Title: Playing the Long Odds

Warning: Autobots. Awkward. _ and sticky sex.

Rating: R

Continuity: G1

Characters: Autobots, Smokescreen, Prowl

Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors.

Motivation (Prompt): "Nervous _ Prowl with a crush, and _." Commission by DisplacedNoble.

[* * * * *]

Part Seven

[* * * * *]

Smokescreen was losing. Was he ever losing. The tales of his many losses would be retold in this hall for years to come. The profane language he'd used while going down in flames was already being laughed at. The winners were not sympathetic folk. They were ruthless, cunning foes who were merciless in defeating him again and again.

Across the hall, Prowl looked up from patiently explaining the Autobot Cause for the fifth time. "Are you sure you are fine?" he asked through their commlinks.

"I'm getting my aft kicked by grannies. This is great!" Out loud, he snarled, "To the Pit with you!" at Ms. Fang, who'd just ripped off a triumphant cackle.

"Bingo!" she called anyway, and Smokescreen slammed his hand on the table. His nearest neighbors echoed him, although their table-slaps didn't shake the furniture. Their language was just as salty, however.

Forget Spike, Carly, and Raoul's age group; Smokescreen's newest favorite demographic was 70 years old and up. They weren't as prone to jumping into danger and some of them didn't change their minds easily, but they had scrap-all to lose by giving their opinions and talking bluntly about the past. He'd rooted out more on how the USA treated veterans, minorities, and poor people through sitting down at this table than he'd ever found through talking with politicians or academics.

Smokescreen knew social networks. Treating them as ambassadors, guests, and possibly spies meant that the humans kept the Autobots isolated in the upper tiers of their social strata. That severely limited the scope of information available. Finding a chink in the humans' network opened up a new realm of possibilities for gathering information, and SpecOps had been scouting for new sources since their old ones began running dry. It wouldn't surprise Smokescreen in the slightest if Prowl had combined business and pleasure by bringing him here for a date. No denying that he was having fun, but he was forging ties to insiders, here.

Well, the gambler was following precedent on that. Bumblebee had brought the Witwickys into the Autobot circle originally because Bumblebee was a friendly mech - but also because he was SpecOps. Infiltrators recognized a resource when it wanted to be friends. Now the Witwickys were Earth Ambassadors, and they were too high-up to be helpful with accessing ground-level information on Earth. Raoul had been an absolute fountain of that when Tracks first found him, but long-time exposure had made him too well-known to really be the lowkey operative the Autobots needed. Astoria, of course, was a total bubble-headed woman who shrewdly juggled high society and CEO duties, feeding the Autobots everything they needed to know about world business and the upper class. She had half the flyers in the Ark wrapped around her manicured little finger. The Aerialbots hadn't even known what hit them before frilly doom nailed their wings to the wall, giggling and flirting the whole time.

She was older, now. More responsible, and more cautious about the stunts she pulled. Raoul was much the same. Powerglide and Tracks worried about how age would affect them. Bumblebee had graduated to full-blown concern when Sparkplug had his first heart attack. Age didn't take long to pile up on humans, and it changed them so quickly that even Cybertronians might not be able to keep up with the transformation.

Smokescreen needed to pull the concerned parties aside and tell them not to worry. From what he'd seen tonight, elderly humans were the toughest bunch of busybodies this side of the Milky Way. The Autobots' friends might change, but scrambling to catch up was going to be fun. The part that Smokescreen was looking forward to was when the humans were the most mature people in the Ark. Tracks and Powerglide were going to have babysitters, and he was going to laugh himself sick at them.

Cybertronians lived an astoundingly long time, but they matured at a correspondingly glacial pace. He'd felt like a newbuild since he'd come inside the Bingo hall tonight.

It didn't help that he swore they could smell his relative youth. He was well over a thousand times the age of the oldest human's here, and yet they'd been schooling his young aft since he'd arrived. He'd lost fifteen games, which he could handle. What he couldn't was being told 26 different solutions to the war with the Decepticons and being stuck into three moral dilemmas. He'd finally just started directing the ethics questions toward Prowl, because Prowl actually enjoyed arguing all night about that kind of stuff.

This was the best kind of date, in his opinion: present together, talking and sharing anything that came up, but basically doing their own things. Prowl's thing just happened to be more business-like than Smokescreen's. On the surface, that was, but Smokescreen didn't count gambling as work unless there were other things he should be doing.

Even as he joined the table in setting up the next game, he could hear the group of men and women gathered around Prowl agreeing on something. Black-and-white doors bobbed, although the tactician only seemed gravely interested in whatever was being talked about.

"What're they on about now?" he asked over the commlink.

Prowl's voice was a trifle unsettled. "They asked about attempts at treaties. I told them about Passing Meteor Ceasefire, and they are saying things I am having a difficult time disagreeing with."

"Like what?" Passing Meteor Ceasefire, what had that been? Duh, right. A passing meteor had put Cybertron at risk, and the war had screeched to a halt to deal with the threat. It'd promptly restarted when Megatron got angry at a phrase in Optimus Prime's victory announcement, and the Prime had, in turn, been offended by the tone of Megatron's enraged rebuttal of the announcement. The speeches had bounced back and forth for about a day before the factions just went back to shooting at each other.

"'Kids these days.'" Prowl paused to answer a question, and the tsk-tsking resumed around him. "Hmm. 'Toddlers fighting over a toy.' I cannot - it seems rude to compare a war over planetary control to children bickering over a toy, but from what I have seen of juvenile delinquents in this neighborhood, given sufficient weaponry, Megatron's behavior does bear a striking resemblance to that of a child throwing a tantrum."

The careful lack of comment on Optimus Prime's behavior in return was noted. Smokescreen grinned, then groaned as Mr. Jackson got a square. "Slag me, I'm going to lose again."

"You could give up for the night."

"And get stuck with your lot? Pfft, no thanks."

Resignation seeped through Smokescreen's commlink in the form of Prowl's voice. "They are informing me that I should put Megatron and Optimus Prime in a 'time out' in separate corners. If only I could."

"I think that's called 'prison' when the brats are grown up and punching each other for real, and we tried that. The 'Cons just broke him out again." They hadn't tried sticking the Prime in prison at the same time, but that whacko group of neutrals had jailed him at one point. The war had gone on without the Prime. If anything, Megatron had attacked more, sensing an advantage as Ultra Magnus and Prowl tried to fill the Prime's tire tracks. The Autobots hadn't been doing too well until the Prime returned, having recruited the neutrals to the Cause and brought them in as reinforcements. Smokescreen shook his head at the memory and put down a marker on his Bingo card. "Tell them about Starscream. That'll distract them."

"I do not know how to even begin."

"Once upon a time, there was a crazy powerhungry fragger who decided it'd be a bright idea to make a backstabbing madmech his second-in-command…" Considering silence came from the open comm. channel, weightier than empty white noise. Smokescreen shook his head and glared at his card. How could he be losing this bad? How?

Whatever Prowl came up with to fend off the well-meaning hoard, it lasted half an hour before Smokescreen's audios picked up the plaintive whine of an engine. He'd tuned them to pick it out of the background chatter of the Bingo hall when it hit a specific pitch, and it just had. "Excuse me," he said, pushing up from the floor. He'd been sitting cross-legged for over an hour, and envious glares from the old biddies as he unfolded made him feel better about losing his petty cash to them.

