#mechcow

[anon-e-miss]

Udder Shame - 4

The intel was wrong. It had said the underground warehouse was a weapons factory but there was not a weapon in sight, save for the few guards they had neutralized. When Jazz had received his orders, it had sounded like Command had hopes recovering caches of weapons. Above them, the city was a bombed out ruin. Megatron was already blaming the Autobots for the bombing of Vos and Tarn but Jazz knew full well, having watched the missiles launch, that it had been an act of mutual destruction between the two Decepticon states. The Winglord Aerie had been the primary target of the Tarnian rockets. With their Lord dead, the Seekers had scattered, mostly in the direction of Kaon. They had left their secret factories all but unguarded.

“Mooo,” the cry echoed, stall after all.

Jazz frowned as he peered over the wall and saw a strange bovinoid strapped to a weird benches as a machine milked it even as the large canister attached the milker overflowed. The beast’s belly was huge. Fins on its back twitched. It shook as machine behind the bench pumped fall spikes into its aft and valve. Transfluids pooled on the straw under the bench, along with the spilled cream. A funnel strained the creature’s mouth as a slurry was poured down its throat. What sort of operation was this? Was it the reason the Decepticons had not suffered the fuel shortages the Autobots had? In the stall next store, the same scenario played out. There were empty stalls suggesting there had been an attempt to evacuate the mechanimals but they had run out of time. He looked into the next stall and saw a bovinoid with a different coat pattern. Where the other two had yellow plating and colourful pelts, this one had silver plating and a mottled black and white pelt. It looked up at Jazz, optics growing wide. The sound it made around the funnel force fuelling it sounded like a sob. Its belly was also huge. There was a clear brand on its engorged udders. Energon leaked from its teats. The milker was knocked over on the floor.

“Get over here, Jazz,” Mirage called him. He jogged down the row of stalls, expecting Mirage to have found a treasure cache. When he turned the corner, he saw a large pen. It was full of smaller bovinoids. They toddled around on two legs, looking distinctly mechanoid.

“What the frag is this?” Jazz asked. Mirage shook his helm.

“I don’t know.” A little bovinoid pushed up on two legs and toddled over to the side of the pen and looked up at him with big blue optics. Jazz hoped the fence.

“Hi Sweetspark,” Jazz cooed. He lifted the little thing up and took a look at the tag in her floppy audio.

“Moooo,” she cooed back. It felt eerily like holding the Twins. He turned to hand the calf to Mirage. There was a bellow at his back.

“Watch out, Jazz!” Mirage called.

Bam! Jazz was barely able to keep from crushing the calf when he was knocked off his peds. He got halfway up when he got rammed again. This calf was considerably bigger than the others and snorting like a bull. It had a good set of horns growing on his helm. Mooing happily, the little one butted Jazz’s chassis with its helm. Jazz could almost hear it as laughter. It crawled onto his chassis mooing happily, like it was some sort of a game. Hearing a snort, Jazz raised his helm to see the older calf inch forward. It reached for the little one with strange servos. They looked more like hooves but the there was more mobility in the three digits than their would have been in a hoof. The little one nuzzled the big calf as they retreated into the small crowd of calves.

“Are you okay Jazz?” Mirage asked.

“Got any energon goodies, Raj?” Jazz asked as he stood up and brushed himself off. The mangers were all empty. When had the calves last fuelled?

“Sure,” Mirage tossed him a bag. “What are you thinking?”

“‘M thinkin’ I need to make friends,” Jazz replied. He took out a goodie and held it out. “It’s okay, Sweetspark. Yer just protectin’ all the bitties, right? Bet yer all hungry.”

“Moo,” the oldest calf sniffed the air. The other calves mooed with audible urgency.

“It’s okay,” Jazz said. “Ya can hand them out. Here, take the bag, Sweetspark.”

“What is going on Jazz?” Mirage asked. The calf took the bag with blunt digits and reached inside. It gave a goodie to the calf it had rescued from Jazz.

“A mechanimal, wouldn’t share like this,” Jazz said.

He spotted slots for bottles. There was a large canister and rows of empty bottles. Though the dawning horror made him physically ill, there was an urgent need to fuel these little ones. Jazz filled the bottles and pushed them into the slots. The calves were familiar with the exercise and rushed over, kneeling on the floor and suckling hungrily on the bottles’ nipples. The oldest of them watched with suspicion. It did not seem like there was a bottle for him. Too old then to still be on an ori’s energon? Though he had no goodies left, Jazz had a ration, he opened it and offered it to the calf. It canted its helm, Jazz took a sip, showing it out to fuel, and then gave it to the calf, who copied him perfectly, adapting for his elongated snout.

“What the frag is all this?” Jazz asked. He saw the tag on the older calf’s audio and saw the same lead numbers as the little one he had tried to remove. “That yer sibling?”

“Moo,” the calf said. He nodded his helm.

“Holy frag,” Mirage cursed.

“Watch’em,” Jazz ordered.

Jazz ran to the office he had passed before finding the stalls. Like he had noted when he had first found it, someone had taken the time to clear most of it out. He turned on the work station and easily cracked the encryption and started digging through the files. Most were expenses, with clear codes that covered utilities and fees. There were purchase orders and sale receipts. A number of these receipts were tagged with codes: 97031, 84703 and 21691. There was a video file saved with the title CCGTC and the codes he had seen on the receipts. He opened the file and jumped back when it auto played. Porn! A quick series of shots of the three bovinoids he had observed getting fragged by monstrous looking bulls crossed the screen before the title appeared. Cow Cops Get The Cream.

“What the frag?”

The image of a Praxian enforcer writing a ticket appeared. In the next imaged, he was strapped to a bench, begging for help as he was raped by the machine. With each passing nanoklik, his form changed until he was a fat, fuzzy bovinoid. The moos sounded like anguish when a huge bull appeared. Jazz turned off the video. They were not mechanimals. They were not an unknown frame type. They were mechs, Praxian mechs who had somehow been transformed into beasts. Jazz raced up and down the row of pens until he found an electrical panel and reading the list of breakers, cut power to the machine. He ran back now and pulled the funnel from the first mech’s throat. The fragging machine had retracted the falsespikes when it had shut down. Jazz kicked it over in a fit of anger.

“Y’re okay now,” Jazz told the mutilated Praxian as he helped him to the ground. The mech looked up at him with tears pouring from his blue optics. They stained his gold face plates. A loud bellow echoed. Jazz lifted his helm. “Everythings gonna be okay. I’m gonna check on that.”

