Starcrossed

by Gatekat

G1 AU, Jazz/Prowl, Jazz/Vortex Jazz is the second creation of a Noble House that's fallen on hard times. He's promised as the subordinate mate to a wealthy commoner in exchange for a great deal of credits. It's only when he meets his future mate that things get bad.

49. Gathering the Crew

Starcrossed 49: Gathering the Crew
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Whiplash strode down the halls towards the Prime's office with a very real grin in place. He didn't expect to fool the big mech, but the joy of pranking folks with his sorcelling capabilities had yet to wear off. So far he'd managed to get Ironhide, Ratchet, and Kup, and a very unamused glare from Ultra Magnus who hadn't been fooled for even a moment (probably due to warning from Ratchet), and he wanted to see if he could get a few kliks out of Optimus.

"Come in," Optimus rumbled from his office.

"Afternoon, boss," Whiplash said cheerily in Jazz's voice to match his look.

"Jazz," Optimus greeted with a head tilt and a warm optic glow. "How can I help you?"

"By drinking your energon," Whiplash teased playfully as he sauntered up to put the cube he'd brought on the Prime's desk. "You'll need your energy tonight," he winked his visor.

Optimus rumbled a deep chuckle and picked the cube up. "Will I now?" he asked. "I thought we were going to have a quiet evening."

"It might start that way, but how often does it end quiet," Whiplash shamelessly flirted with his harmonics and field. Until he was called on it, he was going to play being Prime's lover.

Optimus chuckled again, looking Whiplash up and down. "Do you have anywhere to be, then?"

"Not for a joor," the Ops commander purred in reply, his field reaching out to caress the Prime's.

Optimus pushed his chair slightly away from the desk, angling out, and drummed his fingers on his thigh. "Can you fit a preview in that amount of time? Just so I'm prepared, for later."

"I'm sure I can manage that," Whiplash's purr shifted to more of a rumble and genuine arousal-anticipation flooded him. Sure, he'd be called on his guise, there was no way it was that good, but he wasn't about to turn down another 'face with Prime. Without hesitation he stepped between those spread thighs and slid his arms along the polished metal before kissing the spike cover with a mixture of arousal, desire, excitement and reverence.

A hand rested on his shoulder, smaller than Whiplash was used to feeling as it moved up to caress his helm, his favored frame more similar to a minibot in height than an average Praxian build like Jazz. He nuzzled against it and Optimus's convoy-class engines revved up from the contact, and a klik later, his panel slid back to reveal a partially-hardened spike. Whiplash kissed his way up the exposed length to swirl his glossa around the tip before taking as much of it as he could into his mouth and down his intake in a single, smooth motion.

Optimus's moan was strangled, almost surprised, and he kept his hips from pushing up too sharply, but he couldn't stop the small lift. Both hands came to Whiplash's helm and he x-vented heavily, rumbling from the rub of his glossa, and his spike didn't take long at all to be fully exposed. "Always so good at that," he gasped, struggling to keep control of his frame as the talented mouth and intake worked him for another klik.

When Whiplash drew his helm back, allowing Optimus's spike to stand freely, glistening with oral lubricants, the sound of his valve cover sliding open was lost to the sounds of their frames, two engines rumbling in desire. When the hands slid from his helm, Whiplash made an easy jump to land kneeling on the Prime's thighs and pressed against him for a heated kiss that deepened as soon as the battle mask slid away.

Their glossas danced together, a playful back-and-forth game as the hands moved to Whiplash's waist, holding him firmly before one thumb dipped down to swipe over his valve.

"Slick," Optimus moaned, and his hips pressed up.

Whiplash easily moved to set his valve over the impressive spike and slowly sank down. He required it, his cover be damned. Prime would be infinitely more upset at hurting a lover than finding out Jazz wasn't Jazz. Though Whiplash was sure that Prime hadn't been fooled by the time they'd touched.

Even still, he wasn't doing anything to indicate that he was aware of who he was really with, except for likely being patient with the slow push. He didn't try to move any faster than Whiplash needed, and he held very still, optics flickering slightly and mouth falling open. "Slick and tight," he gasped.

"Wonderfully big," Whiplash gasped, shuddering with the intensity of being that full. This frame could take the Prime, unlike his own. It had been very much worth the repairs, but he knew this Prime wouldn't do it again. He stilled as their arrays came nearly flush and focused on cycling his valve around that exquisite spike.

It made Optimus groan and he wrapped his arms around Whiplash, holding him tightly as his hips began to roll in small, smooth circles. "You'll do anything for a ride, won't you," he rumbled.

"Need it," Whiplash shuddered and gripped the top of Optimus's windshield. His valve could do very little to work the spike already stretching it to its limits, but he tried. The charge was building impossibly fast. "Harder," he pleaded, somewhere between himself and the profile he'd build of Jazz.

Optimus complied, one hand holding Whiplash firmly around the waist and the other against his back, keeping him pulled tight to his chassis as he slowly increased the strength behind his drives in a building momentum that almost drove the smaller mech mad before it reached its peak. Optimus pounded upwards, grunting now, as charge rocketed up in their frames.

It was more than Whiplash's frame could take and he screamed his pleasure just as Jazz did, and he had plenty of recordings to draw from for the imitation. Lightning danced between them as he shook uncontrollably in the larger mech's grip, Optimus's plating absorbing the charge easily and adding it to his own, nearly doubling the current racing through him.

The pounding didn't even slow. If anything, it got faster. "Yes," Optimus moaned, and Whiplash was just hanging on, completely at the Prime's mercy. The background faded away to a hazy bliss until halfway through his third overload when the Prime roared and heat flooded into his frame, filling him completely and driving his peak high enough to knock him out.