He made sure to put an extra dose of smugness in his walk. That's right, envy him for his body! Since, uh, they'd kicked his tires from one end of this hall to the other in game. He didn't have much else going for him but his body.

At least he could be sure somebody here appreciated him for more than easy money. "Alright, folks, lay off my panda car," Smokescreen said as he came up behind Prowl. He knelt and put one hand on the base joint of a black-and-white door. He set the other on Prowl's lower back, sliding it forward and around the tactician's waist until Smokescreen curled around his partner from behind, chin on his shoulder and charming smile in place. "No more matchmaking. He's taken."

The distressed engine noise dropped, downshifting to a flustered putter. Disconcerted but relieved, Prowl didn't lean into his embrace so much as try to disappear into it. He stayed stiffly composed, but his doors flexed back into Smokescreen as if to hide. Only people who knew him would see how unsettled he was.

People who knew him, and Ms. Garcia of the ex-military single son. "He's a lovely man," she said despite Smokescreen's looming presence. "Open, eh?" Was that a wink? That was a wink. Primus deal them luck.

"I am sure he is a good man," Prowl said tactfully while pinging Smokescreen for help. Only one tactic had worked to discourage the continued attempts at setting him up with nice young(ish) humans, and desperation outpaced his pride. Manners had him cornered. He just didn't know how to politely dodge matchmakers. It wasn't a skill he'd ever had to develop.

Smokescreen winked back at Ms. Garcia, who he swore was doing this on purpose. Seriously, he liked these people. Old humans were his favorite.

"Nice or not, this one's still mine. Go get another Autobot." The open claim earned him a pleased, embarrassed squirm from the mech in his arms, but he wasn't done yet.

Shifting around, he freed a hand to turn Prowl's face toward him and leaned in. The halfsparked protest died unsaid, and blue optics dimmed to barely a glimmer as Smokescreen's lips brushed metal. Prowl's mouth moved, either whispering something or just unable to stay still under the gentle pressure easing across his lips. That would have been enough to stop the matchmaking attempts, but where was the fun in that? Smokescreen tipped his head and covered Prowl's mouth with his own, matching movement with movement until there was nothing but following the motion, lips shaping to lips, warm metal pressed to metal that followed and tingled faintly with the beginnings of raised charge.

The hand now cupped around the back of Prowl's neck tightened a smidgeon, and Smokescreen opened his vents to increase circulation. Was it getting hot in here, or was that him? Slight pressure tested the kiss as if asking if Prowl could lead, too, and Smokescreen gave way. Prowl pressed in to take up the slack, guided by his hand or chasing his mouth. Or both, because both was good. His mouth curved under the returned kiss, and the briefest hint of hot moisture licked out to trace Prowl's upper lip, a teasing dip into something less chaste.

By the time the gambler drew back, Prowl's fans were whirring at high speed. The stoic expression had melted into a vacant, not-quite-there look. The way his optics reset in dim flickers didn't help, and Prowl seemed totally unaware of the way he'd turned almost into Smokescreen's lap while chasing after the last of that kiss.

Smokescreen had an armful of heated armor clinging to him. It was giving him ideas. They'd had their fun, but the rating on this outing was edging past the 'public spectacle' setting. Time to make their escape.

"Okay," he murmured as his thumb pet the arch of Prowl's cheek, "I think we should probably get out of here. That's the third time, and it's safe to say that they've figured us out. Also," he added as Prowl came back to himself, "they're all watching."

Optics snapped wide, and Prowl's neck creaked alarmingly as his head whipped about.

"You two are so cute," one of the Bingo players remarked. "L'amore!"

"I remember being in love," his neighbor agreed. "Course, back in our day, snogging like that'd get you a hiding if her daddy caught ya."

"Whaddya mean, 'back in our day'? I'll tear a strip off any boy who lays a hand on my Sofia."

"Dear, she's 48 years old."

"So?!"

Behold the supremely self-conscious Prowl. Not a rare sight after a kiss, but the current specimen was a camera away from combusting. Smokescreen prudently let him go, although he really wanted to hug him close.

He stood aside as Prowl retreated into stiff formality. The group he'd been talking to took the sudden clipped goodbyes and wooden expression in stride, good-naturedly waving their alien visitors on their way. Smokescreen saluted Ms. Garcia and her cronies. It earned him a glare from Prowl when the tactician caught them exchanging suggestive grins, but Smokescreen had no shame.

He sauntered out the door to elderly folk laughing and catcalling that they knew what those 'bots were leaving to do, see if they didn't. The polite goodbyes cut short, and Prowl hurried out soon after.

Compared to the busy Bingo hall, the road was quiet. That didn't say much about actual driving conditions. Seattle at 8 PM was depressingly similar to the crush of traffic in downtown Praxus. The two Datsuns endured the traffic jams with the patience of people who'd lived through worse. Smokescreen drifted into Prowl's wake automatically, taking advantage of the black-and-white cutting a hole through traffic. Most drivers respected police decals. The ones who didn't got their license plate numbers radioed in to Seattle Dispatch.

It was about a four and a half hour drive home. The two Autobots settled in for the drive. Except for the occasional comment on nocturnal wildlife, animal or otherwise, they fell into a comfortable silence. This was the homestretch, the drive every Autobot knew by spark. Sideswipe claimed he could make this drive blinded, sensor-dead, and overcharged. Rumor had it that Jazz had actually proven that possible. Tire memory was strong.

A lot of mechs didn't talk while they drove. Driving time was for thinking. There was something about hitting the open road that triggered a background hum in Autobots with vehicle altmodes. Stunt drives and racing were good for physical challenges, focusing on the body to turn off the mind, and city driving was the best time for companionable chattering, but highways were tedious. Mechs didn't need to think about it. It was hypnotic, sometimes: the rhythm of an engine humming in the same gear, easing off acceleration instead of braking, slowly pushing back up to the speed limit. There was no gearshifting or spurts of speed to break up the drive.

Road etiquette depended on the group, but generally if a mech was quiet, others respected the silence.

So breaking that silence was odd. Smokescreen stopped trailing behind and moved up to ride Prowl's bumper, and the cop car sped up for a moment from the surprise. "Smokescreen?"

"Detour, panda car." His front bumper tinked against Prowl's rear bar. "Take the track turn-off." He nuzzled up close, letting their metal scrape as the road bumped by under them. "But if you do? Just keep in mind that I have every intention of chasing you down for nefarious purposes, copper. I'm gonna get you." He added an extra rev, nudging Prowl forward. "Don't have to do it. I'm just warning you what's going to happen if you do."

Prowl took the turn-off.

He did not, Smokescreen noticed, speed up. If anything, he slowed to rest against Smokescreen's grill as the gambler tried to back off to give him room to drive. The road to the track was uneven. Metal squealed. White and blue looked good scraped into black paint, and he was sure the black paint transfers looked positively sinful against his bright colors in return. The idea of adding more scrapes had his engine running hot even though they were driving under the speed limit, now.

Smokescreen rolled to a stop once they reached the track, allowing Prowl to take to the track alone, but his engine downshifted into an eager growl.

A straining rev answered him. Stark black and white in his headlights, the other Datsun jerked as acceleration met brakes. "How do you - how should I - " Nice to know he wasn't the only one excited by this. Prowl's calm voice was belied by the way he fumbled for words, and the sound of his motor kept climbing. "What would you like me to do?"

"Drive," Smokescreen snarled, headlights bright and locked on. "Drive until I catch you, because I'm going to catch you, and then I'm going to 'face you until your sirens go off. So if you want to call this off, do it now, or drive."

