[TFP] Ask Nicely

Arcee was a menace.

And Knock Out would be sure to tell her so the moment his mouth was no longer occupied with her spike. Which, by the way, kept nudging at the back of his intake and seeping pre-fluid over his glossa.

Her hand cradled his helm, keeping him in place. Her thumb teased his finials, sending shocks of pleasure down his spinal strut.

“This, I think, is the best use for that smart mouth of yours,” she purred.

“Mmph.” His outrage was both muffled and buried under another wave of arousal as she rolled her hips forward, her spike gliding across his glossa.

Arcee chuckled. “You don’t agree?” She looked down at him and withdrew her spike, curling her hand around it so that she could paint his lips with the tip. “Or maybe you want something else?”

“Yes. A little attention for once,” Knock Out retorted, rolling his frame toward her, and specifically his hips. Not that he had much room to move, given the shackles keeping his wrists bound behind his back and to the back of the chair.

Her pre-fluid was sticky on his lips. He licked it away.

“Is that so?” Arcee stepped back and dropped down, straddling his lap. Her spike poked at his belly, leaving a swipe of fluid on his freshly polished armor. She did so love marking him. “Then ask me nicely.”

A menace. Clear and simple.

Knock Out twitched against the chair. His ankle-struts had been bound to the legs of the chair, forcing his knees spread wide, baring his array. His valve pulsed longingly. Every puff of air teased his swollen rim. There was a growing puddle beneath his aft. His spike throbbed behind his panel.

Argh.

“Please,” he gritted out, never one to submit gracefully. That sounded too much like giving Arcee what she wanted. And Knock Out was not an obedient pet.

Unless he wanted to be.

“Can I have your spike?” Knock Out demanded.

“Mmm. No.” Arcee draped her arms over his shoulders, her long fingers teasing into the rims of his upper tires. “That greedy valve of yours definitely hasn’t earned it.”

Knock Out heard a click before he felt lubricant drip onto his spike panel. It was searing hot, such a tease. His vents stuttered. His spike throbbed harder.

“But maybe if you satisfy mine, I’ll play with yours.” Arcee rolled her hips again, grinding her spike against his ventrum, the heat of her valve such a tease above his spike panel.

Knock Out shivered and tugged at his bonds. They didn’t budge. “Menace,” he hissed.

Arcee hummed a laugh. “Maybe I am. Now give me your spike.”

Knock Out’s panel snicked aside, frame hastening to obey. He wasn’t even ashamed anymore, and especially not when Arcee immediately moved to sink down over him, swallowing his spike in one fell swoop.

His engine roared, threatening to kick into overheat.

Damn menace was what she was. Right down to the smirk on her lips. And the squeeze-clench-grip of her valve.

Guh.

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[IDW] Mouthy Racers

“I told you to be quiet, Speed Racer,” Drift said as he smoothed his hands up Blurr’s thighs, his fingers teasing into the vent slats.

Blurr glared at him and muffled a grunt around the ball gag.

“It’s not my fault you don’t have any self-control.” Drift smirked.

He couldn’t help but admire the Racer perched on his lap. Blurr’s wrists were cuffed behind his back, and he straddled Drift, thighs splayed wide. His cables creaked and trembled as he struggled to keep his balance.

That only the upper third of Drift’s spike breached his valve might have had something to do with it, too. Blurr’s calipers fluttered restlessly, clutching at Drift’s spikehead. He leaked lubricant steadily. Heat poured from his frame.

“Couldn’t have you biting me either,” Drift added and leaned back to admire, his fingers still plucking at Blurr’s thigh vents. “Besides, we have a deal, remember?”

Blurr’s optics flashed, but he started to move. Little rocks, forward and back, of his hips. He lifted himself, achingly slow, and sank back down. He fragged himself on Drift’s spike without any help on Drift’s part. His biolights pulsed fitfully. His spike remained locked behind a rattling panel. As they’d agreed.

Blurr was much easier on the audials when he didn’t speak. Drift really enjoyed locking all that arrogance behind a gag, even if it was earned.

Drift grinned. “A deal’s a deal.”

‘And next time, it’s my pick,’ Blurr said over the comm.

Tsk, tsk. Technically not against the terms, but still bad form. Sneaky little Racer. He’d have to pay a penalty for that later.

But for now.

Drift snuck a hand up Blurr’s legs and gave him a light swat on the aft. “Get moving,” he said. “I want to see an overload.”

Blurr growled at him, but he lifted and dropped himself faster, his hips rolling to swallow Drift’s spike deeper.

Perfect.

[IDW] Sleeping Beauty

A sleeping Ratchet was a tempting Ratchet. The creases of stress were gone from his face. His armor loosened, offering tantalizing glimpses of the cables and structures beneath. His engine idled so quietly as to not be audible. The smallest of curves graced his lips.

