I lied: this is the chapter with the temperature gauge. That's my bad. Have some smut.

I don't know if anyone approves of Jazz being the seme and Prowl being the uke or not, but I'm testing it out and seeing how this works. Give me your honest opinion (as in honest, not rude).

Chapter X

Jazz leaned against the wall for support while Prowl turned the water on. The shower head sprayed cold water briefly at Jazz, causing him to yelp, before warming up. When Prowl stood back up, Jazz wrapped his arms around him from behind, engine vibrating against his back.

"Don't forget mah chest, sweetie," Jazz purred. "Still got some jelly on it from b'fore."

"I thought you scrubbed it all off," Prowl said, wiggling out of his grip to look. There was a soft pink shade spotted on Jazz's chassis that he had not noticed earlier.

"Tried to." The white mech pouted. "Can't do it by mahself…" He grinned.

"You're still wasted, aren't you?"

"More like 'buzzed'," Jazz admitted, the Z's trailing when he said it. "But you still look sexy as ever, so I don't think I'm too affected… Dun worry, I'll be fine."

Prowl reached around and grabbed a sponge and a bottle full of cleanser. Jazz grabbed his wrist to take a look at the soap. A snarl made its way onto his lips.

"What wrong?" the officer asked. "It's standard."

"Standard's bad. No wonder yer paint's all pale."

"It's good enough."

"I's fraggin' dishwasher soap!" He looked around the rack. "Don't you got somethin' else?"

"This is all."

"Cheapskate."

Prowl sighed, pouring some of the thick soap onto the sponge. "You're just going to have to deal with it."

"At least scrub slow," Jazz requested. "I don't want that slag peelin' off mah paint. I pay good money fo' this finish."

"Then standard won't hurt you at all."

He did as he was told. Prowl worked first on his arms, rotating the sponge slowly and gently. The rhythmic patterns hypnotized the smaller mech. His visor dimmed and a thin smile stretched tightly onto his face. Prowl kept glancing at him to make sure he was happy.

When his arms were good and sudsy, he moved on to the chest. Judging by Jazz's dazed look, he knew what the dancer wanted. He wanted to be pleasured, not cleaned, and he wanted to see if the officer could rile him up without Jazz having to move. Holding his gaze, Prowl gave a long lick to one of the glass headlights and he heard a violent growl from the smaller mech's engine. But Jazz had barely flinched. His vocalizer had not made a sound. The black and white mech stopped, concerned that he had done something wrong, but Jazz smirked. This was a test and he had to prove himself.

But what was there to prove? What point could he possibly be making? Or was he just playing another game with him? That was his job after all, teasing people and putting on a show, if he was getting paid. Prowl knew full well Jazz was not going to charge him, so there was no point in acting. What was he trying to gain?

He blinked, trying to focus back in what they were doing. Jazz had slightly adjusted, pushing his chassis out for Prowl to scrub, and the law enforcer rubbed the sponge over the faded pink spot, knowing that if Jazz wanted anything to get washed down first it would have been the blemish. He felt something pinch on his crest and looked up. Jazz was smiling down at him, stroking his helm and playing with the red crest at the front. Prowl grinned. He knew this game. The last time they had interfaced, it happened in quick and risky movements. Jazz wanted to be coaxed into it this time.

"This is for free, babe," Jazz muttered, part of his visor flickering in a wink. "Make it count, or I might charge ya the next time."

"Yes sir," the officer growled, settling on his knees and kissing Jazz's upper midsection, putting his arms around his back to press against him. He felt another wave of heat from his "master" and something poke at his chest. He allowed himself a moment to look and see that Jazz's spike had bulged against the plating. He chuckled.

"Keep it in for as long as you can," Prowl advised. "We don't want to go too fast."

"Then go slower."

The officer took the sponge and rubbed it vertically across Jazz's midsection. He saw his frame expanding and constricting at a quick rate, trying to cool down. He turned for a moment to lower the water temperature, and when he turned back, Jazz's midsection had become his back. He glanced up, and Jazz was peering over his shoulder to grin down at him. Prowl looked back down at Jazz's aft and smiled. He never had a good look at it before, paranoid that once he did the dancer would turn around to catch him and tease him about it. In the privacy of his home, in his wash rack, Jazz indirectly gave him permission to stare for as long as he wanted. He kissed right above it, and Jazz squirmed in delight. Prowl moved the sponge over it, working slowly, one hemisphere at a time.

