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The pink dress prowl with his little has me thinking Optimus would put a pretty pink leash on his pretty little pink princess and lead him all around to keep him safe from others and tie prowl to his desk so he can better fuck Prowls valve while he holds a meeting with the rest of the Autobots.
Prowl is of the mind that their leader's fascination with human culture has officially gone way overboard.
It may have started innocuously enough, with the gifts they received from their human allies being put on display, be it in Optimus' office, their rec room, or the Ark's hallways. Most days, you could hear him humming human music that he'd learned from the radio.
Then the clothing thing started.
Cybertronians have no need for clothing. It'd tear at the first opportunity or get tangled in their armor mid-transformation.
But Optimus, for whatever reason, has grown to adore the idea of it.
And actually, Prowl thinks he's just learned that exact reason why.
'Turn around.'
He does as Optimus commands. The dress flows and billows with the movement. The Prime's optics track it near obsessively.
He's graced with the same reverent attention as Optimus buckles a pink collar around his neck and clips it into a leash, testing it with a firm tug. Prowl can do nothing but follow.
He doesn't question it when they leave the privacy of Optimus' office, the leash still wound tight in the Prime's hold, keeping him close. He doesn't question it as the time for the high command meeting approaches.
He doesn't even question it when Optimus doesn't let him take his own seat, keeping the leash so short that the farthest place he can realistically take is right at the Prime's side.
He pulls him into his lap instead.
The meeting starts, and he's treated to the sight of the autobots staring him down as they file in and take their own seats. He and Optimus are right at the head of the table, and since this is their leader, they don't even have anywhere else to look.
When Optimus calls for the meeting to start, as the first of the officers takes the stand, every pair of optics turns to them when they hear the telltale sound of retracting modesty panels.
'Go on.' Optimus dismisses, as if his fully pressurized spike isn't pressed up into Prowl's aft where everyone can see it, drooling precum.
The officer at the stand stumbles over a couple of words as they try to continue with their report, stealing constant glances at their leader.
They blush and stutter some more at the sound of Prowl's panels retreating, too.
The slick squelch of Optimus' spike parting the pleats of his valve punctuates each awkward break in between sentences. Some of the mechs present have disregarded the need to act as though they're paying any attention to the contents of each speech, and as the meeting goes on, more and more hungry gazes settle over where Prowl's and Prime's frames are connected.
Multiple EM fields extend to lick over Prowl's own, and he catches the flares of their enthrallment, their hunger, and their lust stirring within them.
He feels their jealousy. With each time Optimus hilts his full length into Prowl's tight heat, their collective charge crackles audibly, desire mounting with no way of release. The room smells heavily of ozone.
Optimus loops the leash around his servo one more time, tightening it so hard he pulls Prowl's helm back to his pauldron. Whimpers and moans tumble freely from his vocalizer now, interrupting nearly each word spoken in the meeting. It doesn't exactly matter – no one's bothering to listen to anything but Prowl's sweet pleas as Optimus fucks him thoroughly through his overload.
By the end of the meeting, Prowl's dress is completely soaked in their combined fluids, and bots leave the room with indents they'd pressed into their own armors out of frustration, stalking off to tend to themselves. Prowl spots the glint of lubricant trickling down the inner thighs of a couple of mechs, having leaked through their panels. As they step out, they throw envious glares over their shoulders, catching the Prime's eye as he lifts a screaming Prowl by the backs of his spread legs and drops him on his spike.
Context: (this excerpt is the very start of the fic but) Jazz has been training Prowl to behave better when dealing with subordinates, but it's still not uncommon for him to be called in to get his mutt in line
Warnings: nothing severe. This wip primarily features pet play, public (and private made public) humiliation, and orgasm denial
[Note: this intro is pretty rocky, need to buff it out a bit before we're happy with it but we're giving it time to come up with the right way to do that, so ignore how simple it is rn it will be fixed dw]
Prowl knew he was in trouble when the mechs he was lecturing relaxed, grinning at something behind him.
"Bad dog" Jazz's stern voice barked, "drop it."
Prowl's wings fluttered, and he obediently took a step back from the mechs.
He could hear them laughing at him, but Prowl was already beyond caring.
"Sit."
He did.
And his wings starting trembling with excitement as Jazz unspaced a familiar collar and leash.
"He dropped so fast" someone snickered.
Prowl ignored them, keeping his optics solely on Jazz as he was collared.
"What a little bitch."
"He clearly likes it."
"Y'sure he's not acting up because he wants this?"
"Nah" Jazz grins at them, "I always make sure he regrets it."
With a click, his leash was hooked onto his collar.
Prowl's panels burned. He ignored them.
