#cunnulingus

I love my thoughts interrupting each other with answers, onto the post;

Megatron and swerve hit it off, idk, I just think with enough time and swerve talking metallurgy, maybe even accidently doing a "it's superstition that sometimes certain lines on a protoform mean certain things, who knows if I see yours I could tell you about it", and all of a sudden Megatron can't get enough.

Not just about swerve, just his voice. Megatron has a voice link now apparently, and swerve does it for him, something about the enthusiasm, or maybe even how swerve and Megatron opened up to each other and thoughts of "I wonder if he can go faster" gets to "I can make him louder", and now Megatron is listening oh so intently about something Swerve is interested in while also eating his valve out and Swerve needs to keep talking or else Megatron stops to ask a question or about what's wrong and basically edging him (he knows what he's doing).

What I'm saying is at one point its all coherent babble but its still so nice and swerve overloads right into Megatron's mouth.

I seek the sacred delta where life's crimson river sails.

The air is dense with moonlit musk, a fertile, salted breath,

As I descend the moss-soft slope to where all currents gather strength.

I trace the pulse of hidden tides to shores that swell and weep,

Where secrets bloom in petaled folds where starless oceans sleep.

There, a spring of honeyed twilight flows, a slow, magnetic rise,

Casting over trembling senses a covenant of sighs.

With hands like whispered vespers, I part the dew-slick fern,

To find the altar’s chalice where eternal embers burn.

My mouth becomes a pilgrim where the nectar-waters start

Drinking from the crescent source that quickens blood and heart.

I linger where the cliffs of pearl embrace the tidal core,

Where salt and wild orchid clash, then fuse forevermore.

My tongue maps sacred geography, each cavern, ridge, and shore,

Surrendering to the lunar pull that begs me to explore.

The grove exhales in rhythms, a low, creation-sound,

As I drown in liquid moonlight on this hallowed, holy ground.

In the temple of this crimson bloom, where genesis extends,

I taste the world’s first waters, where the voyage meets its end.

A tremor builds where moonlight pools bright lightning roots descend

Until the tidal core ignites, and cliffs of pearl contend.

Then suddenly the world dissolves: a supernova’s art

Unspools the constellations from my shuddering, spent heart.

The honeyed font becomes a flood; the chalice overflows,

As silver currents claim the shore where every secret grows.

I shatter like a star-shelled thing on waves that know no end,

While the temple’s crimson petals pulse where heaven’s storms descend.

In the afterglow of genesis, where broken rhythms mend,