swerve havin a good wank on camera, as was requested via monthly poll by my patrons!
Medics donât work
after servo repairs or upgrades. Understandably so. Itâs like asking a flier to
pull off complicated stunts just after wing repairs. The only way you can
easily convince a medic to take some downtime is by getting them an upgrade.
This is relatively common knowledge.
What is less common
knowledge is that some of that downtime generally includes something that isnât
quite standard procedure for after a mod or repair of most sorts. Medics have
an extraordinary number of sensors in their servos, and some peopleâs
processors interpret the sensory input in very interesting ways under certain
circumstances.
Forceps is one of
those people, here are those circumstances.
 (This be NSFW. No other warnings. Masturbation via servo stimulation, and what may or may not be oral depending on what counts. Medics have very sensitive servos, ânuff said.)
Between several modded-in additions and many servo repairs
over the course of the war, Forceps had figured out the perfect way to do this.
A comfortable chair with enough width to let them comfortably splay their legs,
a table in front at just the right height to support their servos on it, and
the supplies set up nicely in front of them.
Vents quickening in anticipation, Forceps carefully lined up
a row of small, delicate brushes, aligning them with a bottle of polish, a
buffing cloth, and a tin of high-quality paint. This was part of the ritual-
slowly run their fingertips along the lid of the bottle, around the tin,
against the brush handles, then pick up a brush and flick it against their
fingertips. One-two-three, testing that each non-thumb digit on both servos had
the same level of sensory input despite the work, then stroke the brush down
from each fingertip to their palm. Perfect. There was still the soft ache from
having their fingers opened up and reassembled, but it was satisfying, like theyâd done a series of intricate repairs in
record time.
Drawing out the anticipation a bit further, they stroked the
brushtip in slow, even circles against each fingertip, in order, focusing on
how the brush moved and how it felt. The sensory input was usually practical
only, nothing like something suggestive, but this⌠mm.
Slow, gentle, focused attention, dim lighting, a comfortable
temperature, no pulse under their fingertips, nothing but the stimulation they
chose to feel. Pampering. Well-deserved pampering. And it⌠felt⌠good.
No need to rush their arousal. That would come. Best to try
and be productive right now.
First, Forceps transformed the new mods out, flexing their
servos slowly and watching them shift. Two tiny, razor-sharp, curved blades,
affixed to a series of tiny piston-like mechanisms that could perfectly adjust
the angle in almost any direction. These would let them cut perfectly and shift
the blade as it cut, and their self-repair had already been coded to keep the
edges razor-sharp. Their laser scalpels were suitable for the majority of
procedures, but these had their uses. Excellent for scar removal with a minimum
of damage. And so, so sharp.
Itching to slice something, Forceps pulled a chunk of dense
silicone from subspace, set it on the table, and cut into it. Slowly at first,
watching the knives slide with the barest trace of resistance, then a quick
twist and a motion out to the sides. It felt perfect. Satisfying. And a valid
test!
Forceps enjoyed the clean sliding sensation for a few
moments more, optics dimmed and half-shut, purring, then set the silicone aside
and picked up the brush again. This time, they ran the tip and handle against
the mechanisms of the new mods, testing the sensation, then tucked the blades
away and flexed their servos again.
Picking up the cloth, Forceps dabbed the slightest bit of
polish onto it, then leaned back in the chair and began buffing their fingers
clean. It looked a bit odd to have just the middle finger of each servo
unpainted, but mods this delicate took best when the paint nanites had been
drawn away from the area. Besides.. they werenât about to pass this up.
The initial buffing was too much sensation at once to feel
like anything in particular, but necessary to make sure the area was clean.
Next⌠mm.
Biting their lip, Forceps opened the paint tin, then dipped
the tip of a brush inside and swirled it. Slowly, slowly, watching the flow of
the paint, then how it dripped free of the brush as they lifted it.
The first touch of paint was always the strongest sensation.
Cold, wet, slick, a slow, even slide from the tip of their finger to the base,
luxury more than practicality. Forcepsâ cooling fans kicked up another notch
and they ex-vented softly, optics shutting entirely for a moment, then opened
them again and kept working. This was a very thin paint, it had to be to
prevent imperfections. They were going to need, mm, multiple coats.
