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Ok so I have an entire expansive AU about an insecticon colony on earth that basically functions like a bonobo colony with extra steps but thatâs not what I wanna talk about in this post. If you want I can talk about it after but I have to get this part off my chest first cause itâs on my mind.
I wanna talk about the dark version of the AU. Not a SG, just a slightly different version where the themes are darker. In the commotion of TFAâs first season finale, Queen Megachile of this underground colony awakens and send two of her colonists to find her a new breeding stud since her last one retired recently. They happen upon the battle, take one look at both Optimus and Megatron, and go âThose two? Yeah those two.â And wait for one of them to drop. They both end up unconscious and they take Oppy cause Megs is too heavy for them to take both.
Back at the hive, Queenie starts hooking her claws in him by personally attending to his wounds, building a rapport, etc. All this to cover the fact that sheâs tuning a literal siren song to fit him specifically. When the crew track down where he is and come get him, she has her colonists act hostile so she can âcall them offâ and return Oppy to them without issues.
Throughout season two, she continues to dig her claws into him until he comes to the hive of his own free will and starts being her personal stud. Whether he takes the rest of the crew with him is undetermined but Iâm leaning on yes.
Thatâs not all that happens though. After repeated fluid exchanges, Oppy starts showing a slew of symptoms that culminates in him starting to produce silk from his fingertips. Turns out that enough transfluid can mutate other types of cybertronians into insecticons, and Oppyâs starting his conversion. They help him get comfortable and give him the basics of what will happen and how to properly cocoon himself, but the rest is up to him. Queenie has guards posted to keep him safe.
Of course, it wouldnât be a plot point without a conflict, so of course the Decepticons get up to some shenanigans during this time. It starts out easy to manage but quickly gets out of control to the point where Queenie has to intervene and prove why sheâs the queen of her hive. During the battle, Oppy completes his conversion and soars onto the battlefield as backup and the most beautiful Madagascar Sunset Moth/Mothra hybrid the hive has ever seen. He absolutely mollywhopps Megs btw.
Oh and of course, the âsomething something sentinel gets horribly mutilated/killed for his hubrisâ thatâs contained in all my stories.
that's a pretty good concept. I like the idea of Optimus being selected and drawn into the fold of the hive.... mothOP is cool
I heard you wanted some Valveplug? Before I send you my thoughts, how do you feel about insecticons and the general idea of egg backed pregnancies? Eggnancies if you will
The fic marinating in my head now is the "suddenly bestowed with spike and valve" au thingy. Also, I've come to like "piston" much better as a term, so I'm probably going to use that going forward.
In g1 Shockwave gets left on cybertron pretty much alone for four million years and a lot of that was probably spent thinking about Megatron. Probably increasingly horny thoughts.
Such as "is he even he still alive? Will I ever feel the incredible grip of his valve again?"
I like the idea of MegaWaveWave with both Soundwave and Shockwave being really into Megatron, and Megatron being really into them both because they're the most competent of the Decepticons (usually).
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contains overstimulation, multiple orgasms, free use, sex toys, starscream being tsundere
G1 idea...
Megatron is tired of his subordinates' failures to steal energy from the humans, so he tasks Soundwave to build some sort of new energon processor/generator thing.
Soundwave comes up with a great idea... a generator powered by the energy released during overloads. All they have to do is stick a bot inside and have them ride a dildo until they output enough juice.
Starscream is chosen to be the one locked in the machine. It starts slow, then ramps up, feeding off the electricity produced via pleasure and friction. Starscream is embarrassed to find he actually really likes it (despite yelling to be let out of the thing), and he makes it through three overloads before Megatron has mercy on him and sets him free.
From then on, whenever Starscream is in trouble, the first thing he says is "no, Megatron! Don't throw me in the sex box! Anything but that!" in an attempt to reverse psychology Megatron into putting him into said box.
Megatron thinks Starscream genuinely hates it, but Starscream is thrilled to go in the box (though he would never admit it of course)
At some point the box graduates to being like a "stuck in the wall/free use" sort of thing for the other cons to frag Starscream. Starscream isn't quite as thrilled at this development because the other cons aren't very good at fragging him (in his opinion) but it's still worthwhile
short n silly thing that's not really explicit, but still. TFA Ratchet & a really (un)lucky human mechanic.