Drift desperately wanted to kiss him. He skimmed his hands along Ratchet’s thighs, tracing armor in need of a strip, wax, and repaint. Self-care, for Ratchet, was never high on his to-do list.

It needed to be.

Drift swore that in the shadows between Ratchet’s thighs, lubricant glistened on a still bared valve. Drift’s mouth watered. He wanted to bury his face down there, lick Ratchet awake, and then lick Ratchet to overload. He wanted to walk around with the taste of Ratchet on his lips.

Drift hummed deep in his chassis. He stroked down toward Ratchet’s knees. Ratchet’s field plucked at his, strumming pleasure as though he were an instrument.

Drift shivered. He moved closer, his armor nudging against Ratchet’s in a wonderful slide of metal against metal. Heat floated from his substructure, wafting over Ratchet. The medic twitched, making a soft sound, and one of his arms moved.

Drift eyed it warily and tensed. But all Ratchet did was grope blindly, until his arm looped around Drift’s chassis and abruptly tugged.

Drift muffled a yelp as he tumbled forward, sprawling across Ratchet’s broad chassis. The soft idle of Ratchet’s engine turned into a warm purr. He cradled Drift against him, thighs lightly bracketing Drift’s hips. He was snug and tucked against Ratchet’s array and ooo, it was bared.

Drift licked his lips. He swallowed a groan as he buried his nasal ridge against Ratchet’s intake.

“Stop squirming.” Ratchet’s arm tightened around him.

“I’m not.” Drift slid a hand against Ratchet’s side, hooking his fingers in a transformation seam. “You’re seducing me.”

“I’m recharging,” Ratchet retorted.

“And looking really adorable while doing it.” Drift pressed a kiss to Ratchet’s intake, and felt the vibrations of Ratchet’s vocalizer against his lips. “So really, it’s your fault. Ow!”

Ratchet had pinched his tire.

“Hush. Sleep now.”

Drift wriggled. “Can’t.”

“Too bad.”

Drift ex-vented over Ratchet’s intake cables, making Ratchet shiver. He grinned against Ratchet’s intake. He squirmed.

Ratchet pinched his tire again. “Don’t make me toss you off this berth.”

Drift laughed. “You wouldn’t.”

The medic’s engine grumbled at him. “If you stop squirming and go to sleep, I promise to suck you off in the morning.”

Drift stilled. His spark throbbed, as did his array. “Really, Ratchet? Bribery?”

“There’s still the option of tossing you off the berth.”

Drift’s forehelm thunked against Ratchet’s shoulder. He ex-vented hotly. “I’ll behave.”

Ratchet stroked over his tire, probably in an attempt to be soothing, but all it did was remind Drift of how much he wanted to kiss Ratchet right now.

“But you owe me an overload,” Drift muttered.

Ratchet’s arm squeezed his chassis, pinning him against the medic’s chestplate. “Put it on my tab.” His field rippled against Drift’s before it smoothed over again, the soft pulses of a mech sliding back into recharge.

Damn it. If he wasn’t so darn adorable.

Drift sighed and told his heated frame to heel. A little delayed pleasure never hurt anyone, he supposed.

Besides, he could still lick Ratchet out in the morning if he wanted. Something to look forward to then.

Drift grinned and shuttered his optics. To recharge it was.

[IDW] The Switcharoo

He is one fine piece of aft, Rodimus decides as he crawls up his own frame, plants his aft on his own thighs, and traces his seams with very clever, small, and green fingers.

The weirdness of looking at himself is quickly eclipsed by appreciation. Damn, but he looks good.

“I must admit, this is more than a little disconcerting,” Minimus says with Rodimus’ voice. But he shivers and arches and his panel springs open as Rodimus touches him. “Though your frame feels otherwise.”

Rodimus chuckles, and wow, but Minimus has a cute laugh. He should use it more often.

“I’m a ‘Hot Rod’ remember?” he says. “It doesn’t take much.”

“So I see.” Minimus gasps as his spike (or Rodimus’ depending on your point of view) pressurizes, glossy and firm and very nice indeed. “Or feel, I should say. How do you endure this need?”

Rodimus is curious enough to touch himself, feel the nubs on his spike without the feedback from his own tactile sensors. “Practice,” he says with a squeeze to the flame-emblazoned unit. “Can I even fit in you?”

His own face looks back at him, Minimus amused behind the smirk. “You are not that large, Rodimus.”

“Hey!” He squeezes himself, feels the throb of his own spike, and is rewarded with a visible shiver.

Damn, but he has a pretty spike. Feels good, too. Rodimus is going to enjoy riding it. Even Minimus’ valve agrees. It quivers and seeps lubricant.

