Friday

Would it be long but thin, or plump but short? I’d love any of them, of course. Sometimes artists draw them in unusual shapes—ribbed, even with sharp thorns on the sides (oh, that must be kind of painful…)—and I really wonder what Starscreams is like. Not just in appearance, but in taste.

I believe that living metal isn’t like the metal we have here on Earth. It reacts uniquely to every touch: it shudders, pulses—perhaps it vibrates before rebooting? It would be wonderful to feel that vibration a few seconds before the hot transfluid fills insides. Perhaps the metal there, behind the groinplates, is the same as on the faceplate? Elastic and pliable, bending under the pads of my fingers when pressed and afraid of even gentle bites? Yes, when swallowing the spike, I should be more careful not to graze the sensitive metal with my fangs, I’m sure. But I’d be careful, I swear

And right now, I can’t stop drooling at the thought that I could be giving my beloved one reset after another, instead of dealing with all this paperwork. I don’t care how much my knees will ache, or if others will see these bruises and marks; I don’t mind the signs that I truly care for my boy. I want to shower his spike with kisses, barely touching the metal with my wet lips, knowing that my darling has never felt anything like this, that no other creature would give him this tenderness, this softness of skin, and this love that I possess. I want to wrap my little mouth around his tip, lick away the first drops of arousal, perhaps tasting sweetness, perhaps a tingle on my tongue, maybe even bitterness, but even if it tastes bitter, it will all be diluted by the sweetness of his moans and whimpers. I want to obey my Lord Starscream without a shadow of a doubt, like an obedient dog carrying out commands. I want to feel the warmth of him on my tongue; I want him to run his fingers through my hair, praising me with a hoarse voice and trembling lips.

I want to press my tongue against the metal and move it around to stimulate him, even if I’ve never done this before and it’s going to be clumsy—I’ll try my best. I’ll suck on his spike like the sweetest lollipop, and I’ll do whatever it takes for every bit of praise and his pleasure. I want to relax my throat; I want to take him all the way in; I want the tip of my nose to press against his metall groin when I deep-throat him, holding my breath. I don’t need to breathe—he is my oxygen; he is all I need. I’m ready to suffocate, but I won’t pull away until my beloved, my Master and owner, tells me to do so.

And then he might take matters into his own hands—so impatient—grasp my hair right at the roots, and move his beautiful hips, sliding his spike as deep as possible, making those vulgar slurping sounds. Metal hitting my face—it hurts, but it’s not scary, not scary at all; let my eyes water and let my face and throat ache, he mustn’t think about it, he mustn’t stop for my sake.

He has to push himself to the limit; he has to think only about how I belong to him, how slippery and soft I am, how I was made to serve him—the perfect little pet, his sex doll, his human slave, his possession. And then, gripping my hair so tight I squeal, to come inside me. Let him fill my throat as if it were made for this, as if it were the most natural thing in the universe, as if I couldn’t survive feeding any other way. Let my beloved keep his spike inside until he’s savored the warmth to the very end. I’ll swallow every last drop, like a starving, and when Starscream slips out, his wet spike will be perfectly clean.

For Soundwave, this is like a dream come true. He's holding your sleeping frame near to him this moment. The malleability of mind and body, the closeness and openness, your attraction to him in exactly the same degree that his spark and mind have been drawn to you for centuries. And now your thoughts and fantasies have grown bolder, have turned to him… how long will he wait until you are ready and come to him on your own? He even had to force you to stop associating with questionable persons and behave properly. For the best! But still. An eternity will pass before you reach the stage you both crave. He just needs to give you a little nudge, that’s all.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the mech leans in and presses mask against the top of your head. The communicator’s mind gently penetrates yours, sending waves of calm and lulling you even further, like a lullaby created just for you. The telepath blocks the echo of your internal sluggish monologue, creating a veil that feels like something from a strange dream. He lifts himself up, embracing you with both arms, and your sleepy eyes open to suddenly meet Soundwave’s faceplate. Without a mask. You want to say something. You wanted to. Probably. Everything seems surreal, like blurry spots. And in a single second, his lips cover yours.

A shiver runs through your body, and a flower of deja vu blooms in the back of your helmet. Something familiar. And something right. His gloss glides over yours, the feeling that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be envelops you like a warm blanket. There isn’t a single thought in your processor, but it’s full of longing, full of thirst.

The mech pulls back, very reluctantly; he would have preferred to kiss you forever, but he so wants to be sated by everything fate has given him, rewarding him with this gift. His fingers press against your lips, his clear gaze behind the visor meets yours, slightly empty and listless.

“Lick them” — his tone should surprise you. This request should outrage you. And Soundwave won’t admit it, but he’s terrified that nothing will work, that awareness and revulsion for him will appear in your gaze, that you’ll run away, abandon him forever—but the tip of your glossa unquestioningly traced the rough metal of his middle and ring fingers, as if that’s exactly how it was meant to be. His ventilation system abruptly stops working. The sensation of your gloss on his cold metal hand sends a jolt straight to his spark, and Soundwave bites down on his other hand, clenched into a fist.

This is vulgar.

No, this is perfect.

Could this really be true? Primus, you’re beautiful when you do this. Soundwave’s lips press against yours again. He pushes you onto your back with his weight, and both his palms slide beneath you, wrapping around and squeezing aft with his fingers. The moment his hand squeezes your metal there, probing and possessive, the fans sputter. This is forbidden territory. This is the intimacy he could only have secretly dreamed of. And now... now the mech wants more. Much more. Can you pleasure yourself under his control? Can he record a video of your... oh.

Without any distinctive sound, the recording began from his perspective. He ran his fingers over your lips again and then slid them inside your mouth. Not a single movement or sound of protest came from you. Soundwave tests the limits, continuing to probe the depths of this bottomless submission, numbers rapidly flashing across the corner of the screen, counting down the recording time. The camera zooms in on your lips, parted by his fingers, and the smooth metal of your mouth.

