Wow, I didn't realize it had been over a month since I posted for this story. How time flies! I do hope this chapter is up to snuff. It was a bit of a fight to get things settled, but hell, when you're working with two mechs as stubborn as Jazz and Prowl, basically everything is a fight.
As per the usual, I want to thank the most wonderful reviewers of the last chapter: SomebodyStandingThere, Pruhana, Midnight Marquis, abarai-san, animelover1993, Nanodiode, ChaosGarden, renegadewriter8, phoebe turner, Optimus Bob, shantastic, Darkeyes17, LionLover19, curse-of-the-cat, Christina, CNightJoy, Swedish Dragon, Gin Kitsune Kijo Ansatsusha, Peacewish, Faecat, smoking caramels, Daklog73, Camfield, A Lurker, Shizuka Taiyou, BoredTech, DitzyMusicLover, Poiseninja, femme4jack, JenEvan, silberstreif, Sideslip, Lecidre, MoonWallker, Got Buttermilk, UsagiLovesDuochan, Nightblooming Orchid, chaitea16, StarscreamII, sarasblackcolt, Anodythe, Sari sumdac, BaiLang, M. S. Fisher and Wind of the Dawn! You were all too kind with your wonderful reviews! I cannot thank you enough for your kindness!
Read, Review, and Enjoy~
Chapter 27
"Do ya trust meh?" Jazz wondered, searching Prowl's gaze carefully for any sign of wavering.
"I do," Prowl replied. His gaze did not falter. His tone was clear and precise. There was no flinch in his frame as Jazz's touch ghosted over him. He was as prepared as he could make himself for whatever lesson he was about to endure by the saboteur's hands. Mental torture. Physical torture. Or perhaps an unpleasant combination of both...
Jazz rested his claws above the panel that hid Prowl's interfacial port. "Ya know it won't be easy."
"I have known that for a very long time." He slid his fingers around Jazz's wrist, pulling the saboteur's hand downward slowly until it rested directly over the panel hidden in the upper left side of his chest. The sound of Jazz's claws scrapping lightly against the metal rang softly in the tactician's audios. A shiver passed through them both. Their optics were locked as Prowl said, "Do your worst."
Jazz shuttered his optics, perfectly aware of what his worst was. His worst got bots killed. He didn't want to kill Prowl. Needlessly, he said, "This part is going ta hurt you a lot more than it will ever hurt meh."
"I understand," Prowl intoned. The hand around Jazz's wrist squeezed for a moment. Not only did he understand, to some degree, the intensity of the exercise they were about to partake in, he was also aware that he would not be the only one suffering.
Prowl's port clicked open first, as if in encouragement. Jazz cycled air through his vents before he followed suit. The silver bot then withdrew the long length of his cable, holding it in the air between their frames. Prowl cast his gaze downward toward the simplistic device, though he needn't inspect it. Nothing more than medium length of cable encased in a woven polymer covering to prevent fraying or snapping during strenuous activities. The colour of the cable was black and the tip was metallic silver, narrowing into a needle-like point. All transformer frames, which the exception of sparklings, were built with similar cables and equally as similar ports. Designs could vary, though function never did.
To interface had many different purposes; to exchange data for business, or to simply get to know another bot. Pleasure could be felt in connecting to the mind of another; platonic affection, familial, or romantic. By contrast, there could be pain through an interfacial connection. Lots of pain
For such innocuous devices as cables and ports, they were weapons in Jazz's hands.
There would be much pain in Prowl's coming future, which he accepted with grim determination.
The needle of the head of the cable scraped the rim of the tactician's port.
"You locked the doors, yes?" Prowl asked, glancing over his shoulder once at the disguised doors of the training room.
Jazz paused in his motions, shooting a guarded look upward. It seemed that he was steeling himself for what was coming as well. "Yeah, Ah did. No one's getting in."
"And-?"
"Ratchet knows we're doing something down here," Jazz continued. "If something happens ta ya, he'll be on alert."
"Good." He shuttered his optics and waited for the interfacial synchronization screen to pop up. Waited for the wild feeling of a storm colliding with his mind. When it didn't come as swiftly as he thought it would, he cracked his optics open again to observe Jazz quietly staring down at the port he was supposed to be connecting to.
