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Rehabilitation	By : DeeDaday Category: Transformers > Transformers: Animated > Slash - M/M Views: 4963 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers in any way, shape or form, and I make no money from these recreational writings.

Chapter List
- 1-Rehabilitation
- 1
A/N: Hi there! You’re looking for Partners smut. You’ve found it. Yay!

(And, uh, obviously my opinions on mech-intimacy revolve around the ‘no metal penii goddamnit’ point of view, so this is a bit of kink, really.) Yay, character development with smut! Kay, warnings over, enjoy!
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Rehabilitation

-.-.-.-.-

While feelings and nasty insinuations abound had been patched by the failed seduction, not a solar-cycle went by before the original root of the original conflict sprang anew: how exactly to be certain that the young ninjabot could survive an overload without killing him in the process.
Luckily, Lockdown, possessing both skill and a monstrous stake in the now-open situation, was quick on the ball to solve it with a few… improvisations. Prowl (with nothing better to do and a solemn, nagging compulsion to be near the comfortably-silent bounty hunter) had watched Lockdown dig around for cycles with a crunched, irritated expression, practically dismantling his shop in search of various items of an unknown purpose. After snatching, inspecting and tossing a dozen different oddities and tools, the hunched mech unearthed a spiny (and spine-y) looking blue device about the length of his servo, considered it for a moment, then proceeded to nose around for metal tubing of a particular diameter… the piecemeal process went on and on. Prowl was oddly content to drowse in Lockdown’s scraped-up shop chair as the older mech worked with an efficiency and upfront skill that once again made Prowl feel the slightest bit proud (and awestruck) of the scar around his chassis.
Lockdown eventually settled down at his table, optics thinned in concentration with his rare magnifier hooked onto his temple, lending him a ridiculously professional look. After an inordinately patient amount of laser-and-wire fiddling with the blue prickly thing (and several ‘tests’ of dabbing the glowing tip against his wrist), he shoved it into a freshly cut length of pipe then sealed either end with a gush of white heat, leaving a blue knob exposed at the far end. The interested ninjabot assumed him to be done, but Lockdown glared blankly at the sharp-edged, quite cylindrical end of the cylinder then decisively slathered it with fresh silver solder, shaping it against a table until it was rounded, blowtorch angled perfectly as his dense arms worked it to smoothness. He rewarded the finished product with a thin smirk then glanced over at Prowl with the same expression, receiving nothing but a foggy head-tilt from his partner.
“Done,” he said, flicking the blowtorch off and retracting that ridiculous magnifier.
It was pleasing, to see him working so earnestly on something. Lockdown’s ‘shop time’ was no longer a thinly veiled excuse for avoiding him, and the patient little ninjabot rather liked seeing Lockdown think: the calculating whiz of his roaming optics, or the sudden, fluid decision to toss something away and reach for something else. Bundles of mathematical calculations and instinctive logic, all unspoken. Unpretentious and sure to the point of Zen. It happened so quickly and so naturally that few would think it note-worthy, but if one thing could be said about Lockdown, it was that he always knew what he was doing.
Unless, of course, it involved Prowl. The half-curled ninjabot cocked his head slightly, blue visor trained on the item in Lockdown’s huge servo.
“What is it?”
As if honoring their (Prowl’s) new insistence on communication, Lockdown made sure to avoid breezing by an explanation.
“It’s a… uh, somethin’ to jumpstart systems. Electric current. Pretty rough—not somethin’ you’d risk on a healthy ‘bot--but I modded it. Piqued the frequency and insulated it. It’ll suit.“
Prowl looked up at his partner, long face crumpled (pouting) in confusion: Lockdown had yet to reveal how it applied to him. Before he could ask, the bounty hunter tossed it into his lap with a growing, feline grin. Prowl caught it with a small clank.
“Tap it.”
Sending a dubious glance his way, Prowl touched the rounded tip. It was as though a tiny glass seed of light had popped in his local physical sensors; he immediately snatched his hand back, staring down at the tingling grey digit. Then—yes, it was tuned a little higher than most activators, but he couldn’t have missed the distinct flare of (incoherent) pleasure at the tip of his digit after the initial numbness ceased. It was so… acute.
