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Contains: fem-human!reader x Ironhide, dub-con (he licks you), forced proximity + forced Guardian Ironhide, possessive Ironhide, a bit toxic really.
The night is old, cataract-filmed with dark clouding above; moonlight cannot cast upon where you tuck away with Ironhide. Your nails press into folded arms, grasping to yourself in upset. There had been a conference with dinner provided tonight, and you had shown in a lovely dress for the occasion, a lovelier up-do.
Ironhide shifts beside you, silent despite his size, for a greater vantage point to watch from behind the decrepit barn. You shift because your heels have begun to press further into the cold, soft earth.
Around eleven minutes into the drive home, Ironhide sensed the malicious presence of unknown mechs tailing quick and swerved violently down an abandoned road on private property. He had given no forewarning, only a sharp tightening of your seatbelt. And you had yelled at him from within his cabin, livid beyond belief, under the assumption he’d done such a thing on purpose to make you writhe in anger. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Oh, how you loathed this appointed Guardian of yours. Brutish thing that he is, barbaric and uncouth. You believed his garish vehicle form was reflective enough of this, and you’ve told him so during a usual verbal spat. You vindicate this behavior through the sole reasoning that Ironhide tends to initiate most, if not all, arguments.
Your tongue is held behind clenched teeth, for now. The situation you’re presently in could very well end poorly should there be a mishap; there are three Decepticon mechs scouting these damp woods, and Ironhide’s cabled throat is beginning to tense. Perhaps you’re materialistic and shallow, but you are preemptively mourning the loss of your beloved patent-leather heels, should you have to remove them to run. They were expensive, after all.
Beside you, Ironhide ex-vents restrainedly from his slitted intake cavities. In brief moments like this one, he often reminds you of a great, mechanical beast. He is unpredictable, and he will bite.
He, very suddenly, flicks his blue optics to where you stand below him, beside his right lower appendage. Ironhide lifts his scuffed chin slowly in a manner you recognize, and abhor. ‘Don’t fuss,’ he tells you with this. Your reaction, he knows so well: pressed lips, a plush line, and pinched features. His right servos reach down for you, and he aptly watches your disquiet swell. You always threw a fit when he handled you like this, gently or not, but now is not the time, and you’ll hate him more for what he’ll do next.
Ironhide lifts you up his chassis to his chest plate, large palm bearing the infinitesimal weight of your body, heavy thumb across your lap. You squirm in his hold, of course you do, and he presses down only enough to still you. Precious thing you are, though he’d never tell you, he takes this ill-timed moment to look upon you. Oh, how you have not a clue.
The mech leans down, the metal of his face irradiating warmth with the proximity. His optics dim slightly, and you can see the true extent of the damage to his right optic and orbital frame, a visceral reminder of his violent, combatant past. You breathe uncertainly in his grasp.
Ironhide presses further into your space, your small hands raising to hold to the edges of his chin in a display of reluctance, confusion. You try to writhe away again.
“Stop that,” he huffs quietly.
He can smell the Decepticon mechs closing in; he knows they will be able to scent you just as well. Ironhide opens his dermae against your soft abdomen and laves his glossa up your torso, your breasts, and ends at your round cheek. The sound from your throat is a restrained, embarrassed whimper.
Your chest rises feebly, as if in shock. Lips parted, eyes squeezed shut—he’s nearly expecting you to strike his face. Perhaps, you should. He’s left a saliva-wetted path along your body and fitted dress for the primary purpose of concealing your little human scent with his own.
Forgive him, or don’t. He’d rather you didn’t, for Ironhide believes in his own vindictiveness.
He will ruin your dress this once, and maybe once more, for all the times you’ve called him a ‘Brute,’ stiff-backed and prim as you are. He will handle you like so because you are wont to refuse giving up control, stubborn as you are. And, selfishly, he will scent you with his tongue like so as a reminder that you may have no other mech but him.
You push helplessly at his dermae and Ironhide ex-vents again, pale plumes encompassing you before dissipating. Taste neurons capture the molecules upon his tongue, and Ironhide savors them much as a human would: dried satin, perfume alcohol, bared skin. The notes are categorized, differentiated.
You’ll resent him for this, he can see it playing out on your features. You’ll reprimand and curse him to high hell later, surely.
