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siberstudios · 16 days ago

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!! An ask game!! I chose maple and fig for constructiprowl 👀

[ MAPLE ] sender shakes receiver's shoulders, begging them to wake up.

The ground above them shook, the rocky ceiling close enough to send its tremors directly into Prowl’s door wings. The praxian grit his denta against them, glaring down at the unconscious Constructicon he had been forced to straddle after falling into a sinkhole; one triggered by Long Haul’s excessive girth and weight.

The opening in the Earth that had swallowed them so suddenly had closed just as abruptly. After large rocks and debris had covered their only escape, there had only been enough room for Prowl to straddle the mech he had landed on, the joints of his hips straining from the stretch, and bend forward. The front of his chassis scraped against Long Haul’s, and his door wings had been forced to swoop low.

The only relief Prowl had from this situation was that Long Haul had been knocked out by the fall and was unable to take advantage of their ridiculously prone situation. Or it would have been, had Prowl the strength to dig himself out.

Tentatively and with the utmost reluctance, Prowl loosened his constrictive hold over the gestalt bond—and balked at what he felt. Slamming his servos over the inept actor's armor, he growled, “Cease this at once.”

The largest of the Constructicons might have appeared as the most normative, what with his slow moving build and lack of visible aggression. However, through his unwilling bond with the mech Prowl knew Long Haul shared in the Constructicons' shared mental deficiencies. The truck wasn’t quite so vicious as Bonecrusher or Hook, nor as destructively deranged as Mixmaster, and none of them came close to matching the magnitude of Scavenger’s insecure delusions.

But that wasn’t to say Long Haul possessed no irregular processes at all.

Perhaps only rivalled by Hook in bitterness, Long Haul longed the most out of them all. His wants were simply read on a datapad; to be considered more than his make. If not due to Prowl’s unwilling delve into their collective processors, he would have considered the Decepticon’s wants no deeper than recognition. Unfortunately, he was fully cognizant of their depth, of the bottomless trench the laboring mech continuously dug for himself and filled with those wants.

And that Prowl had become one of them.

He should have known Long Haul could not have been knocked out by so short of fall; that the force of said fall was not enough to knock the Constructicons mask free from his faceplate.

“You’re being obstinate,” he accused, engine revving, only to stop short when rocks broke free of the ceiling and tumbled over his frame. They would be buried alive at this rate. The cause of the sinkhole lay unmoving beneath him and Prowl did not know the cause of the continued shakes. Or what had caused his comms to malfunction, evident by the lack of response by the usually eager to answer Constructicons they had left on the surface.

When Long Haul made no move to reveal his wakeful state, Prowl said through clenched denta, “I am no prince and you certainly no princess.”

No response. He slammed his servos over the mech’s unnecessarily broad shoulders and shook them, snapping, “Long Haul, get up. Stop this fairy tale nonsense, it will not be indulged.”

And once more, his completely rational ire was met with silence. The only sound to emanate coming from the shuddering walls around them.

“You insufferable menace, fine.”

Prowl scooted higher up Long Haul’s waist and leaned down, struggled with the angle, and planted a quick peck on Long Haul’s derma.

A strong servo shot up and gripped the back of Prowl’s helm, holding him there. A wide mouth opened against his and a fat glossa slobbered all over tightly pursed derma. Oral lubricant slathered against the openings of his olfactorate, causing him to sputter. Which only allowed the offending glossa to swipe at his denta as Prowl reared his helm back after being released.

Long Haul, visor bright, smiled up at him with a dopey expression, “True love’s kiss.”

Prowl sneered in the face of it. “Are you satisfied?”

The large mech’s smile turned sharp. “For now.”

Prowl would not dignify that statement with a response, instead opening his now glistening mouth to order the mech to free them. Only for the words to end on the tip of his glossa when Long Haul brought a servo up to cup the side of his mouth and shouted, “Alright boys, we’re good here! You can stop jumping!”

Prowl’s optic ridges shot high before descending into a glare of understanding. Duplicitous was not a descriptor he would have associated with Long Haul before. He would have to update his character profile on the mech…after a long solvent shower and longer lecture on the danger of intentionally disturbing unsteady ground.

He vented heavily through his olfactorate before laying down atop Long Haul, his chassis uncomfortable and processor burning as he waited for the Constructicons positioned above to dig them out. “I despise you,” he declared, though it sounded more like a defeated mumble.

The plating beneath him rumbled gently with laughter, “Love you too, Prowl.”

[ FIG ] sender, knowing receiver is hungry, pressures them to eat.

“Not now Prowl, medical breakthroughs do not wait for their founder to fuel.” Hook waved his servos in the air, one clutching a dangerously sharp looking medical instrument. It buzzed.

“I fail to see what a medical breakthrough,” and Prowl highly doubted it was such. “Has to do with the reports I requested of you three joors ago.”