Whiplash roused in the Prime's lap, resting against his chest with a hand rubbing his back and purring engines beneath. The first thing he became aware of after that was the delightfully full stretch in his valve, the Prime's spike still buried within.

"Didn't want you to feel empty when you booted," Optimus rumbled fondly.

"Always thoughtful," Whiplash murmured, still a little dazed and honestly more content to remain exactly where he was than he cared to admit. It felt good to be in this Prime's embrace.

His Prime, the way Sentinel never had been.

Optimus waited patiently until Whiplash's field had steadied a bit more and retracted his spike very slowly, giving the smaller mech time to adjust to the emptiness just as he'd needed the time for the fullness. "Think you can walk?" he murmured after his cover had clicked shut, uncaring of the mixed fluids that had covered his spike, or the ones now in his lap.

"Yes," Whiplash said and somewhat reluctantly moved to get off Optimus's lap. Without even thinking about it he lowered his helm and began to clean their spilled fluids with his glossa.

"You don't-" Optimus started, uncomfortable with the act and the subservience it represented.

The objection startled Whiplash, who looked up, and then smiled. "I want to. We taste good together," he purred.

Optimus looked surprised, then his hand rested on the side of Whiplash's helm and he rubbed his thumb over the front and the chevron. "Then I won't stop you," he said with an answering smile. He watched, relaxing as the mech knelt before him and turned an act of submission into one of affection.

When he was finished Whiplash stood and claimed a lingering kiss before pulling away with a wink of his visor and affectionate brush of his field.

"I'll see you later, then?" Optimus asked, raising the energon cube Whiplash had brought him with a suggestive rumble.

"Looking forward to it," Whiplash gave a cheery grin and headed towards the exit.

"Excellent," Optimus chuckled from behind. Just before the door opened he heard the quiet, "Oh, and Whiplash?"

Doorwings flicked and he gave Optimus a light huff. "When did you know?"

"Your disguise is excellent, but some of your intel is a bit off," Optimus told him seriously. At Whiplash's confused look, he rubbed a hand over his battle mask, which was clearing hiding a smile. "I have never interfaced with Jazz."

Doorwings gave another twitch, this one of stunned shock. The blue visor cycled a couple times. "How'd you manage that?"

"He's never asked or offered," Optimus said with a shrug. "It isn't at all difficult to not interface with someone who isn't interested. It makes it rather impossible, actually."

Whiplash's visor cycled again with a twitch of doorwings. "We are talking about Jazz here, correct?" He used the mech's full formal designation and hummed when Optimus nodded. "Fascinating. Well, it doesn't change my assessment of him. I still believe he's ready. Though it'll be interesting to find out why he hasn't asked you."

"If you think about it, you may come to that answer on your own," Optimus said as he nodded his agreement with that assessment. "He is ready. He is stable, and relaxed with who and where he is."

Whiplash cocked his helm and turned the suggestion over to a back processor to mull about. "Since you knew it was me, is there a form you'd like in your berth when they aren't there?"

"Something that won't hurt you," Optimus said. "I rather like your form, actually, it just means the arrangement needs to be different."

Whiplash purred and nodded. "I can manage that," he rumbled deeply. "I'll drop by the next time they want a night to themselves. Or maybe just for fun here in the office," he gave a last visor wink and slipped away, already going over how he was going to approach Prowl.

The CTO could reliably be found in his office during the day shifts, and frequently during the night as well, and true to form, there he was, behind his desk. "Hey, lover," Whiplash purred as he slipped into the office, discretely palming the door once he was in so that it would close behind him.

"You're done early," Prowl commented without looking up, though his doorwings gave a pleased and welcoming flicker.

"I may have slipped a few unfinished reports under my desk to pass inspection," Whiplash said in a conspiratorial whisper, sauntering up to the desk. "I thought you might be able to use a break. Unless..." He slid his hands across the smooth surface, bending partially forward. "You don't have time..."

A soft smile crossed Prowl's features as his field reached out to caress his lover's with affection and desire. "When don't I have time for you?" he purred back, his engine giving a deep rumble.

"How about that time last metacycle when you were locked in here for a decaorn?" Whiplash said with a small smirk, and crawled up onto the desk, snaking forward, leaning in to nip at Prowl's lower lip. "I recall complaining about that nonstop."

"Mmm," Prowl reached forward to curl his hand around the back of Whiplash's helm and pulled him forward into a hard, hungry and hot kiss. "I made it up to you, didn't I?"

Whiplash grinned into it. "I didn't sit right for orns, that's for sure," he chuckled. "How ya want me, babe? I bet I could still make it to a berth..."

Prowl chuckled and a flare of mischievous intent flickered across his field. "On your back, right here," he put gentle pressure on Whiplash's neck to indicate the desk. "Bound and helpless for my pleasure."

Whiplash nearly moaned aloud just at the suggestion, hiding the surprise that Prowl would propose something like that, and he had cuffs dangling from his finger in an instant. "You're in a good mood," he purred, moving with the pressure, letting Prowl push him over and down.

Prowl simply grinned down at him and moved around to secure the cuffs to Whiplash's wrists, then pulled them over his helm and secured them to a sturdy latch under the desk's rim. Then he moved to the chair side and pulled out two lengths of strong cord from a drawer to bind Whiplash's ankles to the corners of the desk.

"You do look good like that," Prowl rumbled as he stalked around the desk, taking in the bound mech with every sense. "Now, what should I do with you?" he purred, his engine rumbling deeply.

"Why don't you play nice and gentle," Whiplash said, flashing a grin. "Wouldn't want me damaged, would you, lover?"