Perhaps you don’t understand now, but Ironhide was placed as your Guardian by Optimus Prime for a reason. And he’s apt to keep this to himself, lest you stop being so enjoyably difficult.
Contains: fem-human!reader x Ironhide, dub-con (he licks you), forced proximity + forced Guardian Ironhide, possessive Ironhide, a bit toxic really.
The night is old, cataract-filmed with dark clouding above; moonlight cannot cast upon where you tuck away with Ironhide. Your nails press into folded arms, grasping to yourself in upset. There had been a conference with dinner provided tonight, and you had shown in a lovely dress for the occasion, a lovelier up-do.
Ironhide shifts beside you, silent despite his size, for a greater vantage point to watch from behind the decrepit barn. You shift because your heels have begun to press further into the cold, soft earth.
Around eleven minutes into the drive home, Ironhide sensed the malicious presence of unknown mechs tailing quick and swerved violently down an abandoned road on private property. He had given no forewarning, only a sharp tightening of your seatbelt. And you had yelled at him from within his cabin, livid beyond belief, under the assumption he’d done such a thing on purpose to make you writhe in anger. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Oh, how you loathed this appointed Guardian of yours. Brutish thing that he is, barbaric and uncouth. You believed his garish vehicle form was reflective enough of this, and you’ve told him so during a usual verbal spat. You vindicate this behavior through the sole reasoning that Ironhide tends to initiate most, if not all, arguments.
Your tongue is held behind clenched teeth, for now. The situation you’re presently in could very well end poorly should there be a mishap; there are three Decepticon mechs scouting these damp woods, and Ironhide’s cabled throat is beginning to tense. Perhaps you’re materialistic and shallow, but you are preemptively mourning the loss of your beloved patent-leather heels, should you have to remove them to run. They were expensive, after all.
Beside you, Ironhide ex-vents restrainedly from his slitted intake cavities. In brief moments like this one, he often reminds you of a great, mechanical beast. He is unpredictable, and he will bite.
He, very suddenly, flicks his blue optics to where you stand below him, beside his right lower appendage. Ironhide lifts his scuffed chin slowly in a manner you recognize, and abhor. ‘Don’t fuss,’ he tells you with this. Your reaction, he knows so well: pressed lips, a plush line, and pinched features. His right servos reach down for you, and he aptly watches your disquiet swell. You always threw a fit when he handled you like this, gently or not, but now is not the time, and you’ll hate him more for what he’ll do next.
Ironhide lifts you up his chassis to his chest plate, large palm bearing the infinitesimal weight of your body, heavy thumb across your lap. You squirm in his hold, of course you do, and he presses down only enough to still you. Precious thing you are, though he’d never tell you, he takes this ill-timed moment to look upon you. Oh, how you have not a clue.
The mech leans down, the metal of his face irradiating warmth with the proximity. His optics dim slightly, and you can see the true extent of the damage to his right optic and orbital frame, a visceral reminder of his violent, combatant past. You breathe uncertainly in his grasp.
Ironhide presses further into your space, your small hands raising to hold to the edges of his chin in a display of reluctance, confusion. You try to writhe away again.
“Stop that,” he huffs quietly.
He can smell the Decepticon mechs closing in; he knows they will be able to scent you just as well. Ironhide opens his dermae against your soft abdomen and laves his glossa up your torso, your breasts, and ends at your round cheek. The sound from your throat is a restrained, embarrassed whimper.
Your chest rises feebly, as if in shock. Lips parted, eyes squeezed shut—he’s nearly expecting you to strike his face. Perhaps, you should. He’s left a saliva-wetted path along your body and fitted dress for the primary purpose of concealing your little human scent with his own.
Forgive him, or don’t. He’d rather you didn’t, for Ironhide believes in his own vindictiveness.
He will ruin your dress this once, and maybe once more, for all the times you’ve called him a ‘Brute,’ stiff-backed and prim as you are. He will handle you like so because you are wont to refuse giving up control, stubborn as you are. And, selfishly, he will scent you with his tongue like so as a reminder that you may have no other mech but him.
You push helplessly at his dermae and Ironhide ex-vents again, pale plumes encompassing you before dissipating. Taste neurons capture the molecules upon his tongue, and Ironhide savors them much as a human would: dried satin, perfume alcohol, bared skin. The notes are categorized, differentiated.