“Run Jazz, run!” Ricochet yelled. The thunder of a stampede filled the air. Three massive mech-bovinoids chased aft his twin. He caught Jazz by the arm and pulled him a long. The bulls stopped at the pens. The trapped mech mooed, cries of fear. One bull ripped the door of a pen and ripped yanked the silver-faced victim from the bench he had been strapped to. Jazz saw the bulls spikes pressurize as the mech struggled. The bull lifted its victim’s leg up.

Bang! Bull and victim dropped. The mutilated Praxian shuffled away. Bang! Bang! Ricochet dropped the remaining bulls without hesitation. These had been mechs too once but even knowing that, they could not let these three be hurt. They were gravid, Jazz realized, and close he thought to emergence. He called all units to converge on this factory. Clearing all these mutilated victims was priority, Jazz did not ask HQ if they thought different. He did not want to know what High Brow would think. Siren and Hosehead helped the first bovinoid Praxian Jazz had found into the cargo hold. A check of the records Jazz had uncovered, said he was designated Nightbeat. He cried when Hosehead called him by his designation. Ricochet helped the one that was identified as Barricade along. He kept looking back at the last, the bovinoid Praxian was designated Prowl. Had they really been enforcers? What sort of sick game was all of this?

“Go on in,” Mirage herded the calves into the cargo hold with the adults.

The little one Jazz had rescues HF970... she, she was a female heifer, she ran to Prowl who looked at her with something between shock and horror. He let her nurse for his engorged wells. The older calf, BM970, Prowl’s bull calf as far as the records showed inched over. HC847 instinctively went to Barricade. Like Prowl, Barricade let the little one nurse. Almost every calf matched to one of rescued adults. Not all the adults had been Praxian, but the majority were. There was one calf that did not match to an adult. There was a lot of mooing, the captives perhaps communicating with each other in the only way they could. BM970 took the odd calf out from Jazz and gave him to his dam. Prowl put BM656 on his well and the little one latched.

“Ratchet’s gonna have a fit,” Ricochet said.

“Everyone o’em’s close to emergence,” Jazz said. “Maybe that’s why they were left.”

“Maybe the madmech behind the operation planned to come back for’em,” Ricochet said. “Medic Pharma...”

“Ratchet’s gonna have fifteen fits,” Jazz grimaced. “Get us outta here Raj.”

[mychlapci]

Yeah i suppose mechcow-ificating Sentinel isn't the wildest thing to happen here.

Anyway I can't stand him but the whole thing is pretty fun anyway. He'd be SO much more bearable like that. Tits 3 times their normal size, always hooked up to a milking machine because otherwise they're leaking all the time.. tits hanging low and heavy below him as he's strapped on all fours, eventually mooing in need until his valve is finally filled.. and oops, turns out the mech who spiked him also sparked him up, so his titties are producing twice as much now, and his belly is getting all big and round..

yeeeah, you get it. i don’t think there is anyone who can stand Sentinel, he is such a fucking dick… but we can fix that. We can expose him to so much humiliation that soon enough the only thing he knows how to do is take spike and squirt milk out of his titties… yes, maybe he gets turned into a breeding bitch, all to increase the production of milk and also because he’s got a great build, and will carry very nice sparklings. Just don’t tell him that, it might snap him out of his obedience and back into his asshole self.

[anon-e-miss]

Udder Shame -2

They let Prowl recharge after a while. A splash of cold water shocked Prowl awake and he shook, such as he could in the stocks. Someone attached a milker to his wells and they immediately started to tug. He was not gravid and had never been. Despite the stimulation, the machine did not get a drop of energon from him. To his shame, however, Prowl’s valve lubricated. A tube was presented and pushed into Prowl’s mouth and slurry poured down his throat. As he was force fuelled, Prowl cried quietly. He coughed as the tube was pulled from his throat and hoped he might be left in peace. It was not to be. Behind him, he heard the fragging machine dragged into position.

“Stop! Stop!” Prowl cried. “I don’t want this. I did not volunteer!”

“Should be gag him?” Someone asked.

“No,” Pharma replied. “I like it when they cry a bit.”

“No! Stop!” Prowl wailed. Falsespikes pushed into Prowl’s valve and aft and immediately started battering his holes. “Nooo. Nooo. Stop!”

Prowl shook with the force of the frag. His face plates heated and his jaw fell open as his transluid duct and ceiling node were relentlessly pounded. Pharma toyed with his spike and Prowl felt a peculiar strain. Suddenly, something shot up, plunging into his sheath and battering it in time with the falsespikes in his aft and valve. The Enforcer’s optics went wide as his sheath was fragged hard. His valve drooled a constant stream of lubricant as he was roughly used. Though he tossed his helm in deny at first, soon Prowl’s helm hung. Pharma pulled his helm up by his chevron and wiped the drool from his chin.

“What kind of mech gets off being used like this?” Pharma asked.

“I…” Prowl moaned, trying to argue. Pharma waved his servo and the machines picked up speed and force. “Oh! Oh!”

“You can’t help it,” Pharma said. “You’re just a stupid little slut. At least now you can be made proper use of.”

“Nah!” Prowl cried as he overloaded. It just went on and on.

It took a couple of orns before he grew fur. A coat of black and white covered wherever Prowl could see. His digits became wide and blunt. He curled them around the edge of the stocks as the machine fragged him. The milker he had been perpetually hooked up to tugged at his wells and energon poured. A few mega-cycles before, his belly had started to shake strangely as he was being fragged by the machine and the overseer had hooked a milker down there. Prowl could only cry as the stimulation made him overload all but constantly. Pharma made him watch as he branded Prowl’s aft with a hot iron as Prowl bellowed and sobbed, the Seeker walked around and showed Prowl his reflection in the mirror.

He had the snout of a mechanimal. His chevron had turned into red horns and his was covered in a thick layer of black and white spotted fur. The udders on his belly and his wells were swollen with energon. Prowl sobbed at the sight. They had turned him into a mechanimal, a bovinoid. Pharma pierced his floppy audio with a tag, assigning him a number and he put a collar with a bell around his neck. Though Prowl tried to curse at the Seeker, his glossa did not work right and had not in an orn. All Prowl could do was moo and bellow.

“Usually we do artificial insemination,” Pharma explained. “But you’re so special you deserve a live cover.”

Prowl mooed and mooed as a massive mech… mechanimal was brought it. The beast walked on two legs, with hooves instead of peds. He had a snout like Prowl with a large ring through his olfactory ridge. Between his legs were two huge spikes and they were rock hard. Terrified Prowl shook his helm and mooed his displeasure but the beast only snorted. He needed no help from the overseers to do what he was meant and he fell on Prowl with a triumphant bellow and plunged his huge spikes into Prowl’s valve… valves. The beast rutted into what had been Prowl’s spike at the same time as he rutted into his valve. Under the beastly frag, Prowl shook and cried, his moos plaintive, at first. Despite himself, before long, Prowl was pushing back into the beast’s spikes, overloading as he did.

