Inglorious 2
“Hiding my creations from me?” Prowl did not jump at the accusation. He did not so much twitch a doorwing. Ignoring the pressure of the Tagonian’s EM field against his, Prowl finished filling his cube, sealing it before he turned around.
“No,” Prowl replied. A dozen Autobots at least were listening. It was an unpleasant way to find out this mech was enlisted with the Autobots. “He is not your creation.”
“Oh yeah?” Chromedome, called Tumbler during their liaison, leaned in as he spoke.
“If I had kindled with your creation,” Prowl said. “I would have terminated it.”
He ignored the gasps and made his way to the table where Punch was sitting. Jazz, the operative Punch wanted him to assist, was to meet them here. Prowl ignored the optics on his back; their opinions of him were irrelevant. Chromedome had to have asked after him when he had learned Prowl had enlisted, somehow. It was not a lie; Chromedome had not sired Smokescreen. After he had caught the cheating aft in the berth with another mech, Prowl had submitted to a thorough health screening. Why his implant had failed when it had was something the Praxian was never going to know, but it had failed orns after they had parted in a flurry of harsh glyphs. Prowl had meant every glyph then and every glyph now. If he had found himself to have been carrying dure during that screening, Prowl would have had the carrying terminated. There had been no way he would have allowed himself to be tied to that mech for the rest of his life.
“Got some history wit Chromedome?” A newcomer asked as he sat without invitation. Punch cocked his helm and looked at Prowl, having not witnessed the confrontation.
“Jazz?” Punch asked. So this was Jazz.
“If he is assigned to Special Operations, I will request an immediate transfer,” Prowl declared.
“He ain’t,” Punch replied. “Anythin’ we outta worry ‘bout.”
“He was under the impression my creation was sired by him,” Prowl replied. “I have corrected him. That should be the end of it, but it will not.”
“Mm,” Punch hummed. “If he manages to run a test?”
“I will request action against the medic that performs a medical test on my creation without my consent,” Prowl replied. “As I was concerned he might have passed an interface disease to me after I got him in berth with a stranger, I had rigorous health testing done at the time. I kindled after our relationship dissolved. I do not care if he has his doubts.”
“Ya might be the most interestin’ thing to happen to the base in a while,” Jazz declared. “Bots love to gossip.”
Prowl did not care for gossip, perhaps because he had often been the centre of it. He reviewed the intel Punch had passed him and presented his analysis to Jazz and his originator after. Special Operations ran with a higher tolerance to risk, but the operation he had reviewed had unacceptable flaws. Due to the nature of the department and his utter lack of authority, Prowl made a series of amendments, including the direction from which the target would be approached. Jazz did not like his edits, but at his originator’s request, he agreed to give it a shot. Punch gave him intel to review, and he spent the rest of the cycle and each then after doing exactly that task. Punch had his doubts; that much was obvious. Prowl had them, too. Perhaps he should have just applied to Iacon’s enforcers.
“I got an unexpected reference for ya last dark-cycle,” Punch told him in the light-cycle, presenting him with a cube of thick, black energon. Prowl inclined his helm, accepting the cube. “Camshaft.”
“My originator,” Prowl said.
“Ya didn’t mention ‘m,” Punch observed.
“Would you expect Jazz to mention you if he took a position elsewhere?” Prowl asked.
“No,” Punch replied. “That’d be suicide. He speaks highly o’ ya.”
“I should think so,” Prowl said. Punch laughed.
“Some mega-cycle I’ll root out that comm-worm o’ his.”
“Unlikely,” Prowl replied. “I have tried my entire life.”
The mission was a success. Jazz returned from the Decepticon outpost with the entire server downloaded for their inspection. All without having been detected. Punch insisted they should celebrate. Prowl declined; he had to go home to Smokescreen. Despite that, somehow Prowl found himself at Maccadam’s with Jazz and his team while Punch sparkling sat for Smokescreen. As Smokescreen had been promised a long dark-cycle of old movies and popped gears, he had been entirely too enthused to see Prowl leave for the evening. He was settling in well in Iacon. Smokescreen had already made a friend and perhaps an enemy, and it was the enemy that pleased him most. His creation had always taken pride in sticking up to bullies. So far, the school had not reached out to complain. If they did, Prowl would ask the same questions he had in Praxus. Had he used foul language? Had he committed assault? If not, if he had only made the bully feel dumb by using his quick wit, there was nothing to punish him for.
Prowl did not dance, but Jazz got him out on the dance floor. He was too good a dancer to really enjoy dancing with Prowl. Yet, he insisted they stay for another song. The mech liked music and played multiple instruments, Prowl learned. He told Jazz Smokescreen played cyber-violin, and somehow Jazz had gotten him to talk about his painting. They went back to Jazz’s place for another drink. Soon, their armour was on the floor, and Prowl was kneeling over Jazz, jaw hanging as he slowly lowered himself on the lean Polyhexian’s impressive girth. This was absolutely reckless. As it had been reckless to interface with Tumbler, but Prowl was spec ops now, and they were a reckless crew. They had told stories of their antics, mostly Jazz’s. Chromedome had been at another table with his friends. Dancing with Jazz, leaving with him may have been at least in part inspired by spite.
“Gorgeous,” Jazz praised him.
Jazz squeezed Prowl’s hips as he bucked up into him. It had been a while since Prowl had interfaced. The saboteur certainly had a spike to satisfy his size kink. After getting his gestational tank fragged at that club, it had become a pleasure the Praxian had chased from time to time. How unexpected that Jazz could scratch the itch. Soon, he was on his back, Jazz pinned him to the berth as he nipped and sucked his heavy wells. Mostly, Prowl had snapped back from his carrying, but his wells hung lower, his belly was softer, but Jazz was smart enough not to complain. He held Prowl’s wells as he fragged him from behind and then rolled them over again, pinning Prowl’s leg to his shoulder. Prowl had overloaded at least six times, and Jazz had not overloaded once.
“Ahh, frag,” Prowl moaned, optics blurry with tears of hypersensitivity. He had no idea how many times he had overloaded, but he was a wreck. Sparks flew from his anterior node as he rubbed it while Jazz jerked himself off, ejaculating on Prowl’s belly, covering it in thick transfluids.
“See ya in the light-cycle,” Jazz told him, after insisting on driving him home. Perhaps Prowl would regret interfacing with the saboteur later, but for now, he was feeling delightfully well fragged.