Prowl's smile turned cruel and his field cold. "Oh, I don't know. My love enjoys it when I'm already warmed up when I bring him a new toy."

Whiplash's intake caught as that field pushed against his, an unleashed savagery that he had never teeked in this mech when it wasn't a direct mirror of that same emotion in Jazz.

"What gave it away?" he asked, pretending to pull at the cuffs more insistently, a purposefully nervous flicker going through his own field.

"Your field," Prowl said smoothly as he pulled a dagger from subspace and traced it along Whiplash's visor edge. "You're good, I'll give you that, but I'm better."

"You did a good job not showing it," Whiplash said, tilting his head into the blade as he squirmed in place. "What happens now if I beg for mercy?"

"You live long enough to meet the SpecOps CO, assuming he doesn't leave you to us," Prowl shrugged his doorwings, trailing the blade down Whiplash's Praxian frame as he moved along the side of the desk. "You will meet the mech you claim to be."

"And if I don't beg for mercy?" Whiplash purred, hips lifting.

The blade flicked along an interface panel before sliding into a hip joint. "I'll make you beg, plead for deactivation, then give you to my mate so we can enjoy your guttering spark together." Prowl shivered with the raw intensity of the lust that hit him at the thought of that. "That is the fun part," he slid the blade deeper, teasing it against the joint. "First you'll tell me why you've come here."

"All those centuries," Whiplash breathed, arching his back with a longing whine of his engine while potent masochism protocols kicked into gear. Unlike his protégé, Whiplash had no qualms about using this kind of coding. "All those centuries and you were hiding another interrogator right under my sensors and I never realized."

Prowl hummed and teased the joint with the short, sharp blade. "If you're very good for me, answer my questions, I might just let you have those protocols when we play with you."

A truly frightening level of excitement surged across Prowl's field as he reached into a drawer for a data chip and plugged it into an arm port. "But for now, I'm afraid they do make the whole interrogation process far less enjoyable for me. I do this to relax. I'm not keen on working around masochism systems. I've learned to like screams of pain without the undercurrent of pleasure."

He took the chip out and flicked it between two fingers where Whiplash could see it. "Of course, if you really are Whiplash as you'd have me believe, you'll probably enjoy it all, right up to the point you realize it's not a game anymore."

"Then try your worst," Whiplash said as the chip was inserted into his arm. He watched as the upload-which he tried to stop without success-tore away at his coding and it ended with a sharp hiss when the blade scraped across the sensitive ball joint. "I trained your mate to resist more than you ever had to, let's see if you can beat that."

"I'm sure Whiplash's training of Jazz was superior in several respects," Prowl said easily, his field rich with excitement and growing arousal as he began to carve elaborate glyphs into Whiplash's armor. "Now, let us return to the original question. Why are you here?"

Another hiss and Whiplash's armor pulled in tightly around his protoform, combat-grade interlocking layers designed to keep the sensitive systems and structures safe from assault, but Prowl's dagger was exquisitely sharp and had no trouble damaging thin outer layers. "To test the imitation," Whiplash said honestly, and grinned in a perfect, roguish mimic of Jazz. "Ta see if I could get any fun out of it."

"Mmm, yes, and why should I believe you're Whiplash?" Prowl asked conversationally when the blade dug in deeper to penetrate the seam over Whiplash's spark.

"Because," Whiplash gasped, spine curving up, "I'm carrying your old sorcelling tech."

"Good start," Prowl's tone was now definitely annoyed, but the blade continued to work the seam, traveling down. "Prove it."

Whiplash looked him up and down, wondered absently if there was a way to splice this mech with the Prime for a really good frag, and bared his denta. "Make me."

"As you wish," Prowl drove the blade directly into the primary lock, splintering it as he twisted the blade sideways. He didn't bother saying anything as he went after the next lock, but he did ping his mate on their privately encrypted channel.

Beneath him Whiplash was silent but his frame was shuddering as each lock broke, hands clenched into fists.

::Yeah, Prowler?:: Jazz asked curiously, his answer overlaying Whiplash's intakes increasing in speed.

::Please come to my office, and bring your tool kit,:: Prowl actually purred. ::Either Whiplash is trying to get extinguished, or we have a very interesting interrogation ahead of us.::

Silence over the comm and Whiplash yelped as Prowl twisted his wrist. Holding back screams had never been part of his style or curriculum, it did nothing but waste energy to do so.

Finally Jazz pinged his ETA and asked, ::Is that little slag up there? He stuck me with his reports and said he had an assignment!::

::I have yet to confirm it is Whiplash and I do not know how much he got up to before coming on to me,:: Prowl warned. ::It would not be unreasonable to begin a scan of the systems for being compromised. I have confirmed that all officers are registering as functional.::

::Understood,:: Jazz said, with a tone that said he was going to take this as seriously as any possible security breach. ::Have you alerted Red Alert, or would you prefer to confirm the identity first?::

::Confirmation first. The probability that this is Whiplash is 63.8%,:: Prowl responded, a touch reluctant but entirely too aware of the repercussions of reporting this if it was Whiplash.

::And he isn't answering his comm, although he's apparently online,:: Jazz said. ::Be up in ten.::

::I'll see about opening his armor until then,:: Prowl replied and signed off. "You do scream well." He paused with the second latch in tatters and regarded the face of his love. "Do you have any idea how cathartic this will be for me?" he purred softly as the tip of the blade settled over one optic, just barely touching the visor. "How long I've wondered what it would feel like to actually go through with extinguishing him, to not stop when his frame was broken and his self-hatred finally abated enough to stand existence?" He pressed down on the blade, slowly cracking the visor. "To finally comply with my loyalty coding and finish the job."