“What a perfect performance,” Pharma cheered. “I do believe our stud deserves a reward as well.”

Before Prowl knew what was happening, he was pulled from the stocks, freed from the milkers and tossed down into the straw. He did not get the chance to right himself, the beast was on him, pinning him face down in the straw as he lined his spikes up again. Prowl shrieked as the beast’s aim was off and he plunged a spike into Prowl’s afthole and then his valve. Though he was fragging the wrong hole, the beast did not care at all and he railed Prowl in the straw. Blunt digits pressed Prowl’s face down as the beast grunted against his cheekplate. From the corner of his optic, Prowl saw the stall door close as the Seeker left him.

“It’s a good thing you were such an aft slut in your past life,” Pharma declared as he smacked Prowl’s aching, upturned aft. He had fallen into stasis lock, aft raised up in the air as the beast had forced both his spikes into his aft, after doing the same to his valve. Prowl ached all over. Pharma reached under him and tugged at his teet. Energon shot over the floor. “Your udders ache, don’t they?”

“Moo,” Prowl moaned. He was limp and unresisting as they put him back in the stocks. The first squirt of energon from his swollen udders brought such relief. Tears poured from his optics as the Seeker pulled the fragging machine up behind him. Prowl heard the machine more than he felt it, the beast had destroyed him. Pharma cackled.

“Dumb mechcow. You had better hope you took or you’ll have another dark-cycle with the bull soon.”

Prowl took. He learned he was carrying the beast’s progeny with Pharma’s servo up his aft. Time passed but Prowl could not track it. Every mega-cycle was the same. His belly grew and grew and he felt the calf kick. How long he gestated for, Prowl did not know. One mega-cycle, Prowl went into emergence. They let him free from the stocks and left him to shuffle around the stall, at a loss for what he out to do. Faintly, Prowl heard a moo, and he leaned against the wall closest to the other mechcow’s stall and took comfort in his or her presence. As his forge contracted, Prowl pushed and the calf felt from his frame into the straw with a splatter. It gave a loud cry and Prowl did not know if he should feel joy or sorrow. Pharma came in a short time later.

“A bull!” The Seeker said as he handed the calf off to an overseer. “It’s not ideal but not to worry, in a quartex you’ll be fertile again and the Bull will be back to frag another calf into you.”

There was no question what Prowl should feel now. It was sorrow.

[anon-e-miss]

Which, to be clear, outs him as essentially a draft horse. It undermines everything he’s built for himself. But what’s a reputation compared to rescuing trapped sparklings in the ruins of a bombed city?

…

A process mech am I and I'm telling you no lie,

I work and toil among the fumes that trail across the sky.

There's thunder all around me and a poison fit to scream,

There's a lousy smell that smacks o' hell and dust all in my seams.

…

I've worked among the spinners, I've vented in the oily smoke,

I've shovelled up the gypsum and it nigh on makes you choke.

I've stood knee deep in cyanide, been sick with a caustic burn,

Been working rough and seen enough to make your fuel tank turn.

…

Perhaps cold constructs are almost encoded to the songs. They really feel the rhythm. They need it to get a good pace.

[anon-e-miss]

More seriously, what if it’s a bovinoid AU and work songs are classic for Praxians? Something timed to milking. Acapella and hoof stomping.

XXXfans Prowl doing a special performance? Milk milk, stomp, sing, etc.

[anon-e-miss]

Halloween scare jump - weird questions :

1.What color are Prowl's wells and belly? I know his nozzles are gold,but what about the rest?

2.How do you know so much about cybertronien fauna?I barely found a mention of one and it didn't even have a image.Or is possible that..(gasp) you are making it all up?

3.Do you have some juicy fanart or just sketches of your fics?Alright,to be honest, I'm not so much horny as curious.My stupid brain has hard time to imagine Prowl as mechcow or very heavily pregnant (to the point he can't walk) without at least some reference.So I'm asking ya because as I'm sure there is something on the internet,I'm to scared to go there (again).

Sorry for so such weird questions. It's just that I have rought two weeks and your daily ficlets or fanfics are one of few highligths these days.And since it's Halloween,"season of weird and scary",I asked myself,why not to try?

I got with Prowl's base plating being silver like his face. I go with what would be darker on a human being gold for him.

I've gotten some from TFWiki and made whatever else I need up. Same thing with the flora.

So I'm a terrible artist. I doodle a bit but nothing I ever share. I haven't commissioned anything racy just because I feel that it's presumptive to think any artist I like would like the weird shit I write and I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable in that way.

[anon-e-miss]

Anyone cringing over the random asks and answers your feed's getting spammed with.

Yes, that happens here. First it was mermaids. It's been lions, mechcows and various deranged kinks.

That is what life is like in this Den of Filth.

You may want to run screaming. It's been reasonably tame lately.

[mychlapci]

Oh wow, have we reached the sexualise Sentinel point where we're making him a hu-cow now ? (Mechcow, i guess ?)

listen.... i don’t know how to explain any of this... i mean, come on dude, it’s boob day. i’m having my 7pm coffee. i’m trying to fix Sentinel by force-femming him. this is just a normal day on this blog now i guess.

[anon-e-miss]

Ori's Energon - Settled

All but immediately, Prowl chose to forgo armour. It was not entirely a choice; it simply did not fit at all over any part of his frame. In any case, heifer routinely did not wear armour, certainly not when their bellies were full. His was full and growing fuller still. Prowl found it easier to be nude and Punch did not appear troubled by the development when he joined Prowl or Prowl and Jazz in the nursery. All he had done is woven Prowl a beautiful shawl in case he became cool. He was knitting blankets for Prowl’s calves now. Prowl was so intrigued by the process that Punch had taken to teach him. Prowl’s first scarf was wonky but Springer wore it with pride, even though it was not cold. Really, Punch was incredible, just like Jazz was but different still as he took charge of all three of Prowl’s calves so Jazz could tend to him.

His belly, so swollen with eggs, was covered in shiny stretch marks but Jazz did not sneer at them but massaged Prowl’s thinned sentio-metallico with expensive oils to sooth it. Though this had been meant to be a common surrogacy, where Prowl was only a warm incubator for the eggs but due the enormity of the clutch the eggs had rooted in his systems in such a way that they were taking code from him. However many eggs made to the point of laying and hatching, they could have some of his features; some could be heifers or bulls. It did not seem to trouble Jazz at all.

