The Lord of Praxus sat back in his special armchair, thinking about just HOW decadent the nobles of Cybertron had sunk in the past many vorns. Always thinking about themselves, selling their own future to another city-state just for passing favors or, most horribly for him: out of carelessness. They didn't consider what would befall their reign on the long-term as long as they got their syk and highgrade and other stimulants. Prowl wasn't a philanthropist to be worried for the everyday mechanisms in these nobles' territories - his criticism towards the nobles rooted in the fact he was one of them.
As he comfortably settled in the armchair that was built especially for his personal needs, a small message popped up on the monitor in front of him.
V/S/B/N
Prowl lifted up a lazy hand and poined at N for "none". No, he would need his focus now. A female Kaonian was sheduled for audition in the afternoon, and he needed all his focus on her. Nor females nor Kaonians were logical or harmless beings, and Prowl just sat back and organized his thoughts.
What did he know about the femme?
For one: she was a syk addict. What else? Upperclass. Forged. Designation "Extra". Her creator intended her to be regal golden with blue and white highlights, she had herself repainted to green with white. Some say this was to cover her wounds after a rust infection. Some say she caught said rust infection in the berth of the late Nominus Prime - and inherited quite some money after his tragic accident.
Prowl couldn't tell how much the femme really inherited, but he was certain that she was capable of wasting all that fortune in one go. Prejudice? Maybe. Judgement? Of course not. Prowl couldn't judge a mechanism who might have been onlined with the same coding he was. However, a question popped into his mind: what if the femme chose another color because of the dreaded GPS? If so, she might have not been shortsighted at all. The more Prowl thought about it, the more he started to believe that Extra was anything but stupid.
The doors of Prowl's office opened, and an elegant green femme with light gray face and charmingly blue optics stepped in. Her face expression indicated distress and she looked up at Prowl as if he was there to save her. She appeared to be rich but somewhat unintelligent - Prowl immediately noted that to be a facade when his sensors picked up the heat signature of a second set of processors well hidden under her shoulder plates. The femme was looking dum on purpose.
"Lady Extra of Kaon" Prowl bowed down to her. "What do I owe the honor?"
That elegant movement of just one hand would have been enough to sweep any mech off his feet. Her beauty impressed Prowl, but also alerted his tactician programming to activate. All this, Prowl remembered, was a show for him. He had to play along, but he shouldn't fall for it, he knew. Or else he may or may not end like Nominus Prime did. Or worse.
"My dear neighbor, Lord of Praxus" the female started "I am in a desperate situation. I'm worried by the crowd, frightened by the mob, and I fear that end is near. I already placed active security systems on my estates, but I fear those wouldn't last. I hired guards from Polyhex, but I'm not sure I could be safe with them. You, good sir, are rumored to be not just a remarkable noblemech, but also a brilliant strategist mastermind, and I decided to seek your advice and help."
So this femme was feeling unsafe in the society she created, she understands that her subordinates' hunger is slowly turning into bloodthirst. Praxus had always been a safe and secure polity, not because its inhabitants were suppressed, but because there was no need to suppress them. Prowl had always been mindful of those ranking lower than him. In front of him was standing the example of what would have happened if he hadn't been.
"Excuse me, good lady. Praxus is a peaceful polity and we need our soldiers on the borders in these hard times. As much as I wish to help you out, I cannot offer you arms without risking the security of my own people."
"I understand that, good sir..." Ah, that look. Full of sheer desire, now. "I'm not asking you to move your warriors from Praxus."
Now Prowl picked up a scent of propex. It was the basis of many medical liquids, but also the vehicle of artificial feromones. Heat-feromones, for example. With an inward sigh, he offlined his receptors.
Extra's plan was clear to him, now. The female wanted to stay in Praxus for the foreseeable future. As his berthmate, she would have left the angered workers in her city-state. She would have continued to live in luxury while her home cracked under the hunger of mechanisms her kind used and abused.
Despite his offed feromone-sensors, Prowl detected how hot the female was. He couldn't help wondering if her spike was as pleasant in a mech's valve as it is said to be. According to rumors and unrelyable statistics, females were better than what any mech could ever be. The speculation behind this theory was that since they have no valves, their entire sexuality is focused into the spike. And Prowl would have normally jumped for the occasion to berth an extremely good-looking femme, but now he HAD to be sober. His life might have depended on it.
Her bright green plates connected neatly to her structural panels, her shoulder kibbles hinted an elegant and possibly flight-capable alternate mode. She must have had a perfectly symmetrical transformation sequence and a slightly curved silhouette in alt mode. Despite all his intentions, Prowl couldn't help but wonder if she could make sex in alt - interfacing with somebot with both of them in their alts was one of his favorite fantasies. He would daydream about Extra taking him in public, yes, perhaps in the middle of the Interstate Bridge, and the mechs at Maccadam's would stare out of the windows, and cheer them on, cheer them on...
No. Prowl aborted that line of thought rapidly. For that, he will have to survive. He could not let this femme manipulate him. He had to be sober. He had to keep his soldiers sober, because if she would stay with him, soon the elegant Praxian palace would be a home of intriques, jealousy, then bloodshed. Exactly what his battle programming forecasted to happen in Kaon. To be happening in Kaon, right now.