Prowl’s processor ate through the possibilities as the warmth faded: Lockdown had somehow finagled a double-layered frequency that would only activate pleasure sensors—or rather, was built to call out the pleasure-sensor facet of any one (or all) of a Cybertronian’s chameleon, multi-purpose sensory bundles. The numbness was only his sensors making the forced switch before the stimulating electric current hit. He marveled at the mechanics of it, quietly turning it over in his servos, then realized Lockdown was still watching him expectantly.
“This is… advanced,” he murmured, his simple praise earning him a wide, roguish smile.
“When you’ve been around long as I have, you pick up a thing or two about exclusive sensory stimulation.”
Prowl looked down at the device again. Unfortunately, it didn’t sound like a stabilizing component, and, as much as Prowl could have kicked himself for having the gall to underestimate his partner at this point, he didn’t like the idea of having that moderately sloppy thing soldered into his chassis—even if it would restore their… situation.
“How do we install it?” He asked uncertainly, gingerly holding it out for his partner. Lockdown grinned, snapping the magnifier off of his white temple and tossing it onto the table.
“We don’t.”
Somehow, Prowl didn’t like the way Lockdown said that—almost as though Prowl’s cool naiveté was amusing. His nudging fears were only confirmed when the bounty hunter rapped the contraption with his red knuckles and pointed past it, straight to the ninjabot’s prim, gold-lined chassis.
“Overload yourself with that,” Lockdown ordered him over his spiked shoulder, turning to drag a bench closer with a metal-on-metal squeak. “And I’ll see if you run into any glitches along the way.”
Prowl’s head snapped up in shock, mouth open, visor stretched wide. Lockdown, unruffled by his partner’s full-body paralysis, simply settled himself onto the bench, crossed his arms across his barrel chest… and waited.
And waited.
“… What?”
“Oh. If y’need some… solitude…” Lockdown chuckled, using the word sweepingly; pointedly plucking the word for ‘alone-time’ from Prowl’s own dignified vocabulary. The ninjabot’s aghast expression only intensified, grip slackening around the device. “Y’know. Get your engines hot…”
Already Lockdown was brimming with oily enjoyment, wide mouth curling at the edges. He heaved himself to his feet and sauntered away with a practiced air, leaving Prowl with nothing but himself and a sordid, cylindrical fate--certainly no excuses, protests or possible escape clauses.
The cold, metal, empty-shop reality of it all refused to sink in. He was only able to look at the insidious little device after three solid cycles of choking on the idea, then frostily placed the thing on the arm of Lockdown’s chair and scooted away. The hunter had left him alone to—but would come back to--he would not do it. He could not do it. This was--he glared at the doorway and his abhorrently vicious partner beyond it, his very Spark quailing and retreating from the very notion—
Finally, after cycles of compressed thrashing and righteous vacillations (and unyielding silence from the bridge), Prowl gingerly, hopelessly picked up the stimulator. Mouth pressed into a beastly frown, he fiddled with it as intelligently as he could, suddenly finding the before-clever thing to be the most inane, brutal device he’d ever come across as it sent sloppy, indiscriminate surges of sensation wherever he touched it. His humiliation only swelled higher as he found he couldn’t even handle it properly, jumping and wincing as it connected where it wasn’t supposed to, making sensors deaden then flare up like open-mouthed suns. Touch—jerk, clatter, shudder. Officially fed up with it, Prowl made a grinding, growling sound of raw frustration as it clanked into his (very sensitive by this point) lap for the second time.
“Don’t make me come in there,” Lockdown called from the bridge, causing the young mech’s facial plating to nearly burst into flames. Prowl could practically hear his nasty, merry, gap-toothed grin, and glared up at him with all the indignation and hatred his noble body could hold when the huge mech appeared in the doorway, leaning easily on it.
“This is humiliating,” Prowl said icily, digits hooked around the stimulator as though it were an enemy he’d just subdued.
“Just consider it a real blast of a diagnostic,” Lockdown chuckled, gesturing lazily at his seething partner. “I gotta see how my bike is runnin’ before I take you… off-road.”
Prowl couldn’t do much more than snort, but after a moment he seemed to curl up more tightly in Lockdown’s huge chair, holding the device as far away from him as possible—as though it were dirty.