"On two today Prowler" Jazz chirped, starting to walk without waiting for Prowl to respond.
Prowl scrambled to his pedes and tripped after him, ignoring the cackling and jeering as he hurried to catch up.
He wasn't allowed to tug on the leash after all.
Humiliation burned in his core as everyone turned to watch the spectacle Jazz made sure he would be, calling and waving to every passer by to make sure nobody missed the fact that Prowl was leashed again.
As they neared the more secluded area of high command's barracks, Jazz gave a little whistle and a familiar servo gesture.
The command to drop his panels.
The hall behind them was crowded with his audience, fully in view, but Prowl did as he was told and let his panels snap back.
The resulting leering and laughter made his face plates burn brightly. Lubricant started dripping down his leg.
"Oh hey, Op" Jazz chirped.
Prowl's head snapped up, whole frame starting to shake.
Now Optimus knew he'd been bad again.
"Another round of training?" Optimus asked, like he didn't know.
"Nope" Jazz popped the 'p', "punishment again."
Optimus sighed, like this was to be expected, "better luck next time then."
Charge started hissing across Prowl's frame. If he let it, it could trigger a light overload.
He wasn't allowed to overload until Jazz gave the command.
His doorwings rattled, and his spike twitched hard.
"I better let you go, looks like he's thinking of misbehaving again" Optimus chuckled, stepping out of the way.
"Don't worry Op, I got it" Jazz laughed, tugging firmly on the leash.
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Context: Jazz, Prowl, and the Constructicons do a scene where Prowl is a workaholic too busy to frag his partner so he gets his gestalt to do it for him
Warnings: cnc just because of the nature of the scene (but honestly its really whimpy cnc, couldn't commit for this one lol)
How much longer was he gonna make him wait? "You need to learn to relax sometimes, mech. Work isn't gonna fall to pieces because ya stopped to frag on your day off."
Prowl grumbled to himself, "if you need it that bad, frag one of the Constructicons, I'm busy."
Before Jazz could respond, the door to the office slid open, and Mixmaster peaked in, "what'd'ya need, boss?"
"Can you take care of Jazz for me? I need to work."
"Sure thing."
Jazz let the disappointment show on his face. He wanted to frag Prowl, not his gestalt.
But his charge was really bothering him now, and Prowl clearly wasn't moving until that mountain of datawork was done.
"Fine" Jazz huffed, rounding the desk and leaning back on it, panels snapping open insultingly nonchalant, "what'cha got?"
Mixmaster stepped forward, dropping to his knees with no preamble and shuffling into place between Jazz's legs.
Despite the open spike and valve panels being right there ready for him, Mixmaster's glossa went for Jazz's seams. An interesting choice.
Jazz watched as he worked his glossa into his seams with an odd enthusiasm. His plating was very tightly packed, which made transforming a pain and tactile a little dull, but came in clutch when checking himself for trackers and bugs.
It was only after Mixmaster's glossa was in far enough and wedged at the right angle that Jazz felt a shift in his plating and a new sensation brush his protoform.
"Oh" Jazz breathed.
Mixmaster gave a devious little snicker and slithered his glossa in further, nudging at where protoform and plating connected and making Jazz groan.
"Y'wike bat?" Mixmaster asked around his busy glossa, though it still flicked under Jazz's plating as he talked.
"Yeah."
Mixmaster pressed his face in closer in what Jazz assumed to be an attempt to get his glossa in further, until he felt dentae press into the widened gap and tug at the plating and he hissed, hips jolting.
"Service him properly, Mixmaster" Prowl scolded him mildly, still focused on his datawork when Jazz looked.
Mixmaster snickered, pulling back, "sorry boss."
And then, with zero warning, Mixmaster swallowed his spike in one go.
"Frag!" Jazz clutched at his kibble, frozen between tugging him off and making sure he stayed right where he was, "f-frag- give a mech some warning!"
"Mno" Mix grinned, the word resonating through Jazz's spike wonderfully.
He started bobbing his head, never letting an inch of Jazz's spike leave his intake, but certainly not giving Jazz a moment of stillness.
Moaning, Jazz leaned back, letting Mix work and the resulting charge pulse through him.
But taking his optics off Mixmaster for even a second was a mistake, because without breaking his pace Jazz felt that Primus forsaken glossa slither down and press against his anterior node.
"Frag!" Jazz clutched tightly onto the desk, iron grip on his charge, he couldn't overload this early, "how long is that thing?!"
Jazz was full of mistakes today, because Mixmaster took that as his cue to demonstrate, extending his glossa further and slipped it into his valve.
"P-pit." Jazz grit his dentae, trembling and holding on for dear life, his overload was right there, he could feel it, and it took him everything he had to not just let it happen. He wouldn't survive this if he did.