The touch of the brush, the slide of the bristles across
their plating, the cool sensation of the paint, the barely-there sensation of
it just beginning to dry around the edges⌠Forceps shuddered, legs sliding
apart, and retracted the cover over their valve. They werenât going to use it,
not any time soon, but the air against their valve was all it took for their
processor to set the luxurious sensations firmly in the âsexualâ category.
As the first layer on their left servo began to dry, they
switched the brush over and did the same with the right finger, biting their
lip slightly harder and lifting the sawlets on their back.
Next⌠both their favorite and least favorite part of this
whole thing.
Waiting for the paint to dry enough for the next layer.
They knew down to the nanoklik how long it would take in
this air temperature. It was a tease. Theyâd
never been sure whether or not they liked that.
As they counted down, they flexed their servos slowly
against the air, rubbing the tips of their not-recently-painted digits
together. Helm lolling back, they lowered their servos and stroked over their
inner thighs in slow, even circles, purring, shivering as they felt the paint
drying. Cool, perfectly smooth, contracting slowly and evenly around their
fingers, a firm squeeze that had the sensors tingling gently as they were
constricted the tiniest fraction.
They were less sensitive for the next layer of paint, so
they applied it a bit faster, quick little flicking strokes, vents quickening
and charge rising at the sensation. This time, they lowered their servos to
play along their inner thighs as the paint dried, fingers dipping into their
inner thighs to feel how the muscle cables slid and tensed against their
fingertips.
Forceps was aroused. Their valve was starting to lubricate,
and their spike would probably have been pressurizing if theyâd retracted their
panel. On some level, they were aware of their interface equipment activating,
but it was background noise against the sensory input from their servos.
The third coat of paint went much the same, but took
slightly slower motions, they had to focus intently to keep their servos
steady.
The fourth⌠the fourth was less practicality and more pure
luxury. Half of it was done with their optics shut, purely by touch, helm
lolling back and thighs splayed wide. Midway through the second finger, a
shudder ran down their spine and they moaned, ever-so-softly, pausing for a
moment to let their frame settle. There was only so much their servos could do
to stay still against their frame moving, and this- well, it didnât demand
absolute perfection, not like delicate surgeries, but Forceps saw no reason not
to be this precise. They couldnât be precise while shuddering in pleasure,
though, so they had to wait for a moment.
And then, mm.
Then a brush. Tiny, gently tapered at the tip, stiff little
bristles. Ostensibly for simple detail work, for cleaning, but there was no
cleaning needed here. Forcepsâ servos were pristine. Still, it was best to
check, wasnât it?
A check that meant bristles sliding between delicate structures
in their servo joints, against the backs and sides of the hidden mechanisms. Othersâ
servos were complex enough, but medicsâ servos added a whole other layer of
detail, hidden tools and devices packed tight together. A thousand nooks and
crannies to explore with the brush, innumerable sensory nodes to set alight
with pleasure, every press and stroke of the brush finding new sensors and
sending pulses of bliss up their spine.
It wasnât spread out enough, though, wasnât enough
sensation- too pinpoint, one internal joint of one finger at a time, and they
couldnât do anything with the other servo because they needed it to hold the
brush. Crooning in the back of their throat, they sucked lightly on their thumb
for a moment or two, glossa tracing over the tip, then slowly pulled it out and
dipped the brush into one joint. The cooling sensation of evaporating oral
lubricant was perfect, spreading the sensation out, and they kept their servo
against their face so they could feel the heat of their panting against their
palm.
Warm air and cool wetness and the soft, firm strokes of the
brush, enough sensory input that they could narrow their awareness down to
nothing but. Forget their dripping valve, the spike trying to pressurize behind
their panel, forget everything but the strokes of the brush, the temperature
gradient on their servo, and- in a quick motion- their glossa running over
their newly modded finger. The entire world fell away, and Forceps melted into
their chair, sucking lightly at two fingertips and teasing the seams of the
other fingers with the brush.