“Isn’t there another way?” He asked stiffly, the red backlighting of the shop blurring his expression.
“Nope,” Lockdown said simply, but continued to watch his classically collected partner fidget and slump, optics narrowing in an itching, honest curiosity. Curiosity, however, couldn’t keep him from advancing his objective.
After a few cycles of stalling silence, the bounty hunter moved from the doorway and crossed the shop, heavy footfalls ending in front of Prowl, who didn’t look up. Wordlessly, Lockdown liberated the gimmick from Prowl’s stingy grip, upped the intensity with a twist of the exposed knob and unceremoniously engulfed the back of the ninjabot’s bowed head with a huge servo. He shoved his partner down across his own lap, ignoring the baffled protest and the servos that groped for purchase on his green-striped thighs, and forced the stimulator underneath the golden seat on Prowl’s backside, pressing it into the tight gap at his lower back.
Prowl immediately arched, consumed by hard-edged numbness that burst into teeth-gritting, girder-deep goodness—or, what would have been good if it hadn’t been driving into him with the jerking, rattling abandon of a jackhammer. He choked from the pure magnitude of it, servos fastening on any part of Lockdown he could grab and claw into as the hot feeling pounded through his back and took swipes at his startled Spark. He writhed as much as he could with his head wedged against his unfazed partner’s hip, unable to do anything but make crushed animal noises, then managed to snap:
“Stop.”
The response was instant. The sensory attack died into fizzling silence and, faster than Prowl could resurface from the consuming, function-blotting sensation, he was flat against the back of his chair. Lockdown’s red optics glowed in front of him, white face dented in worry.
“Slag. You feel a flutter?”
The bounty hunter touched his chassis expertly, pressing and sensing the chug of his anxious, utterly spooked systems. Prowl gasped heavily, then shook his head.
“No.”
“Somethin’ snap?”
“No.” Prowl shook his head again, optics shuttering as his body slowly ceased quivering. “I cannot… it’s unbearable.”
Lockdown looked at him like he was insane, servos dropping from Prowl’s heaving chassis.
“That’s the point,” he growled, stung at getting all riled up for nothing. “Keep goin’.”
He flung the stimulator back into Prowl’s lap with the same mild disgust as the order, eyeing him in fresh annoyance as he sat down on the bench across from his chair—figuring, finally, that this wasn’t going to get anywhere without him on the watch. Prowl, however, looked at device in his pretty servos like it would bite him, disgust and… yes, fear etched into his face. Shame. The kid was absolutely ashamed: Lockdown picked up the idea like a weirdly glowing treasure, turning the absurd prospect over in his processor.
The kid was a (passive-aggressive) sex-fiend with him. Alright, he was never quite sure when the other was in the mood, or if Prowl had a mood, but Prowl sought it himself after hunts and had only turned Lockdown away a handful of times—which was remarkable, considering how often the wanton mech approached him. Now, when asked to do something as simple as self-service (even with a unwanted bonus of practical voyeurism), his hardwired morals went all buggy on him.
Lockdown couldn’t understand it: pleasure was pleasure. Good was good, and therefore certainly not bad. Especially considering Prowl’s obnoxious grasp (fervent cling) of decorum, it was hard to believe that setting himself off in a convenient, purposeful fashion would rate below their racy, groan-saturated, ridiculously prolonged ‘face-fits on the ‘dignity’ scale. What Lockdown wouldn’t—and couldn’t—consider was meaning. In truth, connection-motivated Prowl quailed at something so practical and hollow, but Lockdown pushed past that sentimental concept before it could freak him out too badly.
“Primus, haven’t you ever set yourself off before?”
Any fresh-minted ‘bot who’d ever been given access to anything with a steady current usually learned to turn it to the best use, but Prowl shook his head, short and sharp; his long face nearly screwed up in self-conscious, convenient anger and frustration. Before it could be realized and expelled as a tangible force, however, Prowl’s features dropped alarmingly as he simply gave up, conflicted beyond words or anger.
“Can’t we just…” His vocals were absolutely miserable, but still desperate enough to wound.
“Then I’d be dead in the water and wouldn’t be able to do anything if you crashed,” Lockdown ground out, annoyed at the other ‘bot’s squirming, pouting tenacity. He took a moment to glare down at Prowl, who wasn’t even looking at him. “This is to test your systems, remember--not some weird thing I been dyin’ to try.”
