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anon-e-miss · 6 months

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Hazing - 2

Prowl raised his servo, shielding his optics from the sun beams that broke through his window. Groaning, he pushed himself up onto his elbows. His hood bounced up and Prowl flushed with shock and anger. Though he pushed it down hard, the latches would not hold. As he held his hood down with one servo, Prowl ran the other down his belly as he reached for his groin. Like his hood, the latches of his girdle had popped, no doubt from the kilolitres of transfluids someone had flooded his gestational tank with. Despite his best efforts, Prowl could not latch his girdle, even though he pressed his bloated belly so hard half processed transfluids spurt from his valve and he collapsed with a groan. Who? Who had fragged him?

He remembered the team tying him up and shoving stylus’ into his aft port, valve and spike and Prowl remembered them pushing spike rings down his spike and latching a clamp to his node. They had snickered as they had forced his charge to rise without relief, that was the sound his helm had gone blank at. Sometime later, someone had come. Not only had they come into his office, they had come in him. His panel was still pulled back and Prowl gasped as he found his valve folds tender and gaping. Just from moving a little, he knew his afthole was in a similar state. How many mechanisms had fragged him while he was out? Who? The Spec Ops agents were not large mechs. Had they fisted him to leave him in this wrecked a state.

The stench of interface hung in Prowl’s office. It stank of stale transfluids. He pushed himself up and slid off his desk, hobbling as he tried to stand. Pools of transfluids were on his desk, more were on the floor. There was no way Prowl was going to summon a cleaning crew for this. His team knew what they had done but no one else needed to. Prowl could not afford to develop that sort of reputation. It would be a fight to regain his footing with the operatives. As Prowl looked at the stylus’ scattered all over the floor, he promised himself that he would put each and every one of them in their place, all Prowl had to do was sort out how. His processor fixed on this as he scrubbed his desk and then the floor. They might have outnumbered him but who was to say he had to take them at the same time?

“Ya got a lil stain there by yer keyboard,” Jazz noted as he sauntered into Prowl’s office. Startled, Prowl sat up straight and the tape holding his hood down gave and it popped back up, almost hitting him in the face.

“Ya almost wouldn’t know,” Jazz said, putting a cube of black energon down on the stained bit of desk. “After a few cycles o’ air filtration, ya won’t smell it quite the same. But y’re gonna look at that spot ya hit wit yer trash can ‘n that one on yer desk, ‘n yer gonna remember. When ya get up, y’ll leave a puddle in your chair.”

“You,” Prowl hissed. “You fragged me.”

“It was that or had ya o’er to Pharma to get yer charge drained off,” Jazz replied. “I didn’t think ya’d like havin’ that report on yer record.”

“No,” Prowl agreed.

“Look at ya wit yer armour taped,” Jazz teased him. “Ya look like a freshmech after a college party.”

“I blame you for this,” Prowl hissed.

“Yer hood popped all on its own, Prowler,” Jazz told him. “That’s what ya get wearing a chestplate two sizes too small.”

“It is not,” Prowl countered, blushing a deep red. Jazz laughed and he flicked Prowl’s hood and it bounced up into his face again. A moment later it was gone, not down but gone. Prowl covered the whole as his wells all but spilled out of it.

“Three sizes too small then,” Jazz replied. He brushed his digit over Prowl’s nozzle. “What’s this.”

“Ack!” Prowl gasped as Jazz flashed the drop of energon at him, and then licked it off all the while keeping optic contact. He flushed with humiliation.

“They keep ya ‘way from yer bitty all dark-cycle?” Jazz asked.

“No,” Prowl replied. “The progenitor has custody.”

“Poor Prowl,” Jazz said. Prowl was frozen as Jazz peeled his chassis off him and left his engorged wells to fall free. “Wit wells this full the bitty’s gotta be pretty fresh. Ya outta still be recoverin’ not workin’.”

“Sentinel gave his orders,” Prowl replied.

“How can he give a Copbot orders?” Jazz asked. Prowl blanched. “He let one o’ his freaks breed ya, Prowler? Then give the bitty to the freak?”

“What do you care?” Prowl asked.

“Call me old fashion but I think bitties are best left with their oris ‘less that ori’s a piece o’ scrap,” Jazz replied. He leaned across the desk. “Are ya a piece o’ scrap?”

“No,” Prowl replied.

“I have to agree,” Jazz said. “Ya did good work for me ‘n mine. Every spot ya tweak in that brief was on point.”

“I am pleased your recovery mission was a success,” Prowl replied.

