#shaping you

It was at the same time the oppressive heat of Calor arrived that Prowl learned he was with spark. As soon at Ratchet detected the newspark, Jazz ordered Hotwire to make Prowl new armour. The femme took fresh measurements, even though it had not been so long since he had made his current armour, and Prowl waited for it to be delivered. Due to the heat, Jazz went about his duties without Prowl’s escort. Prowl looked out at the terrace. He missed the garden but it was too hot for him to work in it now, especially now that he was carrying. As Prowl was not carrying a royal heir, he faced restrictions and surveillance he had not before. Hotwire delivered the armour while Jazz was attending to his duties. Prowl felt his fuel tank flip at the sight. There was... so little of it.

He went to his chests and took out the maternity armour his originator had commissioned for him and laid it out next to the armour Hotwire had prepared. The armour he wore now was less covering than the armour his originator had commission and still far more covering that than the armour only just delivered to him. Everything would hang out if he wore that! The chestplate was cut high and just covered his wells. The girdle was cut so low hardly more than his array would be covered. Buymecha in Praxus would feel indecent in that armour. Prowl looked at the armour his originator had commissioned. It would covered everything, compress everything, and assure the resulting newling would not grow overly large thereby allowing a smooth delivery. Would it even fit? It was even more covering than the armour he had worn to his bonding and that had been a disaster. There was a knock at the door. Perhaps Hotwire was back. Perhaps the armour was a mistake? He opened the door and saw the king. Immediately, Prowl dropped to the ground, bowing low, ensuring his originator-in-law had not cause to complain. Punch clucked his glossa and Prowl bit his glossa to keep from screaming.

“Up now,” Punch told him, taking Prowl’s elbow and pulling him upright. “Jazz told me the good news.”

“Please come in Your Majesty,” Prowl stepped back. He did not want company. Anyone’s company but the king’s presence was by far the least welcome Prowl could have faced. Except for perhaps his own procreators.

“What’s this?” Punch asked, immediately seeing the armour. Prowl did not curse but the temptation was there.

“Maternity armour,” Prowl replied.

“From yer kin?” Punch asked, digit tracing the high, stiff front panel of the girdle.

“Yes,” Prowl replied. “It was assumed I would kindle, sooner or later.”

“At least it ain’t ununtrium,” Punch sighed. “This one’s Hotwire’s work.”

“Yes.”

“I suppose it feels scandalous to ya?” Punch asked.

“Yes.”

“Why’s this panel so high?” Punch asked.

“To ensure the bitlet does not grow too big,” Prowl replied. “And to allow for a smooth delivery.”

“Yer natural figure’ll serve ya well for that,” Punch told him.

“Oh?” Prowl asked.

“Wide hips,” Punch explained. “It can mean a wide emergence canal. Worst thing is a bitty gettin’ stuck. Don’t mean it don’t hurt. Emergence ain’t a treat but the reward is worth every bit o’ pain.”

“You do not approve of the armour,” Prowl said.

“No,” Punch replied. “I don’t think it’s good for bitty or ori to be stuck in a vice but if Ratchet ain’t concerned...”

“Jazz will not approve,” Prowl said. “Mecha are supposed to see his... work.”

“That is our way,” Punch confirmed. “Maybe we can make Hotwire’s armour a bit more comfortable for ya...”

“Ori!” Jazz was surprised to see his originator in his chambers upon his return.

“Have a look, Jazz,” Punch called, beckoning him over. Prowl stood still next to Punch as he fussed with the wrapper.

“Beautiful,” Jazz said. He kissed Prowl on the cheekplate.

“Thank you,” Prowl replied. “I do not think I will ever master tying it.”

“I can help ya,” Jazz assured him. “Ya had a circlet altered, Ori?”

“Thought it sittin’ on his chevron makes it easier,” Punch replied. “Tiaras get in the way. Smith’s gonna make somethin’ finer, lighter, then the sleeves they sent for his doors. For formal scrap.”

“Good idea,” Jazz replied. “How do ya feel?”

“Proper,” Prowl replied. “For who and what I am.”

“Think y’re up for a guest?” Jazz asked.

“What do you mean?” Prowl asked.

“Yer brother turned up at the gates,” Jazz explained. “All back, ‘n ununtrium. Somehow he ain’t even winded.”

“If Barricade is here, our procreators are nearby,” Prowl said. He looked down at himself and felt far less proper.

"https://anon-e-miss.tumblr.com/post/671157395628621824/shaping-you

https://anon-e-miss.tumblr.com/post/671771664524181504/shaping-you-2

https://anon-e-miss.tumblr.com/post/671794174495981568/shaping-you-3

https://anon-e-miss.tumblr.com/post/673684106924752896/shaping-you-4-consummation

https://anon-e-miss.tumblr.com/post/679853654316072960/shaping-you-5-ravishment

https://anon-e-miss.tumblr.com/post/682391436938870784/shaping-you-6-redress

https://anon-e-miss.tumblr.com/post/706034039059054592/shaping-you-7-weaving-threads

“Barricade!” Prowl exclaimed as his brother stepped into his chambers. Even though Jazz had said his brother was here, he had not believed it. He did not give Barricade the chance to notice their company and ran to his brother and embraced him in a Praxian hug. Barricade nuzzled his crest. “I wondered if it would be vorns before our procreators dined to travel here.”

“They didn’t,” Barricade told him. “I ditched them in Uraya. The Omni was in port. I asked our uncle for a ride.”

“Progenitor will have his helm if he has the chance,” Prowl said, worried.

“Come, sit down,” Jazz interrupted, gently. “The port’s a long ‘nough way off, yer brother might be close to overheating.”

“I’m fine, but thank you,” Barricade replied. “My uncle gave me reflective paint. I could hardly leave our lodgings in Uraya. It feels more manageable here.”

“All the same,” Punch spoke now. “We’ll call Hotwire back ‘n she can outfit ya wit armour more suited for Polyhex.”

“His Majesty, King Punch,” Prowl introduced his brother to his originator in law. Barricade would have bow but Prowl held his arm tight, hardly able to believe Barricade had made the journey. “Originator to my consort, Crown Prince Jazz.”

“Can yer progenitor make trouble for yer uncle?” Punch asked.

“Unlikely, Your Majesty,” Barricade replied. “Since the Crown of Praxus has had a warrant out for his helm for decavorns and haven’t managed to collect, Crosscut doesn’t have much of a chance.”

“There’s a story there,” Punch said.

