Author's notes: While this fic can be thought of as a follow-up story to "Powerplay", it can just as well stand on its own as an independent story.

Warnings: Please note that this story features slash of the very much kinkier variety, and hence falls into the "Don't like, don't read, please" category.

Acknowledgements: Thanks to HitokiriKurisuta for beta reading.

Disclaimer: Transformers doesn't belong to me in any shape or way.

Another night, another game.

He slapped Prowl's cheek, wincing a little inside as he did so. As he always did whenever he hit his bondmate like this. Prowl hissed but said nothing.

"The coordinates," Jazz growled at the mech chained to the chair in front of him, and as that didn't serve to break Prowl's silence, he delivered another slap. And again, he felt the all-too familiar wince follow the action. He would so much rather have preferred to gently caress that gray cheek instead of hitting it.

But Prowl liked to play. And so, Jazz played along with him.

As he always did.

Jazz looked at his bondmate. He had dimmed his optics slightly. The minor change in the blue colour was hardly noticeable if one didn't know to look for it, but Jazz had seen it every time they engaged in these kinds of games. He had never asked Prowl why he did that, but knowing his bondmate, he could guess at the answer: That the minute darkening of the world around him served to somehow erase the boundary between fantasy and reality. As if light too sharp would illuminate the fact that the setting wasn't real, and the pretense of things being any different only existing in the minds of the two participants.

"Being stubborn, aren't you? You're not the first 'Con to think he can keep information away from me. But I can assure you, like all of them, you will talk," Jazz threatened, putting all the menace he could muster into his voice.

Well, it wasn't anything how a normal Autobot interrogation of a captured Decepticon would have played out, of course. Protocol would never be disregarded like this, and Autobots with a more sadistic streak would never make it to become interrogators in the first place. They'd be weeded out long before they made it that far. But during the years, a clear distinction had automatically, albeit slowly, grown into shape, resulting in a non-verbal agreement between the two.

"Autobot interrogator" meant that the interrogation game would be conducted using mostly empty verbal threats and psychological intimidation, with the occasional physical abuse thrown in towards the end for good measure. "Decepticon interrogator" meant that the level of violence was significantly increased. Which variation they played out depended on whatever Prowl felt like. Jazz had to admit, though, that he much preferred it when Prowl was the one to take on the role as a Decepticon, meaning he didn't have to... hurt his bondmate so much. Although he wasn't sure if the word 'hurt' was the correct term; after all, was it even possible to hurt someone who didn't think of it that way?

"I'll tell you nothing, you Autobot scum," came Prowl's vehement response, spat out from his mouth as if it had been poisonous energon.

Jazz smirked, hiding the small sense of relief that he was the Autobot this time. Otherwise, Prowl's defiant response would and should have, according to the unwritten rules of the game, resulted in an outburst of violence on Jazz's part. But that wasn't necessary this time.

He bent down and grabbed Prowl's chin, forcefully yanking his head upwards and locking their optics.

"Watch your mouth, you filthy 'Con, or things could get really... unpleasant," he said in a low voice, carefully enunciating every syllable as to make the unspecified, not-so-veiled threat drip with menace. He tightened the vice-like grip around the other's chin, making the action underline the spoken words.

Yes, Jazz was a good actor, and he knew it. It had always been one of his talents, and it had benefited him – even been a necessary prerequisite – in the role he had occupied for most of his years of service in the Autobot faction. He had long lost count of all the times he had infiltrated an opposing group or requisitioned information by pretending to be someone he wasn't, making good use of his finely honed skills. He was confident he could take on and play out almost any role convincingly. But before he had met Prowl, he would never have imagined that he would put those talents to use in this way. And he would probably have laughed it off had anyone even hinted about it.

But now, here he was, giving his bondmate the show he wanted. And for the umpteenth time, he couldn't help but wonder what those 'Bots in High Command who had promoted him to his current position would have thought if they had known what sort of use he was putting his hard-earned talents to in private. 'Undignified' and 'inappropriate' were probably the kindest words they would have for him.

