio, so near yet still not touching, “They are used to attract a mate.”
The feather lashed up, snapping against the delicate seam, curving up and whipping against his aft.
Jazz couldn’t hold on anymore as sensors finally gave into the throbbing, the stimulus enough to send his body into spasm as the overload cascaded through him, arching his back.
And all through it the only sound Jazz could really hear was the clinking of five silvery metal discs hitting the floor.