“Someone ordered fuel?” Prowl was surprised it was his consort’s twin and not a servant that brought in a tray of coolant. “I heard there was an unexpected guest.”

“Yes, Rico,” Punch said. “I may need ya for this. Ya know o’ the Omni?”

“Sure,” Ricochet replied. “They don’t sail under any colours but their friendly to Polyhex. If they ain’t hasslin’ slavers, they trade crystals, mostly.”

“That works for me,” Punch said. “Pour the coolant, Ricochet. Barricade, why does Praxus want yer uncle’s helm.”

“He sunk the jewel of their fleet,” Barricade explained. Prowl’s optics went wide, he had not heard this story. “After their progenitor died, our progenitor arranged a bonding for his brother with the admiral of Praxus’s fleet. The mech had a dukedom and promised to pay a huge dowry. Camshaft, our uncle, didn’t care for the match and escaped on a ship the mega-cycle the Rites were supposed to be spoken. The admiral gave chase at the helm of Praxus’s newest war ship. Camshaft manned the canon that sank it.”

“Are they still in port?” Jazz asked.

“For now,” Barricade said. “His conjunx has family in Staniz. I’m staying with them.”

“Ya’ll stay here,” Punch said. “So ya can enjoy the visit wit Prowl. Ricochet, invite ‘em for a welcome feast, next cycle.”

“Will do,” Ricochet replied.

“I have never met our uncle,” Prowl said.

“Neither had I,” Barricade said. “But I heard progenitor curse him and the Omni often so when I heard the ship mentioned at the docks, I went to see if he was still captaining it. He and his conjunx have made a hobby of harassing progenitor’s ships if they don’t care for his cargo.”

“I like’em already, Jazz said.

Prowl did too. Even if bringing Barricade to Polyhex was just an act of spite, it was agreeable to Prowl. Hotwire came and she cut armour for Barricade in a similar style to the first design she made for him. It suited him well, as did the wrapper Punch gave him. Jazz and his kin left them alone to visit. He had been afraid to write letters, knowing that their procreators would surely intercept it and he had not wanted them to know of the disaster of his bonding cycle. Barricade listen as Prowl described the disaster as it had unfolded and Punch’s gradual chase of spark. He revealed his carrying and the bitty bump not quite hidden by his wrapper but not precisely displayed either. His brother was happy he had settled and happier knowing he had shared his bride price with the poor mechanisms of Polyhex. Their procreators would call it a waste when they learned. But if it would bring their disapproval, it appealed to Barricade.

“It was brave o’m to come,” Jazz told Prowl later. “To trust a mech, even an uncle, he didn’t know to make that sailin’. Polyhex ‘n Uraya ain’t been at war in a long time but we ain’t friendly either.”

“Barricade is fearless,” Prowl said. “If our positions had been reversed, he would have done as our uncle did. At least he would have tried. He would not wanted to be a thing our procreators were selling.”

“Did ya think about doin’ the same?” Jazz asked.

“No,” Prowl replied. “I am not so daring. I thought Polyhex would be an escape on its own. It has been. I am fortunate to have you for my conjunx.”

His belly rounder still as he rode his consort for the second time of the evening. Prowl could not linger on his uncertainty over his growing curves, not with the way Jazz worshipped them. Though his originator had told him he was expected to lie with his conjunx whenever the prince required it, describing it as a duty, Prowl found interface to be nothing like the chore his originator had described. Jazz squeezed Prowl’s aft as he rolled his hips, their arrays ground together. Prowl’s anterior node was stimulate so well when he did this, at the same time, his consort’s thick spike stimulated his gamma cluster. It was impossibly good. He moaned for Jazz and squeezed his own wells as Jazz watched him “dance”. Prowl could have danced the whole dark-cycle with him.

“Oh Jazz,” Prowl moaned as his conjunx took him from behind.

Prowl was not eager to see Punch again but his originator in law was king of Polyhex and as long as Prowl lived in his court, interacting with him was unavoidable. He had made a bad impression on him, in more than one way and his title hunting procreators had made a worse one. It seemed that the king was no more eager to see Prowl than Prowl was to see him as he never once summoned Prowl nor Jazz to dine. It troubled Prowl that he was playing a role in estranging Prowl from his originator. Unlike Prowl, Jazz seemed to have always been close to his originator and it was terrible to be the cause of that bond breaking. As Jazz guided him to a carriage, Prowl hoped that this tour and the gift of his bridal armour to his citizens might ease some of his distaste.

Jazz had insisted they wait until Hotwire had completed his proper armour, though the mock up had served Prowl just fine, the final product was cut of thinner metal and painted the richest blank paint and the most perfect iridescent white Prowl had ever seen. It gave the effect of appearing as if it had been carved of crystal and not of metal. If Prowl had not known better he would have expected his chest plate to be transparent. This was armour sculpted by an artist, a striking contrast to the gaudy thing he had worn to his bonding. It in this Prowl felt like the consort of a prince, more than he had in his bridal armour.

“Hotwire smelted yer armour ‘n molded it into bricks,” Jazz explained as they set off, after she separated out the gems. “Got enough that ya don’t gotta worry ‘bout leavin’ anyone short.”

“Thank you,” Prowl replied. “That is easier than donating panel by panel, and less crass than handing my pelvic girdle to a school or museum.”

“Yeah, I didn’t dig that image,” Jazz replied. “Nothin’ crass ‘bout ya but don’t mean others ain’t ‘n I don’t want ya gettin’ anymore grief.”

“Never fear,” Prowl replied. “I will come to some manner of grief by my conduct alone.”

“Yer conduct is perfect,” Jazz assured him. It had not been but it was kind of Jazz to reassure him.

His new armour was snug over his belly. Dipole insisted on spoiling him by experimenting with Praxian cuisine and Prowl was indulging more than he ever had under his originator’s supervision. Beyond that, Jazz was diligent in doing his duty as a bridegroom and he flooded Prowl’s gestational tank at least twice a mega-cycle, if not thrice and thus Prowl’s belly was kept round with the proof of his virility. If Prowl did not kindle soon it was clearly a fault in his spark and not in Jazz’s efforts.

“Since we got a ways to go, why don’t we keep busy?” Jazz suggested.

“Oh?”

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Prowl squealed.

