Description: Draven is alone with his thoughts of you in the depths of the undercroft.
Draven knows these feelings are wrong, but the dreadful night around him is so uninviting compared to the wanton thoughts of you. They flood his mind like a haze and he sighs at the idea of your warm body touching his. He misses his lips when he thinks of kissing you, pressing your bodies together as he molds his mouth to yours, dragging your hips into his to lightly graze each other in ways suggesting something more… intimate. You'd be so warm. In his mind you actually want him just as much as he wants you.
The undercroft is dark and damp in the night and absently he trails his hand down to the slight bulge in his trousers. It’s been so long since he's touched another. Not since Lilith, and she was never as gentle as he imagines you to be. You'd be so soft with him. You'd stroke him while you kissed and he'd return the favor letting his tongue mingle with yours Slowly he’d explore your mouth and you’d buckle at his touch. He can almost hear your whimpers of desperation in the back of his lust filled mind. He could listen to them for hours if he had the time to devote to you. Hell, the two of you would have all the time in the world to explore each other once he’s sat on the Dead King’s throne. He’d take you on the throne every day, and no one would be there to stop him, especially not the horseman or that god forsaken Chancellor.
The deeper his thoughts travel the more deliberately he rubs. He thinks of you lounging over his bed with nothing to cover you, or maybe you’d wear your tight “modern day” clothes with the pants that hug your ass just the way he likes. His cock throbs in want and he bucks his hips into his palm. He wants you so badly. He wants to kiss you and feel you from the inside out. He wants to make love to you from the late hours of the evening to the early hours of the morning. You'd be so sweet.
Draven feels suffocated under his clothes, everything is too tight! He quickly unbuckles his belt and lets his member spring free. It stands at attention and he’s a little surprised. He hasn't had an erection like that since his days among the living. He didn’t even think he could get one completely. It's so hard it's almost painful to the touch. Gingerly he traces his cool fingers down the veiny shaft. It's chilled to the touch but he tries to imagine what your reaction might be. Surely you've never made love with a dead man before. He hopes you'd be excited.
You'd stare in amazement at his length and kiss his tip ever so lightly, letting your warm tongue sweep out to taste his precum. Maybe you’d stroke him while you sucked his tip or take him all the way down your throat. Even if you couldn’t manage that, the idea of you gagging on his cock makes his head swim. He brings his hand from the base to the tip and massages it until the entire head is slick. He imagines it’s your saliva. He knows that if you would ever suck him off in real life he'd hardly last two minutes. Your heat would melt him. He brings his hand down to pump himself at the thought. He watches the thin skin of his cock slip over prominent veins and he closes his eyes to think of you bobbing your head happily away on his length. Your hair would dance on either side of your face and he’d grip it to help you take him deeper while simultaneously getting a good view of his length slipping farther into your mouth. Your warm skin, the smell of your clothes, the softness of your hair, your voice.
"Ah, dammit-!"
Draven bites back a moan when he thinks of your voice. It's so wonderful when you talk to him and he could die happy each time he makes you laugh. The way you say his name has his rotted stomach doing flips. Your voice overall is a beautiful instrument and, if he had you here tonight, he'd conduct a symphony of your pleasure. You'd say his name, chanting it to the creator, wherever he may be, and he'd whisper you praises to the angels above for letting you be here with him!
"Oh (y/n)...." if only you were mine!
His thoughts tunnel vision into only thoughts of you as he pumps his cock, thrusting his hips to fuck his fist. Slick noises and grunts fill the air and he grips the headboard behind him with his free hand, a scratching of nails digging harsh gouges into the old wood. Faster and faster. Harder and harder with the passion of a mad man until…
There's a thudding of footsteps above. He can hear your angel's voice talking with the horseman.
Draven looks shamefully away from himself. He can't stop the cum indignantly pouring from his cock. He cringes at the white cream that seeps out and drips down his shaft to stain his hands. Here he is: a dead man dirtying himself with thoughts of you two pleasuring each other.
He's lower than trash and you deserve someone better.
Every now and again I get an intense amount of love for secondary/background/unpopular characters, the more uncool they are the better, and after seeing a drawing that @shapeofmetal drew (all my thanks to you for creating that), I couldn’t stop thinking about writing a thing with Hubcap in it.
