oh ok. no prob! in that case maybe some other xeno? are you okay with tentacles? maybe with wheeljack or jazz? thanks!
Adventure Time
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Wheeljack asks for what’s probably the sixth time in as many minutes.
Jazz claps his hands together and points his fingers at Wheeljack. “Mech, life ain’t worth living if you don’t get a little adventurous once in a while.”
“True,” Wheeljack says.
“And you’ve already promised that not only is this not gonna hurt, but it’s gonna be the most fun I’ve had in decades,” Jazz adds.
Wheeljack’s indicators flash a sunny yellow. “Also true.” He holds up his hand, crossing his index and middle finger. “Scout’s honor, as Spike would say.”
Jazz plants his hands on his hips. “Then why the frag are ya still asking?” He points to the pressurized door in front of them. “Open it up and let’s get this party started.”
“Fair enough. Just wanted to double-check.” Wheeljack chuckles and stabs his fingers at the panel, inputting the code that kept the door locked shut -- more to keep it nosy Cybertronians than to keep in the Offerran diplomats who had come to call.
Long ago, a deal had been made. In exchange for harboring Cybertronians from time to time, and supplying them with a rare element that was available in abundance on Offere Sexta, the Cybertronains agreed to assist the Offerrans with their reproductions. Offerrans were, to put a fine point of it, parasites.
They required the body of another creature to gestate their young.
The door slid open with a whoosh of displaced air, and Jazz followed Wheeljack inside, laying his optics on an Offerran for the first time, in the flesh. They were large aliens, easily bigger than Optimus Prime, and their skin was a shifting rainbow of colors. Their lower halves were a wriggling, squelching mass of limbs that Jazz had already dubbed ‘tentacles’ though Wheeljack told him the Offerrans preferred ‘pseudopods’ and somewhere in that mass was a doubly-thick one that they’d slide into his valve and--
Oh, Jazz felt the warmth curling through his frame already. His valve grew hot and slick, cycling with eager anticipation.
Pleasure, Wheeljack had said. Endless pleasure. Countless overloads, each better than the last as the Offerrans fragged them, depositing their fertilized eggs within their gestational chamber, and let them be, stuffed full for at least a week. They would then be cared for, pampered, while the eggs grew and grew and matured, until Jazz and Wheeljack -- err -- birthed the hatching spawn.
Jazz wished he could say it was the weirdest thing he’d ever volunteered for, but it didn’t even crack the top three.
The diplomat’s shuttle came equipped with all the Offerran’s would need to successfully reproduce, including these things they called pods. Honestly, to Jazz, they looked like oil baths, save that they weren’t filled with oil, but some kind of thick, jelly-like substance that was supposed to be full of nutrients for the newly-hatched young.
He and Wheeljack would spend the entirety of the gestational period within these pods. Ratchet had already started grousing about how long it would take to get the sticky stuff out of their joints by the time they were done.
Jazz didn’t care.
Those tentacles -- pseudopods -- looked like a dream. Firm and squishy, he could already imagine them stuffing his valve, pressing against all of his sensors, making him overload again and again. They’d have to hold him in place, too, to make sure he didn’t squirm away or hurt himself, and mmm.
Yeah.
Jazz was absolutely fragging sure about this.
He clapped his hands together and strode onto the ship, clipping past Wheeljack as he did. “Let’s get started.”
Wheeljack’s chuckle followed him in.
***