Apr. 20th, 2011 03:14 pm
[personal profile] ante_luce
Title: Marks
'Verse: TFA
Characters: Prowl. Jazz.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Non descriptive smuts.

Sometimes, Prowl thought it seemed such a pity that Jazz was black and white. And more white than black at that. The other ninja collected the evidence of a day's passing on his plating like a scrapbook kept record of events, and Prowl sometimes amused himself with trying to read the guardsmech like a photo album.

Dust and grass stains, from the trip with Sari to the park. Mud spatter from the cloudburst that had taken them by surprise, necessitating a quick retreat for Sari into the shelter of Jazz's interior to watch the rain, droplets racing each other down from cloud to sky to Jazz's windshield, running over the glass and leaving little watermarks behind when they dried. A ketchup smear that both Sari and Jazz must have missed from the BurgerBot lunch the little girl had had. Prowl made a mental note to tell his fellow ninja about the healthy dietary guidelines Ratchet had drawn up when Sari had lived with them a while.

But dust and dirt and ketchup could be washed away easily. A quick rinse under the shower racks was all that was needed and Jazz was usually very fastidious about that, not wanting to track dirt from his exploring of this strange, dusty, dirty, ketchup filled organic world into the abandoned warehouse Optimus's team called home. Prowl wondered if the mech was still feeling a little like an outsider to their group, to be taking such care not to inconvenience them. Certainly, Bumblebee and Bulkhead had no qualms about dragging half of Detroit's topsoil into the base.

The scrapes of paint that training or simply hanging out with the other Autobots left on the white ninja's frame, on the other hand, were far more obvious, and often didn't come off with mere water. And Prowl wanted them off every time he saw them.

Yellow, from when Jazz had caught Bumblebee after the smaller bot had attempted some foolhardy stunt involving heights and a lack of common sense protocols. Blue, from sparring with Optimus. Red from when Ratchet had half-sparkedly cuffed him upside the helm for sneaking Bulkhead energon goodies after the large mech had been ordered to sort through a box of broken parts as punishment for breaking them in the first place. And green from the hug he'd gotten from Bulkhead for those goodies.

It would be easier if Jazz had been painted black, like Prowl. The dark shade was capable of hiding a multitude of sins, unlike the white that displayed the daubs of bright colour on the blank canvas of Jazz's form, like one of Bulkhead's paintings, taunting Prowl with the fact that others had laid hands on the guardsmech, had left their mark on Jazz.

Others had taken liberties he wanted for himself alone.

Arms slung companionably across the white mech's shoulders, hands clapped him on the back or grabbed at him in excitement. Prowl caught himself imagining that he could see the imprints of those friendly gestures on Jazz's plating and took off for his quarters, scaling his tree and settling on a high branch to shake off the ridiculous notion.

When he descended, Prowl made straight for their supply stash to gather a few things, then headed for the white mech's room.

The other ninja was in, sitting crosslegged on the berth when Prowl swung the door open at the call to come in. Jazz turned a puzzled smile on him, understandable, seeing as how the darker ninja rarely sought out company, and Prowl held up the rag and bottle of solvent in reply as he drew closer, pointing out one of the flecks of paint that stood out so obviously to him. The white ninja chuckled, picking at the little blue mark, then held out his hand for the cleaning supplies, visor flickering in confusion when Prowl sat down next to him instead.

Prowl shrugged, tapping Jazz's back lightly with a raised optic ridge, and the other mech grinned, accepting that while he and Prowl were more flexible than most bots, being cyberninjas, a bot still found it difficult to scrub what he couldn't see. Turning obligingly, Jazz let Prowl work in peace, humming along to some random tune drifting from his speakers.

He rubbed at each mark he saw with a vengeance, moving from Jazz's back to his front, completely focused on his task until white hands took hold of his own, stilling them, blinking when his concentration was shattered and he found himself practically in Jazz's lap with the other ninja looking quizzically at him. Faceplates heating, Prowl tried to free himself from the mech's grip, only for Jazz to pull the rag from his hands and press lips briefly to his own.

Intakes whirring fast, Prowl stared at him, blinking again when Jazz flashed him a knowing grin and tilted his helm aside, baring the side of his neck, and Prowl's attention was caught, fixed on the dash of extraneous colour that decorated the plating there. His hands were released and hesitantly, he traced the line of the paint scrape with his fingertips, glancing up to meet Jazz's optics before lowering his helm to the other ninja's throat.

Kissing Jazz's plating softly, Prowl began mouthing the warm metal, glossa working at the mark. A low, encouraging sound from the other ninja spurred him on and he regained his previous fervour, removing each scuff and scrape, pushing his mech down onto the berth, claiming every last inch of black and white plating with lips and hands and denta as Jazz writhed and shuddered against him. White hands raked over his own black and gold plating until a flare of heat and energy set his world ablaze with brilliant white, the same as the mech arched underneath him, his name a heated moan spilling from Jazz's lips.

Lying there with Jazz, intakes panting to cool overheated systems, Prowl trailed slow caresses over the new (and black and gold) marks overlaid on white plating, then lifted his head reluctantly at the other ninja's throaty chuckle. A sharp glare at Jazz was met by an unrepentant smirk as a fingertip slid slowly over the darker mech's plating, and Prowl tracked its progress intently, wary of the expression on the guardsmech's faceplates, frowning in confusion until the white paint on his armour, marking him in return, registered. Jazz grinned at the look of realisation that dawned, then kissed him soundly, arms twining about his frame, holding him possessively, and Prowl kicked the rag and bottle of solvent to the far side of the room before pulling Jazz close once more.

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