Benson had, like most citizens of Detroit, gotten used to the Autobots. They were almost like celebrities, really. Benson's son was nuts about collecting all the merchandise they made of the little yellow guy, and his daughter was infatuated with the big green one. Benson himself didn't have much of an opinion on them. He guessed they were good guys, but he never really thought about what he'd do if he met one in real life.
Which was why he was at somewhat at a loss for words when one of the Autobots rolled (or rather, walked) into his shop at 11 P.M.
âThis is a mechanic's shop, right?â
Benson had to crane his neck to look up at the robot's face. âUh, yeah. Benson's Automotive, at your service â sir.â
The red and white bot grumbled. âIt'll have to do,â he said, more to himself than anything.
Great, this was the cranky old man Autobot. His name was Ratchet, which Benson only remembered because it was like the evil nurse from that one movie.
âWhat can I help you with?â he asked, trying to put on his best customer voice.
âWell, I've had this⌠thing ever since I got to your planet and started transforming.â He hiked up one leg and rested one foot on a workbench. âHasn't given me any trouble, but I keep wonderinâ what it is.â
Benson nodded, and before he can do anything else, the metal on Ratchet's crotch kind of⌠opened up, and where there was a red plate before, there was now a purplish blue â pussy.
There was no other word for it. The damn robot had a pussy. With inner and outer lips and everything. Benson struggled to remember if he'd gone to sleep earlier and was just having a bizarre dream, or if this giant alien robot (male alien robot, he was pretty sure) was just casually exposing himself in his shop.
âAre you just gonna stare?â Ratchet said. âOr do you know anything about this?â
âI ââ Benson's entire face was so hot it tingled. He pulled at his collar, loathe to imagine how red his face must be. "This⌠that, uh. Isn't a part of your standard⌠uh, transformation?â
"No," Ratchet said, as if it were obvious. "This isn't part of one of your earth vehicles?"
Benson swallowed and tore his eyes away. He would rather have been standing naked at his high school graduation than face this situation. "No, ain't any vehicles that have that goin' on. It'sâŚuh⌠biological."
Ratchet's optics narrowed. "So it's a human part, then."
"âŚkinda?" Benson coughed. "I mean, it looks like⌠I guess it's a bit like a human part, but, you know, not exactly."
"What's this part for on humans, then?"
The words stuck in Benson's throat. He was going to have to explain human anatomy to a giant alien robot. God help him. "It's⌠for⌠you see, humans are â"
"Spit it out already, human!"
"Reproduction," he finally managed. "And â uh â love. Between humans."
Ratchet hummed, rubbing the exposed organ with a casual air. "Reproduction, huh. Well, don't think I'll be needing it. This old frame isn't built for that kind of nonsense." He closed himself up again.
Benson just nodded awkwardly. "It doesn't give you any trouble?"
"Gets slick sometimes, but not enough to leak."
"Good to know." He wiped his sweaty palms on his overalls. "If it does, I guess uh, come by and I'll check it out?"
"I'll keep it in mind." Ratchet stepped back and transformed, driving off into the night.
Benson wondered if his overheated skin would survive the shock of a cold shower. He honestly thought he'd shatter like glass.
BeachCeptor in some AU where bots suddenly find themselves able to be prengananant because. I don't know. Unicorn messing around or something.
Either way, Perceptor is absolutely fascinated by the possibilities and decides the best thing to do is experiment with getting a willing volunteer to go through pregernetcy and take it from there. Said volunteer is Beachcomber because of course he loves the idea of bringing new life into the world.
Its fairly casual and clinical at first. Perceptor decides to interface a few times, just to make sure Beachcomber gets inprengated. Beachcomber, who knows what pegrancy is because of his studies of organic creatures, just loves the feeling of something alive inside him. Just the thought of being bred is hot.
He begs Perceptor to keep giving him more transfluid. Just in case the bitlets need it to develop... they gotta get biomass from somewhere, right? Even after perceptor disproves this hypothesis, Beachcomber still begs for it because it's not like it could hurt, right?
