minorisato

[minorisato]

no repose, kick me when i'm down

transformers / tarnstreaker / wc: 520 / warnings: NSFT, ball kicking, degradation / notes: written for kinktober day 28, "dehumanization." / consider commissioning me!

"Stay still," Sunstreaker commands, "stools don't move around this much."

Tarn lets out a low whine, spinal strut shaking as Sunstreaker digs his heels into it. Tarn had made the honestly rather simple mistake of telling Sunstreaker he wanted to be useful (in a sexual way,) and Sunstreaker had smiled, saying he had a great idea. Now, as Sunstreaker reclined in Tarn's fucking chair, pedes kicked up on the leader's back, Tarn essentially acting as an ottoman, Tarn was almost regretting it.

Only almost. "Sorry," he apologizes, arm struts straining to hold him up. The humiliation burns, but he's being useful, and those two things work in tandem to just raise his charge.

Sunstreaker huffs. "They don't talk, either." He pauses. "They also don't have spikes, but I'll let you get away with that." And then he moves a pede to nudge Tarn's pressurized spike, leaking a steady stream of prefluid onto the tiling of the ship's floor. Tarn lets out a whine, feeling his spike twitch. "If you're really good, I might even let you overload."

Tarn exvents heavily, letting out a small whine. Though, doesn't it sound a little muffled? Like he's biting his lip plating?

"Tarn, lift your helm," Sunstreaker instructs, leaning forward to grab the larger mech by his chin, tilting Tarn's helm up and carefully placing a servo over Tarn's mask.

"Sunstreaker," Tarn begs, "Sunstreaker, please."

"Hush," Sunstreaker spits, carefully unlatching Tarn's mask from his faceplates, disengaging the magnets normally keeping it in place. "I wanna see your faceplates."

Tarn keeps his helm held up, tilted to look at the gold mech as his mask is lifted away. He is biting his lip plating, clearly attempting to muffle himself and stay quiet, to be good, to be functional furniture, but whines keep slipping through. Coolant wells in his optics, dripping out mere drops at a time, like the lubricant from his spike. His optics stare up at Sunstreaker, sparking with charge. He's pathetic, like this.

Sunstreaker clicks his glossa. "Stop biting yourself," he commands, and Tarn follows the instruction immediately, panting. "You should be able to control yourself without trying so hard." His optics glance over Tarn for a moment. "Go on, apologize."

"I'm sorry," Tarn lets out, just barely audible.

Then, suddenly, Sunstreaker moves a pede to kick Tarn's spike, hard, and Tarn screams, caught off guard and already so sensitive, his helm snapping back down and arm struts giving out, dropping him to the ground, out of Sunstreaker's grasp. He curls in on himself a bit, venting hard, as above him Sunstreaker sighs, exasperated. The pede still on Tarn's spinal strut lifts up momentarily before slamming down again, and all of the air in Tarn's respirators leaves him in one large wheeze.

"Awful," Sunstreaker sighs. "Awful. Some fucking leader," he smirks. "You can't even be furniture right."

"I'm sorry," Tarn gasps, "I'm sorry- I can, I can do it, I can be g-good. I can try again."

Sunstreaker huffs in what is almost a chuckle. "We will try again," he states. "We'll keep trying again and again until you can do it right."

[minorisato]

even supposing there was a detour, even if it had no guideposts

transformers / grimop / wc: 762 / warnings: NSFT, dubcon / notes: written for kinktober day 27, "size difference." tfa s3, post-"predacons rising." / consider commissioning me!

Optimus will never not be bitter, because this whole thing was distinctly not his idea, it was Prowl's. The whole thing has caused more issues than it's solved, and really Optimus wants nothing to do with any of it, but Prowl is off doing something or other, and there's a series of distress signals coming from Dinobot island, so by way of being the fucking Prime in the room it is now Optimus' responsibility to deal with it.

Cutting down vines as needed with his axe, he steadily makes his way to the coordinates Ratchet had given him. As he gets closer, he can hear the sounds of a Dinobot groaning and growling, letting out huffs and whimpers. Quirking an optical ridge, Optimus approaches a clearing where Grimlock seems to have planted himself. Steam is pouring from his olfactors with each huff, still in dino-mode, collapsed on himself. "Grimlock?" Optimus asks quietly, carefully approaching the Dinobot so as to not startle him, or provoke a reaction.

It only sort of works. Though he's noticeably less energized than usual, he does force himself up, stomping and turning to see Optimus. Steam continues to exvent from his olfactors as he does. "Puny Autobot," Grimlock greets Optimus, though it almost sounds more like an announcement. He's here, guys. Puny Autobot is here.

"Hello Grimlock," Optimus responds, sighing exasperatedly. He chooses to cut to the point and spare himself the stress of being here. "We received a multitudes of distress signals from these coordinates. I was-"

"Distress?" Grimlock cuts him off, stomping closer so that he's face-to-face with the Prime, leaning down so his snout is level with Optimus' faceplates. "Me Grimlock not distressed! Grimlock can handle it by self. No need puny Autobot help."

Optimus feels an optic twitch. "I really, really doubt that," he deadpans, quielty. "What's even the matter?" He holsters his axe, putting his servos up in a show of no harm. "I'll let you deal with it, sure, but at least tell me- what are you doing."

What it appears that Grimlock is doing is smelling Optimus, his snout poking out, a bit too close to the Prime, inventing in short, quick sniffs. "Maybe Autobot can help," he rumbles, stepping back in order to transform.

"Grimlock, what's going o- hey!" Optimus shouts, as the mech suddenly yanks him closer so that the Prime is pressed to the larger mech's chassis. With Grimlock being down like he is (still fucking sniffing Optimus,) they're practically level with each other. Being pressed to him like this, Optimus can suddenly feel just how warm Grimlock is, his plating almost burning to touch. "Grimlock, you're... you're overheating."

"Grimlock too warm," the Dinobot exvents, servos trailing over Optimus' chassis, down to his waist, and then down past his codpiece to rest on his thighs. Optimus shudders at the feeling- he's being so gentle. Uncharacteristically so. He doesn't stop Grimlock from touching him- he doesn't want to, not if he's going to be this sweet about it. "Optimus... help."

Optimus resets his vocals as Grimlock adjusts, sitting on the ground of the clearing, and uses his grip on Optimus' thighs to raise the Prime's legs up, pressing them to his own chassis. Hurriedly, Optimus wraps an arm around the back of Grimlock's throat cabling, so that he doesn't fall. Grimlock has him, sure, but better safe than sorry. Still, though, Optimus doesn't want to stop him. "Are you really just charged up?" Optimus asks, attempting to sound frustrated or disappointed, though it doesn't seem like either of those feelings really make it through. "Is that why you kept barraging us with distress signals?"

"Wasn't on purpose," Grimlock lets out, a bit pathetically, as his array paneling slides back and suddenly Optimus is staring down at Dinobot spike and fucking, by the Allspark.

"Grimlock," Optimus starts, resetting his optics just to make sure he saw it correctly. "Grimlock, that's not going to fit."

Grimlock seems to hesitate, to consider this for a second, before grinding the appendage up against Optimus' still-closed codpiece, causing the Prime to invent suddenly. "Puny Autobot not that puny," Grimlock figures, continuing the action.

Being "puny" has nothing to do with it, it's definitely too big, Optimus wants to say, but all his vocalizer can spit out is shuddering moans, pants, and static. "Grimlock," he can just barely say, "Grimlock-"

"Optimus needs to open," Grimlock grumbles, burying his helm into said mech's throat cabling.

Fuck it, Optimus decides, and does open his valve cover. So much for him being sweet and gentle, but fuck it.

[minorisato]

i fake my way through this ever-lengthening day

transformers / minimegs / wc: 734 / warnings: NSFT / notes: written for kinktober day 26, "heat/rut" / consider commissioning me!

This is a problem for a number of reasons. First and foremost, he would be missing work. Second, he would be missing work to jack off, and really he should just be able to control himself better than that. He can control himself better than that, even. Which is why he's going to work.

It shouldn't be difficult, really. If he stays in his office, sorting through datapads, it should be easy enough to distract himself from the growing problem behind his panels, the rumbling and steadily growing heat in his tanks. Focus on work. Just focus on work.

He really tries. He actually, really, genuinely tries to focus on his work. In the very least, what distracts him is not the oncoming rut that he's desperately trying to ignore, but rather the sound of intense ruckus and clamour from the outside of his office door. It should be simple shift change, this should not be difficult, but once yelling starts, Minimus groans. He practically slams down the datapad he'd been working on, sliding out of his seat and stomping out, throwing open the door to see-

"What are you two doing?"