She leant closer to him, then touched his wrist. Oh, she was hot. That innocent-looking, charming smile hinted that she was well aware of the conflict in him, but she pretended to have caused it by accident. Her charming head kibbles shivered, and Prowl could smell a second wave of propex. He had to control his thoughts. But how could he do that? How could have he resisted that light grey face that was only a few shades paler than that of Winglord Starscream of Vos? Suddenly Prowl had a few ideas why so many grounders had a crush on the Seeker. What if he could have them both? Since the femme only has a spike, Prowl could push his own into the white-red-blue Starscream. He never had a Seeker partner before, but it could have been so hot to spike into such a strong and airborne mechanism. While his own valve would be full with the green noble's spike.
That thought was definitely worth living for. But now he was in his office with Extra, and she seemed to have very much wanted something from him. Why? Prowl wasn't certain. What if the riots in Kaon were only a good excuse for the femme? Why did she want him to be so distracted, so vulnerable? Who knows how many berthmates she had at home, what if some decided to come after her? And the workers? The least he needed was a mob of criminals running amok in Praxus. No spike on Cybertron was worth that.
After all, he had to turn Extra down. He hoped she would understand, of course she didn't. She refused to accept his decision, then started begging, then offered up anything she had, then asked for at least some ammunion that could be placed on her shuttle.
"I will see what I can do" Prowl said coldly. OK, as cold as he could while his mind was still running with fantasies of the two of them on the Interstate Bridge.
"I'm giving you everything I have" she said, handing over a box with white and black colors. "All I ask is your protection. If all you can focus on is your safety, then I ask you to take care of him too. What you have in your hands, sir, is all I have left."
"Him?" Prowl echoed. Suddenly this didn't feel right. Soooo didn't feel right.
He opened the box, and faced the intense blue light coming off of it.
"All I have of Nominus" Extra sobbed. "Take him! At least, then, sir, YOU WILL HAVE A SPARK."
With that, she marched out of the office.
Prowl didn't halt her, simply because he was too shocked for that. His logical processors gave out as he processed Extra's words. He was holding a living spark in his hands, and not just that, he was holding the spark of Nominus Prime and Extra's offspring.
He pinged his security officer and told him to give the green femme as many weapons as she can carry. Then he sank back into his armchair with the spark in his hands.
As the armchair detected its owner's weight, it popped the same letters to the holoprojector.
V/S/B/N
No more plotting for today, Prowl sighed. It was time for some well-deserved rest. And what if the femme would return?
Hah, nothing. She will spread word that the Lord of Praxus doesn't take partners anymore because all he needs is his office chair that does the work on him. Prowl wasn't sure how many other nobles had armchairs like this one, but he estimated at least a dozen.
He pointed at the S and retracted his spike's cover. He sprawled a little, only so that the panel in the armchair could rise from the surface between his legs. He settled closer, and soon he could feel the pressure against his naked spike. Yes, this was what he needed right now. A little distraction from the illogical world around him. He looked at the white and black box he was currently holding with one hand, and he gently placed it on the table. He will need to order a frame for him. He will need to look up education guides and buy various programs for the youngling. If the political situation will escalate (and Prowl was certain it would) they would also need weapons and an updated tactical programming.
Oooooooh. The protrusion of the armchair opened its comfortably warm and smooth cavity, and its gentle vacuum sucked the spike inside. The mech didn't need to do anything, only let the pre-programmed action continue. The armchair's opening comfortably massaged the spike, pressure and suction alternating in a familiar rhythm. Touch of warm metal. Touch of wet tissue. Pull. Pressure circling from the root to the peak, twice. Gentle suction on the peak while heated metal was holding the lower half of the spike. Slight vibration. (Oh, how good it felt!) Hot liquid coming down his way, adsorbed by the sitting surface of the armchair. Pressure. Suction. Everything predictable and familiar. Prowl could focus on the more important thing.
The spark in the box seemed to have felt the changes around him, although it was unclear whether it was calling out for its source-spark or was it reacting to the chair-generated pleasure of Prowl. Whichever it was, the mech was soon going to have his hands full with a youngster. Now that nobot else was in the room with him and the Praxian noble was enjoying his armchair's artificial pleasure, life didn't seem to be hard at all. Challenging, yes, but in general - good.
Suction. Pressure. Prowl slightly increased the strength of the chair's actions, then moaned as he felt the artificial grip tightening on his spike. It was so good that it was almost unbearable. The suction intensified. The pace, because Prowl didn't touch that turner, remained the same.
"Ooooooh. Uuuuuuuh. Aaaaargh." The mech muttered to himself, almost whispering, and even that only because he knew he was alone in the room. He turned the pressure even higher. The armchair's grip on him intensified again.
"Gooooooooooood" Prowl panted, although there was nothing around him to record and process the praise. And he was aware of this, so he continued to give off meaningless moans as the pleasure continued.
This chair was so worth the ten thousand shanix he had paid for it. It was an ideal solution for those who didn't have anyone they would trust to go to berth with.