A short wave of something like real fear went through Whiplash's field, shuddering out into his armor, as he wondered for the first time if this had actually hadn't been one of the brightest ideas he'd ever had. "He wants you to kill him?" he asked between pants. "Or is it deeper than that?"

"Sometimes," Prowl pressed the blade through the visor but stopped just as it touched the outermost lens of the optic. "We've been through a lot. Had our coding shredded and rebuilt more times than I care to count. But each time it's built on the tattered remains of before. Even now my original coding drives me. Coding for obedience. Coding to protect the good name of the House I serve. A House that Jazz betrayed. A House I betrayed. A House my only legitimate surviving creation brought more shame to." He shifted the blade to over the other optic. "Jazz is my Lord," he snarled at the raw conflict he'd never given much thought to before but now was threatening to consume him. The tac-net was off, incapable of dealing with interfacing or sadism. "My Lord betrayed the House."

Whiplash nodded slowly, cutting the glitching feed from the visor and switching over to optics, focusing in tight on the tip of the knife. "As I understand it," he said slowly, "His House betrayed him, when he was subjected to punishment for an act that should have been on you alone."

Prowl let the giggling laughter bubble up as it wished as he began to slice long, shallow strips of metallic skin from Whiplash's face. "Not the monster's House. Neither of us actually transferred our loyalty. It's not logical," he gave another giggle and lifted a piece of stripped skin to his lips to eat. "It's not rational. It just is. This is what you get when you spend a couple millennia constantly reworking your own code. I'm very much insane, pretty one. It's just kept in check by coding I wrote to function in this society. Primus only knows how long it'll last before I have to write a new version to cover up the mess again."

Whiplash could only stare with a detached feeling of horror when he could finally see again and his shrieking vocalizer quieted. "His first House had no duty to step in?" he asked, because Primus help him, he was curious now.

"And do what? Protect him from his bonded? From the mech they sold him to?" Prowl snarled and suddenly his claws were against Whiplash's spike cover and tearing it off. "Know what the first meal that monster fed me was?" His fingers dug into the housing to find the manual release. "Care to guess what sustained my frame those first few orns?"

"Nnh-" Whiplash's knees tried to pull up, to roll away, but Prowl found what he was looking for and his spike extended. Not a copy of Jazz's, the tech didn't affect the interfacing pieces, but his own. His most recent one, anyway. "Your first-" And then he thought about it, thought about what they knew of Vortex and the rotor's tastes, what Jazz would never have needed- "His spike," he said, voice flat. "He fed you Jazz's spike."

"Those metals are still part of me," Prowl lowered himself to take the spike into his mouth and swirled his glossa along it until his lips were against the housing.

The door opened and Whiplash tilted his head back halfway through a shuddering moan to see Jazz, and gave his SIC the best grin he could manage, considering.

Jazz stepped in, taking in the scene, and cocked his head. "Oh, boss," he said. "Don't even tell me you gave me extra deskwork so you could try t' seduce Prowler."

"It didn't work as well as planned," Whiplash admitted, then screeched when Prowl bit hard enough to separate his spike at the housing.

Jazz tsked at him, walking around to his mate and pressing a kiss to the top of his helm. "You would carve up the work of art that is my face?" he purred.

Prowl stood and crunched the spike in his mouth, swallowing it before turning to kiss his mate. "Not his right to wear it."

Jazz swirled his glossa into Prowl's mouth, getting a taste of the lingering energon and metal. "True enough. Are you any more certain as to who he is?" He gave Whiplash a wicked grin. "Or is that enjoyable task of finding out still one I can join in?"

"You are welcome to join in," Prowl purred. "It's not every orn one gets to interrogate their own frame."

Jazz chuckled, looking Whiplash up and down in a very hungry way. "True," he said, and walked around to the head, leaning in to claim a hard, biting kiss that left Whiplash bleeding. "You manage to fool anyone in this get-up?" he asked. "You've been gone for joors and I know Prowler's not had you that long."

"Ratchet, Ironhide, and Kup," Whiplash managed, choking back his moan as Prowl dug his blade into the exposed circuitry where his spike had been. "Ironhide doesn't like you much."

Jazz laughed at that. "No," he agreed, and started to work claws under the chest seams that Prowl had been working on. "He is not a member of the Jazz Fan Club. I hope you didn't try ta seduce him."

"Might have," Whiplash grinned. "And it's more like the Jazz 'Face Club."

"Whose spikes did you get?" Prowl growled as he sliced deeper.

"Just-Prime's," Whiplash gasped, and then gave a strangled cry. "But a-a lot of offers in the r-" The words cut off into a scream when Jazz's own dagger came out of subspace, the same courting gift from Radiance that Whiplash had once praised for its quality. When he recovered enough of himself, he groaned, "Rec room."

"But Prime knew it was not Jazz," Prowl hissed, rage roiling in a toxic cloud through his field that came from nowhere. He didn't even think as his blade slammed through Whiplash's valve cover and began slicing the lining out in ribbons.

"Immediately," Whiplash groaned, then his entire frame seized up with a shriek as Jazz was drawn by his mate's field to join him in the mutilation. "He knew, he knew!"

"Do you know why he knew?" Jazz hissed, claws digging into the damaged spike array.

"Yes," Whiplash sobbed, his frame convulsing randomly from the pain as he took in the teek of these two. Insanity, rage, but a strange form of unity and calmness when they worked together.

Yes, they were absolutely insane. But so was he. Few mecha who still functioned were sane by any measure of the old world. This was a new world and they were well-suited to command in it.

Pain whited out his thoughts for a moment and when they came back his chest armor had been ripped clean off-the thinner metal that was the price of taking a form larger than his native one was no protection against their strength.

