Aaand, the long awaited ninja/ninja action arrives... Sort of. Kinda. Well... You might have to wait a little bit longer.


He was here.

He was really, truly, honest to Primus here, on Earth.

Prowl couldn't sleep, knowing that.

It was too hard to concentrate on anything besides Jazz's face, his voice, his entire physical being. Everyone and everything he'd ever wanted had arrived on this planet, and after the fiasco at the Sumdac plant, Prowl had been given the perfect blessed opportunity to pull the Elite Guard aside; to confess everything, apologize for what he'd done wrong, promise Jazz the world and beg for his companionship, if he had to. But no—the moment came and went in silence, the both of them shifting awkwardly around each other in a stiff dance. Jazz had given him looks like he'd been shot in the spark, like he had been the one to injure him, and it struck Prowl down cold.

The cyberninja sighed and leaned heavily against the thick tree trunk in the center of his room, staring up at the rustling leaves breaking through the roof into the night sky. Jazz; he was full of him. Flashes of his dreams rushed vividly through his mind, and it was impossible to dismiss them as false. Prowl's systems ran a few cycles faster just imagining it all—how Jazz had held him so close, touched him, pleased him, expressed profound affection and singular devotion to him, and only him.

Why was there silence when there should have been a song? Why was there distance instead of a touch, looks of anguish instead of smiles? Maybe Jazz...maybe Jazz got fed up with him finally, deleted the fond memories from his memory core and went on his merry way, never sparing a glance back over his polished shoulder? Prowl winced. He should have been... He should have been better; smarter; something to be proud of and not a glitch-head, who screwed up and then hid away from the world, forgetting how to work together with others, becoming a cold-sparked drone. It hurt so much that Jazz wasn't smiling. Prowl knew he'd die for those smiles from back then; for the laugher which echoed back from his dreams.

He snuggled closer to the tree, the roots cradling him like welcoming arms. He missed Jazz; missed him even more than when he was still far away; and it hurt so terribly, worse than Meltdown's acid. It tore at his spark, which was twisting in its casing now; wailing with pain and an incredible need...Jazz. Jazz, Jazz, dear friend...

Sinking between the thick old roots, the pain of loss and loneliness hit Prowl hard. He held his head in his hands, curling up like a hurt sparkling and hiding his face from the world. He'd retreated from most of society because he'd believed that loneliness would grant him strength and peace of mind.

He hadn't even begun to realize how wrong it could be until everything that embodied his deepest desires stood right in front of him, fought alongside him just like back then.

He wasn't even thinking as his hands began to shift. His mind wandered backwards, to the long nights and longer missions—just the two of them, no one else, curling together for warmth as they dodged enemy sights for another orn. Jazz would stroke the sleek shoulder pieces comfortingly as they nestled together, to keep Prowl from going mad with worry. Even before retreating, he'd always been deathly serious and calculating, so much so that his fellow cyberninja would always scold him for it.

Relax, Prowl. His words echoed from the past into the present, a ghost of a hand replacing the shameful reality as Prowl laid his fingers in slow strokes against the wing-like shoulder piece. It'll be a piece o' oil cake.

Prowl let out a soft sound. But the calculations—

We've gone over 'em a thousand times already. Man, even meditating, you're all stiff. Stop thinking so much...you're so wired...

Beneath those caressing fingers, the darker frame slowly let go of the tension indeed.

Mmm...You are definitely distracting, my friend.

Jazz snickered. Just bein' my adorable self, like always...

He continued caressing the shoulder pieces, his touch light and warm; it made Prowl shiver and let out a small, appreciative growl. Those caresses were his undoing; they made him forget about everything.

Jazz...we're on a mission. We should focus.

On each other, the saboteur replied with a smirk. Come on, this cover is perfectly safe.

Jazz, no! Even if it is, the restrictions...!

Relax, Prowl.

And the caresses continued, firmer, the strokes longer. In the real world, Prowl let out a tiny moan as he got completely lost in his own world of should-have-been. Doing this—pleasuring himself—was not new to him anymore. He got quite used to it lately, while daydreaming like he was doing it now, digging up sweet old memories and altering them for a moment of bliss.

He was oddly silent; he didn't make much noise when alone; a curious little trait. Perhaps it tied back to his soldier days, when he needed to keep silent, even when panicked or in pain.

That's it...just like that, you relax...

Slight, long strokes became pressing caresses on his frame. His spark pulsed faster in its casing and he squirmed lightly in encouragement, his fantasies beginning to spill into his conscious hold on reality. He imagined Jazz held against him, nuzzling his throat and kissing it, hands moving ever slowly lower on his frame. Prowl arched and pressed on his chestplates with a hiss.

Ahh, like that, do ya?

Tease, Prowl grumbled.

Jazz laughed at him and there was an apologetic circular rub against the armor. You don't seem t' mind...

It's entirely too hard to do that, the grumbling reply came. You know me all too well...and I love you too much.

A happy little gasp: Say it again.

Prowl smiled. "I love you."

Love it when ya say that, Jazz chuckled. I suppose this deserves some extra treatment.

Fingers slid down on black and golden armor, smoothing, caressing with just the right pressure, to finally rest on the plating between the legs. Prowl's slender body tensed up, and his vents hummed loudly.

J-Jazz...

Relax, the saboteur whispered lovingly. Lemme spoil ya rusted...dear Prowl...my beloved.

The melodious voice rang in his audios like the sweetest music, and the ninjabot curled up into a ball, like a sparkling.

His systems thrummed under the rising heat, trying in vain to cool off as the hand pressed and rubbed in slow circles against the gold armor plate between his legs. Prowl's mouth dropped open in a silent moan and he shuddered. I love you, he said. I love you, Jazz...love you so much...

His spark gave a wrenching twist at the answering words. I know, I know...love you too, Prowl...always did.

One hand grasped a shoulder piece again and the hand on his frontplate stroked more firmly, and Prowl arched into the simulated touch with a muted whimper, mentally repeating his declaration until it was embedded in the fantasy. Jazz's voice materialized in his mind and murmured to him, assuring him, loving him; saying sweet nothings and singing soft tunes.

The ninjabot let out several tiny whimpers as the intensity of the caresses grew, stimulating the sensitive circuitry beneath his armor plating. He was trembling in his friend's arms, silently begging for more, that sweet bliss. Overload came closer and closer; warning signs flashed, energy fields and core temperature spiked. Jazz's smooth lips sealed Prowl's, glossa sweeping all over the insides of his mouth; the saboteur moaned, hummed, and his hands never stopped.

Prowl was already balancing on the edge, his sensors already on fire, brimming with input; the air trembled around his frame from the heat. His spark was thrashing in his chest in the clutches of the excess energy, and after a few agonized moments, Prowl let go of it; let the surge sweep over his body; every nerve and circuit melting on the sensory grid. His mouth opened to a silent cry as he tensed, but only a broken whisper drifted out into the air:

"Jazz…!"

A crackle of energy snapped out over Prowl's chassis and as the energy slowly dispersed, Prowl sank against the roots of the tree. Nothing answered him but silence and the down-winding thrum of his systems and vents.

Jazz's voice dissipated; the fantasy broke. Nothing was left but he and his trembling hands, and a distinct sense of remorse as the sensation of post-overload settled in.

Prowl stared up at the rustling leaves that broke through the roof, then offlined his optics and curled with a wanton moan. Maybe, he thought. Maybe there is a chance. There has to be a chance. He couldn't have ruined his shots at Jazz that terribly, right? Somewhere in his spark, Jazz must still have some sort of appreciation for him. It couldn't totally be gone.