He ends up round and heavy with large, hollow, plastic-like capsules. After laying the "eggs", Perceptor opens the capsules to find a compressed component with which to assemble a protoform. One batch of capsules does provide quite enough material to build an entire protoform, so Beachcomber least at the chance to be impreggnated multiple times.
(Also, the "shell" is edible. Most bots hesitate to eat them, but Beachcomber eagerly eats them so they can be "recycled")
here's a ffictional I ran out of steam for. Not really that explicit. I probably won't continue it unless there's interest
Tracks would be hard pressed to call Beachcomber his friend. They were more like acquaintances with benefits. In fact, the best descriptor for him would be âreoccurring pestâ.
For some reason, there was a glitch in Beachcomber's map protocols that led him to believe Tracksâ garage was actually Swerve's bar, the place where he usually stayed. He'd come by so many times that Tracks had gotten tired of throwing him out, and just let him crash on the couch for indeterminate lengths of time.
Despite his horrendous lack of style and the fact he was almost always high off some substance, Beachcomber was actually nice company. Tracks did like having a⌠an acquaintance who didn't judge him for his looks, unlike all his other high-class friends. For all his posturing, Tracks wasn't nearly as high in status as Sunstreaker, or as accomplished as Powerglide, and he knew they looked down on him.
Beachcomber was just⌠easy to talk to, really. He drifted through life with a casual air that Tracks wished he could have, seemingly unbothered by events around him. He didn't care about Tracksâ status, or his own lack thereof.
He didn't really think much about what Beachcomber did for a living until the skinny blue mech came up to him one day with a data pad in hand.
âHey, Tracks. Can you take a look at my latest manuscript?â
"I didn't know you wrote. What's it about?" Tracks asked, his curiosity piqued as Beachcomber handed him the data pad.
"It's called 'Dunesurfer and Trails in Heat'. There's a terrible disease spreading in Cybertron. It creates a heat cycle, like mechanimals have, but it's affecting Autobots and Decepticons alike," Beachcomber began. "The only way to stop it is for the infected to have wild, passionate sex with someone who's not."
Tracks barked out a laugh. "You can't be serious."
"Hey, people love silly stuff like that." Beachcomber shrugged. "But the real kicker is the love triangle between Dunesurfer, Trails, and a mysterious Decepticon. It's going to be a hit, I can feel it in my circuits." He flopped onto the couch.
Tracks couldn't help but chuckle. "Alright, alright. I'll entertain your delusions of grandeur.â He began scrolling through the text.
The two bots were huge, chest plates marked with the Decepticon symbol and optics glowing with malicious intent. Trails could feel the ground vibrate with each heavy step the Decepticons took. The Autobot's hand inched towards the emergency button installed on the wall, ready to call for backup. But Dunesurfer just looked at him with a serene smile, his spike at half-mast and his valve glistening with excitement.
"There's only one way to take these two down, Trails," Dunesurfer whispered into his audial. "We have to frag them."
Trails looked at Dunesurfer, his mind racing. He knew what his friend was suggesting, but could he really do it? Could he really trade his dignity for the survival of Cybertron?
"Great, isn't it?" Beachcomber said.
Tracks couldn't help but roll his optics as he scrolled through Beachcomber's ludicrous manuscript. "It's⌠generic," he finally said. "A fine example of the 'sexual slop' genre."
"Slop? What do you mean 'slop'?" Beachcomber sat up.
"I mean it's mediocre. Average. Bottom of the barrel. Something a hack writer slaps together for quick shanix," Tracks said, not looking up from the pad. "And yet, it's also too dull to really make fun of. It's bad, in a boring way."
Beachcomber slumped back down onto the couch. "What? How? It's got everything. Action, romance, sexâŚâ
âAll poorly implemented. It really seems that you've never experienced any of those three things in your life.â He tossed the datapad at Beachcomber, who fumbled it to the floor.
âIt's not like any of my readers have experienced that, either.â Beachcomber half-slid off the couch to pick it up. âHey, you've done all those things, right?â
âI'm not going to give you writing advice,â Tracks said flatly.