"Don't tell me it's been too long since you've done this," Prowl intoned dryly. "You can't possibly have forgotten how it's done."
His one attempt at humour in a while and no one laughed.
Jazz sighed and shook his head. "Sorry. Ah was distracted. Just thinking about..." he paused, then sighed, "things."
Prowl carefully considered the tone his companion was using, recognizing it as the one generally used when he was recalling his unpleasant past. Yet again, his hand came up to encircle Jazz's wrist. This time, his touch was more gentle. "If you're not comfortable with this..."
"No, it's not that." He shook his head, but he didn't draw his hand away from the one who held it. "This is just a little different than how it was done ta meh. Ah'm still wondering if it will work the same way."
"Oh." His hand clasped a little tighter around Jazz's wrist. He was struck by the sudden urge to thread his fingers through the saboteur's. "You never mentioned how it was done to you."
Jazz looked up and met Prowl's steady gaze. It was moments like these that his white gaze didn't look as white as it normally did. Several fortnight had passed since the episode in the courtyard when Jazz had momentarily sported Autobot colours, and since then Prowl had wondered if it was wishful thinking on his part that Jazz's gaze did not seem as starkly white as before, or if the saboteur was simply messing with him.
"Ah don't think listening ta another story from way back when is gonna help ya much right now," said the saboteur.
"No, but it will delay the inevitable for a time," the tactician replied. The words hadn't been meant as a joke, but Jazz found brief humour in it anyways. The corners of his mouthplates curved up vaguely.
"Alright," he relented. "But ya have ta remember that it was different back then. Bots could get away with things that they never would have in the Golden Age."
Prowl could not decide if the words were a warning of the story to come or an apology for what crimes Jazz had committed in the past. Nevertheless, he said, "Go on. I still would like to know how you handled yourself."
Jazz nodded, the humour fading from his features. "When Ah was learning ta control mah emotions, mah master didn't just go inside mah head like Ah'm going ta do to ya. At that point in mah life, Ah wasn't that old and the only memories Ah had were of her beating the slag out of meh. There wasn't enough for her ta work with. She brought bots in and did things to them while Ah watched."
"She tortured them," Prowl said needlessly.
Jazz frowned, looking down at the place where they touched. "Sometimes it was torture and sometimes it was other things. Xerxia did whatever she needed to in order ta push meh ta mah limits." His shoulders tipped up in a shallow shrug. "Ah was allowed ta feel horror, pain, sadness, pleasure... but Ah also had ta be separate from it. You understand that, don't ya?"
"I believe so," Prowl replied.
Jazz nodded. "A part of meh had ta not care that they were screaming and begging for mercy while Ah stood there and watched. Ah had ta train mahself not ta bow ta anything Ah felt." He was quiet for a moment. So quiet that Prowl imagined he heard the saboteur's spark beating against his sparkcase. Or perhaps that was simply his own spark pulsing too loudly in his audios?
Jazz sighed. "Eventually, all of meh stopped caring."
At first, it had only been a separation between what he felt with his spark and what he thought with his head. But the uncaring coldness had spread like an infection. The more he had listened to bots scream under Xerxia's care, the less he cared about them. The more he separated his mind from his spark, the less he cared, the more Xerxia invited him to carry on with the exercises by his own hand. Sometimes it had been pleasuring others without taking pleasure himself. Most times it had been plain torture, letting the waves wash over him like waves on a shore.
He didn't mention the part when he started to like listening to them scream.
Prowl didn't need Jazz to say anything about his past enamouring with others' misery. His processor was already sorting all of the new information into place and coming to its own conclusions. Jazz's exemplary skills at physical torture must have been inherited from his sessions with Xerxia, only to be expanded upon during his time as a freelance lunatic. His once utter lack of empathy was explained, as well. If anyone was subjected to such techniques for long enough, their ability to empathize with others and understand right and wrong would inevitably erode. Jazz was merely a product of that.
"You were used so poorly," Prowl murmured, making Jazz's gaze jump to his once more.
Jazz tried to offer his usual smirk, but it came out more like a grimace. "Can't change the past, Prowler. Be grateful Ah got the skills Ah have, or else you'd be outta luck looking for someone ta fix ya."