Prowl managed to half-smile, but the quirk of his mouth disappeared as quickly as it came. Kid was really broken up about it.
“I ain’t embarrassed,” Lockdown snorted finally, slurring the alien word. “Why should you be?”
Prowl was almost being shy. It annoyed the bounty hunter more than charmed him: vulnerability wasn’t something he cherished. He liked it better when the little punk surprised him with a feisty kick in the gut every so often and showed that real mean little Spark off while rammed between his legs, restrained by his arms. That turned him on like crazy. This… was like watching his only identifiable equal hide in a corner and wave a little white flag, and Prowl was so genuinely miserable he couldn’t even take the piss out of him for it.
Honestly, he hadn’t quite looked forward to watching Prowl stimulate himself to overload. It was just the only way. He wasn’t a voyeur: unless he had his scented, thick servos in it, it didn’t truly interest him. It wasn’t awkward; it was just a chore. It would be more of a chore if Prowl did run into technical difficulties on the road to blowing himself out temporarily and not just because Lockdown would have to spring into action to fix him and save him from possible full-system arrest, but because watching the erotic mess would leave him horny as hell and problems meant still longer ‘till he could pound his ninjabot senseless. All in all, not enjoyable.
Finally, faced with the prospect of roundabout megacycles of steadily-more-flinty coaxing and a very unresponsive ninjabot and a severe urge to get the whole circus over with, Lockdown gave in.
“Kid, you are one glitched little machine,” he exhaled gruffly. With a few grunts, he lowered himself to the cold shop floor, then raised an arm and flicked his fingers, motioning for his partner. “Get your aft over here.”
Prowl, still mortified, took a moment to register the demand. Then he carefully slipped out of the oversized chair and approached his seated partner awkwardly, head low and stimulator in (guilty) hand. Still, a flicker of hope and confusion crossed his flexible visor as Lockdown reached out for him with a strong servo.
“I thought—“
Lockdown snagged his wrist and weighed him into his huge lap, quickly maneuvering the smaller mech to rights before taking the thick cylinder from him. The bounty manipulated it in his dexterous servo that he always put on for mod-working, holding it like a knife.
“Can it and focus on overloading,” he ordered, then snuck in a quick nip to Prowl’s nape, warm, oil-scented vapor brushing the young mech’s back. “If half of this is in the processor, your half could knock out a whole.”
Prowl didn’t protest as Lockdown pulled him flush against his wide chest, simply grateful for the sense of hard-handed control—and absolution of responsibility--he felt in the hunter’s experienced grip. Lockdown took the now-humming device and ran the rounded tip of it over Prowl’s chest, filling his chassis with electric warmth and vibration. It was slow, sweet--better than that attack in the back. The ninjabot made a stifled, almost anxious noise, only relaxing when Lockdown added a servo, stroking his slender grey side.
It was less guilty this way. Kid needed another mech’s touch to allow him to respond to the machine; to translate it into true pleasure. If he’d known Prowl to be this complicated, he would’ve asked the Prime for a manual when he picked the kid up. This was slaggin’ ridiculous.
He teased the stimulator down his abdominal plating, pressing, then spread Prowl’s legs with one thick, scraping servo, languidly groping his pale thigh and slipping the device into the crevice of where his leg met his pelvic plating. He ground it back and forth across the wire-laden niche, sending pleasure ripping straight up into Prowl’s stiff body, clenching around his humming center. Prowl moaned hesitantly, other leg twitching up close to his chest as he bucked, but Lockdown pressed it back down again. He smirked slightly as Prowl heaved his head to the side and aspirated haltingly into Lockdown’s long, spike-studded neck, hips twisting and straining on an infinitesimal scale.
Now, the bounty hunter definitely had his servos deep in something he could enjoy. Even if his opponent was as blown out as Prowl, Primus did he love power-plays. He turned the stimulator up a level, controlling Prowl with an iron hand as the young mech half-thrashed under the concentrated pleasure, anxious noises sneaking out of him in-between the wracking puffs of vented air.
Not so dignified now, are we, little ninjabot?
