#wankformers

[witchofthesouls]

I LOVEEE LOVEE YOUR PROWLL FICS. Would hate to break the chain of the camien nurse, Tarn is a sopping wet cat tbh, BUT PROWL!!! I’d imagine he’d be a handful to fall in love with. How’d he manage to catch feelings for mommy bitty? 😭😭

Tarn is both walking war crimes and poor pathetic meow meow. I love that guy confused and/or bamboozled.

Is Tarn a sad cat?

Absolutely yes

Of course not

So sad he needs to be pegged

Voting ended onJan 31, 2024

Oh ho, if we're talking about repressed, angry cop car with a human s/o, then it was the lip paint and the Ambassador's continuous cubes to keep him alive since Prowl forgets to eat until his HUD is screaming with warnings.

IDW!Prowl was the first to get horny as hell. He hated how a color sludge and a mere cube got his frame worked up. His desk underneath is a mess. His chair is wet. His own spike and valve are completely sore and angry over his servos.

Prowl turns over every little interaction, tries to divine all the small talk and gestures, strips down every piece of your appearance.

You are a minx. A vixen. A vile temptation. A seductress that could give Starscream pointers.

He will not fall for that bold, erotically red lip paint that matches his own chevron!

And then you pun with him and snicker at his jokes, so Prowl is done for.

He falls.

(Meanwhile, you were feeding the guy because Prowl is the only one of your coworkers who knows how to handle all the convoluted paperwork that's the New Cybertron and works insane hours.)

[witchofthesouls]

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.

[witchofthesouls]

Ma'am i am BEGGING you for a Rung guilty wank

(You begged so nicely, anon.)

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.

[witchofthesouls]

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.

[witchofthesouls]

Ahh, anon asked for a OP or Megatron guilty wank.

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. 

[witchofthesouls]

Just read that prowl guilty wank and i forgot how much i love that stuff! It was so good! Do you think you could do IDW Fort Max or Megatron (gotta love them big bots) or honestly Arcee from any universe is always welcome. Which ever one of the three you feel like?

Nghhh, I gotta show some terrible love to Fort Max ;)

__________________________________

In the dark of his habsuite, Fort Max fists his spike, pace harsh and vents ragged. A datapad in his other hand, holding it steady as he watches it, watches you. Shame curdles in his tank, but it doesn’t stop the pleasure in his lines, nor does it holds back the ache in his spark.

He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t even think of you like this. Much less use your snapshots and videos that you sent him from your time on Ventra ‘lix, especially these images of just innocent-doings.

You’re too kind and too beautiful; unmarred and unjaded and soft in other ways than your organic body. You haven’t been shaped by the endless warfare that doomed Cybertron for eons; that broke people, generation after generation, throughout its time. The scars are etched deep into all the mechs here; too desperate, too sharp, too raw. Broken or torn in some form or another. And he’s been broken in so many ways.

But not you. You’re whole; too open compared to them. Eyes lit with adventure and wanderlust for the sake of it, not for an end or an escape. There’s a spark of wonderment in those eyes as the Lost Light travels through galaxies; an eagerness to visit the foreign landscapes and sweet contentment to watch passing nebulae.

And you share that with him. Share your thoughts and curiosities and your kindness and smiles. Your tiny form, smaller than a minibot but far more vulnerable with no armor or exoskeleton for basic protection. Your face bright and hands gesturing along with your words, body bursting with open expression.

Fort Max repays your friendship by sullying it with your images.

He drops the datapad, smothering his moans with his free hand. He digs into the sensitive protoform harder, going rougher, trying to make it hurt, but all he can think is your hands from the videos -you’re fully covered, swaddled in layers from the harsh suns of that desert world, but even those clad hands still speak with those familiar gestures. Eyes, so lovely and bright, peeking through the coverings as Rewind catches your face.

Those tiny fingers, so soft and dexterous - rolling, clenching, pointing, how would those small hands feel on him? Thoughts of you tracing into the groves of his seams and slipping underneath the cabling, able to stoke the pressure nodes directly and how you could literally grab his energon lines feeds the terrible heat in his pulsing array. 

His spike weeps and twitches, staining his own fingers pink and he goes harder and harder until he starts squeezing harshly and chokes out your name as he finally overloads in a mix of pleasure and pain and thoughts of your lovely eyes and soft hands.

[witchofthesouls]

Some guilty wank with Prowl?? Please??

He boots up with a gasp, panel running hot with his spike twitching and valve dripping. Snarling, he opens up and Prowl then jams two fingers deep inside his valve and starts a rough pace, harshly grinding his thumb over the swollen anterior node.

Today would be the boldest seduction attempt you’ve done; he presses another finger into his valve to savor the stretch as Prowl thinks of the red lipstick. Bright as his chevron and bold as the Autobot badge. His free hand moves to angrily fist his weeping spike, flaring from pain but it’s shamelessly eager for more rough treatment, as he recalls that false concern over his work habits and those bright stains on your thermos and cups.

Innocent his aft! Especially when you used that insidious act of nibbling on the end of light-pen and his frame betrays him with a sharp burst of desire. His array in full agreement to be marked wetly in red streaks.

Pleasure burns tighter as he imagines that and you stretched over his berth. You’re stuffed full with his spike, begging for more with that damnable lipstick all smeared. Harder. Faster. His hands and hips comply with the requests in quick, frenzied bursts. Those painted lips part open as you moan his name, face flushed and legs tight around his waist.

Prowl bites his lip hard enough to taste energon as transfluid splatters his hand and belly and lubricant strains his thighs pink as his valve squeezes his fingers.

There’s a moment as he vents harshly before picking himself up and uses a rag to quickly clean. He isn’t getting any more sleep, so he might as well fill out reports before going into the office.