The foreman is the head of construction, or the head of the Constructicons. Either way, Prowl's in charge.

Script Title: Foreman

Warning to Audience: Coercion via forcible gestalt bonding and power dynamics. Manipulation. Vague references to sex. Donuts. Spoilers for RiD, MTMTE, and Dark Cybertron. If you can't take it, don't read it.

Show Rating: PG-13

Continuity Stage: IDW, Robots in Disguise

Characters: Prowl, Constructicons

Theatre Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

Acting Motivation (Prompt): Kinkmeme prompt and Shibara. She keeps drawing things. Prompt: Prowl, Constructicons – "masturbation, gestalt voyeurism"

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Part One

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They were close, always so close. They hovered on the edges of his mind, a constant, testing presence around the corona of his spark. Five bright, bold personalities folded around him, an oppressive enclosure formed by their sparks and minds. They didn't overwhelm him, now that he was fully conscious and aware of what had been done to him, but their sparks burnt like lights in Cybertron's starry perpetual night, a constant familiarity above him even on alien worlds. Their muted selves comforted him, an artificial sense of home surgically carved into his body and hacked into his thoughts.

They tried to exploit his subconscious acceptance of their presence. He tried to block out and uproot the subtle changes as he was made aware of them.

It was easier now that he knew the feel of them. He hadn't, at first. The temporary bond formed during their initial combine into Devastator had hurt to sever, but he'd welcomed the jarring agony when Ironhide separated them. The pain of the snapped bond had buried any sense of the Constructicons in pain, and he'd welcomed the burning tips of unwanted gestalt links. He'd wanted to forget, wanted to hurt. He'd rather block out the gestalt bond than acknowledge it. Stars were distant, after all, despite always being overhead. Staying focused on the more important matters at hand had blotted them out.

A temporary solution, but one that had worked to keep his mind clear as Bumblebee led the Autobots out of the city. Prowl had concentrated on Starscream's sudden powerplay and ignored the faint sense of activity on the fringes of his mind.

It'd been harder to ignore after the Constructicons tracked him down. He'd started to feel them. Worse, they reached out to feel him in return. No matter how many times he rejected it, the severed gestalt bond sent strands into him, dabbing at the raw ends in his spark. Merge protocols pulled at the gestalt links, urging him to combine. The bond wasn't complete. He hadn't fully become the sixth and final part of the whole. The empty space in the gestalt opened wide enough to swallow him, and he had to resist falling in.

Out in the wastelands, the Constructicons wouldn't leave him alone. They pushed. They crowded. In their own blunt, awkward, violent way, they courted. They were distant lights somehow managing to get in his optics every time he turned away, shining stubbornly brighter. They felt the void in the bond, too, and they were determined to plug him in to fill it. Scrapper's death had left an empty socket within them, and Prowl had been remade into a perfect fit.

Knowing what he knew about them now, feeling how they functioned, their ardor made sense in retrospect. The Constructicons hadn't originally wanted anyone to replace Scrapper. They hadn't wanted a Decepticon, much less an Autobot, but Megatron had given the orders. Therefore they had obeyed. Survival among Decepticons often boiled down to obey or die.

So the Constructicons had ripped open the scarred gestalt bond and exposed their greatest vulnerability to a total unknown. They'd welded an enemy into the wound like a hostile medical patch. Even mind-controlled, they hadn't known what to expect, and a faulty component could kill them in battle. Five mechs had wrapped Prowl's body in their own, linked in, and hoped for the best. He would either shield the chink in their bond by joining them, or they'd die from his weakness.

Well, they hadn't died. He was strong, stronger than Bombshell had realized and Megatron had planned for. The Constructicons had combined - and they'd lost themselves in him. That's how a gestalt bond and links worked. They were used to throwing themselves wholesale into joining together, and he hadn't had the presence of mind to hold back. Their separate minds and bodies had combined into one.

