Since I'm already too deep in carrier kink hell, how about a minibot is carrying and being protective about the newspark(s) while the autobots are freaking out over the fact that there's a carrier :D
(Okay I’m taking this as an escape pod crashes into Earth and there’s a carrier that gone absolute F E R A L)
Smokescreen can be patient. He can be reckless as a starving turbohound unleashed upon fattened chrono-chickens, willing to bet it all on a high-stakes game. But he knows the value of waiting for the right moment.
Granted this endeavor may have been better if he formed a trine with Prowl and another mech, but Optimus had never dealt with an expecting carrier gone completely feral. This isn’t just a heat gone bad, it’s a heat that was completely ignored with no one to attend to it. You’re basically Empty and hunting down other sources to feed your starving frame that’s eating itself to support the carriage.
And you’re not going to snap out of it on your own, especially when you actually ignored a Prime’s call and attempted to claw into their fuel lines.
He waits until you’re used to the random caches he leaves around the areas you haunt.
He waits until he can hide his own smokescreen laced with perception-warping chemicals within natural fog.
He waits until it affects sharp senses enough that you muddle and stumble through the forests, and then drop with a well-placed tranquilizer shot.
Smokescreen drags your prone frame to a bunker that he’d prepared beforehand. When you snap awake, you gorge yourself on the massive pile of energon and medical solids, uncaring of the leash attaching your neck to the wall and the thick security bands on your wrists. Your starved frame is only focused on one thing: consumption. Nothing else.
He waits until the pile withers down to a third of its size before carefully making his way behind you, watching the sedatives and relaxants take hold as you slow down. Smokescreen activates the magnetic features within the cuffs, your servos forced to the berth. You make confused noises before bodily launching face-first into the pile, just as uncaring as being pinned, aft up and panel exposed.
Smokescreen shuffles behind you, splitting his attention between your front half and your rear, wary that you could turn on him. He pats your hips, kneading over your aft, and you do nothing, just absolutely focused on the food. His digits then dip below, testing the rim and the irritated mesh from burnt out nodes. The rim twitches weakly from the soft touch but it remains completely dry.
That’s not surprising. Feral-protocols force-stop many programs and even override hard-coding to save on resources and keep the carriage viable, even lubricant production. Smokescreen is prepared for it.
He squeezes lube all over his digits and carefully works in first one finger, then two. Spreading the seized calipers and slicking over the dry nodes to help with charge. The mesh shivers and clenches tight, easing up with more lube added. Seekerkin-coding once settled from chasing and catching a feral carrier, now pushes to claim claim claim. He shoves it back, leashing it tight along with the defenses from his old medical profession. He pulls his servos away and hauls forward, sighing as his cramped spike immediately shoots out, and leans into you.
As if it suddenly clicks in your mind that Smokescreen is a donor and not food to hunt later, you howl and attempt to shove your hips back to completely that crackling spike. The restraints hold true and he keeps a harsh grip on your hips; the last thing needed is torn mesh to add more complications since the feral-protocols won’t prioritize the frame’s self-repair and immune responses, only the newspark. You only calm when he pushes inside.
Smokescreen takes it slow. He keeps you locked into place and rolls his hips, valve spasming erratically with every slide going deeper, spreading more lube. Seekerkin-coding howls and snarls along with you as he stops to add more lube, so the mesh doesn’t burn worse. You don’t care about that nor of pain; screeching and leash pulling tight as your hips try to follow the spike that pulled out.
He crashes right over your frame, snarling into your neck and shoulder, engines roaring as he pushes down on you and your EM field hard. He manages to stop himself from actually biting deep into your neck, and shores up the defensive programs against surging Seekerkin-drive to claim as your struggles ease up. With that last burst of frenzied energy, you give out completely, panting and limp, vents wheezing, face splattered with energon, field docile under his own.
Smokescreen vents in the lingering heats pheromones, purring as you stay put, maneuvering to squeeze more lube and go back in. Keeping the pace careful even as he presses right up to the slit of the carrying chamber. You’re drooling into the padding, whining loudly, valve sucking tight on his spike, trying to drag it deeper, spitting heedy charge over ridges and nodes.
He has plenty of time and energon to keep you here and sated, and plenty of patience to handle a feral carrier.