clang clang clang

Prowl does. His servo glides languidly over his spike, spit smoothing his movements.

The rest of the constructicons were strangely insistent that he spike Bonecrusher, even as the mech argued his preference for being the one who does the spiking. This is true of their shared experiences so far; as far as Prowl has seen, Bonecrusher has never once used his valve. In fact, whenever a stray servo found itself on the underside of his modesty panel, he'd be quick to swat it away.

Which leaves the way in which the constructicons convinced him to go through with this a bit of a mystery to Prowl. No matter. He'll gladly take the opportunity to be on top.

Prowl settles comfortably between Bonecrushers' spread thighs. He takes a moment to observe the mech's flushed, plump pussy, still fluttering hungrily, as if in anticipation. A bead of milky lubricant slips down its pleats as Prowl spreads it with his thumb. As far as Prowl's aware, Bonecrusher hasn't even been touched yet.

'Just-' The normally confident mech's vocalizer clicks and stalls. He has to reset it before continuing. 'Just get on with it.'

Were he not focused on the task at hand, Prowl would be able to hear how behind him, Hook smothers a servo over Scavenger's face to stifle his barely concealed giggles.

Instead, he follows Bonecrusher's command and settles the weight of his spike against his array. It's true that, in comparison with the constructicons, it may not be all that impressive in regards to size, considering Prowl himself is a size class or two smaller. Even now, as he rests it against Bonecrusher's valve, it spans about the equivalent of its length -- his root at Bonecrusher's entrance and his tip weighing on the steadily throbbing anterior node. Considering this disparity, he inwardly disregards any need for prep.

Precum dribbles from his spike's slit, and he angles it to smear it against Bonecrusher's already soaked array. Without bothering to warn the mech laid out below him (a small payback for all the times the same has been done to him), he finds his hole, and pushes in with one smooth movement.

The manner in which the others talked him into spiking Bonecrusher led him to believe that maybe he's secretly proficient at using his valve and simply reluctant to admit it. Prowl thought he was being set up for what would be a good spiking session. Maybe their positions would flip, with Bonecrusher riding him, grinding their arrays together.

(He saves that particular thought for later)

What he didn't expect was for Bonecrusher to start whimpering three unhurried strokes in.

His servos clutched at the sheets, wringing them in his grip. The inner walls of his valve rippled around what should have been the gentle intrusion of Prowl's spike.

It is at this moment that Prowl realized it wasn't any kind of hidden skill or simple preference which made Bonecrusher steer away from taking spike.

It was that his valve was wildly oversensitive.

A quick glance at Bonecrusher's faceplate only confirmed Prowl's suspicions. One of the mech's servos flew to cover his deep flush up. Their audience was openly cackling now.

The corners of Prowl's intake twitched into an unwitting, smug little smirk.

'You said you weren't going to overload?'

'I'm-!' Prowl's next lazy thrust cut Bonecrusher's retort clean in half. His indignant glare spoke for itself anyway. 'I. Am. Not.' he grit through clenched teeth.

A devious idea formed in his processor.

'Whatever you say.'

The next time Bonecrusher screwed his optics shut — and Prowl didn't need to wait long for that — he snuck a hand down.

The sound that left Bonecrusher's vocalizer when Prowl pressed a firm digit to his swollen clit could only be described as ear-splitting. His cunt clamped down on his spike so tightly that if Prowl were told he was fucking a still-sealed mech, he'd believe it.

Without ever having to graduate from his easy, slow thrusting, Prowl managed to get Bonecrusher to start desperately fucking himself back on his spike, moving his hips to roughly grind their arrays together. Lubricant gushed from around where Prowl's spike was stuffing his hole with each uncoordinated movement.

Much to his own shame and mortification, as betrayed by their bond, Bonecrusher overloaded with a high, drawn-out wail.

'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.