Their minds and bodies become Tab A for his Slot B. He'd slid in with an ease that seemed obscene, thinking back on it. He tried not to, but the memories were mutual, bridges that he frantically wished would burn. He rejected the memories, rejected them, but neither would leave him be. Six minds held those memories in common. The other five minds savored every remembered aspect of their first time combining. The memories of oiled parts gliding together pricked at the edges of his thoughts, split second flashes of sensor input reminding him of the slick coat of grease over parts he hadn't even known he had until they slid home into hot ports. Those ports had closed around new, sensitive components that still twitched when mind and spark lost the fight to the gestaltmates dredging reminders up.

He blocked them out, but they were close, always so close. They refused to let him forget. He'd slid home as if he belonged in them, part of them, and they'd marveled at the fit. Their minds had folded around his mind as he formed Devastator's head, and the Constructicons had accepted him as their sixth.

He hadn't reciprocated that acceptance. He still didn't, but back during the first merge his thoughts had been far too warped by Bombshell's hold to be in his right mind. Instead of rejection or cooperation, he'd seized the combine like the weapon it had felt like. His addled senses had fed skewed data to his battle processor, and he'd seized them, molded them to his specifications, his demands, and proceeded to use them as an extension of himself.

Like the hilt of a superheated sword, his mental hands had stuck until he tore their melded minds apart. The consequences had lingered. A gaping wound had lain where the bond should have been built inside them. In the aftermath, the Constructicons reeled out of the merge lovestruck by his total dominion. Where he'd ignored the tattered bond, they'd treasured it. They'd held onto the pain as the mark his control left on their sparks and minds.

Prowl hadn't liked remembering the feel of them. It'd made his armor crawl and hands clench in memory of holding a perfect weapon. He'd seen into their minds just as they'd seen into his, but he'd recoiled while they'd invaded. They'd been fascinated by him; he'd been revolted. When Ironhide had woken him, he'd dropped the combine as if scalded, and he didn't regret tearing himself free. Revulsion still filled him in equal measure to the active fascination bubbling at the borders of his mind.

As long as they'd stayed away from him, he'd ignored the whispers at the edge of hearing. The gestalt bond had existed without having the strength to fully integrate, frayed threads grasping after missing components. Given enough time and distance, he'd hoped the bond would die. Disused parts eventually locked down, after all, and wounds capped. The faint voices and pulses of memory he'd suffered were a necessary price to pay for freedom. Call it battle damage. Eventually, the bright sparks nibbling at his own would fade away.

They'd known what he hoped for. He could tell. They'd chased him out into the wastelands because they'd felt him choking off his side. The Constructicons, on the other hand, had let it bloom to full strength inside them. They'd ripped open the scar, and their side of the bond wouldn't scar over again, not so long as he was alive to reach for through it.

They'd lost one team leader. They'd chosen their new replacement and been dazzled by him during their first combine. No way would they let Prowl go without a fight.

Physically, they were all over him any time they could get away with it. Hiding behind coordinating the refugee movement had barely kept them from shadowing him everywhere. Sticking close to Bumblebee hadn't helped much. They'd waited until duty inevitably drew him away, and then they'd swarmed him.

They still did whenever they could. Hands passed through his EM field in shallow pulses of intent he narrowly dodged. Bodies crowded close, going for full contact that required him to actually push them aside. The gleaming pleasure that swiped through the periphery of his spark told him that's what they intended. They wanted to touch him. They wanted to merge with him. They wanted him.

Arcee had grinned and sparred with them, joking that his 'harem' needed to blow off steam since he wasn't tending to them. There had been no way to respond to that, especially not as the whole unit had turned to gaze at him, greedy and wanting. Lust had billowed in a cloud around and through him. The bond had moaned, shivering against his spark as memory flashed and called. The links had yearned for connection in a needy, aching way that his body had no other parallel to draw but -

Prowl had coughed indignation loose where it stuck in his throat and retreated. It'd been the best option available. Arcee had laughed carelessly and kept the Constructicons busy a few minutes more while he'd escaped. It was a service he'd appreciated.

He'd avoided the Constructicons with single-minded concentration after that, but they'd found him. They'd stayed close, always so close, stifling and welcoming at the same time. The gestalt bond made a prison, a room of five walls surrounding him, and the worst part had been feeling gratified by thir support when Chromedome and Ultra Magnus lost their minds. Both Autobots had let emotions get the better of them, something Prowl found an unpleasant surprise. The Constructicons were monsters, but at least they had perspective.