“If every one o’em comes out bull or heifer I would be plenty happy," Jazz assured him as he thrust into Prowl's sopping valve. "Y're so pretty, so sweet, so givin', why would I be upset if any o' these bitties take after ya?"

"Moo oo," Prowl gasped, fondling his own swollen wells as Jazz stood between his legs. "I am just a heifer."

"Just?" Jazz tutted at Prowl and shook his helm. "No just. Y'er the prettiest mech, the most generous I ever met. Y'er a perfect ori. 'M lucky ya to have ya carryin' my eggs. Luckier still that they'll have part o' yer code."

Jazz worshipped his frame. Prowl udders, thighs and afts were covered in stretch marks like his belly and Jazz took care to massage the oil into his delicate sentio-metallico twice a mega-cycle. Ambulon was pleased with his work, for all the great demands the carrying was putting on Prowl's frame, the heifer was in fine form and Prowl preened at the praise. He was a good heifer.

"I was expecting at least half of the eggs to be absorbed by Prowl's forge but every last one is growing splendidly," Ambulon explained. "In fact, I can see now that one of them contains two newsparks."

"Oh wow," Jazz gasped. "This is amazin'. 'M gonna need to higher a whole team o' nannies to help out."

"I've never seen a heifer carry a clutch even half this size without straining," Ambulon said. "Prowl, you are in excellent health and so are all those eggs!"

Ambulon showed Jazz the traditional way of spark checking a heifer and of monitoring their carrying. Prowl mooed as Jazz palpated his forge, arm buried deep in his aft. Not all heifers cared for this but Prowl was naughty and loved aftplay, though he did not get much of it. Despite having no stimulation in his valve, Prowl overloaded with a squealed moo.

"I didn't realized ya liked aftplay," Jazz said as he squeezed Prowl thick aft segments as he took Prowl from behind.

"It is naughty," Prowl said. "Heifers are only supposed to take spike in their valves. They are for breeding."

"Nothin' wrong wit likin' aftplay," Jazz told him. "After I get yer new milk set up, I'll give ya a nice treat."

The new milker included a padded bench for Prowl to kneel on as his teats were tugged by a powerful machine. It would drain him faster and more thoroughly. With fourteen bitties on the way, it was important for Prowl to bring up his already impressive energon supply. Already they froze what Prowl's twins did not drink. Thankfully, Prowl had time yet to build up supply.

Prowl let Jazz strap him into the milker and he mooed blissfully as the suction cups tugged on his teats. Jazz stroked his helm and his doorwings, taking the opportunity to massage Prowl's frame with oil. He shivered with arousal as Jazz kneaded his aft and pulled his segments apart. More oil spilled between Prowl's segments and dribbled over his furled port.

"Can I play wit yer after, Sweetspark?" Jazz asked.

"Please?" Prowl replied. He mooed as Jazz fragged his aft with his digits. It made his heavy belly tight and hot.

"I got a present for ya," Jazz revealed as he continued to work his long digits in and out of Prowl little afthole. "I got ya a toy. While y're hooked up to the milker it's gonna frag yer aft."

"Moo!" Prowl gasped as he looked over his shoulder and caught sight of the fragging machine Jazz had bought for him. He watched Jazz lube up the false spike attached to the long arm and line it up with his port. "Moooo ooo!"

"Feels good, don't it?" Jazz asked as the toy plunged in and out of Prowl's aft. Prowl through his helm and mooed in delight. It was like the autofragger they used at the clinic but without any pretenses of being a medical device.

Prowl held his aft segments apart as he looked at himself in the mirror. His afthole was not so tight a furl. He was lusty at the sight. Maybe he was a naughty heifer for liking having his aft fragged but he was a good heifer. Prowl produced kilolitres of the best quality energon. He was good. When Prowl rode Jazz that dark-cycle taking his sixth load of contributions of the mega-cycle, he cooed and mewled as Jazz played with his aft as Prowl bounced on his lap.

"Can I call ya mine, Darlin' Prowl?" Jazz asked as they rested later, his servo resting on Prowl's bulging belly.

"Yours?" Prowl asked. "You want to be my farmer?"

"No, Sweetlin'," Jazz said. He sat up and kissed Prowl's cheekplate. "I want ya to be my conjunx. The ori o' my bitties. I want to be geni to yer sweet calves."

"But no one bonds to a heifer," Prowl exclaimed. "Your reputation would be ruined."

"Even if it was, I wouldn't care," Jazz said. "Anyways, I got a rep for bein' eccentric 'n outrageous. Pretty sure media would call this me bein' on brand."

"You really want to bond with me?" Prowl asked. "And adopt my calves... you really do?"

"I really do," Jazz promised.

"I will," Prowl said. "My calves will be lucky to call you geni."

[anon-e-miss]

The Bull's Horn, 2 - Final

Every time that slave code tried to flare in Prowl’s beautiful processor, Jazz renewed his efforts, feeding his sweet and sloppy valve the whole length of his spike. There was no true resistance anymore, not after the first few rounds but Prowl’s valve still clung to Jazz’s spike, it was still tight around him, it always would be. Prowl’s belly bulged with more than just the Minotaur’s calves. Jazz was filling him with so much transfluid, his frame struggled to keep up with processing the transfluids. There was such excess energy, ichor energon had started to leak from the Praxian’s swollen wells, though Prowl was too far gone to notice at this point.

He was the picture of debauchery. Jazz held his lover’s thick thighs open behind his knees as he slowly, leisurely spike him. There were a limited number of positions Jazz could take him in, what with his advancing carriage. For the moment, Jazz had Prowl in the treasure room, played out over one of the many displays set about the vault. Prowl was Sentinel’s more valuable treasure and it seemed fitting to Jazz to take him here. His optics racked over his lover’s dear frame. The circlet on Prowl’s helm was askew, as was the mantle he wore around his neck. All of his armour was gone, left in the straw berth Jazz had been so long resigned to. But he kept the marks of kingship on Prowl.

As the slave code flared again, Prowl’s glazed optics flared and his glossa lulled out of his mouth. He made no sound by quiet mewls. Jazz stepped back. His kin were close, closer than they had been in ages and he knew that it was time. His optics settled on the river of transfluids that oozed from Prowl’s gaping centre as his swollen folds hung slack. Taking pictures, Jazz slipped his great girth into Prowl’s welcoming frame. Then he focused on his sweet lover’s faceplates, at the drool that drippled from his slack mouth. He sent all of these pictures to Sentinel, to ensure the Prime knew who had made him a cuckold. It suited him to send Sentinel to the Pit knowing how well he had been robbed.