“…suck. gently,” he continues to control your mind, not letting you think or react, just filling every inch of your processor with the desire to obey. A good Decepticon follows orders from a superior. And you suck. The camera captures your tongue pressed against his fingers and your lips pursed in an attempt to suck in air, and the communications officer pushes his fingers further in, but pulls back when you cough. Soundwave removes fingers from your mouth to stroke the top of your head. “Good job,little”

Beautiful. You’re so beautiful. The communications officer remembers how one mech at the bar was talking about your faceplate, rating it on a scale, while another drunk jerk was talking about hitting on you on the street—after all, the cops would obviously understand him—it’s hard not to make a move on a drunken night, especially when you’re walking home alone.

Those bastards were reported missing that very evening.

Soundwave gently moved down to your stomach, kissing the metal that shuddered at his touch. The tip of his nose pressed against the warm metal right above your groin plate. Aside from Spark, this is your most intimate spot.

“May I?… Open for me.” Silence, your bewildered gaze, the blue mech’s clenched jaws, and then a soft click as the groin plate slides aside.

Soundwave didn’t immediately lower his gaze between your legs, but the Spark pulses intermittently when he finally sees you there. The camera focuses on the perfect metal, better than in all his fantasies. How many hundreds of years had he spent alone, clenching his dripping spike, trying to imagine you… the tip of a finger pressed against the thin metal, and your legs trembled, clamping down on his hand like a snapping shell. Sensitive. A dark, languid sensation ran through Soundwave’s internal circuits.

“Keep them open.” The mech’s palms help you spread your peds wider while they tremble. Controlling your thoughts when the telepath’s own helmet is in complete disarray is no easy task. But it’s worth it. His hands once again stroke the quivering metal with a touch as soft as a feather. Sensors pick up your pleasant scent as his fingers gather moisture from the valve and press against the thinnest metal between your legs, causing you to shudder anyway, even as you try your hardest to follow the order.

“You must not move,” his voice is stern, just as it was when he scolded you in your younger years, like an older brother: “Keep yourself still, like a statue.” It’s hard for Soundwave not to enjoy this. Not just your obedience, not just the openness he could only dream of, but also your torment.

That’s exactly how I felt. That’s exactly how you made me feel. Suffering from my emotions and unable to move. You were mocking me, and there’s nothing wrong with teaching a little lesson, with giving you a taste of your own medicine.

The camera pulled back so that your entire body fit in the frame. The back of your head pressed against the bed, the heated metal of the faceplate with droplets of condensation, and your misty gaze. The rising and falling chest plates, hiding your essence, your light. Your palms, holding your thighs open, and the wet, hot valve exposed for him to see.

Now Soundwave presses his fingers harder, punishing you with rough touches. Your funny face is just as focused as your fingers, which dig into your thighs as you try to keep your body still. Blue mech strokes haphazardly, rubbing the sensitive spot, sliding his fingers down to gather a little more moisture, and rising higher again. He commits every tremor and every sigh to memory, never taking his eyes off your wet, bitten lips, dreaming of them closing around his spike. He knows he would like that, that nothing in the world compares to the tightness and warmth of your throat, just as he knows that reality will feel even better than he imagines. With these thoughts, his fingers pressed into the thin, sensitive metal even harder, and your pelvis jerked against your will.

The red visor, which he chose not to remove, doesn’t hide the intensity of his burning red optic. He teases you, building up the pace, only to pull his hand away, savoring your pursed lips, and start all over again. He loves you. He’s always loved you. It was impossible not to notice. You’re just playing with him, that’s all. He brought you to the brink again and withdrew his hand, looked up with a smirk, and met your wet, misty gaze. The communicator’s smirk faltered. With a convulsive exhale, he looked again between your legs and at the scratched metal of your thighs. No. He isn’t like those bastards in the bar. There’s nothing in common between them and him. Soundwave’s fingers were replaced by his nose; he reverently kissed your thigh and ran his glossa over the valve.

“You’re doing great, its okay, you can relax.” Soundwave doesn’t mind your thighs clamping around his head and continues to caress you with relish, searching for the movement that makes you shudder the most. He knows many of your sounds by heart and loves them. Your hiccups, your laughter when you shouldn’t be laughing, even your sneezes and squeals of surprise—all of it is recorded and stored deep within his processor. But nothing compares to these rather modest and quiet moans, barely audible sighs mixed with low grunts. They’re better than something loud and erotic. Something intimate and accessible only to him, to his audiosensors. His palms cover yours, and your fingers intertwine as he almost sucks onto you beneath your sweet moans, without slowing down, he moves his glossa in circles and feels you finally clasp his head tighter than before, stretch your legs, and lift your pelvis with one last long, whimpering moan. Charming. The recording ended as silently as it began.

“You did so well.” The telepath’s EM field picks up how, even in a trance, a deep sense of satisfaction from the praise of your best f… no—he interrupted your thoughts—your sparkmate spreads through your body.

One last kiss, deep and wet, before Soundwave found a soft cloth and gently wiped the thick fluid from your thighs, gave the order to close the groin plates, and lay down beside you—not just embracing you, but clinging to you, kissing your temple.

For just a second, the mech thought about how he could now—at least in part—understand others’ craving for power. Giving orders and receiving unconditional loyalty and obedience in return really does feel so damn good

Thundercracker couldn’t help but chuckle to himself at the amused look on your face. His right servo supports weight as he leans over you. Mech's lips are close to yours, as if soaking up the warmth before tasting it; the distance between you closes smoothly, and cold palms suddenly grab you under the armpits, pulling you away from the blue Decepticon. You don’t have time to catch Skywarp’s gaze as he interrupts your intimate moment, covering you himself and snatching a kiss. His sharp fingers dig into your cheeks and waist, leaving marks.

