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The Dangers of Being Willing

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It had all happened so fast.

Prowl hadn't meant to see him. Hadn't meant to start this dance again—the “I want you back” dance that Tarantulas always pulled him into.

“Well.” Tarantulas voice was strained, loaded with the tension of someone who was on the verge of pouncing—taut with barely hidden desire.

“I'm going to breed you.”

Every alarm bell in Prowl's processor went, off right alongside the spikes of arousal that pulsed straight down to his codpiece. His fingers gripped tight into the slab beneath him—finding no real purchase, nothing of substance. Just like this. Just like this—thing they were doing again. Entrapped, spun up in a web...

He has the resources. He has the opportunity to escape. Tarantulas never took well to a sudden surprise when he was in such a heavy headspace, all beast and no bot. The large creature was already leaning over, bringing thin claws up to trace the lines that traveled below Prowl's eyes. The gesture would have been too gentle for what Tarantula was suggesting had it not been for the finishing clamp of possessiveness as the spider leaned in to take Prowl's mouth in his fangs, disgustingly wet and yet so warm, so tantalizing, like venom that coursed through the Autobot's vein, prickling down his back and his neck and everything he never wanted to bare.

In the back of his head, he hears his hesitations, his logic, but between the horrendously wonderful kiss—so passionate, so hypnotic—and the legs curling feverishly around his thighs, he's slipped into the worst possible headspace he could ever bare to Tarantulas. A willing one—legs parted slightly as if to invite, to accept the intrusion of seed and spawn—his breaths coming out almost hysterically short as one hand scrambles for a leg, a claw—anything. He is mercifully given a fuzzy appendage to grab onto, digging his servos in tight as saliva drips past his tongue, into his throat and coats it, sticky and hot.

“You want this...” Tarantulas breathes into his mouth, and Prowl opens his mouth to spit—to snap, do something—but instead he moans as the mech on top of him presses his claw into a delicate bend in his neck, twisting slightly to elicit more of the noises. Tarantulas seems to have memorized him in the most obsessive of ways, legs petting down spots the spider hadn't touched in years. The thought sends a violent shudder through his body—he's so much more than Tarantulas, isn't he? He thought he was—police officer, head of the Autobot spy division, well respected—everything that this bottom feeder wasn't.

Then why were his legs parting more, his spark pounding so heavily as his brain was filled with nothing but thoughts of being filled—being filled to the very brim, virile body being used to hold the seed of the predator above him. His vocalizers crackle, gummed up with the sticky residue of Tarantulas' saliva as he tries to say something—maybe beg—but he just groans as one of Tarantulas appendages press his thighs farther apart. One of Tarantulas paws goes to rest on his codpiece, the clawed tip beginning to massage around the sides just how Prowl likes—and with a defeated noise, his codpiece pops open, revealing a valve that's already sticky with lubricant, spilling over onto the slab Tarantulas has him pinned down on.

He won't look Tarantulas in the eye—won't see the satisfaction the spider feels at how riled up the Autobot has become over him. He hears a low chuckle before his optics are suddenly lighting up with foreign pleasure, that he just barely registers as Tarantula starts spreading his lips apart, prodding the delicate insides of his valve. It's obscene, really—the noise that's coming from between his legs even as Tarantulas barely touches him. The spider is barely restrained, not relenting as his claw goes deeper and deeper, press aside the soft folds of the interior mesh, push so far up into Prowl that the Autobot sees stars explode behind his optics.

Tarantulas paws are skilled for something so bestial—they probe into the sensitive interior nodes that litter Prowl's valve, briefly massaging each individual pleasure point as they crest against the sensitive mesh. Prowl bites down hard on his lip, drawing a little trickle of energon as he keeps himself from straight out howling—it's like the beast had memorized what made him twitch and shudder. Prowl feels the beginning of an overload begin to creep up, warming his inner thighs and making his cooling vents hum loud, betraying his intense arousal—as if the steadily growing pool of lubricant wasn't enough.