His perspective. "We understand," Hook had said as Prowl glared after Ultra Magnus feeling betrayed. "We get you."

They had. They did. Perhaps that was the most chilling part of what the former Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord had said to him. Prowl hadn't known how lonely he'd been until five evil Decepticon murderers invaded his life, dug their way into the space around him, and made themselves at home. Chromedome and Ultra Magnus might have made him doubt himself if five voices hadn't openly admired everything he said and did.

They'd seen his secrets, the reasons behind his actions, and adored him for what they'd seen. Not despite of it. Because of it. They were Decepticons in love with his mind, which should have spelled out every reason he should doubt his own judgment right there, but yet, they understood him. Even in the midst of the apocalypse, fighting for their lives while Shockwave plotted and Cybertron fell to pieces around them, they'd wanted him.

The conflict lodged in his thoughts. It was a wedge into his mind, dividing him from the Autobots and levering him closer to them. He hated them so much for that. He had taken them from the Decepticons, but they wouldn't join the Autobots any more than he'd join the Decepticons. They wanted to make him theirs, and they wanted to become his.

For a Decepticon courtship, he'd realized in a dim way somewhere in the midst of that second terrible, desperate formation of Devastator, the Constructicons were being positively respectful. Sure, they were obnoxious glitches leaning heavily on his boundaries. In fact, they didn't seem to recognize that he had boundaries. Their hands reached for him the way their minds did during the second merge: hungry, tearing, needing. Their sparks consumed him, digested him, and took him to be part of them.

It was too much. It was more than he could take. The second merge went on longer, and Prowl was himself this time. They should have felt his hatred and distaste as their own. They should have felt how he struggled loose at the end. It should have been enough.

Yet when they separated, they still didn't have enough of him. He felt them now, syphonists jonesing for their next circuit booster, transformation addicts searching for a T-cog. They were there on the borders of his mind, but right here and now, they were physically present. They crowded him, smiling and slapping each other on the back, pinning him in the middle where he couldn't break free right away, and he turned in circles looking for a way out, an exit he couldn't find. They were close, always so close, and closing in…but he picked up on their hesitation in the bond.

Brute force wasn't a viable strategy. They couldn't force him to join them. He was strong, and he still wouldn't accept their overtures. He'd yanked himself out of them the second Devastator came apart, leaving a fresh, seeping wound in their minds and bodies. His end of the gestalt bond stayed ragged, rejecting the severed strands from their ends and refusing to let the bond knit together. Their sparks and minds waited to be allowed in, but everything inside him recoiled from the idea.

That left convincing him in other ways. Call it courtship, label it persuasion. Their hands ran over him, their bodies pressed to him, and the energy they doused him in reeked of their desire, their want, and their lust. They loved him, reveled in his thoughts and craved his touch. They laid their adulation before his fingertips, a weapon at the ready, and mainlined their devotion directly into his spark. It pulled at his systems deeper than raw arousal, and they fed it into him exactly how they felt it.

This was how they desired him. This was how they saw him, inside and out. They knew Prowl how no one else possibly could, deeper and more loyal for the depth. Inside a combiner team there were no abandonments at crucial moments, no trust issues, no lies told through omission. The Constructicons would never betray him.

The emotional pull of an incomplete gestalt bond ached for him to believe them. The gestalt links tingled at the tips, urging him to join to compatible bodies. It was a physical itch along the foreign circuitry of the gestalt links, and a seduction swirling around his spark where the Constructicons coaxed and cajoled. Their minds whispered to him, always there, always so close:

Give in. They wanted him.

Let us in. They needed him.

Be one of us. Surrender. They would accept him, all of him, and be his sword if he would be their guiding hand.

Stuck in the center of the group, Prowl made a small, static-laden noise as he looked frantically for an escape from the bond entrenched in him, now. No, no he had to separate! He had to kill it, he didn't want this! He couldn't be absorbed into this group of cruel, vile Decepticons, the worst of the worst. He couldn't do this, couldn't accept it much less embrace it, but a green-and-purple mech bent over him. A hand wrapped around his throat, palm compressing his air filter and thumb pushing his head back, and a mouth descended hot on his.