The two brothers’ eyes are locked on each other; TC’s claws have dug into the metal, causing Warp to smirk smugly and slide the tip of his glossa into your soft little mouth. Starscream felt the wires around his neck bend slightly as he swallowed; his drowsiness gave way to a heat, stronger than any fever.

Ceasing the sweet assault on lips, the con pulled away, leaving a thin thread of saliva between your tongues. Your gaze finally met Thundercracker’s red optics, which had grown brighter—no, hotter, he drew close to you again, abruptly, as if you were about to be taken away once more – for a second, Skywarp’s claws actually tightened their grip, as if unwilling to share – and almost struck you with a kiss. The metal presses against you with such force that it threatens to leave bruises on your lips, and you moan in protest.

Skywarp’s fingers move to your breasts; he presses his faceplate against the top of your head, warming it with hot air whilst simultaneously squeezing your nipples.

"So defenceless in front of the three of us, aren’t you?" Starscream’s hot breath tickles one ear as he moves closer. He’s almost purring, feeling the heat from just the sight of the Seekers caressing and kissing your yielding body. He remembers your last evening together as a foursome, remembers the mingled scents, the wet surfaces, your sweet moans and that enveloping, tingling softness… Another tip of the tongue joined in, sliding over your ear, down to neck, and to your shoulder to push aside the fabric of clothes and bite.

TC and Skywarp swap places, as if competing to see who can cover more of your mouth with their glossas, and hands, hands, hands. They’re everywhere. They squeeze, they slide, they slip under your clothes, tearing away the tiresome fabric, knowing they’ll buy you plenty more of these rags. Thundercracker steps back, watching with pleasure as you breathe heavily, your bitten skin now bare. The texture of your flesh arouses something akin to hunger in him; every inch of silky skin begs to be marked, bitten, scratched…

Warp's palms turn you over, pressing your face against the bed, the metal’s cold sears the skin and legs twitch involuntarily as his claw slides playfully over the last piece of fabric on your body. Con hooks the edges of the lingerie, taking his time, scratching your skin, revelling in the scent of your arousal. He is interrupted when your calf is grabbed and pulled away from Skywarp, who cries out ‘Hey!’

Your goose-pimpled back catches the heat of his groin plates when Starscream sits you down on his lap. Without hesitation, he pulls your underwear off, gathering the moisture of arousal on his fingers before sliding them over your clitoris, making your thighs trembling and press together. Thunder has already opened his plates and clamped down hard on the base of his dripping spike. His optics, slightly dimmed, are fixed on your thighs and glistening labia.

"Why is it you? You were first last time!" Skywarp, however, refuses to take Starscream’s actions for granted and tries to pull you back towards him, but the hands of Trine's leader hold you fast.

“I was first last time, and I’ll be first this time too!” His fingers continue to caress your clitoris in circular motions, eliciting quiet moans from you, drowned out by the two of them arguing. Starscream suddenly cried out, pulling his hand away from you. “What the frag, TC, you bit me!?”

He’s doesn’t reply; long fingers slide beneath you, lifting your hips, and mouth practically sucks onto you, making you arch back with a moan and search for something to hold onto with fingers. His tongue glides over your clitoris, thumbs massage lower abdomen, lips descend to the tiny entrance of your pussy to lap up the moisture of arousal and rise again to clitoris.

You come shamelessly quickly; neither of the other two seekers had time to intervene or even utter a word before you, still in the same position, curling your toes and exhaled with pleasure. Thundercracker pulls away from you with satisfaction. He looks at his brothers in turn with smugness, before making a couple of final strokes with his fist along the length of his spike and ejaculating onto the metal in several spurts.

Skywarp was the first to come to his senses; he shoved Starscream in the shoulder, causing him to tumble off the bed with a yelp and a crash. He pulled your limp little body back toward him, opening his groin panel, and, positioning himself behind you, smoothly sank into your tight pussy a quarter, halfway, all the way in. Oh, how sweetly you moan at the thickness of his spike…

He immediately starts thrusting his hips, paying no attention to anyone in the room except your back. His engines roar, the room fills with your moans and the quick, lewd slaps. Your palms clench and unclench, nipples rub against the metal beneath you, and you unconsciously try to crawl away from the slaps of thighs, which will leave bruises, but he wraps arms around your waist and pulls you back into place. The stretching is unlike anything else; every nerve is touched as he slides back and forth, the recent orgasm releasing you, giving way to a new one.

“Fuck, please…” your voice is hoarse; you don’t know exactly what you’re begging for.

Starscream watches with a smirk as Skywarp fucks you in that doggy style position, while TC cums again, pleasuring himself at the sight. “How would you feel if I snatched her away from you right before you reboot?”

“Don't. You. Dare” Con thrusts grew more frantic; he covered you with his frame in a protective manner and Starscream just snorted. He sees you open your mouth in a moan, a string of saliva stretching from the roof of your mouth to your pink tongue. Primus…

The Trine leader climbed over Thundercracker, who was resting contentedly with his optics closed, to sit across from you with his typical sly grin. “Hey, princess,” Starscream lifted your chin, ignoring Warp’s warning growl. “Come on, look at me. Open your little mouth.”

The tip of his graceful spike slid across your lips, muffling moan of another orgasm, and the claws clamped down on your hair as he longed to plunge into that mouth, all the way down your throat, you continue to moan, and red optics of the seeker flicker from the vibration. He's thrusts, again and again, giving you a little time, and after a while you join in yourself, sucking on his metal like a candy, swallowing the spike and pressing tip of your nose against the metallic pubis.

“G-good... girl.” The mech strokes your head with trembling fingers. They could never fuck anyone but you and get this much pleasure. Not even the most gifted priestesses of love from ancient Cybertron could surpass the hospitality of your soft throat and the tightness of your smooth, silky pussy.