Overload like this was always a slow build, gradual, gentle,
their charge rising a fraction with every tiny motion of the brush. When it had
a-l-m-o-s-t crested, they set the brush aside, gripped the seat of the chair
with their free servo, and delicately scraped their teeth along the sides of
their finger. That burst of hot pleasure-pain sensation brought their charge to
its peak, and they muffled a quiet, shaking wail of pleasure around three of
their fingers as they overloaded.
As they came back to themself, they pulled their fingers
from their mouth, long and slow, savoring the wet slide and the drip of oral
lubricants. Lips parted, they panted quietly and gripped the padded arms of the
chair, grounding their frame in the present enough that their optics refocused.
That⌠that was good. Theyâd need to be able to see to get over to the berth.
The berth sounded very good right then. Pushing the chair
back, they carefully stood up, now fully aware of their valve âand its
lubricant dripping down their thigh- and the fact that the rest of their frame
existed. The rest of their thoroughly unsteady frame.
Berth. Definitely, berth. Calipers clenching insistently on
thin air, Forceps staggered to the berth and flopped into it, face-down, taking
a moment or two to pant for breath. Crawling up to rest their helm on the
pillow, they spread their legs and propped their hips up, exposing their valve
to the air. They could overload without touching their equipment at all, but
their frame always ended up wanting a bit more.
Hence⌠this. Snuggling their cheek against the pillow in
enjoyment of the softness, they pulled a nubbed, squishy vibrating egg from
subspace, squeezing it firmly with their less-slick servo. Had to make it even.
One overload per servo. With a valve overload somewhere in there, preferably. Forceps
turned the vibrator on at its lowest setting, squeezing it again, then pressed
it just past their valve rim and cupped their palm against their valve lips.
They could feel the vibrations like this, thrumming into their servo, and their
previously-slicked servo clenched tight on the blankets for support as they
pressed their fingers past slick folds.
There was nothing quite like this. Sliding their fingers
into their own valve, fingertips braced against the thrumming toy, charge and
lubricant coating their fingers and submerging them in sensation. Their
calipers clamped tighter in response, rippling to draw the toy deeper, and
Forceps shuddered as it clenched
their fingertips tight against the toy. Tight, intense, almost too much, but
so, so good, the sensations in valve
and servo almost blending together but still distinct enough to feel the difference.
Another squeeze of their calipers, and the toy slid that much deeper, their
hips bucking in instinctive response-
Then, with the toy out of easy reach of their fingertips,
they pressed two fingers in alongside it and nearly overloaded on the spot.
They hadnât done this trick with a
new mod, only as a part of their typical relaxation time, and it was strong. Gasp-groaning against the
pillow, they held still for a moment, lubricant dripping down their fingers and
into their palm, then revved their engine and went with it. Hard. Quick, strong
pumps of their servo, thrusting as steadily as they could, riding the tsunami
of near-overwhelming pleasure to bring their charge up faster than they could
normally manage.
Curling into themself, Forceps gasped, shuddered, and curled
their fingers in their valve, spreading it wide, driving their fingertips into
the toyâs soft cover in search of more.
Delicate sensors met the vibrating core of the toy, and Forceps squealed, balanced right on the edge of
overstimulation as their valve clamped down and the tidal wave of their charge
crashed over them.
Forcepsâ back arched and they moaned, thighs clamping tight around their arm, pedes skidding
against the blankets and free servo gripping the blankets so hard their
clawtips stuck through.
The toy had a very simple bit of programming in it, and a
couple of sensors; when its user overloaded, it revved harder for a nanoklik or
two, depending on intensity of the vibrations, then shut off completely. At
that point, Forceps was grateful beyond expression for said feature, stopping
them from being overwhelmed past the point of pleasure.
Groaning, they settled limp against the blankets, wrapping the
cable of the toy around their finger, and slo-o-owly pulled it free of his
valve. That last bit of stimulation from the toy sliding through their valve rim
sent a shudder through their exhausted frame, then they went limp, pressing
their near-overstimulated servos together so both would be equally damp with
lubricant. That⌠that was perfect.