The act of revving over-conventional Prowl up became a game. Lockdown guided the little machine from the inside of one of Prowl’s knees and up the sensor-riddled path inside his thighs, pressed it to the apex—a classically erogenous area, owing to the leg-joint seams on either side and higher spillover access to the dark, tender wiring therein--and then coaxed it down again, sending the ‘bot into convulsive jerks as his core rumbled and jumped and brought his plating to a healthy, tortured glow. He was running hot, alright, whether he wanted it or not, and the bounty hunter’s hard grip was the only thing that kept him from clenching his legs together and simply curling up to ride off the convulsions.
Nearly blown, Prowl arched into Lockdown’s touch and away from the machine, instinctively seeking out the pressure of him and his energy field, but Lockdown cruelly pinned him between both, bringing them close in a crushing vice as he angled the device up into his partner’s groin, fist rammed between his thighs. Prowl made a vexed noise, servo slapping down on Lockdown’s wrist.
“S-stop. Hurts,” he managed huskily, so tense he was trembling against his partner. It was too close to his wiring.
“Good hurt or bad hurt?” Lockdown rumbled, shifting, grinding the throbbing tip in a circle over his scalding pelvic plating.
Prowl moaned down to his core, shuttering his optics in ripe agony and arching, pretty servos clenching around Lockdown’s thighs. After that, it was a little hard for Lockdown to find his projected witty comeback.
“If you’re not in full-system arrest, I ain’t botherin’,” he returned roughly, vocals slow to boot up. “This is for your own good, y’know.”
With Prowl’s hot back scraping against his chassis, aft angled in the apex of his lap, he hadn’t realized how warm his own plating had become—nor noticed the eager, aggressive snap and smother of his hot energy field, which was aiming to engulf his partner. Or the expectant, thick pulse of his Spark. In fact, he’d aroused himself to hell and back without noticing it or bothering to curb it. Damn.
Just sitting still with squirming, gasping Prowl in his lap was driving him crazy: processor fogging up in regards to the possible consequences, he artistically heaved Prowl up and led him, blind and panting, into a more… personal position on his servos and knees. That way, Lockdown rose up and crushed himself along Prowl’s shivering back, thighs sandwiching the other mech’s own, servo still shoved in his tenderest plating on the ninja’s underside. The friction was glorious.
Becoming a little more proactive, he dragged his teeth along Prowl’s gold fairing, then bit down. Prowl made a brazenly aroused noise, something between a moan and a snarl--finally, finally losing himself. Slow to rev up if he’d ever seen it…
He turned the thing up again. Now he could hear it humming, even above Prowl’s new chokes. Other servo bracing their tangled crouch, he drew it up and down the kid’s underside, making sure to mind his glowing chassis and the wire-laden crevices: each time he hit them, Prowl bucked up into him, getting more and more free with his noises, even if they did have a ragged spine of frustration to them.
“Lockd—“ he finally gasped, vocals sincerely pained; his flickering visor was warped at an agonized angle. He couldn’t handle keeping his optics online, dousing them and gritting out into his own shoulder: “Not… n-nece…ssary.”
Kid was soaked to his glossy plating with caustic yellow energy, absolutely brimming with hard-won pleasure. Ready to snap--probably hating him, too. It was harder to bring a ‘bot to overload without the help of another Spark: it was purely technical endeavor, and often the systems in question were so high-quality and well-wired, bolstered with fail-safes and circuit-breakers that mechs could fall back on in the heat of battle, that they resisted overload with the utmost of well-engineered stubbornness. It was almost abuse, dragging him to overload this way, and certainly the body felt battered before the Spark ever surrendered.
“You don’t exactly get a say, slick,” the bounty hunter grunted, pointedly wrenching another impassioned mewl from his partner before switching the rattling device to his other servo and popping his freed joints in preparation. “I’m done when you’re done, and you ain’t done.”
He’d (non-verbally) half-promised Prowl he wouldn’t step outside their initial boundaries, but he had to resort to a bit of kink to push the kid over the limit before he short-circuited instead of overloaded—but he really didn’t feel too bad about it, considering the fact he never felt bad about anything. Incidentally, this actually was something he’d been dying to try, and poor Prowl just had to let himself fall into it. Too bad.