Jazz did not know the exact moment the Prime fell, only when his kin approached the labyrinth that had been his prison. He wrapped Prowl in drapery and lifted him off the table. It would be joors before Prowl regained his senses and could think of ordering himself. The way his wells had swelled with rich energon, Jazz did not believe his chestplate would close anyways and he knew his girdle would not come close to fit. It was right for him to be naked. Prowl was swollen with calf, originators-to-be amongst his kind were never armoured, only clothed in silks or jewels. Prowl would look lovely in silks.

“Jazz,” it was a voice Jazz had not heard in so long. Tears prickled in his optics as he saw his ori for the first time in ages.

“Ori,” he said.

“What do ya got there?” Punch asked.

“Sentinel’s greatest treasure,” Jazz replied. “My treasure.”

It was on the vessel the new Prime had commissioned for them that Prowl woke from his stupor. He was shy, sweet and shy around Punch and Ricochet but Jazz’s kin were sweet on him and Prowl readily accepted them. As Matriarch of the herd and grandori of the calf Prowl carried, Punch took keen interest in the state of Prowl’s health. His wells had swollen further, engorged with energon. Just the feeling of cloth against his stiff nozzles made Prowl fidget. They would need to be drained, Ori explained, and often. Once the code was triggered, it did not go silent. As Prowl’s bull, it was for Jazz to drain him and he relished the task. Prowl mewled sweetly as Jazz sucked the energon from his nozzles.

Punch was there, directing Jazz as he did a spark check on Prowl. He guided Jazz through the process and reassured Prowl as the bull sank his fist into his aft examined the Prowl’s forge through the thin lining that separated them. Jazz grinned like a fool as he felt not one but two helms. Prowl carried not a single calf but twins for him. It was no wonder his belly had grown so large already. Considering their size this early, Ori advised Jazz to ensure Prowl’s valve did not tighten overmuch, to guarantee a smoother calving. Perhaps there were other ways to assure this, plugs as an example, but Jazz preferred a personal touched. He warmed his spike in Prowl’s valve whenever they were at rest, keeping it subtle and sloppy.

Home in their fields after a long absence and free of the Prime’s poaching, Jazz relaxed into his new role of breeding bull. Though Prowl was not a heifer, the herd treated him as one. Just at a heavy heifer was treated with honour, so to was Prowl. He gave emergence under a full moon to a pair of large, lively bulls. Though Prowl was no heifer, he produce more energon than even their twins needed and Jazz was quite content to continue draining his heavy wells whenever Prowl was too full Jazz thought he could not be blamed for putting another calf in Prowl while he was still nursing the Twins. Prowl was utterly irresistible, the sweetest and most perfect ori to their creations. Though Prowl was no heifer, he would give Jazz a herd of their own.

[anon-e-miss]

Dying at the thought that Jazz just assumed Prowl knew? He’s very excited about his Praxian bride because he’s always had a thing for wings and chevron, and sure the mech seems nice they’ve been chatting over coms or what have you. And prowl has not a single clue

Prowl has zero clue. Zero clue at all.

Religion in Praxus is different, more sterile. There's more pageantry in Polyhex and the rituals just aren't something Prowl's read up on.

"What do you mean I need to become a mechcow?"

Or worse. There's a toast Prowl drinks at the celebration after that starts it all. Prowl listens to the prayers after he's drunk it.

"Wait... What?"

[anon-e-miss]

Jazz feeding prowl his own transfluids as he empties him for good.

What exactly inspired a mech who had once led armies to convert his frame into a bovinoid, Jazz could not begin to say. Perhaps for the same reason Jazz had stepped away from Iacon and had returned home to Staniz and the land his family had farmed for generations. By some miracle, the land had still been there. Oh, it had been as good as dead but it had been there and bringing the life back to it, with just Jazz’s own servo was an incredible reward. Now Jazz had crops growing in the ancient fields and a lush garden and small orchard near his little farmhouse. When he had been young, the family had kept a bovinoid or two on the farm, using their energon for fuels to sell at the market, along with medicinal blends.

Jazz had gone to the bovinoid farm with the plan to contract a seasoned heifer. But when he had been touring the facility with the director, Jazz had recognized one of the proto-cows locked in stall number 97031. Prowl had been at the halfway point of his conversion. A nice layer of soft fur covered his protoform and the striking red chevron had become a cute set of red horns. The milker had been tugging away on his pendulous wells that could just about be called udders at this stage. His gold nozzles had stretched long in the suctions cups. For little numbs stuck up from a patch of gold on his belly had been the beginning of nozzles had not been big enough for the milker to tug but a bead of energon had dripped from their tips. Prowl’s tail had swished back and forth as the director’s formula had been pumped into his valve through a truly beastly falsespike attached to the fragging machine and his pressurized spike had bounced on his belly with each battering ram of that machine.

They had made optics contact as the director offered Jazz the opportunity to work on this proto-cow a little when he saw Jazz’s interest. Jazz had cocked his helm at Prowl as he had expressed his delight in the idea. Prowl had not cringed but had nodded, yes. The milker had not been able to latch onto Prowl’s newly forming teats but Jazz had not had the same strong and he had milked Prowl’s bitty teats as Prowl had made lovely mewling moos. When Prowl’s spike had discharged, spraying Jazz’s servos and peds with his transfluids, Jazz had not been annoyed but turned on. Though Jazz had not gotten near the volume of energon from Prowl little nubs as the milker did his large udders, it had still been quite the impressive amount. Leave it to Prowl to be the best at whatever he tried.

Though he had gone to the farm looking for a seasoned heifer, Jazz had returned with a mechcow that had serious work still to be done. Prowl walked stiltedly on his hooves, they were still new to him, obviously, and he had spent most of the last while strapped into a stall, getting milked and railed by a machine. Jazz had never taken part in a formation. The family had only ever employed seasoned heifers but Jazz was a quick learner and he figured Prowl was not in a real hurry. They had replaced his optic, or someone had and Jazz though they had done a good job with the colour match. Part of the process of conversion into a bovinoid was putting on mass and overall transforming a mechanism’s shape and Prowl was no exception. He always been a sturdy, curvy mech but he was properly voluptuous now. His optics were the same celestite blue they had always been but now they were larger, sweeter and so was his pout.

There was no brand on Prowl, he was not a heifer yet and it had Prowl thinking he would have to create a brand for his farm if he was going to put one on Prowl’s round aft. No one Jazz had ever know back in the Autobots had been to the farm and Jazz found himself excited to show it all off to Prowl. It was gratifying to see open approval in Prowl’s face and to hear his compliments. Prowl did not lie and he did not say what he wanted mechanisms to see so when he said he though the farm was well done, he meant it. The barn Jazz had put up when he had decided on bringing home a bovinoid had been kitted up for milking but not for converting. Jazz had no inclination to make a habit of this and thought better of buying a bunch of random scrap. He had a creative process and a good pair of servos.