Highly intelligent overlooked underappreciated awkward nerds with minds filthier than a sewer who could kill you in a second with no remorse are 100% my type.
3003 words of explicit Hubcap/female reader are under the cut.
Movie night started ten minutes ago and Hubcap still hasn’t shown up.
So being the good friend that you are, you offer to go check in on him. You’ve seen this movie before and don’t mind missing the first part of it, which is boring anyway. You’re not concerned that something’s happened to him, but you are disappointed and more than slightly irritated at him for not showing up. You did an excellent job manoeuvring everyone around so that the only empty seat left for him to take would be next to you. And now he’s going to insist that you take the seat while he sits on the floor, meaning that you’ll have to sit next to someone who eats too loudly or talks too much and who doesn’t sneak glances at you when you think you aren’t looking.
This distracting train of thought might be why you open the door to his hab suite without knocking first, and why you don’t notice that the door’s keypad is outlined green for open instead red for locked.
“Are you OK?” you say a bit too harshly as you stride into his room. “We’re all waiting for you and since you didn’t show up on time I’ve now got to sit next to someone who- OH. Oh shit, shit I’m sorry.”
You whip your head to the side but it’s too late. You’ve seen him and he’s seen you and now you know why he wasn’t at movie night.
He was laying on his bed, one arm behind his head to use as a pillow as his other hand pumped his dick, legs spread wide and eyes half-closed in bliss. Then you spoke and his eyes widened and you both made a sharp hot flash of horrified eye contact and now you can hear him scrambling upright and transforming part of himself away.
“I’m really sorry for disturbing you,” you say in a rush.
He’s perched on the very edge of the bed, frozen and rigid and looking like he wants to die. He looks mortified.
You’re sorry you’ve embarrassed him, but you’re not sorry enough to leave. You should be halfway down the corridor now, but you’re not. Instead you’ve been possessed by the fleeting image of how you saw him - relaxed and enjoying himself, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He was taking his time with himself, and that expression on his face… You feel a swooping sensation in your stomach as you remember it. He must have been so wrapped up in his fantasy that he had no idea how much time had passed. You wonder who he was thinking about, and that feeling in your stomach twists painfully.
“Um, I’ll go now,” you say, suddenly deflated. You want to ask him who he was thinking about just as much as you never want to know. It could be someone you don’t like, or someone you’d never stand a chance against. It could be literally anyone but you.
You take a step backwards and this rouses him.
“No, don’t,” he says quickly without thinking about it. “Please don’t. I mean-just. I’m sorry. But please don’t go, I was just thinking of- Um.” He closes his eyes as his mortification sinks deeper.
You should take this chance. Bite the bullet and just ask him. If you don’t like the answer then you can both be horribly embarrassed and you never have to speak of this again. So you should do it. Do it now while you have the nerve.
You take a deep breath and gabble out on the exhale “Who were you thinking of just now was it anyone I know or was it me or not me I just want to know especially if it was me.“
You didn’t mean to say more than those first five words and now you’re blushing furiously and want to die alongside him. Before you can close your eyes you make eye contact with him again and find that you can’t look away.
“Yes,” Hubcap admits in a brave whisper. “I was thinking of you.”
You’re pretty sure the two of you are giving off enough heat to set the fire alarms off, even though you know they’re activated by smoke not heat. But there’s a hammering in your ears and it’s difficult to think straight.
You’re not sure how long you stand immobile and he sits frozen. One of you should make the first move.
“So, uh,” you begin. “That’s good. Thank you. I mean- yeah. That’s nice. Good.”
You should write these words down and submit them for a place in the history books.
Hubcap smiles and shifts in place where he sits. He’s not making any move to stand up or lay down, but he is thawing out.
“Yeah,” he says. “Er, yeah. Yes. That is nice. Was nice. Is nice.”
He’s adorable when he’s flustered like this, but you don’t want to get into a never ending loop of banalities with him. You want more than that. You want more of him. So you’re going to have to take another deep breath and ask another brave question that could knock you flat on your back in the worst way.
“Can I come and sit next to you?” you say in a rush.
Hubcap immediately stiffens. That’s it, you’ve blown your chance, you should never have done that and now you’re going to have to avoid him for the rest of your life until you get a transfer to another ship.
But he also immediately recovers, seemingly aware of how his reaction is being interpreted. You sense him take the cybertronian equivalent of a deep breath himself, and hear gears whirring softly from somewhere deep inside him.
