Title: Stereo Hearts

Chapter: 1

Author: SomethingIDontknow

Rating: M (For Master complexes, rape, abuse, mechs-without-gender romancing and getting it on, and some other stuff I haven't thought of yet.)

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers, that's Mr. Michael Bay's. And Hasbro's. Luckies.

Author's Note: Firstly, thank you for giving this story a chance, and I hope I convince you to keep reading. I do believe that there should be more out there for this pairing, and though it does start out rather ProwlxJazz, this will be a BlasterxJazz story. So, here we go…

Here's how we're doing this, because im easily confused by Cybertronian time, I changed it up some (a lot). (Breem: minute) (Joor: hour) (Cycle: day) (Vorn: week) (Orn: month) (Stellar Cycle: year) Hopefully this will keep it consistent.

Jazz dropped the bags he had been carrying onto the table heavily. Slumping against the counter, he panted softly, trying to help his fans cool his frame. He'd spent the day shopping for groceries and other household necessities, then spent a few hours hauling his purchases into the house. As unexciting as that sounded, it was hard work considering he'd been terribly under fueled lately. His own fault, for staying out too late when his Master had been so generous as to allow him out for the night.

Speaking of, he needed to start dinner soon if he wanted to have it done on time. And he needed everything to work perfectly for as long as possible if he wanted to go out again any time soon. Jazz scrambled around the kitchen for a while, trying to stir a heating container of mid grade in pot and put his purchases away. He played his radio quietly, not wanting to disturb his Master. Time passed, however, and as the energon simmered and he sprinkled fine metal additives into the swirling fluid, he steadily cranked his radio higher. Moving in such tiny increments, he hardly noticed, and remained sure he was staying quiet. As the energon finally distilled down to a thick, delicious smelling mixture, the black and white mech dared to scoop a small amount onto his finger. It was only a little right? And it was just to make sure dinner would be tasting it's best right? It was perfectly alright if it was to better serve his Master. As the thick, tempting fluid neared his lips, he was halted by a hand on his arm.

Busted.

He switched off his radio instantly, whirling to find Prowl of Praxus mere inches away. His Master. "S-Sir!" he stuttered, "I-I- didn't hear you come in! I- I was just about to- to test your energon. T-to make sure it was prepared c-correctly." "I can see that." The taller mech said softly, his voice was soft and dangerous, "but I believe you are not permitted such indulgences right now." "I- Yes, Sir, my apologies." Jazz lowered his optics, and bit his lip plate. Trembling ever so slightly, he offered up the still energon coated finger. Prowl raised an optic ridge, but leaned in, closing his mouth over the offered digit. Slowly, so agonizingly slowly, he stroked his glossa over the finger. Taking his time stroking the delicious fluid away.

When he finally eased Jazz's finger from his oral cavity, the praxian left a parting lick before releasing the hand. "see to it that it doesn't happen again." Prowl murmured before turning on his heel and leaving the kitchen as suddenly as he'd come.

Jazz hit the stove console, shutting off the heat, before sliding to the floor. He pulled up his knees and pressed his visored optics to his knee joints. He was shaking hard. Prowl always frightened him so terribly, and when he caught Jazz doing something wrong without directly punishing him, it left the poor mech fearing punishment for weeks to come. The black and white flicked back his visor to wipe cleansing fluid from his optics. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he snicked his visor back in place and stood with resolve. His Master would be expecting dinner soon, and Jazz was not going to give Him any more opportunity to punish him than he already had.

Prowl was sitting at his desk, in his study, reading over some data pads his Prime had sent over that morning. Apparently he was going to need to increase patrols in the second and fourth sectors. They were suffering a small spike in crime and the inhabitants were protesting loudly. The Chief Enforcer sighed to himself, making a note in his calendar to speak with Red Alert about shuffling the patrol routines. There was a chime at his door. "Come in." he called, not bothering to look up from his reading. "Your evening meal, Sir." Jazz kept his visored optics down as he set the silver tray on the wide wooden desk. The material was an import from Earth, a planet on reasonable relations with Cybertron. "Thank you Jazz." Prowl said quietly, examining his servant. The bot had been doing decently well after his most recent punishment, but having caught the mech trying to sneak energon, the Enforcer was not particularly inclined to let him off too easy. "Was there much energon left over?" he asked, feigning disinterest.