He let go of the mildly disturbing thought, and of Prowl's chin as well. The other mech said nothing, retracting into the role as cowed prisoner.

Jazz walked around to stand behind Prowl. Without warning, he grabbed hold of the restraints that bound him to the chair, and gave them a violent tug, making the cuffs dig into Prowl's wrists.

"Tight enough for you?" he sneered, more sensing than seeing how Prowl tensed at the unexpected pain. "Wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable during your visit here."

Again, words that mocked the other mech; belittled him. Ridiculed him. And Prowl lapped it all up, like a starved Earth kitten would a plate of milk. Jazz briefly wondered if he was being selfish in his reluctance to acquiesce Prowl; if it shouldn't be his duty to participate in these games with more vigour than he did. After all, Prowl never denied his own bondmate anything, happily giving Jazz whatever he wanted. Most of the time, he didn't even have to ask for it, as Prowl was so amazingly attentive to his every need and desire. Like he took pride in being able to anticipate his bondmate's wishes and fulfill them before Jazz even knew he had them.

And yet, here he was, wishing that he didn't really have to do this. Didn't have to give into his bondmate's wants. Didn't have to deliver the pain and humiliation that Prowl craved. Deep down, he felt a vague sense of shame. What kind of bondmate would feel bad about satisfying his own bonded? Especially one who took such care of his own partner? A sting of frustration pierced him; being bondmates did mean making sacrifices for each other; why was that still so hard for him to accept? Not everything could be all fine and dandy at all times; only inexperienced mechs who had never been bonded would believe such a thing.

No, perhaps he was just being immature about this. It was, after all, a small thing in comparison to everything Prowl had done for him during their years as bondmates. He shouldn't be so small-minded; shouldn't think of only himself like this.

He twisted the restraints once again, a lot harder this time. Prowl let out a yelp, and a whimpered plea.

"Stop it..."

Of course, Jazz knew very well from the tone of voice that Prowl didn't mean that plea at all. If anything, it was an encouragement for Jazz to continue, not stop. For that, there was a safe-word they had agreed upon long ago, but that Prowl had never used. And Jazz doubted he would ever use it; seeing as how it was his bondmate who constantly pushed these games forward, not him.

"You really are pathetic, you know that? You wouldn't last a minute if I were to start to work on you for real. Luckily for you, my superiors wouldn't approve of it if I were to turn you into a scrap heap, but that doesn't mean I don't have other methods."

He gave the restraints, a final, violent yank, drawing yet another whimper from the other mech.

One thing was certain: their games had gotten a lot harsher over the years. They had started out rather light-hearted, but had slowly but certainly progressed in a more serious direction. Or perhaps, 'regressed' would be a more proper description, seeing as how Jazz had much preferred their initial experimental playfulness to their current nature. But Prowl had wanted more, and so Jazz had given him more.

And more.

He wondered how long he would be able to keep up if Prowl's demands continued to steadily increase. And he knew that there would be a point, somewhere in the not too far distance, where his uneasiness would win out. So far, he had been able to overcome that feeling, though.

And today, he would overcome it as well.

He walked around to Prowl's front again and leaned in over him, until their faces were mere inches apart. The glare he gave the other could have made a lesser mech shiver in fear.

"Of course, there are still many interesting ways that don't leave visible marks. Electric shocks, for instance. How would you like that, eh, two hundred thousand volts through your chassis?" he drawled almost pleasantly, tapping his knuckles against Prowl's chestplate for emphasis.

"Y-you wouldn't." Prowl, as always, was only too happy to play along with whatever Jazz came up with. Showing all the eagerness that Jazz was unable to feel.

Of course, Jazz had never told Prowl about his reluctance. And the reason was simple. Knowing Prowl, chances were he would immediately put a hold to the games, placing his bondmate before himself, as always. Of course, that was what Jazz wanted. And yet, it wasn't.

