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Distance	By : DeeDaday Category: Transformers > Transformers: Animated > AU/AR Views: 2510 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers Animated or anything associated with it. These are purely recreational materials: I make no money from these writings.

Chapter List
- 1-Distance
- 1
A/N: Chapter 57, basically, plus (SHAME) metal penii.
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Distance
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Prowl watched his partner pack up near-to two months supply of condensed energon, tracking the motions and considerate pauses from his perch in Lockdown’s navigator chair… and still quite unsure of how he felt about this.
The pair of hunters had received an urgent invoice from a scientific community located somewhere in the Sigma quadrant. Their specialization was genetic engineering and one of their top-secret experiments, when taken out for a test drive on an unpopulated planet, had thrashed his play-pen, gutted two field-techs and taken off into the brush howling. They needed it back and, considering the feral thing was practically a very angry pile of two-and-a-half billion credits, they needed it back alive.
While it was a strange case to begin with, it was made stranger by the pronoun ‘we’, which brought all negotiation to a screeching halt.
Unfortunately, the scientists’ contact had only recommended Lockdown’s expertise in hunting things that needed to be hunted—not Prowl’s. They had heard nothing of the ninjabot, much less his skills, and were uneasy to allow a wild card in on such a delicate catch. In the end, Lockdown alone was to secure the bounty. Any deviation and they would not receive full payment, and the two mechs needed full payment.
As they hovered above the uninhabited planet, Lockdown packed up for his one-mech assault. Prowl was to drop him off near where the creature had last been located, then return to the atmosphere to wait it out until Lockdown hailed him down. In went liquid nitrogen, to make the energon viscous and stretch a little longer; next, several firearms and surveillance cameras hit the bottom with a thud. The musclecar glared at the contents of his metal magazine, then tossed in an extra jug of medical oil and Prowl hoped suddenly—sharply—that he wouldn’t need it.
All too soon, he was done.
“Good hunting,” Prowl said a little oddly, still discomfited that he was being left behind. The air-lock opened and a sudden wave of heat invaded the ship, wet and sulfur-scented. Lockdown nodded at him in the doorway, hoisting the magazine over his spiked shoulder.
“Be back.”
No approximation. No estimate. Just a simple promise of his return. The air-lock slammed shut and the ship was dark and cool once more.
It only took a week of sitting in orbit before the ninjabot stopped trying to convince himself he was enjoying the silence.
He had weathered far longer stretches without a mission to get his oil pumping, but Prowl’s function quickly became listless and echoing without the old musclecar. He drifted aimlessly from room to room, venting gloomy drafts of air and touching things. Being a productive creature, he tried to focus his processor and his excess energies on his practices—meditation, Metallikato—but all he could feel when he reached out his static field was nothing. That warm, rough, bold smear of sentient energy, dozing or reclining or slaving away over a table, was absent: the void Lockdown left was beyond palpable, and it drove Prowl mad in a slow, sullen way.
His partner was gone for a month and a half down in the jungle. Forty-five solar cycles of peaceful solitude sounded so much better when Lockdown was there to leave him alone. As it was, it was just maddening to be forced to wait in an empty ship: an empty ship… who still reached out to him sometimes, in her ghostly way. Melancholy was added to his list of character flaws.
Not only that, but he was… malfunctioning slightly.
The ache began as a kind of exhaustion, but soon spiraled into a focused throb in his Spark. It was enough of a jolt to bring him to a halt during little activities, though it departed the next moment, leaving him stymied and strangely lonely. It almost felt as though the center of him was wilting. It was directly connected to the same thing that was making him pace Moot’s cold halls, surely, and it made him recharge on Lockdown’s scratched-up berth just once, so he could be where the musclecar’s gritty scent was strongest, even if the disappointment of rebooting alone stayed with him that entire empty solar-cycle.
A hundred miles down, Lockdown grunted and crammed a servo to his Sparkchamber for the fifteenth time, muttering about damned flutters as he threaded a cable-trap.