"Ah, hello, 'Lash," Jazz purred upon seeing the unique sorcelling tech and the crystal that he knew by sight, something that could not be copied. In a single, smooth motion slipped up onto the desk to straddle his commander, fingers deep in the inner workings of the exposed systems before him. "It's him, Prowler," he told his mate, and snaked their frames together in an easy, graceful wave that ended with their pelvises pressed together, his valve cover grinding against where the spike had been, making Whiplash spasm with ever rough pull. "I'd ride you, but..."

"Take his mouth while I take what's left of the valve?" Prowl suggested with a snicker and glittering bright ice blue optics. "You've already had that spike anyway. Pounce him after he has a new one."

Jazz twisted around to wrap fingers around Prowl's neck, pulling his mate into a deep kiss, fields meshing in a twisted, dark ecstasy. "Yess," he purred deeply, bringing Prowl's hand down to his spike cover, sliding it away and jutting into his love's fingers while he turned back to Whiplash. "I'll try to keep him from tearing you apart," he said with a crazy tint to his field. "But I can't promise anything. Shouldna picked my face and offered yourself as an enemy, too much he'd love ta do."

"We were taught by the finest sickness Cybertron's ever produced, then improved on his skills," Prowl's rumble was intense as he stroked Jazz's spike, playing with the thick ruffles while he slammed his hips forward to bury himself into Whiplash's bleeding and half-skinned valve.

Whiplash's head tossed back and his optics whited out as pain shattered through him, making him scream. The sound was muffled a moment later as Jazz moved forward and pushed in, burying into the intake with a low moan. His hands grabbed the helm and pulled it back up until lips met plating, hunching over and rocking, digging his claws into the sensor horns, knowing exactly where to go for them to hurt the most.

Whiplash shook and submitted, and there was almost a relief in his field. These two could control him and subdue him; they were worthy of the offices they would hold. And if they killed him in this process ... well, he desired rest just as much as they did. He'd found someone he trusted to take over, refined and honed him, and could finally do what he'd longed for for so long: hand Special Operations into his care.

"Should we-nnh-let him-unh-have protocols-ohh-back?" Prowl managed through his pleasure.

Jazz huffed a laugh. "Feelin' generous, Prowler. Whatcha think, 'Lash? Wan'em back?"

Whiplash managed a whine and a burst of want into his field.

"Of course-ohhhh-he want'm back," Prowl shuddered and thrust, but transmitted the code to turn them back on without breaking rhythm.

A scream of an entirely different kind tore from Whiplash's vocalizer, frame going rigid and hips slamming back in a counter-rhythm to Prowl. His valve clenched down and his hips bucked and the dizzying whirl of pain-hurt-good-agony-bliss through his field slammed into the pair above him.

"Frag," Jazz gasped. "Worth it." He tossed Prowl a look over his shoulder, panting. "Y'should-ha-ah-stick the knife back int' his spike array."

With a moaning shudder and thrill at the thought Prowl did just that, slicing it into Whiplash's body all the way to the hilt and using that as a grip to drive himself into the mangled mess even harder. "One thing I really miss, having an endless supply of these we can 'face until they're gray," Prowl gasped through panting moans. The hand not gripping his dagger dug into Whiplash's exposed internals and pulled out a handful of cables and wiring.

Jazz's engine revved at the thought and a shudder went through Whiplash as he wondered, with little real concern attached to the thought, if he was going to end up on that list before the joor was up, with the way they kept grabbing at his frame and tearing pieces away.

If he had to go, though, this would be the way to do it, with his Second's claws buried in a sensor horn and his neck, and that sharp, cruel heat between his legs. Mangled and used and oh Primus he might just pass out from the overload when it hit.

"Whatever y'doin', don' stop!" Jazz moaned. "Ohh-Prowler-gonna-" A whine and a quick thrust of his hips, field unsteady and chaotic. "Gonna spill in 'im-I-a-aah!" Jazz screamed, pounding his hips, claws flexing in.

The wash of his field and cry of bliss was all Prowl could take and he bellowed, slamming his hips forward to pump thick, hot transfluid deep into the abused gash of a valve he was buried deep inside. Their energy flashed and danced between the three frames, diving into unshielded systems in Whiplash's chest.

Very distantly, through the agonizing, blissful throes of an overload that lashed at his frame, it occurred to Whiplash that they'd never once called Radiance's designation when hurting for pleasure, but they always did when they weren't causing pain, and he couldn't figure out why. When he was knocked offline, the thought was cut too soon and lost.

Jazz shuddered above him, still gripping and pushing when Whiplash went limp. "Wasn't-expecting that today," he managed.

Prowl sank forward, bracing both hands to the side of Whiplash's slack and mangled frame as he panted and tried to untangle the mess of threads and half-profiles that his processor had turned into. "You actually expected that ever?"

Jazz actually laughed a little. "I wouldn't'a put it outside the realm of possibility," he said, then shifted serious. "Before he's online-how much of that was real and how much was acting?" He twisted, running a hand down Prowl's face. "Any triggers I should watch for?"

"I was acting, a role, love. He was never in any danger," Prowl pressed into the touch, his field warm and affectionate. "I drew on real emotions, real issues, but never out of control. I'll be fine before Ratchet arrives to curse us in six new languages."

Jazz snickered, but there was relief in his field. "Twelve, probably," he said, looking down at the mess that was his commander, pulling his second hand out. "Your comm or mine?"

"I will," Prowl withdrew from the valve, his spike covered with transfluid and system energon. "It is my office." He stepped back and drew a cloth from subspace to clean himself up with as he pinged Ratchet, flagged urgent.

::Oh, what do you need now?:: the medic groused immediately as Prowl was notified of a location ping on his signal, and accepted Jazz's request to patch in.