"very little, Sir."

It was hard to miss the soft rumble of the smaller mech's tanks.

"Throw it out then." Prowl ordered, watching from the corner of his optic as the mech's shoulder slumped slightly, "You may have half a cube of low grade, Jazz, but if you try to sneak any more energon, I will have to cut your ration for another quarter vorn." "Yes, Sir." Jazz murmured softly, taking the silver tray as his Master removed the cube. He bowed slightly and left without a word.

Prowl watched him go with no little interest. The smaller mech did have such a lovely frame, and it would be a shame to let such a thing go unnoticed.

Once the door was shut again and Prowl was alone, he set his data pads aside. Steepleing his fingertips, he pressed his fore helm to the arch, closing his optics to meditate. For a moment, he thought about nothing. Merely let the silence of the room permeate his processor. But soon enough, his thoughts wandered to the little mech in his house, no doubt measuring out a careful half cube at the moment. Prowl smiled to himself. Jazz was one of the last little joys in his life.

Prowl's work was hard work. He spent long hours and plenty of physical labor trying to keep the city safe. It wasn't a life that left a lot of room for relationships or family raising. When he had been a young mech, Prowl had been so sure how it would all play out. He would become a proper Enforcer, maybe meet a nice bot, start a family, live happily ever after.

It turned out, his work ment more to him than even he at anticipated. Relationships fell to the wayside, suffered, cracked. He lost a lot of friends and all of his lovers to the job. But he excelled in his chosen field. He was the youngest Chief Enforcer in the history of the force. He had been known as a clean cop back then. No nonsense about corruption in the ranks. But as Chief Enforcer, things were different. He saw now certain political games had to be played to keep his position and provide the city with what he saw as the best forms of protection.

There were perks to his position now. His new home and servant being prime examples. The house was a decently sized three bedroom in the city's upper district. Luxurious by most standards, it even had a small crystal garden in the back yard. The servant, one Jazz, was a young mech from a slum area of another nearby city.

Prowl had never approved of such customs as a patrol Enforcer, but his views had changed since then. Jazz had a nice home with him. And, as long as he behaved and did as he was told, he would be well fueled and taken care of. But the mech was a bit of an oddball by Prowl's standards. He had a penchant for human music, another import from Earth, and loved to sing and dance to that infernal radio. Prowl only permitted it on the grounds that it was to be played quietly and only when Prowl was not in the general vicinity. Taking away his radio could be a better punishment that cutting his ration for a full vorn.

All his oddities aside, Jazz was absolutely gorgeous. How he got such a delectable fame type in the slums, Prowl had no idea. The mech was all soft, shy smiles and graceful motion. Though Prowl didn't particularly like his visor, which prevented the praxian from reading his expression, the smaller mech insisted it was part of his helm build and completely unavoidable.

In the beginning of their relationship, if one could call it that, both mechs had carefully avoided physical contact. Prowl from a sense of duty, and Jazz, no doubt, from a simple dislike for his Master. Things had changed, Prowl had earned the little mech's trust, and they became close. As Prowl's only real friend and confidant, Jazz learned to accept his strict new keeper. They were comrades for a while, both so new to the world they were sharing.

Jazz's implicit trust soon created something new in Prowl. A new sense of duty. Of privilege. It started slowly, with small things. Little touches, chaste, playful kisses. Prowl never felt he was forcing the smaller mech. They were both willing participants. And Jazz was such a sweet mech, giving and so eager to please…

Prowl shook his helm and reached for his cube again. He had work to do. Pushing all thoughts of the other black and white from his processor, he picked up a data pad and continued his work.