It was the smallest sound, cut off before it could become anything, but Jazz would recognise it anywhere.
"Are you laughing at me?!" Jazz snapped at Prowl, glaring.
"No" Prowl replied easily, flat as ever. He had three datapads now, comparing graphs or some other work slag instead of fragging Jazz himself.
Whiteboard doodles of the two alts we prefer for Prowl (in more modern iterations and aus at least) - the Nissan fairlady z33 and the Honda nsx gen 2 2016. Obviously the fairlady is classic, but also the nsx is GORGEOUS. But also the fairlady is way easier to draw (and has a far larger hood, which is a major point here)
One of the most curious things I learned at this year's TFNation is that there are Cybertronians who work and live inside the massive Metroplex spike as if it were just another building in the city. ROFLMAO.
Context: Throughout the war Prowl has fantasised about being assaulted while captured by the Decepticons, but the war ends without it ever happing and in a fit of horny drunken (like. REALLY drunken) stupidity Prowl sends out a group message to every Con he has in his contacts. The Cons are very okay with this, and promptly grab his unconscious hungover ass and set up a party where Prowl's valve is on display for free use
Warnings: some cumflation (open to interpretation how intense it is), dubcon for the start of the ex-Con's idea but then its just straight cnc role play. Its not good bdsm, but like, Prowl is having way more fun than the ex-Cons here, so its cool
If you object to anything that happens, comm this line immediately and I will step in.
And that was it.
No explanation, no commentary, just an out.
Prowl groaned, muffling the noise with a servo as heat travelled to his panels.
He hadn't referred to Megatron like that in almost a vorn.
"Good." Megatron's voice was firm. Commanding. Nothing like the remorseful bot he'd become after the war.
Prowl's doorwings fluttered behind him.
A servo on his panels made him jump, and Prowl bit his derma trying not to react too much.
"Open up."
He didn't.
The servo pressed down harder. Prowl switched to biting his digits.
"Now." The command resonated through Prowl's core.
He wouldn't.
Digits dug into the edge of Prowl's valve panels, wedging in and forcing it open with a rough jerk.
Prowl off-lined his optics, spinal struts arching and wings buzzing against his prison. He knew his valve had to be incriminatingly wet, but he could do nothing about it.
Megatron huffed, amused, "lets see if this piece of shareware will be good enough for my Decepticons."
Something shoved its way into Prowl's valve, finally forcing a cry out of Prowl's vocaliser, and he twisted and thrashed against the burn.
It took a second for the sensation to settle enough for Prowl to even recognise that the intrusion was digits.
Three digits. From Megatron's large servos.
Prowl groaned, unable to hold back the noise at the thought of the leader of the Decepticons testing out his valve with his digits.
Another laugh, crueller, had Prowl's callipers cycling down, and the digits pushed apart, forcing them back open.
"Frag" Prowl gasped.
It burned so good. Megatron didn't let up, and as the pain inched its way towards pleasure Megatron forced that back too by adding a fourth digit.
There was a padded bar above Prowl's helm, and he moved to grip it with both servos to steady himself.
Only for the digits to be completely removed from his valve.
The whine escaped Prowl before he could stop it, making his faceplates burn.
Megatron's smirk was audible, "yes, this will do nicely."
A spike was shoved in then, incredibly girthy and everything Prowl had been dreaming of for decavorns.
Megatron didn't wait, setting a brutal pace heedless of anything Prowl would want. All the warlord wanted was a good overload.
Prowl's charge crackled up painfully, valve already aching but the scenario doing more for him than his nodes ever could.
Megatron's transfluid was dumped in his forge unceremoniously before Prowl even had a chance of overloading.
The spike slid out of him, and Megatron made a pleased noise, "Soundwave, tell the troops their new toy is ready."
And then he was gone.
Prowl groaned, overload so close it hurt as the heavy load of transfluid settled in him.
He shifted, cycling his callipers and trying to get off on the feeling in his forge, but nothing brought him any closer to release.
Then, another voice entered the room. Multiple actually.
Prowl's valve was still exposed, dripping fluids and trying to clench down on nothing. It was mortifying. Prowl was so, so close.
A new spike pressed into his valve, and only a few thrusts later Prowl was overloading hard, crying out as his plating crackled.
Laughter filled the room.
"Looks like this one's easy to please!"
Prowl shivered as the spike kept fragging into him through it all, and when it overloaded into his forge all he could do is whine, long and loud.
The next spike was long, too long, and as it shoved into him it kept pressing forward until it was pushing up against the entrance to his gestation chamber.
One, two, three thrusts later, and it was in.
Prowl sobbed as the faceless Decepticon fragged his forge.
It hurt.