Starscream and Skywarp reload simultaneously; their transfluid fills you from both sides, warming your lower abdomen and saturating your taste buds with the unique flavor of the viscous liquid. They release, causing you to cough and fall forward, your body sweaty and trembling.

Streams of transfluid flow down the inside of your thighs, pooling into a small puddle at your knees.

“TC… take her on,” Starscream leans back against the wall, spreading his legs and breathing heavily, not letting you catch your breath either. “I want her to take my size without any trouble when I’ll be ready.”

You don’t have the strength to answer as, yet again, hands wrap around you and lift you up like a toy. And you wouldn’t want it any other way.

Finally, your thoughts became like white noise; you’re not pretending now. Soundwave’s hand rises, his trembling fingers glide over your cheek and chin before pulling away and clenching into a fist in the air, as if the mech wants to squeeze your face with the power of mind. The heat just doesn’t subside.

It’s like those times when you stayed over at his place or even invited him round to yours. Soundwave isn’t sure which is better – trying to fall asleep in your bed, surrounded by your sweet scent on all sides, and scrutinising the details of your interior as if trying to find an artefact, or finishing up work on the console and, turning back, seeing the top of your head peeking out from under his blanket, feeling a spark skip a beat… though coming after a gruelling shift, taking off his mask, burying nose where you’ve been lying, and simply letting out his pent-up urges with muffled moans might be slightly more to his liking. Yes, it’s almost the same… only…

"Optics: keep closed." only now, it's not necessary to control yourself

With a gentle flick of wrist, his mask is pushed aside; fingers lift your chin and lips touch yours. At first, lightly, like the tip of a feather, he testing, checking to see that this is real, before pressing himself against you in a passionate kiss. Then again, and again, and again. With characteristic sounds, he bites your lips, kissing you, sliding his glossa into your mouth as if licking an ice cream, running it over your lips before kissing you deeply once more. You are so submissive, so perfect...

Clinging to your shoulder and thigh with his palms, Soundwave lifts your body onto his lap. This obedience of your body, this openness of mind, is so arousing and… can he make you believe and do anything?

The comms officer's body heated up in an instant as images of you—just as lively and tireless, yet unquestioningly submitting to his will—filled his processor. You could sit on his lap every evening, smile only at him, kneel down and swallow his spike at his first request, right before the eyes of those who dared to flirt with you right in front of him-

… W-well, that last was probably a bit much. He needs to calm down…

"A responsible Decepticon always follows the orders of his higher-rankings," the voice modulation disappeared again; Soundwave leaned in, whispering into your audiosensor. "From now on, you must obey whatever my voice commands." Penetrating deep into your mind, the telepath senses the slow formation of new convictions

Blue fingers slid down your thigh, stroking in circular motions. “Because it’s right, it feels good, you want me to be proud of you, to praise you.” His fingertip slid lower, tracing ghostly patterns across your groin.

“Remember this. Remember this sense of peace and pleasure. This is the price of discipline, the price of obedience. On the count of three, wake up, and remember my first command—no one, absolutely no one, is to touch you again; don’t let them defile you. You're mine.”

Soundwave fastens his mask back on, biting his lip briefly.

“One, two… and three.”

If you liked it, please give it a like or leave a comment – I’d be delighted!!

Soundwave knew how to ruin the reputation of anyone who got too close to you, dragging them through the mud and openly showing through his touch who you belonged to, but you kept drawing the Decepticons to you like moths to a flame. Yes, the mech didn’t say his feelings outright, but didn’t his actions speak louder than any words?? You shouldn’t let them pat you on the shoulder, shouldn’t let them whisper dirty comments in your ear and giggle about it! Soundwave should have taught you a lesson, just pinned you against the nearest surface in front of everyone and—but you take his hand again with a smile and he forgets all about it…

When you met in his living quarters, his gaze lingered on your thighs pressed against the bed’s surface. The spark suddenly seemed to pause for a second when he realized again why you were here, what you had agreed to almost without a shadow of a doubt. You’ve always been so trusting… so he’s doing everything right. It’s for your sake, too. You need someone who will protect you, who can keep you safe.

“I’m a little nervous, Soundwave,” he’s, noticing how you’re still smiling despite your anxiety, how you’re rubbing your knees with your palms while sitting hunched over. “I don’t even know why… And if you succeed, what will you do next?”

“Your energon intake: unregular,” he replies instantly, as if he’d rehearsed it. “Soundwave: will try to convince you to eat more often. Does that work for you?”

“That works for me!”

He won’t admit it, but he’s nervous too. More than you. He’s been fantasizing about this for so long… Every time he saw you reading the report to the Lord, every time he passed you in the hallways, sensing the trail of your scent, and especially when you were the focus of the gazes of those you unconsciously charmed. He can’t tell you to stop; that would push you away, make you doubt that he’s your best friend.

Just your best friend.

You relax pretty quickly. Soundwave slowly lulls you into a trance, allowing himself to stroke your arm. He feels you leaning against him as you slip into a drowsy state, and senses his cooling fans kicking in. No. First session - just a test. He tries to talk to you, asks a few questions, asks you to do simple things, which you do, and nods to himself. He have to start with something… innocent.

“Listen to me, carefully.” Now his voice sounds like that of a regular mech, without any special effects. “You’re a disciplined. You don’t forget to take care of yourself and make sure to drink at least two cubes of Energon a day—you remember that. Trust my voice, you hear me?”

In response, you make a soft humming sound. So quiet that you’re more exhaling air than using your voice. And Soundwave’s fingers dig into the sleeping platform with such force that they slightly dent the metal. So obedient… Finally…

“I’ll count to three and snap my fingers, and you’ll forget everything I’ve said, but my instructions will remain deep in your mind.” He ran a trembling finger along your cheek and pulled back the servo. “One, two—”

***

“Wave, this is just unbelievable, so successful on the very first try!” You wrapped your arm around his, forcing him to lean slightly to the side under the weight of your body. “I haven’t missed a single scheduled energon intake! This is a miracle!”

