#reader imagine

💘 bsf!reader's first time visiting Michael in California | so fluffy omg, nothing explicit but the 🥂 point is mildly suggestive

He can’t stand the way you look with your lips stretched taut around his spike, the head bumping up against the roof of your mouth. You’ve barely taken him and yet he’s rippling with excess charge.

You look beautiful like this. Really, Bulkhead thinks you look beautiful everyday, but especially like this. His spike is far too large for your mouth and, for some reason, that does something for him. He's always been afraid of hurting other mechs, preferring to use his valve with his Cybertronian partners, but your organic lips are so... Stretchy. You're so eager to use them.

He knows he should be more careful, more cautious about hurting you, but when you ask for him to let his spike pressurize... He's horrible at saying no.

So maybe it's his punishment that you haven't let him overload. Despite his whining and moaning, wriggling and bucking, you keep a steady, slow pace with your hands and only plant delicate, teasing kisses to the tip. Bulkhead desperately needs to overload, needs it more than he's needed anything in his lifecycle, but he knows he shouldn't disobey you. Primus forbid you take serious offense. You might not let him overload again for a month.

"Please, sweetspark, need it-" Bulkhead tries to keep his hips still, your tough tempting him to thrust up into you hands. He stays still, though, he stays good, "Need you, please."

You've denied him for the better part of an hour, working him up slow and careful to the very edge just to deny him every time. Either you stop moving your hands or pull your curious mouth away, leaving his spike to throb and dribble in the open air against his stomach plating. His pedes kick at his berth as you pull away for the millionth time, leaving his weeping spike painfully pressurized. Bulkhead's servos clench at the tarp he uses as bedding, trying to fight off the urge to paw at his own array.

"I don't know," You draw out your words, "You look pretty cute like this. Maybe I don't want to make you overload."

Bulkhead whines at your words, tossing his helm back against the wall in frustration. You could be a real pain when you wanted to. You laugh lightly at his obvious agony, adding salt to his metaphorical wound. He bucks into your hands when they return to his spike, but he almost wails knowing that you're only touching his spike to keep him on this edge.

"Aright, alright," You smile up at him, coy and sweet, something obviously devious in your expression, "I'll let you overload, big guy."

He chants your name and a series of 'please's as you start a rough, frantic pace with your hands, working him up quicker than you have all evening. Bulkhead's helm rests against the wall as he watches you watching him: your small hands and soft frame, smiling mouth, bright human optics. You're so beautiful and your skin so smooth.

He overloads with a shout, vocalizer crackling with static before a moan of your name breaks through. Bulkhead's hips pump up into your hands, chasing after the euphoric high of his overload and riding out wave after wave of charge, until he collapses slack into his berth.

But you don't stop.

Even after the last dribbles of transfluid leak form his spikehead, your hands keep moving over the slick metal. Bulkhead winces and reaches down with a single careful digit to stop your arm, but you just shrug him off. Bulkhead's optics brighten in growing alarm as he looks back into your face.

I LOVE MALE READER INSERTS ARRRGHH GRRRRGH BARKBARKBARK

Your frame is built stronger; beautiful in a way few are. He at once loathes the way the light gleams off your paint, beckoning optics to your body, and can't keep himself from staring. A frame he knows intimately; better than his own. You're no good. A face too pretty, too handsome, for someone like you who simply abuses it to get what you want.

Too many nights he's awoken to running fans and a pressurized spike, the feeling of your derma on his body so real. You know you're beautiful and that makes you infinitely harder to deal with. Among mechs, you draw optics to you all the time. Many would crawl across rusty nails to get to kiss your pedes. Prowl isn't one of them. He will never be one of them.

And yet somehow you always get him like this.

"Something wrong, officer?" Your wet valve grinds down on his spike, the fat head of it peeking out from between your plush platelets every time you rut forward. You're dribbling so much warm lubricant over his length, spike jutting out over your valve and obscuring the sight of his own spike between your valve lips. His servos stay braced on your hip armor, ready to throw you off like he knows he should. He knows he should. Prowl, instead, bucks up and the head of his spike slides harshly over your anterior node. That draws a gasp from you, your optics fuzzing over with static for a moment as they drop to half-dim.

You're heavier than you look and pressing his backplates into the rough cargo crate in a way that he'll be feeling later. Prowl can't seem to feel the pain over his spike nestled against your soft, warm array.

And, Primus, are you a sight. Enough to distract him from his aching frame. You're aready so debauched; a wanton pleasure drone. The thought makes heat singe his cheeks. He wishes you were just a pleasure drone. Anything would be better than this. Who could judge an overworked officer from visiting a mech that's made for sexual service? Who would hold him to account for letting pleasure mix with his work? Prowl would be inside you everyday if you were just some shareware off the street.

