Drift And Rodimus Spending Heats Together And Fucking Like Bunnies, In Multiple Rapid Rounds In A Row,

Drift and Rodimus spending heats together and fucking like bunnies, in multiple rapid rounds in a row, is one of my basic scenarios for these two.

I just want Drift and Rodimus to frag like bunnies across every available surface of a room, in a multitude of positions, for an improbable amount of time

Perhaps because they've been locked in a room together after going into heat, or getting sex pollen'd, as a quarantine procedure? Maybe with Ratchet monitoring remotely... for safety, of course

Nice oral is served under the cut. I'm delighted.

Any chance I could get some Scavengers fun times? Spinister getting off by fingering Krok into several overloads or Misfire insisting Fulcrum sit on his face.

WAP on the WAP

Fulcrum pushes Misfire’s face away with a hand over his mouth, feeling energon flood his neck cables as he becomes increasingly flustered by the flier’s words. This, as he expected, doesn’t deter Misfire who continues to babble on even with his mouth firmly covered to Fulcrum’s dismay. The words are muffled but Fulcrum can easily guess what Misfire is spouting from his previous innuendos and lascivious offers.

“I’m not letting you anywhere near my valve!” Fulcrum snaps, keeping Misfire at arm's length.

Misfire’s retort is completely muffled but that doesn’t stop him from going on and on while bobbing his shoulders suggestively. Fulcrum sighs and removes his hand, regretting the action even as he makes it, before crossing his arms to hear Misfire out.

“What’s the hold-up? I just want to get that landing strip slick-”

Fulcrum covers Misfire’s mouth again and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Do you just… not know subtlety?” Fulcrum huffs.

Misfire pulls off with a laugh, pushing Fulcrum’s arm away easily, “Subtlety and I don’t get along… So, why not? Just don’t wanna?”

Scoffing, Fulcrum shakes his head, “I’m just not going to let that mouth get anywhere near this valve.” Fulcrum points down between his legs.

Propping his arm on Fulcrum’s shoulder, Misfire grins, “Aww, I grossed you out that much?”

“No…” Fulcrum flushes, “I just… don’t like to do that sort of thing.”

MIsfire’s wings droop slightly, “Ah, huh, never met anyone who didn’t like having their valve licked clean but I guess someone out there wasn’t going to be down with that sort of thing.”

Rubbing his helm awkwardly, Fulcrum glances away, “Uh, well… I just don’t like doing that sort of thing for other people and that’s why you’re offering, right? You want me to…”

“What?” Misfire holds his hands out as if to brush the words away, shaking his head, “No, no, I… I like doing it for other mechs, especially if they’re as handsome as you.” Tapping his cheek, Misfire turns a bit bashful which is a rare enough sight to pull back Fulcrum’s attention fully, “I, um, maybe like it a bit too much.”

A strange feeling goes down Fulcrum’s spinal strut, “Oh, uh…”

Misfire’s optics go wide, flaring softly as he presses his hands together, pleading his spark out.

Fulcrum shuts his optics and sighs, “You really aren’t asking that I return the favor?”

“I swear! I just want to get my face messy in those soft folds of yours and make you drip lubricant,” Misfire grins cheekily, chuckling at Fulcrum’s groan.

“Fine!” Fulcrum snags Misfire and starts dragging him off to the nearest berth. “If it’ll get you to finally shut up!”

They get to a room on the W.A.P. with Misfire eagerly following Fulcrum like a loyal dog, giggling excitedly as Fulcrum pushes him onto the berth.

Misfire flares his hand dramatically over his mouth, “Your seat, sir.”

While glaring at the flier, Fulcrum hefts himself onto the berth to sit on Misfire’s chest and pops his panels open much to Misfire’s delight.

“Tha’s a tasty looking-”

Fulcrum grabs Misfire’s helm and shoves his face into his valve, “Just shut up and get to work already.”