A warmth spread through his body, but it was sticky and proud.

“Practices: must remain confidential. Soundwave: wishes to hone his skills before reporting to Lord Megatron.”

“So, do I need to come see you again?”

In response to your question, he turns his helmet toward you; his faceplate is hidden behind the visor, yet the predatory glint in his eyes seems to pierce even through the thick glass.

“Today: After work. Please.”

If you liked it, please give it a like or leave a comment – I’d be delighted!!

Cursing, you leap to your feet and try to lift him up too, to carry your patient to a cleaner, more secluded spot—somewhere you won’t be in the crosshairs of the factions or the ever-watchful eyes of humans—but his body won’t budge. Breakdown’s limbs are scattered across the ground, and you won’t be able to gather them up quickly. An invisible timer continues its countdown. The Decepticon’s spark continues to subside.

Frag it.

Giving up on your attempts, you begin the procedure right here, on the dirty ground. You take out a injector, fill it with what little vitamin energon you have left, and infuse the exhausted body with nourishment.

“Here, take this, wolfcub,” says a tall, burly, angular Decepticon with an almost friendly smile, holding out a small blue cube to you. The Energon shimmers softly in the sunlight. You let the name slip past your audiosensors; your endoskeleton and helmet full of pain. Energon. It might be poisoned or simply contaminated with something the mech doesn’t want to eat himself. But the level is critically low; you have to take this risk if you want a chance at survival.

“What are you looking at? We have to take care of the medics, don’t we?” He glances over his shoulder, where Knockout stands basking in the sun, gleaming as if untouched by war, and turns his gaze back to you. A small cube is now in your hand. “You'll be in debt, of course.”

There isn’t enough time right now to reattach the limbs. You tie off the severed ends of the thin tubes to prevent the dose of energon you just injected from leaking out. Oh, dear Primus. Where on earth is his head…

That’s not like Decepticons at all. Not one inch. The warm desert air blows against you as you watch Breakdown carefully tie off the thin, severed wires of one of the miners, administering first aid. Even the other miners chose to step over the body of their comrade who had fallen out of favor with the Lord, but not him. It’s charming, but so uncharacteristic, so unnatural for a Decepticon—to half-smile at words of gratitude, help another mech get back on his feet, and give an encouraging pat on the shoulder. You're lost in thought again, standing far away from the scene unfolding before you.

With your help, every severed cable and every torn pump tube slowly but urgently reconnects with its other half inside the con’s helmet. Step by step, the head falls back into place, and every inch of the internal circuitry is once again powered by energon. This isn’t your first time assembling a Transformer piece by piece—such are the horrors of war—but for some reason, your fingers tremble like a novice’s, and your insides, heated by fear and stress, barely cool down with the ventilation.

Among all the Decepticons. Of all the possible candidates, please, not him. He cannot become just another statistic, cannot fall silent forever, cannot turn into useless metal once and for all. You won’t let that happen.

The final piece of Breakdown’s brutally severed helmet fell into place. Like a caring mother, you rest his head on your lap. The tips of your still-trembling fingers glide over the streaks of dirt on his cheeks; a few drops fall onto his faceplate, and it takes a few seconds to realize that it’s not rain, but emotions bursting forth from the strain. You recoil from him and frantically wipe the washer, when a sharp squeak and wheeze burst from Breakdown’s vocoder. The only functioning optic glowed faintly. It’s unlikely that a processor that’s been without power for so long will be able to function normally anytime soon, but that doesn’t matter.

One of the few Decepticons whose spark still holds honor and nobility is still alive.

Watching you try to argue and snap back doesn’t usually annoy Megatron; in a way, it’s even endearing. You are a tiny creature of flesh, physically incapable of standing up to him in any way, and in those special moments when you tease him, leaving kisses along the length of his spike even though you were given a clear order to take him into your mouth whole, he gently pulls you by the hair, reminding you that your favorite treats must be earned. On rough days, he’ll simply wrap your hair around his fingers and, with sadistic pleasure, thrust himself all the way down to your windpipe, listening to your coughing and groaning.

The Lord will reload, and your mouth will fill with a thick liquid sweeter than nectar—isn’t obedience worth that taste? Isn’t obedience worth the gentle glide of a claw across your wet lip, wiping away the remnants of transfluid, and the praise, “Good girl”?

You act like a little brat whenever you interact with any Decepticon, but the robots have to keep their cool in the face of your snide remarks—unless they want your master to crush their heads like soda cans. You even tried to talk back to Soundwave once, and he wasn’t going to put up with it, but Megatron appeared out of nowhere, walked past his communications officer, grabbed you, and took you away for a disciplinary talk. Well, after a few disciplinary spankings on the butt, sitting down hurt for a few weeks…

One day, having completely lost control, you let loose with a string of dirty words, taunting Megatron, insulting him, and nimbly slipping away when he came looking for you to put you in your place. Eventually, he found you, daring to flirt with someone else right in front of him with a smug grin. He dragged you away from there, shooting the innocent Decepticon such a look that they could have died on the spot from fear. That evening, Megatron acted suspiciously calm, as if nothing had happened. Until the next day.

Megatron walked past you, moving with an unnatural fluidity, like a leaf falling onto the surface of the water. His gaze—that suspiciously sly look that makes your heart stop beating in your chest but start throbbing between your legs—was fixed on you, from head to toe.