"Then I am grateful, even if I am a little...saddened by your early mistreatment."
"Nothing is ever 'a little' with ya," Jazz reminded wryly.
"You know what I mean," Prowl replied, turning his faceplate away a little. "I am disgusted with whoever this Xerxia was for doing everything she did to you. She bastardized circuit-su for her own vile purposes, and she turned you into-." He cut himself off, not wishing to finish the sentence.
"A monster," Jazz stated matter-of-factly. "Go on, ya can say it, Prowl. Ah was monster."
"Was being the operative word in that sentence," Prowl pointed out. "No matter your past, I trust you to do this now." He tugged Jazz's hand closer to his open port. The needle of the cable scraped along the opening.
Jazz cycled air through his vents and let the cable sink home. Both of their frames tensed as they felt the automatic synchronization of their minds happen. There was never a complete synchronization between them as there normally was between bots. It was unusual, but not unheard of. Given that their minds operated in such vastly different and seemingly incompatible formats, there was always enough friction between them to make it interesting. Enough to keep Jazz interested. Enough to keep Prowl wary.
"Your firewalls are still up," Jazz commented out loud, perusing through Prowl's mind leisurely. He couldn't go too far while Prowl's guard was still up. The tactician had not lost his edge since his confinement in Straxis; he could still put up one pit of a challenge if he decided not to be cooperative.
"Sorry," Prowl murmured.
It took a moment for the tension to drain out of his frame enough so that he could concentrate on taking down his firewalls. As he did so, he shifted for a more comfortable sitting position. If he was going to be mentally tortured in the next few breems, he might as well be comfortable for it. Jazz unconsciously did the same, mirroring Prowl's sitting position. Prowl could feel Jazz in his head like some kind of acute affliction. Like concentrated data corruption without the haywire feeling of losing one's own data; he was a whirlwind that both sucked Prowl in and repulsed him away. The more he took down his firewalls and opened up vulnerable databanks to the saboteur's mercy, the more acute his experience of Jazz within him became.
Jazz closed his optics and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and letting his forehead rest in his palms. He headed straight for Prowl's memories, intending to find ones best suited for his needs. The most painful memories he could find. Ones that would hurt Prowl over and over again. Hurt him until he learned to accept the emotions and let them exist, but remain the master of them.
Prowl's most recent memories came to the fore immediately. They were not necessarily what Jazz was looking for, but he decided to peruse anyways. Neither of them were in a big rush. Prowl had the orn off and Jazz simply didn't want to work, so he didn't. The tactician immediately went tense as he felt Jazz begin picking around. His defences started to go up as if he were anticipating an immediate attack.
Calm down, Jazz said through their connection. Ah'm just looking around. You'll know when Ah'm getting ta the good stuff.
Prowl forced himself to relax once more.
Most of the memories Jazz happened across were the basic orn-to-orn kind. Nothing exciting had happened around base recently, so Prowl's memories were mundane. Most of them were shared with Jazz anyways, because they were in each other's company so often. Their usual meeting in the morning for a cube of energon. Discuss their plans for the orn; exchange any pertinent information they had; agree on a time in the evening when they could both meet again. They went about the rest of their orns normally. Evening would come and Prowl always showed up ten breems early. Jazz always showed up ten breems late. They would drink, chat, and then migrate back to Prowl's office to work until they realized that most of the night was already gone and they were forced to part for their own respective rooms.
Jazz startled himself by suddenly realizing he had fallen into a routine without being aware of it. How strange to be part of a routine. Stranger still was the fact that he did not seem bothered by the reality.
Prowl was a remarkably well-time bot, not that Jazz had not realized that fact before; he operated like clockwork throughout any given orn. The only breaks in the routine tedium came few and far between. A few times Blackhawk commandeered Prowl for a private exchange of information that Jazz had not been able to steal and hand over first. Occasionally, Elita One and her femmes appeared fishing for information on Jazz from Prowl. One memory boasted of Firestar propositioning Prowl for a night that he would never forget and the tactician politely turning her down, citing that he had an important meeting to attend to. Jazz checked the time stamp on the memory and discovered that it had been the night the two of them had gone for a quiet night drive outside the base's perimeter for no other reason than to be in each other's company without the distraction of Iacon around them.
