The Old Good Cop, Bad Cop Routine
(Jazz x Prowl) x Decepticon!Reader
THIS IS VALVEPLUG! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!
content warning!: rough treatment, restraints, sticky, three-ways, double-teaming, faction play, they/them pronouns for reader
(this is my first time trying to write valveplug on here! hope you like it! feedback is appreciated! no ai was used in any part of this writing!)
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Your optics flutter open on their own, but it takes a klik or two to get your visual processing fully online. When your vision is focused enough to be useful, you look around and find you're in an enclosed space, a square room with odd red-goldish lighting. You're sat on a bench, but you don't remember how you got there. As your processor slowly reboots and you come to, a dull ache presents itself in your left stabilizer, near the knee joint. So the blaster shot hit home. Damn it all. You attempt to stretch out your stabilizers and find you can't; your wrists are cuffed behind your back and your pedic units are cuffed to the bench. It settles in that you're living in the worst-case scenario: you've been captured. Oh Primus, Megatron is going to eat you alive. How could you have been so stupid? It's all a blur, it happened so fast... the shooting, the falling, the blaster to the stabilizer, then you blacked out... did you lose the battle? "Hello?" you shout. Your voice is unharmed, luckily.
In response, the magnetic door slides open and you see two mechs walk through. One of them is large and shapely built, a distinctive crest upon his admittedly handsome faceplate. You can see the markings of what humans call a "police cruiser" along his stabilizers and what little of his back is visible. A quick shock of fear runs through you before you swallow it back. You never ran into Prowl in the field. You never had to; the Seekers were keen to talk with anyone who'd listen about what a cunning tactician he was, how ruthless he could be when it was demanded of him. Strange as it seems, a part of you admires him. You wish he'd see sense and join the Cause instead of wasting his talents on this bunch of pansy afts.
The other mech seems to have similar colors but a far different shape, and this one you know very well. Jazz has been a source of endless frustration for you and your teams. Seemingly endlessly adaptable, it's almost impossible to truly catch him off guard. Soundwave, when he condescends to the level of caring about anything, has a particular strut to pick with him about his music tastes. You couldn't care less. The only command your processor is accepting is "get out of here and away from the obviously armed enemy mechs". "Good. You're awake." Prowl's voice states in the small room. His blue optics are hard as they stare into you. You feel your spark spin faster in your chassis and you want to shrink away, but somehow he's got you pinned. You test the tensile strength of your wristcuffs, but it's no good, they're not budging.
"Get away from me!" you yell, glaring as hard as you can. You weren't prepared for a pair of 'Bots to actually be scary. You're sure it's just the circumstances; they wouldn't stand a chance if you were free and armed. You're positive.
"Hey, hey, easy. Slow it on down there," Jazz says softly, holding up his servos in a gesture that says to calm down. You do not want to calm down. You want out. Now.
"What... what do you want?" you ask quietly. Your training didn't really prepare you for this, and seeing as you come from Decepticon teachings of how to handle prisoners, your expectations are... not high.
"Oh, I'm thinkin' you know," Jazz says, placing his hands on his hips. Your glare sharpens, until Prowl cuts through the silence.
"My intel informs me that the Decepticons' plans for their aerial division were encoded in the processors of several high-ranking officers, and moreover, that you're one of them," Prowl states, arms crossed. From your position in the chair, he towers over you. You suppress a shiver.
"So y'see, you're here 'cuz you know a thing or two about somethin' we wanna know about." Jazz finishes for Prowl, and you have no idea how he can maintain that easygoing persona when the atmosphere is this tense and cold.
"Well, even if that's true, no way in the Pit would I tell you! I would never betray Lord Megatron!" You shout through gritted denta, trying to convince yourself of it more than them.
"See, I knew this wasn't gonna be easy..." Jazz murmurs, inclining his helm sideways at Prowl. Prowl just grimaces in return.