Hot, and somehow searching. The kiss looked for something, deep and intense as it searched in the sweep of a tongue between his lips and clashing of their teeth. Seeking a momentary weakness, perhaps. Anything that would grant a minute of indulgence to fill the empty place where Devastator had separated. They were still on the battlefield, victory only just accomplished, but the Constructicons already needed him. They needed him to stay, they needed him to be part of them, they needed him to want them back.

He clenched his teeth as scorching heat met heat, air blasting from combat-heated internal systems, but their bodies traded it back and forth until they hummed in unison. The Constructicon kissing him tasted like nothing, like part of himself, and Prowl didn't know where he ended and the other began. He shut off his optics and threw himself into the feeling as if he could find what this piece of him looked for if they met halfway. They kissed as if they could become one again.

The other four Constructicons drew tighter around them, armor grating against armor, and the whole unit shuddered in unison as chestplates loosened, gestalt links lit up in anticipation of combining. It hurt to be separate. The bond sang a six part harmony, one note gradually falling out of tune as the tender space between them stretched. The Constructicons pushed closer, their sparks straining in urgent need, but the tentative connection snapped.

Prowl ripped his spark free, tearing the last connection loose, but he was only a mech. Rejection and hate drowned in desire as potent as any engex ever distilled. His spark shrank back even as his mouth opened for the tongue mapping him out in a slick invasion of pressure and heat. A raging inferno of need want hunger whipped through the severed bond, Devastator clawing after his missing component, a storm of obsession easily mistaken for love. The Constructicons lashed it at the single spark they craved above all, but Prowl blocked them. He knew the feel of them now, tasted their difference on his tongue. They would respect his boundaries, frag them all!

The Constructicons flinched back, bewildered, even angered, but they reluctantly accepted that he'd put his foot down. They couldn't force him, not without Bombshell, and to mind-control Prowl now would let the Insecticon control them all.

His spark couldn't be touched through the blocked bond, so they redoubled their attention to what they could touch. Hands squeezed his tires and roughly fondled his bumper. Fingers delicately traced around his headlights, gentle on the cracks but greedy for contact. Prowl gasped, back arching as a hand cupped under his chin and tipped it even further back, breaking the liplock so the Constructicon bending over him from behind could take a turn. Someone nuzzled his midrift, breathing between the armor into vulnerable components. Someone else licked his Autobot insignia in quick flicks that made him squirm, startled at how sensitive he was under the benign assault.

His fans had been spinning from combat just minutes earlier, but now roared in his audios for completely different reasons. Prowl bit at the mouth moving over his own and only managed to shift their lips together in a harsh slide that sent glitters of teasing pleasure down his neck. The Constructicon nipped right back, catching his bottom lip for a second before letting it slowly drag out from between rough teeth, sucking hard the whole while. Prowl panted and tried not to groan.


"No," he rasped, pushing feebly at the hands all over him. They were close. Always, always so close. It was too much, abrasion on tender welds still too sensitive to take it. They swarmed him physically, too close and too - too soon. The physical connection channeled too much of them into him, proximity making fragile repairs to the gestalt bond he wanted to rip out. He couldn't handle the tentative flutters in the back of his mind, against his spark. They were trying to force something that he couldn't deal with, that he wouldn't let happen.

Not yet.

Maybe never.

No, a definite no, although his determination wobbled a little. They were being considerate for Decepticons, courting him nice and gentle, but he was an Autobot. They wanted him; he didn't want him.

One last kiss, hot and open-mouthed, the larger mech's lips claiming his own and plunging a long tongue into his smaller mouth, and then the Constructicons backed off. Prowl's protest against the invasion became a moan into the tangle of tongues and electric transmission of fields (please be ours as we are yours), and he slumped when released. The air abruptly felt cooler, almost cold in his empty mouth. Without hands all over his plating, his body felt abandoned.

As he'd wanted. Because he didn't want them. He didn't.

His throat worked in a pained swallow, and they were close, so very close, always so very close. Possessive of his talents, accepting of his flaws, and lovestruck in a way only a combiner team could be while watching and admiring their sixth member. They were there, and they were waiting.

It was getting harder to push them away.

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