Dirt sprayed as Prowl took off. Giving him a ten-second headstart took willpower Smokescreen wasn't even sure he had until he called on it. His grill dipped near to the ground, hunger pushing him forward against self-control. Brakes screeped against his axles, and it was a delicious pain. Restraint felt so good. It spiced the anticipation.

Oh, did he want this. He'd wanted this for a while, but hearing the pounding thunder of Prowl's engine as he fled turned desire to molten lust. The date had been great, it'd been fun, but it'd been nothing different from what they did together as friends. This, however. This was unleashing a physical pressure, a kindled flame now fanned into a wild burn. This was lighting the fuse. This was releasing tension that had been mounting all night. All month, maybe.

The count reached ten, and Smokescreen tore out onto the track.

Technically, Prowl was the faster mech. However, he drove cautiously on the dark track. Smokescreen drove recklessly, headlights warning the other Datsun of his approach, and Prowl's lightbar cycled faster as the black-and-white took the chase up a notch. He hadn't been trying very hard to stay out of reach before, but he was used to being the one doing the chasing. He hadn't known what it'd feel like to angle his side mirrors and see headlights bearing down him, hear the aggression of a pursuer intent on catching him, feel Smokescreen race toward him on his scanners. He hadn't had a clue.

The thrill of being chased slid an unexpected shiver through his frame, the icy zap of fear from peaking the crest of a rollercoaster. He was going to go down, he was going to be caught, but what had him speeding up was the sharp edge of uncertainty on the anticipation. Being run down was facing the steep plunge with no way to go back, falling and knowing he couldn't stop. He wasn't the one in control this time. He didn't know where he was being herded or when the chase would end, only that his only option was to drive until he was caught.

The inevitability of gravity tangled with the excitement of the ride, and his lack of control amped excitement up past anything resembling fear. Arousal had his radiator pumping hot coolant desperately past fans already on their highest setting. His fuel pump hiccupped once before fully integrating with his engine pistons, throwing him wholesale into the game.

It didn't feel like a game. It felt like a real pursuit: cat-and-mouse, Seeker-and-minibot. Prowl's motor growled challenge as he accelerated. Red and blue lights flashed defiance.

He would not be easy prey, but dear Primus on Cybertron did he want to be caught. This glitchmouse wanted to be the prize.

Smokescreen was on his bumper, right there with him. He'd known Prowl wanted to be the one being sought, he'd gotten this idea directly from their talks on what they wanted from their relationship, but he'd had no idea what a turn-on it was to turn the tables. They put so much effort into negating their respective ranks that seizing power like this was smoking hot. His hood could have seared human skin, his systems were running so heated.

He felt powerful. He felt strangely savage, the need to pursue that fleeing bumper boiling in the primitive substructure of his CPU where thought met body, and hunger drained everything out of the forefront of his thoughts but the ready lights from his interface array. His valve primed, slick and flexing deep inside him, and the rough road was not helping with that. There were mechs who disabled their shock absorbers to overload while driving off-road, and right this moment, he thought the idea had merit.

But more than that, more than the illicit kick of being in the one in control, the deep-seated need to win looped around his spark in a hangman's rope dangling him by greed. It urged him to go faster, to catch, to claim. It called to his gambling addiction in the sweetest way, promising the euphoric pleasure high of winning.

Smokescreen had worked hard to tame his need to play, but the addiction would always be there. Letting it loose turned the lust into a needier, more selfish hunger. It felt familiar and forbidden in one. This was sanctioned, but it felt illegal.

The track twisted back on itself and then straightened, letting him close in before Prowl's greater speed opened the distance again. Flooring it as he pursued felt like dealing out one more hand of cards after he'd gone over his credit limit, but it tasted of hustling a newbie. They were driving headlong into double-or-nothing territory where the risk of going too far weighed against the payoff of going just far enough. The stakes were high, and Smokescreen wasn't above cheating.

That was half the fun of playing.

Prowl swung around the next bend, blue and red bright in the night, and Smokescreen cut his headlights. Transforming, he flung out a leg and dug a furrow in the dirt to stop. Red and blue filtered through the trees, fleeing down the track. Between the trees and the lack of headlights, Prowl wouldn't be able to get a fix on his location if he moved fast. Grinning, Smokescreen sprinted back down the track and off into the forest.

Hey, he hadn't said how he'd catch Prowl, just that he'd catch him.

His optic filters twinged in the low light of weak autumn moonlight, but he could see enough to avoid most of the trees, the brush pile, and one of Red Alert's security cameras as he bounded up the hill. The track came back around on the other side. Hopefully, Prowl was too busy looking backward to be listening for someone coming down hill pulling plants and sticks out of his ankle tires. The gambler trotted the rest of the way to the track and shifted into his altmode facing the opposite direction just as blue and red flashed into sight.

A wild laugh broke out of him, and Smokescreen switched on his headlights. "Hello there, handsome."

The wordless exclamation of surprise Prowl made was worth the leaves crunched up in his undercarriage. Sirens blipped but cut off. Brakes squealed.

Two Datsuns faced each other on the road, headlights staring each other down. Smokescreen had always known their vehicle model looked good, but disheveled and coated in dust, lower paneling dingy while the rest shone in the light? That threw fuel on the fire. Black and white looked good enough to grab, and something about those police decals had his valve expanding and contracting, his spike ready to pressurize. It was the reversal of authority, or maybe just the exertion of the chase itself, but he'd never before wanted to pounce Prowl as much as he did right then.

His engine revved loud in half-challenge and half-threat. Lunging against his parking brake, the brightly-colored Datsun mock-charged.

Prowl startled backward, siren whooping. It was a sign of how excited he was that a mech who could stay dead silent through a Decepticon attack was thoroughly a-twitter from this. Windshield wipers flicked frantically, and his front tires twitched.

Cop car and racer faced off, and the normal dynamics didn't apply. Smokescreen lunged again, back tires spinning faster and throwing up a spray of dirt behind him. His motor howled like a wolf on the hunt.

And, like prey, Prowl ran. Small stone spat onto Smokescreen's hood as the tactician threw himself into reverse, twisting through a turn too tight for a car that didn't have the ability to turn its tires independently. Smokescreen accelerated right back into the chase the second he got around, and Prowl took off with his pursuer's front grill riding his bumper.

The roar of engines filled the night again. Anyone listening could hear two cars fighting to open up the throttle on a track meant to challenge them. They had to brake heavily to make the curves, and Prowl clawed for the speed to outrun Smokescreen's greater experience on this particular road. Their engines ran hot, overheat warnings lighting up both their dashes, but their systems weren't pushed to that point because of mere driving. The course was moderately difficult, more so in the dark like this, but a more knowledgeable listener could hear the difference between a car and an Autobot.

Those engines weren't thundering because of the race.

The black-and-white fled, ahead by speed and clever maneuvers to block his pursuer. Engine noise tore through the quiet forest, chased and chasing, and the wildlife stayed out of their way. When Prowl flew by, everything about him was a flashing red and blue sign that this was a mech revved up and ready. His lights cycled too fast, his engine ran high and excited, and he was all over the road, swerving here and there as Smokescreen dogged his tracks. It was meant to block him, to prevent him from passing or getting up alongside to force Prowl off the road, but Smokescreen beeped his horn every time that bumper wagged. Prowl was being a little tease, playing, and Smokescreen was delighted by the show.

