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Part Four
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He gave the box a deadpan stare, something dull and resigned in his optics. This was it. He'd hit absolute bottom. The absurdity had broken his sanity. Goodbye, reality.
The box jiggled enticingly. Attempting to understand a mindset that allowed for such stupidity gave him a processor ache. He offlined his optics and brought one hand up to massage at his chevron. "Bonecrusher, just...stop. Stop. I can see you pulling the string."
"You know you want it."
"I'm not a turbofox."
"You wa~ant it."
His optics lit briefly. The box danced. He shut them off again, but he couldn't stop thinking. Memory squeezed his tanks, and a swallow worked his throat without his permission. Chemical receptors along his tongue and the roof of his mouth primed for use despite his wishes. He had to manually shut them off one by one, opening program functions and stopping them.
Yet still the box was there when his optics lit. The string on the corner tugged. "Stop that." He offlined his optics, unwilling to watch the box, and pinched his nasal ridge right below his chevron. Primus give him patience.
rustle rustle
"I can hear you. Do not touch me, or I will break your hand." Fair warning, and they knew to take him at his word. He'd inflicted a dozen such small injuries on the Constructicons since they'd begun following him around.
The rustling didn't stop, however. It got louder, in fact, as footsteps approached. His scanners indicated the unit had him surrounded. They did that whenever possible, and it disturbed him that the crowding had ceased alarming him. The inactive gestalt links within him attempted to ping their counterparts. Even locked down, proximity triggered them. It was a strange comfort, and he should dig out whatever betraying circuit still recognized the Constructicons as self out of his body before it got him killed. He should be justifiably wary that he was surrounded. He shouldn't be merely exasperated, and he definitely shouldn't wonder what that wonderful smell was -
Prowl's optics lit, and he stared in despair at the green hand holding a lavender-frosted treat in front of his face. "One bite," the Constructicon coaxed. "Please? It would make us very happy."
"I am not concerned with your happiness." He winced in dread the second he opened his mouth, but the mech didn't push the thing between his lips. Somehow, the patience surrounding him made this harder to resist. They were trying their best to be respectful, even if it wasn't their version of respect. In a very backward, clumsy way, they were being considerate and caring. They'd done this all for him.
Without asking whether or not he wanted it, but why bother asking when they already knew the answer? He did want it. Just not from them. And that was the part they cheerfully refused to acknowledge.
A hand reached over his shoulder to swipe lavender frosting off the side of the confection and bring it slowly toward his mouth. "Prowl, just try it."
His head drew back as slowly as the finger approached. "I would rather not."
"It's not poisoned," someone promised, almost at a whisper.
"Try it," the Constructicon in front of him all but pleaded.
He told himself he stopped retreating because he'd drawn his helm back as far as his neck would allow. Constructicons surrounded him, hemmed him in, and he couldn't evade. His hands clenched into shaking fists, and he'd have bitten his lip if he had less control.
They did as he'd ordered. They didn't touch him. The finger carefully, tenderly dragged a moist pressure along the crease of his lips, light as a breeze, metal never touching metal, and then it withdrew. Nothing more.
A flicker of resentment passed through his spark for that, although he wasn't entirely certain why. A lost opportunity to lash out, perhaps - or succumb.
Feeling suddenly annoyed by the silly waste of time, he growled his engine at the unit until they backed off a step. Once they withdrew a bit, he impatiently licked at the frosting smeared over his lips. The brisk gesture didn't give away how the burst of flavor overwhelmed him for a split second. How by the Pious Pools had they gotten the taste just right? The texture swept across his mouth as his tongue rubbed the grit against chemical receptors, pressure sensors titillated by silky-fine gel as the larger particles dissolved, flooding his senses.
He locked his joints and let his tongue dart at the last bit of the mess, cleaning it away. Because he preferred tidiness. Yes.
"That's it," one of them said, a relieved moan too intimate for watching him merely lick his lips.
The treat still in front of his face wiggled, tempting and hopeful. "Just one bite? Call it a quality control check. To test if it passes your standards."
Prowl bit his lip.
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