“What are ya after?” Jazz asked. Farmers and heifers had different relationships, depending on the individuals involved. After bringing Prowl home, Jazz wondered if he had been subconsciously seeking a particular sort of companionship. “Goin’ through this conversion?”

“I want to be useful,” Prowl replied. “But I do not want to work anymore.”

“Did ya think ‘bout calves?” Jazz asked. “Dairy heifers usually have a lot o’em to keep their energon production high.”

“I want them,” Prowl replied with a softness Jazz would not have expected. His big optics made him look so vulnerable. Had Prowl always wanted a family but being an MTO, being SIC, being Prowl had gotten in the way. A heifer could bred by a bull or by the farmer, be it by artificial insemination or the good ole fashion way. Mostly it was contractile with no promises of forever and no proclamations of love.

“I don’t plan on bringin’ in a bull,” Jazz said. “Don’t wanna have to contract wit another farm... ‘M independent.”

“You always were.”

“You were always lonely,” Jazz said. Had Prowl’s optics always been so sad or was it part of the transformation? The doe optics the process had given Prowl made Jazz’s spark sad for his commander of so many vorns. “‘N roughly handled. ‘M sorry I wasn’t ‘round when Optimus lost his fraggin’ processor.”

“It is done,” Prowl replied. “I wondered what had become of you.”

“I got tired o’ killin’ ‘n gettin’ mecha killed,” Jazz said. “’N nothin’ e’er changin’ so I changed. I went home.”

“It is a beautiful place.”

“It was scorched ‘n dead when I came home,” Jazz replied. “But it’s come ‘long well. Kept seeds from the crop my ancestors grew, passed down to me from my procreators. It’s good to see it grow.”

“You did not need to bring me here,” Prowl said. “I was not trapped, if I had wanted to leave, I could have at any point.”

“Ya was never meant to be just one ‘mongst the hundreds,” Jazz replied. “‘N I suppose I missed ya.”

“I... missed you as well,” Prowl replied. “I missed when it made sense.”

“Don’t know if it makes sense now,” Jazz said. “But between us, we can make it what we want.”

Strapping Prowl to the bench using cuffs from his previous function gave the scene a different sort of look. It was different. Jazz had been the one Prowl had trusted to bring him safely down to earth when his processor ran too wild. He had used these cuffs on him before. Prowl remembered them and his intakes became breathy. As he looked around, Prowl’s doorwings fluttered as he recognized other tools of Jazz had used on him before. There was a certain, clinical way about proto-cow farms, they relied heavily on the ancient formula that would slowly transform mechanisms into heifers. Jazz would still need formula and he had bought what he needed from the farmer but there were servos on ways he could use to speed things up and that was exactly what he was going to do.

“Gonna up yer fuel,” Jazz explained. “My ori had recipes for all sorts o’ things, like uppin’ a mecha’s energon production. We’ll have ya milkin’ from all six corners before frigus.”

Jazz rigged up suction cups that fit on Prowl’s budding teats and connected them to the milker. Even if the udders on his belly did not have energon to give, the milker would tug at them and stimulate their development. The constant stimulation would make him sore, but Jazz had another one of his ori’s recipes and he would massage the oil into Prowl’s sentio-metallico to help it heal. Over the mega-cycles, they got a feel for each other again and how they fit into their knew roles. Prowl was docile, perhaps too docile but Jazz could work with this. He found Prowl loved being brushed, loved having his aching teats massaged after they had been tortured for joors. Though he could have left Prowl to fuel himself, Jazz fed Prowl every meal by servo and Prowl’s optics glowed so sweetly as Jazz pet his helm as he encouraged him to take still another bite.

Touch starved, Jazz realized Prowl was touch starved and maybe he always had been. He trusted Jazz to touch him kindly, trusted him to cuff him to the bench with ops grade cuffs. Jazz did not abuse that trust and rewarded Prowl for it by giving him the physical contact he craved. When he pumped the formula into Prowl’s valve, Jazz stimulated him by servo, rubbing his node, fragging him with his digits to make sure his frame metabolized it properly. Jazz was not sure why the formula had been decided to be metabolized by the gestational tank rather than the fuel tank but this was how it had always been done. Maybe farmers had always been perverts.

By frigus, Prowl’s belly was sporting a fine set of udders and Jazz got an excellent volume of energon from him, considering he had never calved. The internal transformation of his gestational tank and reproductive forge had been completed, they were now one single component. When Prowl calved, it would be through his valve like a mechanimal, not from the external port of a normal mecha’s forge. When Jazz milked Prowl, now, he had to take care, Prowl’s spike never failed to discharge when it happened and Jazz had to make sure the transfluids did not contaminate Prowl’s energon by putting a condom on him every time he was milked. Even after this long, Prowl still produced a lot of transfluids. Jazz decided not to wait for the formula to work in the conventional way. It was time to give Prowl a personal touch.

Prowl recognized the sleeve that Jazz pulled onto his spike after getting him hard with a nice little servo job. The recognition helped Prowl get hard and stay hard. The bell on his collar, a new addition, rang as Prowl shivered. They had discussed this. Jazz thought Prowl was equal parts excited and nervous. As Jazz continued his preparations, Prowl made soft little moos and wagged his raised tail. This was something that made him nervous, not so much what Jazz was planning for his spike but the fact that Jazz would be getting the job done through his aft.

It was one of those things Prowl had never permitted. Jazz had never so much as scene Prowl’s afthole; it had always been behind a hatch. Knowing how nervous Prowl was, Jazz used a lot of lube and a lot of sweet talk as he introduced one digit to Prowl’s tightly furled afthole. The moo Prowl made was anxious but not pained but it would have been close. Prowl’s tight aft was choking circulation off to Jazz’s digit. Considering Jazz was planning on putting his whole servo up Prowl’s aft, this was not going to work. He took a vibrator wand from the table next to him and rubbed it against Prowl’s anterior node and puffy valve rim.

“Oooo,” Prowl mooed. He wiggled his aft as Jazz teased him with the vibrator. Little by little, the clench of his aft eased and Jazz was able to move his digit in and out before adding more lube and pushing two digits through Prowl’s furled port. Even as Prowl started to tense again, Jazz grazed his node a little buzz with the vibrator and Prowl cried: “Moo!”

“That’s good, ain’t it?” Jazz asked. “Ya love havin’ yer node played wit. Remember what it’s like when I use my magnets on it?”