Turned on and jittery from nerves, Prowl was all but saying, "Come and get me."

The Autobots wouldn't recognize their Second-in-Command right now. This was a Prowl most of them had never seen: reacting instead of thinking, unrestrained by his battle computer. A few, very select mechs knew this side of him existed. They would likely be hooting encouragement from the sidelines if they could see him now, but they couldn't, so they didn't. Whatever was happening in front of Red Alert's security monitors right now didn't count.

Smokescreen downshifted, tires gripping the road as he rounded a corner, sending a sheet of gravel and dirt flying from the sudden acceleration afterward. His gears ground as he shifted up, and ahead of him, that bumper weaved. Prowl the flirt. Who knew?

The chase had to end, however, and Smokescreen surged into rootmode as Prowl pulled ahead on a straight. Two running strides off the road, a leaping hurdle over the gulch, and he tumbled onto the track on the other side of the curve.

Prowl saw him coming but accelerated anyway, aiming to get past before the gambler regained his feet.

Smokescreen didn't even try. He ducked his head and tucked his doors in to take the tumble in a running stride that flung him forward in a dive. He landed on top of the fleeing Datsun in a crash of metal.

Sirens bleeped in surprise, and Smokescreen grinned in triumph as his knees dragged through the dirt. His arms were full of black-and-white plating, red and blue flashing lights, and wildly spinning tires that were going nowhere. He had no intention of letting go. "Gotcha!"

Prowl's engine thrummed protest, but the kneeling mech had his arms around him, now. Victory was his! With one heave, Smokescreen took the tactician's back tires off the ground, and he sat back on his heels as he hauled back on the struggling mech. That tail end got plopped in his lap. Prowl immediately threw his front wheels into play, but Smokescreen's hands clamped onto the rim of his wheel wells to haul him back into place as soon as he dragged himself forward. He was well and truly caught.

Bent over, chest pressed to Prowl's roof, Smokescreen repeated, "Gotcha." This time it wasn't a triumphant crow. This time it came out a throaty purr, and he pressed a kiss where windshield met roof. "Give up, panda car. I caught you."

"That you have." Prowl sounded out of breath. His ventilation system couldn't seem to keep air in him. Steam billowed out of his vents. "What do you plan to do now that you have caught me?" Windshield wipers flipped, and his front tires wriggled back and forth. His attempts to escape were less than convincing.

"I was planning on 'facing you, right here. Right now." Smokescreen kissed the seam again, working his hands under Prowl's sides until he found something to make those windshield wipers flip nonstop. Ooo, that felt tweakable. Static hissed softly from Prowl's vocalizer, and the gambler caressed the transformation joint he'd found. He spread his knees apart, pushing the outside of his knees against the inside of back tires. They spun uselessly on air as he found another part to tweak.

"That seems fair." How Prowl could keep his voice impassive one moment and let out a little whimper like that the next was one of life's great mysteries. Attempting to wriggle further into Smokescreen's hands did nothing but squirm his tail end across the gambler's thighs.

The lower edge of the Smokescreen's interface panel was being assaulted by the upper edge of Prowl's back bumper, and Smokescreen bucked his hips up off his heels to push against it. Prowl's altmode didn't have a spoiler like his. He'd never been more aware of that lack.

"Tell me to stop," he said in low groan as his panels retracted. His spike pressurized. It slid up the perfect slope of Prowl's rear window, bumping over the trunk and slipping over glass that felt astonishingly cold against his underside. "Tell me to stop, and I will." He curled over the mech in his lap and pressed the side of his helm to Prowl's roof, optics squinted from the sheer intensity of cold autumn air, cool glass, and hot, living metal.

Primus must have answered his prayer's for luck tonight. He'd wanted this. Earth was some kind of bizarre spike-tease with its roads full of gorgeous vehicles that weren't really mechs but fragging Pit did they look good, and now here he was with one of the sexiest models available held in his arms. His hips gave an involuntary thrust, grinding the base of his spike against Prowl's back end. Trapped between his midriff and Prowl's window, the pressure on his spike was just - Primus, he could get off like this. Just like this.

Their frametypes were the same, but Prowl made their altmode look so good. Low-slung and sleek, with that paintjob dirtied up by the chase and his side mirrors angling every which way to watch him. His headlights were shifting as much as his front wheels, and his police lights flashed red and blue through the forest. Smokescreen lifted his head and mouthed that tempting lightbar. It tasted like glass and soap and the peculiar, almost indiscernible flavor of an excited energy field. He nibbled, tasting the charge racing through circuitry and powering the lovely lightshow.

It was lovely because there was no question when he hit the mark. The lights cycled faster. Better yet, tiny chirps and weebles kept leaking from Prowl's sirens as he found hot spots to tweak and nip. He'd be remembering those for later.

Freeing one hand from molesting Prowl's undercarriage, the gambler smoothed the palm over the open expanse of his hood. There was an undeniable, magnetic need to pet that hood in long, smooth strokes. It was just so wide. So slagging aerodynamic, like speed personified. This was a hood that could cut through air like an energon sword through rubber.

He licked along Prowl's lightbar, biting the corner as his he thrust again. His spike slid over hot metal and up cool glass. The lone back window wiper suddenly flicked across the glass, and he groaned at the slight, stinging slap against the side of his spike. "You okay?"

"I - I am, yes. I am very well. I am - " Prowl made a small noise of distress as his window wiper flipped twice in a row, beating Smokescreen's spike. "Please do not stop, I did not mean - I am not trying to - "

"Shhhh," he crooned into white metal, kissing across to work on where roof met windshield. His tongue traced the seal. He closed his teeth and raked them back the other direction. That disobedient window wiper whapped him, and his hips jerked every time, but not because it hurt. At least, it didn't hurt any more than someone spanking his aft to get him to go faster or harder. Which he was more than willing to do, but Prowl wouldn't get anything from him frotting against his trunk.

His fingers probed under Prowl's door, seeking access. "Open for me?"

"I...certainly." Both doors clicked open, windows rolling down on automatic. "I apologize if I - that is, I am not precisely sure how to do this. I, ah, am aware of the theory, but you will have to tell me what to do." Anxiety sputtered his engine.

Smokescreen hummed amusement against Prowl's lightbar, because the thing was as fun to play with as he'd imagined. He nuzzled it as his hand dipped into his lover's - they were definitely lovers now, this wasn't even remotely chaste anymore - driver's side door. "Haven't done it in alt before, huh? You've been missing out. Lemme treat you, mech." This was going to be fun. Not that it wasn't already, but tripping someone's breakers was always a rush.

Prowl wasn't as certain about how much fun this would be for Smokescreen. "But you are not, um. In. In…me." Mirrors and tires squirmed as embarrassment flattened arousal for a moment. "You do not have to - "

"Trust me, Prowl. I'm getting plenty back here." He rolled his hips up in illustration, and Prowl's wiper beat at him rapidly. If he couldn't have felt the heat radiating onto his knees from the mech's engine, he might have thought it was fear. As it was, Prowl shifted into reverse and backed up further into his lap in an awkward, endearing attempt to match his rhythm.

He brought his other hand up and firmly gripped Prowl by the doorframe, controlling the clumsy rocking. "Like this," he murmured, pulling him back into the slow thrust and grind of his spike. Bent over to wrap around him like this, Smokescreen could feel Prowl hesitate, following his guidance for a minute before giving it a try.