Jazz reached his arms out to lean against the wall to keep himself upright and to arch his aft closer to his toy. The high grade and copper oxide, mixed in with the steam from the water, was rendering him shaky and lightheaded. Prowl was treating him so delicately, and silently. Other mechs he had showered with scrubbed him down mercilessly to grind out a few moans and to get right down to business, speaking seductively as well as their one-track minds could. He let out a soft moan when Prowl rubbed the sponge between his thighs and over his mound.

"Slow down there, officer," Jazz said, water vaporizing as soon as it hit his frame. "I still want it to last…"

"Sure." By now the drug had subsided. Everything he felt now was from his own actions and emotions. He wanted to love this mech. He wanted to touch every inch of him, to taste him again. He wanted to push him down, make him moan beneath him, make him cry out for a release and scream his name. What if they switched roles? What if it was Jazz who would force himself onto him? Oh, he wouldn't mind that a bit. Just the thought of the white mech growling and pinning him down… His fans clicked on. He had to turn to reset the water and make it colder. Even with a ten degree alteration, his frame could not feel the difference.

"Turn around and lay down," Prowl instructed. He thought for a moment Jazz was going to retort and say that he was in charge and to remember who had lost their bet. But he cooperated, processor too hazed to fight back, and he lay on the tile floor, spreading his legs up and apart to give Prowl some room to settle in between.

The white mech smiled and bit on a digit flirtatiously. Unexpectedly, Prowl winked, making Jazz's spark jump a little in its chamber. Before he could comment on how Prowl should do that more often, the officer scrubbed the sponge on the smaller mech's heated interface panel. Jazz moaned, visor flickering and head tilting back. He arched his back to lift his port covering, encouraging Prowl to rub harder, voicing his needs.

"More, Prowler," Jazz said in between gasps. "I need more! Ooh, it's so good!"

He rubbed a little harder, then went in slow circles. Jazz writhed on the floor, his legs trying to fold around something but just ended up pressing his knees together, making it harder for Prowl to get to the spot he was rubbing, forcing the sponge through the triangular gap in the dancer's upper thighs. Jazz moaned again, calling out the officer's name.

Then he stopped.

Without any hint or warning, he just stopped. He backed away and stared at Jazz, or at least tried to through the mist. Jazz sat up lazily, panting and cupping a hand over his interface.

"Why'd you stop?" the white mech asked, visor piercing through the haze.

"Too much…" Prowl muttered, clearing his processor first. "We're going to overheat in here… We—We've gotta move somewhere else…"

Jazz leaned forward, his chassis pressing against Prowl's shoulder as he tested the water behind him.

"Just make the water colder," he whined.

"Jazz," the officer gasped, "it's at five below. It'll be ice coming from the faucet soon enough."

"Hm, not with us tusslin' around." Jazz purred and licked the red crest on his helm. Prowl shook his head.

"It's too hot in here," he stated in final authority.

"Fine, have it your way." Jazz stood up, putting an arm against the wall for support. "Rinse me down first. I don't want scud on my finish."

While Prowl was rinsing off the soap, Jazz did everything he could to keep his slave heated. He rubbed their chassis together, contoured his hands up and down the officer's waist, bumped their port coverings together, and rubbed over the glass headlights. Prowl was trying hard to restrain himself, his primal instinct telling him to pin this gorgeous mech against the wall and slam ruthlessly into him.

They didn't need a towel. Their overheated bodies evaporated any water that was left on them, but some droplets were still leftover, making them shine in the refracted light. Prowl knew that Jazz looked better though, since his own frame had faded paint he had neglected for a long time. Jazz, however, was dazzling.

"You choose," Prowl said, keeping to their bet. "Where do you want this to be?"

"Not a lot of choices here, Prowl," Jazz murmured, stroking a digit down his chassis that chased a falling droplet. From the tone of his voice, some of the drug had waned. "I mean, the neighbors'll hear us anyway."

"Then it won't matter, will it?"

Jazz's engine purred. "I think I'm in love with you."

Not wanting to ruin his chance by saying something stupid, Prowl locked lips with his guest and "master." He intended it to be short and sweet, but Jazz insisted it was wet and hot, holding the back of his helm so he wouldn't go anywhere or pull back, sliding his glossa through to tangle with Prowl's. The officer's own engine hummed and he returned the kiss with passion, letting their glossas battle it out. Jazz shifted and sucked on Prowl's lower lip, muffled groans escaping his vocalizer. Prowl's hands wandered, going up Jazz's waist, back down his arms, and holding his hands, interlacing their digits. Jazz pulled his helm back to break the kiss, smiling with joy. He looked down at their hands and back to Prowl's gleaming blue optics.