::We played a little rough,:: Jazz said.

::Fraggit all, Prowl!:: Ratchet snapped. ::I told you I wasn't repairing any more interfacing injuries on him this vorn!::

::Jazz isn't the one we damaged,:: Prowl replied calmly. ::Whiplash is the one that requires your attention. Rather soon, I would say.::

::Dammit, be there as soon as I can,:: Ratchet muttered, and the line cut.

Jazz cocked his head down at Whiplash, whose optics were slowly flickering online beneath the cracked and dim visor. "Hey there, boss," he said, and patted Whiplash's cheek. "All right? Ratchet's coming."

"So I'll live after all?" Whiplash mumbled groggily.

"Quite. None of your critical systems were damaged," Prowl said in his usual tone, giving no hint of the show Whiplash had been witness to. "Though I'm sure your masochism protocols have you feeling quite well buzzed right now."

A bit of a spasm wracked Whiplash's frame as if in agreement and he took a much-needed intake to try to cool the heated systems.

"Isn't my Prowler wonderful?" Jazz trilled as he swung off the desk and unlocked the handcuffs. Whiplash didn't move his arms. "I was even a little worried for a while."

"He is impressive," Whiplash admitted, quite willing to allow his frame to hang more-or-less limply across Prowl's desk even though he was no longer bound. "You are quite the pair. I chose very well."

The door opened in the next moment and Whiplash gave Ratchet a dazed, unrepentant smile.

The medic, predictably, exploded when he saw the mess they had made of him. "Of all the ridiculous, asinine, foolish, dangerous, STUPID things to do!" he shouted as he started in on his work.

"Oh, come on, doc," Whiplash gasped as the medic began cauterizing, quick jobs on the worst bleeds that he would have to come back to later to redo properly. "Just a bit of fun."

"A bit of fun," Ratchet snorted, glancing down towards Whiplash's pelvis. "-Where is your spike?"

"Prowl ate it," Jazz said cheerfully.

Ratchet gave all three of them a blanched, horrified look, and Whiplash made a snickering sound that turned into a trilling moan under the medic's hands as he arched into the frame.

"The things I never wanted to know," Ratchet muttered, looking at his squirming, nearly overloading patient. "I am putting you in stasis."

"No, wait!" Whiplash gasped. "Just a little-"

Jazz reached down and helpfully dug his clawed thumb into the mangled spike array and sank his fingers into the bleeding valve, tearing at the lining.

Whiplash screamed again in overload, writhing on the desk until the charge faded. "'Kay," he mumbled. "C'n stas's."

"Finally," Ratchet growled, and dropped him down.

SxSxSxSxSxSxSxSx S===================S SxSxSxSxSxSxSxS

With Whiplash in medbay and under Ratchet's rather impressive guard for the orn and possibly more, Jazz was still stuck with all of his extra deskwork, and now he was behind the time he'd spent in Prowl's office and the time they'd spent getting yelled at by the medic and the time they'd spent cleaning up afterwards. He'd quite honestly lost track of how long he'd been reading reports and officiating orders with Whiplash's forged signature, and was only aware of the changing shifts from the changing landscape of the agents who came and went.

He was nearing the end of the work, all of it generated by the recent loss of a SpecOps team on the Tyger Pax front and what had been recovered from the scene, when he heard pedesteps and a faint smirk brushed across his lips. "I can tell it's you, 'Lash," he said without looking up.

The pedesteps stopped and Jazz lifted his head to see a very chagrined looking mimic of Mindguard standing in his office door.

"You didn't even look!" Whiplash said.

"Don't need ta look," Jazz said, going back to his work.

"How did you know?" Whiplash muttered the demand.

Jazz snorted. "Like I'm goin' ta tell you that. You are an unholy terror and you think I'm giving you the key ta fooling me whenever you want?" He glanced back up at his commander. "I mean that in the most loving way possible."

Whiplash cracked a grin in reply. "I think that might just be the sweetest thing you've ever said to me. Come," he motioned his SIC to follow.

Jazz rose smoothly, very glad to leave the desk for a while. "Ratchet left you in one piece after the repairs, I see," he said as they walked.

"He only damages audials with his shrieking," Whiplash snickered, making his way to the world above that regular Autobots inhabited. "I always learn a new curse or two."

Jazz grinned and they walked in silence for a while until they reached the final exit and paused for Whiplash to sorcel back into his normal form, after Jazz protested that he didn't need the rumors that would come about from his being seen walking around with Mindguard.

"We're going to Prime's office?" Jazz finally realized after the third turn into the base.

"Yes, he's expecting us," Whiplash nodded.

Jazz shot a scowl at him, not overly fond of meetings where he was the only one not in the loop, but remained settled and quiet for the rest of the walk.

The door opened to their ping and they stepped in, going to the two seats that had been set out in front of Optimus's desk, appropriate for their heights.

"I'm very glad you could make it," Optimus said warmly, gaze flickering between the two. "This happens to be the third time we've rescheduled this meeting, most recently because Whiplash was strapped down in medbay."

"To be fair, I didn't know we were going to be delaying a meeting with that, and Whiplash did start it," Jazz said.

"As I am well aware," the humor in Optimus's voice was unmistakable. "Ratchet is still furious. Though given the subject matter, I wonder if perhaps Whiplash has changed his processors?"

"Nope," the matte black mech shook his helm quickly. "I am so ready for this."

"Ready?" Jazz repeated, looking between them, and then his visor flickered and he turned to his boss, gaze bright. "You're stepping down."

"And you're being promoted," Optimus said, nodding.