His fans picked up. "Mmmnn. Good. That's - that's good. You keep that up, and I'm not going to last long," Smokescreen said, words thick in his throat. Prowl was the sweetest armful of mech he'd held in a long while, so unexpectedly plaint and eager to please that it was blowing his mind.

"Is that bad?" Prowl asked. His voice was completely serious, but he gave his front wheels an experimental half-turn as he spoke.

Tentative or not, the move made Smokescreen exhale heavily across his roof. Blue optics dimmed, and the gambler's teeth scraped across Prowl's lightbar as he shuddered overtop of the mech. Back that aft up. Set on his thighs this way, Prowl had just ground back against his spike in an extremely lewd manner. It shot pleasure across his sensor network, and then Prowl did it again, slower, and guhhhh. He caught on fast for someone who claimed he hadn't done this before.

Then again, some things were instinct.

Smokescreen breathed deep for a moment. "N-no. No, not really, that's fine with me," more than fine, spectacular, "but I'm a one-shot spike mech. It'll take me most of the night to pressurize again if we go this route."

"Do you want to finish like this?" A careful, considerate question from an incredible mech whom Smokescreen wanted to frag to exhaustion. What kind of question was that to ask while rocking back onto a spike? Of course he wanted to finish like this!

Although not quite. This was nice, this was very nice indeed, but it was missing something. "Y'know, I want less about me and more about you. I was about to show you a good time before you took up riding lessons." He let go of Prowl's doorframes. He'd just been holding on at this point anyway as Prowl matched his pace, so his hands could be put to better use.

The thing about their particular frametype, about Praxian frametypes in general but their model specifically, was that their interior space was a buffer zone. They had a limited crumple zone in the front where essential components took up the space under their hoods. Their drivetrain was a line-up of engine, fuel pump, CPU, spark chamber, fuel processing plant, and finally, the fuel tank itself. If a Decepticon went after them while they were in altmode, the glitch would ram them head-on or gut their undercarriages. Those were the vulnerable target areas. The cargo area on top of their drivetrain protected their sparks from aerial attacks, and their doors and tail ends carried their heaviest armor. The humans had turned that cargo hold into a seating area, but it still functioned as a protective buffer.

Frametypes like Mirage sacrificed that cargo area in order to fit in a larger front crumple zone and minimize external armor. The noblemech could handle flips, head-on crashes, and even wrecking his drivetrain, and he'd still limp away from critical damage for a Praxian frame. He was built for speed and dealt best with speed-related injuries, lending well to hit-and-run tactics and doing poorly in pitched battle, whereas Smokescreen could tackle close combat as long as his tires stayed on the ground.

Losing the cargo area made Mirage vulnerable how Praxians weren't. He had an Earth-style driver's cockpit, but it was actually camouflage for his spark chamber. That was why Decepticons typically targeted his frametype from the air, firing downward. His spark was easy to access in his vehicle form.

An excellent benefit during times like these, but Praxian frametypes had their own advantages.

Smokescreen wormed his fingers in from either side, teasing into Prowl's seat wells. Every Autobot had rules governing their interior space. Mirage never carried passengers, for instance, and the three Praxians on Earth had an ironclad 'no kicking' rule for all passengers. Their entire seating area was thin disguise over sensitive components. The seat wells sat squarely around in their spark chambers, the sides and ends mere upholstery away from direct contact.

The one time Sparkplug had stomped the pedals in Bluestreak, the gunner had nearly ejected the man out his driver-side door in the middle of an intersection. No Autobot would have blamed him.

Prowl's doors juddered visibly when the gambler reached bottom. Smokescreen chuckled and pressed the pedals in a little pattern, easing another finger in to set delicately in on each one. Deep in the passenger seat well, his fingers crooked to rub over hidden sensors under the upholstery. Prowl's engine skipped as his fuel pump fell out of sync and started hammering. This was a different kind of acceleration happening here, and the Datsun shuddered to the rhythm of fingertips plunging in and out of tight holes. Smokescreen gave his fingers a twist, scoring his knuckle joints against the walls of the seat wells, and his hands' sped up with every thrust.

His own spark swelled in sympathy, and he plastered himself to Prowl's roof to soak in the tiny reactions his fingers were coaxing out. Windshield wipers flicked, yes, and Prowl's tires kept jerking in the dirt, but vehicle mode cues could sometimes be hard to catch. They had to be watched for. The way black-and-white plating flared when he stroked sensitive walls was one such cue, as was the quiet, quick in-vents as his fingers nudged the end of seat wells. Mashing pedals to the floor and knuckling over circuit-packed spark casing got a shrill squawk of sirens.

Right there, huh? Somebody liked it fast and rough. He increased pressure and upped the pace. His index fingers thrust in every couple strokes to massage a tiny circle against the inside corners of the seat wells, heavy enough to bounce Prowl down on his front tires, and the tiny, breathy moan that earned made Smokescreen's spike jump. More of that. He wanted to hear more of Prowl losing control. He wanted to make Prowl drown in sensor input until that rusted battle computer shut up or shut down.

He straightened his elbows and really put his shoulders into it.

The tactician cut off most of the noises leaking out of his vocalizer, but he got one whimper and a loud, panting spill of vowels before the pressure became finally crossed a line. The friction had Smokescreen's fingertips burning hot by now, anyway.

"A~ah. Smokescreen! That - too much," Prowl got out after a particularly hard push, and Smokescreen gladly backed off.

The fingers inside Prowl eased down to a tickling slide that only lightly stimulated sensors rarely touched by outside elements. Overcharged circuitry protested this change instantly. Prowl's spark chamber pinged irritated warnings about too much energy, connect immediately, provide outlet, and Smokescreen could almost hear them bombard the tactician's CPU. He smiled against Prowl's lightbar as the Datsun in his arms began squirming after his fingers, doors bumping the backs of his hands as they closed against his wrists.

Nonverbal hints weren't working. Prowl shut his doors further, attempting to urge those far too clever hands onward, but Smokescreen had no mercy. He kept feathering tormenting fingertips into his seat well. That was doing things to Prowl that he couldn't process.

He writhed as much as a car could, but pure physical input broke his thoughts apart. It was like trying to operate through a severe wound, only impossibly more pleasant. Smokescreen was finger-fragging his spark chamber, making his mind sob and beg for more instead of think, and he didn't understand how something so frustrating could feel so amazing.

He decided it didn't matter. "Harder, please," he said. Except for the slightly shuddery quality to his voice, he sounded as if he was asking for a report.

That just wouldn't do. "Harder, you say? I can do that." Smokescreen's fingers curled to slide under Prowl's seats, seeking a different set of sensors this time. A blip of sirens told him he'd found it. Prowl's interface array had just switched to high gear, and things had just got real.

He took his time petting the floor mats that hid the top of Prowl's pelvic span. The heat already radiating from the seat wells was soon mingling with the heat from fired-up interface equipment. The tips of his thumbs kneaded at the gear mound, prompting a thud from a spike pressurizing against a locked panel. Somewhere under the back seat, Prowl's valve restlessly cinched down on nothing, lubing up for a frag it wasn't getting. The overflow of charge from his aroused spark fed into online circuitry, climbing higher from the suggestion of pressure against outer panels but given none of the friction it craved to work to overload.

An entire interface array of active, yearning sensors, and here Prowl was in vehicle mode. But folded so close together inside his altmode like this, a spark overload would trip his interface array in the backwash of energy. That secondary overload was the great part about their frametype.