“Why don’t you sit on me instead?” he blurts out.
Hell yes. He offlines his eyes as his bravery is wiped out, and doesn’t see you smile widely. Hell yes that’s what you want to do. But first you should lock the door in case someone else checks up on him.
“How do you lock your door?” you ask him.
Hubcap opens his eyes and looks at the door. He puts two fingers to the side of his head, and after a moment’s hesitation that has nothing to do with the door, he looks back at you. “It’s locked now. Properly this time. ”
You smile wider at his Outlier abilities, and smile even wider as he tries not to smile back at you. You cross the room to where he’s sitting and look up at him. Even though he’s a minibot he’s still so much bigger than you.
“Help me up?” you ask him.
With big gentle hands he lifts you up onto his lap, so that your back is against his chest and you’re facing the same direction. Maybe he doesn’t want his courage to desert him by looking at you. Or maybe he’s putting you in the best position so he can watch what you’re going to do to him.
You feel a gush of heat between your legs, and start to stroke his large metal thighs. He makes an appreciative noise but then cuts himself off sharply. He hadn’t closed his interface panel after you walked in on him, and now that you’re sitting in his lap and touching him his dick has sprung back out.
“Hubcap,” you start to reassure him that he has nothing to be ashamed of, but the moment the second syllable of his name has left your mouth a low moan escapes from his.
You wonder how many people have spoken his name like that to him - softly and slowly and full of rich promise of things to come. Probably no-one.
You stroke his legs again, slowly and surely with the full length of your flat palm, and watch his large dick in front of you twitch in response. You do this again and again, the tips of your fingers almost touching the base of it but sliding back before they do. You continue stroking him like this to try and put him at ease, to make it clear that you want him. You’ve waited for a long time to be with him like this, and you’re not going to ruin it by making him even more nervous than he already is, despite how much faster you want to take things. You can feel him fighting a conflicting battle to relax into your touch and stay tense and alert for your inevitable rejection of him to occur.
“Can I touch you?” you ask, knowing that he’ll know what you mean.
You think you feel him nod in agreement, but it could just have been another nervous twitch. He’s so tight and repressed. You stroke him again, up and down as much of his leg you can cover. You could do this all night to him.
“Can I?” you ask again. You’re not going to do anything more until he makes it clear to you that’s what he wants.
“Yes.” His voice is a low slow grinding of gears and shifting metal plating in your ear. “Please.”
You put a hand on either side of his dick and he moans at the contact. Encouraged, you move your hands up and down it. Your movements are slow and your pressure gentle.
Hubcap wraps one hand around your waist as if to hold you in place, but you’re pretty sure it’s so he can steady himself. You glance down to see what he’s doing with his other hand, and see that he’s gripping the edge of the reinforced metal berth so hard he’s denting it. The hand that’s on your body is feather light.
You increase your pressure and stroke him. Your flat palms run over every ridge and dip of his dick, from the wide base all the way to the smooth tip. His living metal plating is warm and smooth and leaking.
Hubcap moans again, and you finally feel him relax. You’ve convinced him that you want him and want this, and you’re not going to run away screaming or trip over yourself laughing and pointing on your way to tell the others.
Fluid is leaking out of his dick, and you coat your hand in it and rub it all over him. His hand tightens around your waist and he leans down and into you to press his face up against yours. It’s sharply angled and smooth and vents a steady stream of warm air onto you.
In the safety of his dimly lit room and the delusion that this could all just be a dream, Hubcap lives out part of his fantasy and talks to you.
And Goddamn if his voice doesn’t do things to you. His usual stuttering and fragmented sentences have been wiped away and replaced by a voice that is darkly mechanical and smoothly certain.
He drips his secret desires into your ear like he’s leaking hot oil. Each word is rich and dark and meant to burn. You can’t help but stroke him faster as he describes the things he wants to do to you and what he wants you to do to him. You whine, your underwear now a soaking mess, and feel his lips pressed up against your ear curl into a small smile at your reaction. He does not stop talking.
You had no idea his imagination was this vivid or his vocabulary this obscene. But he is an Outlier with an invisible skill set, and has kept dark secrets for most of his life. There is a dark core running through him and he is sharing part of it with you.