As caught as he was in melancholy and routine alike, Prowl didn’t truly consider how unthinkable the strange situation was: for Lockdown to leave his precious ship, a bounty hunter’s livelihood incarnate, in somebody else’s care. He didn’t truly think about how, if the scientists had lost their beast a century and a half earlier, the bounty hunter would have laughed himself sore at the idea of letting anyone go free in his ship, partner or no, much less leaving them to watch over it without a full-system lock. No, he would have left Prowl somewhere decent, rigged up a paging system and sent Moot into waiting orbit before entrusting anyone with her full faculties.
But there he was, literally tossing Prowl the keys to his function, when he knew she still liked Prowl better than him; leaving with little more than a nod and expecting Prowl to wait while the angry, eternally suspicious mech entered into a mission that would have been the perfect opportunity for anyone with a gigabyte of sense to leave him to offline in an organic gutter.
In these times, as in most slow and silent relationships, Prowl couldn’t see the forest for the trees—or the mech he waited for so loyally, deep in that same forest with a servo to his stinging chamber.
-.-.-
Too far into the future, Lockdown clomped onto the ship, shaking the dirt off of his gnarled pedes and looking around almost warily. Prowl emerged from the velvety darkness, visor glowing brightly even if he sported only the most demure of smiles.
“Welcome back,” he said softly, closing the air-lock behind his partner. Lockdown shook himself—he was in a state, brittle organic matter poking out of his armor-chinks while mud crumbled from his white facial plating, both raining down on the spotless bridge floor—and tossed down his magazine with relish.
“What a slaggin’ hunt.”
“And your trophy?”
It may have seemed like perfunctory banter, but it was a fleshy reconnection for the two ‘bots: that of basic togetherness, their two dissimilar personalities making a satisfying scrape when ground against each other after the void of solitude. A thousand connotations swirled underneath the disarmingly simple exchange they endured by habit, perhaps if only to heighten the final and most primal of reconnections.
“Nah. I bagged ‘im. Contractors’ll come and pick it up. Don’t want that thing in my ship.” Lockdown went to his spiny knees to dig for a jar of solvent, then looked over his shoulder-plating, expression hard and thrilled. “Tellin’ you, that thing could’ve ripped a hole in this ship a span wide without even windin’ up for it. Like a laser through gold.”
“I am relieved to see you in one piece, then,” Prowl said, crossing his arms. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t have much use for you otherwise.”
“I got all my pieces, kid—now if you wanna double-scan the real important ones…”
Lockdown trailed off, having had enough of talk, but when he turned to look, Prowl was already gone.
He should have known it: neither one of them was known for prolonged displays of relief or even emotion in general. The little ninjabot had already done his duty, and so retreated. He was probably disappointed to have the old ‘bot intrude upon his Happy Ninja Time, really, with all that processor-numbing quiet to himself.
The bounty hunter shrugged but had to smile when, once he was freshly cleaned of all the organic slag and entrenched in his massive chair, pede-steps approached him again. He swiveled the chair in time to see Prowl exiting the storage hallway with a thrumming cube of high-grade in-servo, visor locked on him with his usual quiet, distant fondness.
“I thought you may have missed the finer things civilization has to offer,” he said simply, long face sweetened with another smile.
Lockdown’s motor growled in anticipation, optics lighting with a fierce happiness at the sight of the pretty cube—he had been surviving on the lowest grade possible, as he couldn’t afford to be even slightly buzzy down in the jungle--then looked at the slender, gold-trimmed bot holding it. When the other came close enough, Lockdown actually overreached for the cube and instead took Prowl’s carpal joint, tugging him closer. Prowl came with the proper amount of knowing resistance and slid smoothly onto the chair when he could, tucking himself over Lockdown’s spread legs and minding his spiked wheels.
Still, the old musclecar didn’t take the cube from him, but rather tilted the younger mech’s servo up and drank from it, taking the first gulp of fluorescent, innard-stimulating ecstasy with a half-shudder. Once the pink buzz had reached his processor, Lockdown looked up at the mech on his lap.
