Implosionis the process of destroying an object by collapsing or squeezing in on itself. Unequal inward and outward forces result in the structure collapsing inward as the different between lower internal pressure and higher external pressure reach the implosion point.
LD Bibliotecaria_D
Title: Mindfrag
Authors: Shibara, Bibliotecaria_D
Warnings: Coercion, violent and graphic consensual interfacing with very nonconsensual overtones, manipulation, stalking. And Ratchet. Read at your own risk, because you have been warned.
Rating: NC-17
Continuity: IDW
Characters: Prowl, Constructicons
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): "There needs to be more Prowl/Constructicon porn in the world" + realism.
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Part One
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In a sea of green, Prowl squirmed.
Armored hands glided down the glass pane of the Autobot's doors, making him tremble and groan. Apparently, windows were a very okay place to fondle, so at least one Constructicon was permanently glued to them. It was Mixmaster's turn this time. Doors perked up to demand more pressure when his fingers reached the lower edges, demanding they return for another swipe, and the eager, heavy frame draped over Prowl's back obliged. Mixmaster was more than happy to oblige. Every wish was his command, and he waited for commands.
Another set of hands, possibly belonging to Long Haul but - no, it must be Long Haul. His mental layout of current activities meant Long Haul was crouched at his side. Long Haul's hands mapped out the contours of the tactician's midriff, large fingers gently tracing edges of panels and lights. Each time a thick, blunt tip slid over the smooth surface of glass or metal, they slid slightly from side to side just to catch on the edges in clicking taps that made Prowl twitch. He couldn't predict Long Haul's rhythm, and the tiny jolts of contact hitched his vents.
It made his systems seize. It made his body tense deep within, around whatever happened to be there. The satisfying fullness currently seated in him got the full benefit of those twitchy clenches, and Prowl bucked when Bonecrusher moved just right, withdrawing as he coiled tight, and the aching emptiness made the slow stretch all the sweeter when the Constructicon's hips pushed in again. The squeeze drew out a low grunt from the mech under him, Bonecrusher curling up to scrape his mask between Prowl's doors and adding the sting of scratched metal to the crackling burn lighting under the metal Long Haul teased.
That fire sizzled along nerve wires, licked heat up toward his doors, and pooled desire inside his port, slick and hot. The torturously languid surge and ebb of Bonecrusher working his port made that pool boil, but Prowl restrained himself. Patience, patience. The Constructicon would have taken him faster had he his hands free to control Prowl's hips, but a set of cuffs had them bound at the small of Bonecrusher's back. It put them both off balance, but not enough to stop moving. The small, frantic noises Bonecrusher made between grunts were worth the slow build for Prowl.
One white hand stopped playing with the helm between his legs and shot out to yank Scavenger downward off his self-appointed chevron-nuzzling task. There was only so much Autobot to go around, and the Constructicons had needed to get creative. Since Hook had growled when he'd tried to wriggle between them to mount up and ride, Scavenger had gone for the only other piece of sensitive equipment left. Prowl, however, was an expert at troop deployment. He could maneuver troops to best advantage anywhere he found himself. He had a task for the Constructicon.
He inflicted a kiss on the mech that couldn't be described as anything other than 'mauling.' It had teeth, tongue, and enough biting to make Long Haul moan and wish for a mouth. Scavenger groaned a long note, a mouthful of fuel that tasted like Prowl dripping out between battered lips, and Mixmaster's hand shot over Prowl's shoulder to cup his teammate's jaw. The chemist's thumb smeared the pink of energon down his face, a red flag of weakness or a badge if strength. Scavenger honestly couldn't say which it was, anymore.