Misfire couldn’t look happier with a face full of valve as he grabs Fulrum’s thighs to pull him firmly against his mouth, nuzzling in to lick Fulcrum’s anterior node slowly with his wet glossa swirling around the circumference. It’s embarrassing to Fulcrum how quickly he gets wet just watching Misfire bury himself into Fulcrum’s valve and then he feels Misfire swirl his tongue and he has to grip both of his hands over his mouth to keep himself from making any sound. As lubricant meets his lips, Misfire is none the wiser, lapping away at Fulcrum’s valve lips, his glossa lighting up node clusters with slow, purposeful strokes as he takes his time to enjoy the feeling. He groans into Fulcrum’s valve which earns him a small gush of lubricant that he licks up greedily before moving to suck gently on Fulcrum’s anterior node. His hands grip Fulcrum’s thighs more firmly as he feels him begin to twitch, not letting Fulcrum escape the onslaught of his glossa.

The effect that this is having on Misfire is obvious almost immediately, his spike fully pressurizing as he slips the tip of his glossa into Fulcrum’s entrance, feeling the calipers there starting to clench. He circles the entrance, moaning at the crackling charge that tickles his glossa as he presses it to the soft mesh there dotted with sporadic node clusters and he can feel his spike throb. Fulcrum grabs his spike and squeezes which only urges Misfire on, unable to think as well with Fulcrum’s hand pumping him while he licks mindlessly against Fulcrum’s anterior node. Trying his best to not just overload over Fulcrum’s hand, he moves his glossa back to Fulcrum’s tasty entrance, releasing a buzz of charge from his intake into Fulcrum’s valve, getting him to stiffen up with a shout that has Misfire’s spark melting.

Fulcrum holds onto Misfire for dear life, his digits digging into the flier’s shoulders as he feels Misfire lazily frag him with an eager glossa that hungrily seeks out his nodes only to graze them teasingly. Suddenly, he’s on his back but he doesn’t care with Misfire softly sucking on his anterior node as he nudges it with glossa, keeping a steady flow of charge coursing through his valve that has him completely incoherent. Then, Misfire slides a digit into his entrance and strokes his spike while he keeps that sinful mouth on Fulcrum’s node, easily tipping Fulcrum into overload who grabs Misfire’s helm, pressing Misfire hard against his valve. He humps Misfire’s face, riding out his overload panting and moaning with abandon.

Once spent, Fulcrum lays back with his vents on full blast and immediately regrets looking down where he finds Misfire licking his lips, his face completely drenched in lubricant.

“Good, huh?”

Fulcrum stiffens up and clears his intake, “It was alright. I guess…”

Misfire pushes up a bit and Fulcrum blushes at the sight of Misfire’s still-twitching spike covered in transfluid above a quickly forming puddle, “Well, I certainly had a good time.”

“I… I see…”

Ducking down to kiss Fulcrum’s valve, “Primus, this thing is great.”

Fulcrum pushes at Misfire’s forehelm only to be met with laughter, “Don’t talk about it like that!”

“Oh? Should I shut myself up again?” Misfire smirks.

Freezing, Fulcrum thinks it over but not for as long as he’d have liked to, and nods, yelping softly when Misfire buries himself back into Fulcrum’s valve.

Had a taste of Skybound. Not calling it "good comic", this writing was shit. They should just hire ficwriters, at least they know how to recycle fandom tropes and memes properly. Seriously, if a guy I hired for money produced this and then there were anon MegOp shippers online birthing out gems after full-time shifts of their shitwork outdoing my official content, I'd totally rethink what I do with my intellectual property. (Sadly, humanizing corps leads you nowhere.) If only I had time to thank and celebrate all the authors making my fandom experience better the way they deserve. They're doing god's job. (Maybe I could do a rec list one day.)

Three-day trip's over. Saw a potato harvester. Fucking monster. 15 m, 30 t, can carry 15 t of vegetables.