Megatron and Rodimus are both on the bridge, and Megatron's servos are raised defensively, while Rodimus is grabbing at one of his arms. Minimus, with the threat of his rut looming over him and most certaintly effecting his mood, stomps over, physically grabbing Rodimus' arm, yanking his servo away from Megatron. The co-captain stumbles, stepping back, away from the silver mech.

"There was an altercation," Megatron tells Minimus, clearly frustrated yet trying to sound calm.

"I have a few kliks left," Rodimus pouts. "Fuck off until it's actually your turn."

"I am relieving you early," Megatron enunciates, as though this is the umpteenth time he's said that exact sentence.

Rodimus' optics twitch. "Why don't you relieve my-"

"Okay, both of you, stop!" Minimus yells over them, actually stepping between the two. He's scowling as he looks back and forth between them, optical ridges furrowed. "You two are the captains in charge of every mech aboard this ship and you are both acting like- like sparklings!" His hands ball into fists at his sides. "I do not care who started this, but both of you should know better than to let it come to shouting." He turns to Rodimus. "Much less putting your servos on your coworker."

Rodimus' optical ridges furrow as he frowns. "But he-"

"I do not care," Minimus repeats, stern. He can feel his frame heating up, and he's not certain if it's out of anger or because of the rut. It could be both. "Shift change is over. I'll handle both of your time clocks. Rodimus, go to your hab."

"But I-!"

"Rodimus," Minimus repeats through grit dentae, "go to your hab."

And then he turns around, stomping back to his office, because he still has work to do.

~~~~

A bit later, after Minimus has managed to cool down (only in the sense that he is no longer furious- his frame is still boiling and he wants to die,) there's a tapping at the office door, like someone was trying to gently knock and failed. The door opens for anyone, no access code, so he's not certain who it could be. He resets his vocals, hoping to get rid of most of the static which is inevitably underlying his words. "Come in."

The door slides open to reveal Megatron, appearing almost sheepish on the other side. "Minimus," he greets, bowing his head slightly.

"Captain," Minimus responds in turn. He doesn't look up from the datapad for long, merely glancing up at the silver mech before returning to his work. "Is there an issue?"

"No, no issues," Megatron starts, and he's using his polite I'm-a-good-guy-now voice. "I don't intend to interrupt, but you seemed... especially on-edge earlier," he explains. "Me and Rodimus were most definitely not behaving as captains out to, and I do apologize for that. But it seemed like something else was bothering you, and as your captain, I wanted to know if there's anything I could do to help."

Minimus feels himself feels himself cringe slightly, glancing up to see Megatron's concerned expression, before turning back down to his datapad. It's hard to focus on reading like this, as if it wasn't hard enough to focus without the brain fog of rut, having Megatron talking to him- in fact, Megatron's mere presence, almost- seems to make it harder. "I do appreciate your concern," Minimus starts, and then instantly resets his vocals because wow that was a lot of static, "but I really need to get back to my work."

Megatron hesitates for a moment, "Yes, I can see you're very busy." He pauses. "So busy, in fact, that you look extremely stressed and in need of a break."

Minimus' optics widen, and he looks up at Megatron in a bit of surprise, almost disbelief. He takes a deep vent. "What makes you say that, sir?"

Again, Megatron hesitates, and now, looking at him like this, Minimus can see how nervous he appears, how worried he appears. Minimus' processor takes that, that he's worried about me, and runs with it, and it makes Minimus feel something and his plating is expanding to expel heat and he's crossing his legs. "You just seem stressed," Megatron says after a moment.

Minimus responds curtly. "Nonsense. Everything is fine." He resets his vocals again. It's not working.

"Minimus," Megatron starts, sounding so kind, so polite, taking a step forward. "I'm worried about you. As your captain, yes, but also as your friend." There's most definitely no way that Megatron hasn't noticed the burning practically radiating from Minimus, yet still, he's being polite. "I want to help you."

Minimus exvents heavily. Gently as he can, he sets down the datapad and his stylus, and he clasps his servos together, placing them down on his desk. He resets his optics, looking up at Megatron. "Captain," he vents, "how much do you know about beastformers?"

~~~~

"M-Minimus," Megatron moans, faceplates planted into the green mech's desk. His servos grasp at the opposite edge, trying to hold himself steady as Minimus slams his spike in and out of the larger mech's valve. "Minimus, oh, Primus."

"So good," Minimus sighs, looking down at his captain's valve as his spike disappears inside of it- even with his knot, their size difference allows it to be sucked inside greedily, as though Megatron's frame is begging for more, for the rough treatment Minimus is giving him. And it is rough- rough for Minimus, at least, with a servo keeping Megatron's helm down, shoved into the desk, among datapads and stylus'. His other servo is keeping a grip on Megatron's hips, yanking the silver mech back to meet each thrust. "Feels so good," Minimus pants. "Needed it. Needed you."

"Primus alive," Megatron exvents. His valve cycles weakly, and Minimus hums feeling it, though it's honestly a barely noticeable feeling- this is- this is what, the third round? Megatron's valve is open and accepting to whatever Minimus is going to give him.

"It's s-so good," Minimus exvents, vocals glitching, hips stuttering against Megatron's. "One- one, one more, just- just one more," he begs, pleading Megatron to let him continue. His optics shut off in attempt to conserve his power, but he can feel Megatron gently nodding underneath his servo.

"As- as m-much as you n-need," Megatron moans, "as many times as you need, oh, fuck."

Distantly, Minimus recognizes that they're on the clock and they really shouldn't be doing this on shift, but he can't really be bothered to care.

[minorisato]

i'm still preying on a butcher's vein

dead plate / coal fired heart / wc: 439 / warnings: ??????? / notes: another old dead plate fic. rip rody's arm / consider commissioning me!

“Give me your arm.”

Not thinking, Rody did as he was told, extending his arm towards his boss. Vincent grabbed a hold of his wrist with one hand, tightly, and a moment later he felt a burning pain– literally, the heat of the cigarette pressing into his skin, leaving a mark behind. Rody had tried to pull his arm away, hissing in pain, and in return for doing so Vincent only pressed it down harder. “Vince, fucking stop!”

After a second, the chef did let go, and Rody yanked his arm back, cradling the wound. Tossing the– now put out– cigarette into his ashtray, Vincent leaned back in his chair. “That,” he started, “is a problem.”

Disbelieving, “Yeah! Of course it’s a problem, it’s obviously– you rubbed your cigarette on my arm!”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Vincent sighed, rolling his eyes. “You just stuck out your arm the second I asked. That isn’t a normal request, but you didn’t ask why or anything.” Rody gave him a look that he hoped conveyed so what, and the shorter’s eyes narrowed. “You just do whatever anyone tells you to, without thinking about any consequences. You don’t even have a favourite food unless someone decides it for you. You don’t have a spine.”

Rody balks. “What, you want me to just stop listening to you? Want me to stop taking customers' orders, while I’m at it?” And then, quieter, “I thought you liked being in control of everything.”

Vincent glares at him. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he warns, “I’m just saying you could stand to think for a second before doing whatever you’re told; if your brain can even handle that.” He takes a moment. “I’m trying to teach you a lesson. Obviously if I’m telling you to do something, it’s different. But if you just listen to anyone, you could end up hurt.”

Gritting his teeth, Rody gestures to his arm. “Clearly it isn’t different with you, actually!”

“Outside of this moment, have I ever injured you?”

Huffing, “You did slap me that one time.”

“Rody.”

The redhead sighs, and his shoulders drop from their tense pose. He and the chef merely stare at each other for a moment, in some sort of mental battle. “No,” he eventually concedes, “you haven’t.”

Vincent nods, eyes softening the smallest amount. “Exactly.”

A silence fills the room, hanging in the air as the two continue to stare at each other. Rody, certainly, was glaring, though Vincent seemed unbothered. After a good few moments, the chef leaned back in his chair.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” He asked. “Back to work.”

[minorisato]

i can't keep myself from trying a bite of every plate in sight.

dead plate / coal fired heart / wc: 688 / warnings: suggestive / notes: this is super duper old but bf pointed out i never posted most of my dead plate stuff so. / consider commissioning me!

Rody smiled at the last group of customers to leave, waving goodbye, telling them to come back soon. The group consisted of three women and one man, and while the man was happy to retreat, the women all waved back, giggling among themselves, telling Rody how much they loved the experience. All of them, Vincent knew, were objectively quite pretty, and Rody looked absolutely elated as he went to clean up their table.

