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Hurriedly, Prowl gathers up his datapads and subspaces them, deliberately ignoring the Constructicons looming at the door.
“So, boss, we were thinking…,” Long Haul starts.
“No.” Prowl interrupts him. Whatever it is, no. Whatever they want from him, absolutely not.
“But –.” Hook shuts his mouth at the glare levied his way, and Prowl catches the faint murmur of their conversation over the gestaltbond. Annoyed, he tightens the chokepoint on his end. Usually not even that much would slip through, but with close proximity to the Constructicons the gestalt bond constantly pings him with requests to open up. He doesn’t have time for this.
“I have a meeting I need to attend.” Prowl arches his doorwings and walks towards the door, the Constructicons parting before him.
“At least,” Mixmaster fishes an energon cube from subspace. “At least fuel up?”
Prowl glares at it, very aware of the fact that he’s positioned himself in such a way as to have Constructicons at his front and his back. His tanks take the liberty of alerting him to the fact that they’re only 34% full. “Fine.” He grabs it out of Mixmaster’s hand and downs it, trying to ignore the queasy feeling of the Constructicons’ delight at such a small surrender.
He exits the room, wishing it didn’t feel so much like defeat.
------
The road feels smooth under his tires. Has it always felt this smooth? It was one of the more recently repaired sections, repaired…Prowl can’t remember the exact date. And what does it matter? It feels so nice. Sunlight glares down, reflecting off the road, and Prowl has to dim his alt-mode’s optical sensors.
He guns his engine, enjoying the heat on his plating and the steel beneath his tires. His spark flutters warmly, and he feels faint echoes through the gestalt bond.
The bond. Frantically, he clamps back down, and a chill seeps into the space where the Constructicons should - would be.
The Constructicons. Always dogging his steps, pushing at the gestalt bond, showing up out of nowhere to agree with every damn thing he says.
It’s a hassle he doesn’t need to deal with, on top of the turmoil of the shifting political landscape of Cybertron. He should be able to focus all this attention on that issue; instead at least part of his processor is occupied at all times making sure the Constructicons can’t edge their way past his block on the gestalt bond.
He needs to clear his processor. Meeting with the Constructicons first thing in the morning is going to color the rest of his day, otherwise.
Accelerating, he continues on towards central Metroplex.
------
“-wl? Prowl? Are you all right?”
Prowl jerks his helm up from where it had been drooping. Optimus Prime looks at him, concern in his optics.
“I’m fine,” he says archly, and sits up straighter, redirecting a larger part of his processor towards listening to the proceedings. Had he fallen asleep? His optics dim, and colors shift before them. Bright green. Constructicons. It’s a nice color, soothing somehow.
Soothing? Nice? That’s ridiculous, he hates their colors almost as much as he hates each one of them.
Joy flutters through the gestalt bond. Open again. Didn’t he close it earlier? He needs to close it. He doesn’t want the Constructicons piling into his mind, taking over like it’s theirs, like they’re meant to be there, meant to be together, Devastator, whole and perfect -.
He shoves back from the table and stands up, ignoring Optimus’ concern. He shouldn’t be here, he should be with -. He should be somewhere else. Stumbling out into the hallway, he can feel confused curiosity blooming into delight inside his spark. Why had he shut his end of the gestalt bond? This was so much better, so much more natural. He could feel them practically shoving each other aside in their haste to see that his end of the bond was really, truly open.
Where are they? Inside him-- he can feel them inside him... but they should be there, right next to him, too. Their quarters. That’s where they’d be. He’s never been there, but he knows the way, just like he knows everything else there is to know about them.
Time blurs and he finds himself outside the constructicon barracks. He reaches up to knock and the door slides open and there they are, right there, a cloud of green and purple around him, and he stumbles against them, his pedes finding the floor at odd angles. Servos reach out to steady him and his plating tingles where they touch.
Plating shimmers before his optics. Green. So green. Were they always so green? It’s like being on Earth again, bright and lush and full of life. Full of colors.
Something jabs at him, and there’s a clang. A voice, “Go easy!” He knows that voice, and he leans towards it. Mixmaster. With his…hah, with those tubes over his helm. They look so silly. Prowl reaches up to touch them, thumbing the nozzles. Mixmaster moans wordlessly, but a word rings through the gestalt bond.
Prowl.
He can feel something. A touch? He looks around, but the servos have retreated. He looks up, confused, and oh. There it is again. But better this time. Softer. He looks down at his chest. There. Right there. He strokes the seam, but it’s not quite right. The touch is something else. Something different. Something more.
The feeling retreats and he looks up at the Constructicons around him as they trade glance between themselves. “Why?” Come back. “Don’t you –.” Don’t you understand? “We’re all the same.” We’re Devastator.
He doesn’t see his servos move, but he can feel himself reaching out towards them. We belong with each other.
Sharp intakes sound throughout the room, and Prowl feels their shock like a bolt through his spark. No, don’t go. Come back. They have to come back. Don’t they understand that he needs them? That they need him?
He can feel them hovering at the edge of himself, and he reaches out again. Come.
And they do. He doesn’t see them move, but they’re suddenly inside him, somehow. Colors mix before his optics, and he offlines them. He doesn’t need to see them to see them. They’re so close. Right where they need to be.
