Like an incumbent vow crystalized in ice, the Praefectus Vigilum — Enforcer Commandant and Lord Tourmaline from Praxus — was a stunning gem embedded in the centre of Prime’s personal palace. No mech or femme in existence could claim a colder or more efficient processor. The ballad of Praxian bicolour armour was polished to a liquid sheen, stunning permafrost blue optics dispassionately surveying several mechs flitting in and out of his vast sensor suite as quiescent three-panel doorwings swept back in agitated dismissal.
Within the High Temple’s ancient ballroom, Prowl’s HUD was far too occupied sorting the data his current case provided to think of navigating a dozen or so politically charged conversations. For Bluestreak, his only creation, no immoral social climber or corrupt individual would ever be enough to stand in his originator’s presence.
Prowl may have been vorns younger than his peers and perceived absolutely ruthless in his field, yet he still possessed a dark allure and insurmountable estate many would happily sacrifice their plating to possess. His unbonded status and coveted position at the Prime’s side also made his tactical processors an enigmatic target.
It fell on young Lance Corporal Bluestreak to protect his beloved Origin, stepping up where Progenitor didn’t have the time or permission to. With Optimus Prime barely seated on his new throne and an agitated Lord High Protector too embroiled in restructuring the military to care, the High Council’s personal interests had run the courts for far too long. It was time each and every one of them were quietly eliminated from their position.
Lord Prowl of House Tourmaline was too honourable to bow to their corrupt cunning, however. He was impossible to bribe or subdue, no processorless beauty or cheap ploy had ever possessed the ability to dismantle his strict Enforcer coding. His creation was by far the only ‘bot in existence, these orns, that held his continued functioning at spark. Bluestreak absolutely refused to allow any irreputable character, on either side of the law, to disrupt their lives.
A large majority of the youngling’s shrewd talent had been inherited from his courtesan/spy progenitor. Not that Jazz relied on his entertainer coding much, mind. He was a saboteur with enough skill to run Polyhex’s Spec Ops regardless of his former functioning. Designated Joy-in-Chaos, the stunning silver minibot was a stark but strangely balancing contrast to Prowl’s awkward isolation.
Bluestreak didn’t mind Sire’s unpredictable absence as much as Carrier feared. He loved both their endless affections and time equally, regardless of how it came to be. Though, Genitor often suggested he possessed a much closer bond with Prowl. Large silver doorwings fluttered softly in distress at the thought, restless green optics cycling behind a distinctive diamond-white visor as a sudden shift in black and white armour activated his precision targeting system.
Just because Jazz was not considered high enough in rank to become Prowl’s Conjunx Endura, didn’t mean either of them were available to be exploited. Bluestreak would not stand by as they were backed into a corner.
Anxiously calculating several angles and vantage points to isolate an approaching target, Bluestreak’s trigger finger practically itched against the stock of his acid rifle. Prowl’s stiff discord was teekable all the way from the second-floor balcony, sharp shadows swallowing most of the Praxi-Poly’s frame as an opaque visor carefully tracked every small twitch and unseen flutter caressing beautifully decorated doorwings.
In stark contrast to the surrounding opulence and glittering moonlight, the black and white Praefectus Vigilum endured a complete metamorphosis. Delicate filigree-gold and tourmaline gems had been laid in worship across aggressively tilted doorwings, a proud ruby-ore chevron inclined imperceptibly at his creation’s outlook as tapered gold claws curled in silent frustration.
~Two kliks, Brightspark. Please. I’ve had enough. ~ Their creator/creation bond shunted open with a flood of irritation, a single sensor-panel canting gratefully at Bluestreak as the young Enforcer swiftly subspaced his weapon and buffed out the last of the work cycle’s scratches. Every mech in attendance seemed to freeze as he made his way down the elegant spiral staircase, deliberately flaring large three-panel doorwings to attract attention away from Prowl’s visible unease.
With a rare oil-slick silver/gold/blue paint scheme highlighting every angle of his frame, a vibrant splash of garnet-ore coloured his own distinctive chevron and Sire’s most recognizable Polyhexian trait. The elegant audial finials, seven in total, were long and tapered and deadly. Woven like a spiked crown around the back his helm, they were skilfully and carefully tuned to every minute vibration and unknown sonic frequency layering the air.
His appearance was a subtle nod to the creators that had yet to claim him as their official heir. Prowl had been too young to kindle when Bluestreak was born, his emergence outside a sparkbond having ensured that he was struck from the House records and concealed from society. The former Lord Tourmaline had never been kind, especially to those sired by defiant heirs and courtesans.
Bluestreak didn’t mind the restrictive start to his life, Prowl made sure his youngling vorns were happy and shielded from cruelty. The then young Lord didn’t expect him to fulfil his duty or change a fundamental part of who he was, even when he reached his final upgrades and should have severed the creator/creation bond only growing stronger between them.
After all, what was the point of pleasing long-greyed ancestors?