“I have something for you.” The Lord shrank to your size and held out his hand. The gift box, beautifully decorated, looked toy-like and tiny in his hands. Strange—too big for jewelry, too small for food or electronics. Still under his gaze, you cross your legs to calm the throbbing and open the box to find… a collar. Clearly expensive, it’s worth noting. You’d be hard-pressed to find this level of quality and detail even in the most expensive sex toy shop. Stingray leather in a rich shade of purple, iron rings and clasps made of Cybertronian material, and a tag where they usually write the pet’s name or address. In the shape of a Decepticon emblem, only with the word ‘whore’ written on it.

“I’m not going to wear this, got it? If you like this kind of jewelry, you can show it off yourself—it’ll suit you even better.”

“Do you want me to make you?”

Of course, Megatron ripped your clothes off and fucked you. He fucked your mouth, ignoring your coughing, he fucked you in every hole several times in a row, filling your insides with Transfluid. Every limb, your neck, back, and ass—everything was marked with bites, bruises, and hickies, and that expensive collar with the brand was fastened around your neck by force.

He paraded you down the hallways in this look, and that was the only time you kept quiet. Have you learned your lesson? Absolutely fucking not.

He is cumbersome, with sharp lines and angles on his frame, making the ground vibrate with every step, while Knockout glides through the corridors of Nemesis with swan grace. They are not suited to each other. There is someone better. Someone who looks on with absolute adoration. Someone who can hold any conversation with an interest that scarlet mech has never seen before. Someone who is better at running a polishing machine over this warm, smooth metal, rubbing a special wax into the surface. There is you, and Knockout doesn't need anyone but you.

“Hey, what’s up? My shift is over, so I wouldn’t mind keeping you company here in the medical room.” you said. Knockout turned halfway around, scanning your figure with his bright red optics, the ventilation malfunctioning from the glare of those manic lenses. The medic's lips parted to reward you with words, but Breakdown emerged from the utility room with an absurd grunt, towering over the two of you and holding a box of tools in his paws. Knockout, completely forgetting what he wanted to say, abruptly headed for Vibedown, with such enthusiasm that he had never shown you before.

It went on and on like this. You offer to help Knockout clean up at the end of the shift, and he leaves it to you and Breakdown, leaving to “tidy himself up” for a little while, but a little while meant he was gone until tomorrow. You suggest a movie, but oh, what a pity, they just watched it, watch it yourself, sweetie, then we'll discuss it! You track down meet Knockout in the hallways, wandering aimlessly, and seize any opportunity to talk, looking friendly and relaxed, as if this meeting were accidental, but he was heading all along to his partner to start a lively conversation with him, as if you weren't there. At moments like this, you feel like your true emotions are showing in your brow ridges and the movement of your lower jaw. Is Knockout doing this on purpose? He's trying to get you emotional, right? Beautiful ones often come with a bitchy personality. No no, he's wonderful that way, it suits him even better than his color, but he just doesn't understand what's best for him!

“You know, I have some immodest suspicions about this guy.” Breakdown polished the saw with methodical movements, speaking in a quiet voice to the scarlet medic while you're packing things in the back room

“Huh?” Knockout didn't even look up, turning around near the reflective surface. “I think that pie is just sweet!”

“Isn't that sweetness a little too cloying? And anyway, as soon as you finish talking to him, his gaze becomes scarier than Lord's.” At these words from the blue mech, the racer smiled into his fist and cleared his throat.

“Don't exaggerate, most guys here have a relaxed face that looks like a bitch's face. You don't always look like the nicest guy yourself.” Their laughter reached you, as did all the previous words.

So, it's all Breakdown? That bastard is turning your medic against you? Gradually hammering into his pretty head about your suspicious behavior or little incidents? Your fangs dug into index finger with such force that energon flowed, while dark thoughts overwhelmed your head. Trying to be friends is useless, common interests are useless. Any attempt to become one with Knockout, to be his only light, support, and protector, is only possible if you destroy the parasite that is poisoning your flower.

The gods smile at you, smiling with the same grin that your soul and mind smile with. You are alone with Breakdown, if you don't count Arachnid grumbling under his breath. It wasn't difficult to convince Megatron that you, rather than Dreadwing, should accompany Breakdown on a special mission. You have always been a brilliant fighter. If you can deal with your main rival, you and Knockout will be the most magnificent pair of all. The best racer and the best flyer of the Decepticons… doesn't the idea itself sound tempting?

Breakdown swings his hammer at the spider, but the faceplate is blocked by sticky web. In a futile attempt to pull this filth off, the mech collapses to his knees. Your feet sink softly into the cold soil, and with each step, the angular figure of one idiot gets closer and closer, but you don't help him. A pitiful sight. An insect in a spider's web, hoverfly. Nothing but an impostor, trying to deceive beautiful bud with its appearance, to taste the nectar that should belong to you. Arachnida's leg drops sharply, cutting the vital wires and causing the mech to collapse forever. Then, with a single shot, you pierced a hole in spider's chest plates, causing her to fall dead as well. When the hot air left the ventilation grilles, leaving small clouds behind, the silence was broken only by the rustling of the trees. A smile appeared on your face.

Megatron looks at the severed head of fem with satisfaction at a job well done, while you try to avoid making optic contact with Knockout, as if he might know, as if he might sense what you've done. And then, your gazes meet after all, and you see… definitely not grief.

“It's a shame that no one else can clean tools so effectively now. Since you missed your chance, you'll now help me polish my back.” At the medic's words, your groin plates heat up, and you modestly lower your helmet, hiding a slight smile.

The device that was scanning your body just a moment ago flew into the wall, hitting the switch. You were both plunged into complete darkness, except for the green optics glowing in the dark like fire.

“Oh, really?” The edges of the iron bed creaked, as if the medic had squeezed them. “Oh, really?”

With one push to the chest, he knocks you onto your tailbone. How dare you talk to him like that? You've always been disrespectful, troublesome, and so vulgar. You deliberately tested his patience with those explicit jokes, that flirting. No, if that's what you want, for Primus sake, mech will give you what you crave. The base is empty anyway.