“Seemed like you got along with them well,” Vincent spoke, causing Rody to jump a bit. He was a bit far, standing at the doors which led to the kitchen. If anyone else were in the building, it might be a bit strange, but it was just them now. The last cook had left when they actually closed, 15 minutes ago.

“They were very nice,” Rody nodded, going back to cleaning.

“Mhm.” Vincent approached the waiter, dress shoes clicking against the floor, hands behind his back. “Remind me, what colour blouse was the blonde madame wearing?”

“Blue,” Rody responded, not missing a beat. It was only a second later that he glanced up from the table. “Why?”

Instead of answering, “What colour was the gentleman’s coat?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Answer the question, Rody.”

“I don’t know!” He admitted, “why are you asking me all this–”

At that moment, Vincent grabbed Rody by the shoulder, yanking him away from the table he’d been cleaning, forcing intense eye contact with the waiter. His grip was downright bruising. Rody looked as though he was going to speak, but Vincent cut him off before he could. “You,” Vincent began, voice low, “need to stop what you’re doing.”

Rody gulped. “I’m not doing anything, though.”

“Are you not?” Vincent challenged, gripping Rody’s shoulder tighter. “Giggling and joking and laughing with our lady customers? Paying extra attention to them, spending more time at their tables– it’s bad for business,” Vincent explained, gritting his teeth, “and frankly, it infuriates me.”

The chef leaned in closer, a bit too close, causing Rody to back into the table, leaning over it a bit, hands gripping at the edge. “Vince, back up,” he let out, his voice wavering.

“It is infuriating,” Vincent continued, louder, “watching you strut around, practically begging for someone to love you. You’ll accept it from any stranger you meet out of desperation, but you’re too stupid to realize you’re already getting all the love you’re going to get.” He pressed closer, slotting a leg in between Rody’s, causing the redhead to jump a bit. When Rody didn’t attempt to stop him, merely keeping his hands to the edge of the table, gripping, Vincent allowed his hand to trail from Rody’s shoulder to his neck.

“Vince,” Rody breathed, still not moving. He could stop Vincent, if he wanted to. He could say stop, he could push him, he could do anything. He didn’t.

In the back of Vincent’s mind, he wondered if Rody would ever stop him.

Vincent’s free hand slowly moved to meet Rody’s collar, pulling it undone. He held eye contact with the waiter as he did so, and Rody simply bit his lip, squirming a bit. The chef huffed. “You’re ridiculous,” he spat out, freeing Rody’s lower neck to the air. “You’re pathetic.”

Vincent pressed his lips to the freed skin, causing Rody to inhale sharply. The redhead lifted a hand from the table to cover his mouth, but Vincent’s hand– previously gripping his neck– shot upwards to grab his wrist instead, keeping him from doing so. I want to hear you, the chef thought, though it went unsaid. Rather, his mouth only opened to allow his teeth to bite Rody’s neck carefully, don’t tear, control yourself. Rody continued to squirm, letting out soft breaths, and then– tellingly– bucked into Vincent’s leg.

Seeming to realize what he’d done, he stammered. “Sorry, I– I wasn’t trying to, I don’t know why, I’m so sorry–”

“Rody,” Vincent interrupted, separating himself from the waiter’s neck for only a moment. “Shut. The fuck. Up.” 

At that, he dove back in, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh, biting– now– a bit harder.

[minorisato]

feel the magic rise, we're plotting our demise

transformers / sentop / wc: 726 / warnings: NSFT, dubcon-ish / notes: written for kinktober day 25, "hate sex." part of my tfa optimus primal au! / consider commissioning me!

Optimus was not always this strong.

Sentinel knows Optimus was not always this strong. His bulk was the seemingly only thing he had over the other, and when they would spar it was relatively easy to use it to his advantage, getting Optimus into a pin. So now that Optimus has him pinned, Sentinel is very, very certain that Optimus was not always this strong.

It has him a bit flustered, honestly, how easily Optimus is able to get him down. His new form- he's taller, yeah, and he definitely looks stronger, but Sentinel was hoping to at least put up some fight. His faceplates heat and flush as he looks up at the technorganic, who happens to be staring down at him, a smirk on his face. (Distantly, Sentinel recalls that nowadays, Optimus almost never removes his battlemask. He took it off for the distinct purpose of looking smug, the glitch.)

"I thought you wanted to fight," Optimus says, a hint of amusement in his vocals.

Sentinel can feel his optics twitch. "That was a fluke!" He announces, clenching his dentae. "You just caught me off guard."

"Right," Optimus chuckles, leaning over him. The position they've found themselves in is awful for Sentinel, with one of Optimus' servos next to his helm, the other pressing his upper arm strut down. Optimus has himself wedged between Sentinel's legs, with one of them thrown over the gorilla's shoulder. This is awful because it's really not a standard pin, Optimus is just pressing him down, trying to make him stop moving, and isn't he a little close? Isn't he a little too smug? A little too charming? Isn't this position a little- "Sentinel?"

"What?!" Sentinel shouts, suddenly snapping back to himself. "What, what?! What is it?"

"You're warm," Optimus says, and instead of maybe backing away, he leans closer, his faceplates mere inches away from Sentinel's own. His intake is parted just slightly, and he's still handsome. It annoys Sentinel so bad, he grinds his dentae together. He's a disgusting technorganic creature and he's still handsome.

"I am," Sentinel replies, because what is he gonna do, deny it?

"Sentinel," Primal asks, voice low, gravelly, and did he ever sound like that before? "Did you get pinned on purpose?"

"No!" Sentinel counters, "no, no I did not! I wanted to win, you're just a freak!" It comes out a lot harsher than he intends, and honestly, he isn't even sure if he means it, but his optical ridges are furrowed and he's not taking it back.

Primal's own optics narrow, looking over the Prime, leaning even closer. "No?" He asks, voice still low, and Sentinel can feel his exvents against him, causing him to shudder. "You didn't want to lose? Didn't want me to have you like this?"

Primal runs the servo on Sentinel's chassis down, pressing at his waist, and the blue mech shakes, plating expanding to expel heat. "Optimus..."

"Liar," Optimus spits, and he shifts and suddenly his codpiece is pressed against Sentinel's own and Sentinel lets out an embarrassing noise. "You've always been a liar."

"Optimus," Sentinel repeats, ragged and breathy. "Optimus, get off."

Sentinel squirms underneath Primal, but the larger's grasp is tight, keeping him in place. "I intend to," Optimus replies simply, and then Sentinel can hear panels transforming away and he forces his optics down and oh, Primus.

Fucking Primus, by the Allspark, forget everything else that happened to Optimus. Throw every other change away. It did not look like that before. It's noticeably bigger, and there's some sort of bulbous something at the bottom of it, and Sentinel doesn't even think about opening his panels, they just do that of their own accord, as far as he's concerned.

"You've always been a slut, too," Optimus says, exventing, and he slowly starts working the tip of his spike inside. Sentinel chooses to ignore that he's already soaked.

Sentinel would love to refute what Primal says, but the more of his spike that disappears into his valve, the less functional his processor becomes, and very suddenly putting together a good rebuttal is a much less compelling task and much more challenging. He hisses through his dentae. "I hate you," he can just barely mutter, "I hate you."

Optimus huffs, rolling his hips to fuck more of his spike inside. "Yeah, I hate you too."

[minorisato]

the nonsense that lives in my head

transformers / elite trine poly / wc: 694 / warnings: NSFT, this is a piss fic. dubcon-ish but it's all safe+consensual. / notes: written for kinktober day 24, "watersports." / consider commissioning me!

"C'mon, Screamer, open up," Skywarp urges, bumping the head of his spike against Starscream's still-closed intake. "You know you want it."

Starscream makes a face at him, intake still shut, and behind him, Thundercracker sighs. "I don't think he wants it, Warp."

Skywarp rolls his optics, scowling. "He does want it, he's just being stubborn." He's grinding his spike against Starscream's faceplates, sliding it over his intake and against his olfactors, up and almost into his optic, right next to it. Starscream offlines said optic as fluid leaks across his faceplates. "Everytime he drinks it he gets charged up, he just pretends he doesn't want it."

"Maybe because it's gross," Thundercracker deadpans, leaning over Starscream so that his cockpit presses against their trinemate's wings. His own spike gently fucks in and out of Starscream's valve from behind- really, this is a great position, Thundercracker thinks to himself. Skywarp is just ruining it.