In the meantime, the build-up would be torture. Prowl's spike couldn't extend, and his valve clenched in helpless need. Pressure sensors waited, primed and pleading for use as charge rose in crackling surges from fingers that weren't touching them.

Smokescreen bent over Prowl enough to hear the frustrated complaints whining from his engine, and he smirked. That was more like it. With a gratified sigh, he popped his fingers out from under the seats and went back to finger-fragging Prowl's seat wells, picking up the rhythm where he'd left off: too slow and far too gentle. Ghosting whispers over upholstery lit Prowl red-hot and thrumming in his lap. Another whine and a wriggle encouraged him to go harder, faster, and self-satisfaction spread his smirk wide.

He lifted up off his heels and rolled his hips into the wriggling. Prowl went absolutely still.

"You get it?" Smokescreen asked, a rough burr of lust filling his voice and turning his HUD yellow with ready lights.

Prowl didn't sound any less ragged, despite his dignity. "I believe so. Are you certain you are fine with this? If…if you wish, I can pop my trunk?"

He couldn't help but laugh. "I'm not built like a Supreme. I don't need a bigger hole." The perverted part of his mind did file the idea for later, however. "You worry about getting yours, panda car. I want to see you overload under me." Primus, did he ever.

His fingers thrust in up to the knuckles. Prowl jolted from the force of it, forward against his brakes and then back again, and Smokescreen bucked slowly into the motion. His spike slid into the narrow space between his own midriff and Prowl's back window, and it felt fragging wonderful. Pleasure gripped his tanks, tightening as Prowl figured out that the faster he rocked, the faster Smokescreen rubbed. Every couple of circles, the gambler knocked the tips of his fingers into the ends of the seat wells and raked up the sides, sharp impacts and hard scratches over a spark casing that spat shocks of energy in response.

Smokescreen's fingers felt singed from fiction and charge, but he scrubbed them fast and hard. They could cool off later.

Prowl's outward reactions were small. The roaring rev of his engine betrayed each burst of pleasure vibrating through his spark, but he muffled the grunts and whimpers. His sirens blipped and whooped in quick blurts of noise. His back tires spun helplessly every time Smokescreen mashed his pedals. Charge stripped his networks to bare, writhing circuitry that twined like rope, and like rope, the pleasure was gradually fraying until it would snap and whip bliss through straining systems. He rocked on his front tires, urgently pushing into the fingers scrubbing his spark chamber to a delicious friction burn.

As their pace picked up, Smokescreen's doors rose with the arch in his backstruts, shaking as his hips jerked in an erratic rhythm. His fingers pumped, but he broke the rhythm to squeeze Prowl's seats in his hands. He needed to hold onto something. His fingers shook when he peeled them away to rub into Prowl's seat wells, but he abandoned the effort a second later as streaking, electric bolts of charge shocked through his interface array, pooling at the base of his spike until it throbbed, until the pleasure made even the sensor rings in his valve feel heavy and swollen, ready to burst.

Release broke the winding coil knotting up inside him, and he collapsed over Prowl, every limb stiff and shuddering through the long waves of circuit breakers tripping and resetting. His mouth fell open, his optics went dark, and oh Primus yes.

Pleasure spread in a warm, liquid splash through his body. He pulled in deep, slow ventilation cycles, coming down from the peak. His doors fell gradually back to normal. His hip joints ached from the effort, still shaking a bit as he settled back on his heels, and post-overload lethargy bloomed in the wake of the ebbing pleasure. He wanted nothing more than to doze off into a pleasant haze while cuddled around the mech in his arms.

He didn't, however. This wasn't time for recharge, not with his fingers still buried in Prowl's interior, diddling against a spark chamber that demanded more attention. Prowl was making tiny disgruntled noises that weren't words but were full of frustration and begging. They might even be audible more than ten feet away.

Smokescreen pressed the side of his face to the tactician's roof and smiled absently, keeping his optics offline. His fingers started rubbing again. "Hold on, hold on…mmm? You like that?" Rear tires spun fitfully as he pushed the first two fingers on each hand in, kneading quick ovals that thrust and return in a heavy pattern. The tips of his fingers knocked into the ends of the seat wells with every cycle. Stuffing two more fingers in earned a zap as the overcharged, pleasure-gorged spark spat excess energy out along its casing, but that was a price he was willing to pay. "Right there." He bounced the heels of his hands off Prowl's seats, jarring an interface array that had to be screaming for anything, any kind of attention by now.

Prowl tried to say something, but his vocalizer reset into nothing but garbled static. Smokescreen sank in further, making hard, quick rubs in time with the trembling tension locking up Prowl's fans. Windshield wipers quivered wildly, stuck straight up in the air. The tactician's vents blasted in stuttering gasps. Those hitched and stopped as Prowl held his breath, panted it out in bursts, sucked in cool air, and held it again.

"Come on," Smokescreen whispered. His fingertips jammed in and rolled, the tips vigorously massaging the same spot over and over, just working in a rapidfire pulse of pressure.

A gulp of air pulled in against his fans, and Prowl tensed to shaking, riding the knife edge of release. His doors slammed shut on Smokescreen's wrists hard enough to dig into the joint. He made a quiet non-sound, a strong exhale of, "…! Hnnffff…ffff…" that trailed off into his fans stopping entirely.

And then the second overload met the first, a tidal wave of spark-deep pleasure crashing headlong into the backwash as his interface array spasmed and tripped like an echo.

Climax drowned him in the crackling whirlpool of charge bursting free. Circuit breakers snapped into reset throughout his body.

If not for the way he shook to jelly in Smokescreen's lap, the gambler might have thought he'd lost his touch. He could feel Prowl's fuel pump racing between his knees. He shut off his optics and stroked his fingers across hot upholstery, gently drawing out a few more soft noises as Prowl went as limp as a car could.

His fans, when they restarted, whirred at their highest setting to dump all that pent-up heat. Smokescreen wasn't helping with how he was draped across him, but they'd just fragged. He was allowed to snuggle his lover, slag it.

Eventually, he withdrew his hands and blew on the tips of his fingers. They felt somewhat melted. He didn't bother onlining his optics to check.

Hot metal ticked as it cooled. Headlights dimmed. Prowl's lightbar shut off at long last. The forest around them grew convinced the two Autobots were asleep, and wildlife started going about its business again.

Smokescreen's hands took to wandering lazily over black-and-white plating.

Prowl stirred as fingers pinched at his door hinges. Smokescreen did it again, optics still offline and a smile tugging the corner of his mouth. Their doors were armored to the Pit and back, but prickling all over from two overloads in a row, Prowl's transformation joints had to be sensitive right now.

The Datsun in his arms transformed, torso twisting around to put doors against the ground and Prowl's hands on his knees. He smiled and hung on, ending up with Prowl's legs spread open over his thighs and a nicely heated interface array pressed snugly to his own. He bent forward further and snuggled in, fitting his chest under Prowl's and happily pressing his face into the smooth metal of a hood instead of a roof. Nibbling on Prowl's radiator grill didn't get quite the same shiny, immediate reaction as molesting his lightbar had, but the hands on his knees tightened. Smokescreen could adapt.

Tucked up under Prowl, pressed into the dirt but still clamped onto door hinges, his hands moved. Fingers plucked.