“Yeah!” Prowl gasped. “Moo!”

“That’s it,” Jazz crooned as Prowl thrashed between the vibrator and Jazz’s digits buzzed in his aft. “It feels good in yer aft, don’t it?”

“Oooo,” Prowl mooed. “Oooo yeah.”

Once Jazz had his magnetics going, Prowl’s aft just about swallowed up his digits. The would-be heifer shivered and moaned. There was no need for the vibrator to constantly buzz his node, now Jazz could run it down his twitching spike and over his tender teats. Jazz watched his entire servo sink into Prowl’s aft and marvelled at the sight. Seeing Prowl’s bubble aft-segments spread wide as his fist stretched his pipe wide. He dropped the vibrator and took Prowl’s spike in his servo, pumping it as he pumped his servo into Prowl’s aft. Prowl’s bellow as he overloaded echoed on and on. Every drop of transfluid was collected in the sleeve and the tight seal at the top of the sleeve at the base of Prowl’s spike made sure not a drop leaked and Prowl’s spike could not get soft.

“Oooo! Ooof!” Prowl threw back his helm as he bellowed. Jazz ground his knuckles into Prowl’s transfluid duct and buzzed his magnets hard. Prowl bucked, but it only served to push his aft back into Jazz’s fist. “Oooooo.”

More than half of Jazz’s servo was buried in Prowl’s aft and he could not help move let his own spike pressurize into his waiting servo. He pumped his own aching spike as he fragged Prowl’s aft with his vibrating fist. Jazz had figured Prowl for having a tight aft, and he figured him for one that would come apart with a bit of aft play and he had not been the least bit wrong. By now, Prowl was no longer bellowing but just mooing huskily as Jazz eased off his transfluid duct and started to just frag his aft with his fist. Prowl’s aft swallowed up his arm as the cow bleated little moos and lubricant oozed from his empty valve and splattered on the ground.

“Maaa,” Prowl cried. “Oooo. Oooo.”

“Frag,” Jazz cursed as he pumped his spike and splattered his own transfluids on the floor.

He buzzed Prowl’s duct again and again until it was clear there was nothing left in his reservoirs. Groaning, Jazz pulled his servo from Prowl’s aft and pulled the glove off his arm. Prowl’s tail dropped and hung limp, blocking Jazz’s view. Jazz lifted it up to see he work and he could hardly believe how wide Prowl’s aft was now gaping. Dropping Prowl’s tail, Jazz patted his aft affectionately and pulled the sleeve off the form SIC’s spike. As the sleeve was removed, it hung limp and soft between Prowl’s legs. Either it was too tender or Prowl was too tired to retract it into his sheath. Jazz carried the sleeve to the table and poured its contents, gallons of Prowl’s transfluids, into a bottle. He screwed on a lid and walked around to Prowl’s helm. Prowl could barely lift his helm but he did. When Jazz pressed the bottle to Prowl’s mouth he opened it and drank the contents as Jazz stroked his throat.

“That’s it,” Jazz crooned. “Might as well not waste it. Ya need the energon. These are the last transfluid’s yer frame is ever gonna produce ‘n yer gonna drink every drop.”

Watching Jazz with those sweet, doe optics Prowl swallowed. As he drank, his optics dimmed, Prowl was thoroughly spent. But Jazz was not done. The work they had just done would be for nothing if Jazz did not move to the next step. He was sympathetic to Prowl’s exhaustion, though and thought better of leaving him locked on the bench for the next step. When Prowl had swallowed the last drop, Jazz freed him from the cuffs. Prowl was such a good heifer already and he stayed on the bench until Jazz pulled him up and led him over to his low berth in the corner of the stall. Normally, Prowl always recharged on his side, but when Jazz told him to lay on his back, he did.

“Watch, Prowl,” Jazz ordered. “This is the last time yer gonna see yer spike.”

[anon-e-miss]

Facade - 3 Investigation

Though Prowl knew his disguise was solid, he was still wracked with nerves as he pulled up to Mix’s. He was horrified and awestruck by the damage Devastator had done during their fight with Prime’s agents. The street for blocks was closed. It had truly been a battle and he was mildly baffled that he had not been called out with all the others that had been dispatched to the chaos. Hopefully, no one had died but seeing the wreckage, Prowl was not convinced such a miracle could be possible. Jazz transformed and Prowl followed after him. There was an Autobot guarding the sidewalk who let them pass with a nod to Jazz. He did not pay Prowl any processor and Prowl hardly dared ventilate. This agent had just been steps away when Jazz had been tending to him the previous dark-cycle. Even as he told himself that his disguise was perfect, Prowl feared discovery with every step.

“There was a buffaloid in that arcade machine,” Jazz explained. Prowl nodded as if he had not spent joors in these things on a regular basis. “Pay to play scrap. It’s got this milker hooked up, piped directly to the bar.”

“Did you speak with the victim?” Prowl’s glossa felt fuzzy as he asked the question to which he already knew the answer. He saw the warming blanket Jazz had draped over his shoulders on the floor where he had left it.

“I did,” Jazz replied. “He didn’t say anything. Mighta been in shock. By the time we got done wit the gestalt, he was gone. The scaplets we had tied up all said they didn’t see anyone take’m or where he went.”

“That is unfortunate,” Prowl said.

“‘M just hopin’ he got ‘mself far away,” Jazz sighed. “‘N not caught up in another one o’ these Pits.”

“Do you believe he will come forward?” Prowl asked. Jazz stared at the floor.

“No,” he replied. “Cause he’d be scared we’d throw the book at’m, right? ‘Cause he’s loose in the city ‘n not hooked up with a factory or farm.”

“These places,” Prowl looked around the speakeasy. “Have you ever been to a buffaloid farm?”

“Just last quartex,” Jazz replied. “Farmer was outraged his buffaloid were gettin’ lured away.”

“I imagine he was more worried about his loss of profits and not the missing sparks,” Prowl said.

“That’s right,” Jazz sighed. “That’s exactly right.”

“It would not be hard to lure the right heifer away,” Prowl said. “With the sweet promise of being something other than a number, of being unique.” “Buffaloid farms are all over Praxus,” Jazz said.

“I grew up in Petrex,” Prowl replied. “The farms were the bulk of the economy, everything, every business was linked to them. They had huge herds. The heifers were branded on the aft and well. The farm’s sigil would be on their aft, and their number on their well. You would hear the overseers calling them in by their number.”

“Don’t sounds like ya like the industry,” Jazz said.