“Oh, Prowl.” Tarantulas hisses—voice husky and predatory, claw beginning to pick up a steady rhythm of thrusting into the mech, the humiliating slck slck causing Prowl's core temperature to ramp up drastically.

“You look so beautiful like this—clenching around my claw—I feel like you forgot how well I always treated you.” Tarantulas murmurs, crooking his digit so that it hits a particularly sensitive cluster of nodes, and Prowl lets out a garbled noise, drool spilling from his lips and clinging stubbornly to his chin. Tarantulas leans down—hisses and noses at Prowl's lips, greedily licking up the drool and sliding his mouth up to capture Prowl in a wet, sloppy kiss. Between his ex-lover's tongue slowly beginning to run along his denta, and the insistent, powerful thrust of two servos in his valve—Prowl can't hold back an overload. His lips part against Tarantulas’s maw, a wordless scream forming on his lips as he cants his hips up, riding out a powerful overload on those two digits, sweat trickling down his armor and disappearing into cracks, or drying up as they travel down his overheated armor.

It's barely over, he hasn't even come down from his high when the claw is removed—and something else begins to push in. Prowl immediately knows what it is—and balks against Tarantulas mouth, letting out a noise that is an unmistakable whimper. Tarantulas hushes him—presses their helms together as the intrusion pushes in a little more. Tarantulas spike—hard and warm, little ridges pressing tight against Prowl's wall.

The spider lets out a moan of relief—hot breath ghosting Prowl's lips as Tarantulas' hips begin to move. Desperate, far too quick—following up Prowl's previous overload so closely that Prowl can barely even think. His processor is clouded, his cheeks are flushed and his valve is far too compliant—hungrily clenching around Tarantulas spike, desperate for the thrusts, for transfluid—which Tarantulas is already heavily leaking, some clinging to the lips of Prowl's valve from the earlier entrance.

“Ah—Prowl...oh Prowl...” Tarantulas is moaning, and whatever last shred of dignity Prowl is trying to hold onto bleeds away as Tarantulas leans down to nip at his lips—lapping up the dried energon from earlier and coating Prowl's lips in sticky drool, as close to a kiss as one could get with the beast. Tarantulas hands have made their way up to Prowl's palms—sliding claws between servos as the spider exhales again, breathless in the way he relentlessly thrusts up into Prowl, making the mech beneath him twitch, his valve aching for—something.

“You feel good—you've always felt so go--ah----” And with no warning, Prowl feels stickiness coat his inside, and he's ready to mourn because the buildup was nonexistent, he still felt empty—and he looks at Tarantulas with glazed optics, a silent, questioning beg. Let there be more. Tarantulas gives him a look that's nothing but smug, predatory lust and merely begins his thrusts again—even more insistent this time, and Prowl's optics widen as he experiences a full body tremble. Barely thinking, he brings large legs up—and wraps them tightly around Tarantulas waist, eliciting a purr from the monster.

“Oh, you're smart—you know what this means, don't you?” Tarantulas coos, bringing a hand up to gently drag a claw down Prowl's cheek. “This isn't a quick interface. No, Prowl—now that I have you again, I'm going to make you mine...oh, yes.” There's something dark in Tarantulas voice as he leans down, pressing his face against Prowl's scalding forehead.

“I'm going to fill you up with my fluids, until I'm all dry. You'll be the receiver to my virile instincts—yes, you Prowl, will carry my seed.” Tarantulas is practically moaning his thoughts, one claw prodding gently as the wetness clinging to Prowl's lips.

“You are, after all, the perfect mate for always—ah--have been.” Tarantulas is speeding up—and Prowl can barely process what he's saying, but he does feel the second load—as hot and heavy as the first, coating his walls as Tarantulas trembles from the overload, little bits of drool spilling from between the spider's mandibles and falling, pitter patter, on Prowl's chest.

“Oh, Primus, you're perfect, Prowl, you're perfect—!”

