It is a matter of precision.
It has taken time to learn one another. Time and patience. Sunstreaker is not as easy to categorize as Prowl had once thought. And Prowl has a depth that Sunstreaker could not expect.
But they have learned. They’ve taught one another. They’ve memorized the rhythms.
Prowl, for example, has not only capitalized on it. He’s turned it into an art form. Or more precisely, he’s turned Sunstreaker into one.
Take now, for instance, where Sunstreaker is kneeling on the floor, still and serene. His wrists are bound behind his back with silken rope, chosen for beauty not strength. He can escape with the single tug of his wrists, but the point is that he doesn’t want to. His spark is bared, several layers of heavy armor pulled back and kept there by medical grade clasps.
Sunstreaker had polished himself to perfection before arriving, and indeed, he’s gorgeous. All curves and angles and glittering paint. But he’s most beautiful like this, in submission and trust. It’s a potent aphrodisiac. That he’s bared himself to and for Prowl, well, there’s little else the tactician finds so erotic.
Prowl is seated before Sunstreaker, the tip of a flog gently tracing the seams around Sunstreaker’s open spark chamber. He doesn’t approach the vulnerable whorls of his partner’s spark, but the desire echoing in Sunstreaker’s field suggests that he wants Prowl to do so. Sunstreaker’s fans whirr. Charge visibly crawls over his armor.
He hasn’t started begging. Not yet. But his spark is an eager thing, glowing bigger and brighter with every stroke of the flog. It is only a matter of time.
It is precision. It is rhythm. Prowl can estimate, down to the count of ventilations, how long it will be before Sunstreaker starts to beg. Before pleasure drunk optics drift toward him, a glossa sweeps over parted lips, and Sunstreaker leans forward. Before a whine builds in his throat and spills out.
And a single static laced word emerges from his vocalizer, “Please,” Sunstreaker murmurs and ah, he’s two ventilations early.
Prowl traces the innermost edges of Sunstreaker’s spark chamber with the tip of the flog, avoiding the furthest flux of his partner’s spark. Another shiver wracks Sunstreaker’s frame.
Prowl leans forward and Sunstreaker leans toward him in turn, another needy noise echoing in his chassis. The flog rests on Sunstreaker’s shoulder, and it is Prowl’s free hand that slips forward, that slips into Sunstreaker’s chassis, and traces the inner edge of his spark casing.
Sunstreaker gasps a ventilation. His spark pulses brighter, as if trying to spill from his casing and into Prowl’s hand.
Desire shoots straight into Prowl’s spark. Trust, so much trust, it burns through his lines like a fire.
“You needn’t beg,” Prowl murmurs, his lips barely brushing over Sunstreaker’s jaw, his cheek, up and over his forehelm. It’s a featherlight touch.
His fingers dip deeper, the warmth of Sunstreaker’s spark teasing his dermal plating, and the excited energies nipping at his fingertips.
“You know I will always give you what you need,” Prowl adds as he presses his helm against Sunstreaker’s.
Sunstreaker leans into him, asking without words, offering himself, his trust. Prowl soaks it in.
It is a matter of precision, after all. Prowl has figured out, down to the tiniest twitch, everything Sunstreaker wants. And he has vowed to always provide it.
For both of their sakes.