His frame tingles and his spark grows warmer. Cooling fans click on around him. Prowl smiles. He can feel the charge echoing back and forth between the six of them. It feels so good. “See?” We both need the same things.
The Constructicons inch closer as a group, and Prowl reaches out for them. Closer. Closer. They need to be whole again. To come together and be what they can never be when they’re separate, stumbling in the dark, alone.
Sheer happiness washes over him from the other points of the bond. Why are they so happy? This is simply how it should be. But it’s good. Their happiness is his happiness, he can see that now. Why would he push them away when they’re all the same?
Subtle encouragement fills the bond, but he knows it’s not directed at him. He can tell, instinctively. Someone’s being encouraged to do…something. He can’t quite make it out. His sense of the bond is rough, unrefined. He’s been shutting them out for too long to have a solid grasp on communicating in this way. Why had he ever shut them out? Why wouldn’t he want this always? He feels someone move against him - Hook, he realizes. That feeling…that feeling inside is Hook. He can tell it’s Hook just as easily as he can tell his servo from his pede, and just knowing he can know that fills him with warm delight, echoed back to him from the Constructicons.
He feels the cool touch of lips on his – Hook’s lips, he can tell from the touch and the taste and the feel of him through the bond– and he jerks upright, optics shooting open, then relaxes. No, this is good. Very good. Hook is good. He laughs into the other’s mouth.
Hook pulls away, and Prowl feels the faint touch of uncertainty through the gestalt bond. But why would he be unsure? This is good. This is right. This is how they’re supposed to be. He leans after Hook, overbalancing, and another Constructicon reaches out to catch his balance.
Long Haul. Prowl looks up…and up, meeting the Constructicon’s optical visor. He’s so big. Was he always so big?
He feels a flicker of amusement. Long Haul wasn’t big. Prowl was small. No, not small. Just the right size. Perfect size. Everything about Prowl was perfect.
Perfect? Was he really – but yes, everything inside him told him it was true. And of course it was. They were all of them perfect. Long Haul, and Hook, and –. He reaches out, unthinking. Mixmaster. Scavenger. Bonecrusher. His. His gestalt. His bondmates. But they were all still so far away. Had it always hurt so much, being this far away?
It’s an ache, deep in his spark, where there should be five more nestled beside him.
I need you. It hurts. He doesn’t even need to say it out loud, his Constructicons already know, just like they know everything about him. He doesn’t need to say anything. They know him. They know him so well, better than anyone else alive. These five are all he needs because they know each other, they complete each other, they just need to complete each other and then they’ll be complete! Don’t they understand?
Please. It echoes through the gestalt bond, and Prowl sees recognition dawn in five sets of optics, just as Prowl’s chestplates part, sparklight shining through to wash over their faces.
Spikes of fear quiver through the bond, and Prowl looks up. Do they not want this? Don’t they want him? He wants them so much, he needs them so much, they can’t abandon him like this. They can’t.
He covers his spark with one servo. “I thought…,” he whispers.
Optics brighten around him. “Prowl, we –.” Long Haul starts, and reaches toward him.
We love you.
We promise.
Long Haul pulls Prowl with shaking servos to rest on his lap. Sparklight casts long shadows on them all; in any other context the feared Decepticons might have appeared sinister, red optics and visors glowing in the dark, but Prowl has never felt safer. Love him…they love him. No one loves him. Chromedome…Arcee…Bumblebee…everyone who ever professed to care for him turned their back on him sooner or later. But the Constructicons. They do. They said so. He can hear them now. Please. Please come. Join. So empty.
His spark, exposed to the cool air, feels even more desperately, achingly lonely than before. He reaches out to them, all at once, and one at a time, imploring.
Long Haul’s chestplates stutter open. Prowl can feel his anxiety and the raw grief that accompanies this once-familiar act, and he chases that feeling, following it to the root. Scrapper. Prowl can see the pain that accompanies the name in Long Haul’s visor. It’s okay. Time for the new. His spark sings across the gulf, and the Constructicon’s chestplates finish their labored process of opening, revealing the burning glow of his spark.
Prowl’s optics light up in awe. “Beautiful,” he mouths. “Mine. Ours.”
Beautiful? Prowl can feel Long Haul’s question flutter shyly in the bond, and he reaches out to sooth it. Beautiful.
Long Haul’s fragile composure cracks, and he draws Prowl closer to his chest. Careful servos make sure he’s comfortable. An anxious thought makes itself known. Are you sure? Prowl smiles down at Long Haul. Yes.
Slowly. Carefully. Gently. The Constructicons’ worry and care come through the bond, and Prowl basks in it. He’s surrounded by it, by their kindness and their concern for his well-being and his desires. He’s so happy. So happy. His optics spark with emotion, and Prowl doesn’t have to look to see it’s Scavenger who leans in. It’s okay Prowl. We have you.
Something’s come undone inside him, something that was keeping him bottled up in a space far too small. But now he’s free. It feels almost like being whole again.
He tilts his helm against Scavenger and leans up, receiving another kiss. Something brushes against his spark and he jerks away with a cry.
It’s a jolt through his body and through the bond, and Prowl’s isn’t the only voice that’s raised. The huge mech holding him grips his upper arms, venting hard.
It’s so much, so quickly, and Prowl’s frame goes strutless, collapsing across Long Haul’s body, their opened chestplates meeting.