Because, in the end, he knew that just like no mech could be without energon to function properly, Prowl needed this distraction. While their fellow 'Bots didn't realize the state of things, thinking that the Second in Command had a reliable, innate knack for handling all sorts of duties and responsibilities without even as much as twitching, Jazz had seen that it wasn't so simple.

Even if he didn't show it, the demands that came with the Second in Command position were weighing heavily on Prowl. He never complained, instead doing his utmost to fulfill even the smallest of responsibilities, but Jazz could see how it was taking its toll on the stout tactician. The burden that came with being expected to solve whatever problems presented themselves and remain in control of any situation, no matter how complicated, was not an easy one to bear. And so, these games had become something of a safe haven for the tactician, allowing him an invaluable respite; a brief moment where he was allowed to let go and fully hand over the otherwise so tightly held control to someone else, for once.

And therein lay the problem. What would happen if Jazz one day simply said no? Would Prowl eventually succumb to the constant pressure he was under and break down, having had his only vent taken away from him? It wasn't unimaginable. And if Jazz could prevent such an outcome, it was his responsibility as a bondmate to do so.

Besides, there was another reason as well. The unlikely – but not non-existent – possibility that maybe, just maybe, if Jazz refused, Prowl would find himself another mech to carry out what Jazz was now doing. Not that he would break his bond with his current bondmate, certainly not, but simply find another partner to partake in these games with him.

The mere thought was enough to make jealousy twist within Jazz and mockingly poke at his spark. He didn't want another mech to play around with his bondmate, not considering how it would normally end – with an interfacing session. He didn't want to share Prowl with anyone.

And a less selfish part of him also worried that perhaps another mech, who wasn't Prowl's bonded, wouldn't be so careful as to not inadvertently hurt his playmate. In games like this – and particularly, if Prowl wanted to take them even further – it was almost a prerequisite to be bonded with your partner, as the ability to pick up on even the most minute signs were vital.

"Try me, you worthless piece of slag. My patience is starting to wear thin."

Prowl shrunk back into the chair, not meeting with Jazz's optics. But his silence wordlessly urged Jazz to continue.

And Jazz knew he would, for Prowl's sake. No, not even once had he interrupted these games, always opting to play them out to the very end. Just like he would this time.

Deep inside, he was grateful that most of their bonding sessions were as normal as those of other mechs, devoid of any of the brutality and degradation that he had inflicted on Prowl today. It was more the exception than the norm that the tactician asked for more 'special' attention. But it did happen often enough, and usually it would be during those times when Prowl was more bogged down with work than usual or had several important decisions on his table awaiting their resolution. Jazz, as the attentive mech that he was, could more often than not predict whenever a request like that would be coming his way; Prowl's mood and behaviour providing all the clues he needed.

It was probably a good thing, as it gave him the time to mentally prepare himself for the fact that their next bonding wasn't going to be about gentle caresses and sweet words whispered into attentive audio sensors. Like it would have been if it had been up to Jazz to decide.

But he had made the choice to let Prowl have his way in this, and so he had to live with it.

He yanked at Prowl's chevron, gripping hard around the red metal. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, you insolent scrap heap!"

And Prowl looked at him, something close to ecstasy playing behind the dimmed optics.

Jazz could feel his spark almost melt; despite all the uneasiness that their games raised in his processor, there was one thing he truly enjoyed about them. And that was seeing his bondmate's arousal so strongly displayed on his face. Clear and unpolluted like crystal water, it was truly a beautiful sight to behold. Even if he couldn't have the satisfaction that Prowl got out of this, at least that small pleasure was there for him to savour.

And as they had played similar games so many times, Prowl didn't even have to ask or hint anymore; Jazz knew exactly how to read his partner. Not only the look of Prowl's face gave it away, but the speed of his breathing, the tension in his body, all the small tell-tale signs that Jazz was an expert in interpreting. They all told him the same thing: That the tactician was reaching his peak, and it was time to finish this part of the game.

Yes, time to put an end to things.