“Pit if you aren’t earnin’ your keep, ninjabot,” he rumbled as he sat back, red optics glowing warmly. “Knew there was a reason I kept you around.”
“Really. And what would that be?” Prowl asked as archly as Prowl ever did.
Lockdown didn’t miss the luxurious lilt of his vocals, or the quirk of his small, pretty mouth. The pink cube went by the wayside as the big mech required one of his servos, then both, to properly grip his partner’s tiny frame. The tingling taste of high-grade lingered on in his mouth as Prowl added his own scent and taste with small, dearly-missed clicks and shudders and quiet aspirations.
The two mechs fell into each other more quickly than they ever had, each seeking to officially end their separation with a binge of heat and scraping contact. In the beginning, due to not a little desperation, it was no more than a disorganized fit of groping: Prowl’s delicate servos cupped and stroked his partner’s brutal angles, whereas Lockdown’s digits were splayed, rubbing and gripping cream plating hungrily. The world—hot and escalating though it was—nearly stopped when Lockdown purred roughly against Prowl’s black audio guard and, decisively, Prowl turned his helm.
It put them mouth to mouth, helms brushing. A hesitant puff of air escaped the ninjabot before he—carefully, slowly—kissed white, silent Lockdown on the mouth, digits cupping his chin. It was long and quiet, longer and quieter still when the younger mech drew back, a hesitant tenderness freezing him, but the soft, steady blue of Prowl’s visor claimed the small betrayal of their code of conduct—the code that said any kiss had to be a product of passion or pleasure, brutal and instinctual. Certainly not tender or overwhelmed or intimate, and certainly not with such crushing sincerity that caused the musclecar himself to stall for a good cycle.
Stunned, suddenly all too aware of how much he had missed the small, young, perfect thing against his chassis, Lockdown uncertainly pressed back with his hard mouth, then quickly rushed it on to other things like a spooked Sparkling groping at his first love, afraid to make mistakes in the quiet spaces in-between.
Seizing the bike’s cream thighs, Lockdown tried to get up, to move it to the berth now that Prowl could easily remain pretzled around his waist, but Prowl levered them back down with unexpected strength. The bounty hunter hit the chair with a dull clank and his partner captured him with a twist of his legs, biting the older mech’s lips insistently. After a month and a half alone, the bike couldn’t wait. He wouldn’t move to the berth, nor be separated from the hot, solid mech and all his black angles by as much as a sliver of air.
He needed Lockdown. Now. An ache like this couldn’t be denied.
Prowl ground their hot chassis together with a buck of his hips and gasped into his crackling audio, servo digging into the other’s dark neck-plating at the rush of sensation. Lockdown’s helm tipped back, Spark pulsing hard and desperate when Prowl didn’t pull away but pressed against him and pressed hard, like he wanted more, mouth suddenly locked on one of his neck spikes.
Like a sun-gust against his core, Lockdown could feel the heady swell of the bike’s blue-white Spark, pressing forward, bleeding past his plating for all its want. It was like the metal of their chamber and front plating had turned to vibrating glass, magnifying every pulse, sending aftershocks ricocheting from every neural node. Turned him to slag, it did, like the bike’s small smiles.
Lockdown forced his servo between their fronts, if just to get some distance between them (or else the heat was going to melt the last of his sense along with his holding pins and his chamber plating would snap open), and slowly clawed down the front of Prowl’s glossy black chassis almost hard enough to leave a mark; the tip of one of his claws fit right into the seam of his chamber-plating and the resulting shiver--and the fact the bike slipped his servo between his own legs, pushing at the seams there with blind want--was enough to drive the old mech mad.
Thankfully, Prowl knew the territory as well as he did: where they could and could not tread, even as they pushed boundaries and seams and flirted with the impossible if just to catch a glimpse of blue or red. He always moved to hedge them both in when his rougher partner couldn’t manage it. Prowl drew back and kissed him fiercely, vents running so heavily it disturbed the beads of condensation on Lockdown’s scuffed armor; sudden trickles spilled down the black plating and over the bike’s delicate servos, mixing hot and cold along his joints. The old musclecar’s overwhelmed engine mutter climbed to a lusty growl as his little partner grabbed his huge paw from his hip and led it between his cream-colored thighs, pushing enough to make his digits scrape against the white-hot paneling; pushing enough to make him buckle and press his face to Lockdown’s thick neck, entire frame shuddering.
