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Prowl looked up unconcernedly as his office door was flung open, the actuators whining in protest at the rough treatment as a large green frame forced its way inside. He’d been expecting as much ever since he’d been notified that the Xantium had landed, and he turned his gaze back to his datapad as Springer stomped in front of his desk, very obviously enraged.
“Prowl…” he growled.
Prowl didn’t bother to look up, making notes on a second datapad as he scrolled through the first. “Unless you’re here to brief me on your mission, Springer, it can wait. I’m busy,” he said dismissively.
Expectedly, the disinterested answer enraged Springer further, but rather than storming out, Springer leaned forward, slamming both palms onto Prowl’s desk. “No, it fraggin’ well can’t, Prowl,” he snarled furiously. “That was a suicide mission, you cold-sparked slagger!”
Prowl sighed and carefully placed his datapads on a pile before lifting his helm to look at Springer disinterestedly. “It was nothing of the sort,” he replied mildly. “I gave you the statistics. It was dangerous, but not unduly so, given the objective.” He paused, rifling through another stack of datapads for one in particular. When he found it, he scrolled through it briefly before looking back up at Springer. “From the preliminary report, it seems the mission was a success, even considering the collateral damage. Now, is there a problem, Springer? I have work to do.”
“A success?” Springer roared, leaning forward over Prowl’s desk, using his sheer bulk in an unconscious attempt to intimidate the smaller mech. “I lost a Wrecker, and there’s another in stasis, and you consider it a success?!”
“We’re at war, Springer. Losses are inevitable,” he said coolly, lifting an optic ridge. “I have a file of potential recruits, if you require replacements.” He pulled out yet another datapad, sliding it between Springer’s hands where they were splayed on his desk. The datapad had a short life—Springer made an incoherent noise of rage, lifting a hand and smashing his fist down on the datapad, cracks spider-webbing across its screen.
“Replacements?” Springer was suddenly on the other side of the desk and pulling Prowl up by his collar fairing. “REPLACEMENTS?! Do my mechs’ lives mean nothing to you?”
Prowl’s optics narrowed at the rough treatment, finally displaying the first sign of emotion since Springer had walked in. “Collateral damage, Springer,” he said tersely, glaring. “Sometimes sacrifices must be made, but you’ve never understood that, have you?”
Springer snarled, turning to slam Prowl against the wall and hold him there with an arm pressed across his chest. “I don’t understand? You’re the one who doesn’t understand what it’s like to lose mechs because you’ve been sent on a Primus-damned suicide mission!”
Prowl’s jaw clenched at the accusation, optics narrowing further. “It was a calculated risk. Casualties fell within acceptable parameters.” Especially given that the two mechs in question had been new recruits, but Prowl didn’t think that would appease Springer.
“Parameters,” Springer repeated furiously. “Everything’s just numbers to you, Prowl, isn’t it? What about this—is this just numbers to you, too?” On a wild impulse, Springer leaned in, capturing Prowl’s mouth in a hard kiss.
For a long moment, Prowl was still and unresponsive against Springer—until the larger mech nipped sharply at Prowl’s lower lip. The action somehow seemed to spur him into motion; he caught Springer’s upper lip just as his had been caught, biting roughly enough to leave a dent. He’d never tell Springer as much, of course, but it grated to assign missions, knowing the exact probabilities that the units involved wouldn’t return without casualties. That each one was necessary didn’t assuage the guilt he didn’t allow himself the luxury of dwelling on.
That Springer was arrogant enough to assume Prowl felt nothing… It was characteristic and entirely infuriating; he growled, optics narrowing as he shoved at the orange chest in front of him.
Springer pulled back and smirked, the expression cruel, tinged as it was with his anger and pain and loss. “Was that in your calculations, Prowl?”
Of course it hadn’t been—Prowl had assumed he’d be met with Springer’s usual volatility and violence. Not… not this. But then this, too, was aggression, he supposed. Harnessed and given purpose, but aggression nonetheless. And Prowl suddenly found that he needed this just as much as Springer did. His thoughts had only taken a split-second, and he answered Springer by grabbing his helm with a growl and pressing their mouths together forcefully. The kiss was a battle from the instant Springer’s lips touched his, neither willing to yield. When Prowl finally released Springer’s helm, ventilating heavily, there was a trace of pink energon smeared across the larger mech’s lips and dentae and an answering laceration at the corner of Prowl’s mouth.