With his thumb and forefinger, Ratchet squeezed your calf, pulling it slightly to the side. The thick finger of his other hand unceremoniously pushed through all the fabric to slide along the folds of sensitive flesh between your legs, causing both a shudder in your lower limbs and a wave of shock. You try to kick in complete darkness to get out of his grip, but it's useless. Synthetic energon has made him not only more intolerant, but also stronger.

The medic leaned closer, illuminating your body with light. The scent of pheromones practically hit him in the face. The light from the emerald optics perfectly highlights all your facial features, full of surprise, as if you weren't trying to get him to do just that. Playing the angel? How silly.

The fabric comes off almost without difficulty; no doubt you could have dressed this way to make it easier for him to undress you. That's just like you, isn't it? Transformers can see in the dark, so it's no trouble for Ratchet to determine the great similarity in the structure of the valve between Earth and Cybertronian life forms. Fascinating.

The warm metal slides across damp skin, and thighs instinctively try to squeeze together, enveloping his finger. Having lost the ability to see surroundings, your body has heightened its tactile sensitivity, and now his touch... shouldn't you break free? The sliding over the most sensitive spot destroys your train of thought, leaving only emptiness in your head. Ratchet grumbles quite loudly, continuing to rub your clitoris with surgical precision, saying something about young people, about disrespect, God, what an old man...

It feels like there's a fire between your legs, the quick, forceful movements quickly bringing you to a peak, making your lower limbs tremble, and the first real loud moan escapes your lips. Your voice echoed off the walls of the base just as loudly. If anyone had been at the base, no one could have missed what you were just doing. Well, Ratchet finished teaching you a lesson, right?

There was a click and a short sound like movement. You can't see anything in the darkness, so you look up at the medic. His eyes aren't burning with fire, but with a real blaze, scorching you even without touching. Your gaze darts to the barely noticeable movement below to see... oh, well, they have private parts, and they definitely look human. If you can tell in such darkness.

You try to say something, at least that it won't fit, not at all, there's no chance.

“What are you babbling about, little? Where's your confidence? You're at the top, aren't you?”

Ratchet pressed your body against his hot spike, quickly and roughly rubbing your wet spot against his genitals as if you were a toy. The metal is so smooth, unlike the rough surface of their frames, where the paint has long since peeled off. The ridges and contours of his spike perfectly massage your labia and overexcited clitoris, your toes curl and a moan escapes your lips again.

The equally overexcited medic overloads treacherously quickly, flooding the bed with jets and releasing hot air from the ventilation grilles with relish, throwing his helmet back.

Optimus was lucky that you agreed after all. He was worried, he denied himself the desire to touch too intrusively, not wanting to appear perverted in either actions or words. He even denied himself his own thoughts, because it was unworthy, indecent, and… The soft, narrow walls of the human, his human, squeezed Prime's heated spike again, and he could barely hold back a loud moan.

Your eyelids tighten with every movement he makes. Even in displaced form, he is still huge, especially to you. When you try, try hard, to see his faceplate too, to see his facial expressions, his tight lips and frowned eyebrows, your eyelids close on their own from the waves of pleasure between your legs, from how sexually he makes something that sounds like a whimper with every centimeter he plunges into your warmth. He has prepared well, like a true gentleman, but sometimes something still stings slightly from the stretching. Your hair is slightly damp with sweat, and your bare stomach, armpits, and thighs are also covered with droplets. Optimus brushes a wet strand of hair from your forehead. Beautiful. How good you look naked…You would look beautiful carrying his child. His sparklings.

Smoke poured out of the exhaust pipes on his back, the fingers holding your soft thighs dug into your flesh a little roughly, and Optimus himself honked for a split second, scaring you. How delightful it is that your pussy tightens around his metal in fear… He will stroke your shoulders, apologize, and push one last time, bumping the sharp tip of his spike against your cervix. Oh, here it is. The place that can stretch in an amazing human way, accommodating new life. With each of his own thoughts, he slowly slips out and pushes back in, not too sharply. The walls are perfectly smooth, enveloping, almost sucking him in, and the whimpering from the vocalizer comes again, louder than before. Oh, he's so pathetic.

Your touch woke him from his thoughts. Soft but cool (why are your limbs always so cold?), palms pressed against his cheeks, your thumbs sliding over the metal, comforting and soothing him.

“You know, we both need to get high so that…”

So he could fill you. You don't finish the thought, but Prime mentally completes it for you. He needs to fill you with his transfluid, he needs to push you to the limit so that your body is ready to joyfully accept a part of him and create new life. It could work, right?

He throws your legs over his shoulders, bending you in half and making you gasp. Moving closer, he graciously kisses your belly, then quickens his thrusts, simultaneously scooping up your natural lubrication with his flat finger and swirling it over clitoris with pressure. The room is filled with the sound of his thighs slapping against yours, your legs trembling with pleasure and thrusts, back arching, and unlike Optimus, you don't hold back your moans.

The Autobot resembles a rag, a pitiful version of himself, as his knees buckle and his thrusts become more chaotic. All that remains for him is to enjoy your wet appearance, your moans, your sliding and bouncing on the surface from the thrusts, your softness sliding along his length, so alluring and mesmerizing to him.

He whines like a wounded cyberfox, not wanting to end, not wanting to ever disconnect from you, to face the cold space again. Only you, your warmth, your soft and peaceful world, your pussy, your rounded belly…

The sound of his revving engine echoes even in the hallway, but he can't stop it, can't focus. Let them forgive him, him and his thoughts. You, Autobots, Matrix, Primus, himself, he needs—

Throwing his helmet to the ceiling, he exhales hoarsely with a groan as he reboots, and judging by the contraction of the walls again, you too. His hot liquid fills the womb again and again, creating a small bump in the lower abdomen from the amount of transfluid.