The bike could do it himself. It was automatic, even, but he wanted to feel Lockdown’s servos pushing it away, to offer him everything.
The bounty hunter was struck again by how tiny his partner was, all tapering waist and delicate contours and toy-like weight, as compared to his own bulk. He could barely fit his claw between the delicate mech’s thighs, though he could hardly hear the creaks of stressed tensors for Prowl’s soft, pleading noises—nothing more than taxed whirrs or frantic little clicks to an unlearned mech, but to Lockdown they were as good as throaty pleas.
And right then, Prowl was begging for him.
Lockdown, almost uncoordinated for the force of his desire, gave Prowl’s paneling a rough nudge and hissed as it retracted, immediately rubbing around the bike’s exposed port. Prowl arched, vocalizer spitting static, and his signal doubled in intensity, pounding mercilessly at Lockdown’s trapped Spark. Visor flashing sky-blue, his golden energy field seethed over Lockdown’s plating and dissolved the last of his restraint.
Other servo clamped around the bike’s tank, Lockdown pressed three hard digits into his partner’s slick port, own plating retreating with a snap when Prowl whimpered and bucked, clawing at the huge mech’s shoulders as ecstasy punched through his whining systems. Once freed, the musclecar’s dark plug thrummed as hard as his Spark, aching for the connection waiting above it. Prowl reached down and grasped the output tightly as he shifted, releasing the pressure only to push the plug into himself, every tensor snapping tight when the cable roughly scraped the walls of his port. He whimpered only when Lockdown grasped his hips to force him the rest of the way down, the older mech rumbling tensely and shaking with pleasure.
They connected, chassis-to-chassis; panicked currents met and synced in one blessedly slow convulsion of signal that made their engorged Sparks stand still, then chaos hit.
The universe was narrowed to slick heat and dark hardness, both electrified–to filling and being filled. Prowl’s arms wrapped tightly around his partner’s thick neck, one servo grasping at a spike for support as Lockdown lifted him up off his lap just far enough to thrust into him. His optics flickered, all passion and fire, as the tiny bike shivered atop his lap, mewling into his audio each time their signals crashed and the plug slammed into the back of his port, making his neural net swell with sharp pleasure. Prowl’s strong servos were cruelly entrenched between the cracks in his shoulder-plating, nipping wires hard enough to hurt; electricity built around them, snapping and crackling within the halos of their fields as their plating scraped together, faster and faster. Red and blue flickered.
Lockdown pulled Prowl’s long, anguished face down a split-second before the roaring white took them, and they overloaded with a kiss and the same seismic spasm of electricity.
-.-.-.-.-
Lockdown booted up slowly, visual feed onlining last; the first thing he saw was the gleam off of a gold-lined helmet. Prowl was still out on his lap, arms looped around his neck, but his refreshed Spark pulsed clean and sweet in his candied black chassis, beautifully close to his own. Finally.
For all the miles of sweaty atmosphere and cold space in between them, Lockdown had felt every inch of it in his ragged red Spark. It could have been the blockers, reacting to the ‘testing’ of their disguised bond. But, blockers or no, never had his center wavered for any ‘bot.
With that small, reassuring energy burning close, the musclecar felt something settle and reconnect after scalding solar-cycles of danger, stranded without so much as an electrical whisper to hear in the jungle... but it still wasn’t enough. Lockdown leaned back in his chair with a blind, warm rumble, shuttering his optics and nudging Prowl into his thorny neck, making sure their chambers could hum softly to each other. He waited.
When Prowl onlined with a soft intake of air half a megacycle later, the bike smiled almost shyly, and the distance was finally gone.
- 1
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Distance