Prowl glared, but this time it wasn’t a threat. This time it was a blatant challenge, his chin lifted as he stared down it provocatively, superciliously in a silent question: Well? Well, was Springer angry enough to continue, or had he had enough?
Springer’s arm stayed where it was, resolute, as he wedged a thigh between Prowl’s legs. He pressed forward, pinning the smaller mech against the wall with his whole frame and angling his thigh to grate against Prowl’s interface panel, throwing sparks and sending vibrations rattling through his pelvic region. In response, Prowl angled his helm to bite sharply at the cabling in Springer’s neck, muffling a groan.
It could have become a competition between them—Prowl’s ability to hold out versus Springer’s resolve to make him fail—but they wanted only to feel. As soon as Springer’s hand touched Prowl’s panel, it retracted with a loud click and a buck of Prowl’s hips into the contact. The triplechanger growled, grinding their hips together. He was bound and determined to make Prowl feel something other than that infernal cold calculation, and Prowl wasn’t going to stop him. Not even Primus himself would be able to stop him.
A groan escaped him at the thought of cold, aloof Prowl speared by his spike, forced out of his cool, assessing distance and into the immediacy of heat and emotion. He wanted to see the tactician come undone. His spike surged in its housing, and he saw no reason not to release it; his panel retracted and his spike cover irised away as he pulled back just enough to allow his spike to pressurize against Prowl’s frame. A glossy drop of lubricant already welled from the tip, spilling down its jutting length only to be smeared along Prowl’s black pelvic armor.
“You’re dirty, Prowl,” Springer snarled as he looked down. “You’re dirty with my mechs’ energon, and you’ll be dirty with my fluids before I’m done with you.”
Prowl said nothing in response, glaring and bucking sharply against Springer as his only reply. He had nothing to say that the Wrecker would understand. That everything he did was necessary, that it was the plan that incurred the least casualties, that had the least repercussions—all of that was lost on Springer. It was only his precious Wreckers that mattered to him, and Prowl dealt with his fury every time he returned from a mission gone wrong. He hated it, hated seeing the emotional tolls of the losses just as much as he hated seeing the casualty reports that constantly ended up on his desk. But Springer only saw his detached, distant façade.
With one hand, he pulled Springer’s helm down to meet his again, the other pressing against the larger mech’s back, trying to force Springer to frag him, already. It was futile, mass and leverage working against him, making him entirely unable to force the triplechanger to do anything—and if there was a single thing Prowl hated above anything else, it was impotency. He growled into the biting kiss before tearing his mouth away.
“Are you waiting for my approval, Springer?”
This time it was Springer didn’t deign to reply. He let out a low, impassioned growl and pressed Prowl higher on the wall, lifting one of Prowl’s legs and hooking it around his waist as he lined the tip of his spike up with Prowl’s slick valve and slowly began to press inside.
Both of them groaned—it was tight. Springer’s spike was well above average in size, and Prowl’s valve significantly smaller. Momentarily overcome by the flood of sensation, Prowl’s helm fell back against the wall, ventilations heaving as his valve’s calipers struggled to adjust to the sheer size of the spike slowly sliding into him. Springer didn’t stop, didn’t allow him time to adjust, too overcome by anger and lust to do anything but continue to thrust inexorably inward.
When he had finally hilted himself in the tight, slick grip of Prowl’s clenching valve, he paused, panting, looking down at the place where they were joined—Prowl’s valve was stretched tightly around the circumference of his spike. This was the most accommodating the mech had ever been, and by far, he sneered to himself. But he was still for a second too long, and his helm snapped up to meet Prowl’s angry stare when the smaller mech’s valve began trying to forcibly expel him.
“Move,” was the hissed order. The hands that had been gripping his neck were now pushing at his chest, white fingertips digging in and scraping orange flecks of paint from Springer’s armor. “Move, damn you.”