“Please,” you whisper in encouragement and selfish pleading. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop. But I need-… I need…”
Hubcap obliges immediately. You didn’t tell him what you want but he knows that you need something more, anything more, and so he rucks up your skirt and slips a finger under your underwear.
You inhale sharply at the feel of warm metal against your hot entrance and then you moan as he slides that finger inside you with a confidence that makes you even wetter. He does not stop talking.
You rock into his hand, encouraging his finger in deeper, and squeeze his dick and that’s what finally makes his smooth voice stutter. You squeeze it again and his voice hitches. He’s leaking steadily now. You coat both of your hands in his fluid and stroke his dick up and down and up and down.
He makes an indecipherable noise at that and you buck into his hand, wondering if he can interpret what you want. He can. Using just one hand he snaps your underwear off, angles his wrist so that his finger sinks in deeper, and uses the flat of his thumb to rub circles into your clit.
It takes only seconds of this treatment before you gasp and grip him tightly and come hard around him.
He hisses and stops rubbing you to let you recover, but doesn’t remove his hand from you. You slump back into his chest and don’t remove your hands from him.
After a few moments you start stroking his dick again, this time with only the the tips of your fingers, and he immediately responds by circling his thumb on your clit and pumping his finger inside you again. You’re relaxed and wet and that finger feels fantastic inside you. You spread your legs wider.
You wonder if his dick would fit inside you. It would be a tight squeeze but you think you could take some of him. With your charge building back up again and without thinking you lift yourself up to try it, but Hubcap stops you and gently sits you back down on him.
“Another time,” he tells you softly, reading your mind. “You need to be prepared first. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You wouldn’t,” you say. But you don’t try that movement again. You’re frustrated but grateful for his consideration and patience.
“I might.” His voice is now serious. “I would rather offline myself than hurt you, even accidentally. I would rather melt my brain module down into sludge and carve my own spark out.”
You bend your head and curl down and lick the tip of his dick.
His cooling fans roar, and his moan is loud enough to be heard over them. You lick it again, a long slow languid lick all over and around it. You collect up as much fluid as you can and swallow it slowly. You lick him a final time and sit back up.
“Please,” Hubcap whines, his soft metal lips up against your ear as he bucks into you for more. “Please.”
“Another time,” you tell him innocently.
You continue stroking and squeezing him, and can sense he’s nearly there.
“Please,” he says again, except this time there’s a stuttering edge of fear in his voice. “I’m gonna- I mean I can’t- I mean I’m going to…”
His confidence has burnt away and been replaced by the realisation that this is all actually happening, and that any moment now he’s going to come all over you unless you stop touching him or get up from his lap. He doesn’t want to subject you to anything you don’t want, but he doesn’t want those things to happen either.
“Good,” you tell him tightly. “Good.”
You want to reassure him further and tell him that you’ve fantasized about this happening for a long time, but your own orgasm is approaching fast and you don’t have the ability to formulate any more words. You stroke and squeeze him and he rubs and touches you and you’re gasping now, your open mouth pressed up against his open mouth, and you’re both making the most desperate noises as you pleasure each other. You grasp his dick hard and he sinks his finger as deep it will go and grinds his thumb against you and you both cry out and jerk and come together.
Transfluid splatters down your front. Some of it sprays upwards onto your neck and into your mouth and it’s so much warmer than you’d thought.
You don’t know how long it takes until you both return and relax but you do, and you slump back together. Hubcap removes his hand from you and turns it over to examine it. It’s wet and glistening. You remove your hands from his dick and hold them up for him to see. He’s venting hot air against you.
“Help me clean up?” you ask.
You feel him nod. He starts moving his hand up to his mouth but you stop him. You take his finger and then his thumb into your mouth and lick them clean. They can’t both fit but you do your best. He vents even harder against your flushed skin.
When his hand is clean you don’t release it - you guide him into using it to clean up your front. He works slowly, and uses a finger to scoop up the fluid that’s covering you. When it’s full you put it to your mouth and suck it clean. The next finger load to clean off is his. Then it’s your turn again. Then his. By the time you’re cleaned off you’ve got a steady heat between your legs again and his dick is getting thick.
“I think we’ve missed the movie,” you say.
He takes a second to adjust to this new line of conversation. “Er, yes. Um. Definitely. But- but worth it.”
“And probably missed the start of the second one.”