âŚhm. Theyâd gotten both servos thoroughly slicked with two
different kinds of lubricant.
They were probably going to have to clean that up, werenât
they?
An amazing thought. For later. Right now, they were
exhausted, and they were going to stay like this; face-down in a pillow, valve
aching pleasantly, servos tingling all over, too wrung-out to have any
inclination towards movement.
Female figurine from the Hohle Fels cave near Stuttgart, about 35,000 years old. Interpreted as a pornographic pin-up.
âThe Earliest Pornographyâ says Science Now, describing the 35,000 year old ivory figurine thatâs been dug up in a cave near Stuttgart. The tiny statuette is of a female with exaggerated breasts and vulva. According to Paul Mellars, one of the archaeologist twits who commented on the find for Nature, this makes the figurine âpornographic.â Nature is even titling its article, âPrehistoric Pin Up.â Itâs the Venus of Willendorf double standard all over again. Ancient figures of naked pregnant women are interpreted by smirking male archaeologists as pornography, while equally sexualized images of men are assumed to depict gods or shamans. Or even hunters or warriors. Funny, huh?
Consider: phallic images from the Paleolithic are at least 28,000 years old. Neolithic cultures all over the world seemed to have a thing for sculptures with enormous erect phalluses. Ancient civilizations were awash in images of male genitalia, from the Indian lingam to the Egyptian benben to the Greek herm. The Romans even painted phalluses on their doors and wore phallic charms around their necks.
Ithyphallic figure from Lascaux, about 17,000 years old. Interpreted as a shaman.
But nobody ever interprets this ancient phallic imagery as pornography. Instead, itâs understood to indicate reverence for male sexual potency. No one, for example, has ever suggested that the Lascaux cave dude was a pin-up; heâs assumed to be a shaman. The ithyphallic figurines from the Neolithic â and there are many â are interpreted as gods. And everyone knows that the phalluses of ancient India and Egypt and Greece and Rome represented awesome divine powers of fertility and protection. Yet an ancient figurine of a nude woman â a life-giving woman, with her vulva ready to bring forth a new human being, and her milk-filled breasts ready to nourish that being â is interpreted as pornography. Just something for a man to whack off to. Itâs not as if thereâs no other context in which to interpret the figure. After all, the European Paleolithic is chock full of pregnant-looking female statuettes that are quite similar to this one. By the time we get to the Neolithic, the naked pregnant female is enthroned with lions at her feet, and itâs clear that people are worshipping some kind of female god.
Yet in the Science Now article, the archaeologist who found the figurine is talking about pornographic pin-ups: âI showed it to a male colleague, and his response was, âNothingâs changed in 40,000 years.ââ That sentence needs to be bronzed and hung up on a plaque somewhere, because you couldnât ask for a better demonstration of the classic fallacy of reading the present into the past. The archaeologist assumes the artist who created the figurine was male; why? He assumes the motive was lust; why? Because thatâs all he knows. To his mind, the image of a naked woman with big breasts and exposed vulva can only mean one thing: porn! Porn made by men, for men! And so he assumes, without questioning his assumptions, that the image must have meant the same thing 35,000 years ago. No other mental categories for ânaked womanâ are available to him. His mind is a closed box. This has been the central flaw of anthropology for as long thereâs been anthropology. And even before: the English invaders of North America thought the Iroquois chiefs had concubines who accompanied them everywhere, because they had no other mental categories to account for well-dressed, important-looking women sitting in a council house. Itâs the same fallacy that bedevils archaeologists who dig up male skeletons with fancy beads and conclude that the society was male dominant (because powerful people wear jewelry!), and at another site dig up female skeletons with fancy beads and conclude that this society, too, was male dominant (because women have to dress up as sex objects and trophy wives!). Male dominance is all they can imagine. And so no matter what they dig up, they interpret it to fit their mental model. Itâs the fallacy that also drives evolutionary psychology, the central premise of which is that human beings in the African Pleistocene had exactly the same values, beliefs, prejudices, power struggles, goals, and needs as the middle-class white professors and students in a graduate psychology lab in modern-day Santa Barbara, California. And that these same factors are universal and unchanged and true for all time.