“No,” Springer snarled abruptly. “No, I’m not taking orders right now. We’re doing this my way.” His hands moved down to grasp Prowl’s hips, using his grip to hold the smaller mech’s hips still against the wall. He pressed their pelvic armor together, sliding his thick, long spike as deeply into the small valve as he possibly could. Prowl’s ventilations hitched and his face contorted at the surge of sensation—the tip of Springer’s spike was jammed against his ceiling nodes, continuously stimulating the sensors there almost to the point of pain as Springer ground his hips against Prowl’s.
A hateful smirk spread across the green mech’s face, and he withdrew just enough to make a small, forceful, inward thrust. Prowl hissed a ventilation between his dentae, his valve clenching down hard on Springer’s spike—Springer’s smirk only widened at the reaction. “What do your calculations tell you now, Prowl?”
Prowl snarled, trying to shift his hips and force Springer to move, but the Wrecker’s iron grip made it impossible. When he stilled, giving up, he growled, “I didn’t know you were one to waste time talking, Springer.”
Springer laughed harshly, but capitulated anyway to the unspoken demand. He withdrew, the mesh of the valve lining clinging to his spike as it dragged across sensor nodes, setting each one alight with sensation. Calipers cycled down around his spike even as it retreated. Springer paused, having withdrawn almost fully, and Prowl’s valve clamped down tightly on just the head of his spike as the smaller mech tilted his helm in another blatant challenge.
The pressure was incredible, and with a feral growl, Springer hitched Prowl’s leg higher around his waist, opening up his hips as, in one swift motion, the triplechanger sheathed his spike in that slick heat. Prowl’s optics flared with the sudden rush of pleasure, a gasped moan escaping him. Spurred on by the sound, Springer didn’t wait for more of a response, instead lifting Prowl’s other leg and pressing the white mech bodily to the wall as he set a driving rhythm.
His mouth found Prowl’s again, meeting in a harsh, biting kiss as he slammed roughly into the tight, wet valve. His spike throbbed within its snug heat, wringing another impassioned groan from Prowl when his length slid across a cluster of highly-sensitized nodes. The calipers cycled down reflexively, constricting around his spike, and Springer found himself unable to hold back his own vocalizations. The knowledge that this was Prowl moaning beneath him—cold, calculating Prowl being driven insensate with pleasure—fueled his own arousal to a point he hadn’t thought possible.
Prowl, for his part, wrapped his legs around Springer’s waist and a hand behind the green helm, trying to draw the triplechanger closer still. “Harder,” he growled. He wanted the aggression, Springer’s fierce strength. It was something visceral, something tangible to fight against, rather than the constant flood of probabilities and possibilities he dealt with. “Harder.”
Springer was too consumed by his own lust and anger to argue, instead readjusting his grip on Prowl’s hips and using the leverage to thrust even more forcefully. His fingers dug into the black pelvic armor, leaving clear indentations, but neither of them could be bothered to care about the damage. Prowl’s helm dropped back against the wall, exposing his neck to Springer, who took the opportunity to latch on to the cabling with his dentae. His hips canted into the thrusts while he clutched at Springer’s helm and back, scraping away flecks of green paint and leaving shallow gouges in the metal.
Prowl cried out with each intense thrust, and he could feel the vibrations of Springer’s muffled grunts traveling through his neck. He was close already—so close, the pleasure searing its way through his systems. From the tension in Springer’s frame, he could tell that that he was in a similar state. Prowl snarled and dug his fingers into seams between plates of armor, wrapping them around clusters of wires and twisting. He was rewarded with a thrust, brutal in its intensity, and a flash of mixed pleasure and pain from where Springer’s dentae were bearing down on his neck.
His fans whirred at their maximum speed, trying to cool his rapidly-heating frame, but still his core temperature was rising. Prowl readjusted his legs around Springer’s waist in yet another attempt to force Springer to thrust harder, harder. Springer’s spike was hot and hard and solid within him, sending liquid heat flaring through his sensor net with each punishing stroke, but he needed more. He knew his valve would be aching later, but he couldn’t bring himself to care; he clawed at Springer’s back as his own arched in desperate need, the hand wrapped around the back of Springer’s helm pressing him closer against his neck.
