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Jazz dances, but Jazz always dances.
If not for the joy of dancing then to remind himself that he is free and not bound by the shackles or chains of his past. That the ghost touches he feels along his frame are the wind as he moves not the claws of those that want to rend him apart.
Prowl watches the other black and white as he moves. Sidestepping clutching hands or spinning from the grasp of those that attempt to contain him even if only for the night. Prowl sees the flash in Jazz’s visor as someone makes a lucky grab. He knows that the gleam is not a sign of happiness at finally being caught no matter Jazz's dazzling smile or feigned interest in this ambitious paramour despite how much said mech might wish it.
Caged animals warn before they attack if one is smart enough to read the signs. And Prowl is. “You're touching something that does not belong to you,” is the only warning he gives the overly amorous interloper.
The mech doesn't realize how close he came to death this night. Or maybe he does. That among many other things is part of the allure that is Jazz. Though the general population has no real idea of the dangers that lie beneath the too bright smile and friendly luminescent visor of their self-appointed moral officer.
Keep friends close, enemies closer, and always know what goes bump in the night.
“Come to dance with me lover?” This tiger hides his claws but not his fangs in a Cheshire cat smile.
“Lover am I?” Sometimes there's more than one predator lingering in the shadows of the night. Tonight Prowl is the epitome of his designation.
“Lover, handler, companion, whatever you want to be.” dark hands dance along white framework. The hold of this dance is different when one anticipates steps.
“All of that, hmmm?” Prowl dangles his nonchalance as bait. A good hunter knows his prey.
The unstoppable force molds itself to the immovable object. “Can be all that and more if…”
“If?” The trap is set to ensnare the beast.
“Just bend to me, lover.” Sweet nothings cover venom tipped words like the pointed fangs that graze thin, sensitive energon lines pulsing in time with a racing spark.
White hands grip tight the maelstrom trapped in mech form before him. Prowl leans away forcing space between himself and his desperately sought-after prize. “No,” blue eyes gaze hard at the optics hidden behind the devil’s shroud of a crystal visor, “Lover it is you who must bend to me. I will only belong to something that belongs equally to myself. I am not a possession. But since you are so fond of labels how about a few others?”
Prowl waits for Jazz's reply. He feels like he has waited forever for the mech in his arms. But forever is an unnecessarily long time to one who knows the secrets of the dark.
“Tell them to me then if you are so wise.” The statement is a question from one who is reluctant to ask. Wildness is not easily tamed, and freedom is not easily given up by those that were once bound by chains.
“Lover you've already said, but I would define it by its truest meaning not the fly-by-night throw away definition you've ascribed to it. There are others as well such as partner, halcyon, and,...” Now the white helm bends as the final volley is fired and with one whispered word across Jazz’s audial Prowl's trap is sprung. “...Mate.”
The shiver is palpable, the groan is audible, and the surrender is complete. This tiger that burned so bright will sleep curled forevermore in his bed. “Take me home Prowler, make me yours?”
“This night and everyone to follow.”