"Oh, shut up," Skywarp clicks his glossa, "you like it too." Thundercracker lets out a displeased hum, but doesn't deny it. Skywarp continues to grind his spike against Starscream's faceplates as the red seeker scowls at him, dentae ground together. "Thundercracker, make him open his intake."

Thundercracker tilts his helm up at the purple seeker, squinting his optics. "Why."

"'Cause he wants it and he's being stubborn about it," Skywarp exvents. "If you do it I'll suck your spike afterwards."

Confused, Thundercracker stares at him. "You hate sucking spike, though."

Skywarp shrugs. "I'll do it if you make him open."

Thundercracker seems to consider it for a moment, looking down at Starscream, then up at Skywarp, down, up. Starscream attempts to turn and look up at Thundercracker, glaring, though he can't quite get the right angle considering how the blue seeker is pressing down on him. After a moment, Thundercracker shrugs, moving a servo from Starscream's waist to grip his chin. "Alright, Screams, open up."

"No!" Starscream shouts, suddenly, as Thundercracker grips his chin. "No, Thundercracker! You traitor!"

"Yeah, yeah," Thundercracker sighs, moving his other servo to help pry Starscream's intake open. "Skywarp, this better be a good fucking blowjob."

"Oh fuck," sighs Skywarp, not paying attention, already sliding his spike into Starscream's intake. The red seeker makes displeased noises around it as Skywarp slowly fucks more and more in, his spike gradually becoming buried in Starscream's throat cabling. The displeased noises do not dissuade Skywarp- really, they just act as extra stimulation around his spike. "That's good, Screamer."

"I'm letting go now," Thundercracker announces, and then does so. Thankfully for Skywarp, Starscream does not bite down, and Thundercracker moves his servos down, back to holding Starscream's waist.

"You ready?" Skywarp asks.

"Mnn," Starscream replies eloquently.

"'Kay," Skywarp smirks, and he untenses, relaxes, as he activates the command to void. He can hear Starscream gag, a hilarious and pathetic noise, before the red seeker starts swallowing around Skywarp's spike. Skywarp lets out a shuddering exvent, hunching over his trinemate as he continues to drain his waist down Starscream's clenching and unclenching intake. "Oh fuck, Screamer, that's so good."

"Holy-" Thundercracker lets out, gasping. "He- he, he cycled down, really, really tight when you- you started doing that."

Skywarp invents, smirking at the blue seeker. "Is it good?"

"Y-yeah," Thundercracker lets out, rolling his hips into Starscream's valve. An obscene wet squelching noise can be heard as the blue seeker opens him up. "Yeah, it's so- it's so good. So tight."

Skywarp's stream tapers off in Starscream's intake, though Starscream continues to suck and swallow around his spike. Skywarp begins thrusting in and out, fucking his intake open, waste fluid leaking out of the corners. He keeps a grip on Starscream's helm to help keep him steady, and he moans loudly. "If-" He starts, still addressing Thundercracker, "if you fuck him harder, I'll give you a blowjob and finger your valve."

Thundercracker invents sharply, quirking an optical ridge at the other. "Normally you're the one fingering me anyway."

"I'll do them at the same time," Skywarp compromises.

Again, Thundercracker sighs. "Yeah. Okay, yeah, fuck it. Maybe I'll void in him too, I dunno."

Starscream makes another protestful noise, but Skywarp just chuckles. "Sick."

[minorisato]

where did you learn how to reciprocate?

transformers / dinotrap / wc: 491 / warnings: NSFT / notes: written for kinktober day 23, "thigh riding." the height difference between these two is not as big as yall pretend it is / consider commissioning me!

"This is ridiculous," Dinobot hisses, "you can't possibly expect me to get off like this."

Rattrap rolls his optics, his servos gently gripping Dinobot's middle as the Predacon grinds against his thigh, really half-heartedly. "You're gonna hafta try," he enunciates, "I ain't gonna do anything else for you right now. Cope."

Dinobot bares his fangs, lowly growling at the other, face tinted slightly purple. "You say that," he hisses, "as though we have not been together before."

Rattrap scoffs. "I wanna do something a lil' different, lizard breath. You can't indulge me for a few kliks?"

Dinobot huffs, looking away. "I simply don't think it will be as successful as you're hoping."

"Well, to be honest," Rattrap starts, optics glancing down from Dinobot's faceplates to his array. He's going so slow- he could speed up a little if he wanted. "This is a lot more for me than it is for you."

Again, Dinobot growls at him. "Don't watch."

"The whole point of doin' this is me watching!" Rattrap counters, frustration building. "All I'm gettin' out of this is watching! You think my thighs got the same sensors as my spike?!"

"Such a selfish lover," Dinobot responds, huffy and haughty, turning his nose up to the other. "Not even concerned about the pleasure of your partner. Not even wanting me to get off," he says, and he looks smug, almost, and it's an awful look on him. He's smirking with all his teeth and Rattrap just hates it. He also likes it, though. He likes Dinobot, really, and he hates that too. "If you're going to be selfish, I can always leave-"

And he starts raising up, but Rattrap doesn't want that, either, and so he quickly re-adjusts his grip on Dinobot's middle, pulling him back down onto Rattrap's thigh, harsh, and Dinobot's valve really grinds into it and he lets out this- this noise-

Rattrap is left reeling as Dinobot pants, hunching over him. "Again," the Predacon commands, tatic in his vocals, "again, do that again."

"You want me to move you?" Rattrap asks, and he doesn't know why he sounds a little scandalized by it. "What, you can't even do it yourself, chopperface?!"

"You listen here, rodent," Dinobot hisses between sharp dentae, claws grasping at the Maximal's shoulders, and aren't they just a little too close to Rattrap's throat cabling? "You are going to do that again or I am going to get up and leave."

Rattrap, though he's not entirely pleased about it, does do what Dinobot tells him. "You are awful," Rattrap groans. "Laziest fucking pred I've ever met. You'd do a better job as a fuckin' berth warmer and you still can't even do that."

Dinobot groans, though his doesn't carry the same frustration as Rattrap's. He might not even be listening. "Keep going," he exvents, valve leaking over the Maximal's thigh.

"You fucking suck," Rattrap replies, but he's pretty happy he gets to watch now.

[minorisato]

i'll give you an un-experience

transformers / wavewave / wc: 548 / warnings: NSFT / notes: written for kinktober day 22, "cockwarming." TFA S3, pre-"human error" / consider commissioning me!

Soundwave is just so... tiny.

Frankly, it's just ridiculous. For a Decepticon so small, he manages to present such a threat to the Autobot cause- and he manages to win Megatron's favour doing so. It makes the energon running through Shockwave's fuel lines boil, it makes no sense. It shouldn't be any trouble for Shockwave to remain his Lord's most trusted servant, his loyal disciple, and yet, this remains a consistent problem.

Despite so easily gaining his Lord's favour, though, the blue nuisance insists on bother him- he, who is so busy, who has better things to do than waste time indulging the whims of such a pathetic creature.

Again, he can feel himself heating at the mere thought. His servos are shaking. He needs to re-adjust his EM dampeners.