I enjoyed that night, Prowl said lightly when he discovered which memory Jazz was looking up.
Ah did too, Jazz found himself replying. The stars were nice.
A hidden ghost of a smile appeared on the tactician's mouthplates. They were, weren't they?
Jazz moved on from the recent memories. He bypassed most memories that encompassed the time between the present to the moment they had first encountered each other. There wasn't much to look up that Jazz didn't already know about. Strange as it might seem, they had spent the majority of the last vorn in each other's company. There was nothing new in the memories; nothing truly interesting for Jazz and nothing particularly painful for Prowl.
He travelled deeper, pleased to find that no matter how far back into Prowl's memory files he went, the same basic format still existed. Not a byte of data out of place. Every file neatly in its place. If it were possible for dust to build up in a memory, there would not be a speck of it in Prowl's mind. He was impeccable. Normally, there was some form of degradation on older memories, but there was no evidence in Prowl's mind. With such meticulous upkeep of his mind, he would have been able to remember his first orns of life as well as he would have remembered his most recent. Absolute perfect clarity. There was no way he could keep everything in such pristine order without regularly defragging his entire CPU. When did he ever find time to do something like that when it seemed like he barely had enough time as it was to get a full night's worth of recharge?
Jazz briefly wondered what that would be like, and then he decided it was best he never knew. His life... maybe some things were better off not being remembered.
Prowl, on the other hand... it suited him to have such a spotless mind. His was the kind that programmers would use as an example of the epitome of the well-programmed mind. Jazz imagined having perfect recall was part of what made Prowl as formidable a tactician as he was. He also had no doubt that memories with the clarity Prowl hosted also helped him perpetuate the cycle of self-hatred. He was able to go over every detail of every mistake he had ever made and never be able to forget exactly what prices he had paid for each little proof of his imperfection.
That was Prowl's dirty little secret. No matter how clean the facade was, Jazz knew about the festering rottenness inside. From that one time inside Prowl's mind, he knew about the rage and agony. The fear and misery. Prowl's personal pit of loathing and rancid self-hatred. It was all inside his head somewhere; it was the reason Jazz was in there now. He needed to find it and force Prowl to confront it.
Prowl revved lightly, not sure how to interpret Jazz's line of thought this time. The saboteur was either thinking Prowl was a dirty mech, or he was thinking dirty thoughts about him. Or, at least, that's what he could gauge from Jazz's unusual thought processes.
Jazz glanced up, catching on to the puzzlement. He chuckled because the feeling of it was strangely pleasant against his mind; he'd never felt polite puzzlement from anyone before. For his company's reassurance, he offered a small, crooked smile. Don't worry about it, he said.
You are looking for material to torture me with and I should not be worried? He sounded sceptical.
The saboteur sagged a little. Alright, be worried.
Through his open search of Prowl's mind, Jazz found several memory files tagged Evasia: Fifth of Five. By the startled hesitation and then then brief wave of panic that flew through Prowl when he realized Jazz was interested in the tagged memories, Jazz knew this was where he should start the training session. He searched out memories that had a short time stamp on them but were disproportionately large files. The mark of a heavily emotionally invested memory. He found one at random and drew it to centre stage, surprised to find Prowl's automatic resistance.
"Not that one," said the tactician, gripping Jazz's knees tightly.
"Ya agreed ta mah terms when we started this, Prowler. No backing out now."
"I know, but..."
They locked gazes, fire and defiance sparking between them. With their minds connected as they were, it was an even more intense experience than it normally was. The presence of their considerable willpower felt like a physical clash between them. Prowl felt himself heat up as he resisted Jazz's advances into that specific memory. There was no need for that memory. Absolutely none.
However, Jazz was now determined to use it because of the mere fact that Prowl was so determined to deny it. The silver mech revved low like a growl, his frame coiling tight. He snapped forward, bowling Prowl over until the tactician was on his back and pinned to the dais. The sudden physical assault left his mind unfocused for all but an astrosecond, which was all the time Jazz needed to get in. Like batting aside cobwebs, he brushed aside Prowl's distraction to gain a better foothold in the tactician's mind.
