Random Headcanon Time:

What is Your Muse's Sexual Disposition?

stolen from @suckmybearings

A soft whuff leaves his rib vents as Ghost gets to work. He did spot that flash of fang, and bares his own despite his distraction. "Careful of the teeth," warns Dreadwing, though his tone suggests playfulness rather than a serious worry that the mech might bite him.

It doesn't take much. Ghostspire will be able to feel the spike in his mouth firm up completely within moments. The Seeker can't help but squirm.

"Yeah, I can help with that." The mech grins, sharp fangs on display before he take his spike in one servo. Claws gently curl around it, transforming back and thumbing over his tip before forked glossa slowly licked. Two tips curling up and around before carefully starting to take him into his intake.

Claws on his other servo transformed back, slowly starting to rub his node and purring softly.

👀 + “I want to— I want to map everything out with my mouth, my hands. I want to memorize the places that feel good to you, so that I might understand you. Would you have the patience for that, I wonder? Letting me feel and taste you?”

"While I hesitate to give concrete answers when I do not know to whom I speak, I can tell you that my patience is near infinite."

And, of course, she is welcome in his ship and in his berth. Dreadwing thrums deep in his chest, fluffing the pillows and blankets of his nest around her.

"I am old, but not yet dead, my dear," he purrs. "I will ensure to give you a run for your shanix."

@sin-cxde continued x

" I may get just little too comfortable... right here. And then you will have I, distracting you from everything else all night. Keep your claws busy. Sure you can handle it? "

There is something intoxicating about watching someone one adores (and someone who is simultaneously so drop-dead gorgeous he can't stand it) slide down onto their knees. Kiss-nibbling their trail downward is simply an added bonus.

The Seeker sucks in a vent and lets it out slowly, but he doesn't have the restraint to be coy. His pelvic armor clicks and retracts, spike pressurizing out of it's sheath, stiff and eager.

"All of my pieces belong to you, my sweet. Every last inch..."

" Why I'd be absolutely thrilled if you did love. Now~" She nibbles him, starting to follow the path of her servo with her mouth. Sinking to her knees as she nips, kissed and teases at the seams of his armor.

Nuzzling over his hip with little bites," Open up dearspark. I very much want a piece of you." Optics glimmering with desire.

He is horny.

Send Smash or Pass + a name and my muse will say if they would smash or pass on that person.

Send me a Character and I'll tell you if my Muse would sleep with them

Not Enough Alcohol in the World || No || Maybe if I were wasted || Maybe || Eh…Sure || Yes || TAKE YOUR CLOTHES OFF NOW!

Anonymously (or not) send sexual fantasies your muse has had about mine 💣🧡💦

@suckmybearings

He exvented when his subverted connection was abruptly cut from the ship's communication channel; an alert of failure flashed across his HUD when he attempted to call back. With a fissure of annoyance, the Wrecker knocked hard against the underbelly a two more times, and then continued to knock as he started walking to the front of the ship. "C'mon, hoss," Wheeljack coaxed in a loud, taunting voice, banging his fist against the steel hull with every step he took. "You're one of my girls, too. I got somethin' y'a need." As he rounded to the front and positioned himself to be seen, full-view, through the ship's windscreen, he reached down and unholstered the grenade from his hip.

"And one way or another, I'm comin' in."

The floor is at least somewhat cool, though it is rapidly heating up as it absorbs the excess off of his frame.

He's already tried the washrack, turning the flow of solvent off in favor of straight water (from the outdoor hookup), as cold as it would go. It felt nice while he was in there, but the second he stepped out, things just got hot all over again. And somehow, it just seems to be getting worse.

The unnatural revving of internal processes has transcended from profoundly needy to painful. Everything hurts, everything throbs -- Primus, even his dermal layer is aching. A breath of breeze feels like sandpaper against the Seekers extremely raw external sensors, and for a while he deeply considers trying to get to the hospital.

That thought is quickly dismissed. What is he supposed to tell them? That something in his head BROKE and he's so horny that it can't even be classified as "horny" anymore and he feels like he's going to have a fuel pump failure and a brain aneurysm all at once?

And what the FUCK is that noise?

"The intruder is still outside, captain," the Sky Claw's AI informs him.

Wheeljack. The rat bastard is outside, pounding on the underbelly of the ship.

Dreadwing groans.

"Captain," it repeats. "The intruder appears to be brandishing an explosive."

He's what. That gets his attention.

Despite his intense desire to just stay on the floor until he dies, the Seeker forces himself to his feet and lurches up towards the cockpit. It takes him four tries to type in the correct code (his hands are shaking something terrible) to unlock the port side quick-access door panel, but when he hears it click and hiss a bit, Dreadwing slams the hatch open, making it rattle on its tracks.

The ladder rungs, normally tucked seamlessly into the ships paneling, pop out when the door is opened.

"WHAT?!"

It's probably the most horrid and aggressive he has ever sounded.

"Wheeljack, if you are stupid enough to even think about setting that off, reconsider. I have enough explosive material in here to level this entire yard and half of the slagging space port across the street. Now, go away."