A harsh ex-vent that wanted to be a moan sent the forest critters scurrying for home, and then hands seized his helm. Smokescreen let himself be dragged upward and chortled wickedly into the kiss. Prowl's disapproving frown could be felt, and he sniggered once more before busying his lips with better things. Namely, seeing if Prowl tasted as good as he looked. How many licks did it take to get to the center of a Tootsie-Prowl? Time to find out.

One: licking out in a quick flick along the displeased shape of his lover's mouth.

Two: darting teases along now-parted lips, inviting Prowl's tongue to chase his.

Three: actually letting Prowl's tongue find his, the tips slipping together in shock of intimacy and energy fields that tasted of burnt energon and spent lightning.

Oops, he'd bitten down. The world might never know.

The irate tea kettle noises from Prowl's engine turned over into a rattling purr, and Smokescreen wrapped his arms around him to pull him closer. Locked in the kiss, Prowl barely protested the hand abandoning his door hinge. It ran down to the small of his back and yanked, hoisting his aft further into the gambler's lap. Arching up like this might have been painful under any other circumstances, but the charge flooding up his backstruts urged him yet closer.

His helm rolled back as Smokescreen attacked his jaw, laying a trail of kisses up until his helm blocked any more. He made a faint, startled noise at the sudden nip to his neck cables, and the low laughter told him that he was in trouble now.

Oh no. Oh, save him. Whatever would he do?

Arch up further and toss his head to the side to give Smokescreen's mouth free rein, mostly. The other Praxian's hood pressed under his chest, purring vibrations buzzing against him, and Prowl's interface panel spontaneously retracted. He cycled his vents once, and his hand twitched against the back of the blue helm he held. Smokescreen's mouth slid down the side of his neck, and his hand trembled finely as a bundle of wires was singled out to be sucked on.

Prowl shut off his optics and fumbled with his free hand, searching. The hand on his aft ran up over his abdomen to meet him halfway, and he breathed deep as their fingers laced together. He could do this. He was ready, more than ready, and it'd already been so good that he couldn't even imagine this going sour.

He pressed their hands downward and let go once Smokescreen seemed to get the hint. The gambler's hand kept going. Prowl brought his own hand up to wrap around Smokescreen's waist, partly for leverage but also to brace himself. It'd be quick, he hoped. Even if it wasn't, he thought that the rising pleasure would swamp his sensor network.

This was a different sort of pleasure. The hum of energy soaking into him flowed sluggishly, languid and rich as it saturated his circuits. Prowl tipped his head the other way and concentrated on Smokescreen's mouth, the fingers exploring the base of his extended spike and dipping down to introduce themselves to his valve rim. A fluid rush of pleasure followed every touch. Yes, hello, this was the hand that'd finger-fragged his spark to fritzing earlier. Hello. Nice to -

"Holy fragging Primus in the Allspark," Smokescreen said in a high-pitched squeak. "Is this a seal?"

What, no, those fingers were supposed to start fragging him directly. No proxy this time. He'd been relaxed and ready for the pain of the seal popping. "Yes." Optics still off, Prowl dropped his chin and determinedly chased Smokescreen's mouth. "Factory seals," he mumbled as he caught slack lips.

They weren't cooperating with his efforts. "But you're older than I am!"

"Mm? Mmhmm." Oh, come on. Prowl's hands went up to tug on Smokescreen's chevron, trying to pull him into a kiss. This was not going according to plan - well, as much of one as his pleasure-blitzed tacnet could cobble together on short notice - and a vague sense of annoyance burned through the sleepy, sinking haze he'd been in. He onlined his optics and frowned as Smokescreen drew back to glance down between their bodies. "The pain will be brief. I was hoping I might use at least my valve tonight," he added a tad tartly.

Considering how thoroughly lubricated it currently felt, it was more of a gnawing need than a hope. The hungry flex inside him had been driving him mad while in his altmode, and having his thighs splayed apart this way had woken an empty, pulsing desire that'd made up his mind the moment he transformed. He wanted Smokescreen in him, and he didn't care if it was spike, fingers, or tongue at this point. Just get it inside him, because he was aching.

There had been times during his shy, distant observation of this mech that the easy smile and charming, flirtatious manner had made it difficult to sit still. It'd never gotten this bad. The only way Prowl felt he could even manage to sit down at all right now was if he were firmly seated on Smokescreen's spike.

Smokescreen was still distracted, sitting up to staring at the dull seal covering his valve, but he adapted quickly to changing situations. It was something Prowl's battle computer unconditionally approved of, not that it was fully functioning at the moment. Smokescreen reset his optics a few time, shook his head clear, and reached down to wrap a hand around Prowl's extended spike.

"Nngh!" Prowl caught his lower lip between his teeth and ruthlessly cut off a cry. His sirens chirped.

Okay. Change of plans. New strategy: spike overload.

But Smokescreen wasn't just fondling his spike to make him pant and kick. Disapproving optics glared down at him. "Did you do this to yourself?"

Prowl gave him a nonplussed stare in return for the demand. "I…what?"

"This! Did you do this?" A blue thumb stroked over the ragged remnants of the seal that had been over his spike. Prowl's hips jerked from the rough mix of pain and pleasure that churned at the base of his spike. The sensor nodes the seal had been attached to were still sore from glue tearing free as he'd pressurized.

As they were supposed to, so far as he knew. "Yes?"

"Why?!" It was a genuinely distressed question, and Smokescreen slipped out from underneath his legs to kneel between his feet and fuss over the shredded seal. "Primus, that had to hurt. Why didn't you wait?"

This kept getting more confusing. "Wait for what?" he asked cautiously, forcing his voice level despite the pleasure-pain squeezing into a trembling ball in his gut.

"I could've, you know. Helped. It's been a while, but I know how to unseal equipment." Face still twisted in concern, Smokescreen was very, very gently tugging on the bits of seal, peeling the glue off sensors in tiny increments. Every tugging pull was promptly soothed by a half a dozen delicate strokes rubbing the tender nodes. Tug-rubrubrubrubrub-tug-rubrubrubrubrubrub.

Prowl would have responded, but he seemed to have misplaced his ability to speak. He honestly couldn't tell if Smokescreen was aware of what he was doing, and he wasn't sure he cared. His helm thunked into the dirt, and his vents steamed. The stinging pangs of sealant glue ripping off hyper-sensitive sensors only enflamed the pulsing pleasure climbing his back struts one tug at a time.

It really didn't help that Smokescreen kept talking. It didn't even matter that it was a constant stream of, "Sorry, sorry! Just let me…is that better?" and, "Almost done, hold on, almost got it all." It was background noise in a voice he'd dreamed of for far too long.

His feet scraped the road, tires digging a furrow as his hips rode up. His vocalizer was locked down, but his siren wailed to life.

The last of the seal tore away, and Smokescreen murmured something that Prowl was past actually listening to. If he hadn't been staring sightlessly up at the night sky, he'd have seen the affectionate look the gambler gave him right before ducking his head down to run the flat of his tongue up Prowl's neglected length, lavishing a swirl around the tip.

That ball inside him shook and compressed into a dense, roiling tension that hovered on the verge of exploding. A quick flick of that tongue, and his hands tore into the ground, fingers clawing for a handhold as he fell into white noise and static.

Prowl's mouth opened in a silent cry. Smokescreen couldn't read lips, but he recognized his own name when he saw it.

He leaned forward to look down into fuzzy optics as they reset. "Hey, you." Prowl blinked up at him dumbly. "You still in there?"