The mark of Origin’s possessive love was deep, a side no mech but his immediate family got to see. Smiling innocently at the mock glare his rude approach drew, the young creation made sure his doorwing sigils were clearly visible as he slipped respectfully around the Prime and ignored several flaring fields chasing after his own.
Never let it be said that Bluestreak wasn’t attractive, not with the flirtatious EM’s caressing his tightly wound sensor-net or lecherous optics following his every move. Not that he wanted to return the interest mind, he deliberately left others wondering if he was too young to have his interfacing protocols activated or merely in the middle of an assignment.
“I apologize for the interruption, Praefectus Prowl.” The Corporal bowed formally, playing up his frame’s natural vibrating tension as he inclined his helm at his commanding officer’s guest. “Your presence has been requested at the precinct. I have been sent to escort you.”
“Thank you, Corporal. I apologize for cutting our conversation short, Minister Stellarblaze. It seems I am needed elsewhere.” The note of regret in Prowl’s voice was deliberately played up for their guest’s sake, tapered claws caressing the edge of the young officer’s wing as they turned away in unison. The small action screamed of personal claim, a warning that Bluestreak belonged to the Commandant and no one else.
Gracefully stepping around the High Temple’s gossiping whores and a few genuinely regretful guests, a near imperceptible flick of beautifully decorated three-panel doorwings offered one last bow to the simpering elite. Not that the Vosnian high lords or Tower mechs seemed to notice the movement for the insincere dismissal it was. They were too enamoured with the black and white’s economically swaying hips and the promising picture Bluestreak’s slightly larger frame made.
“Thank you, Starling.” Prowl trilled in High Praxian the moment they stepped into the night, high palace walls swiftly fading in the distance as they exited the gala with howling sirens and powerful pursuit engines. Bluestreak could already sense Origin’s slowly relaxing field, a calming coo of love preceding the stream of excitable words bubbling in the back of his vocalizer.
“All will be well, Creator.” Bluestreak’s warbled, his command of High Praxian tainted with a barely notable Polyhexian lilt as he playfully wove in and around Origin’s speeding frame. “Progenitor Jazz will be back soon from his mission, you know. Then you won’t have to suffer through these things alone.”
“I know you miss him. I do too. I’ve wanted to leave Iacon for a while now. It’s so stuffy and cold compared to Praxus. Loud and distracting. There’s literally no place to go without straining a sensor. I think that perhaps you need to take some time for yourself too, Prowlie. You need the rest. We can visit the estates again, like we did when I was young.” The quiet pulse settling against the younger mech’s spark told him he was slowly unwinding his companion’s frustration.
It had been a difficult few metacycles since his enlistment in the Enforcers. It was easy to see how his closeness and the constant threat he put himself under affected his carrier. There was nothing sadder than losing the easy flow of affection present in his younglinghood, nor the gentle brush of helm-crests every orn before recharge.
Desperately trying to conceal the longing, need – please – clawing at his insides, Bluestreak pulled a calculated decakilometer ahead with a playful dip on his wheels and inviting trill.
Praxians may love to drive more than the average mech, but Enforcers loved to hunt speeding prey even more. And right now, the Praefectus Vigilum could use the distraction. Keeping a close audial trained on his creation’s comforting babble over the short-range comm., powerful engines roared with delight the moment the speed limit was breeched.
It had so long since Prowl had relaxed like this, elite processors fully immersed in a tangle of dormant code as he tread lightly on the other side of law. There was a desperate need to possess vibrating through his chassis, expanding every pulsebeat caressing his spark as he made sure to close the distance between them.
No one was brave enough to stray into a speeding Enforcer’s lane, several alt-modes hastily skidding out the way as their world narrowed in focus. Only a brief but painful sense of wrongness pressed against Prowl’s awareness for a moment, his strict logic centre wrestling with the regulations they were breaking in the open.
He quickly silenced the stifling unrest by feeding his tactical computer the ‘imaginary’ statics of a new case, however. If he had been escorted from the gala in a hurry, it was only logical his presence was required urgently—.
“Hurry, Origin.” Relaxing his tires on the road to reduce resistance, a flare of deep kinship caressed the flaring bond between them as Bluestreak eagerly bathed in Prowl’s slowly heating EM bursts. There was no way the older mech wasn’t as excited by this as his creation, a rousing need pinging sensually against the sway of a decorative spoiler as shimmering starlight glinted off several elaborate ornaments still visible on Origin’s sleek black plating.
After a few breems of warbled coos, revving engines and sparkling chirrups of happiness, an instinctual understanding suffused their creator/creation union. It had been a long time since Bluestreak had gotten Prowl to let loose with such exhilarating joy, just like it had been vorns since Prowl had felt such unfettered delight from his beloved creation.
The metacycles of loneliness and function isolation they suffered was slowly dispersing in a nebula of bliss, dark shadows leaping from their racing frames as they wove a complex labyrinth through rarely travelled backroads. Prowl’s luxury apartment was situated on the edge of the city, far enough away from the noise to be comfortable and private enough to be hidden from preying optics.