Hohle Fels phallus, about 28,000 years old. Interpreted as a symbolic object and âŚflint knapper. Yes.
Thatâs not science; itâs circular, self-serving propaganda. This little figurine from Hohle Fels, for example, is going to be used as âproofâ that pornography is ancient and natural. I guarantee it. Having been interpreted by pornsick male archaeologists as pornography because thatâs all they know, the statuette will now be trotted out by every every psycho and male supremacist on the planet as âproofâ that pornography is eternal, that male dominance is how itâs supposed to be, and that feminists are crazy so shut the fuck up. Look for it in Steven Pinkerâs next book. ***
P.S. My own completely speculative guess on the figurine is that it might be connected to childbirth rituals. Notice the engraved marks and slashes; thatâs a motif that continues for thousands of years on these little female figurines. No one knows what they mean, but they meant something. Theyâre not just random cut marks. Someone put a great deal of work into this sculpture. Given that childbirth was incredibly risky for Paleolithic women, they must have prayed their hearts out for help and protection in that time. I can imagine an elder female shaman or artist carving this potent little figure, and propping it up somewhere as a focus for those prayers.
On the other hand, it is possible that it has nothing to do with childbearing or sexual behavior at all. The breasts and vulva may simply indicate who the figure is: the female god. Think of how Christ is always depicted with a beard, which is a male sexual characteristic, even though Christ isnât about male sexuality. The beard is just a marker. Or, given the figurineâs exaggerated breasts, it may have something to do with sustenance: milk, food, nourishment.
The notion that some dude carved this thing to whack off to â when he was surrounded by women who probably werenât wearing much in the way of clothes anyway â is laughable.
#reclusiveleftist #womenâs history #porn #white men are stupid
There was a post doing the rounds on tumblr a while back that I wish I could find, but most of it seemed to be taken from this study by LeRoy McDermott, Comparing Modern Bodies with Prehistoric Artifacts.
When looked at from above, as a woman observes herself, the breasts of PKG-style figurines assume the natural proportions of the average modern woman of childbearing age. For example, the dimensions of the breasts of the off-illustrated Venus of Willendorf are comparable to those of a 26-year-old mother-to-be with a 34C bust (see fig. 5). When foreshortened from above, even the apparent hypertrophic dimensions of the Venus of Lespugue and the best-preserved figurine from DolnĂ Vestonice enter into a reasonably normal, albeit buxom, range.
McDermott goes on to theorise that the reason most of these hyper-female statues are missing a head and hands is that the head, obviously, canât be viewed by the sculptor without access to a reflection of some kind. As the hands are in a constant state of motion making the figurine, it would also be difficult to have a fixed reference to work from.
The whole thing reminds me of that oft-quoted Sandi Toksvig article:
When I was a student at Cambridge I remember an anthropology professor holding up a picture of a bone with 28 incisions carved in it. âThis is often considered to be manâs first attempt at a calendarâ she explained. She paused as we dutifully wrote this down. âMy question to you is this â what man needs to mark 28 days? I would suggest to you that this is womanâs first attempt at a calendar.â
It was a moment that changed my life. In that second I stopped to question almost everything I had been taught about the past. How often had I overlooked womenâs contributions? How often had I sped past them as I learned of male achievement and menâs place in the history books?
Working (loosely) in an archeological field for this past year has made me realise how much is taken for granted about ancient culture and to what degree we patch up the remnants of the past with modern values and notions of gender and sexuality. On a daily basis Iâm asked – when in character – who my husband is, whether Iâm a cook, why Iâm holding a spear and carry a dagger and slingshot as part of my kit. These notions of a womanâs place are so ingrained that the children on school trips to the hill fort frequently canât believe it when I tell them our Chieftain is a woman. Even if the only Iron Age Briton they can name is Boudica, they have a hard time getting their head around it.
I know Iâve reblogged this before, but I just canât help myself. Itâs way too cool.
@meridianbaronyâ is an enabler and honestly thank god because this finally broke the writerâs block. â¤
Also because my boy has a new potential boyfriend and how could I not.