The crew Optimus had chosen to accompany him on his latest ill-advised escapade had included not only Prowl, but the hideous green growths that had attached themselves to him. And in what could potentially be the most disastrous decision the Prime had made yet, the roster had included only one medic. Hook.

Prowl had felt less pessimistic over their chances of survival during Unicron’s undead siege against Cybertron.

And thus, having been informed he was solely responsible for the medical readiness of the crew, Hook had proceeded to use the ship’s medbay to do everything but his assigned duties. Which included keeping himself properly fueled.

Hook scoffed as he tossed the unknown tool on an already cluttered desk. “Reports do not innovate, Prowl.”

“And refusing the provided energon rations has reduced your productivity by ten percent.” Then, unable to keep an orn’s worth of mounting frustrations from his vocals, “Innovation would be you doing as you’re commanded when it is commanded of you.”

Hook turned his back to Prowl, waving the praxian off. “Come now, dear, you know how I am when in my element—why are you really here?”

Prowl scowled at green armor. As unsatisfied as he was by the medic’s unproductive behavior, he was equally as unsurprised. The lack of reports were not why Prowl had marched into the medbay, slammed an energon cube on the less messy medical berth, and ordered Hook to drink.

The Constructicon medic would see that the crew was properly maintained for the total duration of their mission; the mech’s ego was too vulnerable to allow otherwise. Prowl’s irritation over Hook’s irrational behavior originated from a less professional source. One centered deep within his chassis.

Slowly, and thinking better of it, he admitted, “The force of your hunger is…distracting.”

Hook stilled, the seams of his armor loosening and tightening, clinking together in a full frame shudder that racked through his frame. Then he vented deliberately loud before twisting away from the desk and walking toward the medberth. Hook lifted the energon cube and brought it up to his faceplate, its blue glow clashing against red optics. With distant vocals, Hook agreed, “It can be.”

Prowl frowned, but otherwise said nothing lest he break the rare spell that was an obstinate medic finally doing as he was told. But instead of ingesting the cube, Hook turned back toward the desk, knocked most of its clutter to the floor, and placed the energon cube on it.

“Oh no, I think I’m growing faint,” the medic said with high pitched vocals, fake swooning into his desk chair.

Prowl watched the unimpressive show with his servos crossed over his chassis, waiting for the terrible play to end.

“You’re right, dear, I simply must refuel. It’s paramount to the mission’s success,” Hook said as he picked up the cube, servos shaking with such exaggeration that Prowl expected the energon to spill. The cube was dropped, and Hook slumped in his chair. “Why, my servos are shaking too much; I’m so weary, Prowl. I’ve been distracted too.”

Blue optics narrowed to slits, unmoved by Hook’s blatant ply for pampering. Being the Constructicon Prowl blatantly avoided the most had in turn made the group’s medic become the one who most often created excuses (problems) that obligated Prowl seek him out himself.

“You are neither a youngling nor an invalid, Hook. You will drink your energon and you will get back to work.”

“The world, it grows dark. Is that you, Scrapper? How I’ve missed you…”

Prowl’s olfactorate flared, his engine revving in vexation over the other’s theatrics. His sudden spike in anger unable to be attributed to anything else.

He marched toward the desk, blue optics burning into its slumped occupant.

From behind the seated mech, who was still tall enough that the praxian only had to do a slight bend before becoming even with his helm, Prowl wrapped an arm around Hook’s shoulders. He picked up and pressed the energon cube directly to closed, thin derma. His opposite servo slowly encircled Hook’s neck at its side, two digits pressing lightly against its center.

He pressed them harder against it, causing insulated rubber to bend. An unintentional act of domination—the very domination the Constructicons craved from Prowl—done only to ensure through physical evidence that his next command would be followed.

“Open,” he ordered, the heat of his words fogging against green metal. “If you’re going to insist I treat you as a youngling, I will.”

Hook’s mouth fell open, a slight parting of derma, and Prowl tilted the cube back. The medic’s throat bobbed against his hold. “You’re going to drink. Every. Last. Drop,” he commanded, his hold over the other tightening.

He felt the medic choke against him; Prowl continued to pour, unperturbed by his disobedient subordinate’s discomfort. If it could even be called that. Desperately loud heating fans clicked on. Prowl ignored those as well, only tilting the cube back further to make its contents empty faster in his not response.

The armor pressed against Prowl’s chassis had just begun to warm when the cube was emptied. He dropped it, stepping back to grasp his servos behind his back.

“See that this does not become a habit,” he clipped.

Hook swiveled the chair so that he was facing the praxian directly, his large frame hunched forward and servos gripping the ends of the armrest tight enough for the metal to crumble.

Red optics didn’t cycle as they stared directly into Prowl’s cool blue, their intense glow only partially obscured by the steam pouring out of Hook’s vents, causing wet drops of condensation to cling and drip off his green and purple frame. The medic nodded, though no satisfaction came from being given the immediate obedience Prowl should have been met with from the start.

As no, what had just occurred would not become a habit, but instead had likely become…something else.

#constructiprowl #others writings

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