Owing as he knew Prowl, he also knew this would probably be the first and last time the kid would let him do it, so he made sure to savor the nasty idea for a klik—and consolidate the excuse that it’d test the highest stress and tension levels possible for his new systems—before rubbing a path down Prowl’s hot underside with a deep purr, nipping the crest of his golden tank. Closest at hand and most sensitive, he reached past the potential vice of Prowl’s thighs and tapped the tender pale span between the mech’s quivering legs: responding to a handy ‘stripping’ signal Lockdown always kept uploaded for trophy-extraction purposes, a mouthful of the creamy avenue of exostructure folded back with alarming speed.
Prowl couldn’t miss the small, clean and alarming exposure, even with as heat-swarmed as his components were: he made a tremulous, nearly wounded sound as Lockdown’s thick digit perused the exposed wires, then cried out as Lockdown nudged at the humming net of pleasure-conducting strands. He could only shudder when the brash bounty hunter worked a digit into the dark, tight space, tingling substructure clenching in a sweet panic as he moaned, conflicting red-lit signals (warning; exostructure breach: warning; sensory overload) driving him to exhale and stutter. His head eased back, body struck dumb under the rhythmic, careful invasion. The girth doubled as the bounty hunter added another digit.
“W-why—ah—please--“
“Y’like that?” Lockdown grunted into his hissing black audio receptors, then grazed the back of Prowl’s neck with his hot, roaming mouth until the ninjabot bucked and made a gloriously broken, wanting noise. He couldn’t resist it, and (or because) Prowl was too frenzied at this point to throw him off for his goading offense. He twisted his fingers, feeling the ninjabot tense up—knowing exactly how his face looked.
Thick pleasure flared as the swollen wires snagged then slid free, sending waves of red sensation into Prowl’s liquid insides. Grimacing at the furious energy-field prickles in the appendages, Lockdown slid his fingers out, then jammed in again in one slick slide, burying them up to the base. Prowl’s knees almost gave, sweet, faint, shameless vocalizations causing Lockdown’s own hot, snarling Spark to quiver: the cool lacquered shell of Prowl’s moral décor gave way under all the stress, joined by countless other gasping submissions--in fact, his systems seemed to be the only things that were holding up.
The kid gave up on his resistance to the taboo of it all and pressed against the wide intrusion, forcing the digits deeper to stroke the rippling artificial sensors, fritzing so badly he couldn’t keep his optics online. One husky, Prowl-ish moan, then an aggravated growl, fingers scrabbling and scraping at the floor as he fought circuit and breaker for release. The control and dignity the former Autobot craved so badly every minute—gone, and all for the sake of gritty sexual satisfaction. He might turn the kid into a hedonist yet. But the extended (and exotic) torture had taken a toll on his well-knit, blue-lit sanity, because blown Prowl started… talking.
Yammering, meaninglessly.
“M-merge—“
It was so soft Lockdown hardly caught it. Wrapped up in the taut feel of the ninjabot underneath him, dead-set on sucking up some measure of dumb, stunted second-hand satisfaction for his ravenous body from the roil and pulse of the kid’s golden energy field, he might not have at all, if Prowl hadn’t murmured again.
“Merge with me. P-please. I c-can’t—ah--“
The kid might’ve muttered and whimpered, every word a static-shot choke, something about merging. Something about begging him to force him on his back and wrench open his chamber paneling and consume him—please, take him, after eighty coy stellar cycles of skimming the surface; of shallow teasing and scraping, not the full, pulsing plunge. It was a plea to tear into him, scrape his paint, own him; plunder that hissing, throbbing center, consequences be damned, and Prowl would scream all the way.
He wanted it. He wanted it so badly he begged.
But maybe that wasn’t Prowl at all, but his own tight-strung processor jumping to it; his own devious Spark, suddenly screaming anew at the whispered possibility. The impossibility. For a moment, the world narrowed to nothing but Prowl’s hushed pants and his lust and his surrender and Lockdown’s overbearing, burning sense of control--because he could do it. He could get away with it. His hard black body demanded relief, and with Prowl crushed into every crevice, melting in his grip and radiating golden electric throbs and moaning, the lure of hot release sucked him in so hard he had to grit his teeth.