Title: Winning
Series: TFIDW/MTMTE/LL
Ship(s): Swerve/Misfire
Rating/warnings:Â E for sticky interface, blow jobs, kinda spike worship, talking while fragging, snowballing, and just a lot of good silliness while fragging
ââââââââââ-
âIs red actually my color?â
Misfire stilled mid-bob, flickering his optics back to life to look up at Swerve. While his helm had stopped moving, his tongue was still warm and wet and pressed against the underside of Swerveâs spike in a way that nearly distracted him completely.
Nearly.
But there was no ignoring the hot shock of shame and apprehension. Misfire was going to think he had been distracted, not paying attention, and heâd be offended and affronted that Swerve would be thinking about anything else while getting his spike suckedâ
And yet, Misfire didnât look the least bit annoyed. If anything he looked thoughtful as he pulled off of Swerveâs spike with an audible pop. His optics locked with Swerveâs as he rubbed his check against Swerveâs spike, seeming to not care at all about the oral lubricant it smeared across the surface.
âIs red anyoneâs color?â
Misfireâs servo was relentless as it squeezed and released Swerveâs spike, stroking lazily with no rhythm to speak of, and still pressing it against the side of his face. Pleasure coiled low in Swerveâs frame as he groaned.
âI mean, a lot of bots have redââ
âExactly!â Misfire interrupted. âSo many mechs have red as part of their colorscheme that like. Even if it looks good, itâs not, you know. Unique. Especially with you Bots. Every other one of you got red somewhere on there.â
Swerve might have been insulted if Misfire wasnât nuzzling against his spike like it was a beloved pet.
âLike you guys donât have a disproportionate love for purple.â
Misfire held a servo to his chest, jaw dropped and looking appalled with a level of theatrics that somehow didnât seem at all at odds with the short fat spike still held tight to his cheek.
âHow dare you. Iâll have you know this shade of purple is very unique. They donât call it The Misfire Special for nothing.â
And Swerve couldnât help it â he started to giggle.
Which turned into hiccups when Misfire shifted his helm down, keeping Swerveâs spike pressed to his face while sticking his glossa out to flick at the anterior node nestled just below his spike sheath.
âOk, fine, you got me,â Misfire continued, his nose nudging along the platelets of Swerveâs spike and his ex-vents cool against Swerveâs valve lips. Swerveâs laughter finally dissipated with a shuddering moan. âBut you gotta admit that I make it look good.â
âWell, obviously,â Swerve managed breathlessly. His hips bucked as Misfire mouthed at the base of his spike, lapping and sucking his way back up to the tip. âBut do I look good in red?â
Misfire looked at him very carefully, his optics bright as they traced Swerveâs frame. Or, at least, as much of it that he could see with his face all but planted in Swerveâs crotch.
His lips brushed across the head the spike as he spoke.
âOk, listen. Folks got a lot of great things to say about me, but even Iâll admit that being nice isnât one of them,â Misfire said. He nudged at Swerveâs spike with his chin guard as a grin started to pull at his lips. âBut honestly? Most bots with red could and should find a better color, but I canât imagine you in anything else. Like, youâre committed to red, and itâs definitely working for you.â
Swerve whined as scolding hot pleasure washed over him in pulsing waves.
Misfireâs grin grew so wide it nearly split his face.
âTheeeere it is,â he singsonged gleefully. âFound your weakspot, pipsqueak.â
His glossa was slick as it swirled around the tip of Swerveâs spike, tasting the bead of transfluid that had escaped.
âNothing like a compliment to get you off, huh? Â You sick little puppy.â Swerveâs spike twitched in Misfireâs hold as he ex-vented, biting his bottom lip tight between his denta.
âItâs pretty weird, huh?â
Misfire shrugged.
âMaybe, but I love it.â The servo was stroking again as Misfire rubbed his face against the fat spike. âI canât wait to learn how to be nice so I can give you a boner whenever I want.â
Another wave of pleasure hit at the same time that Swerveâs spark throbbed with emotion, and with a short litany of surprised curses, overload took hold of his frame without warning. Hips jerked and transfluid escaped in bursts as Swerve panted and trembled against Misfire.
