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"… I feel foolish."
Prowl tugs anxiously at one of the numerous metalmesh straps decorating his frame - woven so fine that they feel like silk, accenting parts of him that have long since grown softened by the comforts of a post-war life and Mixmaster's heavenly homemade confections.
They talked him into lingerie - a terran proclivity and aesthetic, and it's all he can do to not curl into a ball and hide the round and regrettably squishy parts of his frame that his gestalt seems so fond of gripping and kneading. It feels expensive against his sensors, delicate yet well crafted and sturdy - and thus he feels guilty for not fully appreciating their gift. It draws attention to everything he's avoided seeing until now.
His once narrow nip of a waist has become soft and sturdy, belly developing a plushness and aft growing wide and jiggly. Everywhere there was once defined cording and muscle, now made buxom with a layer of padding.
With all of the straps squeezing against his newfound softness… He feels like, for lack of a better comparison, the giant ghostly marshmallow man from that one movie he was forced to watch aboard the ark a lifetime ago. Mister Say Puffed, or something like that.
The constructicons engines turn over all at once (hopefully not in response to that horrid comparison), almost in unison - a resonant purr that rumbles strut-deep, servos beginning to wander in reverent strokes and caresses. Impatient but loving - Pinching and squeezing ample plushness yet finding no fault in it like Prowl does.
He feels foolish - but he caresses them in turn, pulls them close - yearns for them to be closer .
"You look ravishing."
"So sexy. "
"I c-could just devour you." Mixmaster adds, quite concerningly given some of his not-so-secret pastimes and the ingredients sometimes slipped into his baked goods, but the dark, velvet tone of his voice betrays no malice - nor does the hungry drag of his long tongue along Prowl's thigh, sharp and distinct warframe denta exciting him rather than invoking HUD warnings for imminent danger as they approach the tenderness of his core, already warming and glistening with his arousal and framed elegantly by the tight lace panties, left bare in the crotchless center.
Mixmaster nips his thigh gently enough to not leave a mark - only to entice and distract him from unsavory thoughts - and then
drags
that long, wicked glossa through Prowl's syrupy folds with a particularly ravenous suggestion or two delivered hastily across the bond, fuzzy with lust.
Surprisingly deft, thick and calloused digits spread the velvety petals of his valve, kneading at the chubbiness of his plush lower lips as Mixmaster goes right for his anterior node in a motion that makes his legs buckle. Bonecrusher is there to hold him up - cooing pure filth into his audial as Mixmaster's tongue caresses his node in rippling waves. Servos tease at the edge of the fabric accenting his frame as Mixmaster works him over - teasingly snapping straps against his flesh and openly, unabashedly admiring how the red and black lace sits over his curvy frame.
"That's r-right, baby. You l-like that. You love t-that." Mixmaster pulls away to sigh, voice husky and breath caressing over Prowl's spread pussy - before cruelly suckling his fattened anterior node into a hot, hungry mouth and lashing it mercilessly with his glossa, servos working around his frame to instead knead and squeeze his aft.
" Oh!! "
Prowl couldn't hold back his cries even if he tried, overwhelmed by sharp sparks of pleasure curling up his belly, optics flickering in bliss before offlining, protecting delicate lenses from overbright flares. His servo flies to the back of Mixmaster's helm, coaxing and commanding, pulling him in deeper, closer - yet despite this, Mixmaster withdraws suddenly, leaving Prowl's cunt throbbing and aching, the chill of the air tantalizing it.
He's been shoved aside by a miffed Hook.
"No technique whatsoever! Haven't you ever heard of buildup , Mix? You don't go straight to the node - you tease them. You're supposed to make them want for it, not rush them to overload. It isn't a race." Hook chides, voice as crisp and professional as if he had been merely scolding a patient for picking at their bandages, not berating Mixmaster for going down on Prowl with viciously pointed, eager precision.
His valve clenches at the nonchalance of it, despite the slightly bizarre feeling of the situation, a pearl of lubricant escaping his terribly empty, quivering entrance. Hook's thumb swipes it up, and the mech makes a show of reverently lapping it up before leaning in to press a chaste kiss to Prowl's lower belly that makes it do flips, leaving him fighting down the irresistible urge to squirm.
That devoted, adoring look they all give him - he doesn't think it'll ever become familiar. How does one even begin to become accustomed to such deep, unconditional love?
"Poor little pussy~" Hook sighs, caressing his thumb, now wet with oral lubricants, over Prowl's valve lips in a motion that almost tickles. "So rough, hm? Not suited to such delicate, sweet little components… Mixmaster can be such a brute."
Sensing Hook's devious intentions - Bonecrusher shifts from simply holding Prowl up and providing him support to trapping Prowl in his massive arms, servos squeezed tenderly in far larger ones with the utmost gentleness - but nevertheless trapped.
Far more effective and efficient than any bondage - and so cruel.
Traitor. He shoots across the bond pointedly, and he can feel Bonecrusher's unrepentant smirk pressed into the back of his neck.
For what feels like an eternity, Hook simply pets his valve lips, never dipping beyond them to tend to his needy node - brushing them teasingly in intricate patterns, painting invisible glyphs of what seems to be a poem or two, relishing in making Prowl ache… and eventually, beg.
Begging earns him no quarter, even with a few threats of cleaning duty peppered in.
For a moment hope blossoms, Hook gingerly parting Prowl's engorged valve lips akin to how Mixmaster had hastily done so before - only to blow a puff of cold cycled air on his throbbing node and begin cruelly circling the twitching button with his heated glossa, never quite touching it.