The blue creature is just sitting on his desk, watching Shockwave sort through things- primarily reading and re-reading datapads. Just working. Shockwave wants to knock him off or tell him to shoo, to bother someone else, but he also realizes that reaction would be extreme and unwarranted. In truth, mostly due to Soundwave's small stature and how quiet he can be, he really doesn't pose much of a distraction. The small thing hasn't really done anything wrong. No, he just sits, watching, letting Shockwave work, and Shockwave supposes there isn't really anything wrong about that.

~~~~

It becomes a bit of a habit. Soundwave will watch him work, sitting on Shockwave's desk politefully, quietly. He looks like an imitation of a protoform with his legs dangling off the side of the desk, all tiny bits and pieces. He's about as tall as one of the many datapads strewn about.

And then one day, he isn't.

Don't get Shockwave wrong, Soundwave is still small. He's maybe a third of the larger 'con's size. He barely reaches up to Shockwave's knees, but he is bigger. This is different.

Normally, when Shockwave and the blue bot would sit together, they would not speak. No words would be exchanged- there was a silent agreement to not bug each other. But this was different. It's all different. "Soundwave," the purple mech greets, "you've grown."

Wordlessly, a compartment of some sort opens on Soundwave's chassis, and he retrieves- something. What is that? It's small, rectangular- a cassette. Earth technology? Because he was made on Earth?

"Is this for me?" Shockwave asks, leaning down a bit, extending his claws to grasp for it. Before he can, though, it transforms into a gray and black imitation of an Earthen panther. It hisses at the larger 'con, and Shockwave, surprised, stumbles back, letting out a rather undignified noise. All the anger he felt towards Soundwave suddenly comes rushing back.

The panther-thing jumps out of Soundwave's grasp, trotting around the room- around Shockwave's workspace, and the purple mech is about to start hunting it down before Soundwave speaks. "Soundwave: Has children."

It takes a good klik for Shockwave's internal processes to connect the dots, from "children" to "Earth small creature" to "human small creature" to "human sparkling" to "sparkling." Soundwave has... a sparkling. Multiple sparklings.

For once in his life, Shockwave finds himself cursing his inexpressive frame. Had he optical ridges, they would be furrowed in sheer frustration. "You do not have sparklings."

"Soundwave: Has sparklings," the blue mech simply repeats, swapping out the human term for something more applicable.

Shockwave brings his servos up to his helm, cradling his face. "You do not have sparklings. You don't even know what sparklings are."

"Soundwave: Received gift," he elaborates, "from the other Decepticons. Soundwave: Has sparklings." Shockwave is staring down at the blue mech, really trying to figure out if Soundwave is implying what he thinks he's implying, when Soundwave takes a step forward. "Frenzy: Wants brother. Soundwave: Has run multiple tests. Come to conclusion; Shockwave: Most appropriate sire."

Shockwave stares down at him. He's experiencing something like shock- playing at being an Autobot for so long must have really damaged his EM dampeners, really, because he shouldn't even have a reaction to this. Unfortunately, he does. With a clawed servo, he points to himself. "You want me to...?"

"Shockwave: Most appropriate sire," Soundwave repeats, and is he... blushing?

The purple mech straightens himself, really considering it. Soundwave seems to want it- he wouldn't have approached Shockwave if he didn't. Beyond that, the shorter mech is cute, as much as Shockwave hates to admit such a thing. Beyond that, though, Soundwave has thrown off Shockwave's schedule and his work so badly this cycle that he can't help but think letting out this frustration on the smaller might not be an awful idea. His processor, even, supplies him what feels like the perfect idea, and Shockwave sighs.

"Alright," Shockwave agrees. "I will indulge you. But we will do it my way."

~~~~

Several joors later, Shockwave is glad he agreed to this.

He's managed to get quite a surprising amount of work done, with the little mech in his lap. It was cute, watching him slowly work more and more of Shockwave's spike into his small valve, but what was arguably cuter was how he deteriorated around it, how he devolved into whining and begging and glitched vocals and straining as he asked for the chance to overload, please- he was so polite. Shockwave would not give him this, of course. The small mech would earn no respite until Shockwave caught up with every single bit of work the pathetic thing had distracted him from.

"Please," Soundwave could barely beg, static underlying each and every exvent. "Shockwave: Being- being cruel."

"I'm just working," the larger 'con replied, smug. "You are the one who insists on distracting me."

"S-Soundwave: Did not-" and then his vocals cut out badly, audibly fritzing, and he's forced to take a good klik or two to reset them. His calipers cycle around Shockwave, and it really is a tight fit- not that Shockwave has a problem with that. "Did not come to Shockwave to be tortured."

"Tortured?" Shockwave repeats back, almost laughing. "Oh, nonsense. This isn't even close to torture." Had he an intake, he would be smirking. "If you would like that, however, it can definitely be arranged."

"Soundwave: wants to overload-"

"How about," Shockwave interrupts, vocals low, "you be good, and be quiet and still for the rest of the joor, and maybe, maybe if you are very good I will consider letting you overload." A clawed servo grips at Soundwave's thigh, digging into the plating there. "Can you do that?" Shockwave asks, "Can you be a good mech?"

Again, Soundwave resets his vocals, before letting out a soft, "Yes. Yes, Soundwave- Soundwave: Can be good."

"I thought so," Shockwave tells him, and pats his thigh. "Now stay quiet."

[minorisato]

he bruises, coughs, he sputters pistol shots- hold him down

transformers / tarnstreaker / wc: 1993 / warnings: uhh / notes: takes place before all my other djdstreaker fics. / consider commissioning me!

Sunstreaker bolts upright out of his recharge, ventilation system working overtime as he exvents, invents, exvents, invents. His hand is on his blaster before he’s entirely aware of what’s going on– it’s dark, and he’s alone, and there’s– there’s a raid? Did he dream that? He was dreaming. He’s slowly coming back to himself. He was dreaming. He isn’t exactly any happier about where he really is, though.

Peaceful Tyranny. He’s a ‘con now. A ‘con? Is that even accurate? He’s not an Autobot anymore by any means, and the darkness and quiet of the ship isn’t any help. He feels out of place. He’s not welcome in the Autobots anymore, and despite what he’s told, he knows he really isn’t welcome here, either. He curls in on himself, holding the blaster to his chassis protectively, just in case, because who knows, maybe there actually is an attack and he wasn’t dreaming and maybe he’ll be useful and prove he can do something right, prove he has a right to be here and he’s useful and he belongs here, belongs somewhere.

But no. The ship is quiet as it always is, on it’s way to another far-off planet off in the reaches of somewhere or other, looking for a (former) ‘con who deserves everything they’re about to get (or that’s what Kaon says, anyway.) Sunstreaker checks his chronometer– still adjusted to Earth time. It’s been stuck on Earth time ever since– ever since. It’s a stupid thing, dumb little reminder, blinking in the corner of his HUD. Ratchet said it’d be a quick fix. Rung said it’d be good, so he didn’t need to keep getting reminded of it. (Sometimes he thinks about how fulfilling it’d be to put the fucking nobody out of his misery, before realizing it really wouldn’t feel fulfilling at all.) It’s early morning on Earth, about 4, and he’s been on the ship for a few days now, so he has a feeling that Tarn is probably already awake and doing whatever. Tarn is always first to rise and last to sleep, while Helex is always last to rise and first to sleep. Simple patterns that he picks up on, just after a few days. Acclimation.

Sunstreaker rises from his berth, his berth which is uncomfortable and lonely and cold, setting his blaster down and making his way in the direction of the common area– the first day, he’d had to get Vos to lead him there, which was mortifying, because it really seemed like Vos was angry with him about it and Sunstreaker couldn’t even understand what he was saying. Now, though, he’s kind of getting used to picking up on Vos’ tone and getting the general gist of what the rifle is saying. Acclimation.

As expected, the common area is still rather dark, with only low lighting illuminating the surroundings of the large mech in the middle. Why the fuck does he get up this early. His biolights provide little extra lighting, moreso just acting as a beacon telling Sunstreaker where he is.

Sunstreaker is only a third of the way down the stairs before Tarn notices him. “You aren’t normally up at this joor,” he says, turning to face the gold mech.

Shrugging, Sunstreaker makes his way down. “I wanted a change of pace.”

“Of course,” Tarn replies, turning back to what he was doing. It looks like he’s reading something. “I won’t mind your shaking.”

Sunstreaker bristles. He is not shaking. “I am not shaking.”

“Of course,” the purple mech repeats, sighing an exvent. After another moment, Sunstreaker is behind where he’s sitting, and is able to look over to see he is in fact reading off of a datapad– though it doesn’t look like a story, or a poem, it looks more like… an article? “You’ve gotten quite popular, lately.”

Sunstreaker’s optics widen, and he reaches over to snatch the datapad from out of Tarn’s grasp. The Decepticon puts up no resistance to the action. Sunstreaker’s optics skim over the article, and he lets out a noise of frustration. It is suspected that an Autobot has begun working with the Decepticon Justice Division, as the mech witnessed on CRUX-12 seems to resemble Autobot Sunstreaker. After being MIA for a period of time, Sunstreaker was last legally marked as a resident of the Lost Light under Captain Rodimus Prime. Residents mention that he has not been seen for several months, however, and there is no way to deny that the mech pictured is not him. Known friend of Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, was asked about his whereabouts, and refused to comment.

Known friend. That’s his fucking brother. “Who saw?” Sunstreaker asks, dentae grit, words coming out as hisses. The picture at the top of the article– which seems, now, less like an article and more like a notice, something to be concerned about– is shitty and poor quality, yeah, but it’s him. Anyone who knew him would be able to tell, even if it’s taken from far away, even if it’s blurry, they would know.

Oh, Primus, they would know.

“Unsure at the moment,” Tarn responded, sounding all-too calm, “Kaon had informed us that the reason the traitor had chosen CRUX-12 was because it was entirely deserted. The traitor should have been the only living mech on the planet. Whoever saw either had an energy signature cloak, or Kaon was lying to us.”