His flaccid spike hung between his splayed legs. Jazz’s spike battered his transfluid duct, ringing his reservoirs dry. Prowl knew that medics routinely drained Praxian brides when they became… congested, this was most certainly not how it was done back home. A froth of transfluids and lubricants oozed from Prowl’s well fragged valve. His belly jiggled as Jazz fragged his aft and Prowl could not imagine would his originator would make of such a sight. Jazz had him wailing in overload and the thought vanished in the white burn of ecstasy.

He was the picture of the blushing bride as they stepped off the carriage. They had spent the entire journey making passionate love and Prowl could not keep the flush from his face as he walked along next to Jazz. His swollen folds and aft rim rubbed against the lining of his armour. This must have been why Dipole had put that absorbent lining in; she knew how Polyhexian grooms were expected to be, insatiable. Prowl thought the crowds gathered at each stop along the tour were surprised by his appearance. He was far more rotund than the photography from the ceremony and parade would have suggested but no one scorned him, at least not outwardly.

Polyhexians in Darkmount wept at their gift, they received the largest share of ununtrium as Jazz believed they had the most need and seeing the bombed out shells of buildings, Prowl agreed completely. They needed a medical centre, schools and every other government service returned. Prowl heard talk of Empties and insisted on going to the Dead End to see the situation. Victims of EMP weapons that had broken their processors and their frames, the Empties were shunned by their own framekin out of fear their madness could spread. No one entered the Dead End except to harass the poor wretches and as a result the shattered district was a restricted zone with armed guards at the gates. When Prowl entered the gates with guards grumbling at his back, he was struck dumb by the devastation. It was as if the district had been smelted where it stood. The buildings looked like they were melting even now. Many of the Empties had a similar appearance. Prowl saw one planting seeds in what must have once been a traffic circle. From the way the soil looked, Prowl did not believe anything would grow here again. He knelt next to the mech and planted seeds with him.

“Ratchet?” Jazz’s voice broke Prowl from his reverie. “Whatcha doin’ here.”

“I have a clinic here,” Ratchet explained. “I’m doing what I can to make them comfortable.”

“Hello Ratchet,” Prowl greeted the medic.

“You’re looking better,” Ratchet declared. “Much better.”

“I am pleased you approve,” Prowl replied. His own kin would not. “Is there any ununtrium left to donate to Ratchet’s clinic?” Prowl asked.

“Yep,” Jazz replied. He waved a servo and their escort left to fetch the donation from their carriage. “Consider us yer official patrons, Ratch.”

“Mecha will tell you that you should put your shanix to better use,” Ratchet replied.”

“‘N those mecha can kiss my aft,” Jazz replied.

Prowl prayed the weapon that had done this damage to the Dead End and its residents had been destroyed and its blueprints tossed in the smelter. It was so terrible, so terrible what it had done. War in general was terrible but the Empties had been damaged in such a hideous way. Even vorns after the weapon had detonated, the damage continued to spread in the frames and processors of the survivors. Empties who had appeared physically undamaged in the beginning had developed deformities. This was why their neighbours feared them. They feared it was contagious. Ratchet said it was not and Prowl believed him.

“Y’er perfection,” Jazz told him when they returned to the carriage.

“How do you mean?” Prowl asked.

“Their own kin shun ‘em,” Jazz said. Some o’ those sparks got livin’ kin ‘n they don’t claim them ‘cause o’ the Affliction ‘n ya planted seeds wit one. Ya didn’t argue it was a weird place to plant, ya just… joined ‘m. Ya saw ‘m.”

“They deserve to be seen,” Prowl replied. “The seeds will not sprout. The soil has been as devastated as the buildings, but perhaps in time it will be restored. I saw a tree growing out of the wall of a temple in Petrex. How it sprouted there, who could ever know, but it did and maybe something will sprout here again.”

“Perfection,” Jazz declared. “Y’re perfection.”

Pictures of Prowl planting seeds with an irradiated Empty replaced those of the bonding in the media. Prowl was uneasy, it was clearly socially unacceptable to interact with Empties and he had made enough missteps already. Dipole called him a saint when she showed him an article she had saved to memory glass. He did not feel like a saint. If anything, Prowl felt like a fool for acting without thinking. Though he did not regret gardening with the mech, Prowl feared what the king would think of him endangering his heir by abandoning the itinerary.

Trying to calm his battle computer, Prowl walked the palace’s haggard garden. It must have been splendid in its time but the vorns of civil war had not been kind to it. He saw an amethyst sapling leaning and looked about for something to use for stakes. Branches from the dead try that might have propagated the sapling remained on the ground nearby. Prowl used them to hold up the sapling. It would probably be pulled up whenever the palace hired gardeners again but for now it would hold.

“What would yer procreators think o’ that scene?” Punch asked. Prowl flinched. He should have seen the king coming. Stiffly, he turned around and prostrated himself as the Polyhexians did, lowering his crest to the ground.

“Which scene, Your Majesty?” Prowl asked. Punch scoffed and Prowl flinched again.

“The one all o’er the news,” Punch said when Prowl did not speak further.

“Where I gardened with the poor mech?” Prowl asked. “They would have been less than enthused.”

“Why?”

“The castes do not mix in Praxus,” Prowl said, never lifting his helm. Though they hope to climb above theirs, it would not be permitted to step below mine.”

“Hypocrites,” Punch grumbled. “Go on, get up.”

“Thank you,” Prowl said as he did as he was told. He gestured to the sapling. “I do not think to make a claim on it. I just thought that as long as it was here, it should have some support.”

“My great great great grandgeni planted this garden for his bride ‘cause he was homesick. The amethyst trees were the first thing he planted. It’s nice to see a part o’em lives.”

“I see,” Prowl replied. “That was considerate of him.”

“Ya ain’t a fool,” Punch said. “Y’re procreators bragged ‘bout yer test scores ‘n they were impressive. Ya didn’t do anythin’ wit’em.”

“They considered it unseemly for me to seek a true function,” Praxian brides may dabble but they do not work.”

“In that armour, how could they?” Punch asked. “I know what ya ‘n Jazz did, donatin’ that o’er priced scrap were it’s needed. That was yer idea, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Prowl replied. “I thought it could be put to better use.”

“‘M not inclined to like ya, mechlin’ but ya don’t make yerself easy to hate?”

“Oh?” Prowl asked before his processor caught up with his mouth. “It came easily enough to my caste mates.”

Punch laughed and Prowl flushed.

“It’s okay!” Jazz caught Prowl in his arms before his humiliated consort could flee. “Ya didn’t forget yerself, Prowl. Ya fuelled, that’s all.”