If that first light touch of their sparks had sent bolts of pleasure through Prowl, this is so much more. Shaking, he can’t even support himself. Servos reach into hold him, caressing his seams, doorwings, chevron, but he can barely feel them through the haze. Shining clearly through the bond, though, is Long Haul’s affection, adoration, and awe that Prowl would be here, like this, with them.
It’s so much. It’s more than Prowl ever imagined. They love him that much. When did anyone ever love him that much? Accepted every single part of him? Expected nothing in return? But no, no, he has feelings to give back in return. He does. He pulses back his sheer gratitude for all Long Haul feels, and the Constructicon shudders beneath him.
The world opens up, expanding beyond himself, beyond them...endless. Ageless. As the tendrils of their sparks reach out and twine together, blinding pleasure floods Prowl’s sensor net, and with it, knowledge of the other’s very essence. He’s been inside them before, when they combined. He knows more about them, and they about him, than anyone had a right to. But this...this is so much more.
Thoughts and emotions pour through, not diffused among six minds - minds reverently watching, touching - but pure and inherent to the larger mech. The flood of sensation makes Prowl shudder out a moan, digits hooking into Long Haul’s seams with his helm bowed to rest his chevron against his gestalt-mate’s collar faring.
Shaky servos, large and gentle, fall to rest on his back and thighs, squeezing. Relief washes through the bond and over their sparks. The pain from Scrapper’s loss hurt so much. It had left a hole in the gestalt-bond, one that begged to be filled but refused all healing. Long Haul was...afraid. Afraid he could never have this again. Afraid Devastator would never be whole again.
Whole. Together. Always. Prowl nuzzled the green plating reverently, doorwings dipping and shaking from the sensation of their combined joy flowing through him, the feedback looping through his and Long Haul’s sparks.
He’s not sure how long they lay there, touching and pushing against each other. The bad feelings fade among the warmer glow of want and desire and need. He takes everything Long Haul is - his past, his thoughts, his dreams, his want...want above all things. Want for him. For this. The mech’s fans blast hot air over him, as if he wasn’t already hot enough, and his helm lolls fitfully against the other’s chassis, panting against himself. Others are touching him now, feeling their connection, strong and deep. Good, yes. He sends out his approval, and his desire.
Caught between them all now, he’s overwhelmed. They can sense it. They’re pushing him closer to the edge, coaxing. Long Haul makes a low, helpless sound, digits tightening on Prowl’s plating. They’re pushing him too, Prowl realizes. Good. It’s good this way. Together. We go together. He adds his voice to theirs.
It’s all it takes.
The hulking mech makes a helpless cry, overload breaking over his body, crackling energy spasming over his form connecting with Prowl’s plating. The overwhelming release pumped into his very spark floods throughout his frame, and he joins them with a cry of his own, overloading.
His doorwings flutter helplessly as spark energy jags across his frame, crackling through the air to light up the circuitry of the four mechs surrounding him and Long Haul. Six sparks flare in sync as Prow’s overload pulses through them. Gasping and moaning, cooling fans roaring, the rest of the Constructicons overload, the sheer force of their combined climax shooting through Prowl’s spark, tripping him into a second overload.
Shaking, Prowl collapses on top of Long Haul. Faint twitches run through his frame as his spark slowly untwines itself from the larger mech’s. Long Haul is equally strutless. He paws tiredly at Prowl, abstract thoughts, content and tender, flowing through the gestalt bond now that their spark connection has faded.
Is that all? Prowl’s chestplating refuses to close. Please. They aren’t all together yet. He needs more, needs them, all of them.
He feels shock thrill through the bond, followed by hunger. Please. The hunger flares into roaring need, and servos grope at his frame. He doesn’t even need to look to see whose they are. There, at the join between his doorwings: the rough digits of Bonecrusher, turned gentle. Stroking his lower lipplate are the slender medic’s digits of Hook, and he catches one with his glossa, pulling it in his mouth to suck. Scavenger traces his chevron, servos faintly shaking, and Prowl pushes into the touch, sending his gratitude and encouragement. A servo, Mixmaster’s, scrapes lightly against his interface panel and Prowl moans into the digit in his mouth, arching back.
Mixmaster’s digits come away wet, a thick strand of lubricant trailing from his digitips to the enthralled mech’s closed paneling. Prowl’s overloads and the stimulation have him twitching with need, his valve drooling beneath its cover so much that it’s seeping out from behind his panel. Mixmaster stares for a moment, and Bonecrusher leans over slightly to eye the mess as well before the chemist pulls away enough to break the strand and rub the pink wetness between thumb and forefinger.
Prowl can feel praise, admiration and intense arousal bleed through from two ends of the bond, and joy shoots through his spark in the knowledge that he’s the cause of those feelings.
He pushes back, questing to find that servo again, and Mixmaster obliges, lifting Prowl up to pull the smaller mech into his lap. Hook’s finger slips out of his mouth, and Prowl whines. It felt so good, tasted so good. He needs him back, close, inside.
Soon. The reply comes from more directions than one, and it was his turn to feel relieved. It’s so hard to stay upright, his helm feels so foggy and nice, his frame heavy from overload. He sinks back against Mixmaster.
Now. He counters, more a hopeful request than an proper order, but even so, his almost-command races across the bond, and he can feel his gestalt-mates’ instinctive desire to fall in place and follow their gestalt commander. Hook whines and chases after Prowl, his kiss clumsy in his haste to obey.