"If you will not willingly volunteer that information, then believe me when I say we will force it out of you." Prowl says, his voice hard as the steel of his plating. Your hands ball into fists behind the back of the chair. Yep, that's it, you're gonna get tortured. You know it, all that slag you've seen Megatron pull with uncooperative 'Bots is aimed at you this time, so you'd better just--
"Prowl!" Jazz exclaims, as if he's said something wrong. Prowl's face shows confusion, then realization, then frustration. Jazz drags him off to the corner, presumably to talk. You try to listen in, but they speak in whispers.
"Honey, you can't, Prime'll kill you! It's against the Autobot Code!"
"Jazz, we have to get that intel, I don't much care how." You see Jazz place his hands on Prowl's chassis, as if to calm him.
"I know, baby, I do. But really, there's gotta be a better way..."
The conversation continues, but you're struck dumb. Since when did he... were they... have they been? On-the-job relationships are frowned upon where you come from, you just thought that the Autobots would have similar rules. But apparently not! Apparently Jazz just gets to call their Intelligence Officer "baby" and it's all fine. You're not sure why considering you never wanted a partner like that, but you feel a bit envious. Shaking your helm to focus, you try again to hear what they're saying, but most of it is just too low a volume.
"Intel... methods... a loophole... you in?"
"Primus, that's... don't tell... you sure?"
Jazz fixes Prowl with a stern look, and somehow it's Prowl who softens in the face of it, taking Jazz's hands in his own to kiss his knuckles. You can't tell what they're thinking, but Prowl has evidently convinced Jazz of whatever he has planned. You feel a pit of dread in your fuel tank, your processor drawn to images of torture racks and split plating, the images so intense that you barely notice when they actually walk back up and speak to you again. "Listen here, lieutenant," Prowl says, "we're not going to fragging torture you. It's against the Autobot Code anyway." "But! My baby here figures he's got a workaround. Somethin' with a better success rate."
"What are... what are you going to--"
You're cut off by a pair of soft lip plates pressing against yours, curved in a slight smile. You're surprised, caught off guard. You almost forget where you are. Jazz's lip plates are so full and warm that your frame reacts on instinct, kissing him back before your mind can catch up. You wish more than anything that your hands weren't cuffed, so you could properly touch his chassis. A bolt of shame races through you as he pulls back and you're reminded of who you're dealing with. You're supposed to be above them, all of them. So how can he...? Prowl walks around behind you and lifts your arms up until he's caught your wrists in one hand above your helm.
"Stand up," Prowl orders, and you do, feeling the magnetically locked cuffs strain against your pedic units. The cuffs force you to keep your legs spread. That shame from earlier feels as though it's doubled in a klik. Jazz saunters up to you like you're a cube of freshly distilled engex, hands poised at the latch of your chestplate. Prowl gets a grip on your waist, a hard grip, enough to leave a mark. Jazz's dexterous hands undo your armor like it's nothing, caressing your bare plating wherever he can reach.
"A-Ah! Prowl!" You shout, startled as you feel denta on the plating of your neck. They're sharp, or at the very least precise; you can feel the care he takes not to nick a fuel line. They scrape at your plating and it makes you want to scream.
"Shhh, shhh... just look at me, okay?" Jazz whispers gently, his hands sweet and soft as they wander your bare chassis. "There we go," he hums softly, kissing you again as his right hand slips between your legs and unlatches your modesty plating. You don't have your seal, of course, but you wouldn't dream of letting an Autobot touch anything down there under normal circumstances. These, however, are not normal circumstances. Jazz wraps a hand around your spike and slowly moves it up and down, stroking you sensually. You feel Prowl smile over your shoulder.
"See? Told you they'd like it. Look at how hard they are," he says like this is amusing to him. You want to yell in his face, you want to fight him, but while Jazz is busy with your spike, Prowl slips two digits in your valve and your vision nearly whites out. You knew you were wet down there, but you're shocked at how easily Prowl just fit them in there. His digits are long and able, and he moves them in and out of you at the same pace Jazz works your spike.