You feel him smile against you as he catches on. “Yes. Probably. Definitely. So we shouldn’t…rush to get over there?”
You start to unbutton your shirt. “We shouldn’t rush anything.”
He finishes unbuttoning it for you and puts it carefully to the side. One of his hands slides up towards your chest and the other crawls down between your legs. “Agreed.”
Do you think Tarn is secretly into or has day-dreamed about kinky role-playing scenarios about Megatron?
Tarn strikes me as the type to be into the whole ‘sexy professor and naughty student’ thing, fantasizing about Professor! Megatron bending him over his desk and railing into him as an reward or punishment for an assignment Student! Tarn did?
Or maybe, Gladiator! Megatron claiming Tarn as a prize and taking him in front of a roaring audience?
So many possibilities for this virginal, unreconstructed killing machine.
Definitely.
Has more of a knight and his Lord fantasies or a new contender taken under an experienced gladiator.
Tarn had dreamed of Megatron upon the throne acknowledging his work and questioning Tarn over the early works. Megatron would beckon him to show his knowledge.
He's deeply appreciative of his mask, or everyone can see his flushed face at certain rooms.
Rung wakes up on his couch, frame warm, and mind buzzed from the few cubes of engerix to wind down after a long cycle, panel exposed and spike half-extended.
His servo drifts down and he wraps around himself with a hum, teasing the tip with a thumb as he lazily strokes it to full mast. Sleepy and in the privacy of his habsuite, there’s no shame in it to indulge the remains of a nice dream.
Audials half-tuned to the holovid, letting himself drift into the sensation-
His comm rings.
And it’s you.
Apparently, you joined the medbay personnel to hit the planetside to bar hop and somehow managed to find a model shop.
:: It’s really detailed. Translation said it's the original caste. :: Your speech is slightly slurred. :: I think you’ll- Oh! :: His spike twitches with that sound. :: I just saw something that looked really good to eat! ::
:: Careful there. :: Rung ignores his array, concentrating on the details, explaining how to spot the difference between originals and frauds. Letting your giggles and hums roll over, trying to focus on the words.
He shouldn’t be doing this. It’s one thing to use his imagination in private, it’s another thing to stroke his spike to your voice. His spike has no issues with it, twitching hotly with every hum and ‘oh.’
It’s only to get rid of it, he tells himself, letting his servo resume a stuttering pace.
:: I’m sorry, Rung. ::
::Yes?:: His reply is breathless as his spark flares over the fact you consistently called him by his name, voice huskier, and he hopes that you won’t notice it. Frame buzzing as his fuel lines burns with every wet, slick slide. Shame and guilt pool and heighten the arousal as he roughly tugs himself.
:: I called because I saw another model ship- :: He hears the pop on the last consonant and the image of you between his thighs is seared to his mind: stained lips wet and smile absolutely sly as those very lips wrap around him.
You make another appreciative hum, and overload hits him hard with a sharp inhale, biting his own lips to make sure he didn’t transfer sound over the comms.
May i request IDW Cyclonus with guilty wank, please??
He sighs quietly, servo wet from the pre-fluid weeping from the tip of his spike. A caustic mix of shame, self-disgust, and arousal beats in his chassis as his array pulses with the growing charge.
You’re not what he, or many other mechs, expected as the lone human upon the Lost Light.
You’re not stupidly arrogant, pessimistically jaded, or a paranoid mess pushed out to the stars as a sentient canary in the coalmine.
You’re level-handed, rational, and dutiful to your assigned position. Tiny you may be, you certainly have a sharp whistle to keep the room on track.
You’re kind in that foreign way that mechs here balk at -the war too entrenched in them; for some, they know no other way of life, but there’s steel in your voice when certain boundaries are crossed.
He could admire such traits in a distance, but you actively seek him out.
Between the quiet moments where you share the ever-growing collection of photography, holovids, and neat accounts that blends personal observations and Cybertronian viewpoints, Cyclonus is deeply aware of your own little project to hopefully consolidate the information for the future. You’re not ignorant of the hazards that came with your position, you tell him with a knowing look and sardonic smile. You hope that humanity will take to the stars, sooner than later.
Within those moments, you’ve become a good friend to him. Cyclonus knows exactly how you laugh at hidden gems you hadn’t seen in your photos, the way your tongue flicks out to catch the crumbs of a snack or drops of drink, the half-smile when you listen to his own words...