No one outside House Tourmaline had the ability to understand the transcendence of their bond, nor how far their love reached. It was a secret that had been guarded in their sparkline for generations. Newly inaugurated creations were often introduced to carnal pleasure by relations no other Royal House would dare. Tradition even dictated a certain pattern should always be followed.
Prowl and Bluestreak, originator and creation, took the tradition further than most. There was only one other that was aware of their sinful transgressions, a stunning, sensual, creature that hailed from borders of the Rust Sea and was perfectly happy to watch any unfolding deviance in his beloved.
Not that it mattered in the end, the two Praxians finally had a night and the apartment to themselves. And for the first time since Blue’s introduction into the Enforcers and several new sensory upgrades, Prowl was in mood to play until his spark was sated.
* * * *
For Praxians, doorwings were a covenant of ecstasy. Every graceful arc or flirtatious flutter could be teeked as an invitation to the berth or mischievous allure. Even as young and inexperienced as Bluestreak was, there was still an inherent innocence and graceful tremor to his every move.
He was quivering softly in anticipation the moment he eased out of alt-mode, engines screaming with red-line heat as sharp arousal suffused his every circuit. His carrier wasn’t that far behind, a swift transformation pinning him triumphantly against the front door of their habsuite as unblunted vestigial claws dragged a dangerous path up several hypersensitive crystal finials.
Prompting a tenebrous cry from the depths of a hitching vocalizer, a flare of amelodic static resonated sharply inside the younger mech’s helm as twin chevrons collided in warm familiarity. A pleased hum was spreading subvocally through the older Praxian’s systems, Prowl swiftly bringing them chassis-to-chassis as instinct unchained itself from his running coda.
Depending on one’s wing-cant or EM frequency, a simple caress of helm-crests could be interpreted as either a gentle embrace, greeting one’s unit-mate, offering comfort to distraught kin or initiating a caress far more sensual than opening interface panels. In this instance, Blue could easily read the coded dominance flitting through Origin’s perfectly controlled doorwings.
The Praefectus Vigilum was openly relishing his prey’s submissive wing flare, an abrupt shudder working itself through his systems as he listened to the sound of living metal pinging hotly beneath exploring servos. The knowledge that he nearly caused overcharge in another’s systems, from the mere thrill of a chase, was an aphrodisiac like no other. Even the brief lick of mortified arousal in a young, chaotic, field was enough to draw a premature rev from the older pursuit engine.
Hunter protocols were unfurling deep and wide inside Prowl’s spark chamber, a hasty ping locking the front door behind them before unwanted attention could be stirred. Pristine white servos were curled in a possessive grip around the back of Bluestreak’s neck, primal need bowing forward to sink sharp denta into soft mesh as a howling keen erupted from his prey’s vocalizer.
The heady scent of ozone and phosphorous-heat was suffused in every line and strut in close proximity, promising the start of a viciously satisfying interface as fanged-denta ground phallically inside a main Energon line. Prowl didn’t waste a single moment spent in bliss, growling deeply in satisfaction at the taste of his creation’s rising charge.
Cybertron had been fooled. In the assumption that Praxians were embroiled in perfect social order and noble pureions devout to Primus, they failed to notice the real drive behind their wing-framed grounder cousins. The Empire’s elite had been born and bred as catalysts of sin, ‘bots of carnal satisfaction and ruthless instinct. They were coded like beasts, far removed from polite society and unsanctified by high priests.
Primal code from long-tailed cyberwolves, a species unique to the Crystal Mountains, had been spliced into the CNA of Enforcers. Just as nobles struggled to contain the coded experiments with every manner of regal crystal dragon or cybercoatl. House Tourmaline, the second lords of Praxus, was the only sparkline in existence that successfully integrated precision code from both.
It created a foundation for thriving leaders, strong carriers, icy personality matrices and possessive creators. A boon that was only lost in active base coding or interface habits. Creator, creation…bother, sister, twin, bondmate, bondmate relative, sin — it did not matter who or where they burned. The lords of Tourmaline burned until they were satisfied.
After a youngling’s final upgrades, it was customary for their closest relative to introduce them to the subtle quirks of their frame type. The relationship between them, crafted solely through choice, was always respected. Prowl and Bluestreak had indulged in this tradition since the Praefectus took his creation’s seals at the younger’s request. The three orns of pure ecstasy they experienced in the berth vorns earlier, was a stark reminder of just how pleasurable bedding kin could be.
The black and white could vividly recall the first overwhelming slide of his spike inside a saturated, unused, valve. Just as he shuddered in remembrance of riding his mechling’s first knot. A reverberating croon was all that answered Corporal Bluestreak’s increasingly frustrated warbles, a satisfied burr burbling over his short-range comm. to caress sensually tuned Polyhexian finials.
“Hnnn~! Creator! I—.”