“I made a porcineacon of myself,” Prowl counter. It broke Jazz’s spark to hear the self-hatred in his consort’s voice.

“Hardly,” he argued and stroked Prowl’s chevron. “Ya ate yer fill. No shame in that. The way yer armour’s cut, it don’t see like was meant to fuel at all.”

“Since I cannot help myself, it was designed to stop me from over indulging,” Prowl replied.

“Is takin’ more than three sip o’ energon o’er indulging?” Jazz asked.

“If it makes me grotesque?” Prowl asked as means of answer. “Yes.”

“Y’re not grotesque,” Jazz replied. “Yer gorgeous. Voluptuous. Every one o’ yer curves is perfection.”

“My curves are just brands of my excesses,” Prowl said, flicking his servo over his thigh with disgust. Jazz smoothed his servo up Prowl’s thigh. “What are your subjects going to think of me?”

“Remember, I told ya, we like our curves in Polyhex,” Jazz replied. He held Prowl’s servos and smiled at him. “They’re gonna be happy to see the Prince Consort is healthy ‘n fertile.”

“Fertile?” Prowl frowned.

“This,” Jazz said, cupping the curve low on Prowl’s belly, the evidence of their lovemaking. Prowl blushed a deep scarlet and Jazz kissed his cheekplate. “Is the sign o’ a fertile frame ‘n a productive bond. ‘M thinkin’ its playin’ a part in yer armour not closing.”

“Oh,” Prowl looked down at himself. “I do not believe I have seen this on any Praxian.”

“Probably ‘cause Praxian armour compacts it,” Jazz replied. “Don’t sound like a pleasant thing to me.”

“I cannot see your Aunt like this,” Prowl sighed. “I am indecent.”

“‘M gonna grab ya a sheet from the berth,” Jazz said. “‘N cover ya up. Won’t bother her, Prowl. Not even a little.”

It bothered Prowl. Jazz could see it and feel it. He went to the berthroom and stripped the top sheet off. When he returned, Jazz wrapped the sheet around Prowl, tying two corners below Prowl’s doorwings. The results were what Jazz would have imagined a witness of the nomadic tribe creating from memory, see receptive mates among the tribesmecha. The traditional wrappers his kinsmecha wore were made from fabrics with bright and intricate patterns. This sheet was more material than a wrapper was meant to have but more would probably make Prowl more comfortable anyways. In calor, Jazz would bring Prowl a proper wrapper and see if it suited him better than conventional armour in the hottest quartexes of the desert.

“What if it falls?” Prowl asked, arms crossed over his chassis.

“It won’t,” Jazz promised. “Y’re gonna find different types o’ wrappers ‘n kilts are common garb here, especially in calor. I learned to tie a wrapper from my ori, seen ‘m fight in one. The knots’ll hold.”

“You... go without armour?” Prowl asked, shocked.

“When it’s proper,” Jazz replied. There was a clear knock at the door. He rose from the couch. “Here she is. Don’t worry Prowl. She’s gonna like ya.”

“I hope so,” Prowl murmured.

“Auntie!” Jazz exclaimed as he opened the door. “Ya outdid yerself.”

“I tried my servo at some more recipes from Praxus,” Dipole explained. “‘N I got pressed energon for everyone. The cantine’s got yer consort’s brew. He likes it dark.”

“Ya ne’er waste yer time figurin’ how mecha like their press,” Jazz smiled. “Lemme take that tray from ya. Must weigh as much as ya.”

“I know you’ll insist,” Dipole replied. “Don’t go and drop it. I won’t ever let you forget.”

“Oh I know,” Jazz laughed. He turned back into the room and saw Prowl watching. “Come inside, Auntie. I wanna introduce ya to Prowl proper.”

“My pleasure,” the femme replied. “Dearspark, are you overheated again? I can get some ice energon for you.”

“Please don’t trouble yourself,” Prowl said, blushing sweetly. “My armour won’t close. I fuelled too much.”

“Ya did not,” Jazz gently corrected as he set the loaded tray on the low table in front of the couch Prowl was sitting on. “That torture device ain’t cut to fit ya. It’s the problem, not ya. Auntie Dipole, this is Prowl, my beautiful consort.”

“I know from my kitchen you like your pressed energon like the enforcers take it,” Dipole declared, pouring a mug for Prowl as Jazz sat down. “You never ordered anything else.”

“I should not have even had that,” Prowl said, taking the cup and smiling a little at the ominously dark fuel. “But my helmaches if I don’t have it. As it was, with just this, that armour barely fit.”

“That’s just cruel,” Dipole said. “Armour isn’t meant to be a punishment. I don’t know what your favourite fuels are yet so I brought a little of this and that to make sure you liked something. I haven’t made steamed lotus buns before. You let me know how what you think of them and I can play around with the recipe.”

“You did not need to trouble yourself for me,” Prowl said. Jazz placed one of the amber custard filled talc buns on a plate for Prowl and gave it to him. “Thank you. These are one of my favourites.”

“What else, Dearspark?” Dipole asked. “Everyone needs their favourites from time to time and they don’t always think to ask for them so I like to know, so I can make sure everyone is taken care of.”

“I like dumplings,” Prowl said. “From any culture. If you take dough and fill it with something, I like it. I have a weakness for rust sticks.”

“There’s a femme in town who makes the best sweets,” Dipole replied.

“Mirror is amazin’,” Jazz agreed. “There’s a line ‘round the block for her shop on Prima-tur.”

“What specifically about Prima-tur?”  Prowl asked.

“She sets out trays of treats to sample,” Jazz explained. “Treats mecha on the roughside o’ life can’t afford. She makes sure everyone can have a treat.”

“That is very kind of her,” Prowl said.

At first, Prowl only nibbled at the fuel but Jazz could see Dipole was taking no offence. Prowl was embarrassed he could not fit his armour and nothing Jazz or Dipole or anyone could say would make that go away. But as they spoke, he relaxed a little and Dipole took advantage. She asked him his opinion on different flavours of different fuels and with this be of underhanded guidance, Prowl ate a proper meal. Jazz was relieved. It was more easily done by Dipole then him. He never wanted to see Prowl starve and deny himself again. His consort needed his energy and his vibrancy to help Jazz bring Polyhex back to prosperity. How could Prowl carry a bitlet for him if he was starved? No, they needed to get Prowl comfortable taking his fill of fuel. Ori would have no use for a consort who fainted whenever he was called to work and that was a battle Jazz did not want to fight.