Of all the mechs and femmes, he had to want you.

This won't end well. If the two of you don't tear each other apart during your run-ins, Prowl will end up discharged or you'll end up in a prison cell somewhere.

He's got you dead to rights. He has the evidence of your arms smuggling, evidence of your connections to that small terrorist group out of Kaon, and the cuffs sitting heavy in his subspace. Prowl could save himself and end this now. He should end this now.

He wraps a servo around your neck cables and pulls you down against his front, pressing your face into his shoulder as he ruts up between your platelets and against your node. You moan prettily in his audial, servos clenching into fists upon his chestplate, rolling your hips against him in kind. Frag it all. Even with his advanced tacnet, Prowl is still just a mech. His spikehead slides over your node over and over, until his spike pops out from under your valve to frot against your dripping spike.

You chase your overloads with a harried pace; using each other's overcharged frames to create a feedback loop. What Prowl wouldnt give to drag you back to his place and having you held down the rest of the night, so long as he could keep your beautiful frame pressed to his.

Your hands are so soft and novel; like those little expensive miniatures that were popular among Towers mechs for a time. He sees the appeal. Especially when they work down his frame, digits dipping under the seams of his modesty panel. He lets you work for it, only barely able to graze his 'equipment' under the panel for a few minutes as you coo at him to open up. How could he possibly reject his conjunx?

You place a tender kiss upon the tip of his spike, both hands working over the shaft of his spike hurriedly. Your entire focus is on his face, peering up at him with those glossy, wet human eyes. That's something he's learned to appreciate about your organics species: you're all so slick and soft. He can see himself reflected in your organic optics; the dark pupil a murky, black mirror.

He could almost laugh. At one point, the idea of a human touching him would have made his tank churn with half-converted energon rising in his intake. Now he can't look at you without feeling warmth stir in his spark and behind his modesty panel. You always seem to know when it does, too. Smart human digits digging into hidden seams, that only you could reach, at the barest hint of charge in his frame. How he ever managed to resist your magnetic pull evades him.

Power and war has corrupted Scorponok's mind, his frame built for battle and savagery, but under your soft organic servos he almost feels remade. A new mech. Just one of many sensations he thought were long buried in his spark. Even the charge that builds in his frame is new, your body and mind oozing an eroticism that Scorponok has never seen in any mech.

Your servos can barely encompass his spike, but it hardly matters to him. He lets his EM field linger with your own meager field and focuses all his attention on how your delicate fingers feel sliding over the segmented metal. You move as briskly as you can manage, your arms straining to keep up, but you watch him with anticipation written all over your face. His lascivious little fairy.

Were he a cruel young soldier again he might use the entirety of your body to reach overload; press you to his spike and self service like you're a crude frag toy. But he's not that Scorponok anymore. No, Megatron is gone and the Decepticon forces have scattered across the cosmos. Disbanded in any official capacity and fragmented among the stars. He's certainly still cruel, still cunning and mean, but Scorponok can't find it in him to be as malicious as he once was. Especially not with you.

cuck megatron??? cuck????

tw: *touches ur face* cunt used but its not meant to be gendered this is smut

His servos are sharp and taloned, pressing into your thin metal with greedy intent. Your armor is decorative, little more than an ornament for Megatron's viewing pleasure, and it does nothing to ease the sharp sting of Deadlock's too tight grip.

He's a predator through and through, leering at you over your back.

Deadlock ruts into your cunt with animalistic fervor, using the grip on your hips to slam you back with every thrust forward. Treating you as little more than a spikesleeve. You lift your head from between your arms to look up at your conjunx on his throne, optics glazed over and smiling mouth open to vent harshly. Your frame can't expel heat as fast as it builds, fans working to ventilate cool air through your system.

Deadlock's knot mod catches on the rim of your valve with every thrust forward, a preview of what he intends. What Megatron commanded of him.

He forces his knot passed the tight seal of your calipers, locking you in place on his spike as he pumps you full of transfluid. A high, needy, wanton squeal leaves your vocalizer, broken by stutters of static. Deadlock floods you with heat low in your chassis, settling deep into your open forge. You shuffle on your knees, cheek pressing down into the cool floor. Too tired to move.

You lift your helm from between your arms to look up at your lord, your conjunx, to meet his intense gaze; optics trained on you with predatory heat and satisfaction. A smugness that radiates from him in everything he does.

"Deadlock," Megatron calls upon the mech still knotted in you the way he would call upon his most loyal knight, "When your mod deflates, I want you to do it again. Don't be afraid to get rough."

Deadlocks claws flex into your hip armor, his chassis coming down to press flush to your back.