âI was thinking more like a practical lesson ââ
âI'm not going to give you that, either.â
"Aw." Beachcomber looked crestfallen. "Not even a little kiss? For demonstration?"
Tracks rubbed his chin. There was a small part of him that was ever so slightly interested in being intimate with Beachcomber, purely because the laid-back mech lacked the judgemental attitude that Tracks' previous partners had possessed.
He imagined interfacing with him. No expectations, no drama, no worrying about his "performance" being picked apart later. It was tempting.
G1 Beachcomber and Perceptor.... I hc Perceptor as the "I like masturbation but genuinely don't see the point in doing it with another person" type of asexual (like me. Cough). Like somebody who's curious as to what all the fuss is about, you know.
So he figures Beachcomber would be the perfect bot to ask since he's so chill about interfacing. They try out a lot of intimate things, from cuddling to Perceptor getting his valve absolutely pounded, and he comes away thinking it was about the same as self-servicing.
But the fact that Beachcomber's there makes it a little better. Perceptor finds that pleasuring someone else is actually quite fulfilling.
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Contains Raoul/Tracks, no actual sex, alt-mode fondling, petplay (kinda...?), objectification (literal), slight hypnofuckery.
âIsn't he just a beauty?â Raoul rested his hand on the hood of Tracksâ alt-mode. âJust got him last night. He's really âmore than meets the eyeâ, if you know what I mean.â
The gaggle of humans at the car show made appreciative noises.
âIncredible finish. That wax job must have taken ages.â
âAre those tires brand new?â
âCheck out the wheels on this baby!â
Tracks sighed as the other humans petted and stroked his exterior. The feeling of their soft, organic hands was a bit ticklish on his sensornet. The sensation was enhanced by the substance he'd taken a few breems ago, a sort of hypnotic soporific to quiet the conscious processor. It left him feeling floaty, yet still tethered to his higher cognitive powers â if he wanted to, Tracks could easily reverse the effects with a simple program. But he didn't want to do that â no, he was content to bask in the affection. It made him all⌠mushy inside.
âHe can do tricks, too. Can't you, Tracks?â Raoul's hand moved to Tracksâ sideview mirror, scratching behind it like one would scratch a dog behind the ear. âShow us your wings.â
Tracks obeyed readily, half-transforming to rotate his wings out from under his chassis. He flexed them once before folding them away.
âWait, can it really fly?â someone asked.
âSure can.â Raoul beamed. âTracks here is one of a kind." More ooh-ing and ahh-ing ensued at the appearance of the wings. The sounds bounced around in Tracksâ audials, slowly merging with the rest of his senses until it all became a soft, hazy fuzz of sensory input.
He felt one of his doors being opened, and a warm body sliding into the driver's seat. Tracks shuddered; if he had been in root mode, his optics would have rolled back and flickered off. A passenger settled into the other side, filling him with a pleasant weight.
Tracks shivered again as he felt weight on his pedals and a firm hand on his gearshift. He distantly realized he'd never actually allowed anyone else to drive him, before. Surrendering his autonomy to Raoul just felt so⌠natural. It allowed him to simply exist, not as an Autobot, or a Cybertronian â just a car. Pleasure spread through his entire frame at thought, and he sank deeper.
He could feel the road on his tires, the rotation of his gears and axles. If he focused, Tracks could even pick up on each stroke of his internal pistons, and the unhurried spin of his spark just beyond it. His visual feed was blurry and ill-defined, just colors that blended into each other as Raoul drove him down the city streets. Time passed, but Tracks neither knew nor cared how much it was. He didn't know or care about anything, until he was brought out of his reverie by Raoul's knuckles on his hood.
âHey, are you still in there? The car show's over.â
Tracks hummed, unable to give any more of an answer. The soft haze in his processor was too thick to fight, so he simply immersed himself back in it. The last thing he felt before slipping into recharge was Raoul's warm hand across his fender.
Tracks/Raoul, "soft 'n fuzzy" state of mind similar to the above, sticky, handjobs
Tracks woke up in robot mode, stretched contentedly across the garage floor. The last thing he remembered was Raoul's hand on his fender, and now he felt a peculiar mix of fuzzy-headed relaxation and excitement. No, arousal.