“Can I please believe that Kaon was lying to us,” Sunstreaker asks.

“No,” Tarn responds. “Kaon would not purposefully lie to us. He was the second member selected for the job. He’s been loyal as long as I have. He would not lie to us.” It almost sounds like Tarn is trying to convince himself of that more than he’s trying to convince Sunstreaker of that, but the yellow mech chooses to drop it. “I’ll have a word with him either way. Our systems should be upgraded enough that we can detect cloaked energy signatures.”

This is exactly what Sunstreaker needs right now. No, seriously, this is so great. He’s having a great time. He is definitely not on the verge of a panic attack. He feels himself falling to the floor behind the chair Tarn has placed himself in. He brings his servos up to cradle his faceplates without even realizing he’s doing it. “Oh, Primus,” he lets out.

“I’m not sure why you’re so concerned,” Tarn admits, rising from his seat and approaching Sunstreaker, looking down at him.

“They’re gonna know now,” Sunstreaker barely lets out. “They’re gonna know it was me. They’re gonna know that this is what I’ve been doing. I’m never gonna be able to go back.”

He can very suddenly feel Tarn glaring at him, scrutinizing him. “I’m sorry, did you want to go back?”

Sunstreaker grinds his dentae together, servos picking at the paint behind his finials. “No, but–”

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem,” Tarn tells him, practically spitting the words out. “I don’t know why you would want to go back to the Autobots now. They have never respected you. They left you to die. They never gave you the help you need. They can’t do anything for you.” Tarn’s fists ball at his sides. “All they’ve done is leave you for dead and you want to go back?”

“You have no fucking idea,” Sunstreaker spits, and he is definitely getting a bit ahead of himself but in this very moment he can’t even be bothered to care. “You have no fucking idea. You don’t know what it’s like to be tossed aside like that. You have no fucking idea what it’s like to want a home and have none to go back to. You have no idea what it’s like to be hated by people you don’t even know.”

“First of all,” Tarn starts, “Yes I do. Do you even know who you’re talking to? I lead the DJD, Sunstreaker. Do you think I’m blind and deaf? Do you think I don’t know what this is doing to me? Do you think I am unaware of the reputation we have gained?” He pauses. “I don’t care that people hate me, Sunstreaker. They aren’t the mechs that matter. They’re all idiots and fools anyway– they–” He’s stumbling. Tarn is actually stumbling over his speech, and this never happens, and Sunstreaker really suddenly feels like he has very badly fucked up. “They never helped me, and now they have the gall to hate me. They don’t even matter. I care about what I do and I’m not going to stop because people don’t like it.”

Sunstreaker is silent, helm buried in his knees. He could pick all the paint off his frame and still not feel any better about what’s happening.

“And secondly,” Tarn continues, “Yes, I do know. I do know what it’s like to be forgotten and tossed aside. Because before I joined the Decepticons, I was.”

Sunstreaker, just barely, angles his helm to look up at the other.

“I was an empurata, Sunstreaker,” Tarn tells him, and suddenly his voice is so much softer, so much shakier. “I was a freak. I could short out technology just by touching it. No one wanted me. Even before that, no one wanted me. No one wanted Damus.” He pauses, takes a breath. “And now Damus is dead, and people really don’t like Tarn either. That’s very tragic for them, though, because Damus isn’t coming back and Tarn likes his job. Tarn doesn’t feel bad about how things have turned out. I don’t.”

“Talking in third person makes you sound very mentally and emotionally stable,” Sunstreaker lets out, hoping the sarcasm is able to break through his exhaustion.

“My point is,” Tarn hisses, “the Autobots don’t want you back. They never gave you anything. You can want it all you want, but they aren’t there for you anymore.”

“And you are?” Sunstreaker asks, and he isn’t even sure if he sounds angry, or confused, or what. He doesn’t know how he’s feeling. He’s a little far away. Resigned, maybe that’s the right word. Resigned to his fate. “You’re just going to kill me anyway.”

Tarn gets down on a knee to be more level with the yellow mech. “Is that why you joined us, Sunstreaker? Did you hope that we would kill you?”

His voice is gentle, and something about the way he asks– something, something about it really gets Sunstreaker. He can feel coolant welling in his optics, because that wasn’t true, he didn’t think it was true, he didn’t, but now Tarn has said it and it’s out there and it feels like Tarn has maybe put more thought into who Sunstreaker is than even Sunstreaker has. The yellow mech finds himself nodding, coolant dripping from his optics down his faceplates. He’s crying. “Yeah,” he barely lets out, vocals strained, “yeah. I wanted to die.”

Tarn gets a bit closer, placing a clawed servo on Sunstreaker’s shoulder pauldron, and his touch is so strangely gentle, so untrustworthy yet so kind. “That’s very unfortunate,” Tarn tells him, vocals low and soft, “because that is not our intent at all.” Sunstreaker sniffles, more tears falling out as Tarn speaks to him. “You’re one of us now. Part of our team. You pledged your loyalty to us, you have killed for us. You’re staying.”

Almost without realizing it, Sunstreaker acts, throwing himself into Tarn’s grasp. He’s sobbing, sobbing into the Decepticon, sobbing into the plating of the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division, and Tarn lets him. Tarn wraps his arms around the yellow mech and lets him cry. His plating shakes and rattles as he’s overcome, and Tarn trails a clawed servo up and down his spinal strut, an attempt to comfort him.

No one else is awake. Just the two of them sit on the common area floor, sharing this moment. If Sunstreaker really tries, really leans into it, it almost feels like home.

[minorisato]

your excuses just keep on coming- they've turned out unbecoming

transformers / ratchrod / wc: 654 / warnings: NSFT-ish / notes: written for kinktober day 21, "medical kink." rodimus is a lil bitchbaby. / consider commissioning me!

"Hold still," Ratchet chastises, placing a hand on Rodimus' chassis to keep him from moving around. He clicks his glossa, sliding the syringe into the cracks between Rodimus' shoulder plating and upper arm strut. "I swear, no one on the ship is as bad about this as you."

Rodimus huffs, still squirming. "It's uncomfortable," he complains, and his plating is clamping down tight, barely giving Ratchet any room to get the syringe in.

"Don't really matter if it's uncomfortable," Ratchet scowls, "it needs to get done. You've been in gunfights for the majority of your life, getting a shot should be nothing for you."

The captain cringes. "Well it's not nothing, it's uncomfortable." And again, he squirms, trying to get away from the needle. The more he squirms, the more frustrated Ratchet becomes, and the harder it is to line up the syringe where it actually needs to go.

The medic growls under his exvents. "Rodimus, if you don't stop moving around I'm gonna need to fucking strap you down."

Rodimus flinches, freezing, optics darting up to the CMO. His frame is always hot, but underneath Ratchet's servo, he can feel the Prime suddenly heat up further, cooling fans clicking on. In the rather quiet medbay, it is mortifyingly audible. Rodimus' faceplates are a light pink, staring up at Ratchet with a slight worry, slight embarrassment, and... some other thing. Optics wide, Ratchet stares back at him.

"Rodimus," he hisses, "are you being serious right now?"

"I'm sorry!" Rodimus replies, vocals hushed. They don't need to be quiet, really- First Aid and Ambulon are both on break, leaving just Ratchet and the Prime in the medbay, left to their own devices. This whole situation is a little stupid and embarrassing, though, so maybe whispering just helps Rodimus feel better about the whole thing. Ratchet won't deny him that. "I can't help it."

"You are the captain of this ship," Ratchet accentuates, "you can't- you can't even get a shot but you're charged up at the idea of being tied down." The medic's vocals suddenly increase in volume. "Rodimus, you are being ridiculous."

"I think I need to leave," Rodimus replies, blush only deepening.

"No!" Ratchet shouts, pressing him down harder. "No, what you need is to get your shot!"

"I really can not do that," Rodimus states simply, still trying to get up, and Ratchet feels an optic twitch.

"Rodimus," he says, trying to keep his voice steady, "I am trying to do my job. By making this harder than it needs to be, you are preventing me from doing my job. Stopping a medical officer from carrying out their duty is a crime." He's trying to sound so calm, considering what he's currently threatening Rodimus with. "I do not care if you are scared of getting a shot. If you continue to impede my work, I am calling Ultra Magnus."

Rodimus resets his vocals, forcing himself to still. Despite that, he pouts. "Magnus won't do anything. I outrank him." And then, quietly, "It's not that I'm scared of it, either."

Ratchet furrows his optical ridges. "Then why in the name of Primus-" and then he quiets, because don't Rodimus' fans seem louder?