"That's probably the sweetest kiss I've ever had," Jazz complimented. Somewhere, in Prowl's mind, he believed him.

Keeping one set of hands locked, Jazz moved them out of the wash room and straight into Prowl's room. The temperature change was drastic but relaxing against their hot moldings. Jazz closed the door, although he knew no one else would be wandering in, and took a few steps away from Prowl. They stood there, facing each other. The officer waited for instructions.

Jazz smirked after a few moments of thinking, a flash moving across his visor. He walked backwards against the opposite wall, one pede pushing against it, his hands against the wall and going up in slow synchronization over his head. Prowl cycled a deep breath to cool down. Jazz was teasing again.

The white mech lifted his hand and tugged a finger in the air, signaling him to come closer. Prowl made it three feet from him when Jazz pointed down to the floor.

"On your knees," Jazz said with a tone. Prowl almost thought he was mad at something. Was it because he stopped their foreplay so soon? He did as he was told anyway and got on the floor, looking up for further instruction. "Hands here." Jazz bent forward to grab his toy's hands and place them on either side of his black hips. He smiled, content that he was obeying orders so far. "Now, you get a choice." Prowl raised an optic ridge. "This night can go in two different ways dependin' on which one you pick. If you feel like being the glitch tonight, open my spike covering. And if you do, I get every say in what I do to you and you have to take it like a mech." Prowl's engine's growled more loudly than he wanted it to. "If you want to take the top, then I'll do whatever you say and the bet's off. If you want that, open my port."

Now how in the blazing Pit did he expect him to think straight after all of the foreplay that had just happened? As a tactician, Prowl thought of the outcomes should he choose either and it was pretty difficult to do so in his condition. Was Jazz trying to see what he really wanted? When reverted back into a primal stage, everything becomes subject to instinct, the thing that decides what you really want most. Now that he was given a choice, he wasn't sure what he wanted. Actually, he wanted both, to slide into Jazz and for Jazz to take him. But he could only choose one.

"Don't make me wait or I'll choose for ya," Jazz teased, brushing his pede to Prowl's panel. He realized he had been staring at Jazz's groin for a few long seconds. Finally, his instinct chose, and it chose to be fair. Since he had dominated Jazz the night before, it was now the white mech's turn to prove his own mettle.

He gave Jazz's panel one long lick before opening up the covering to his shaft, sucking at the base of the white cable with its grey underside. Jazz gave out a gasp of surprise and pleasure. He thought Prowl would be one of those mechs who could not stand being the submissive role, in or out of the berth. The law enforcer proved him wrong.

Prowl sucked at the head, teasing his glossa over the slit, making Jazz have to buckle his legs so he would not fall down. The dancer leaned his helm back and moaned, telling his slave to keep going, and thrusting his hips a little forward in emphasis. Prowl allowed himself to take a little more in, rubbing his glossa against the underside of the shaft. Jazz groaned at the heat as Prowl slowly bobbed his helm, going as far as halfway down his length.

"C'mon, Prowl, all the way," Jazz growled. "Do it or I'll force it in."

Prowl's door wings twitched in surprise. When did Jazz become bossy? He shrugged it off, believing it was part of the act, and focused back on the task he was commanded to perform. He took in a little more but had to pull out to cough. Jazz's visor dimmed in amusement.

"What's wrong, sugar rims?" Jazz gyrated his hips to rub his spike against Prowl's cheek. "Too much?"

Prowl shot him a defiant glare, then placed Jazz's spike back into his mouth to try again. It had been thicker than he expected, given Jazz's body shape and size, but it was shorter than his own. He swallowed it again, this time hallowing out his cheeks to allow it more room. The white mech moaned and stroked his hand across Prowl's helm, further arousing him, and pinching at the red crest.

"That's enough," Jazz said after a while. Prowl leaned his helm back, mouth open to breathe. Jazz kneeled down and kept stroking at his helm, visor dimming with affection. The officer wondered what his optics really looked like behind the shades.

"Don't cops keep handcuffs on them at all times?" Jazz inquired, a sly grin working its way onto his face.

Prowl answered with a smile, and pulled out, from his subspace, a pair of handcuffs. He knew exactly where this was headed and his engine revved. Who had known Jazz was this kinky?

Jazz took the cuffs and stood up, grabbing Prowl's arm to pull him. "On the berth, face down," he ordered, and the officer obliged. He crawled onto his berth with his front side on the padding and felt Jazz take his hands behind his back and lock the cuffs. Whatever happened now was up to his guest; he was immobilized.