The substance he'd taken was still coursing through his systems, leaving him with a heightened sensitivity to touch but dulled vision and hearing.
He shifted to one side, opening the panels that hid his valve and spike. The soft silicone down there was twitchy and tender, begging for more attention. With a whine, Tracks reached down and stroked his own spike, feeling it pulse under his fingers. The sensation was heavenly, so he did it again, and again, until he was fully hard.
"Woah," Raoul's voice echoed in the garage, breaking the silence. "I didn't expect to find you like that."
Tracks pushed himself up with one arm, leaving his spike to stick out from his open groin panel. "Raoul," he murmured, his vocalizer thick with desire. "I⌠wantâŚ"
"Hard to think?" Raoul strode over, smirking. "Well, you don't need to. Let me do the thinking for you."
"No, needâŚ" Tracks' thoughts were hazy, and he struggled to articulate his desires. His spike was hot and aching, yearning for the contact of something more than his own hand. He watched as Raoul's smirk grew wider, the human seemingly enjoying his confusion.
"Come on, use your words. I know you've got 'em rattling around in your empty head."
Tracks swallowed, his thoughts racing with need. "I wantâŚ" he began, his voice low and strained. "Touch."
Raoul knelt down beside Tracks, placing a hand on his thigh. The warmth of his palm sent a jolt of electricity through the Autobot's frame, making his spike throb even more insistently. "You want me to touch you?"
"Please!" Tracks sobbed. He couldn't take it anymore. His valve was pulsing with anticipation, and his spike was begging to be attended to. "Please, Raoul."
Raoul's smirk grew even more pronounced, and he reached down to gently run his palm across the spike. He groaned, arching his back and pushing into the touch.
His hand was a quarter of the size of Tracks', yet it still felt good. Oh so good. The Autobot shivered under Raoul's grip, his spike leaking a tiny bit of pre-fluid at the contact. The human chuckled, stroking him from base to tip, and back down again. It was torturously slow, and Tracks' circuits were ready to short out from the pleasure.
"ValveâŚ" Tracks spread his legs, exposing his soft and needy slit to Raoul's view. The human took the hint, his hand trailing from the spike to the lips of the valve. "More, please, moreâŚ"
âYour pussyâs so wet," Raoul murmured. "Does it feel good when I do this?"
Tracks could only moan in response, his vocalizer straining with the effort to form words. "Ye-yes, oh, yesâŚ"
The nodes inside him were conductive bits of metal that responded to three things: electrical charge, pressure, and friction. Raoul's hand didn't have any electrical charge, at least not enough to detect, but the pressure and friction were more than enough.
He squirmed under the human's touch. He was vaguely aware that he was rubbing his plating on the floor and probably scratching his paint, but for once in his life, he didn't care.
Raoul easily fit three fingers inside him, curling and searching out the nodes.
Tracksâ valve pulsed and fluttered in overload, the pleasure less intense but much longer lasting than usual.
Tracks/Raoul dollification... decepticon plot of the week leaves Tracks like 10 inches tall and he manages to fly to Raoul's place until the shrink thingy starts to wear off.
Along the way he like... okay so I imagine Tracks and Raoul have this almost petplay thing going on where Tracks goes into alt mode and pretends to be an inanimate vehicle while Raoul cares for him. They do something similar now, except Raoul dresses Tracks in old doll clothes and loves the opportunity to test out human fashion (even if it's at a small scale)
Rapul knows Tracks has a giant praise kink and really indulges him as he paints on some lipstick and teases Tracks' valve panels
Beachcomber didn't mind interfacing on the job. He was a lot better at it than cleaning, really, but he really didn't want to lose his position as janitor. Sentinel Prime already didn't like him for his status as a conscientious objector, and he was probably looking for any excuse to fire him. If he found out Beachcomber had been lingering around in Longarm's office, hoping for a repeat of that one late-night encounterâŚ
Well, Beachcomber would drift on to some other job. He should've been named Flotsam, with the way he aimlessly drifted wherever the tides took him. For now, he would do whatever he needed to do, and leave any worries to his future self.