“Hush, Brightspark.” The Praefectus rumbled. “Just relax, there’s no one here to see or judge. You know you love it.” And Primus the iridescent-silver mech did, practically vibrating inside originator’s possessive grasp as an instinctive keen answered the fire brewing inside his helm. Prowl’s sharply controlled EM field was rolling over him in waves, imprinting his systems with a desperate need to submit and obey.
A brief flash of concern halted his processor however, remembering just how much Origin neglected his health over the last few orn. It was always the same during a new investigation, an absolute nightmare to coax the older Enforcer to recharge or refuel.
Digging experienced fingertips into tinkling sensor panels to soothe their over exited tremor, slow but steady pedesteps began pushing them towards the refuelling station down the hall. Just because they initiated the tactile start of a processor-bending interface, didn’t mean he’d allow Carrier to neglect his health further.
“I yield, Praefectus Prowl.” He babbled restlessly. “You may put me in cuffs, my Liege, at your desire, if you promise to drink a cube that isn’t beryllium high-grade. Its energy efficiency is slag and you know it. You need to fuel right now. I don’t think you’ve had anything since Joor 7 at Alpha Centuarii rise. I cannot—.” Interrupted by the sudden click of stasis cuffs securing frantically waving wrist-components, Prowl showed near-impossible efficiency at subduing his restless target. There was a flood of amusement-irritation-acquiescence charging their perfectly meshed fields, a pleased rumble praising the young mech’s now quietly clicking vocalizer.
Permafrost blue optics were cycling down in deep desire. Just because his systems had been starving for most of the night-cycle, did not give Bluestreak permission to challenge his victory. The elite sniper was right however, he wouldn’t be able to play for long if he didn’t settle his systems.
Plus, seeing the slightly larger Praxian frame bound in stasis cuffs and under his complete mercy, was a nice incentive to silence rampaging Hunter code.
“If you bow for me, Starling.” The older Praxian compromised, a sharp hitch in tri-wing sensor-panels indicating just how much Bluestreak’s actions affected him as the younger mech slipped to his knees and bowed his helm. With pristine black servos bound in his lap, a proud ruby-red chevron was quick to follow any and every direction his creator walked.
As the older mech settled himself on an elegant stool a few mechameters away, three bicolour panels spread in obvious arousal the more he sipped at his cube of Energon. A curl of filigree gold-claws were beckoning his creation closer, a dark shiver working its way down his spine the moment sinuous hips crawled forward in supplication.
Gentle fingertips rose to caress a sensitive chevron in reward, chuckling softly as an opalescent visor dimmed in obvious enjoyment. It seemed Bluestreak was feeling decidedly playful that night, nosing his olfactory ridge against Origin’s liquid smooth thigh-plating as hidden green optics never once drew away from the awe-inspiring sway of delicate platinum threads, twined with numerous diamond-teal gems, affixed to six massive sensor-wings.
Draped with parabolic elegance from end-to-end, the stunning adornments provided a hypnotic indolence over the cartesian plane. Bowing to the eventide’s gravity, regal cant and crystal ornaments, the elegant metallic latticework was once the ultimate display of power in Praxus. Yet, Blue knew just how sensitive those intricate piercings atop Carrier’s doorwings could be.
The older mech, despite his high standing in the government, geared himself more towards humble grace and patriarchal beauty. A large tourmaline gem, mined in the most alkaline part of the Rust Sea, was a singular adornment in the centre of his helm-crest.
There were no other pretence, greed or power lust worked into his frame…just rigid control.
“Beautiful...” The word dripped from Bluestreak’s glossa before he could stop himself, Origin’s permafrost optics narrowing in warning as luscious lips parted around the edge of his cube one last time. There was still a quarter of the potent mid-grade left, a deal the young Corporal had not agreed to yet.
“Drink, my sweet. All of it.” The older mech encouraged.
“But Ori, you need it. I can’t—.”
“Drink, darling.” The Praefectus ordered and drink Bluestreak did. He couldn’t deny his creator anything, especially not when he was purring a melodic command in High Praxian.
Shivering softly as sharp claws tipped the last remnants of the crystal container into his mouth, a burst of amaroidal-absinthe slicked obscenely over the back of the creation’s glossa. It was stuttering with great difficulty down his intake, not a single sprinkle of sweetness or blue-iridium to ease the way as he fought back an instinctive need to bring it back up.
Primus! Origin Prowl liked his Energon sharp. So sharp, it was a wonder he didn’t choke after the first mouthful. But with the Enforcer clearly going through the motions of satisfying long-activated carrier code, he couldn’t protest. Merely leaning into the satisfied thumb smoothing away droplets of Energon still clinging to moist lipplates.
“There’s a good spark.” The young Corporal shuddered in a strange combination of humiliation and — yes, please more, I can’t take it — at the praise.
“What do you say we change locations?” A flutter of agreement was all that answered impatient claws tugging him to his pedes, large sensor-panels dipping just low enough to not challenge Prowl’s hard-won authority. No one knew Bluestreak lost the race on purpose that night, they didn’t need to.
