The night at the base was unusually quiet. Soft moonlight fell in stripes across the floor and bed, reflecting cold silver on your faceplates.

You only managed to turn around when the room doors closed behind Prowl. He didn't say a word.

He simply approached.

Slowly. Confidently. With that dangerous silence that conveys not fatigue but suppressed tension.

His visors lingered on you. For a long time. You felt it before he touched you—as if the air between you had thickened.

"You were looking at me too closely today," — he said lowly. — "And now you're pretending nothing is happening?"

He took another step.

Now there was no distance between you.

His palms fell sharply but with control on your waist, pulling you closer. Not painfully. But in a way that made you feel the strength and intent.

You pressed your palms against his chest armor—not to push him away, but to steady yourself.

"Prowl…" — quietly, defiantly.

There was no answer.

He leaned down and kissed you.

Not gently. Not carefully.

Deeply. Confidently. As if he wasn't going to hold back any longer.

The kiss was hot, demanding. You felt his body press you closer, the bed behind you creaking slightly as you took a step back.

Moonlight slid across his visors, reflecting in them—a dark, focused glow.

You responded in kind—your fingers tightened on his shoulders, pulling him even closer. Your breathing hitched. The sparks seemed to echo.

He turned you around and sat you on the edge of the bed, harshly but carefully. The mattress creaked softly under the weight.

Prowl found himself between your knees, his forehead almost touching yours.

His voice deepened.

"You have no idea what you do to me when you look at me like that."

His palms slid down your back, holding you, not letting you pull away. You felt warmth. Pressure. Confidence.

You breathed almost in unison. Your chest armor touched his. The moonlight made the moment almost surreal.

Prowl stopped. Frozen.

He looked at you for several long seconds, as if he were holding himself back with all his might. His gaze held everything: desire, control, and that same dangerous "one more step and there'll be no turning back."

"Tell me to stop," — he said quietly.

But from the tightness of his grip, it was clear: he hoped you wouldn't tell.

A second of silence. Two. Three. Several seconds. You said nothing.

Prowl didn't wait for words.

He took a step forward, sharply. In one movement, he closed the distance to nothing.

His body covered yours, pressing you to the bed—not with all his weight, but enough so that you clearly felt his presence, his strength, and his control over the space between you.

The mattress creaked softly beneath you.

"Then don't stop me," — he said lowly, almost at your face.

His palm rested next to your head, pressing against the bed. The other was on your side, holding you. Not painfully. But firmly. Confident.

He didn't kiss you right away.

At first, he simply looked—too close, so you could feel his breath on your labial folds.

It was worse than a kiss. It was anticipation.

His visors darkened.

"You're silent..." — he said quietly. — "And you think I don't see how much you want this?"

He leaned down and kissed you again. Roughly. Deeply. Without his previous caution.

You felt him press you tighter, his palm tightening on your side, preventing you from pulling away.

Your hands instinctively slid to his neck and hugged him tightly. Not to stop. To hold on.

Prowl pulled away from the kiss by mere millimeters.

"Tell me I've crossed the line," — he whispered.

"Or look at me like that... and I won't stop."

The moonlight fell on your faceplates. You were too close. Too tense. The sparks seemed to tremble from the distance.

Another moment of silence.

And then—a sharp push from his side.

Right across your thighs. Right between your legs. Straight ahead, he thrust into you sharply, to provoke a reaction.