âPolishing the floor again?â Longarm said.
Beachcomber's processor tried to formulate a subtly suggestive response, failed, and ended up producing a single, simple, âyeahâ.
âYou're not neglecting cleaning the other offices, are you?"
"No! No, sir. I just, uh, noticed a scuff mark here," Beachcomber replied. He turned away, focusing on the handheld polishing machine. He could almost see his face in the steel panels by now. âGotta be⌠uh, be thorough.â
âIs that right? You're just taking extra care of my office?â
âYou're called the Elite Guard, right? I can't let the place get all nasty. That's not elite.â
"That's very considerate of you," Longarm said. "By the way, what's with the outfit?"
"Oh, this? I was just watching a few holo-vids Jazz brought back from Earth, and some of the cleaners wear this getup." Beachcomber pulled at the white petticoats under the black skirt. "And my... um, friend, Tracks, was talking about clothes being all the rage in the fashion world right now.â
He didn't mention that the fabric also felt very nice against his sensor net. The white stockings especially rubbed him the right way.
Longarm made a soft noise of surprise. âTracks is quite well known in the upper crust of Cybertronian society,â he said. âI'm surprised you know him.â
âHe's not a bad guy when you get to know him.â Beachcomber tried to grab a bottle of polish off the cleaning trolley and fumbled it to the floor, where it rolled under Longarm's desk. He bent over to retrieve it, biting his lip as he considered what he looked like from behind.
A gentle pat on his backside made Beachcomber jolt upright so quickly he slammed his head on the underside of the desk. He collapsed onto his knees and held the back of his head, immediately forgetting about the contact that had caused the injury.
âOh, dear.â
âI'm fine,â Beachcomber said. He backed out from under the desk, then stood up to face Longarm. He pulled the skirt and apron down, even though he had nothing to actually cover.
For a moment, they just stood and watched each other. The air was filled with tension as Beachcomber remembered his previous encounter with Longarm.
"Let me see," Longarm said. He rested his hand on the back of Beachcomber's head, rubbing the metal gently. "Does it hurt?"
"Not now." Beachcomber belatedly realized Longarm had moved closer, effectively trapping him between the desk and the larger mech's body.
Beachcomber leaned back and sat on the desk, his legs dangling over the side. "So, uh... you remember that time I sucked your spike?"
Longarm's brow rose. "You want me to return the favor?"
"...maybe?" Beachcomber said. "I mean, I know you're busy and all, but if you had the time, I wouldn't say no to a little... maintenance."
Longarm rested a servo on Beachcomber's knee, sliding it up his thigh. âI could spare some time.â
âI mean, only if it's not a hassle, sir. I wouldn't want to, you know, distract you from your important Elite Guard stuff.â
Longarmâs hand stopped its ascent up Beachcomberâs thigh. âIs that what you call it?â He leaned closer, his frame looming over Beachcomber. âI thought we were past that formal nonsense.â
He used his other hand to push Beachcomber down on his back. A stray datapad was knocked to the floor, but Longarm ignored it. He went to his knees, pressing his lips to Beachcomber's belly and trailing downwards.
Beachcomber's engine purred, sending a boost of charge down his wires and into his array.
Longarm kissed the closed panels, swiping his tongue against the hot plates of metal until they slid aside.
Beachcomber arched his back, a soft gasp escaping his vents as Longarm's warm, wet tongue made contact with his valve. It pushed inside, curling to stroke the sensory nodes on the inside. The janitor's legs trembled, his servos gripping the edge of the desk for support.
âMmph...sir,â Beachcomber moaned. He raised his legs to rest on Longarm's shoulders, giving him more access. "You're good at this."
Longarm chuckled. He sucked at the outer node, charging it with static that crackled into blue sparks.
âOh, frag yes,â Beachcomber moaned. His hand found its way to Longarmâs head.
He was aware of noises from the hallway outside, and Beachcomber prayed that no one would walk in on them.
Longarm didnât seem to care. He was focused on Beachcomberâs valve, his tongue moving in a steady rhythm that was driving Beachcomber crazy with need. He reached down to stroke himself, pulling up his skirt to get at his spike. It was already half hard, eager for the touch.