They should have more transformers with agricultural alt-modes. They come in cool shapes and bright colors and will make fine toys. (And maybe could teach children that farming is more fun than war.) In-universe that would be hilarious, though. Imagine being an alien robot feeding on crystal milk and having an alt-mode only suitable for cultivating organic food.

Big girl Ventor 4150.

Empurata nullification Yeah, I'm a firm believer that Empurata victims come back missing their junk. Or worse, the mutilation may be aimed especially at making it hurt, or never fully heal, or just appear repulsive to the potential partner (even in a way "looks so painful they're hesitant to touch the thing"), or be especially hard to repair even for a skilled medic.  

I don't think a lot of empuratees even got their fuck equipment back during and shortly after the war. It's another story with hands and faces, but spikes and valves may be considered a waste of precious resources that also puts extra load on medics. 

Sure shit, Shockwave never had his junk reconstructed. Maybe he underwent additional surgery to completely smooth up his crotch and cover it with a non-opening panel.

Whirl is a more complicated case. I find his reason to live with the dysphoria to draw energy from anger a top-tier concept (and I get it, really). And I'd like to explore the possibility of him becoming a king of plug'n'play. But on the other hand, he just REEKS guy who'd put his dick in someone the first chance he gets. Maybe he saved a bit to get himself a spike. A long and dreadfully ridged one.

(God, I like genital injury being a source of angst and issues, and like characters getting creative in sex. If I'm fine, we'll definitely explore more of it here.)

Y’all think they let you keep your bits when they do empurata? Like is Shockwave all fucked up down there or did they let him keep his schlong and such?

Well, it eventually resulted into something. A little prelude. Not sure if I should tag this as "dirty talk", shit is just weird. TaraProwl wet bondage adventures. It was hours. Hours of cold rage, frustration, and despair. Prowl was captured, immobilized, swaddled in Tarantulas' sticky web. An inhibitor kept him unable to transform in an attempt to free himself, his T-cog ached from all his fruitless attempts to overcome its effect. And there was another ache growing slowly as his system processed energon that the hideous spider had forcefully filled his tank with earlier.

Prowl was well aware of the eyes watching over his plight, feeding over his suffering. And oh, there was no way Tarantulas didn't know. He knew about how Cybertronians' bodies work enough to change said bodies. He'd changed himself, defaced his own nature. Prowl's fuel system and all its delicate processes were no secret to him. He knew how badly Prowl needed to go.

Prowl was grinding his teeth, feeling tiny gears in his jaw spinning. He could wait. He'd seen worse, right? He wasn't giving Tarantulas what his twisted mind might covet. Ping after ping from his waste tank were ignored, but each one made a tiny needle of fear sting his spark. He in-vented sharply when his internals shifted slightly, giving the reservoir more room to extend. That was bad. He was running out of time. If he is unable to come up, by some miracle, with a plan or if someone doesn't free him, his tank will simply crack. And neither bravado nor autosuggestion about how tough shit of a cop he is will stop his tank's content from spilling out before Tarantulas' twice-damned gaze.

"Enough of your games, Tarantulas, release me!" he groaned finally.

Tarantulas' disturbing body shape separated itself from the shadow on the left. He approached Prowl slowly, savoring the picture.

"You've played my game for so long, and only now you're calling for it to stop? Not because of your precious Autobots waiting for you, but because of your full bladder?"

"Don't call it that!" Prowl barked, flinching at the word choice. Tarantulas' fascination with organic shit was truly off-putting, yet made his consciousness flush with something hot and indistinguishable. 

His waste release duct was spasming, hidden behind the panel, sending heat and vibration to all adjacent systems. His interface array was the closest. His valve was clenching with the force of his need, as in reminiscence of hours and hours of work dragging on, of his gritted teeth, a stirring ache in his pelvic section coming to his processor, dispelling the fog of his dissociation, and a trembling, pitiful relief he got after barely making it to the empty washracks.