The other Constructicons are enraptured, and unfortunately for Prowl, beginning to see Hook's point. Taking notes mentally as they pet him and grope his ample bumper, the traitorous bastards - relishing in his acute suffering, his flustered, desperate squirming and soft, breathless pleas.
Long Haul even gingerly lifts one of Prowl's legs under the knee, holding him open for Hook - leaving his sensitive, molten core better exposed for the medic's dastardly machinations.
"Prowl…" Hook all but whispers, blowing another puff of air on the Praxian's fitfully throbbing node, causing his doorwings to give a frantic flutter. "Look. Look at how beautiful you are for us. So elegant, so lovely… you're such a treat. So sweet." He presses a honeyed kiss to Prowl's mons this time, talented servos gripping and massaging Prowl's thighs and delighting in the plushness of them - almost fully encircling them despite how thick they've become, a realization that shouldn't make Prowl utterly dizzy with lust yet does.
He turns his helm to the full length mirror on the other end of their berthroom, as directed by Scavenger's gentle digit crooked under his chin - and is promptly left utterly gobsmacked.
He sees himself through their optics, impressed on him across the bond.
Glowing with a warm blush all over, in their optics he's something serene and beautiful. An erotic twist on how one might depict or envision an agent of Primus's will. His soft, ample frame is what they'd consider the epitome of perfection, so healthy and fertile. The lingerie is like a gilded frame highlighting a masterpiece - a finishing touch that makes him utterly ravishing and highlights what they've deemed his best features.
"So lovely."
"You're gorgeous, babe. A real stunner."
"We're s-so lucky…"
Hook is replaced by Mixmaster once more - who returns to his previous endeavor of relentless suckling and tormenting Prowl's now highly sensitized, thoroughly teased node. This time, with Hook's blessing to take him careening towards the finish line.
It doesn't take long for him to overload, gasping and biting back keens and mewls, valve gushing lubricants into Mixmaster's eager mouth as he ardently laps at it, milking Prowl through and past the crest of his orgasm until he's weakly pleading for no more , his pussy almost painfully sensitive from the excess of pede-curling stimulus. One last hard suck of his node earns a shuddering jolt, and then Prowl is lowered to sit on the berth, left shivering, engines purring… processor slowly coming back to itself.
The rush of endorphins, the overwhelming bliss - the certainty of being so deeply, thoroughly, hopelessly adored and loved. His spark throbs and aches as his overactive mind floods anew with thought, the clarity found beyond his overload a sharp, relentless thing.
He doesn't deserve this, his processor informs him quite coldly.
Prowl feels his face crinkle as his optics begin to sting with emotion, lip quivering - he's always been a hideous crier on the rare occasions he does - and the second the first self conscious thought about it hits his mind, his face is being cupped with big, well-worn servos, lips brushing kisses over his cheeks, forehead and wrinkling nose. Bonecrusher retreats back to holding him up, comfortingly stroking a servo down his back and over his flank.
"So lovely - don't cry, lovely. It's alright…" Scavenger is the first to speak, voice soft and possessing a slight panicked tinge. "Unless you need to cry, of course! Then you should definitely cry!"
"I.. I'm… I don't…" Prowl's voice comes out with a humiliating warble, so unlike his usual tone, speech nonsensical - but it only earns him more kisses and doting, not ridicule. Never ridicule, not from his gestalt, who seems to think he hung the very stars in Cybertron's vast skies.
Long Haul grasps one of his servos, grounding him in his overwhelmed state, and Mixmaster takes the other, their digits massaging his palms, stroking over his knuckles, sore from hours of paperwork and gripping a stylus. Someone plants a kiss to the back of his servo - and that's what shatters him. A simple gesture, and he's left wailing into Bonecrusher's throat, having been gathered into his arms the moment the first tear fell, both him and Long Haul forming a cocoon of safety around Prowl's trembling frame with their own large, sturdy ones.
"That's it. Let it all out. You're so beautiful, you know that?"
"E-Even when you're c-crying. It's okay t-to cry."
"You're so gorgeous - even when you're angry at us, and thinking you want to pop our helms off. Actually, especially when you're angry at us."
"Nobody's ever treated you right, huh? You deserve to be treated right, Prowl. We'll take care of you. We love you." Bonecrusher's gruff voice hums in his audial, their servos caressing down his back, cupping his helm, holding his own shaking hands and giving him something to grip and squeeze.
It takes a shamefully long time for him to calm, wet face still buried in Bonecrusher's throat, enveloped in his scent - oil and dust and smoke from their latest worksite, oddly comforting. A shy inquiry across the bond is met with a reassurance that they can wait - their lust tempered by their desire to care for him and make sure he's put back together properly after shattering like that in their arms.
He still feels a bit selfish, despite this.
"C'mon, babe. Let's clean you up. We'll get ours later."
One of them had retreated at some point without his noticing, the sound of a hot oil bath being drawn echoing from their washracks, billowing steam scented like crystal roses tantalizing his overwrought sensors.
His favorite scent - reminiscent of Praxus's long gone gardens - makes his optics sting again. This time, the tears don't fall. He simply feels warm yet raw, spark deeply, intimately touched as he's carried out of the berthroom, knowing he's in for an evening of pampering and being hand fed whatever confections Mixmaster has stored in their pantry.
They're painfully sweet in their eagerness to soothe any lingering feelings of fragility, and despite the earlier glimpse through their adoring optics, it'll take a good while before Prowl fully understands what exactly they see in him that makes them so attentive, that makes them love him so deeply.
For now, they resolve to just keep being there for him, serving tirelessly as his shelter, his shield, and his sword.