Jazz settled on his berth with his half cube in hand. He wrapped one of his thin sheets around himself, knowing that it would get cold soon. As he sipped his energon, he turned on his radio very softly. Checking his chronometer, he switched channels rapidly. "Hey there, mechs and femmes and everybot tuning in across the city!" Inching up the volume, Jazz cuddled into his blanket to listen. "This is Blaster here, your favorite DJ!" there was a crackle of feedback as the crowd cheered. The black and white lifted his cube and took a tiny sip, savoring the low grade. It was his favorite program, a direct radio broadcast from his favorite club across the city. It was pure luck that Blaster was the one performing tonight. His favorite DJ. "We got a hot show for you tonight! But first, I got a little shout out for a good friend a mine. This poor mech got busted by the main machine for trying to have a little fun. Can you believe that!" The crowd screamed in denial and there was a round of booing. "So tonight, I think we should all party a little bit harder than usual, just for our brother being held prisoner by that big, bad machine!" The feedback returned twofold and the music started up loud. "This party's for you, Shades!" Jazz barely suppressed a squeal of excitement. Blaster was talking about him! Oh, it was so wonderful that the mech remembered!

Jazz nuzzled into his blanket, his frame rocking gently to the quiet beat. He sipped his low grade as he listened, his entire frame aching for the dance floor. Music was his deepest passion. Music of every kind, Cybertronian and Earthly, just did something to his spark. Filling him with a motive charge, it make him feel alive like nothing else. The only thing to chance competing was his love for dancing, which was technically an extension of his love for music, as his Carrier had once told him. Even his name was a form of music that had been popular on Earth many hundred stellar cycles ago. His creators had been musicians in the lower district of the city, both had loved Earth and the new styles of music it brought to Cybertron. But their passions had driven both of them to heavy drinking and illegal activity. They lost Jazz when they were unable to pay back a debt to the wrong bots.

He was dying to feel that beat pounding against him in a mass of heated bodies. Not tonight. The last time Master Prowl had allowed him out to the club, he had finally met his idol, the infamous DJ Blaster. Unfortunately, the meeting ran long and the pair ended up talking for joor about music. He was three joor late for his curfew. Prowl had hit him hard across the faceplates and cut his ration for the next few vorn. In such an uncertain state, Jazz had initiated the display in the kitchen after being caught. He shivered just thinking about it.

He was so afraid of Prowl.

The mech was taller, more powerful, and his legal owner.

After being taken from his parents, the young mech had undergone years of training before being sold to the previous owner of the home. A traumatic event to be sure. The slaves of Cybertron had been freed by legislation when the past owner moved on, and Jazz had feared terribly for his fate as an uneducated, free mech. But then he had been given a home with Prowl, a decent bed, a good place to work. It hadn't seemed so bad. And his Master had been so kind then, bringing him energon goodies when he could, stroking his helm and holding him when he woke from terrible nightmares of childhood terrors. The mech had been his hero in those days. Some kind of fairy tale savior.

But he grew older. And so did Prowl. The mech turned cold and stony. He became so immersed in his work, Jazz was the only reason he hadn't starved to death. From that gradual change of spark, came many other changes. Jazz was told to stop crying in the middle of the night, it was keeping his Master up. He was struck for the first time, for tripping on a rug and spilling energon all over his Master. He was interfaced, how ever unwillingly, for the first time. And he had tried not to struggle too much, afraid now, of being struck again, or starved, as the new favorite punishment became. Everything had gone wrong. Jazz didn't really remember where it had started. Only that it had happened, and he would never again see his Master smile without having to feel the slow burn of rape or the crack of plating against his face and helm.

Jazz tried very hard to please his Master. In his day to day service and in the berth. So long as Prowl was appeased, Jazz was usually safe. More often than not, the poor mech spent his days running at full capacity on half fueled tanks and his nights serving as a outlet for his Master's frustrations.

All he wanted was freedom. Some idealistic part of him dreamed about finding a bot that would forgive his ugly past and worn out frame and love him with all their spark, the way he would love them. But in reality, Jazz knew how hopeless his situation was. He prayed to Primus every night for freedom, more out of habit than much actual faith. But he felt better every time. Though each morning he woke again in servitude.

Turning down the radio a click, Jazz finished his half cube and set it on the floor beside his berth. He needed to be up early next cycle and he wouldn't make it without some serious recharge. Lying down and wrapping his blankets around him, he listened to the beat change as the song shifted. "If you can hear me out there Shades, we all want ya to know, we're here, waiting for ya! DJ Blaster out!" Jazz hit recharge with a soft smile on his faceplates.

A/N: Please, read and review, I'm seriously curious about how this is going to go over.