“You don’t need any special prep, do you?” Rodimus asks as he wriggles forward, so that he can rock against his spike. It feels good against the swollen lip of his borrowed valve.

The heat pooling in Minimus’ belly is slow and liquid, different than the sharp ache Rodimus is more familiar with in his own frame.

Minimus slips a hand between Rodimus’ thighs, and it should be strange to watch his own fingers stroke over a pale green valve rim. But it’s not. Because it feels good. So damn good.

“I don’t,” Minimus says, and it comes out a purr, in Rodimus’ own voice. “But it never hurts to indulge.”

Rodimus shivers. “No, it doesn’t,” he agrees.

This is going to be so much fun.

[IDW] Mine, Yours, Ours

Drift isn’t sure which of them said it first. He supposes it doesn’t matter given that they’ve achieved the desired result. That it’s led to this.

Him. In Megatron’s lap. Kissing his former commander as though his spark depends on it. Oil sloshes around them, warm and soothing, but nothing compared to the blaze of Megatron’s frame pressed against his. It is somehow both foreign and familiar and Drift craves more, more, moreuntil the voice hooks fingers in his desperation and drags him out of the past.

“I suppose I should leave you two be then,” Ratchet drawls, the words teasing but his tone hinting at something deeper.

Drift pulls away from the kiss, his face awash with embarrassment. But Megatron smirks and cups his aft before slanting that grin at Ratchet.

“You are every bit a part of this, my dear Ratchet,” Megatron purrs. “So you can choose to sulk or you can wade across this pool and join us.”

Drift’s optics widen even as lust spikes tenfold within him.

Ratchet and Megatron both? At once? Around him or within him or both?

Please. He’ll beg if he must.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” Ratchet grumps, never one to back down from a challenge. He sloshes across the pool and his hands slide up Drift’s back, traveling familiar paths of pleasure, provoking a shiver from Drift. “He’s mine, too.”

Drift moans. He squirms between them, not caring who does what so long as they touch him.

“Please,” he says.

“You need only ask.” Megatron kisses him, soft and sweet, and Drift trembles.

Because Ratchet is here, too. Stroking him. Teasing him. Pressing against him.

Right now, there is literally no place else Drift would rather be.

[IDW] Merciless

There are few sights as intoxicating as a panting, squirming jet all but begging for relief.

Pharma rides three of Tarn’s fingers, his hips rolling into the thumb against his anterior node. His frame drips with condensation. His engines whine. His field is a suffocating frenzy, and Tarn revels in it.

Once upon a time, a mech like Pharma would have sneered at the very idea of Tarn. Now, he gasps, thirsty and desperate, optics bright and pleading.

“Can I–”

“No.” Tarn’s thumb rubs firmer circles and Pharma whimpers.

The medic gnaws on his bottom lip. His hands claw at the berth, for he’s been forbidden to touch Tarn or himself. He hasn’t earned either.

Pharma’s valve clasps hungrily around Tarn’s fingers. Lubricant flows freely, seeping into his joints, pooling beneath Pharma’s aft.

Charge dances from beneath his armor, lighting up the room.

“Rust you,” Pharma snarls in clips of static. But his field screams desire and his biolights pulse faster.

Tarn drinks in the sight. He frags Pharma with fingers alone while Pharma begs for more.

Relief is his to grant. And Tarn prides himself on his lack of mercy.

Poor, poor Pharma.

[G1] Personal Show

There was something intensely arousing about watching Skyfire’s fingers plunge into his own valve.

Perhaps it was the wet squelch of lubricant. The low hum of pleasure in Skyfire’s intake. Or the way his hips rolled, his engine purred, and his thighs trembled, the berth beneath his aft soaked with fluids.

Ratchet couldn’t look away. His own systems heated, spike pinging, and desire sending a surge through his lines.

He watched, avid, as Skyfire cupped his own array, shoving his thick fingers deeper. He shivered, armor lifting away from his substructure, his biolights pulsing.

“Tell me what you’re thinking of?” Ratchet asked as he licked his lips.

Skyfire looked down at him, all smiles and soft heat. “You,” he said, “putting your mouth to work. Here.”

His fingers slid free and dragged over the swollen rim of his valve, painting it in lubricant. They glistened in the overhead light.

“That is, if you’re so inclined,” Skyfire purred.

Ratchet’s hands smoothed up Skyfire’s thighs, even as Skyfire pinched his own anterior node, making his engine rev.

“If you overload yourself, I’ll lick you clean,” Ratchet promised. He licked his lips again, imagining the heat and taste of him, the aftermath of a glorious pleasure.

Skyfire groaned and scrubbed the heel of his palm across his array. “Deal.”