The Autobot snarled and attacked the fuel, licking hard and deliberately forcing his tongue into Scavenger's split lip to suck and bite the energon straight from the source. Scavenger's groan became a shuddering series of gasps that stuttered out his open mouth as Prowl savaged his lower lip. When the kiss resumed, there was no more gentleness to it than there had been before, but Scavenger's hands rose to his own throat. Not to fight, no, but to cover the white hand holding him in place. They shook slightly as they pet that hand, almost reverent, definitely possessive, despite how Prowl's fingers dug into his unarmored throat in violent threat at the lingering touch.
Their lips separated only to draw in great gulps of air, the choked panting of two frames close to system overheat. Fans whirred on high. Scavenger onlined his optics, unable to remember when he'd offlined them, and Prowl was there. The larger mech watched vaguely frowning blue optics flash unsteadily with unspent charge and stifled a moan. This time, he lunged forward against the hand on his throat, slamming his mouth into Prowl's. It got him an angry, muffled shout and a sharp bite to his tongue. It was worth it.
Crouched down on the berth between Bonecrusher's knees, Hook ignored the kiss in favor of his own work. Let Long Haul and Mixmaster stare, entranced. He trailed nibbles and kisses up and down the inside of Prowl's thighs, tongue laving the opened gaps between pelvic armor and thighs. Prowl's position straddling Bonecrusher's hips left the Autobot's legs wide apart, lewdly displayed in a display Hook had to admire.
The Autobot should have looked vulnerable surrounded and seated on them, but somehow he managed the aura of a commander. His interface equipment bare, thigh joints creaking faintly, he rode Bonecrusher in a lazy roll of hips. Bonecrusher thrust as best he could into Prowl's port, but the Constructicons' heavy-hitter had no leverage with his hands bound under him like this. Hook could read his desperation in the shaking of Bonecrusher's knees, the way his teammate chased Prowl's rhythm. The squeezing, twitching bucks Long Haul coaxed from Prowl were erratic things that didn't come nearly often enough for the Constructicon under him.
Meanwhile, Hook concentrated on the Autobot's joints, his tongue darting in to lick at sensor-laden wires tucked under the edges of thigh and pelvic armor. One white hand had Scavenger by the neck, but Prowl's other hand had Hook tamed to compliance. The crane's line had been unspooled early on, and even now it was wound around one fist. Prowl played with it, thumb fondling it distractedly. The subtle tugs as frames rocked and twisted sent vibrations down Hook's whole body, and he had to bury his face into Prowl's thigh to hide the soft shapes of unspoken pleas ready on his lips when the mech he worshiped with his mouth suddenly rose up.
Up on his knees, Prowl rocked his hips in a quick circle before sinking down again, glacially slow. Hook watched the port right in front of his visor take Bonecrusher down to the hilt, and a few words might have escaped in a breathy moan as Prowl ground hard against the base, too-large equipment swallowed down. The quiet shriek of damaged interior walls only got louder when Prowl repeated the move, but the Autobot certainly seemed to be enjoying himself. The idea that Prowl wanted Bonecrusher in all the way, that he welcomed the scrapes and stress from his port, made Hook dizzy as he imagined that constriction sliding down him next.
Not that it was difficult to imagine with Bonecrusher's incoherent squeal of static illustrating how it felt. Hook's throat closed around a painful lump of lust, and he crouched down lower, at the mercy of the hand sliding up and down his crane arm. Prowl wouldn't grant him such mercy. As sensitized as he was at the moment, his sensors were confusing his equipment relay clusters, firing off across his nerve system at the lightest touch. It felt like Prowl had him in hand, jerking him with the cruelest of sadistic tugs while he writhed and loved the hand owning him, denying him, giving him exactly what he hadn't known he needed until that hand gave it to him. His vents sobbed, flipping open and shut in helpless little motions as he lapped messily between Prowl's legs. Thighs tensed around his helm as he lavished wet attention on the slick silver rim of the Autobot's port.