It seemed a little desperate and unreal, then, that when the bounty hunter unfroze, he thumbed the device to rattling, throbbing full-power, leaned back and forced the shaft into his hard-won gap, working it viciously far up into Prowl’s wire-knotted substructure—half to shut him the hell up.
Prowl wailed, jerking sharply. It was a raw, hot noise, shockingly unnatural and only dragged out of him through penetrative pain into his complex insides. It only lasted a nanoklik or two as the throbbing electricity stabbed upwards through his abdominal cavity and straight to his core, substructure pulsating around it as the pleasure mauled him from the inside out. It was a punch to his high-strung Spark, and his Spark retorted with a furious sensual bite as it flooded his systems with ecstasy and pounded against his chassis, keening to be let free.
Lockdown’s dark Spark, stowed deep within his own vibrating chassis, twanged like a glitch. Actually twanged. He clapped a hand over his chamber, gritting his teeth at the acute pulse of slick near-pain. That wasn’t supposed to happen.
Prowl lit up like a star, then shut down with a handful of heavy, muffled sounds. He fell forward and slammed into the floor, collapsing onto his side with his servos delicately clawed, utterly still and steaming. Panting, engine puttering with difficulty, Lockdown heaved him over, prized the stimulator free and pressed a servo to his partner’s chassis and kept it there, own Spark still aching in that damnable way. He waited, feeling, all thoughts of any half-muttered half-pleas thoroughly purged from him for the moment as the kid’s pistons ticked slower and slower. Serene, blank-faced silence filled the lithe ‘bot, but it didn’t calm Lockdown. He stayed hunched over his partner, auditory units turned so hot they nearly squealed as he just… listened.
It was too long, but not really. It was just unbearably tense waiting for his little partner to jump back to life. Finally, Prowl twitched and gasped and his fingers twitched into fists and thus came that clean, high-pitched note: the sound of a healthy, rebooting ‘bot. His systems were stable, churning back to life like greased toys. Lockdown blew through his vents and fell back into the dark with a clang, tortured body pulsing. Finally.
Prowl lay silently, bruised bits and pieces of himself shaking themselves awake after the stressful expenditure. He gazed around like a ‘bot removed from reality, squinting sleepily with a visor fogged from his own vapor. When his still-fuzzy visual field cited on Lockdown, crashed against the bench with his head thrown back, the scrambled ninjabot ran through several accusations, several limp fits of anger and demands and why—why—then realized he was simply too tired for it. He settled for the only thing he could say.
“Never again,” Prowl whispered, sounding as exhausted as the bounty hunter felt. He looked over to find the ninjabot regarding him blearily, visor nearly flickering; looking like he’d been run though hell. He was too broken down to hate him for his invasive little trick--probably trembling to his pulsing little core.
“Nope. Never again,” the bounty hunter agreed hazily. He rubbed at his own chassis after pausing a moment, pressing at the cooling metal. “At least, not for another megacycle.”
Prowl’s visor widened so much that Lockdown had to laugh, ratty and deep.
“Now that you’re in the green, you’ve got a whole other problem, kid.” Lockdown smirked as his partner’s face stiffened in horror, processor already clawing through the lurid possibilities of another ‘test’. The bounty hunter tapped his blank crest with a finger. “Me.”
Lockdown reached over and patted Prowl’s creamy aft, purring slickly:
“You think you’re sore now, wait ‘till I get done with you.”
After a moment of aching disbelief, Prowl rolled over with a slow clank and moaned in a thick, bleak despair so complete that Lockdown nearly killed himself laughing—but more than made up for it by fetching his limp partner an energon cube and helping him to his room, even if he chuckled like an idiot all the way. Life returned to normal, whatever that meant for the two. Jobs came, money came—money went. Prowl only expressed mildly outraged hatred for his little trick and avoided him for just a day, so the bounty hunter considered it a cumulative victory. Yes, even if Lockdown found the crushed remnants of the stimulator outside his door one ordinary morning (the literal implementation of ‘never again’) and had to bemoan the loss, things were definitely back on track.
Now all he had to do was ignore the fact that, much like himself and his actions, Prowl always knew what he was saying—and any impassioned mutter, no matter how stressed or inundated the kid was, was never fully nonsensical.
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Rehabilitation