"Perhaps you will be more open to other means of persuasion." Jazz let a hand clamp down on one of the other mech's doorwings. By far, the most sensitive part of his outer armour, and once Jazz started to get to work on those, Prowl wouldn't last much longer. He would break down and crave an interface. Jazz knew that he could cut a game short by going for them at a much earlier point, but he never did, never cheated like that, as tantalizingly as the option would hang over him. In order to draw it out and wait until the right moment, he always waited until Prowl was really ready for it.

Like now. His fingers tightened around the metal, putting dents in the delicate structure. There was a violent shudder, and a desperate groan, but he ignored them and continued his anything but gentle ministrations.

"I've gathered that these things are quite sensitive, aren't they?" he said flippantly, as if he were talking about nothing more than the weather. "So perhaps you'd see fit to give me those coordinates now?

Prowl gritted his teeth, while Jazz continued his unkind treatment, fingers dragging across and digging into the black and gray metal. Reaching into the seams and scratching the delicate wiring underneath. Twisting and pinching.

Any moment now.

"D-238! Just stop it!"

The coordinates they had agreed upon in advance. Also, Prowl's signal that he wanted the foreplay to end in favour of an actual interface. The first part of the game was finished, and time had come to move on to the second part. Jazz let go of the doorwing, and once again walked around to face his bondmate, whose breath was now coming in short, shallow gasps.

"That wasn't so hard now, was it?" he said, tilting Prowl's down-turned face upwards with a nonchalant finger. "I'd even go so far as to say that you deserve a little... reward, don't you think?"

The spark of arousal on the tactician's face danced with new vigour at Jazz's words. And at the fingers that had now taken to tracing his facial features.

"As worthless as you 'Cons are, I've noticed that there's one thing that you're actually good for," Jazz drawled seductively. And the next moment, the restraints that bound Prowl to the chair had been unlocked. Jazz yanked the other mech to his feet by his arm, none too gently, and dragged him over to the recharge berth. Why there was a recharge berth in an interrogation room was one of those defiances of realism that they had chosen to overlook. There were already several aspects of that to their games; all that mattered was that it fit in with Prowl's fantasies.

Jazz roughly threw his bondmate onto the berth and then straddled him, pressing him down with his weight, grabbing hold of his wrists and pinning them down.

"L-let me go! Don't!" Prowl whimpered, making a feeble effort to release himself. Of course, there was not nearly enough force in his efforts to dislodge Jazz. It was all a show, like everything else.

"Quiet, and I might even let you enjoy this," came Jazz's hissed reply as he started to help himself to the black and white metal that was Prowl. Letting his hands wander across the trapped chassis, teasing at the seams, grabbing at the exposed wiring. At times roughly, at times more gently. The other mech writhed under his ministrations like a slithering serpent. He was close to overloading now; after a game like this it never took much for Jazz to push his bondmate over the brink.

Yes, just a little bit more and Prowl would be totally done for. Jazz felt a twinge of relief at the thought. As uncomfortable as the foreplay made him feel, the actual interfacing tore more viciously at his spark. He kept telling himself that Prowl wanted this; craved this; needed this; and yet, it didn't stop the self-loathing from slashing at him with its sharp claws. The one part he had the most difficulty coming to terms with – pretending that he was carrying out a forced interface with another mech.

True, it was only a game, and his bondmate was almost beside himself with pleasure, but still there was that unwanted, uncomfortable feeling nagging in Jazz's processor. As if he were committing some vile act of perversion, a defiling of all that was holy and sound. In real life, only a 'Con would ever degrade another mech like that, and even for most of them it would be too loathsome an act to consider. And here he was, acting it all out like it was nothing more than one of those traditional plays that would be performed during Cybertron festivities.

"Filthy 'Con, I never gave you permission to touch me!" He swatted away the gray hand that had tentatively taken to caressing his chassis, and then backhanded the mech sprawled beneath him on the berth. Prowl only let the hand fall, silently submitting.