"I should have tried this in Straxis," Jazz said with a short laugh, looming above Prowl with his clawed hands keeping the other mech's wrists to the floor.
"I doubt it would have been as effective as it is now," Prowl replied mulishly, turning his faceplate away.
Jazz smirked. "No, Ah don't suppose it would have been." His legs were spread so that his knees rested on either side of the tactician's chest. He supposed if Prowl really wanted, he could lurch up to use his legs to dislodge Jazz, but it seemed to be deemed an illogical move when Jazz already had access to the memory he wanted. There was no point fighting anymore.
"It will do you no good to use that one," Prowl intoned as a condemned last effort.
"Ah'll be the judge of that," Jazz replied, opening the memory to let it play for the tactician. He tightened his hands around Prowl's wrists in case the emotions that hit were too volatile for him to handle.
The file activated slowly, as if the memory itself were somehow subconsciously resisting what was about to happen.
In both of their minds' optics, a scene came together. Pieced together like a hologram; first pixelated and then sharpened. Colours adjusted. Depth and detail added. Frenetic movement quickly became apparent. And then the sounds of the memory activated a little too loudly-
"Oh Primus, yes! Yes! More, Prowl! Touch me more!"
...oh wow.
Totally not the kind of file Jazz been expecting.
He had firewalls up to prevent anything from Prowl's mind leaking through and affecting him, but he could still see the memory playing out. A very hot and intimate memory. It was from Prowl's point of view, so most of the memory's visual aspect was absorbed by the image of a femme with a teal chevron arching and writhing in wild abandon. Jazz could see details from the periphery, though. He could see the small room with its dim lights and covered window; a single engraving on the wall below the window announced the room as property of Simfur's Capitol City Security Response. A low berth in the corner that both Prowl and his company had failed to arrive to before they succumbed to their activities.
"Evasia, keep doing that- Please!"
The sound of Prowl's passion-roughened voice startled Jazz. Such blatant and uncontrolled emotion flooded into every syllable; there was heat and desperation and the wonderful insanity that came when someone was insanely close to hitting that ultimate crest of pleasurable perfection. So different was Prowl's voice in this memory from his usual controlled tones that he was nearly unrecognizable.
Jazz could attest to the fact that he was rarely ever struck dumb by anything. It was a very rare moment, indeed. However, as the dawning realization of what he was truly seeing washed over him, Jazz discovered that he was, in fact, dumbstruck by it. His vision rocked back and forth in time to the motion of Prowl's frame writhing against his partner's. He could hear the rev of taxed engines and the desperate whirr of cooling fans. Metal scraping and clashing roughly as the two bots lost themselves to the whirlwind of passion. He could not feel the mounting tension between the lust-ridden bots, but he sensed their final climb to completion. Their cries became louder and more abandoned. Their movements frenzied as their minds were swept away. Physical frames reduced to their basest form as ecstasy consumed them.
Jazz opened his optics and attempted to lean away. This was not the kind of memory he had been looking for. Yes, he could use it if he so chose, because it undeniably contained the type of strong emotions that Prowl would have to master eventually. While pain, fear, rage, and loathing were amongst the strongest obstacles to overcome, positive emotions could be considered just as difficult. Perhaps even more so, since pleasure could be a temptation that many found hard to resist. But... he was struck by the sudden odd concept that this was a private memory.
It was something he was not supposed to see.
More than that, he cared that he was not supposed to see it.
"Prowl, Ah..."
The words trailed off when the sound of a long, drawn out groan reached his audios. Not an echo from the past playing in his head. It was Prowl. In real time. And the sound that came out of him was nearly as lost in abandon as his past self was. Jazz's optics wide and bright as he realized what had become of his company. The distraction offered by the surprisingly passionate nature of Prowl's secret memory had made Jazz forget that he was still connected to Prowl, and that Prowl himself was the one who was taking the brunt of the emotional cascade.
Even with the knowledge of what had been coming, Prowl had been ill-equipped to circumvent the worst of it. With his firewalls down, not only had it given Jazz free rein through his mind but it had left him open to the mercy of his own past without a proper buffer. His EMO condition had taken the already intense nature of the intimate encounter with Evasia and blown it far out of proportion. Snared him in the moment and smothered him in the inescapable grip of raging lust. Now he was caught in a place between abject torture and total ecstasy.