By Primus did it hurt.
Prowl's charge hadn't shot up so fast in his life.
When the unknown Con's overload hit and transfluid splattered directly into the ceiling of his forge, Prowl fell into another overload with tears flowing down his faceplate.
The next three spikes were less notable, but with the entrance of his forge gaping now it felt like his gestation chamber was refusing to miss a single drop of transfluid.
The group, now sated, happily said their farewells with slaps to Prowl's aft. Prowl was sure they'd left transfers.
Four spikes later, Prowl was shivering, third overload taking its time to build now that his valve was all stretched out with use.
To make matters worse, his abdomen had started to distend, and the hole that gave the Decepticons access to his lower half wasn't very big.
He felt so full.
The party had just started.
He needed to make room, get all that transfluid out before the next charged up group of Cons arrived.
He'd tried to time it, but luck wasn't on his side, and the moment he'd overridden his forge to release the built up transfluid the door had opened again.
It must have been an obscene sight, Prowl's once pristine white aft now covered in paint transfers as his valve gushed transfluid. He could hear it splattering on the floor below.
The unknown onlookers revved their appreciation.
Prowl's callipers cycled, pushing another wave of transfluid out.
Laughter, and then servos on his aft, gathering up the transfluid there and pushing it back in his valve.
"Think you dropped something" one snickered.
"Frag that's a lot."
"Better get to work replacing it."
The next spike was modded, raised ridges catching on his callipers as they pushed in, and Prowl gasped and moaned at each one, beyond caring who heard.
After what they'd seen? What did it matter if Prowl made a little noise.
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Lets do some wip excerpts for funsies, considering how many we have and how we're working on them all at once it'll be a while before anythings finished
Working title: Prowl Begging (shhh the best titles are thought up five seconds before posting on ao3)
Context: Jazz and Prowl are playing a game where Prowl can tease Jazz however he wants in an attempt to get Jazz to frag him, and Jazz has to resist for as long as possible. Its been going on for like, 4 months, because Jazz is too into this to lose easily, and Prowl is getting more and more crazy with his attempts as time goes on
Warnings: nothing for this segment
Prowl pretended to not have even noticed Jazz's attention as he passed by, heading for their little half-kitchen.
"Uh" Jazz swallowed, optics never leaving the valve between his partner's thighs, "Prowl?"
"Yes?" The menace turned a little, thighs hiding the valve from view but bringing the spike back to his attention.
"..." What was Jazz supposed to do here? Lose? Complain? No. ".....nothing."
Prowl shrugged, turning back to the kitchen too slowly for Jazz to miss his smug little grin, and even that was tempting at this point.
But it wasn't over. Because after pouring a cube, Prowl decided to be a little extra, reaching up to their higher cabinets for some additives and completely unnecessarily going on the tips of his pedes to reach, hips tilted forward, upgrading Jazz's view of his valve from excellent to Premium.
Jazz's glossa felt dry. So so dry.
The lubricant he could see collecting at the lips of Prowl's valve was such a clear solution to that problem Jazz felt a little dizzy.
All too soon, Prowl found what he was looking for and the Premium Valve was gone.
Jazz barely noticed when Prowl turned back to him, processor in a completely different world where Prowl's thighs were his audial mufflers.
He only returned to reality when he felt a cube pushed into his servo and a kiss pressed sweetly to his helm as Prowl passed by.
"You're killing me here, Prowler" Jazz groaned, turning to watch the little minx leave.
"That's the idea" Prowl said, smirk clear in his voice even if he didn't turn around to show it.
And then he vanished into his office, second cube in his servo.
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I am and always will be a size queen prowl truther. Boy loves taking only the largest of spikes
Oh ABSOLUTELY. I imagine he'd be so cock hungry he wouldn't be able to keep himself from glancing at the spike housing of any big bot he meets, thoughts intrusively straying to what might lay just behind the metal plate. Maybe the tac-net would latch onto this train of thought, trying to puzzle out just how big, how wide, how long this mech's spike is based on the frame specs it can pick apart from Prowl's visual feed. All as Prowl desperately tries to think of anything else.
Prowl side-eyeing a huge bot during a meeting and rubbing his thighs together under the table trying not to leak thru his panels……..
Prowl should have the biggest refineries ngl. Annoyingly big. Very in the way. Praxians have big bumpers always anyway (or does it only seem that way bc their waists are tucked?) but prowls are crammed inside it. When he transformers them away they should bozing out. Bazonker out. His partners become refinery mechs if they aren’t already
Waow is it fun to think of Prowl's already massive chassis being stuffed to the brim with boob because the difference in volume
Very fun to think of him doing the equivalent of taking off his bra after work, and his partners just can't stop staring
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