"Congratulations, Commander Jazz." Whiplash grinned at him. "I'm going back to what I'm good at, what soothes my spark as a function."

"And you," Optimus said, looking at Jazz, "Have something not entirely unlike a House to run."

Jazz's head lifted, and then his entire frame straightened, doorwings raising up. "How soon does this take effect?" he asked.

Optimus chuckled. "You've possibly noticed getting stuck with more and more of Whiplash's work recently. He's been training you in a rather unorthodox fashion. He believes you are ready, and I agree with his assessment. At the beginning of the next shift, your promotion will be in effect."

"My last act as SpecOps' CO will be to hand you the profile of your new House assassin," Whiplash's engine purred, millennia of tension melting from him as he spoke. "You and your mate will run this war well."

"Ooh, Prowler can't pull rank anymore," Jazz purred in realization before looking back to Whiplash. "Hope you're ready for some assignments."

"Past ready," Whiplash said with absolute honesty as he handed Jazz a datapad holding information that no one other than the current Prime, Sentinel, and the former ISO CO who had commissioned his sparking had ever seen. "It'll be good to do what I was created for again."

"Mmh," Jazz hummed, accepting and already teeking of the excited, rippling anticipation of coming fully into command over Special Operations, running what really was very much like a House for the convenience of both his mate and his Prime. He jumped lightly to his pedes, glanced at his chronometer, and marked the shift change. "Agent," he purred deeply. "If you'll come with me, please."

"Yes, sir," Whiplash nodded and stood smoothly. "Prime," he inclined his helm before following his new CO out, teeking nearly as eager for the new order as Jazz.

SxSxSxSxSxSxSxSx S===================S SxSxSxSxSxSxSxS

Prowl was working through the requisitions that he had immediately claimed domain over when he had been promoted to the Autobot Second in Command. It had produced such a relieved teek from his leader that he wondered why he hadn't done so much earlier. It felt good to be doing management again, and while they gave Jazz some lip service about how commanding a division was like managing a House, it was nothing compared with how close managing an army was to managing an estate, just on a greater scale.

Prowl adored it. Despite the time it took from them, Jazz liked it too, for how much happier Prowl was for the duties. The choices he made as a tactician still ate at him, but he was exceptional at his duties to the Prime and those few whose opinion he cared about were not shy about reminding him of that fact. So he was busy multi-tasking and enjoying a relatively quiet afternoon in his office, skimming the new feeds and watching all the various messages buzzing about the base while the tac-net worked on plans for an assault on Polyhex to reclaim the city.

Then he paused, his primary focus going to a message from recruiting. It was generic, just a notice that a mech was filling out forms, but the designation was so intricate in its formality that it took Prowl nearly a full klik and a half to decipher it. When he did, he was on his pedes and walking at a brisk pace for the room this potential recruit would be in, a set-aside space in one of the outermost general areas where Neutrals and Autobots mingled. As he walked he forwarded the message to Jazz.

Jazz's reply was a full klik later, and startled, but he would be there as soon as he was able to get away. Until then, Prowl was to pull this mech away and keep him out of the way of any other officer.

When he got there and looked around the room, he saw two large groupings: one of Neutrals and guttersmecha near the energon distribution station that gave limited quantities to those with a low enough fuel level, and another near the desk where new recruits could sign up, comprised mostly of frontliner builds grouped around something he couldn't see.

He could hear, though, easily.

"Hey, pretty wheels, didn't know they let pleasurebots sign up, that a new service they're offering?"

"I am not a pleasurebot," said the stiffly formal, very cold, and noble-accented voice.

"What else're you gonna do, seriously," another sneered. "Look at you. Ain't seen a shine like that in centuries. You do know this isn't a full service washrack, right?"

"Or did you just get lost?" a third picked up, and Prowl was almost on top of them. "Why don't you let me-"

"Don't touch me," the smaller mech hissed, and Prowl grabbed one of the frontliners, hauling him back in time to see the slender, blue and white mech snatch his arm out of the groping fingers. He looked ready to bolt, and like he was very much questioning his decision to come here.

"Lord Mirage," Prowl's formal tone and address snapped all optics to him. "I am Commander Prowl," he used his full, formal designation, one that had never been uttered out loud before. It would tell Mirage not only what he was now, but what he had been before his life had gone to the Pit. "If you would come with me."

Mirage looked just as startled as the rest of the mecha in the area as he stared at Prowl, then he nodded, lifted his chin and settled himself into a perfect, composed figure and stalked past the group. In his field was a self-assurance that only came from knowing that he was better than them.

"Thank you, Commander," Mirage said once they were far enough away, with the proper harmonics of addressing military commander of comparable rank, if not comparable social standing to a House Lord in noble society.

"You are welcome, Lord Mirage. I understand you came to enlist?" Prowl spoke calmly and respectfully, but with all the authority his current station provided him.

"I did," Mirage affirmed. "Like many I have realized I have nowhere else to go, and I would like to serve my Prime if I cannot serve my Lord."

"You will serve very well," Prowl said with complete faith in the statement as he led Mirage, uncontested, to his office. "Your commander will be by soon. While we wait, you can finish the forms and ask any questions you may have."

"My commander?" Mirage asked with a curious trill. "I haven't even been through basic training yet-they told me that unspecialized mecha go into infantry."

"That is generally true, however you are far from an unspecialized mecha," Prowl said as he motioned Mirage to sit at one of the two chairs he now had on the far side of his desk. "You are an unbonded, untouched second creation noble with the ability to become invisible and silent. If you are like any Towers noble I have ever known, your aim is exceptional. You will be going into Special Operations under Jazz," he gave his mate's full, formal designation, something he only used to rile Jazz into dominating him in the berth.