Prowl moans a soft sound against the his lips. Sloppy, eager, it doesn’t matter. His spark swells as he happily kisses back, then flares as Hook drifts down, hot vents gusting first over his exposed chest plating and then his spike cover. Scavenger shyly takes Hook’s place, lips tentative and soft against Prowl’s own. The heat is rising again, and with Mixmaster’s paneling so close to his already over-warm covers, he retracts them. Lubricant spills over the chemist’s lap from where it had gathered behind the closed panel. The heat of his gestalt-mate feels even better on his exposed, swollen valve.
He grinds down on Mixmaster’s plating. The heat. He needs more of it. It’s so hot, it almost feels like it’ll burn him, but he doesn’t care. He needs it. A soft click, and something nudges at the dripping petals of his valve.
He stills at the touch to his sensitive mesh, jaw slack. Scavenger pauses with him, panting softly against his mouth, so close but not quite close enough. Concern...from both. He’s...for a moment, he’s not sure. He glances back just a bit, but there’s only a blur of purple and green.
Long Haul’s groan breaks the spell and Prowl looks to him in a daze. Bonecrusher is moving between the larger Constructicon’s thighs, the giant mech limp on his back, one leg propped and bent, the other laying against the floor. He makes no move to help or hinder his gestalt-mate, too tired and blissful to even move. And Prowl can sense Bonecrusher’s charge through the bond, engorged and building, ready to break.
Prowl’s valve flutters against the spike tip kissing its opening. Can he...he wants that too. Mixmaster...Scavenger…
He shifts and his vents catch as Mixmaster’s spike nudges past his opening. Involuntarily, he startles and clenches down, wringing out a groan from the mech behind him. Relax. Scavenger rubs his stomach plating soothingly, and Prowl moans into his mouth. Relax. Yes...he wants to. He…. Mixmaster thrusts up into him in one quick motion and Prowl cries out into Scavenger’s mouth.
It should hurt far more than it does - and there is a jolt of pain from his tender valve as he’s impaled in one solid stroke - but he’s been lubricating so freely from being fondled, from being touched through the bond, that he’s already soaking wet. Even so, Mixmaster’s spike is huge inside him, stretching his valve rim taut. Hook kneels between his legs, pulling him wide open, and leans forward to lick the seams of his spike panel.
“Ah…” Any pain that might have lingered ebbs as he adjusts to the thickness of his gestalt-mate inside him. The warm glossa laving at his panel makes his calipers ripple along the fat cord, lighting up his internal nodes. Prowl moans aloud and inside, the pleasure of it echoing through the lot of them. Long Haul and Bonecrusher’s pleasure pools inside him as well.
In a fog, he faintly remembers that sensation...only he’d always tried to shut it out before. Why had he ever done that? Their pleasure feels so good. All of them feel so good inside him. Mixmaster especially, who surrounds and fills him, valve and spark. He relaxes again, strutless against the other, doorwings pressing against chassis as his panel clicks open. His spike pressurizes so quickly it shoots a spatter of transfluid across Hook’s face and visor. More...want you...want everything.
Hook starts, surprised, and Prowl worries for the briefest moment if he did something wrong. But amusement and arousal filter through from several of them - it would have been all five of them, if the two rutting nearby had been looking at anything but each other.
“Mmh!” Prowl’s head lolls as Mixmaster eases back and pushes forward in a slow, careful thrust.
“S’a good look for you, Hook,” the chemist teases.
Hook grins, transfluid dripping from his chin. Yeah? he responds silently, moving up again, and the way his helm tilts, Prowl can tell he’s looking at him, and that Hook agrees with Mixmaster. The medic leans in and Prowl’s lips part instinctively. His gestalt-mate looks so good.
Hook’s lips meet his, and he clenches in pleasure around Mixmaster as his gestalt-mate moves slowly, so slowly, in and out of him. Optics shut as he tastes himself on the other’s lips. The thought that Prowl tastes good is delivered with such genuine enthusiasm that he has no choice but to accept it as truth, and to agree. He returns the kiss, glad, so glad that Hook is keeping his thighs spread so Mixmaster doesn’t have to stop because it feels so good. Tastes so good.
A little flicker in the bond, and Prowl fervently denies Scavenger’s claim that Hook is being naughty, licking at the sweet mess on his lips.
Help? Hook asks, so tentative, but hopeful. Of course he will. Servos come up, lazy, tired, heavy, to cup the other’s helm. He drags his glossa over the filth he left on the other’s cheek. The resulting surge through the bond from the three surrounding him overloads Bonecrusher.
Primus, Prowl, someone whines, and Prowl smiles. They like this. They like him. They like what he does. They… He kisses a trail across Hook’s face, nipping at his lipplates, and licks up the transfluid dripping down his chin. Hook moans and mouths his chevron in return.
His transfluid is sweet, like energon, as it slides across his glossa and down his intake. More. Primus, he can’t get enough. Mixmaster twitches inside him and he gasps. You want more? Hook shoots an amused look across Prowl’s shoulder and ducks down.