“I came to Iacon to get away from it,” Prowl replied. It was dangerously close to the truth. “I wanted more from my life that the banality of it. Those farms owned the city. No grocer, no restaurant could do business with more than one farm. You had a contract, you may as well have been owned by the farm as well.”

“Woulda been ballsy, not just to move to the big city but to a new city-state,” Jazz said. “Yer conjunx come wit ya?”

“No,” Prowl replied. There had been no conjunctions, just bulls, who like him had been numbers and not designations. He thought of the bull who had sired Strongarm on him and felt nothing but loathing. “No, he left us before my femmeling emerged.”

“‘M sorry,” Jazz looked at him. “That’s such a load o’ scrap. Mecha like that ain’t worth their sentio-metallico.”

“It was no great loss,” Prowl said. “I prefer life without him.”

“There ya go,” Jazz smiled. “So it looks like we got the same idea... heifers hopin’ for a better life, they would be easy ‘nough to lure to the city. Even if they wanted to run from this slag, they’d be terrified o’ gettin’ locked up on one o’ the penal farms. Even if these sacks o’ slag hurt ‘em, they wouldn’t dare go to enforcers.”

“Correct,” Prowl replied. Jazz cared. He care for heifers he had never met and Prowl felt that much more guilty for his part but he could not tell the Autobot that he had not been trafficked, he had put himself in that arcade and there were more heifers like him, doing the same thing to survive.

“Walk the scene wit me,” Jazz said. “Maybe we can see where the victim went ‘n if someone “helped” ‘m get away.”

For a moment, indecision had Prowl’s processor all but paralyzed. He walked with Jazz on autopilot. Prowl was a decorated investigator. If someone found the trap door after he investigated the scene, they might look at him and wonder if he had lost his touch. The last thing Prowl could afford was any extra attention. Jazz gestured to the floor next to the arcade and led Prowl over to where the pipe beneath their peds ran to the bar. When Prowl had been hooked up in the arcade, Mixmaster had served his ichor energon straight from the tap at the bar. It made Prowl’s plating itch terribly. His plating felt too small. It took will and practice to force it down.

“We took a sample,” Jazz explained. “The rest is bein’ pumped out ‘n taken to be destroyed.  Our lab’ll see if it matches the sample o’ one o’ our missin’ heifers.”

“Excellent plan,” Prowl replied. He knew it would not. Heifers on his farm had been numbers in a herd. Everyone’s ichor energon had been drained into the same canisters. No one had ever been individually graded.

They walked behind the bar. The last drink Mixmaster had been making remained on the counter with an evidence tag next to it. The rich, opalescent blue of the fuel told Prowl it was energon from his utters. He set his jaw and looked away. Perhaps he would not need to mention the trap door. Its hidden door blended in perfectly into the tile. Jazz walked back and forth behind the bar and Prowl wondered what he was thinking but then he knelt and rapped his fist against the floor as his helm was canted to the side. With a mixture of wonder and horror, Prowl watch him examine the trap door and then trigger it.

“Nice!” He grinned. Prowl nodded and willed himself not to purge.

Jazz wasted no time climbing down into the cellar. Prowl willed his fuel tank down as he descended the ladder only joors after he had made his escape from this place. As he stepped onto the dusty floor, Prowl almost stepped in his own hoof print. He stared for a moment, just for a moment, as he pulled his  ped up. They were not the same. These peds he wore looked nothing like his hooves and the prints he wore were not the same; Prowl stepped away from the ladder, they were not the same at all. Like Prowl, Jazz was fixated on the hoof prints, but for a different reason, obviously. The Autobot followed Prowl’s hoof prints through the cellar, to the false door hidden by the crates. It was strange retracing his steps like this but Prowl kept his doorwings up, kept his anxiety to himself.

“No cameras,” Jazz sighed as he looked about the empty viaduct the tunnel opened out to. “No surprise there.”

“I suppose not,” Prowl asked. “Did you speak to the operators of that speakeasy?”

“Not yet,” Jazz replied. “They went down hard. Gonna take time in a CR chamber before I’ll get a chance to talk wit’em. Only thing I know is they didn’t get a chance to come back for the heifer. But that don’t mean he’s safe.”

“Very true,” Prowl agreed. He looked, almost unseeing, down to the road where he had made his escape and thought of heifers who had not been so lucky. “Can any heifer or bull at large be safe?”

“No,” Jazz nodded his agreement. “No, I don’t think so. Let’s see if there’s anythin’ else in the cellar we outta no about.”

Prowl nodded and followed Jazz back down the tunnel. There was likely illegal engex in those stills, not merely unlicensed, but dangerous intoxicants. The charges against the Constructicons would be innumerable.  He would never have to feel their spikes within his frame again. As much as Prowl felt relief in that realization, the loss of access to their arcade was still a problem. Working with Jazz on this investigation would further legitimize his visit to the evidence warehouse, in fact, Prowl thought Jazz would likely want to see what they had gathered in other raids. When he was preoccupied... maybe Prowl could steal what he needed.

“Now what’s this?” Jazz asked. Prowl watched the Autobot pick the heavy locks with thin picks. It not appear this was his first time picking a lock. “Frag.”

It was an interfacial dungeon. A milker, a fragging machine, a breeding bench, cattle prods and other instruments of pleasure or torture were laid out. There was a berth with crisp, clean white linen set off to the side. He looked at the cuffs, welded to long chains that were hooked to the head and foot boards and imagined them around his own wrists. In shocked horror, Prowl surveyed the room with Jazz. Everything was shiny and new. Not a single piece had been used, not even the berth. They had prepared it for him, Prowl was certain. His spark raced in his chassis. If not for the raid...

“Are ya a’ight?” Jazz asked.

“It is...” Prowl said, schooling himself. “Horrific.”

“Yeah,” the Autobot agreed. “Looks like that heifer made a lucky break.”

[anon-e-miss]

I love your writing and the cattle aus. One nitpicky thing, heifer actually refers to female cows that haven’t borne a calf. Cow would be female cows that have had calves. I wish English had a more general singular form of cattle, like with horses. Oh well. Maybe you already knew this and heifer just works better 🤷🏻‍♀️.

I actually did not know that!

I'll probably use the correct terminology next time I have a mechcow plot.

Which will probably be soon.

Because Prowl makes a very pretty cow.

[anon-e-miss]

Now, Amalgus Jazz. Do you have the Twins with you, more than half starved? Stumbling in the wilderness, trying to get home after some trouble. Find a little cottage with a garden and think to steal fuel for them.

Snort.

Angry Cow Prowl.

Less angry when he sees hungry toddling sparklings.

[anon-e-miss]

Minostaur Jazz gettin' it on with Prowl?

Yes.