"Sir, I donât thinkâ" Beachcomber began to protest, but Longarm silenced him with a look.
"I've got you," Longarm said. He stood up, taking Beachcomber by the hips and flipping him onto his stomach. "Now, let's see if I can make you as shiny as this floor."
He buried his face back in Beachcomber's valve, squeezing his spike with one servo. He moaned, and would have squirmed away if it weren't for Longarm's heavy hand on his back. The hand on Beachcomber's spike stroked faster, matching the rhythm of Longarm's mouth.
Beachcomber leaned down, his face pressed against the cold metal of the desk as he vented. His processor was already slow, and now it was even more bogged down with sensory input. Through it, he was vaguely aware that he was about to overload and make a mess on the side of the desk, and mumbled an incoherent plea as his legs trembled.
Longarm didnât ease up. His strokes grew more insistent, his tongue pushing deeper into Beachcomber's valve, teasing the sensitive inner workings.
He gripped the edge of the desk, shuddering through an overload while struggling to keep quiet.
Longarm pulled away, and Beachcomber heard him ex-vent harshly. "Hmm. Seems you've had enough polishing for one day," he murmured, his voice low.
Beachcomber couldn't muster a response, closing his optics and relaxing on the desk.
TFA BeachTracks where Beachcomber writes (really bad) erotica. Tracks reads over it and is blown away by how cliche Beachcomber's writing is. He mentions it's very obvious that Beachcomber has never kissed, let alone interfaced another mech in his life, and Beachcomber says "well, why don't you teach me, then?"
Tracks initially scoffs at that, and says he's too beneath him to even consider that. (In reality, Tracks is also a virgin, and is afraid of making a fool of himself). But he eventually says he's willing to stoop to Beachcomber's level for a little interfacing. Purely for educational purposes, of course.
Despite being afraid of doing something wrong, Tracks is confident that he stills knows more about interfacing than Beachcomber, and ends up enjoying it way more than he thought he would.
Knockout and Breakdown had elaborate roleplay sessions, and when Starscream had to clear Breakdown's belongings from his locker, he found a bunch of jumbo sized Halloween costumes. Knockout actually made many costumes for the big guy - there was a sexy nurse outfit, a scandalous cop get up (complete with fuzzy handcuffs), a teacher's blouse, and a skimpy mermech costume. Starscream could never look at the medic the same.
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Bumblebee had a holoform, but he didn't really use it. It wasn't that short, scrawny human protoform that he'd ended up as in Soundwave's weird simulation, either â he'd based it on a popular music star instead. Bumblebee figured if he was going to have one, it would at least be a good-looking one.
He hadn't really thought much about it until he'd gone on an Allspark shard-retrieving mission across Michigan with Prowl.
Prowl, having a motorcycle for an alt-mode, naturally used a holoform along with it since human vehicles didn't drive themselves. Bumblebee's mind had started to drift during the trip, and he wondered what it would be like to interface with a holoform. They were mostly just solid light, right?
Bumblebee had never interfaced with humans before. Mostly because he knew how delicate and squishy they were, and that their spikes and valves would be way too small in comparison to his own frame.
Holoforms, thoughâŚ
âHey, Prowl. You wanna fool around with our holoforms?â
âWhat do you mean by that?â
The two bots were parked in alt-mode just off the road, sitting in inch-deep snow. Slick black ice covered the asphalt, making it hazardous for both human vehicles and bots. Prowl had suggested they stop for the night and wait for the sun to melt the roads, unless Bumblebee wanted to try his luck with ice skating.
âI mean your holoform feels me up.â Bumblebee transforming with a flourish, coming to sit cross-legged in the snow. âHoloforms come with spikes and valves, don't they?â
âWell,â Prowl began, using his lecturing-about-organics tone, âhumans seem to have something called sexual dimorphism. About half of the species possess what we would call valves, and the other half possess spikes.â
âWhat, not both? They're missing out.â Bumblebee looked down at Prowl's holoform, which was sitting idly on Prowl's alt-mode. âWhat does yours have?â
âOnly a spike.â
Bumblebee grinned. âSo you've self-serviced with your holoform before, huh?â
âIt was simply a matter of curiosity."
