Vines that veil the View

You had expected the punishment for having tried, and mainly succeeded, to flirt and seduce the captains of the Lost Light. Well, one was easier than the other, but you also adore a good challenge when presented one. Rodimus had agreed the moment you mentioned interfacing. Megatron, however, took a bit more to get his processor wrapped around the idea of you offering, and when he did? He started to question his own morality.

Rodimus is always down for whenever and wherever you start. Running your digits along his sleek frame to get his attention, digging into the seams of his waists to tease the protoform beneath with the tips. He is truly down for whatever too – whether it’s you or him servicing the other or a joint effort.

His glossa drags across your frame, wrapping around cables by your neck and sucking them into his mouth to earn himself a moany gasp. He doesn’t mean to tease, but he just can’t help himself. He knows you need to be quick, but the way you sound under his servos is just as enjoyable to his audials as it is to his array.

Taking a seat on his own desk, you quickly find just how much he’s been looking forwards to your next visit – panel hot to the touch before retracting while hooking his legs around your waist to get the party started. Guiding you and using his thighs to keep you moving, moaning as his callipers squeeze tight and keep you right where he wants you to stay. Rutting into him with shallow thrusts, chasing a release just as much as he is.

With your back to the wall, Megatron takes his time to get you worked up before he ever even tells you if he has accepted your offer or not. Digits rubbing in perfect circles over your sensitive node, others going in to open and caress your walls as you clench to try and pull him further towards the bundles of nerves that make you squirm. Being a mech not up for experimenting much, he sure does know his way around your interface array as if he has been studying it for fun.

When he finally frees his spike and lets you whine at the stretch he provides, the pace quickly becomes desperate as he insistently pounds into you. And yet, even with the rough treatment of your insides, there’s a gentleness to his derma as he plants gentle kisses on your collarbone and neck, working up to your jaw and to your audials. Wherever he can reach comfortably, bending you further below his towering frame and angling himself so segments of his spike cause friction to your twitching anterior node. He has done this before, you’re certain of it – but ain’t no way you’re about to complain!

Your so-called punishment? Two more got added to your roster.

Ultra Magnus is very straight to the point. You both love and hate him for this. Pushing you down over the nearest surface, keeping you there with a heavy hand on your back as he starts to palm at your panel. Well, you did offer, so how surprised can you truly be when he hilts against your gestation tank on his first harsh thrust in? He may be big, but he drags wonderfully along your tender nerves, throbbing eagerly around his spike as he sets a remarkably calm pace.

Always, and that is a very clear always, you have to work yourself up before even seeing him. If he agrees, there’s basically zero prep from his side. If he doesn’t, at least you know Rodimus will appreciate the effort.

Drift? Ohh, Drift. Reminds you of Rodimus often, though he is a tad softer, you have to give him that. Placing a whole lot of care into smothering you in soft pecks before they turn determined and seek your intake, kindly waiting to be welcomed in to taste you more. Carefully making sure you’re ready for the endeavour of riding his spike to a point you can rightfully call it teasing.

Lubricants run down your inner thighs as you line yourself and take Drift the entire way, easily so considering the generous overload he already provided with his glossa. He’s staring at you half-lidded and full of love as you start to bounce, grinding down in rough circles to truly feel every biolight he has to his name every once in a while. Never once does he stop covering you in kisses, servos kind to your heated plating.

Prowl never offers. It’s something you learn very quickly about him. If he is in the mood, he will find a good opportunity to either bend you over the nearest surface or shove you into a corner he knows no prying eyes will see you two in. He is truly not the type to communicate about what he wants from you, settling for leading your servos nonverbally instead of using his words.

And that was just how he’d done this too. Taken you by the wrist and dragged you across half the ship until he found a place he was satisfied with – shoving you up against the wall, a quick open-mouthed kiss to your cheek, and then he went down on his knees between your legs.

Placing a gentle kiss to your modesty panel, looking up at you with wider and far more pleading optics than you have ever seen on him and you sigh. Lips gracing over the sensitive panel as his servos rub at your knees encouragingly.

You have a question on your glossa, but know better than to ask it. Everything he’ll answer is said in the way his optics stay on yours, permission requested in them. How could you deny him?

Moving his helm back by the forehead to not hit him even if that did seem like his wished outcome, you free your half-pressurized spike. Shivering with the cold air of the room, you rub one of his sharp chevron between two digits.

“What has gotten you so worked up?” You try and laugh but you’re already breathless. He seems to do that to you.

Prowl gives a few light strokes up your length as he leans into your touch. Not answering you with words but instead makes a show out of wetting his derma and bringing them to your spike. You can’t help but stare down at him, enamoured by the gentleness he seems to only bring out around you. That often makes you laugh – to see the way his mood changes like a switch flicked the moment you enter his sight even if he has just spent the past 20 minutes scolding someone.

With a squeeze to your thigh, it’s with ease that he takes you down his throat. Glossa dragging along the underside firmly just the way you like, and he knows he is doing it well by the way you have to bite your lip to not give out the neediest moans possible.

You move to hold the back of his helm. Not to urge or not to force him quicker – hell, he’s already going quicker than you believe yourself capable of keeping up with, charge building far too quickly to keep quiet – but more so to ground yourself with the familiar ridges and seams your digits run across.

He sets a rhythm that has you panting, fingers shaking so much they’re tapping against him. Doing everything possible to not have him lose motivation or break the pace he has set. Swallowing harshly around you to make you yelp, arching your back into his retrieving mouth. He doesn’t want to be caught, would rather keep you only to himself no matter how selfish that makes him sound, but he also can’t help breaking out all his little tricks to get you to unravel completely every chance he gets.

Making eye-contact with him is the worst idea you could have ever gotten. Open-mouthed, he drags his tongue the entire length of your throbbing spike. Wrapping it in lubricant and mixing it with the prefluid you’re generously producing.

Sucking on the head alone and your legs are about to give out under you – and he quickens to hopefully bring you over the edge before you collapse. Relaxing fully to wrap around you, letting his tongue do the work as it plays with the rim of your head.