“I’m thinking you have Hotwire coming by for an armour fitting?” Dipole asked.

“Yeah,” Jazz confirmed. He was on his second steamed lotus bun. The silky bun and sweet filling was one of his new favourite fuels. “Even if Prowl’s armour wasn’t out to crush’m, it’s ununtrium. Too heavy ‘n too hot for Polyhex. Don’t know how they didn’t know. They trade out here.”

“They knew,” Prowl replied. “I have no doubt. My originator insisted on ununtrium due to its value. They wished to showcase their wealth using me as their billboard.”

“‘M sorry, Prowl,” Jazz squeezed his servo. Prowl hardly even dipped his doorwings.

“It is an ostentatious waste,” Prowl sighed. “I never wore ununtrium at home. It would have been seen as tacky to wear such armour to the Hall of Justice.”

“What had ya at there?” Jazz asked.

“I was an attache to the Lord of Law,” Prowl explained. “It would have been unsightly of me to serve something as menial as the enforcers.”

“Did ya like it?” Jazz asked.

“Aspects,” Prowl replied. “I would not have dared where ununtrium there. Question of my professionalism due to how I was armoured came up often enough as it was.”

“What didn’t they like?” Jazz asked.

“Me,” Prowl replied. “My originator would come to me raving about some complaint. It did not matter what shape or style of armour I tried. Something about it was always indecent.”

“I think your originator had some frame image issues that he put onto you,” Dipole declared. “You could have be covered from knees to neck and he would found a reason to complain.”

“He did complain,” Prowl murmured. “When he inspected my bonding armour. He wanted it cut lower down my legs but the designer set it was not possible if I was to walk.”

“I don’t think I like that mech,” Dipole grumbled.

Auntie stayed for moral support as Hotwire arrived. They nibbled on the snacks she had brought with her as the detailer had Prowl try on a dozen or more different cuts of girdle and chestplate. It suited the shape of his legs to have the girdle cut high on his hips and would let him move freely and quickly. Jazz did not think Prowl appreciated the newfound mobility yet. The curve of his hips was traced to perfection with none of that ugly, extra padding to make Prowl look straight and shapeless. After much back and forth, they settled on an adjustable waist, set higher at the moment, to make Prowl more comfortable. It too hugged the voluptuous Praxian’s soft belly, rather than squishy it and Jazz liked the subtle display it did of his contributions to his consort. Prowl’s chestplate was entirely revamped. Gone was the flat, crushing plate and in its place was a bumper that hugged his wells and showed off his broad, strong shoulders and wide, proud doorwings. Together, they showed off Prowl’s beautifully lush hourglass shape.

“Are you sure this is acceptable?” Prowl asked after he and Jazz were finally left alone. Jazz nodded his helm.

“It’s armour fit for a prince’s consort,” he replied. Prowl was only wearing the mock up for now. Hotwire would use fine crystals for his headlights and accents. He would not look like a pauper’s consort but neither would he look like a greedy bride.

“There is no season where ununtrium armour is appropriate here?” Prowl asked.

“No,” Jazz replied. “It... ain’t just the weather it’s.... just ain’t somethin’ done here. Ununtrium is for medical use, for construction. It’s too valuable to waste on armour.”

“I am amazed I did not have oil thrown on me,” Prowl sighed.

“Hey,” Jazz held him at the shoulders and reassured his consort. “It ain’t like that.”

“I am sure it was for ones suffering from fuel insecurity,” Prowl replied. “To see a foreign title hunter garbed in precious metal bonding to their war hero prince.”

“Prowl,” Jazz sighed.

“It can be melted down,” Prowl said. “Can it not be? Would it be improper for me to donate the armour for the rebuilding efforts?”

“They’d be in awe o’ it,” Jazz replied. He hugged Prowl to him. “How about ya ‘n me take a tour ‘n we can see were the need is greatest. We can see where yer armour ‘n dowry can do the most good.”

“I would like that,” Prowl replied, relaxing into the embrace. “I want to help Polyhex. In every way I can. It is my home now. They are my mechanisms now.”

“Remember how ya said I wasn’t yer dream mech ‘cause yer dream mech was a humourless brute?” Jazz asked.

“Yes?”

“Servants’ll bring the armour ya travelled in,” Jazz said. “It’ll do ‘til Hotwire see to ya, ‘n til Dipole’s on her way.”

Prowl did not limp as he walked to the washracks. Jazz watched, carefully, for any sign that his conjunx was in pain. His surveillance did not go unnoticed and Prowl wiggled his doorwings as he looked over his shoulder at Jazz. There was something cheeky, something flirtatious about the gesture and Jazz had to resist the urge to jump his conjunx. Knowing that Auntie Dipole would be back with a feast in no time at all, making themselves decent took precedence over pleasure, something Jazz had to regret at the moment. If his interface drive could have its way, Jazz would be have his bride in his berth for the next orn straight, at least. It was probably not a terrible thing, for Prowl’s sake, that Jazz had to behave himself.

Who could look at Prowl and not see perfection? He had such a lush, beautiful shape. When Jazz looked at Prowl he saw a pagan god of fertility and sexuality. There had been such a fathomless depth to his conjunx’s spark, such life and light and energy. Jazz looked forward to merging with him again, to delving deeper, to knowing greater the depths of Prowl’s being. Though he had cajoled his originator into making the match for sake of the bride price coming with his prospective bride, Jazz believed he had gotten something worth far more than a fortune in shanix, he had gotten something special, something truly priceless in Prowl. Ori was not going to be amused with Jazz’s declarations, not in the slightest but Jazz knew from the core of his struts that Prowl was meant to be the other half of his spark, a fabled sparkmate to his own spark.

“If ya’d rather shower on yer own...” Jazz offered. Though he knew there was not time to enjoy another coupling with Prowl in the shower, Jazz liked the idea of sharing the shower with his conjunx, of getting to know his frame further. But if Prowl preferred to clean up alone, Jazz would respect his desires.

“I would be happy to share with you,” Prowl replied. “Especially if you would assist with my back. I have been having some trouble getting all the sand out of my doorwing joints.”

“Of course I’ll help ya,” Jazz replied. “How do ya like yer solvent.”

“Hot,” Prowl replied. “But I am not picky.”

“I like hot too,” Jazz said. “Tell me if it’s too cold or too hot.”