The dancer sat on Prowl's legs, roaming his hands over the officer's back and door wings. Traces of static bit into the wires as Jazz transmitted a weak EM pulse from his hands, causing him to fidget. He craned his neck as much as he could to get a look at what Jazz was doing.

"Anxious, much?" Jazz teased, misinterpreting the bright look of Prowl's optics. "I'll spike ya soon enough, don't worry."

The bluntness of the sentence alone generated visible heat waves coming from the covering of his port. He thought Jazz would have been more eloquent in his choice of words, or at least he seemed to be that kind of mech. But he remembered a long time ago, the last time he had a berth partner, sugar-coating and sweet talking and subtle suggestions never really got him riled. Dirty talks and blatant words, speaking as if fragging was something everyone did on a normal basis, with a tone of devilish dominance, made his processor refuse to think anymore and just let everything happen according to pleasurable desires.

His legs writhed when he felt something hot brush against his aft. He turned his head again to try and look, but could not see, yet he could tell from Jazz's position that the black and white mech was rubbing his spike against his covering.

"More…" his vocals whispered before he had time to silence them. Jazz purred, engine rumbling, and leaned over to speak into Prowl's audio receptors.

"You want some more, Prowl?" he growled, ghosting his hands over his waist and hips. Prowl answered by raising his aft closer to him, but Jazz wanted to hear it spoken aloud. He pulled back for a second to smack his hand against his rear, eliciting a squeak from the mech below. "I said, do you want some more?"

"Yes," Prowl gasped.

"You want me to dig my spike into your port?"

"Nh." He thought the answer was obvious by now, but Jazz gave him another hard rap for not answering. "Yes! Jazz, please!"

"Now that's more like it…"

He rubbed his hands on Prowl's aft, buffing out the sharp pain. Prowl was moaning, having to prop his lower body up onto his knees in attempt to get closer to Jazz's touch, encouraging him to do something else more exciting. Jazz indulged, finding the switch to Prowl's valve covering and gradually sliding in a digit. Prowl groaned, wriggling his aft to push it in deeper.

Jazz chuckled. He was glad that Prowl was interchangeable like he was, comfortable with being either top or bottom in the berth. Most mechs of his attitude he had met insisted on being the dominant one. It tickled him to know that Prowl did not care, as long as they both did what they wanted.

The officer's arms moved, snapping him out of his trance of the pretty sight of Prowl's lubricants coating over his digit. He tilted his head to the side to see Prowl desperately trying to spread his arms in a weak attempt to break the cuffs off of his wrists. Jazz hummed, taking his digit out of the sleek valve as punishment for misbehaving. Prowl's intakes hitched and he whined, leaking port clenching around nothing.

"I'm… I-I'm sorry," Prowl said, spreading his knees apart in apology, silently begging for him to keep going. "The, uh, cuffs are a little… itchy…"

"Ha!" Jazz exclaimed. "A little itchy? Isn't that what I said to you the night we met, and you still didn't let me out of 'em?"

Prowl accessed his memory banks, his processor still flooded with pleasurable emotions actively hindering him from the process. "That was totally different," he murmured angrily.

"You're right, it was." Jazz took his oily-coated digit and traced the rim of the cuffs on Prowl's wrists. "But this is my night, Prowler, we had a bet. You're just gonna have to lay there and take it."

He felt something thicker and more round than a digit pressing into his valve this time. He gave out a shout and thrust his aft down, letting more of Jazz's shaft penetrate him. The white mech behind him grunted.

"You're a bit tight, officer," he teased. "I don't think you're ready for this."

"I'm ready!" he said, hull moving rapidly to combat his growing heat. The mech writhed, struggling to get the cable at a better angle in his port.

"Slow down there, hot rod," Jazz soothed, rubbing his hands over Prowl's door wings. The officer's optics flickered in relaxation, but his port was still throbbing for more attention. "I gotta go slow first, else you wanna rip somethin'. You don't want to explain to the doc in the E.R. how you got ya port seam ripped, do ya?"

Prowl shook his head, but reminded himself that Jazz wanted to hear him speak when he was asked. "No…" If the story had spread to his workplace, the other officers would never let him live it down.

"Then relax."

Jazz positioned himself, grabbing the middle chain of Prowl's cuffs with one hand and holding the side of his white hips with the other. He exhaled, calming his engorging spark, and slowly rocked into the mech below, stopping halfway before sliding out again to the tip and going back in. He continued this motion, feeling for the signs of adjustment, the abundant amount of lubricants helping with the pressure. Prowl heeded his advice and calmed down, expressing it in low moans and closed optics. He felt helpless to do anything, and that was alright with him. Jazz was a professional, and he trusted him, more than he really should have.