Prowl can't find it in him to reply. He lays there, limp and overheated, the word yes, yes, yes playing over and over in his head as he's mercilessly pounded into, hands pinned to the slab beneath them by Tarantulas hands, holding tightly, a small sliver of affection in the midst of what is—Primus—a heated breeding session. Prowl can't wrap his processor around the fact—and instead lets his face loll to the side, tongue falling slightly from between parted lips as he lets Tarantulas use him—fill him to the brim with transfluid. He doesn't want the spider to waste a single drop...

Because deep down, seeded in humiliation and shame, there's nothing more Prowl would want then to be the carrier of the beast's offspring. It's illogical, considering their history—but it's somewhere in his programming, hidden from everyone, even himself—that Prowl wants to be treated like this. An object of affection, an object of lust—sated and full of his partner's seed.

He tries to reboot his vocalizer—just to whisper out a soft, staticky “more.” Above him, he hears Tarantulas suck in a breath—then slam his weight down on Prowl, pinning him to the table as Tarantulas makes quick work of chasing his next overload—this time, a bit of it squirting out of Prowl, oozing out onto the slab as Tarantulas pants, taking in large gulps of air all while keeping his hips steadily thrusting up into the mech beneath him.

Prowl loses track of how many times Tarantulas overloads. He just knows he's sore, he's desperate for each overload after the previous one happens—his thighs coated with streaks of transfluid, his valve swollen and oozing gobs of the sticky substance. At some point, Prowl had managed to wrestle one hand from Tarantulas possessive grip—moving it to the spider's back, gripping tightly, pressing Tarantulas into him with little moans of delight. Tarantulas comes again—his entire body shaking, exhaustion finally beginning to overrun his circuits—and Prowl arches up into it, feeling almost the entirety of that overload's fluids just streaking down his thigh—he's too full, he's too full—and yet, not full enough. Maybe he'll never fill sated...not when he knows Tarantulas is here, waiting to be with him.

The realization throws Prowl for a loop—and his optics, barely staying online, glance up at Tarantulas—and when their eyes meet, Prowl's spark heaves and his core temperature once again spikes, fans near deafening. Looking at Tarantulas like this—he wants more, more—

His hips cant up and Tarantulas must have been occupied gazing at Prowl, because he lets out a choked noise, almost pained—and he presses Prowl down, lurching over him and biting at his neck, almost kissing it—almost.

Tarantulas hips had begun to slow down—but Prowl's eagerness seems to give him enough energy to chase after one more overload—hissing quietly into the other mech's neck cables as Prowl's servos tighten into the soft fur lining Tarantulas back. There's a sudden gasp—Tarantulas, surprised as through his exhaustion, he overloads again—and it trails off into a hiss, his paw tightening against Prowl's servo as one last sticky splash coats the inside of Prowl's valve. The police vehicle's optics offline for what feels like the millionth time that night—focused on the warmth, the degrading sense of being pinned beneath a monster, taking its seed, over and over.

There is a deafening silence—before Tarantulas lets out what could only be a chitter, a delighted noise as he mouths at Prowl's chin, slowly pulling himself out of the mech below him with a disgusting, wet pop. He's all but purring—hunched over Prowl as his legs gently pat the mech down. Prowl vaguely registers that the spider is checking to make sure he's not harmed—and although this increasing amount of affection should really agitate him—he can't feel anything but a perverse relief of being cared for. He's lost in his headspace, focused on being pet after being so obedient, taking everything so well.

As if echoing his thoughts, Tarantulas leans down and presses the mimic of a kiss to his forehead.

“You did so well.” He whispers for Prowl, and Prowl doesn't reply—just lets out a soft sigh, completely relaxed, even as Tarantulas wraps his legs around the exhausted mech, pulls him into his arms and cradles him close, obviously pleased to have a such a compliant Prowl in his hands.

In a a moment I'll leave—get out of here—in a moment...” is Prowl's last thought, as Tarantulas hums at him, lulling him into security, the warmth of the spider against his aching body the last sensation before Prowl falls into a deep, deep recharge.