“It’s cute that ya mean that,” Jazz declared. “Sincerity’s an odd thing ‘round here.”

“What do you want, Jazz?” Prowl asked.

“Since ya got me ‘n mine back safe, I figured I best check up on ya,” Jazz told him. “‘N since I helped ya pop yer latches, figured I’d best help get ya sorted too.”

“Oh,” Prowl said. “Stand up, Prowler,” Jazz said. “Take that girdle off so I can take yer measurements.”

Prowl did not have to obey but it seemed foolish to refuse the help. He had been struggle to think of a way to escape back to his own barracks with his armour in such disarray. Jazz was not servos off as he took measurements, not at all. The tactician was keenly aware that this mech had fragged him but he did not remember a moment of the act. He could not stand with his legs together due to the way Jazz had ravaged him. How did a mech a full helm shorter than Prowl possess a spike that could do that sort of damage? Jazz brushed his digits over Prowl’s belly, over the stretch marks that glared on his sentio-metallico. It was less loose now, because of the transfluids Jazz had filled him with but it was still soft.

“I couldn’t even tell ya’d just popped out a bitty,” Jazz told him. “Ya healed well from it.”

“I heal quickly,” Prowl replied.

“On the surface,” Jazz replied and Prowl’s optics narrowed. “Ya can’t play meek wit me, Prowler, I work wit ya. Ya put yerself under his thumb ‘cause ya know yer only chance to e’er see yer bitty is through ‘m. Yer spark sick.”

“My spark is none of your concern,” Prowl countered.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Jazz said. “I like what yet processor can do. Don’t let it break on me.”

“No one and nothing can break me,” Prowl replied.

“Those afts out there are in for an education,” Jazz guessed.

“Stay out of my way,” Prowl insisted. “Or you’ll learn the same lesson alongside them.”

Jazz did not ask Prowl’s opinions for his armour. When he returned with it, well after the usual work joor was over, Prowl sighed at the sight of it. It was snugger to his frame than his old armour, though it was also properly fitted. Adjustable panels allowed for the armour to hug his belly now and still hug it when it had gone flat. His chestplate hugged his wells too, instead of compressing them. Jazz installed something in his subspace and a remote in Prowl’s arm. When Jazz flicked a switch, Domes covered Prowl’s wells, behind his hood, and started to pump. Energon flowered from his aching nozzles. Prowl’s cheekplates flushed.

“Ya don’t wanna let these dry up,” Jazz explained, lightly patting Prowl’s hood. “Yer gonna wanna fuel yer bitty when ya get yer chance wit’m.”

“I have no way to know that will ever happen,” Prowl said, feeling teary suddenly. “Tarantulas is his favourite madmech.”

“Sentinel goes through favourites like most mecha go through towels,” Jazz replied. “Y’ll get yer bitty. Now go home.”

“You do not want to take your due?” Prowl asked.

“Am I due ya, Prowler?” Jazz asked.

“Are you not?” Prowl countered.

“We’ll see,” Jazz replied. He patted Prowl’s back. “Go home.”

Taking a more winding route through the Primal palace, Prowl walked past the mess hall. At this joor, it should have been been empty but a dozen or more mech were milling about. Prowl peered in through the doorway as there was a... shift change between the crowd by the energon dispenser. From the puddle of transfluids and lubricants, Treadbolt had seen a great deal of action already. As he had spiked Prowl’s energon to make him more complascent, Prowl had spiked his. He had slapped on of Wheeljack’s failed ops weapons on the Seeker and then waited for his moment. When the Seeker had tumbled against the wall, Prowl had activated the weapon and Treadbolt had fallen through the wall but only part way, leaving his lower half in the mess.

How long he had been stuck there before someone had taken advantage, Prowl did not know. The Seeker had told Prowl to remember his place, beneath him, beneath all. He was only a Praxian after all. Prowl was curious as to his state and peered into the kitchen on the other side of the wall. Someone else had thought to look here and they were fragging Treadbolts face and recording the act as he ordered Treadbolt to swallow every drop and the Seeker did as he clung to the thigh plating of his abuser. Seekers considered themselves superior to grounders. All ground frametypes existed to serve and to please them. It must have galled Treadbolt to be stuck pleasing grounder spike. His cockpit had popped open, so full of grounder cum as he was. Prowl left his fate. The conductor of his humiliation had been handled, now the rest remained.

#valveplug #anon-e-miss writes #maccadams #tf prowl #tf jazz #nonconsensual #stuck in a wall #hazing #mechpreg

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