#no more cybertronians disgusted or repulsed by human reproduction

[mychlapci]

people need to get really freaky with transformers sex, pregnancy and birth. and child-raising also. most of the time when i see transformers pregnancy it's all too similar to human pregnancy. and there's nothing really wrong with it, mind you, i'm into it, but i just feel like its not fair. i mean, the writers were so determined to make sure transformers are incapable of having sex and birthing babies that they created the most fucked up and inconsistent canon system of reproduction in the world. us transformers sex believers need to get fucked up with it too. on purpose

[rawmeknockout]

Can I request a breeding kink for Vos and a human s/o? I'm thirsty for that man 👁️👁️

Vos doesn’t like Tarn’s new pet. It blubbers and whines in its high-pitched mammalian sounds, crying like a dying mechanimal during every klik of the orbital cycle. It requires far too much attention, or else it’s likely to be crushed in one of its pathetic escape attempts. Too many times Vos has been tasked with crawling through the vents to pluck up the skittering thing. Every time, it bawls its little organic optics out and kicks at him. Were it not for Tarn’s fondness of the thing, Vos would have squished the little insect by now.

There’s truly no use having it around, and yet Tarn has affection for it all the same.

Occasionally, Vos, with his audials set to maximum, will hear its distant whining and it’s… Softer. Drawn out and mournful. Everyone knows why Tarn keeps it alive, but Vos has no taste for it. Laying with the thing, even if he were desperate enough, would be like laying with the Pet. Primal and repulsive; an act of a mech who is truly without dignity. He tries not to juxtapose this judgement with the idea of his leader.

And yet, the creature is soft in his servos. It trembles but Vos keeps a sure grip on it. Easily. He’s unused to being so large next to another. He’s known of humans for a while, but has never had the misfortune of meeting one before Tarn’s pet.

It… You squish and yield beneath his claws. The next time Vos has to pull you from the vents, he looks at his digits for a long time. A creature like you shouldn’t even survive. No outer shell to protect you, inner structure like the flimsiest steel, mesh that is not mesh. It bends and flexes and gives way readily when punctured. Vos can… imagine what Tarn sees in you. If he truly were to give you a grace you don’t deserve.

You are small, yes, but your body gives way. It bends and adapts readily. Part of what makes carrying so unviable is the rigidity of Cybertronian frames. A species meant to, built to, colonize and conquer. Frames made to withstand and last. Frames that don’t produce life as easily, because reproduction is not the first method by which they survive. But for organics, mating like petrorabbits is the only way to thrive. The idea was disgusting to him at first, novel in a way that looking at a scraplet’s innards might be, but the idea sits in his processor for too long. Festers like an open wound. Vos has always been seen as more primitive, treated as such by his peers. It’s not something that bothers him anymore, but it has certainly shaped him.

He can’t rationalize why he does it. Perhaps he is truly sick. His job makes that obvious to any other, but Vos knows he has limits. Assumed he did, at least. You are snug around his spike, warm and wet. Your insides writhe in a way that is unnatural to him, unlike the grind of cable and gear. You do not coil like metal. It’s not unpleasant in the slightest. Part of him is still repulsed by the slip of your body against his, the way your organic flesh presses oil and sweat to his armor, but Vos revels in the disgusting. He would gladly coat himself in another mech’s viscera, and pushing his spike into you feels like the same sort of satisfaction.

You would look endearing filled to the brim with sparklings, your body molded around what he had given you. His coding hard at work in a body that is designed to bend and morph. Just as your body yields, you make room to fit him. You bend your desires out of the way to curl into Vos’ arms, to wrap your small human legs around his hips and pull him close. Your animal sounds are light and lovely, no longer a grating keen for mercy or freedom. Tarn could never pull such sounds from your fleshling vocalizer, too large and too rough no matter how he tries. His frame made to bully through others with little regard. And yet, compared to you, Vos is the same. It pulls a raspy chuckle from his intake, a moan like rusty metal grinding.

Vos will make sure it takes. You are eager for his touch, your body more than able to carry, and he has all the time in the world to see it will.