Wet heat envelops his spike, the warm lubricated mesh of Hook’s mouth sliding down its length. Prowl’s optics shutter in pleasure. His hips twitch, but the medic holds them steady. Relax. Enjoy. Mixmaster thrusts up into him as Hook dives down in counterpoint, and Prowl cries out, his valve calipers cycling down on the chemist’s thick length. It’s...ah. It’s too much. He...he can’t…
The obscene want and pleasure he sends surging through the bond almost tips several of them into overload. Mixmaster can’t hold back, gripped by his pulsing, cycling valve. Arms wrap around the mech in his lap with a strangled cry behind his facemask. The digits of one servo clutch the rim of Prowl’s spark chamber, the other slung across his belly.
Prowl gasps, jaw hanging slack in silent ecstasy as Mixmaster pumps the entire contents of his transfluid reserves into him. Hilted fully, spike tip already kissing the inner iris of Prowl’s gestation tank at the very back of his valve, pulse after pulse fills him until it has nowhere to go but out and up. Prowl cries out as the heated fluid bursts through the narrow opening, bathing his gestation tank in transfluid as Mixmaster shudders and rides out his overload.
With a gust of hot air from his vents, Mixmaster slowly slides out, and the sticky mess splatters onto the chemist’s lap. Whining at the sudden flow of cool air against his sensitive mesh, Prowl grabs at Hook’s helm. Need you…
Hook grins at Prowl, gathering the other’s length in his servo. It’s a handsome spike, ridged, with black on top and a smooth white underside and head. Blue and red biolights decorate the length of it. The envy seeping in from his fellow Constructicons only makes his grin widen. Tough luck. Mine.
His? But he was all of theirs and -! He gasps as a warm, wet glossa plants at the base of his cord and drags slowly up the length of its underside. He pants, arousal and want pulsing erratically through the bond as lipplates press a suckling kiss to the delicate wiring at junction of spike belly and tip. “Ohhh-hh,” he moans shakily, falling back to rest against Mixmaster again, unable to support himself.
Mixmaster has barely settled servos on him to touch his sides soothingly when Prowl’s back bows up, and he moans fitfully as Hook sucks the head of his spike into an impossibly hot mouth. The glossa was back, wasting no time in pressing to his cord again, sucking firmly as he pulls back to release the glistening white metal with a lewd ‘pop’. Yours...yes, yours! he rambles, through it was quickly followed by an assurance that he belonged to all of them, just as they were all his. Just...at that moment...well, this one particular part was all Hook’s.
Pleased agreement washes back through the link as Hook takes Prowl in again, settling down with an elbow over Prowl’s thighs and another resting on Mixmaster beneath him as he moves his mouth down over the lovely, drooling cord, working back and forth in increasingly deep movements. He pulls back for an invent, transfluid and lubricant spilling down the underside of Prowl’s spike. He licks his lips, reiterating Prowl’s deliciousness, before taking him in again and sinking down to the base.
Hook glances up, amusement flickering across his visor, and Prowl lets out a throaty moan as the medic slides back up to suckle the head of his spike. Quit teasin’ him, Bonecrusher rumbles, and pushes Hook back down, crushing his helm against Prowl’s pelvic plating. Prowl feels Hook’s surprise flare through the bond, and he reaches a shaking servo down to gentle the top of his gestalt-mate’s helm. Hook pushes up in to the touch, glossa working against him, swallowing around him. Prowl...boss…
At length, digits loosen, becoming slack as Prowl loses himself to the sensation. Hook lifts his head tentatively, then draws back to work him over properly. His helm bobs, sucking as he drags up and down Prowl’s spike. He swallows at the steady stream of transfluid leaking into his mouth and down his intake, but some still escapes past his lips to drip down his chin and onto Mixmaster’s thighs. Prowl moans and makes shallow thrusts into this mouth.
He can catch flickers of intense arousal burning through the bond. he needs to open up, further...more… Oh Primus he’s still so far away from them. He’s been so far away from them for so long, but now he’s close, so close, so close. Prowl cries out and transfluid bursts from his spike. Hook’s throat works desperately as he tries to milk him clean. Don’t you fraggin’ waste any, someone gasps, and Hook obliges, suckling back up the length. Prowl’s spike pops out of his mouth, a single string of transfluid connected to Hook’s lips.
Prowl sits limply, spent and exhausted, but when Hook raises himself up again to tilt his head for a kiss, he can’t bear to deny his gestalt-mate right now. Lips part to receive the other’s affection, and he makes a surprised sound into the kiss when Hook presses the last remnants of his release into Prowl’s mouth with that clever glossa of his. “Mmh! M-mhh…” The other had managed to hold onto a fair bit. Prowl gulps, then swallows again. Their lips part, some of the sticky mess desecrating their glossas, before Hook dips forward again and they share the rest. What? Hook teases. I didn’t waste any.
Prowl pulses his delight across to Hook. Perfect...his gestalt-mates are perfect. He licks at the inside of Hook’s mouth, desperate to clean up the last traces of himself. Mixmaster shifts beneath him, and Prowl whines into Hook as his spike begins to re-pressurize and his valve leaks a mixture of his own lubricants and Mixmaster’s fluids.
A deep rumble heralds Long Haul’s arrival, as the huge mech pulls Prowl back to fall on his aft. His desperation washes through the bond as he pushes Hook back down to stuff his spike down the medic’s greedy intake.