"Yeah, sure," Bumblebee said. "Hey, I bet you liked it, though. Didn't you?"
"Bumblebee," Prowl warned.
Bumblebee scooted closer to where Prowl's holoform sat. He used one finger to stroke its back, feeling the slight give of its body. "It's so lifelike," he said. "Can you control what it feels like?"
"I could adjust some parameters. Could, mind you.â
âWhat, you're not gonna frag me with your holo?â Bumblebee pouted. âMan, what're we gonna do all night, then?â
Prowl sighed. "Alright, I could give it a shot," he said. "But just this once, and only for the sake of experimentation."
The holoform got off of the motorcycle. Its clothes faded, lowering in opacity until the human figure was naked save for a helmet and glasses.
Bumblebee gently ran his fingertips over the artificial skin. In reality, there wasn't anything there â Prowl's hologram projector was just sending simulated data directly to Bumblebee's sensory net. A tactile illusion, so to speak.
"What's this for?" Bumblebee fondled the weird hanging bag under the holoform's floppy spike. "Some human thing?"
Prowl â rather, his holoform â nodded. "It's called a scrotum. It's part of their reproductive system."
Bumblebee continued his gentle exploration. At first, it seemed the only hair on the body was a path between the legs and under the arms, but Bumblebee found nearly every inch of skin was covered in very soft, fine hairs.
"So⌠if you had the chance, would you⌠you know, frag a human using your holoform?"
"I think it would be a good learning experience." The holoform stepped forward, in between Bumblebee's legs. It ran a hand across his yellow thigh, bizarrely soft. "I may have experimented a little, but it's all theoretical."
"You'd totally frag a human," Bumblebee said. He watched the holoform stroke the panel that hid his spike.
"Would you?" The holoform made a tiny smile that was identical to the expression Prowl wore when he was being sly.
Bumblebee thought back to the humans he'd seen in Detroit. They'd been fascinating to observe when he'd first arrived on earth, but now, with the possibility of feeling one up close, his curiosity piqued. He watched as Prowl's holoform grew bolder, its hands moving to caress the space between his leg and hip.
"Yeah, I think I'd do it. You know there's a Bumblebee fan club online? Humans love me."
The holoform leaned closer, pressing its body against Bumblebee's. "You're quite popular indeed," it murmured, its hand sliding up to the softer, unarmed black protoform of Bumblebee's torso.
Bumblebee's spike began to react to the sensation, extending into the chill air. It was nearly half the height of Prowl's holoform. "You know, I've never felt anything like this before," he confessed. "It's⌠weird."
Prowl hummed, stroking the length. The holoform's hands were tinier than even the tips of Bumblebee's fingers, little fleshy mitts that could rub every individual node along the sides. The pinpoint precision was almost ticklish, a strange sensation that made him shiver.
The holoform leaned forward and licked, its tongue absolutely tiny, but soft and wet, and it sent sparks of sensation through Bumblebee's circuits.
The combination of two hands and a mouth had Bumblebee squirming, his servos clenching and unclenching. The holoform pressed its bare chest to his spike, sliding soft flesh against his hard metal.
The sight was almost as hot as the sensation, and Bumblebee's frame quivered as his pleasure suddenly peaked into an overload.
His transfluid went right through the holoform, letting drops of liquid metal fall onto the snow.
Bumblebee sat back, panting, watching as the snow hissed and steamed where the drops hit. "Okay, okay. That was⌠unexpectedly intense," he managed.
Prowl's holoform faded to nothing, then reappeared fully dressed on his alt-mode.
"Well, Bumblebee," Prowl said. "How was that for your first time with a human?"
"It was⌠interesting," Bumblebee said, his voice a little shaky. "But I don't think it's for me. Maybe you're the one who's got a thing for humans."
"You seemed to enjoy it."
"Well⌠yeah, but it's because it's you. I wouldn't react like that to any old human⌠holoform⌠thingy."
The holoform's face twitched into something resembling a smirk. "I'm flattered, I suppose," he said.