Mirage looked startled by it but he composed himself quickly and leaned back in the chair, one hand relaxed in the air and looking like it only lacked a flute of sparkling high grade to be complete. Long legs crossed gracefully as the noble regarded the former seneschal. "How do you know all that?"

"I do remember how to read designation glyphs. Your full, formal one was in the memo I received about a new recruit." Prowl explained smoothly. "Jazz was trained how to read them as well," he added to use his mate's common designation.

"I see," Mirage said, looking warmed, and he smiled with a graceful incline of his helm. "I seem to find myself in better company than I had hoped for. I would not have even thought to find someone fully versed in formal glyphwork."

"There are a few of us left, primarily officers. Sadly it is not considered a useful skill anymore no matter how much I disagree," Prowl said, pleased to have another to speak to that understood the world he had been created for and still missed.

"A shame," Mirage said, and cocked his head slightly as he regarded Prowl. "I do trust that ... you'll not spread the full meaning of my designation around. I've heard stories about the kind of ruffians that can be about, and my seals still have meaning to me, even if the majority of our world finds their existence to be less than favorable."

"I have no desire to make your existence less pleasant than it already is," Prowl promised as best he could. "If they must be broken by other than your Intended, it will not be by a random mecha or gang. Jazz will ensure that."

"I understand," Mirage said quietly. "I know that there are circumstances that may necessitate their breaking, I just prefer to forestall that until there is no other choice."

Prowl paused, gauging Mirage's state. "If you do not have another question, I believe you can finish the forms before Jazz arrives."

Mirage smiled at him and tilted his head in agreement, pulling the forms out of subspace and restarting his work on them.

Nearly a quarter joor had passed before Jazz strode into the office, not even chiming, and his focus was immediately on the noble sitting before his mate. "You are Mirage," he said, using the formal designation.

"Yes," the young noble, only a decade in his adult frame, looked up and gauged the mech before him as one of significant rank and the authority to use it as a noble would.

Jazz regarded back, calm and still, before he began a slow, circling pace around the blue and white mech, taking in every micron of his frame, the lines, apparent strength, the well-cared-for finish. "You are unbonded," he said, and stopped in front of him, leaning back against the desk. "Have you ever had an Intended?"

"Storm Front," Mirage trilled the formal designation, which included his status as deceased. He could not hide the honest affection there, or his grief at losing the mech he had been meant to center his existence around.

Jazz nodded once, musing that over for a few moments. "An inconvenience," he finally decided, "But nothing that cannot be overcome. Other than that, your second creation coding is fully functioning and undamaged?"

"Yes," Mirage held his uneasiness at the line of questioning close, not allowing it to show.

Jazz's engine purred deeply. "Mine is damaged beyond repair, you see," he said. "Formed into an independent construct when I refused to fully align my loyalty to my Intended, and was later destroyed. But I know how to use it, and I can teach you to switch loyalties without damaging the coding in the long term."

The very idea disturbed Mirage deeply, but he was committed to this path. At least this mech understood what he was. He inclined his helm in understanding and acceptance. Not only of the statement, but of this mech's authority over him as his new House Lord.

Jazz crossed his arms over his chest, pleased with the response. "We are still vorns away from that discussion, you have time to get used to the idea. For now, I'm assigning you to special training assignment in Special Operations. I will oversee your training and conduct as much as I can personally. Prowl told me you would like your seals to remain intact, and I will honor that request for your training, though you might be subjected to some rather unconventional methods of resistance training."

"I understand, Commander Jazz," Mirage said more firmly than he felt. This was more than he'd dared hope for as a best case. He was not going to allow himself to be distressed by things that were less than perfect. Perfect was a thing of the past. It was shattered and gone.

"Just Jazz," Jazz grinned at him. "Now how about this electro-disruptor ... where did you get it, and can more be fashioned?"

"It was crafted for me with my adult upgrade. As I understand it, it could be duplicated, however the effect would not be as complete as it is for me. My sigma ability involves hiding in plain sight. It enhances the ability," Mirage sought to answer the question as fully as he could.

"I see," Jazz said, then hummed and nodded. "Do you have any questions for me?"

"Have you determined my new function?" Mirage asked politely.

"We'll see how well you take to training, and then to the adjustments for your coding, but my intent is to make you a specialized undercover operative," Jazz said. "Mecha are much more willing to spill secrets to someone who has conformed into what they desire, and second creation coding can do that like none other."

Mirage could only nod. He understood, and with Jazz now listed as his house Lord, bending to his will came easily, almost a pleasure to be what was desired by his innate nature.

Jazz looked him up and down once more, taking in the slender frame that looked so much like his once had so long ago, the beautifully crafted features, and armor that was designed for the flexibility of fencing and dance as opposed to any physical combat, and databurst him his and Prowl's private comm frequencies. "If you get into any trouble," he explained, then grinned. "Plenty of types who don't take well to nobles, but they shut up right quick once they learn where Prowler an' me came from. And if anyone," his voice dipped into a growl, "Tries to take something from you that you don't want to give, they'll answer to me."

"Thank you, my Lord Jazz," Mirage stood and dipped into a deep, formal bow usually granted to a House Lord. "I will serve you well."

None of them needed to hear "in exchange for your protection and guidance" to know it was there. That was the duty of the Lord, just as it was the duty of the subordinate to honor, obey and learn.

"I know you will," Jazz said, and stood, holding his arm out. "I will show you to your quarters. Once your forms have been processed, and I intend to put them on rush, your training begins."

Mirage inclined his helm and accepted Jazz's arm. He felt better than he had since the attack, and he knew, deep down, that he would continue to settle into his loyalty and new role as he learned what was expected of him.

It was good to know his place once more.