Cyclonus sharply inhales, lip bleeding as he pictures that knowing look, servo gripping tight to near pain as overload hits hard, transfluid splattering across his abdomen and berth, trying to choke the shame out of his frame.
Here’s the Optimus version I had but separated out since it ties into Thundercracker with a Con!SO. In here, the Autobots managed to get the Reader in their later stages on carrying a trine.
Optimus doesn’t know how he managed to get into the sealed off unit in the medbay, nestled near Ratchet’s high-priority patient.
If you were asleep, he could fight the Matrix’s influence. Force himself away and take on the howling barrage. But you're awake, delirious from the stupor and possibly confused where you're at, but awake, moaning and trying to turn towards him.
Optimus immediately puts a stop to that. Pinning your arms away and keeping you on your side. Your back flushed against his front, and you’re so very warm. The Matrix hisses, disliking the action; it wants to have the carrier underneath, feel the press of a very swollen abdomen full of new life after so, so long.
(He knows if he presses against that swell, he won’t be able to let you go. The dormant protocols and Matrix will latch onto you in a hyperfixation and force him to remain with the newsparks until they’re mechlings.)
You’re grinding against him, cover already open and dripping with tantalizing heat. His panel clicks open without his permission and he can’t command it to shut. His own frame betrays him as it falls under the Matrix's overwhelming desires, the protocols flare to life as he catches a warm, delicious scent, immediately hounding him to relieve your poor state. You cry, crackling with charge as his spike extends slowly, its ridges catching over slick, quivering mesh.
Your frame’s desperate; its heightened metabolism completely outpaces the supplemental infusions. That method could work with just one newspark forging, not three devouring all the materials.
It desperately needs transfluid, and you're already developing signs of an impending heat to attract donors. He can’t fight both the protocols and the Matrix’s obsession on those newsparks, especially with you rubbing against him. He has to compromise or he’ll go into a rut.
Optimus inhales the heat pheromones, groaning and trying to keep himself in check. He shifts to hold your arms away with one hand, and you shiver as he slowly works his way inside, rocking to push the tight rings apart, keeping you in place as the protocols surge hot and hungry, the Matrix not far behind. Givegivegive, it demands, chanting over and over zealously.
It matters not that you're taken. That you're a Decepticon. That you have a partner that’s part of the Command Trine. All it cares for is helping the forging process on the only carrier it's been in contact after four million years of inactivity. All it's focused on is that a carrier is alone, a carrier that is in need.
And needy you are. You whine, struggling against his firm grip, trying to shove back and force a faster pace. You overload quickly, valve clenching tight and he follows with a sigh, engines purring.
You gasp, optics far too bright but still coherent enough to say his name and beg for more.
The Matrix burns and the protocols go rabid and his tenuous hold collapses.
_____________
Optimus onlines with a shout, vents gasping as steam escapes in heavy bursts. To his later shame, he catches the remaining wisps of the induced dream, back into a tight, needy valve clenching and fluttering and pressed against a heated, sparked frame.
His own overload leaves his lines viciously burning, the charge had been held on for far too long. His own spark aches, yearning fiercely. The Matrix's influence bleeding into his sidelined want for a sparkling.
Its croons take a darker, insidious turn when it tries to latch on and twist his soft wish: his lap full of little, chirping Seekers and you sleeping peacefully in his berth, hands over a swelling belly and-
Optimus stumbles over to his private washrack, spike still pressurized and throbbing, operating as if he's actually with a carrier in heat, refractory period nonexistent. Under the spray of cold water and braced against the wall, he fists himself harshly in an attempt to use pain to cool the active protocols.
It doesn’t. His servo is a poor substitute, so he uses the lingering sensations from the dream. You underneath and holding on his sides, legs wrapped around his waist, that swell pressed hotly against him. Optimus falls into it easily; engines roaring, charge racketing fast, the Matrix and protocols purring and possessively pleased: Keep you stuffed. Keep you sated. Keep you here.
He keeps it up until he’s finally spent, spike could only twitch and dribble a few droplets, and the cold water registers on his sensors. The Matrix murmurs angrily at the waste, protocols hissing in agreement. The transfluid all over the wall and floor is far thicker and darker, heavy with nanites.
But he could only picture you sleepily content, thighs wet and splattered pink, newsparks kicking and following his digits.