Prowl looks around, fans whirring. He needs...it’s still not enough. He needs to be closer still. His optics light on Bonecrusher. Please. The mech’s engine growls its agreement and he pulls Prowl forward, tipping onto his back so the smaller mech can kneel over his lap. Bonecrusher’s spike is still fully pressurized, glistening with Long Haul’s fluids, and Prowl pants, eyeing it hungrily. He licks his lips and positions himself over it. His valve is still slick and lax from Mixmaster but Bonecrusher...he’s so big.
C’mon Prowl. Bonecrusher grips Prowl’s hips with his massive servos and pulls him down to let his spike tip kiss Prowl’s opening. Need you. Need to be in you. Prowl nods, delirious. Yes...inside him...all of them...inside. Bonecrusher pulls him down further, and Prowl curls over his gestalt-mate’s chest as the thick girth of his spike stretches him wide, its ridges grinding against his sensors. Time slows as he sinks down around the fat spike, servos resting against the other’s plating. Vaguely he registers approval from Long Haul and the soft, needy, almost frantic sounds from Hook as the other rides his mouth unapologetically. Big, he manages. Big...big…
Hey, easy. Give ‘im a sec. Scavenger’s concern comes over the bond, and Bonecrusher does stop. Even if he’s grunting in annoyance Prowl can tell he’s suddenly concerned too, not having realized he was overwhelming the smaller mech. He feels himself nudged up, away from Bonecrusher’s chassis, and he’s worried for a moment that he’ll be taken away, but it’s only Scavenger helping to prop him up at an angle that’ll make it easier for him to take the thick spike.
Straddling Bonecrusher’s waist, he scoots in close, smiling. That’s better, yeah boss? This close, it’s easier to hear him; the things he’s not saying. How good Prowl looks. How...how beautiful his spark is. He doesn’t use that word often, or ever. But it’s true. And now that he’s so close he can feel the warmth of it. It feels like Prowl, only more and he...he really likes it. He likes it a lot.
Devotion and desire and shy need pulse through the bond to Prowl, and Prowl reaches down, splaying a servo over Scavenger’s chest plating. Here. Together. Scavenger’s spark thrums just beneath the surface, and his chestplates unlatch to spill bright light over Prowl’s still-exposed spark. Bonecrusher thrusts up inside him and Prowl jerks forward, bringing his spark to meet Scavenger’s. Warmth blooms inside him as their sparks merge, and they both cry out in unison. Always...always wanted you…, Scavenger moans. Prowl, I…
Prowl gasps as Scaveger’s essence fills him to the brim. He’s...Primus, he’s so sorry. He never should have pushed them away, not when they needed him so much. Desperately, he pulls Scavenger closer, kissing away the sparking of the larger mech’s optics. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. He lets his love and regret flow into the sparkbond, and Scavenger sobs. The little noise of joy and misery is so, so bittersweet. Such devotion from the other, submissive and pliant to his touch. How could anyone want him so deeply? But he does. Prowl knows that now. It’s beautiful how Scavenger lays bare his spark. He chases everything the other is, swelling at the incredible sensation of merging so deeply, sinking into him, claiming him in his entirety.
“Ah...a-ahh…” It’s overwhelming. He can’t help but shake a bit, as he feels it happening. Want you. Prowl reaches out to him again, kissing him, pressing closer to him even as Bonecrusher pumps into him tirelessly. He pours his essence into Scavenger, and the Constructicon reels, gasping. Lubricant spatters down over Bonecrusher’s stomach.
Scavenger’s end of the the bond is a whirlwind of sensation. Prowl can feel everything - the larger mech grinding his valve over the ridges of Bonecrusher’s armor - opening up fully to let Prowl pour in - the overwhelming feeling of it all, so much he feels he might shut down. Want all of you, Scavenger breathes.
All of me. The sparkbond flares, and the gestaltbond echoes back, desperate for completion. All of us, he moans, and at that Bonecrusher jerks up into him, his overload spilling out of Prowl’ already over-stuffed valve to pool on his lap. He can’t hold as much, upright like this. So much spills out of him. His belly feels heavier now with the additional transfluid hot and thick in his gestation tank. He stills for a moment and buries his helm in Scavenger’s collar faring, and Scavenger’s shy delight flutters through their sparks.
Rest...he wants so badly to rest...but the little trickle of want from the other’s spark rouses him. He can’t rest. Still needs to join. The spark merge was more than he’d ever imagined. Satisfying. Life-affirming. And there’s something else Scavenger wants, he can sense it through their merge. The larger mech seems afraid to bring it up, but he doesn’t have to - Prowl is hyper-attuned to the bond now, finally. And he wants it too. Inside you. A suggestion...a desire. Everywhere inside. He moves forward, toppling the Constructicon, practically purring through the bond. As he moves over him, servos drag through the sopping mess of Scavenger’s fluttering valve. Here.
Scavenger’s vents hitch, and he pushes up into Prowl’s servo. Everywhere. Prowl smiles down at him, and the other mech whines as his servo moves away, leaving his valve cold and needy. But he doesn’t have to wait long, as Prowl buries himself to the hilt in one smooth thrust. Scavenger arches beneath him, servos scrabbling to find purchase, finally clinging to the smaller mech’s doorwings. Ah...Prowl…, he gasps, his valve clenching around Prowl’s cord. Sensation shoots through Prowl, ricocheting back to Scavenger through their still-active sparkbond, and the Constructicon clings helplessly as Prowl ruts against him. This...this is what he needed. This is what had been missing from him during all that time he’d been so foolishly driving his gestalt-mates away. He needed them, how did he ever think he could be complete without them? He moans against Scavenger’s mouth, his servos moving to map the Constructicon’s frame. Sparks jump under his digitips.