It was always a treat to see what Origin would do once he was handed the reins. So far, the elite sniper had no complaints; the mesmerizing sway of ebony hips and bicoloured wings drawing him ever deeper into the habsuite as he waited patiently for what was to come.
He was in for quite a ride that night, one he was invariably looking forward to.
* * * *
Prowl wasn’t fond of kissing, even if it was Jazz’s ultimate way of expressing affection. There were other, much more, pleasant, ways to get one’s glossa wet. Biting or being bitten however, tended to turn over the black and white’s engine like nothing else. No sensation or carnal display was more satisfying before or after an interface.
With knowing denta digging deliberately deep into the graceful sweep of his garnet-ore chevron, a spark-deep whine echoed chaotically from the back of the Praefectus’ intake. A sharp ion-charge was fusing scorching embers inside his vastly spread sensor-suite, massive doorwings rising and falling with obeisant desire as desperate claws curled into helpless fists atop soft metalmesh.
Delicate crystal-thread split mercilessly beneath raking talons, the berth dipping comfortingly with their combined weight as a white helm lilted restlessly in Blue’s direction. The young sniper was not one to waste time putting a gunmetal-grey glossa to use, nipping sharply at thrumming Energon lines as he bathed openly in Origin’s pleasure engorged sensor-net.
The restrictive cuffs around his wrists were pulled tight with reckless affection, hidden green optics watching intently as Prowl reclined in the centre of a filigree-silver comforter and bowed three-panel doorwings in an erotic arch. Intense blue optics were pinning him down with imperious need, a rich miasma of crystal arrangements and a small private garden inside the master suite, accentuating the humming perfume of diamond-body wax and high-end paint.
His glossa still tasted of sweet-bitter Energon, fizzing beryllium high-grade and the amaroidal scent of Carrier’s dark arousal—.
It was impossible to tell where his need began or Prowl’s ended, gold-filigree claws cupping the back of silver-blue crystal finials as Bluestreak slowly made his way down gleaming warrior-grade armour. It was sacrilege to mar Origin’s liquid black finish, even if his interface protocols had been pinging his processor for premature release a while now.
What did it matter if his movements were dictated? Carrier always knew exactly what he needed. And loving creation Bluestreak was, he willingly surrendered himself to another’s every whim…even retracting an opalescent-white visor at the press of questing clawtips. They were quick to assess the fatigue-strained protomesh surrounding sensitive green optics, the stunning peridot glow bouncing off of polished white-gold as clawed thumbs smoothed away the growing unease burrowing inside his systems.
Just like Genitor, it took a large show of trust for Bluestreak to reveal sensitive Polyhexian optics — a sight that never ceased to amaze his creator or those privileged enough to see. There was nothing Prowl wouldn’t give for the greatest loves of his life, after all. To —.
“Creator, please! I can’t do this much longer. I need you! You smell too sweet, I just can’t—!”
“Hush, Brightspark.” The Enforcer Commandant interrupted, a gentle touch gliding down hungered features as he brought their forehelms together in an affectionate caress. “You know the rules, starling. My victory. My pace. My choice. My command.” Quietly thrumming systems were cycling up in layers of heat again, a frantic keen echoing near-deafeningly from his prey’s vocalizer.
Prowl may have been colder than frozen mercury, yet he was never cruel. Not to Bluestreak or his Beloved. Spreading black thighs in invitation, a quiet trill hitched tellingly in the back of his intake as a slick glossa dipped down to trail paths of pure pleasure across frenetically twitching doorwings.
“Primus!” The Praefectus Vigilum swore, immense processors reeling at the inevitable throb of his interface module. A desperate shudder was echoing deep inside his chassis, alerting him to the gush of fresh lubricant cycling to life behind closed modesty panels. The clench and release, clench and release, of a deeply unsatisfied gestation chamber was but a small indication of how far things had come. Not to mention how close he was to his vornly Courting Dance.
Frag —! it was no wonder his sensors were so overwhelmed.
“Are you going to be a good mech for me, little Blue? I want you.” The husky croon suffusing his every sub-glyph was seductively sweet, a stark promise only they would understand as he returned a sharp nip to parted lipplates. It was a good thing Bluestreak’s base CNA was so close in construct to his own, they didn’t need the taboo of kindling a flawed newspark between them.
That and Prowl always made sure his inhibitor was functioning.
“Hot, Origin. It’s so hot! Want inside…please…” Chuckling softly at the near incoherent babble spiralling from his creation’s static-laced vocalizer, he guided the slightly larger frame back as he dug knowing fingertips into large silver sensor-wings. The affect was almost immediate, a sharp ventilation bowing scorching armour against his own as a needy whimper burrowed an identical red chevron against plaint shoulder struts.
“Please, Ori! Don’t tease! I can’t take it…”
“Alright. I know what you want, you know what I want. Just relax.” And Bluestreak did, scrambling back a few steps to offer the older Praxian enough space to spread himself on his knees. Black and white sensor panels were flaring wide in welcome arousal, a glint of artificial light catching the drip, drip, drip of silvery-blue lubricant sliding from behind a still sealed valve cover.