The dancer moved faster, spike pumping into the officer's valve with wet thuds, hitting the back sensor node. Prowl moaned louder, moving his hips to angle it differently, but their current position was deterring his ability to do so. He gritted his denta, whining in frustration.

Jazz slowed and pulled out to reset, cable swelling and spark pounding. Prowl's frame arched in reaction to the sudden coolness over his port. He heard a clicking sound as Jazz was trying to uncuff him. He did not say anything, afraid that if he spoke then the white mech would change his mind.

"You've been a good boy, Prowl," Jazz cooed. "Very good." When the cuffs finally unlocked, he threw them across the room to clang against the floor. Prowl propped up on his elbows and rubbed his wrists, thankful that the uncomfortable itch had went away. Jazz stroked the rim of his port, triggering whimpers. "You get this one last little privilege. Which position do you want me to spike you in?"

Again with the hard questions. He was beyond able to think. He did not care anymore, as long as his pending overload came soon. In his present spot, he could see his berth getting stained with his own transparent lubricant. When he did not answer his question soon enough, Jazz teased his port by tracing the circle with the head of his shaft.

"Time's up," Jazz said, fully knowing Prowl was not going to speak anyway. "I get to pick. Sit up."

Prowl lazily twisted around onto his back and lifted himself up with shaking servos. His vision went to static for a minute, making him dizzy and lightheaded. Jazz pushed him back so he was leaning against the wall. "Don't move, baby."

The officer nodded his helm loosely. "Just do it…" he breathed, "…quickly…"

"Ain't gotta tell me twice." Jazz rested one knee between Prowl's legs and a pede outside. He scooted closer, getting Prowl's aft onto his thigh and teased again with his port. "You want it hard?"

"Ohh, yes…" he moaned, imagination working on the mental-physical feeling.

"Tell me if it gets too rough."

Jazz held onto Prowl's hips, dipping his spike into his wet valve, starting off at a slow pace and accelerating after each thrust. The officer grabbed onto his shoulders, crying out as Jazz hit every sweet spot he had and had not known about. Jazz took one of his legs to twist his hips to the side and hit another cluster of nodes, sending wave after wave of static-riddled pleasure.

"Don't stop, Jazz," he groaned. "Primus, don't stop!"

"Mm, frag!" Jazz growled. He bent over him, ramming into the back sensor node. "Keep talkin', Prowl. Lemme hear ya scream."

The officer did as told, screaming out all the ways in which he wanted to overload with him. He thought he heard a knock on his wall and a voice telling them to kindly shut the frag up but he ignored it. His neighbors would just have to live with his noises for a few more minutes. Jazz chuckled, getting distracted, and Prowl leaned up, holding the back of his helm, whispering to keep him focused.

"Come on, Jazz, do it," he snarled. "I need you! Come in me!"

Jazz growled, biting down on Prowl's neck cabling, marking him, and continued thrusting. The sound of metal scraping and clanking together along with animalistic noises from both mechs filled the room. Prowl dug his digits into Jazz's back as his valve clenched one final time, squeezing Jazz's overload into him. Jazz's frame shivered and he moaned aloud, driving every last bit of his excess out.

Prowl could not move. His frame was stunned with electric impulses. Jazz leaned his helm back, panting hard, and smiling.

"You ain't half bad, Prowl…" he said, static crossing his overworked vocalizer.

"You would know," the officer muttered, letting gravity drop his arms to his sides and his head lean to the side. Jazz grabbed his chin to turn it back to face him. He pressed his forehelm against his.

They stayed like this for some time, moving only to roam their hands across the other, Prowl's optics dimming with exhaustion and Jazz's visor gleaming with satisfaction. In a swift moment, Prowl caught sight of the shape of Jazz's optics behind that screen. Then Jazz moved back, giving them both some space.

"Please stay," Prowl said, afraid Jazz was going to leave him. Jazz smiled, genuinely and harmoniously.

"That's not how a sleepover works, sweetie."

Prowl inched his way down to lay on the berth and Jazz rested on top of him, listening to his spark pulsing as they drifted away into recharge.

xXx

Frankly I think Prowl makes the better seme, but Jazz's seme likes to talk the fun talk, so I don't know.

If ya don't mind, I'd like you'd to swing over to FrostedIcefire on deviantART so you can see the styles I drew out for Prowl and Jazz in this story.