That port had Bonecrusher whimpering as it rode up and down him at an excruciatingly measured pace, a rhythm meant to break him in the best way, and Hook had to do something for the poor mech. He slid down lower, tongue trailing heat and charge down until it plunged into his teammate's exposed port. Bonecrusher's hips twisted up off the berth, and a hoarse, static-laden yell came from up the berth. Cuffed hands scrabbled, pinned underneath the pile, and Prowl's engine purred approval.
Approval of them. That was it, and the entire group groaned in concert, pleasure a quick stab through their sparks.
This was all the Constructicons had wanted and needed since the first time they became Devastator with him. This, right here. Well, not exactly this - they had a lot of options, what with having six mechs and creativity on their side - but the general idea of this.
They wanted Prowl to control them. Desire crawled up the back of their spark chambers at the mere thought, and they had seen his mind. He gave orders, and they obeyed, flickers of charge running under their armor as he used them. They wanted him to use them, make them his own. Let them be his so he would be theirs, and they would do whatever he wanted in his name, just because he demanded they do so.
They wanted him, craved him as a void did substance, but above all, what they wanted was for Prowl to want them. They wanted him to feel what they felt, need them as they needed him. They wanted him to feel the empty space where they should be and draw them in to fill it. The shrill, high spike of pleasure as he looked upon them and was pleased lasted a seemingly eternal time. It wasn't everything, but it was something, and they soaked it up.
It rang in their sparks and minds and was, in a way, perfect.
Prowl demanded but responded beautifully. Forgive them if they extrapolated from his tactical skills on the battlefield, but berth skills weren't that much different. The mech was used to being in charge, snapping commands and adjusting according to what happened next, be that a shift in troop movement or Long Haul heaving Bonecrusher into a different position. Overheated and begging somewhere in the back of his vocalizer, Bonecrusher could barely keep his balance up on his knees. Prowl assessed his performance and denied the half-whimpered request to uncuff his wrists. Bonecrusher trembled as he resumed the slow, pumping rhythm of thrust and withdrawal, thrust and withdrawal, and the Autobot sneered up at him, engine whining, revving.
One leg hooked over Bonecrusher's hip, slowing him further until the Constructicon wobbled, vents blasting on high and shaking so much his armor rattled. The heavy vibration channeled right into Prowl's port, and the Autobot groaned in pleasure right before hissing an order that turned their joints to melted rubber. Truth be told, any order from him did that. Even when the words came out ragged and fragmented under the clanging beat of metal-on-metal and strained grunts from Bonecrusher, they never forgot that Prowl was in charge. Perhaps they were hyperaware of the fact, then.
The Constructicons arranged themselves according to the tactician's will, fanning lust and desire deep in their minds, bodies driven wild as he turned them into extensions of himself. His will. His orders. They acted and reacted on the whims of the smallest mech in their midst, and heady, drunken pleasure swelled up in their guts, coiled tightly in the tubing and pumps. The feeling of how much their obedience aroused him slid into them like they were spread open, eager and pleading for it, and their sparks spasmed in their chests as he took them for his own pleasure.
Overload echoed of combining, except this time Prowl wanted it. This time he not only enjoyed it but demanded it, dictated when and where it happened, and commanded how it ought to be. How they ought to be.
The sight of Prowl arching back in overload, doors fanned out on the berth and calculating optics finally blown white in nothing but the sensation of them - that could fry a regular mech on the spot. Connected to him as they were, it magnified the experience into an indescribable wave of tripping breakers, clenching port walls, and the searing spurt of charge grounding deep within, ricocheting back and forth until Prowl's clenched jaw loosened for a single, sighing vent.
The Constructicons seized his overload with everything they had and wrung it dry, using it for their ends until they tipped over the edge, too.
It was only to be expected. That was the way they operated.
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[ A/N:Shibara wrote a thing. She showed me the thing and smirked a lot. Smug emoticons everywhere. I started throwing things in her direction because I have an inability to not write everything and the kitchen sink into things given to me to edit.
Until the curtain rises next time, m'dears. And frag you anyway, Shibara.]