It was a processor stalling sight, beautiful doorwings jingling with the sound of pierced platinum-garlands as the distinct click of stasis-cuffs mercifully released Blue from his current imprisonment. Prowl couldn’t silence the subvocal scream of ecstasy escaping his vocalizer the moment knowing claws hooked into delicate metal-latticework and yanked.
“Bluestreak!” Vestigial claws were tearing helplessly into soft metalmesh, a wave of pleasured-agony quivering violently through each and every doorwing piercing as Bluestreak loomed, larger-than-life, directly behind him. He was sliding a scorching spike panel over the black and white Praxian’s aft, mercilessly overriding any control the Enforcer Commandant hoped to maintain as he urged their combined charge even higher.
The sharp snick of a releasing valve panel was but a prelude to the small pool of iridescent fluid dripping steadily onto the berth beneath them, running delicate rivulets down black and white thighs as deeply embedded sensors flared to life. Hungry valve-lips were contracting uselessly on thin air, the brief sensation of release not nearly enough to sate the primal need kindling to life inside scorching circuits.
His frame was practically sparking with heated charge, sensual hips rolling back and forth against his creation’s spike panel as a sudden flare of unexpected rapture nearly overwhelmed his processors. A small premature overload was rattling across sensually spread tri-wing panels, the knowing clamp of fanged denta, just below his helm, prolonging the flood ecstasy as a well-endowed spike slid free to press against his throbbing anterior node and teased him to the edge and back.
“More!” It was Prowl’s turn to entreat, unable to stand the slow torment as his vents struggled to cycle cool air. Strings of lubricant were smearing across the younger Praxian’s proud spike, the smallest reminder of those sharp, braided, cables up the sides, locking-nodes and wickedly barbed-tip; enough to send a sharp contraction all the way to his spark chamber. It had been far too long since he rode a kin’s mech spike, the increasing frustration also alerting him to the victory he won through sheer determination alone but was now mockingly pushed aside.
“Don’t make me wait.” The Praefectus warned. The rules of a chase had been constructed for a reason: Prowl was the one in control. He wasn’t obligated to endure Bluestreak’s teasing, nor cry in frustration when he was denied his greatest desire. In fact, he could indulge unsanctified sins in any manner he wished.
“I want you! Now!” He hissed, the underlying sub-glyphs echoing with undeniable threat as he tapered off in a howling scream the moment cautious claws traced the rim of his valve. He was shuddering the moment they slid passed saturated lips, slowly filling him from within as his helm jerked back in blinding pleasure.
“Shhh, Ori. I have to make sure you are ready for me! I don’t want to hurt you. You really should look after yourself more, I hate seeing you neglect your needs like this. It’s painful.” Prowl could barely teek the concern in his creation’s field, never mind listen to his words. Bluestreak’s claws were carefully scraping across delicately raised sensor-nodes deep inside him, blowing away what little processor power he hoped to retain.
“Not enough, starling. More!” The stretch was impossibly tight, callipers cycling hungrily around questing digits as Bluestreak remained extra vigilant not to draw Energon regardless of Praxian interfaces often leading to such. The problem with vestigial claws was they were uncontrolled in the advanced stages of arousal. Alas, the violent lurch and flaring sensor-panels he got the moment he teased sparks of static from Prowl’s inner-most node was deeply rewarding.
It didn’t take much to crook a fingertip a few millimetres upwards either, the sharp tapered end teasing open the tiny iris protecting Creator’s gestation chamber. The seal contracted several times in yielding sympathy, another deafening wail echoing from Prowl’s vocalizer as his own tank convulsed in return.
He could perfectly recall the sensation of someone teasing the forbidden spot only a spike was meant to reach, his pressurized interface module throbbing impatiently with need as he reeled at the press of protocols usually only released during a Courting Ritual.
Bluestreak was rocking slowly against creator’s back, pressing tri-wing-tip-to-tri-wing-tip as the pre-inflation of his knot sent embers of pleasured-agony skittering wildly across his sensor-net. Weaving a spiderweb of desirable submission through Carrier’s near-incoherent field, it wasn’t nearly enough to settle the sudden charge resonating near-painfully across their bond.
Prowl was on the edge of insanity. He couldn’t take much more, vocalizer fritzing with static as he desperately tried to hold onto the addictive rush echoing deafeningly through his systems. The touch of a silver-sweet glossa, as delicate as a flutterbot’s wings, wringing stuttering moans of need from deep inside him as it curled and danced around pierced rings dotting his highest sensor-panel.
He could still recall the pleasure-agony of getting them set as a youngling, the deafening howl of his sensor-net everytime the detailer threaded a thick needle through the richest sensor section he could find without mercy as it slowly but surely drove him to the brink of irrational overload—.
Corporal Bluestreak was pulling and positioning the rings, using decorative filigree-chains to force fluttering doorwings against a warm chassis as another claw-flick inside the Praefectus’ valve heeded the stretch of a third.