And Springer was too far gone to gloat, his engine only giving a smug, satisfied rumble as he continued to pound into Prowl’s rippling, clenching valve. His overload was just on the verge of overcoming him, his systems crackling with charge; he shuddered as an inexorable surge of pleasure rolled over him like a wave and he thrust deeply into the valve, gasping into Prowl’s neck. He couldn’t overload, not yet—he’d be damned if he overloaded before Prowl did.
Prowl’s ventilations stalled when Springer suddenly changed the angle of his thrusts, the head of his spike now dragging against an entirely different cluster of nodes. A jolt of pleasure blazed along his wiring with each unyielding stroke, and his valve fluttered and spasmed in response. He was moaning unashamedly now, consumed by the flood of sensation coursing through him.
And then Springer drove forcefully into the back of his valve, and Prowl’s overload crashed over him, the deep, burning pleasure in his valve sending electricity racing wildly through his wiring. He cried out, his voice accompanied by the screech of metal on metal as his fingers grated against Springer’s armor, and his valve clamped down hard, clenching spasmodically around the spike filling him.
Springer let out a low, strained groan against Prowl’s neck, unable to hold out any longer. His hips stuttered, and he thrust a final time, pressing his spike as deeply into Prowl as he could, grinding their pelvic armor together as he shuddered, overloading. His transfluid jetted into the tight valve, filling the scant space. The hot flood inside him triggered an intense second wave of Prowl’s overload, and his valve clenched even further, clamping impossibly tight around Springer’s spike. His valve couldn’t contain the fluid—it coated their interface panels in liquid silver and ran in scalding rivulets down their thighs.
They stayed like that for several long moments, locked together by the force of their overloads, but as the haze slowly ebbed into tired satiation, Springer collapsed against Prowl and the wall, holding both of them upright nearly through friction alone. Prowl was mostly lax against him, ventilations slowing and legs slowly sliding to the floor, down from where they’d been wrapped tightly around Springer’s waist.
Springer’s optics flickered back online, Matrix blue tinting the white plating of Prowl’s helm, which was still tilted back against the wall in fading ecstasy. But when the triplechanger began to slowly pull back, Prowl’s helm fell forward, locking his gaze with Springer’s for a moment. He was too exhausted and sated to muster a proper glare, but he made a respectable effort; Springer returned the look with a half-sparked scowl of his own, taking a step back as he did so, pulling his spike from Prowl’s valve in a wet slide.
Mixed lubricant and transfluid spilled down white thighs, and Prowl looked down, grimacing at the mess. When he looked back up, Springer was smirking smugly at him, and Prowl sneered back, though it was hardly effective, given the situation. He pushed Springer away, and though there was little force behind the movement, the larger mech yielded, still smirking as he took a step back.
Prowl pushed himself off the wall and upright as soon as he had the space, chin lifted defiantly as he glared at Springer, who was tucking his spike away and still—still—smirking. “Are you happy?” he asked acidly.
Springer appeared to consider for a moment, optics flicking over Prowl’s frame until they came to rest on his thighs, still stained and slicked with fluids. “Heh. Yeah, think I am,” he replied with his insufferable grin, his tone betraying his smug superiority.
Prowl’s face contorted, mouth twisting briefly before settling back into cold, flat unresponsiveness. “Get out,” he said sharply, helm jerking in the direction of the door.
Springer laughed derisively. “Sure thing, Prowl.” And he sauntered from the room, smug with the knowledge that he’d managed to crack Prowl’s cold, hard exterior, if only for those short few minutes. It felt like he’d managed to get just that little bit of revenge on the mech, revenge that was long overdue. It wasn’t enough, would never be enough to make up for the mechs he’d lost to Prowl’s orders, but… it was something, at least.
Prowl watched the door hiss shut behind Springer’s retreating back and stood in place for a moment, jaw clenching. He exvented slowly, then returned to his desk, his valve twinging with each step. It was a simple matter to prop a foot on his chair, pull a cleaning cloth from subspace, and wipe away the fluids still trickling slowly down his thighs. But the removal of the obvious evidence didn’t erase the ache in his valve, or the feeling of having exorcised some amount of guilt, and for now he was glad of that.
He might have sat there for a while, enjoying the strange respite—but he’d already wasted enough time, and there were mountains of paperwork yet to complete. He bent to the waiting datapads.