The flyerâs engine purred.
âGuess you canât aim either, huh, pipsqueak?â
Swerve onlined his visor to see that his transfluid painted the side of Misfireâs face, some having shot hard enough to catch on his helm ornament while the rest dripped down to collect between his chin and cheek guards. His glossa was sticking out to the side in an attempt to lap up some of the mess around his mouth.
Swerve meant to apologize. To say that he hadnât realized he was so close, that he tried to hold back, that he could go get something to clean up the messâ
âBrainstorm literally made a gun just for me because I have such bad aim.â
And instead of teasing him about it, Misfireâs optics flickered as he replied, âI have got to get me one of those.â
Swerve, in his post-overload bliss, couldnât stop himself from giggling at the mental image of Misfire carrying the ridiculous looking âMy First Blaster.â And about the fact that they both had terrible aim. And the fact that Misfire continued to be on the same topic-hopping wavelength as Swerve, proving to not be the least bit put off by having unsexy conversations during every step of interfacing.
Swerveâs spark warmed with bubbly affection.
Misfire pushed up so he was face-to-face with Swerve, smacking his lips as he finished the last of the transfluid that he could reach. âYou just gonna keep laughing, or are you gonna help me clean up this mess you made.â
âYeah, yeah, hold on,â Swerve managed between giggles. His servo moved to his side to dip into his subspace, but Misfireâs servo caught him by the wrist first.
âLick it up but donât swallow,â Misfire said, and as much as it was worded like an order, it sounded more like gleeful conspiring,
Swerve snorted as he asked, âSeriously?â
And Misfire puffed his bottom lip out in a pout while transfluid still dripped down his face.
And his optics glittered when Swerve just started laughing again, even as he leaned in closer.
It took a moment, but Swerve managed to focus enough to curl his glossa as he licked up Misfireâs cheek, catching a little pool that he held there as he pulled back. The mystery didnât go unanswered for long though as Misfire grasped Swerveâs face with both servos and leaned back in to thrust his glossa into Swerveâs mouth, swirling to catch the transfluid and swallow it down himself. Swerve shuddered and opened his mouth wider for Misfire, and he couldnât help noticing that his whines were met with an equal number of rumbling hums and groans from Misfire as he licked Swerveâs glossa and mouth clean of transfluid.
âGross.â
Misfire licked his lips.
âLiar. You loved it.â
âI can think itâs gross and still love it,â Swerve pointed out and Misfire just grinned wider.
âNeither of us know how to shut up, or how to aim, and we both have nasty oral fixations?â Misfire asked as he lifted his servo to his face, swiping more of the transfluid off. The dirtied digits immediately were caught between Misfireâs lips and he sucked them clean, slipping his glossa between and across them as he did, all while his gaze was focused on Swerveâs.
Swerve didnât know if he had ever depressurized after his overload, but he did know he was fully rigid now as he stammered, âWait, donât swallow,â and pressed his mouth to Misfireâs in a messy tangle of glossae and digits and transfluid and loud, drawn out moans.
By the time Misfireâs face was finally clean, he had Swerve pressed back into the berth and his servo back around Swerveâs spike.
âWhatâs your opinion on clone-fucking, pipsqueak?â
Swerve shuddered as he grabbed at Misfireâs thighs where they straddled the minibotâs hips. Misfireâs valve dripped lubricant down onto Swerveâs sensitive array and his hips drifted down just enough to let the lips kiss the tip of Swerveâs spike.
âIâm very pro clone-fucking.â
âYet another thing we have in common,â Misfire announced with glee before dropping down to completely encase Swerve inside his hot clenching valve. Swerve hadnât even overloaded yet, wasnât even over that first wave of pleasure with Misfire around him, and already he couldnât wait to lick his transfluid out of Misfireâs valve.
And when Swerve told Misfire that, the flyer gasped out âOh frag yesâ as his valve spiraled tight in overload.
The universe was so going to regret letting them meet, and it Swerve loved it.
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