Yandere who want Megatron to see them, only them, and therefore do not admire him 24/7, although their hearts skip a beat when the Lord casts his gaze upon them. They know that the fate of those Decepticons who have always tried to impress and gain recognition from the Lord is sad. So do, don't talk.

Known as the only Decepticon capable of standing shoulder to shoulder with Soundwave in terms of competence and loyalty to Megatron. This often causes the blue mech to feel tense when you are behind him.

A reader who goes crazy with happiness while in Lord's compartment, inhaling the scent of their beloved leader that surrounds them everywhere. A yandere reader who loses their mind and gets overwhelmed by rubbing against Megatron's thigh. Reloading with such force that their whole body shakes.

A yandere reader who didn't say a word when Megatron changed sides and turned away from the Decepticons. Following their beloved to the very end.

A Yandere reader who would never dare to correct or reprimand Starscream in front of his subordinates, would never support their jokes, and would never finish off those bastards who laugh at him, just because they are important to the Seeker.

A reader who admires the seeker's ability to think three steps ahead, tickling his ego, flattering his intellect. They already know all his victories, know his achievements, all the best tactics and strategies, but how can they not listen to his stories? He is so perfect when he admires himself.

Feeling the need to eliminate any competitors, to eliminate those who tried to ruin their beloved's reputation. To use rumors, to frame them, to create mistakes for them so that they don't get away with just a reprimand. They have no place among the Decepticons if they are unable to see the main value of the whole thing.

Yandere reader who is fascinated by Thundercracker's sensuality and doubts. Who stays close to him in quiet moments, leaning against the wall and listening to his soft voice. His nostalgic stories under the influence of high-grade energon, and thoughts about the meaning of everything that is happening.

The reader sees how exhaustion has caused Thunder to fall asleep at his workplace and sits down to finish writing his reports for him, covering him with a blanket made of the highest quality material available on Nemesis.

They knows about the blue mech's little pet and has already learned everything possible about dog care. Of course, no one will find out. This will go with you to your grave. Together, you will sit on the grass of Earth and take turns throwing a ball to the charming creature. During that evening, something changed in Thunder's gaze toward you.

A yandere reader who picks up on Skywarp's vibe and doesn't get upset. Listens as he rattles off a monologue about his day, jumping from topic to topic like a hyperactive kid. As he jokes and almost rolls on the floor laughing, the reader chuckles too.

A yandere reader who is so eagerly awaiting the unexpected appearance of the purple seeker that they have already learned how the surroundings crackle slightly a second before the mech teleports behind. Who falls for the jokes of the Chaos, but still smiles and laughs at each of his pranks.

A yandere reader who is twisted in half in the seekers' shared bedroom while they fuck them in a circle and almost fight in an attempt to jump the queue and be next.

A devoted reader who keeps all the information about the beloved Soundwave in the most private and secret folder. Photographs from behind, photographs of him during combat, while sleeping, even while eating. Of course, the reader knows about the cute, charming face behind this mask. Their beloved is perfect at spying and finding compromising information, so they have to live up to him.

The reader who collected and still keeps a collection of figurines, flags, and posters from the Gladiator Arena, or fell in love with him even before Soundwave and Megatron met. And why is he so loyal to Lord? You noticed and appreciated him even before he was able to control his telepathy, it's so unfair!

A yandere reader who found a way to occupy and calm down two cassette robots, causing all the Decepticons to breathe a sigh of relief for a couple of hours.

The one who has sweets and treats for each Soundwave cassette and always calmly responds to the boys' desire to hang on their arms out of boredom, or to Laserbeak, Buzzsaw, and Ratbat, who have settled on their shoulders or heads, playfully pinching the tips of their helmets or ears.

The yandere reader, who is left alone with Soundwave, kneels and swallows his spike, massaging the basis at the same time. Trying to relax their beloved after a long day of overtime without a break, they convince them to lie down and take a little nap.

Yandere reader, silently supporting every experiment, even the most cruel ones, conducted by Shockwave. Standing nearby, ready to hand any tool to the terrible butcher, who in their eyes is a genius, a surgeon capable of creating new life from nothing, like God.

A reader who remained on Cybertron in favor of being close to the true mind of the Decepticons, to witness discoveries, autopsies, injections, and the latest developments, with a gleam in his eyes.

Yandere, who, upon learning of Shockwave's disappearance and being declared dead, almost immediately set out to search for him alone, feeling, knowing that his spark was still pulsing somewhere out there, that he might be in danger, that the entire future of Cybertron might be in danger without him.

The reader who found his beloved, announcing that he was alive and well, who knows that Starscream is to blame for Shockwave being declared missing without a proper search, but has no proof. Who wants to tear the seeker to pieces for framing Shockwave, trying to kill him, but was not given the right to kill that creature.

The reader, who is overwhelmed by Shockwave's request to obtain their transfluid for him so that he has enough genetic material for new developments. Perhaps he will be able to recreate the Predacons on his own. He says like their help is worthless, but how can they pay attention to that when the beloved is about to combine their material with his mind? Can the reader consider their children to be common with the scientist?

A yandere reader who sees how hard Astrotrain works, how he gives his all and keeps quiet about his needs, sees how much potential there is in such a wonderful soldier and how little he gets.

A reader who doesn't judge when Astrotrain breaks down again because of hunger, doesn't react when he snaps back. They stay close when he needs to let off steam and give him part of their rations. He needs it more.

Yandere, who begins to control the supply of energon, all energy expenditures, excessive feasts, and medical expenses that can wait, and cuts them back. They optimize everything so well that the mech is one of the first to receive the coveted cubes of blue/pink liquid in their servos.

The reader, next to whom Astrotrain feels his irritation finally recede. Without whom he feels emptiness in his frame, not from hunger, or rather, not from ordinary. Without whom Astrotrain will survive physically, but will no longer be able to satisfy his moral hunger.