It felt so good, his processors spinning on drunken rapture as he fitted himself as close to his prey as possible. It had been a while since Prowl had been mounted like this, unable to force a single coherent protest from his vocalizer as sly fingers teased and played his valve to madness. When they retracted with a wet slurp, there was no ignoring the dire warnings crowding his HUD.
“Bluestreak,” He warned breathlessly, shuddering in arousal as dripping clawtips slid passed slack lipplates to tangle with his glossa. The response to drink them clean was purely instinctual, another spark of pre-overload static flaring from quivering sensor-panels as he braced himself for the inherent slide of a thick spike.
“Primus!” The brutal intrusion, when it came, drew a shuddering mechanimal rev from his engine. Clumsy servos struggled not to reach back and cling to his prey, the brief reprieve in movement for him to adjust was so charged with impatience it was tangible.
Fluttering his valve around the braided intruder without second thought, restless hips undulated back and forth as there was no stopping the unsatisfied keen saturating his spark. The first tentative thrust, too slow, scraped urgent claws against Blue’s plating as a deliciously swollen pre-knot rammed passed grasping lips.
“Good mechling! That’s my Brightspark, don’t stop! More!” Frag it was good, Prowl’s world fading away around him as he obediently tilted his helm into fanged denta. They were tugging possessively on his main Energon line, a litany of praise spilling from parted lipplates as his creation’s engine whined and growled just as chaotically.
Little Blue was bathing openly in Ori’s overwhelming field, tangling their existence as deep as he dared as he endeavoured to hold back from breaking their spiralling rapture. Prowl didn’t have much control during interfacing, only an unspoken need to lock his creation’s spike deep inside him as he violently chased down his own completion.
There was nothing gentle or sweet about this interface, just like Prowl wanted. And when Bluestreak’s thrusts slowed for no reason, he swiftly flipped them over so he could take better control. The switch in position was lightning quick, poised pleasure slowing the younger Praxian’s systematic response as Prowl forced him onto his back and slid onto his spike as far as he could go.
Scraping vicious claws across erotically arching chest plates, neither noble cared about the mar in their finish as they raced towards the inevitable end. The Praefectus Vigilum’s valve was impossibly tight, so slick with lubricant it dripped down Bluestreak’s thighs and stained the berth as green optics locked onto swaying doorwing adornments.
They jerked sharply for every upward thrust he gave, driving the older mech just one step closer to overload as there was no holding back. Every shift, every caress, every ventilation was beryllium sweet. Gravity pulling, pulling, pulling until the younger Praxian was so deep inside his creator it forced a wicked transformation to take hold of his barbed-tip.
Lengthening and expanding to unfold the entrance of Prowl’s gestation chamber, a deafening howl vibrated near-painfully against elegant crystal finials as permafrost blue optics flared static white. For the receiver, the sensation of penetration was blissful-agony. Long-disused components stretching and preparing for a flood of charge-heavy nanites as pleasure coiled like an ion storm.
The desperate rhythm of their interface components never faltered, Prowl warbling incoherently as a sharp needle-tip unfolded so deep inside his chamber it practically vibrated all the way to his spark chamber. The sudden slide of Bluestreak’s claws down straining doorwings, scraping across delicate paint nanites as he tugging on sensitive piercings.
The action fragmenting whatever thought Prowl hoped to retain.
His overload, when it struck, was so sudden and sharp that he crumpled inwards. An instinctive undulation of his hips forced the brutal swell of his creation’s knot into place, his scream processor-whitening as straining systems redlined with heat. The pleasure was absolutely blinding, spark severingly harsh as every cable and circuit in his frame ignited from the inside.
Prowl couldn’t think, couldn’t ventilate, couldn’t feel anything but the flood of heavy charge.
There was no coming down from this for a while, his release triggering Bluestreak’s own as they ventured into the forbidden together. The start of a Praxian climax was insatiable, the younger mech’s knot swelling to fill the older mech’s valve so wonderfully they locked together for what promised to be a good half-joor.
For every small or shuddering overload his valve squeezed from its internal captive, the chronometer blurred. It wasn’t unheard of for knotted couples to spend more than a joor harmonizing multiple overloads together, the pleasure never seeming to stop as they rocked and swayed and warbled their way towards sated exhaustion.
The denting bite Prowl had on Bluestreak’s chevron, grinding and digging in for every spurt of transfluid hitting his gestation chamber, barely tethered them to reality. That too faded after the fifth charge, nothing else seemed to matter as the older Praxian slackened above his prey and purred in appreciation.
Protective protocols prompted them to curl, locked together, in a more comfortable position on their sides. He stiffened as the movement rung another charge from his systems, moaning in unrestrained satisfaction as his processor eventually shunted a the last of his processing power towards floating ecstasy.