Rodimus looks away. The rest of him, though, is still. "I'm ready, I think. Please get it over with."

Ratchet exvents, exasperated. He slides the syringe back where it's supposed to be, able to squeeze it in between Rodimus' tight plating, and carefully, he injects Rodimus. The Prime lets out some noise, and Ratchet can't, with confidence, say it's a noise of pain. "You should have just told me," Ratchet huffs. "We could've had this over with."

"You woulda gotten mad," Rodimus pouts.

"I got mad at you anyway!" Ratchet shouts, before collecting himself. "You're ridiculous," he exvents.

Rodimus smiles. "You like me, though."

Ratchet doesn't deny it, but he doesn't acknowledge it, either. "Go self-service, then get back to me."

[minorisato]

ambivalent and bad, haha- active suicidal, still i hit 'em with the chacha

transformers / soundrod / wc: 627 / warnings: dubcon, failed scene, panic attack / notes: 2nd POV. written for kinktober day 20, "tentacles," but not nsft. this is tfp. i hate writing tfp and made pondwater accidentally. / consider commissioning me!

It's actually really, really terrifying, is the thing.

'Cause okay, you're a prisoner, and he's assigned to watch over you, and he's kind of cute when the light hits him right, and one thing really leads to another, is the thing. Those cables, the same ones that could definitely kill you are closing in, and you know it's okay, but- but do you? Do you know? Would you put shanix on it?

And like, you know you started it, he's responding to the things you were very clearly asking for. Is it really right to be nervous when you were begging for it? When you're wet (are you wet, actually?) Is it really right to start throwing a fit over something you wanted? You do want it, right? That's why you asked for it? Be brave. You're being fucking ridiculous.

The cables- one wraps around your waist, coiled up tight, and you're trying to look smug, brave, cocky, something, but then your processor really suddenly reminds you that this dude kills people and that is really less sexy in person, and you remember the last time you saw these cables they were ripping Autobot troops apart, and he could so easily do that to you right now, and maybe coming to Earth was a bad idea? Maybe following the fighting was not a good idea. Why did you start this, you ask yourself, and you can feel your fuel pump hammering, and you reset your optics, and your vocals, and your respirators, and that doesn't work, and your processor reminds you of the last time this happened and Kup was telling you to just fucking breathe, and-

You're panicking. You recognize that you're panicking, and now there's shame on top of the everything else. It's so stupid, it's so stupid. You shouldn't be freaking out so bad. You literally asked for this.

He notices, and the cables are starting to uncoil, but isn't that worse? Doesn't that mean you fucked up, you did a bad job? Isn't that so much worse? "Wait," You exvent, and it sounds like a wheeze, you're wheezing, and you reset your respirators again. This is humiliating. "I can- I can do it, hold on."

But he's already pulling away, and his helm tilts down at you, like he's confused. As though he's asking what's wrong with you? Why can't you do it? You wanted it, didn't you? His EM field reaches out, and you pull yours back- your panic, your shame, it's obvious. He doesn't need to see it. He doesn't need to know. Beyond that, you don't want to feel his upset- you don't want to feel how ashamed he is of you. You're ashamed enough of yourself.

You can feel yourself curling up. You're- you're kind of far away. It feels like your body is doing it without your input. Still, despite him pulling away, despite curling in on yourself, your mouth is still running. "I can do it, I promise I can do it, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Can't you just shut up?

He takes a step closer, and you flinch away, but you're still running your mouth. "I can do it, I just- I just need a second, I'm sorry-" and he's just staring at you. It feels awful. He doesn't know what to do, and you don't really know what to do, either. It feels awful.

After a few minutes, the cables have all retracted to wherever they're supposed to be, and he turns to leave. The door to the cell, because you're a prisoner, closes behind him, locking. You curl further in on yourself. Your comms don't even work in here. You can't even get anyone to come get you.

You just need to wait.

[minorisato]

only the "i" who was looking at "myself" was there

transformers / minirod, rodimags / wc: 534 / warnings: NSFT / notes: written for kinktober day 19, "fucking machine." / consider commissioning me!

Rodimus has to admit, he really did not think Minimus would go for this.

It had taken some convincing and planning, yeah, but that didn't surprise him. Often, Rodimus had to make a good case for anything that wasn't just standard interfacing. It was that this specific request, this specific scenario, he thought Minimus would back out of. That they would plan the whole thing out, get everything set up, and then it would be too weird or nerve-wracking and Minimus would apologize and they would do normal standard interfacing instead. Rodimus had really been anticipating it.

If anything, though, Minimus seemed almost too into it.

Only almost, because really, Rodimus was also extremely into what was currently happening. Propped up on the berth on his hands and knees, with the Magnus armour fucking his valve from behind. Minimus looms over Rodimus with his spike in one servo and a crop in the other, which had just moments ago been slapped down a good, what, twelve times? Onto Rodimus' spoiler, in order to correct his "bad posture." The servo on his spike was stroking himself off slowly, jacking off right in front of Rodimus' face. The Prime desperately wanted to lean forward and take it into his intake, but that had earned him a smack last time he tried, so he simply stared at it, panting, intake open.

Minimus explained it beforehand- the Magnus armour can do some things when he isn't in control of it, though nothing more complex than simple repetitive actions. At the time, that sounded perfect- what is fucking if not a simple repetitive action? Now, though, as Rodimus' node begged for contact, he wanted something more, just a little more, something to push him over 'cause just spike was not enough-

"You're doing so good, Rodimus," Minimus tells him, voice soft, breathy. "Such a good Prime. I can tell you're trying so hard to stay in place," the green mech says. "You're doing such a good job. Proper, like a Prime should be."

Rodimus whines, looking up at his second in command. "Mims, do I- do I get a reward? For being good? Do I get more?"

Minimus, Minimus of all fucking mechs, actually smirks down at him, unnaturally cocky. "More?" He parrots back, "But captain, I thought this was what you wanted. You asked for it so well, and now you want more?" His smirk falters, and his optical ridges furrow slightly. "You won't get anything you want if you keep addressing me as Mims. I can always make him stop."

Him being the Magnus armour. As much as Rodimus wants something different, the idea of that "different" coming in the form of losing stimulation makes his frame momentarily lock up, as if physically rejecting that idea. "Please no," Rodimus begs.

Minimus hums. "Ask politely."

"Please," Rodimus repeats, louder. "Please, Minimus, please Minimus don't make him stop, I want to- I want him to- oh fuck, keep going, please." He pauses, panting, resetting his vocals. "I just- I just need, need a little more, I want- I want to overload, please."

"So needy," Minimus exvents. "But alright. Since you're asking so nicely, I'll give you what you want."

[minorisato]

from within the thick walls a voice calls out to me

transformers / ratchlock / wc: 509 / warnings: NSFT / notes: written for kinktober day 18, "nipnops" no i am not joking. though i did stretch the prompt a little. / consider commissioning me!

Deadlock is fucking him like he's going to get a promotion if he does a good enough job. There is, of course, no reason for him to think this, because Ratchet really has no control over the Decepticons, and he has no control over Deadlock. Ratchet is just along for the ride.

And it is a ride- getting fucked by Deadlock is like speeding on a bumpy road. It's rough, and the 'con doesn't allow him any purchase as they frag, so he's just moving all over the place. His leg struts dangle helplessly over Deadlock's shoulders, his arms are spread out to his sides, and his energon sacks bounce with every thrust. That's probably the most embarrassing part- even moreso, considering Deadlock insists on grabbing them as he rams his spike into the medic.

"So sexy," the Decepticon growls, squeezing the sacks. It makes Ratchet gasp, inventing sharply- it hurts and feels good at the same time, and the medic isn't quite used to it. "You're so sexy, Ratchet. Can't believe- oh, fuck. Can't believe you have these."

Ratchet's optics narrow, glaring at the 'con. "They're standard for a-any- oh, any m-medic," he huffs.

Deadlock smirks down at him. "Yeah, but you. As if you weren't sexy enough. Maybe-" his hips stutter, and he groans. "Maybe they knew you were sexy. Maybe they knew you were made for this- for taking my spike."

Ratchet moans. Honestly, it feels like that might be the case- Deadlock fucks him just right, in such a way that it lights up his nodes, that it hits him so well. This would, however, inflate Deadlock's ego far more than it ever should realistically be inflated, and very possibly have disastrous consequences for the both of them. Ratchet keeps his intake shut.

(Partially, also, he isn't sure he'd be able to get the whole sentence out. The more Deadlock fucks him, the harder it's getting to organize his thoughts, and everything he says is underlined with a layer of static. Best to keep it to himself.)