"Mrrzlt." Clumsy hands got dirt all over his helm, but Smokescreen didn't mind. He let himself be grabbed and dragged into a kiss more passionate than experienced, and that made a lot more sense now.

Their chevrons clinked and scraped against each other. He pushed in, then drew back abruptly to brush the bridges of their noses together. Prowl panted beneath him, open-mouthed, and he took another kiss from that ready mouth before sitting back.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Smokescreen asked quietly. His hand slid down Prowl's interface array to cup over the seal still covering his valve. "It - I don't know why you've waited this long, but we don't have to do anything you don't want to. If you're not into using your valve, that's okay, I'm fine with - "

"No!" Embarrassment flushed through Prowl's fuel lines. "No, I want. I wanted to, ah. I." His doors twitched as he inhaled deeply to calm down, and his voice came out at a measured pace when he continued. "I never wanted to interface before the war, and after becoming…infatuated with you, it was. I just. You." Flustered and a trifled panicked under Smokescreen's expectant look, he couldn't figure out any other way to say it. "I did not want anyone else. I only wanted you."

Smokescreen stared at him.

"Smokescreen?" He shifted uneasily. The gambler disliked mention of Prowl's attempt to plot out a relationship, even ten years after everything had come out into the open. And it did sound obsessive if one didn't take into account the fact that he couldn't want the vast majority of mechs around him. However, not many people understood the constraints his battle computer put on him. "I did not intend - "

"Prowl?"

He winced in preparation for he didn't even know what.

"Do you have, uh, well," blue optics glanced off to the side, intently studying a bush. "You have any toys at all? Or is this, uh, your first time..?"

Prowl snorted. "Wheeljack is my friend."

"Oh thank Primus," Smokescreen said in a rush. "All I could think was that this was your first valve overload, and that you'd be disappointed and never want to do this again if I screw up." But Prowl was friends with the uncrowned king of buzzy inventions. Even if things went terribly wrong, there would always be the option of fragging with toys.

The tactician gave him a dryly amused look. "I sincerely doubt that you will 'screw this up,' but no, I have overloaded before. It - penetration will be the new part." He smiled, wonder and a hint of shyness peeking through. "You have already made spike interfacing an amazing experience."

That got him another long stare.

Before he could wonder what he'd said this time, Smokescreen hooked his fingers into his radiator grill and hauled him upright for a kiss. Prowl gasped for cool air when it broke, and a hand on his bumper pushed him down on his back again. It kept him there as Smokescreen's other hand urged his thighs further apart. "Well then. If that's the standard I've got to meet, I think I better get started." The gambler grinned at him before ducking down to disappear behind the bulk of his chest. "Lemme show you how a seal's supposed to removed."

From this angle, all he could see was the number '38' painted on suspiciously perky doors. Prowl craned his head trying to glimpse what Smokescreen was up to, excitement and apprehension filling him in equal amounts. What did he mean by that? Popping seals was a simple procedure of -

A puff of hot air was his only warning.

"Gnnrk!"

Heat, moisture, and lips moved against his valve. A long lick ran around the rim, waking charge to sizzle across his whole sensor network. Shocked, Prowl bucked before he thought, but that lithe tongue moved with him. It lapped at the seal, paying meticulous attention to the nodes under its surface, but every lick lit bright flames up inside him. He swore the inside of his valve was scorching, burning up, on fire with pleasure. Prowl made another undignified sound, mouth opening and closing. He just - he hadn't expected -

The hand on his bumper left to join its twin in holding his hips still, but he still jerked violently. That tongue activated every sensor node he had and then some. A hard ridge - the tip of Smokescreen's nose, he realized distantly - scraped gently over the top of his valve rim as Smokescreen licked. This felt nothing like the burring vibration of a toy. It was hot and alive, and he wasn't in control of it. This was Smokescreen down between his legs making wet noises that had his fuel pump hammering. His valve began cinching in on itself, slicking up all over again.

Smokescreen pressed his tongue in hard, lapping sloppily until Prowl was grinding against his mouth in short, urgent thrusts. Then he backed off, switching to broad, flat swipes of his tongue. Heat and friction worked the seal edges, melting and stretching the glue.

Prowl moaned, hands squeezing the tips of a yellow chevron since there wasn't much else to grab with how his thighs were clamped around Smokescreen's helm. A moment later, his hands flew up to cover his face. Sealant slid agonizingly slow off sensor nodes that registered nothing but hot, sweet pressure. He stuffed the side of one hand into his mouth to stifle a yell as Smokescreen relented long enough to kiss the charged, sparking sensors, granting them a moment's hard pressure to slide through the cloud of not-quite-enough and please-yes-more.

It built up and up in a glittering bubble of energy straining at the limits of endurance, and he wanted, he wanted, he needed to tip over the edge, to break. He couldn't stand it, it was too much. Primus, please!

Teeth caught the loose edge of the seal and peeled it off the melted glue in one long, painless pull, and Prowl curled up off the ground, hunching over Smokescreen's head as he came in a soft, gasping burst.

The thighs shaking around the gambler's head gave him away even if the dribble of freed lubricant didn't. Smokescreen pushed away to pick the seal off his lower lip, then dove back down to bury his tongue in the quivering opening. Prowl went rigid, hips tense enough to shudder in place as a quiet whimper spilled from his vocalizer.

Less than a minute later, his sirens went off in a blaze of emergency lights and deafening sound.

The local wildlife decided this neck of the woods was too crazy tonight. Even the squirrels got the slag out of there.

Smokescreen helped him sit up once everything finished resetting. "And that's a proper unsealing."

Prowl swayed, not sure if he was dizzy or just unable to focus through the ringing in his audios. Either way, it gave him a valid excuse to hold onto Smokescreen.

Who put an arm around him without even thinking about it. Cuddling through the afterglow it was.

"I hate to make you drive after this, but we've still got to get home," the gambler said apologetically after a while. "I've got first shift."

Tomorrow's schedule scrolled up on Prowl's HUD, and he sighed. Duty called. "I am fine to drive. I was merely - surprised. I was not prepared for the strength of it." Toys vibrating on his external nodes through an intact seal could not compare to that. His legs often wobbled after a decent overload, but he hadn't collapsed senseless since the first time. Which did, in a way, make sense of his reaction.

Smokescreen hugged him closer, savoring the dying tingle of dispersed charge against his armor. "I did good, huh?"

Prowl glanced at him and away, the quirk at the corner of his lips betraying a smile. "Indeed." Blowing out another regretful sigh, the tactician began levering himself to his feet. Joints creaked, and dirt pattered to the ground. They'd have to visit the washracks when they got back to the Ark.

"Extra suds," Smokescreen said, apparently at random, and Prowl shot him a confused look.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Heh. Nothing."

But yes. They did use extra suds. Red Alert spent the rest of the week dodging Datsuns because he sent out a PDA Alert on them, but that was price lovers paid for getting frisky in public.

That was normal life.

[* * * * *]

[A/N:Thanks for DisplaceNoble again for the patience to commission this and then wait for it to run its course to get around to this point. The missing words in the prompt and warning are "virginity" and "seal-popping." I hope this is to your liking.

On the one hand, this is probably the most realistic relationship fic I've ever written. On the other hand, I have never hated writing a fic so much as I have hated writing this one. This thing consumed me. So I would really like to hear what people have to say about it, because Primus knows I need to hear whether or not this thing was worth the effort I put into it.

Until the curtain rises next time, m'dears.]