Neither notice that they’re the center of attention now, all optics on them. Inside is another matter. Four other consciousnesses encourage them, imploring Prowl to take what he wants. Encouraging Scavenger to open for him, experiencing the pleasure through him. It’s overwhelming. For his part, Prowl can...he can feel himself through the other’s end of the bond. How good his spike feels striking every node in Scavenger’s valve. He welcomes the praise, but only because it means he’s doing right by his gestalt. He wants to be closer, penetrate the other, body and soul. It’s difficult with the pleasant grip on his doorwings, however much he loves it. Mixmaster and Hook attack the breathless mech through their bond in unison, prompting a howl of pleasure and a thick burst of lubricant flooding out around Prowl’s spike. Scavenger continues to cry out in ecstasy, spiked, sparked and fucked through the bond by the two experienced mechs.
Bonecrusher reaches down tiredly to pluck the distraught mech’s servos from Prowl’s frame and jerks them above his head, baring him completely to the assault. Please...please, please, please, oh primus...oh scrap, please please…, he sobs, limp but for thighs clamped around Prowl’s waist as he babbles mindlessly.
Overwhelmed, Scavenger’s words are an incomprehensible mess in Prowl’s mind, but the emotion behind them… that he can understand. He moves faster inside the other mech, his spike repeatedly striking the roof of Scavenger’s valve. This...this he can give Scavenger.
Please! his gestalt-mate cries, and Prowl howls as transfluid pulses from him in thick bursts into Scavenger’s hungry valve. Trapped, with nowhere to go, it rushes up and through the iris of the Constructicon’s gestation chamber, teased open by Prowl’s spike. With a few last gentle thrusts, Prowl withdraws, gouts of lubricant and transfluid splattering wetly onto Bonecrusher’s plating. He leans down and laves at the mess with his glossa, and Scavenger whines weakly, a fist over his mouth.
With one last lick, it’s as if all energy leaves him. Managing to pull himself halfway up Scavenger’s belly, he collapses strutlessly between his spread legs, on top of Bonecrusher. The warm heat of his open spark thrums inches from Scavenger’s exposed valve, and he clicks his chest panels shut. Doorwings droop, his own swollen, leaking mesh twitching uselessly. He’s exhausted, but so, so content, sharing the emotion weakly between them all. So happy to have finally joined with them. So glad. So good.
The remaining Constructicons crawl over, barely enough energy between them to make it that far. They drape themselves over and around Prowl. Boss…, someone sighs. Prowl…
He hums happily and keeps his end of the bond open, drifting off into recharge.
------
Prowl onlines, his processor sluggish and throbbing. “What -.” He tries to pick himself up, and his servo slips off smooth plating.
Mornin’. He feels something slide through the gestaltbond and, frantic, he slams his end closed. When did he open it? Why did he open it? Arms wrap around his middle and he freezes.
He looks down and onlines his optics. Green. Purple.
A ventilation wafts over his legs, drawing his attention to the fact that his interface panels are retracted. He slams them closed with a sharp snik.
“Ow!” Long Haul grumbles sleepily as he pulls his stung fingers away from Prowl’s shut cover, shaking his servo. Hey.
Prowl looks down at his servos. Pink. His digitips are sticky with it. There’s a taste in his mouth. He can feel something crawling around in his - in his spark -. He claws his way out of the arms holding him down. What -. What happened? He has to get out. They didn’t. They couldn’t have. They wouldn’t dare. Even through his clamp he has on the gestalt bond, he can sense mild confusion from all sides.
“Hey, wassamatter?”
“We don’t gotta be anywhere ‘till noon.”
Someone reaches out and touches a doorwing from behind, and the trailing servo sends his sensornet crackling and he chokes out a whine. “Get away from me,” he gasps, twitching it out of reach.
“Hey, what’s wrong, boss?”
“Prowl?”
“You alright? We didn’t hurt you, did we?”
His servo slips in a pool of something, and the sweet scent of lubricant hits his olfactory sensors. He’s going to be sick. They couldn’t have. “What did you do?” he croaks.
Long Haul leans up on one arm and raised an optic ridge. “Uh, we interfaced?”
Hook stretches and hums out a pleased, tired sound. “Mmh, did we ever.”
Scavenger perks up, a worried look on his face. “Uh...Prowl?”
Prowl can feel Scavenger’s growing concern oozing through his spark and he tries to shake it off. Get out, he thinks, and he can feel it leaking over the bond. He closed the gestaltbond, he knows he did, why won’t it stay shut?
Wha- what do you mean get out?
“I -.” Prowl looks around, panicked. Who said that? Scavenger? But none of the others are reacting, not like they would if it was the usual chatter over the gestalt bond. He scratches at his chest. There’s something wrong with him. “What did you do to me?”
Anxiety bleeds into his spark. You don’t remember?
Remember… Sensations flicker in his processor, and he flinches away from the memory of -. Of -. “I -. You, you drugged me?”
Mixmaster shrugs helplessly. “You wouldn’t lighten up. You gotta relax sometimes.”
“Yeah,” Bonecrusher agreed. “Seriously, you’re so tense we can feel it through the bond, even with you clamping down on it.”