Another groan escaped him. His hands, now free of Jazz's grip, travelled down his frame with minds of their own. He shivered as the coolness of the ground met the smouldering heat growing inside him.
Like a pile of dried out debris left to a barren desert for too long, Prowl had only needed a spark to ignite.
Fire raced through him.
His neural circuits sizzled along the underside of his armour; stinging and tingling at the same time.
Hot. So hot. Hotter than he had ever been in a very long time.
The sudden spike in his internal temperatures summoned warnings to pop up in his vision. His vents rattled with the unsteadiness of his need to draw in large amount of cool air for his systems. His doorwings shuddered and flapped while the rest of his armour trembled with desire-laden tension. His blue optics shot up and could see both Evasia underneath him and Jazz looming over him, their images superimposed over the other. Evasia was not beautiful; she was like Prowl. Plain and utilitarian, though smaller in design than himself. It was her qualities, such as her smile and the way she expressed her faith in Prowl to be able to learn to really live like everyone else, that had made her a stunning individual. The remembered touch of her mind against his, under normal circumstances, would have brought only a sad fondness and only a waft of warmth. Now an inferno raged inside him.
And then there was Jazz, existing right there in the midst of reality with a stunned look on his too-handsome faceplate. If circumstances had been different, Prowl would have been inclined to save that expression to his memory banks simply for the pleasure of knowing Jazz was capable of being surprised. However, the current reasons for Jazz's immobility were the very same reasons Prowl was unable to do anything about the saboteur's expression.
Between them, Jazz's cable pulled taut as he leaned farther away. They were on the verge of disconnecting; one good wrench would have them away from each other. To do so would be both a blessing and a curse. Jazz would no longer be privy to the show inside Prowl's head. He would no longer be a voyeur amongst one of the tactician's most private moments. But their separation would not stop the cascade action already in progress. Prowl was already swept away by the amplified emotions of the memories, helpless to stop or resist it. He would humiliate himself no matter what happened now.
No, scratch that.
He was already irreparably humiliated by the mere fact that Jazz had seen this part of himself. In only a few breems, he would sink to a new level of pure mortification so low that he probably already had a place in the lowest level of the pit reserved for him.
"Prowl, oh Prowl- you're so good at this. You're so- ah!" Evasia continued to mewl in his mind, the clarity of her voice so clear that he could almost mistake her for being right there in the present with him. Holding on to him. Looming in front of him.
But it wasn't Evasia in front of him. It was Jazz. Still watching him. Prevented from looking away or blinking by a sense of morbid fascination that was etched across his faceplate.
Worse than Jazz staring at him, Prowl found that he could not take his optics away from Jazz. Jazz seemed to be having the same problem. Not only were their gazes frozen, but their frames were seized as well. Caught both metaphorically and physically in the moment. Jazz tugged backwards, continue to try to prevent himself from seeing something he knew Prowl did not want him to see, but there was no real conviction in his struggles. Even though the saboteur wasn't going anywhere, Prowl's frame lashed forward faster than his mind could process, wrapping his strong fingers around Jazz's knees to shackle him to the spot.
A startled curse fell from Jazz's mouthplates as he looked down to the vice-like hands that gripped him.
It was not that Prowl wanted Jazz to bear witness to his coming release, but more that his frame had craved something to latch on to while the world spun too fast out of his grasp and Jazz had been the only available anchor.
Once again, if Prowl had been in his right mind, he would have been able to appreciate the irony of anchoring himself to someone who could have been considered chaos incarnate at one time.
"Prowl," Jazz said, his voice strangely soft and cautious as he spoke. Trying not to startle the mech who was too far gone as it was. "Prowl, Ah know this isn't what we planned, but ya can fight this. Control it. At least... just try." He leaned forward now, clawed hands coming to rest above Prowl's own.
A rough curse escaped Prowl. He knew what those hands could do. Corrupted by the vivid imagery in his head, his too-fast mind contributed a thousand logical scenarios of what Jazz could be doing with his hands. With his magnetic touch. Barely able to think anymore, possessing only enough self-awareness to be horrified by the thoughts he had just conjured, Prowl jerked his hands away, bracing them behind his back. He arched high, mouthplates parted, optics closed.