He was not sure Prowl would tell him. Prowl wanted to please him. Just the barest consideration awed Prowl and it made Jazz wonder what wretched mechanisms had created his conjunx. Knowing how Prowl had been expected to starve to fit that armour, knowing he had been sent to the desert with nothing but armour that drew and held the heat, Jazz did not believe he could think much lower of the mechs, but he suspected that was an optimistic thought. There had been not hatred for his procreators in Prowl’s spark when they had merged only a bleak acceptance. That was, by Jazz’s estimation, a sadder statement than hate. It worried Jazz that Prowl would tolerate too much unpleasantness from Ori, due to his upbringing. Jazz would not tolerate it; he had been raised better than to allow anyone to badger or bully his conjunx, Punch had raised him better and Jazz would remind his Ori of that and he believed that Punch would see reason. He was not more stubborn than he was sensible and decent.

More than much of anything, Jazz wanted to linger on Prowl, on his beautiful shape. He wanted to explore, to learn how to touch his conjunx, to give him him pleasure and to spare him pain. Jazz was careful when Prowl trusted him with his doorwings. There was something fascinating, something beautiful about them. They had intrigued Jazz even before he had realized how much range and movement they had. Prowl raised them and Jazz to the opportunity to run the shower head around his Praxian consort’s wing joints. Prowl made a sound, a husky moan of pleasure and Jazz was fascinated by it and him. Around them, the solvent steamed from the heat of their frames. The spray from the hose washed fine sand particles the little nooks and crannies of Prowl’s back as the Praxian softly moaned and sighed. As Prowl trembled, legs going weak, Jazz dropped the hose, letting it clatter against the wall as he guided his conjunx to the floor.

“Okay, Sweetspark?” Jazz asked.

“Mhm,” Prowl replied in a husky voice. “It feels good when you wash my doorwings. Very good, like I could overload.”

“Did ya want to?” Jazz asked.

“Please?” Prowl asked.

“My pleasure,” Jazz purred. “Ya just relax ‘n let me take care o’ ya.”

The degree to which Prowl’s doorwing were erogenous was a happy revelation for Jazz. When they had time and inclination, Jazz hoped to explore how to add his conjunx’s doorwings into their lovemaking. He imagined joints and limbs as sensitive to pleasurable stimulus as Prowl’s doorwings were proving to be were probably also prone to pain or discomfort. Jazz guessed Prowl would not complain, not wanting to impose or slight Jazz. He would have to watch his lovely conjunx. In time, Jazz believed that Prowl would learn he could trust Jazz enough to share his discomfort but it would take time, potentially a lot of it. So long as Jazz was dutiful and paid attention to his conjunx, he did not believe Prowl would suffer. As he returned to washing Prowl’s back, Jazz watched his Praxian bride relax. Jazz massaged Prowl’s doorwings as he to care to make sure there was not a single grain of sand hiding in his hiring or cabling. When Prowl overloaded it was with soft and sweet sigh. Prowl was languid as Jazz pulled him into his lap and went about washing the rest of his conjunx’s curvaceous frame.

“Thank you,” Prowl said, softly. His pale optics were soft.

“Been sore?” Jazz asked.

“Less sore, more itchy and stiff,” Prowl replied. “That armour did not allow me much range of potion and doorwings get stiff if they are kept locked in one position.”

“He do that to ya on purpose?” Jazz asked as he stroked Prowl’s helm.

“Probably,” Prowl said and Jazz heard the detachment in his voice. “He, they really would not have wanted me to embarrass them with careless doorwings.”

“They’re the embarrassment,” Jazz replied. “Not bein’ here for ya told Ori everythin’ he’s gonna care to know ‘bout them. They ain’t gonna find him open to doin’em any favours.”

“I will not ask any of him on their behalf,” Prowl assured him and Jazz stroked his helm again. “I know it would not ingratiate me towards your originator. I know I have a great deal to make up for.”

“Ya don’t,” Jazz said. “Ya ain’t done anythin’ wrong. Once Ori talks wit ya, ‘n hears ya, he’s gonna be soft on ya ‘n real hard on ‘em. He’s gonna be sorry he was hard on ya ‘n he ain’t too proud a mech to admit when he’s been wrong.”

“I hope I am not the exception,” Prowl replied. “I have a talent for bringing the worst out of mechanisms at time.”

“Ya won’t be,” Jazz promised. He knew it was a promise that he could not and would not break. Even if Ori dug his peds in, between them, Jazz was definitely more stubborn and if he needed to, he would bring Ricochet in and then there was Dipole. Jazz smiled and hissed Prowl’s cheekplate. “We’d better dry off ‘n make ourselves decent before Auntie Dipole gets back.”

“Yes,” Prowl nodded as he perked up. “I do want to make a better impression.”

“She’s gonna love ya.”

Evidence of their light-cycle’s activities was visible on Prowl’s protoform, above his array, there was a distinct swell where his gestational tank had distended with the transfluids Jazz had spilled in him. Fuel had rounded his belly some as well and Jazz thought he looked spectacular. He knew it was at least partly cultural. To have extra mass on a receptive mate meant the family prospered. How much extra mass was desirable was definitely individual. Jazz thought Prowl would be just as ravishing if he put on more mass, if that was what eating good, plentiful fuel did for him. His own originator was rather lean, and always had been. Punch had been a revolutionary, a soldier, a fugitive and he had always insisted the fuel be shared and shared far and Jazz loved him for it.

They dried quickly. There would be time to polish and primp later, Dipole had not particular love for that scrap anyways. Jazz left Prowl in the washracks to retrieve his own armour from the berthroom. He had not told the servants where to bring Prowl’s armour but he had no trouble finding it. The berth had been stripped and remade as he and Prowl had showered. Both his and his consorts armour were laying on the berth, with the sheen of a quick polish. The staff were efficient. They would talk; it would be known throughout the palace that he had bedded his consort. He had no particular problem with this. It served Prowl better for it to be known he had done his “duty” as a bride. There would be no talk that Prowl was too aloof or too self-important to go to berth with his Polyhexian groom.

He replaced his armour and gathered Prowl’s. Jazz winced at the weight of it, not because it was too heavy for him to carry but because it was too heavy for any mechanism to wear constantly, especially in the desert. It was modest, overly so for the desert as well, to Jazz’s estimation, though he may have been prejudiced by his desire to see his consort lush curves, and not have them locked away by the high girdle and long and so flat and restrictive. Hotwire would make him more fitting armour, more flattering armour and most importantly for Prowl’s long term comfort and health, light armour.

“This stuff weighs a ton,” Jazz said as he delivered the armour to Prowl. “I don’t know how ya could stand up in it all the time.”

