Hm. Xenophiliac Tfa Beachcomber. Especially Big Fan Of Aliens With Tentacles, Loves To Be Filled Up With

Hm. Xenophiliac tfa Beachcomber. Especially big fan of aliens with tentacles, loves to be filled up with cum and/or eggs, then cuddle with the aliens while he incubates their spawn

Although I'm not familiar with TFA aside from posts (mostly about MegOp size difference, lol, and Shockwave's cool design), I can see it to be very likely. Tentacles are usually full of initiative and ready to make the first move. And cuddly alien monsters? Yeah. I love tentacles. And I'm here for characters being xenosexual freaks and seeking hookups with Lovecraftian folks.

At least Pharma still loved Ratchet when he was a worm.

Will you watch Transformers One at the theater?

Not sure if I'll be able to. I wish I could. I'll probably get all the spoilers in the world before i can get my hands on the movie itself.

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?

My local cinema is pirating TF: One. Guess who just paid an absolutely disgusting price for one ticket just to sit in the darkness and wait for technical issues. I hope the damn movie is worth this rip-off. Or at least valveplug content I'll be able to enjoy afterwards is worth it. (I've seen some Sentinel porn already, I highly suspect it'll at least make my mourning for my money a tiny bit lighter.)

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.