Hook snickers something about clamping down, and a rush of memories flood Prowl’s processor.
Memories of touches ghosting across his frame. Of closeness, intense and pervasive. Of lips claiming his own, and servos violating every inch of his frame, inside and out. Hook’s mouth on him. Stretched around Bonecrusher. Scavenger inside him, everywhere.
He can feel the others’ emotions leaking over the bond. Confusion. Worry. Arousal. His tanks churn and the room spins.
“Hey, boss.. At least say somethin’.” Long Haul reaches out, and Prowl stumbles away in a panic.
“Don’t touch me!” He can feel Long Haul’s servos on his plating. Long Haul’s spark tangled up with his own.
“Woah, hey…”
“Easy there.”
“It’s just us, Prowl.”
Prowl looks up at them in horror. “You don’t -. You’re not even sorry.”
“P- Prowl…” Scavenger looks at him with something approaching panic, but the other Constructicons rush in, their confusion crawling across the gestalt bond.
“We’re a team, boss, this is what we do.”
Prowl looks down at the splatters of pink on his frame, dripping down to the floor, and his tacnet starts to boot up, calculating trajectory and probability. “Decepticon monsters,” he whispers. This is what they do.
Bonecrusher’s brow knit, clearly frowning. “Monsters?”
“Guys...knock...knock it off…,” Scavenger says, and his anxiety hits Prowl’s spark like a hammer blow, like the memory of Long Haul’s spark twined with his own, but worse. So, so much worse. He could feel flecks and pieces of the Constructicon embedded in his spark like shrapnel, aching.
Scavenger grit his denta, and Prowl can feel the confusion and physical pain, the worry for him...the...the…
His optics widen, realized the depth of their depravity.
“You -,” Prowl’s throat tightens around the words, his processor throbbing behind his optics. “My frame wasn’t enough? You had to take my spark too?” His servo comes up to paw at his chest, horror and disgust roiling through his spark.
“What the frag, Prowl?” Hook pulsed confusion and anger. “You asked for all this. You begged for it. Frag, you’re the one who told Scavenger to open his damn chestplates!”
Prowl’s optics flicker unbidden to where Scavenger stands, an unreadable look on his faceplates, and flash after flash hits him like blows to the processor. Mixmaster hilting in his valve in one hard thrust. Hook’s glossa in his mouth feeding him his own transfluid. Long Haul’s enormous servos manhandling him. Bonecrusher dragging his hips up and down to add gush after gush of transfluid to Prowl’s tank. He looks down at his own stomach in disbelief. It was still there, heavy and...and wet. Pooling behind his valve cover as it oozed out of him.
But all of that paled somehow to the feeling of Scavenger beneath him, the sight of his open chestplates, and the totality with which the Decepticon’s spark has consumed his own. And vice versa.
Horror and disgust flood his defiled spark and he tears his gaze away from Scavenger. He -. How could -. They’re all sick freaks, monsters, and, Primus, he needs Scavenger out of his spark, it’s nauseating, horrific, he hates -.
The sound of retching catches his attention and he turns to see Scavenger on his knees, dry heaving, clawing at his chest. Startled, Hook races over to him, and the other Constructicons turn furious looks on Prowl
“Look at him, you’re hurting him! What the frag is your problem?”
His problem? His problem is that he ever expected anything other than this from a pack of some of the most vile Decepticons he’s ever met. That they’d forced their way into his processor and, not satisfied, never satisfied, decided they needed his spark too.
We’re supposed to be gestalt-mates, someone whispers inside him, and Prowl turns and runs.
------
Shuddering, he catches his balance against the wall of his private washracks. He can still feel them inside him. Inside his coding. His processor. His spark.
Everywhere inside.
Scavenger’s face, full of awe, flashes before his offline optics, and can feel himself lowering on top of the other while sliding inside him.
A whine rises from his vocalizer and he slides to the floor. Get out. Get out.
The faint echo of anguish stirs in his spark. “Get out,” he whispers, and it recedes.
He reaches up and turns on the spray, gasping as the cold rush of solvent spatters against him. Wincing, he stands under the shower head, letting the stream wash over him. The pink coating his digitips won’t come off; it’s dried on, sticky and thick, and he grabs a washrag and scrubs. Shifting unsteadily on his pedes, fluid sloshes behind his valve cover. He feels full, bloated with the Constructicons’ filth.
He shudders convulsively and his panel snaps open, transfluid laced with his own lubricant dripping out in thick ropes to the floor. Prowl grits his denta, a sob catching in his throat, as he reaches down to clean himself. There’s so much - more than could come from any one mech - which only confirms what he already knew. All of them - gestalt-mates - together -. He offlines his optics and presses fingers inside himself, bringing them back out coated in their fluids.
He cleans himself out, trying to avoid thinking about it - about anything. There’s so much inside him, and it just keeps coming out. Some of it must have made it’s way to his gestation tank; he can only be relieved that they didn’t make him online his protocols. That’s good, that would have been -. A laugh forces its way out of his vocalizer. Thank Primus they only went so far.
Prowl falls to his knees, landing in the mess circling the drain. Solvent rains down on his frame, slowly washing away all trace of their defilement. Pink rinses away, giving way to pristine black and white, clean of any history; another burden carried in silence, tucked inside where no one could see. No more color. Just black and white. In an endless sea of gray.