“I am used to it,” Prowl replied. “I must admit I move much freer out of it. It is... I was raised to keep myself robed at all times, to keep my spike sealed and to lay obediently under my conjunx as he sated himself. I can understand why my originator taught me losing my seal would be painful. Interface would be a chore how he described it.”

“I don’t want it e’er to be a chore for ya, Sweetspark,” Jazz told his conjunx. “Don’t e’er matter why ya don’t wanna interface, if ya ain’t in the mood, or if it just don’t feel good in the moment, I want ya to tell me.”

“Thank you,” Prowl said. He took the armour from Jazz and set it on the floor. He started with the boots, slipping his peds in and latching them behind his calves. “I know you mean it. I cannot imagine... my progenitor or many of the grooms I have met saying such a thing and meaning it. They feel to entitled to the frames of their brides.”

“I ain’t entitled to a micrometre o’ ya,” Jazz replied. “Do ya like heels?”

“I am rather ungainly in them,” Prowl said. “They can make an attractive line to the leg and aft. For regular wear, I usually have them lower than this.”

“We can talk to Dipole ‘bout makin’ something adjustable,” Jazz offered. “If ya wanna have options.”

“That is agreeable,” Prowl replied. With a faint sway, Prowl stepped into his girdle and pulled it up, moving to snap it at his sides. He grimaced and stained as the latches did not close. Jazz frowned as Prowl made a face and strained.

“The hinge stuck?” Jazz asked.

Jazz woke pleasantly warm and comfortable. In their recharge, he and his conjunx had come together and Prowl still recharged with his helm tucked under Jazz’s chin. His soft wells were pressed up against Jazz’s chassis and Jazz had his arm draped over Prowl, keeping him close. It was a nice way to online. He had gotten luckier than he had been due. Prowl was not the aloof wraith Jazz had first thought him to be but rather a shy and sincere beauty. Though Jazz had resolved from the beginning to do what was necessary to give his conjunx some happiness, he thought now it might be easier than he had first thought. They could be happy together. They could be content. Jazz felt Prowl stir, felt his warm vent and the tired way he nuzzled against his neck and has Prowl’s arm tightened around him, he hugged Prowl a little closer in turn.

“Jazz?” Prowl’s voice was laced with the soft static of recharge and it gave it a husky tone that made Jazz smile. As Prowl slowly lifted his helm and looked at him with hazy, celestite optics, Jazz brushed his digits over Prowl’s helm.

“Did ya have a good recharge?” He asked.

“Mhm,” Prowl nodded. “I am sorry… I got into your personal space.”

“Or I got into yers,” Jazz replied. “Nothin’ to apologize for, Prowl. I liked onlinin’ wit my beautiful conjunx in my arms.”

“Oh,” Prowl murmured. His optics brightened and they glowed with hope. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Jazz replied. He stroked Prowl’s helm again and thought it might take some time before Prowl shed some of the self-deprecation his procreators had instilled in him. “I thought I’d get breakfast for us before I call in Hotwire.”

“Would your originator not prefer you to fuel with him?” Prowl asked. “Especially after the mess I made of the feast?”

“I ain’t leavin’ my new conjunx to fuel the light-cycle after our bondin’,” Jazz declared. “Y’re my priority, right now, okay, Beautiful?”

Prowl leaned up and kissed Jazz and it was really the perfect note to start the mega-cycle on. Jazz cupped his conjunx’s cheekplate and kissed him back. Sweet as the kiss was, soft as Prowl’s mouth was, Jazz fell his interface drive engage. Though Prowl did not see it for himself, Jazz found him oh so desirable, still Jazz did not reach about to fondle Prowl or to make anything of the kiss but what it was. His conjunx had come to their bonding a purus, with the expectation that Jazz would claim his seals, claim his frame, claim his right. But Jazz did not desire to make a claim, Prowl was not a thing.

“Thank you,” Prowl said in an ever so husky voice. “I never thought the mech my procreators would conjunx me to would be so good to me.”

“I ain’t done anythin’ special,” Jazz replied, leaving a kiss on his cheek.

“You do not understand,” Prowl said, optics bright and desperately sincere. “You are nothing like the conjunx I imagined. I am not an imaginative mech. The conjunx I imagined was pompous and selfish and critical, the worst parts of my procreators in one mech. You are not my “dream mech” and oh Primus I am so grateful.”

"I’ll have to teach ya how to dream bigger ‘n better,” Jazz declared.

It sounded ridiculous to his own audial horns and Jazz blushed with embarrassment but Prowl smiled and then he laughed. They both laughed. It released tension they were both still carrying. Prowl rolled onto his back as their laughter eased off and Jazz pushed himself up on one arm. As Prowl’s fans worked to restore his normal spark rate, Prowl chassis heaved a little and Jazz had to focus to keep his optics on his conjunx’s face and not his wells as they jiggled.

“I feel a little like I am dreaming,” Prowl said. “I am half afraid I will wake up. I was a ridiculous mess at the temple and snubbed the feast, you never stopped smiling at me and speaking kindly. Despite my missteps you have not hinted to being disappointed in your lot.”

“‘M not,” Jazz replied and he looked deep into Prowl’s optics. “Y’re even more beautiful than any mech I coulda imagined for myself. I expected some cultural differences, Prowl. I don’t care how ya bow or how ya pray. I care that yer sincere in all ya try to do. ‘M very happy to have ya for my bride.”

“And I you my groom,” Prowl declared. “Incredibly happy. I would be very happy to consummate our bond and to be your true bride.”

“Ya sure?” Jazz asked. “I don’t want ya to feel rushed. I can wait ‘til y’re ready, Beautiful.”

“I do not feel rushed,” Prowl replied. “I am ready.”

“Ya can tell me to stop or slow down,” Jazz assured him, brushing a kiss against his crest. “I don’t wanna hurt ya at all.”

“I know the first interface frequently hurts,” Prowl said. “My originator told me what to expect. I will not hold a little pain against you.”

“It don’t have to hurt,” Jazz told him. “I’ll take care o’ ya.”

He meant it. Jazz peppered Prowl’s face with kisses as he cupped his well and rolled his nozzle under his thumb. Through the thin sentio-metallico of Prowl’s face, Jazz felt his soft hum and pleasure and felt his plating begin to warm. The shy sighs and gasps Prowl made delighted Jazz. With rapt attention, and patience, Jazz took his time introducing Prowl to the pleasures of a simple touch. Prowl’s nozzles stiffened as Jazz caressed and massaged his bountiful wells. Prowl’s jaw slowly fell open and he reflexively arched his back, pressing his wells into Jazz’s servos. A pretty flush passed over Prowl’s cheekplates and Jazz leaned down to kiss him as he continued to fondle his chassis.