It's all so much at once. You think you could handle this if it were just one or the other, you could play coy or you could kick and scratch or whatever, but... not like this. Not both of them at once, not Prowl's almost-too-rough grip and Jazz's honeyed voice in your audials, what sane Cybertronian could survive that? It's so much... but it's never quite enough. Prowl is a goddamn tease, keeping his digits still every time your valve seizes particularly tight around them. Jazz is even worse, never keeping a steady speed with your spike, moving from respectably fast to torturously slow at once. You can't take this.
"Aw, baby, I think we're bein' a lil' mean at this point." Jazz coos over your shoulder. Prowl sighs softly.
"Are you ready?"
He's not asking you, oh no, he's asking Jazz. You can only assume one of them is going to spike you. You feel a dewy wetness gathering in your valve at the mere thought.
"Sure am, baby. C'mon, open up here," Jazz says to you, parting the lips of your valve with two digits. You hear and feel Prowl's spike pressurize behind you, and it feels like no time passes at all before he just jams the whole thing in there at once. You scream, and you're not ashamed to say it. Prowl is well-endowed and you haven't gotten any in a while, and it's so sudden, you can't help the animal keen of pleasure-pain that tears out of your vocalizer. At least he has the courtesy not to move.
"Oh... Damn, Jazz, this is... mm, you should feel how tight this valve is."
"Tighter than mine?" Jazz answers playfully. Prowl leans over and pulls him into a deep kiss over your shoulder, the change in weight shifting his spike inside you and making you squirm.
"Of course it isn't. But it's close," Prowl supplies against Jazz's mouth. "You know I've wanted to do this for a while..." he whispers, finally moving his hips on purpose. He has the decency to start slow, so there's that. You gasp as his spike brushes your anterior node, your vocalizer glitching from the overwhelm. You feel like crying.
"Think they have too, look, they like it!" Jazz says in a tone that feels encouraging, but really shouldn't be. It seems like even he's surprised.
There's no other way to say it; Prowl frags you like it's the end of the world. His stocky build gives him force and momentum, which he uses to drive himself into you like it'll save his spark. He keeps one hand on your hip to keep you steady, and he uses the other one to reach around you and pleasure Jazz's spike. You're not ashamed to say you scream into the air above you... or you would if Jazz wasn't there to keep you quiet with kisses on your mouth and soft, grasping hands. He pulls himself closer to you so he can hold Prowl's hand, using the other to cradle your helm in his chassis as you arch your hips back to match Prowl's rhythm, making sure he can catch your anterior node every thrust. And when Jazz isn't kissing you, he's kissing Prowl next to you or slightly above you, smiling at him like he's all that matters.
A part of you wishes it could last forever. A part of you that doesn't care about the Decepticon Cause or Megatron's leadership or your rank or anything, deep down in your spark where you haven't gone looking in vorns, wishes you could just stay here until a ceasefire. But though the spirit is willing, the frame is weak. You barely have any warning before Prowl grunts low in his intake and jams his spike in your valve as far as he can, spilling transfluid inside you in a sticky, white-hot gush. The sensation is so overwhelming that you overload at the same time, sticky slick coating Prowl's spike and dripping between your legs onto the metal floor. Jazz overloads only a few moments later, aiming up to cover your chassis in his transfluid. You wish you could say you hated the feeling, but... you can't bring yourself to.
Prowl finally lets your wrists go and you fall back into the chair, your stabilizers unwilling to hold you up. Your array is soaked and sticky, and you can feel the transfluid cooling on your plating. Your processor feels completely shorted out, and more than anything, you feel satisfied. Jazz's hand reaches over to caress your faceplate, a silent "good job". You just moan wordlessly in response. Jazz leans down to kiss your cheek and whisper in your audial.
"Mm... now where are those aerial squadrons headin' next?"
Too fucked out to remember what was so important about it, you let it slip.
"Nnh... Niagara Falls, then Lake Superior..."
"Good bot." Jazz says sweetly, rewarding you with a proper kiss on the intake. You moan softly into it, your vision going fuzzy as your helm falls forward and your processor offlines, not even bothering to say "thank you".