There was no action to be taken but to enjoy the slowing intensity of their coupling, an over-activate tac-net and battle computer finally silent as he allowed himself to let go with one of two mech’s he trusted more than anything. This was only the beginning of what promised to be a processor bending orn, he mused.
It wouldn’t be long until either of them were raring to go again.
* * * *
Energon stained claws were tapping grinning lipplates deep in thought, viciously protruding Polyhexian sensor-horns dissecting every vibrating frequency and sound in close proximity as trained senses took in the contented fields spilling out from behind a sealed apartment door.
It had been twelve-metacycles since he last graced this place with his presence, an amused visor scanning the complex lock on Prowler’s front door before hacking his way inside. The high-end suite was big enough to befit a Lord of Praxus, more complex than it needed to be and contained enough security to make him feel safe. The familiar scent of home assaulting his senses as he slipped inside, finally enough to allow him to relax.
Jazz was slowly making his way to the small kitchen, frame moving with liquid grace and trained efficiency. It had been several joor since he last had the chance to refuel, never mind contain his excitement about seeing his unofficial Conjunx and creation again—.
“Oh.” An undispersed cube, empty of tank-curdling mid-grade, scuffed floor and dishevelled chairs was a small indication of what happened here. The company was likely confined to Prowl’s berthroom and making all that noise, silent pedesteps crossing a meticulously-shined floor before drawing himself a cube of high-grade so strong it numbed his glossa.
Jazz was deeply aware just how uncomfortable Prowl could be when he returned home from a job still tarnished by another’s Energon, a slick glossa slipping out to clean off the dried pink flecks as he swayed back and forth to a beat only he could hear.
It wouldn’t do to besmear his love’s home with sins. Maybe a trip to the washrack was in order?
“Nggh-AHH!” Stilling instinctively at a deafening cry barely distilled by sound-proof walls, sharp-lipplates curled in a positively lecherous grin as he twirled on his heelstrut and headed deeper into the habsuite instead. The scent of burnt ion, spiralling ecstasy and ragged moans was unmistakable; a shudder of dark need tracing a path all the way from the top of his helm to the tip of his pedes.
How long had it been since he’d last heard Prowler howl like that? Pit, even the tiniest vibration of that sound was enough to send an unquenchable fire racing across his circuits. It was shredding his control from the inside out, a dark visor flickering soft blue as he paid no mind to the spotless hallways or pristine rooms he passed.
It didn’t matter what had been changed whilst he was gone, nor what of his home was left. All the saboteur was interested in, was reaching his beloved before he lost his processors.
Two deeply twined fields, so enamoured with each other, they didn’t even notice his approach or the hiss opening the berthroom door. The harmonic cry of two very satisfied Praxians, cascaded pleasantly across sharp sensor-horns.
Primus, they made a stunning sight. A regal black and white Enforcer shuddering through several small overloads atop his darling prey, three-panel doorwings fluttering and quivering in tandem to the contractions of his valve as he gripped a fully swollen know. It was a detail Jazz focused on immediately, smiling softly as recognized the familiar silver/blue/gold paint of his creation.
“How lewd, Baby Blue.” He purred.
It was utterly sinful, made all the more delicious by just what carnality he walked in on. Jazz had no desire to contain the flood of dark-want, give me, demand straining his sensor-net, it was considered a privilege to glimpse his mate’s pleasure and the complex hierarchy present in Praxian aesthetics.
Incest though? If Cybertron knew, it would be a nightmare.
Yet, of all manner of gruesome depravity the Polyhexian had witnessed in his functioning, Prowl and Bluestreak’s foray into the forbidden was a treat he rarely got the opportunity to enjoy. It was always a pleasure defiling his upstanding Prowler, even more when the Lord of Tourmaline dirtied himself by his own hand.
Making sure to keep his field steady and moves graceful, he danced playfully into Blue’s sight as he watched the denting grip Prowl’s denta lathed to his creation’s chevron finally let go. His beloved was completely unaware of his surroundings, the younger Praxian guiding his originator to lie on his side so his doorwings were tucked against Bluestreak’s spark chamber.
“Genitor! You’re back! We missed you so much, Prowl especially. I finally managed to get him to relax after too long trying.” The happy babble drew a small chuckle from the minibot’s vocalizer, the older Praxian drifting into exhausted recharge without even knowing another joined them.
“Have fun, Baby? I haven’t Prowler howl like that in vorns.” His creation’s smile was shy but undeniably pleased, eagerly tilting his head into a caress Jazz brushed over sensitive garnet-ore. His chevron was still impossibly tender after Ori’s ministrations, drawing a smile across dark lipplates as he watched Geni kneel on the floor to cup his mate’s faceplates with the same affection.
There was no containing the delighted purr of a speedster’s engines, nor the periodic shudders still ravaging Prowler’s frame as he came down from a high unaware of the world. With the older Polyhexian here, the black and white also relaxed more into his recharge.
With their fields smoothing out, all three of them wove together on the berth around the centre of their entire world. It was a just shame Jazz would have to wait to take his Conjunx for a ride like that.
* * * *