Deadlock uses his hold on Ratchet's energon sacks to push them together, and he groans seeing how they squish. "Fuck," he lets out, "fuck, Ratch, you gotta let me fuck them. Please let me fuck your tits next time."

"They aren't tits," Ratchet hisses, faceplates flushed with energon.

"Whatever," Deadlock responds, smirking, and his servos adjust, and he moves his fingers to-

"Deadlock!" Ratchet yelps suddenly, tensing up, as Deadlock's middle and pointer finger on each energon sack move to grab at his nozzles, squeezing them tightly.

"So reactive," Deadlock exvents, and Ratchet lets out a whine, helf-tempted to smack him. "You look so good like this, Ratch."

And that, that kinda gets him. Because Deadlock says that, and his voice is so gentle, so sweet, as though he's been wanting to say that for so long. Ratchet can feel his faceplates heating up further. "Kid," he sighs, moving his arms to hide his face, and Deadlock groans.

"Doc, you have no idea what you do to me."

[minorisato]

im eepy

original work / NA / poetry / warnings: NA / notes: NA / consider comissioning me!

with orange sky and silent streets that is when i choose to sleep as this is when i choose to rest i wrap myself inside my nest of blankets, pillows and soft things; as, each one, comfort brings and as i lay my head down my bones which scream can only frown as then, they too, are laid to rest while trapped inside my comfort nest and my head so heavy it only hangs thinks then of the nicest things; of life so sweet and soft and stored in a world so gently bathed in orange.

[minorisato]

irrationality and loneliness, you don't have to hate them

transformers / implied megarodimags / wc: 581 / warnings: NSFT, hypno + noncon elements / notes: written for kinktober day 17, "hypno." / consider commissioning me!

This is not good.

Magnus recognizes that this is not good, yet he can't do a thing about it. His joints are locked up, and he's hardly able to move at all. His visual HUD is entirely corrupted- all it displays is a single dark swirl, softly spinning, as a voice whispers into his audial, so quiet that he can't make out a single word it's saying.

Magnus grinds his dentae together- it's about all he can do. His optics squint and dart around as he tries to think, tries to figure out what's wrong with his HUD, but his processor is fuzzy, hazy. It's hard to think, especially not with the voice (voices?) talking over him. What he can think is he undoubtedly looks a little stupid like this- standing motionless in the middle of his hab.

This is bad. He has duties he needs to attend to, things he needs to get done. He doesn't have time to be stuck here. He thinks he ought to comm someone for help, anyone would be useful help in this situation, but with how bugged his HUD is, he can't comm anyone. He's just stuck until either his HUD stops glitching, his legs start functioning, or (the most mortifying option) someone comes to find him.

Magnus can feel his internal temperature rising at the idea of someone coming to find him, which is strange, and he isn't certain why it's doing that. Despite being so locked up, his plating is able to shift and expand, expelling the heat, though more just keeps coming. As if thinking wasn't hard enough, he is now growing increasingly worried he's going to just straight up melt himself. His frame tenses and untenses at the same time, making the whole process a little more difficult, and he's really trying to just will his HUD into working again, but it only seems to be getting worse. Primus, it's hot. Is the whispering getting louder?

When he really focuses, which is rapidly becoming more difficult, he can hear it- soft encouragement. Such a good, hard worker. Trying your absolute best. So good at your job. The voice is still nearly impossible to make out- it's not his own. In one instance, it sounds a bit higher, more confident, cocky, crackling fire. In another, it sounds softer, aged, exhausted, like dirt and gravel.

It sounds like Rodimus and Megatron. It sounds like his captains are encouraging him.

Oh.

Oh.

Magnus' temperature almost impossibly skyrockets further, and he feels charge surge through him all at once. It's so strong that, were he not locked up like he is, he's certain he would have fallen to his knees. A strange noise is ripped from his vocalizer, and he's left reeling, lightheaded, wondering why the idea of being praised by his captains is so... nice. Good. Upon attempting to consider it again, another surge of charge flies through him, and he's left panting, intake slack and open. He doesn't remember his array opening, but it's open now.

Good, Megatron's voice echoes.

Such a good mech, follows Rodimus.

His valve is dripping lubricant onto the floor. It's mortifying. He's embarrassed of himself. He shouldn't- he can't. He can't do this. His joints unlock, and he immediately crumples to the ground, curling in on himself, feeling as though his whole body is slack. He can't do this.

That's it, Megatron tells him, relax.

He runs a finger through the dripping lubricant. He can't do this.

[minorisato]

i wonder if you realize how important this branded collar is?

transformers / prowlmax / wc: 724 / warnings: NSFT / notes: written for kinktober day 16, "pet play." takes place post-mtmte, on luna-1. / consider commissioning me!

Prowl is on his knees, servos in his lap, staring down at the ground. "This is embarrassing," he complains, moving a servo up from his lap to fiddle with his leash. A metal collar sits around his neck, and on Prowl's helm are two pointy triangles, made to resemble turbofox ears. A light pink dusts his faceplates- distantly, Fort Max thinks that he looks a little pathetic like this. It's a good look on him.

"Indulge me?" Fort Max asks, sitting across from Prowl on their berth. One of his servos grips the end of the leash, with the other resting at his side.

Prowl huffs, dropping the leash. "I will, I'm just saying, it's embarrassing. I'm allowed to be embarrassed."

"You're also allowed to stop talking," Fort Max exvents. "I don't think Earth dogs speak Neocybex. They say stuff like woof, or bark." Fort Max smirks down at the enforcer. "Can you go woof for me, Prowly?"

Prowl looks up at Fort Max, optical ridges furrowed, clearly displeased with the nickname. And then, very deadpan, as if purposefully removing as much emotion from his voice as he's physically able, "Woof."

Fort Max smiles down at him. Cute. "Good Prowly," Fort Max says, rubbing the top of Prowl's helm between his imitation turbofox ears. The blush on Prowl's faceplates only strengthens. "Can you give me a paw, Prowly?" He asks, and he extends his servo out. Hesitantly, Prowl reaches up a servo of his own to take Fort Max's, and again, Fort Max smiles at him, petting between his ears. "Good Prowly."

Prowl glances away, and then back. "Woof."

The blue mech tilts his helm. "What's that?"

Huffing, Prowl moves his servo from Fort Max's own servo to his thigh- rather high up on his thigh, in fact. Fort Max feels his faceplates heating up. "Woof," Prowl lets out again, and his optics fall to the floor.

"Oh," Fort Max exvents. "Do you want a treat, Prowly?" The enforcer nods beneath him, servo still rested on his thigh. Fort Max resets his vocals, nodding in return, and the paneling covering his array slides back. His spike, not yet pressurized, extends out. "I suppose you can have a little treat," Fort Max lets out, voice soft, as he blushes and glances away. He can only look away for a moment, though- Prowl just naturally seems to draw his optics. "Since you've been a good bot so far."

Prowl moves his servo from Fort Max's thigh to grip the base of the larger's spike, letting out another small, whispered woof. He leans forward, licking the tip gently, and Fort Max flinches at the contact. He relaxes into it once Prowl gets his lip plating around the tip, slowly swallowing more and more of it down as it pressurizes into his intake. It's kind of fascinating to watch, actually, to see Prowl work around it getting larger directly inside him, as if he's already used to this sort of thing. The thought does not serve to get rid of Fort Max's charge at all.

"Prowl," Fort Max sighs, "That's- that's it. Good bot. Good dog." His vents are slow, laboured. Prowl seems to startle momentarily at being addressed as an Earth animal, and for a klik Fort Max thinks that maybe that was too much for him, but the sound of panels transforming away is heard and Fort Max's optics snap down to see the enforcer's valve pressed to the ground, slowly dripping lubricant, puddling. Fort Max rests a servo on Prowl's helm, and he groans. "Oh, Primus."

Prowl shuts off his optics, removing his servo from the base, and he moves himself down, down, swallowing as much of it as he can take until his lip plating meets the larger's spike housing. His glossa runs along the underside, and again, Fort Max groans. "Prowl," he lets out, "good, good-"

And then Prowl pulls all the way back, almost entirely coming off of it, lip plating still around the very tip but not moving a strut, merely staying in place. Prowl's optics flicker back on, and his looks up at Fort Max, almost expectantly.

"Really?" Fort Max asks, "You're gonna tease me like this?"

Prowl furrows his optical ridges, gently dragging his dentae against the tip, and Fort Max startles at the feeling.

"No! Bad! Bad Prowl!"