He watched as Evasia's optics snapped open, her bright gaze awed and wondrous as she finally came to the zenith of her overload. Her mouthplates parted on a silent scream that echoed Prowl's designation. Prowl of the past arched above her, a guttural sound coming from him as an intense wave of concentrated pleasure exploded in his head and rushed outward to encompass his entire frame. He and Evasia synched together, sharing their overload on a continuous loop that shot them higher.
Prowl of the present was suddenly blinded by the extreme burst of sensation that detonated inside him. His vision flashed bright for a split astrosecond before going black. He could hear the sound of his own voice crying out as his own violent, reluctant release struck him. He was paralysed by it. Unable to move, think, or feel beyond the intensity of the sensations hitting him wave after wave. It was pure electricity. Pure fire. Pure pleasure in its rawest, most potent form.
And it was too much.
Too much for someone like Prowl to handle.
Far too much for anyone to handle.
With one last keening cry, Prowl's neural net overloaded to the maximum and promptly shut down.
Jazz was left sitting on the dais staring at the unconscious tactician for nearly a full breem before he had the conscience to move. First his hand came to his faceplate and scrubbed his features roughly. Then he looked to the side, and then the other side. He looked back down at Prowl and looked away again. He... didn't know what to do.
It felt like forever ago when he had first experienced the true depth of what Prowl was capable of feeling and had wondered what passion might feel like to a bot who felt emotions magnified by a thousand.
Now he was not so sure how fun the true reality of the matter was.
Whether it was out of pity or kindness, Jazz lurched forward to tug his cable from Prowl's port. With the tactician unconscious and his defences null, Jazz truly did have the best opportunity to see into every nook and cranny of the complicated bot. He refused the chance. Enough private sides of the tactician had been seen today without more being exposed. Jazz had enough respect for his partner to know when it was time to say enough was enough.
It was simple business of withdrawing his cable. A single tug and his mind was his own again, even if images of a writhing femme and the sounds of Prowl lost in passion still churned wildly through his head. He did not think any manner of reprogramming or deletion would ever be enough to erase the image of Prowl himself bowed to the ardent tide of irrepressible lust. It was, on its own, a very intriguing image to which Jazz's attention was acutely drawn in more ways than one. His intrigues would have to wait for another orn.
He ravelled his cable away, though remained crouching over Prowl. One finger reached out and touched the tactician's faceplate right below one dark optic. In an instant, Prowl rebooted and his optics flickered to life. Time seemed to freeze as the two bots comprehended the moment they were in and in what distinctly intimate positions they found themselves to be in.
First there was panic in Prowl's gaze.
And then there was rage.
Knowing he was an EMO, that rage would burn hot and black right down to his core.
In a flash, Prowl's legs sprung up to brace his feet against Jazz's chest, and then he thrust outward with all his strength. Jazz was thrown violently to one end of the dais. Prowl scrambled backwards in the opposite direction until he came to the unguarded edge and toppled over it. He hit with a thud, but was on his feet in astroseconds. He was shaking again as he stood, but this time it was not from an ardour he did not wish to feel. The flames that licked at him were not lustful. For once, his self-hatred now rivalled with a hatred for another living being.
Jazz pushed himself into a sitting position and stared across the dais at the storm-grey mech that glared blackly at him. With a closer look, he could see past the rage to the thousand other emotions that now stormed free through the Autobot; shame, humiliation, disgust, loathing, devastation...
The saboteur could think of very little to say in a moment such as this.
Prowl clenched and unclenched his fists, mouthplates working tensely to form words that choked on his fury. Eventually he managed to form a sentence that embodied the totality of his revulsion for what just happened:
"If you ever tell anyone what happened here, I will hurt you. Badly."
Jazz opened his mouthplates... maybe to apologize for things getting so terribly out of hand.
Prowl did not wish to hear a word from the saboteur, too engrossed in himself at the moment to care for anything Jazz might say. He turned on his heel and quit the training room under a dark storm cloud.
Jazz sighed and looked down, coming to the conclusion that perhaps he was not the best mech to help Prowl with his problems. He had a feeling he just made every problem invariably worse.