You’ll resent him for this, he can see it playing out on your features. You’ll reprimand and curse him to high hell later, surely.
Perhaps you don’t understand now, but Ironhide was placed as your Guardian by Optimus Prime for a reason. And he’s apt to keep this to himself, lest you stop being so enjoyably difficult.
ill with thoughts of ironhide and his difficult, prissy little human woman he has to play guardian to….he resents you for your stiff-backed, little-miss-prim-and-proper attitude. and you loathe to tolerate his brutish, animalistic behavior….vehemence so persistent you just can’t stand to leave one another alone, often to the point where ironhide presses, and presses—waiting for the day you finally bare your small human canines at him. you’re both animals of a certain kind, aren’t you? and he’s grown tired of your rigid act
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i have fallen down a Deltarune-loving hole and there is a part of the game that i think youd be very interested in called "the weird route"
mostly because i can see you making it into an AU for your favorite blorbos to be in Kris' place as the player forces Kris into actions with Noelle that Kris canonically does not want to do, Kris wants to protect Noelle from all this but the player wont let Kris do that, and for Reader to be in Noelle's, and theyre two childhood friends who just get all fucked up and pseudo-dark-romantic mixed with pseudo-"No Children" by Mountain Goats with it, and Kris and Noelle develop this snarling doggish Knight who "cant do anything right, cant protect anyone" × corrupted Princess turning insane energy that is all co-dependent and suicide-pact-y exclusively within the said "weird route"
idk if youd actually be into the characters themselves or the lore of the game. id like to think "yes" but idk for sure bc i think assuming one way or the other would err towards parasocial
but as an AU premise for you to stick your fave ×Readers into??
that, i admittingly do feel confident about
yes….yes………….im seeing a lot of words I like here…….fucked up and dark romance…………dog adjacent knight……..corrupted princess……yes………..yes………..I’m intrigued, consider my interest piqued, thank you my lovely nonnie for bringing this to my attention, I shall look into this yes indeed
not proud to say it, woman enough to admit it, I’ve been reading transformers smut for nearly half the day rotting away in my bed and expanding my palette of characters
I have no idea what this is, a blurb, if you will.
Contains: fem-human!reader x Optimus, unrealized pining on Optimus’ end.
Aged, battle-worn Optimus Prime who has taken refuge back on Earth to handle localized Decepticon sightings with his comrades. In his absence, Bumblebee had resumed command once more, establishing a base on a young woman’s countryside property, your acreage. The details of this settlement are unclear, and Optimus is cautious, even with Bumblebee acting as guarantor of your trustworthiness.
Your first meeting is polite, succinct; he is tired, and wishes to rest. He does so in the west field, observing his brethren and you from the outskirts. Always observing.
You hold the faceplate of Bumblebee and tell him to be good before he sets off. Reprimand like a vice when his Autobots tussle over disagreements and your grounds become collateral. Chastisements whilst reaching within one of his comrades’ broken chest pieces to retrieve shrapnel that Ratchet cannot.
He wants to believe your benevolence comes from genuine care, but he’s been betrayed by many a human before. Thus, he finds himself outside the small balcony to your bedroom late into the evening. He doesn’t see how his Autobots have collected in hiding to speculate amongst themselves.
‘What the hell is he doing?’ asks one.
‘He’s barely spoken to her,’ says another.
‘Big guy finally makin’ a move, huh? Must’ve been lonely up in space.’
‘How would that even work?’
‘Use your imagination.’
‘Shut up, all of you.’
Optimus Prime, last of the Prime lineage, Leader of the Autobots, taps gently upon the closed balcony door and awaits.
For a moment, there’s no response from within your bedroom, and Optimus sighs quietly. He braces a hand on the second level siding of your home and begins to turn away. His Autobots share a collective disappointment, their entertainment dashed for the night.
“Optimus?”
Sharp, blue optics fixate on you, clothed in a long robe that has been tied at the waist, feet bare and hair undone. A human, with flesh too soft to be touched by hard metal, teeth against ripened fruit.
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I just found an original RE2 disc for the PS1 console hidden in our TV stand from my Dad’s collection, I’m actually going to die. Not to mention his original transformers figures from when he was a kid that I also found…….yall….
it’s still unfathomable to me how his death in the manga became such a widespread mourning—and maybe I just haven’t lived long enough but I’ve never seen so many people be united by a character’s demise like his did
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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