As Prowl moaned a soft exclamation, Jazz brushed his glossa over Prowl’s lipplates. When they parted a little more, Jazz deepened the kiss. Prowl trembled but Jazz could feel in his rolling field that it was arousal, not fear. Jazz encouraged the shy, inexperience flicks of Prowl’s glossa against his. His conjunx tasted sweet and Jazz wanted to taste more of him. They broke apart to catch their intakes, though Jazz was not inclined to allow Prowl to completely recover. He kissed his cheekplates and the corners of his mouth and the crook of his jaw and Prowl sighed and moaned. Rolling Prowl’s stiff, swollen nozzle between his digits, Jazz smiled down at his conjunx’s flushed faceplates.

“Do ya like my kisses, Beautiful?” Jazz asked.

“Yes, yes,” Prowl said. His celestite optics were hazy, yet bright with arousal. “I do.”

“Do ya like my servos on yer wells?” Jazz asked.

“Oh yes,” Prowl said. “I do.”

“I think ya’d like my kisses on yer wells, Prowl,” Jazz said. “Will ya let me taste them?”

“Yes,” Prowl moaned. “I read... I read about this in romances. I did not think I would get such a romance.”

“It’s my pleasure to give it to ya,” Jazz replied.

Prowl’s chassis heaved as Jazz kissed down his neck. The condensation that gathered on Prowl’s sentio-metallico was sweet to Jazz’s glossa. He kissed Prowl’s right well as he kneaded Prowl’s soft protoform. Jazz could not resist so long, however and he soon closed his mouth around his conjunx’s swollen nozzle. A high moan met his audial horns and he smiled as he went back and forth between kissing and sucking. Prowl arched his back and Jazz buried his face in his bosom, moving on to pleasure Prowl’s left well. Under his attention, Prowl started to writhe and Jazz trailed his servo down his soft belly. Without touching Prowl’s array, Jazz could feel the heat of it. He sucked Prowl’s nozzle as he caressed his frame frame. A burst of lust surged through Prowl’s field as his frame bowed. Charge zapped Jazz’s glossa and he moaned with lust himself.

“Oh!” Prowl exclaimed. “Oh!”

“Feel that, Sweetspark?” Jazz asked. “That was an overload. The first o’ many I’ll give ya this light-cycle.”

“Please,” Prowl moaned. “More, please.”

“In those books ya read, did the scoundrel ever use his mouth on his sweetspark’s valve?” Jazz asked.

“Yes!” Prowl exclaimed. “But... you want to...”

“Oh yes,” Jazz said.

“Please!” Prowl moaned.

Jazz crawled down Prowl’s frame. He took his conjunx’s servos and placed them over the mech’s own wells and showed him how to pleasure himself with his nozzles. The scent of Prowl’s arousal was so strong that even through his seals, Jazz good smell his lubricants. Prowl’s node was swollen, full uncovered by its hood and glowing a bright blue that matched his optics. His folds were swollen too, and the seal keeping the aperture narrow was stretched taunt between them. Reverently, Jazz traced the plush, swollen rim of Prowl’s untouched valve before ghosting his thumb over Prowl’s glowing anterior node.

“Oh!” Prowl gasped.

“‘M gonna break yer seal wit my glossa, Beautiful,” Jazz explained. “Gonna have ya overload a few more times, ‘til its soft ‘nough to give. Ain’t gonna hurt ya at all, Darlin’.”

He was a mech of his glyph. Even without Prowl’s originator’s dreary explanation of the act to discredit, Jazz would not have been willing to rush. As it was, Jazz lay on his belly between Prowl thick thighs and began the next stage of pleasure be kissing Prowl’s inner thighs, his belly, behind his knees. Prowl’s ventilations came faster and his lower half was coiled tight with anticipation. As he had with his digit, Jazz traced Prowl’s folds with his glossa; he lathed it over Prowl’s seal, encouraging the membrane to soften that much more with his oral lubricants. When he kissed Prowl’s node, his conjunx’s moan was long and low. When he sucked Prowl’s node, his moan turned into a wanton little cry and he bucked his hips. The scent of his arousal became stronger and stronger as his seal thinned under Jazz’s persistent lathing. Jazz massaged his conjunx’s thighs and belly and played with Prowl’s plump folds.

“Jazz!” Prowl cried his designation as his servo cupped the back of his helm and pinned him to his array. Jazz groaned with lust as he was pinned by his gorgeous conjunx’s lush thighs as Prowl shuddered with overload.

Sensing the golden moment was nigh, Jazz suck firmly at Prowl’s node, keeping him trapped in the throws of overload. As Prowl’s charge crest higher and higher and his pleasurable cries broke into static, Jazz pinned Prowl’s hips to the berth as he drew Prowl’s rim as far apart as it could, the thinned seal was entirely transparent now. As his pinched Prowl’s node, Jazz pressed his glossa against his seal and as Prowl wailed with desperate lust, the seal gave way. Lubricant poured from Prowl’s centre as Jazz’s fragged him with his glossa, drinking the testament of Prowl’s arousal down like a mecha lost in the desert. Prowl writhed under the attention of Jazz’s digits and glossa until he felt Prowl go limp as overload threw him into a soft reset. Jazz cleaned off his face as Prowl recovered. He looked beautifully debauched and Jazz was unfairly pleased that no one else would ever see him like this. Yes, this was all for him and all by him. It did not take long for Prowl to recover. His celestite optics were cloudy and his cheekplates flushed scarlet. Cupping Prowl’s face, Jazz kissed his and nuzzled cheekplate.

“Didn’t hurt, did it?” Jazz asked.

“No,” Prowl replied. “I did not know my frame could burn like that, or that I good feel so much and so good.”

“Thank ya, for trustin’ mean to do it for ya,” Jazz said. Prowl’s smile was dazzling. Captivated by it, Jazz was momentary off guard and he found himself on his back, with Prowl draped over him, still smiling.

“You have been so conscientious,” Prowl said with a husky voice. “Giving me such pleasure and taking none for yourself.”

“I got plenty of pleasure tastin’ ya, Darlin’,” Jazz assured him. “But if ya feel ready, I would love to share more wit ya.”