Actions as fixed and never-changing as the scenes in those popular, ancient stage plays whose origins and meaning had been long lost in the mists of oblivion; the same words and actions performed every time with only minute variation. Frozen in time, acted out by the performers the way they knew the audience wanted it; had always wanted it. Because Jazz couldn't bring himself to think up new, different ways of doing this. His usual joy in finding creative solutions and coming up with previously un-thought ideas was so utterly absent whenever he tried. He didn't want to delve his mind into such a cesspool of filth, didn't want to consider this anymore than he did whenever he had to act it out. As if the mere thought of what he was pretending to do was enough to leave some sort of permanent stain in his processor.

No, he wasn't the scriptwriter. Prowl was, just like he was the audience and the director at the same time; Jazz was only the actor playing it all out; orchestrated by the demands of all those other roles. Prowl's roles.

A few more tweaks of some cables, some more demeaning insults, and Prowl was sent into overload. Blue optics shut off and body tensed, teeth clenching. Jazz didn't overload. He never did, not during this kind of play. He had pretended to, the first few times, but had eventually realized that Prowl was too far gone to be able to tell whether Jazz overloaded or not. Too disconnected with the real world.

After the last few shudders had passed over the tactician, Jazz lay down beside him on the berth, draping an arm over his bondmate. Prowl's features were always so relaxed after an overload like this, like all those duties and responsibilities pressing him down were gone, magically whisked away from his processor. Like they had never existed in the first place, mere ghosts of an overactive imagination.

The saboteur rested his optics on those calm features; the thought that always haunted him after a session like this striking with full force. Taunting him, raising questions he didn't want to consider. And yet, he would let them overtake his processor, as he always did, because he was powerless to prevent them. And so he didn't try to stop it when it came over him; the thought of how long he would be able to follow Prowl on the rocky and overgrown road that he was dragging his bondmate.

Yet, still for some time. He could continue for a while. But in the end he feared that perhaps one day, Prowl would want to go where he could no longer follow. And what would happen then was the stuff of undesirable, but possible realities. But for now, everything was fine. He took comfort in that thought; there was no need to worry about the future, what would come would come.

Moments passed by. Silence broken only by quiet breathing. Then:

"Jazz, have you written your part of the maintenance report yet? I can't hand it in until all the sections are finished."

"Don't worry, Prowler. I'll take care of it first thing tomorrow morning," came the response, honest and helpful. Not diverting, as it would normally have been whenever the subject of unfinished reports was brought up. Or dismissive. Or even procrastinating.

Normally, Jazz hated it whenever Prowl would talk about reports, as if they were the most important things in the world, but now, he was happy to hear it brought up. It felt as if he could have listened to his bondmate talking about that maintenance report for an eternity and it would still have been as sweet as molten sugar to his audio sensors. Because he knew what it meant: That Prowl was back to him again. Not the Prowl that enjoyed it when he hurt and degraded him, but his Prowl.

End note: While I have come across several BDSM stories that featured more or less unwilling subs, I have yet to read one where the dom was the reluctant one coerced into playing along (yeah, I probably just haven't looked hard enough). So I thought that would be an interesting aspect to explore, and this fic was the result.

As for this story, I kinda see Jazz as the kind of 'Bot who is perfectly fine with experimenting a bit in this area, perhaps using handcuffs and the like, not for the excitement of it but simply because he doesn't mind playing around a bit. But that's as far as he wants to go; in the end he doesn't have the kind of leanings to get any real kick out of games like that. But Prowl obviously does, and so Jazz reluctantly plays along.

As far as the question goes whether Prowl and Jazz's relationship as pictured in here is at all healthy, I will leave that to the interpretation of the reader. I'll give you a hint though; the answer begins with an "n" and ends with an "o". ;)

If you dislike the general theme of this story, please don't bother telling me; I'm well aware that this isn't everyone's cup of tea. If there is anything else you disliked, such as pacing, dialogue, wording and so on, do feel free to let me know what I could have done better. And if you did like it, yes, you're of course also welcome to tell me. ;)