And Prowl saw it. A flask in Tarantulas' hand, a hungry twitch of his mandibulas. In his damnation, Prowl cut off the visual input.

Tarantulas was messing with the web below Prowl's waist, careful not to free his captive's legs enough so he could kick. Making Prowl part his thighs and swathing them again, leaving only a small area of his crotch open. Only for Prowl to open his warm panel.

Prowl fought an instant urge to uncover his valve as if it could diminish the pressure in his tank. His sensitive audials picked up the sound of Tarantulas' fleecy paw sliding over the glass of the flask. Prowl's failing systems were sending desperate reports that read all as one: it's over, he is voiding in mere minutes, no matter what. His voice box emitted a broken moan. Something clicked, and he was late to realize that it was his valve cover.

Still voluntarily sightless, Prowl couldn’t see the flask lowering between his legs, where his waste nozzle was placed next to the valve rim, slightly to the left but still close enough to a set of three nodes, one big and two smaller. All three blinking, signaling his heightened charge and his impending defeat. It hurt, and his body tried to arch, the web tugging on the doors behind his back as if to keep him aware of his humiliating pose.

"My dear," Tarantulas' voice was a throaty whisper now. "You know very well that I've surpassed the prejudices of disgust and shame, and nothing in your body or essence can repel me. I observed urination in thousands of species. You are my most beautiful subject, so yours..."

"SHUT UP! You bastard, let me go!" Prowl screeched, uncaring of the hysterical cracks and syncopes in his voice. His brilliant, remarkable memory capable of performing multiple extremely consuming tasks and tracking thousands of targets at the same time, oh, this memory was clogged with one gnawing, swirling, agonizing demand from his excretory system.

For one millisecond, his trapped, exhausted mind considered letting go and striking the damned turpid spider with a stream, wetting his abysmal fleecy body with a mix of pent-up waste energon, slight alcohol scent, and shame. Even shoved away as far as generated, the thought made his insides boil hotter, and a bead of lubricant appeared on the crease between his valve petals. And a dribble came out of his spasming waste duct. Prowl was heaving, creaking his teeth in a futile attempt to hold his bulwark for a minute, a second more. Even if it cost him the last shreds of his dignity when his spike cover reacted to the heat and the pressure pooled in his pelvis and opened, and a wet head poked out. Everything was dull, only his spark and overfilled tank were thrumming in rapid pulses.

"Let me see how you surrender," Tarantulas said to him, and something soft and tickling came right to his activated node for the slightest brush that made Prowl's engine choke on a roar. His tank vibrated, and a dribble turned into a desperate brook in a moment. 

He's voiding into the fucking flask, he realized. Voiding with a mercilessly loud tinkling and gushing sound. With his spike half-emerged from its housing and his valve rippling on nothing. His audials are registered Tarantulas going on about the allure of the process, about Prowl filling the flask so good and providing him with perfect material, but it's like coming from light years away. Prowl was letting out his content in a thick, messy stream, and barely audible whimpers were bleeding from his open mouth. The release was euphoric. Terrifying. His spike was out, his nodes pricked with charge, and his whole neuronet was prepared for something to trigger another response, another release.

It didn't come. Prowl went strong and plentiful into the flask. Then, he could tell by the sound, on the floor, still panting from decreasing pressure. Then it was a trickle that stopped abruptly. 

He activated his optics again to the sight of Tarantulas holding a full flask and examining grayish-blue fluid. Disgust and arousal were interweaving in Prowl, making him so sick for a millisecond he is certain he’d throw up if his fuel tank wasn’t empty.

"Perfect. Even the way you process energon is perfect." Tarantulas said again. "You've provided me with a beautiful harvest of crystals, Prowl. I've always said that we could achieve incredible things together. I have to leave you now to start with the transmutation. Please, be patient, I'll fuel you up later." 

He gave Prowl one last long gaze from top to toe, holding it a tiniest bit longer on the exposed, denied interface array, and silently walked away.