Work Text:
“I want you to fuck Drift for me.”
If Rodimus had, say, been sitting up by the bar at Swerve’s, having a nice sip of engex while hearing that sentence, he absolutely would have spat everywhere upon its completion. Maybe fallen off his chair, too.
As it is, despite having no drink to spit nor chair to disembark, he still chokes on nothing, sputtering helplessly at Ratchet’s stone cold serious face.
“I—you—I’m sorry, did—I—” Rodimus finally gives up and simply asks, “What?”
“I want you to fuck Drift for me,” Ratchet repeats, like it’s any more comprehensible a second time around.
To be honest, when Ratchet had cornered him in the empty hall, glowering even worse than usual, Rodimus had been of the mind to simply… bolt. Because he’d assumed—quite rationally, mind you—that Ratchet stomping towards him with a challenge in his optics could only spell Rodimus’s doom.
And he’d cornered Rodimus indeed, snapped at him and backed him up against a wall—using his sheer bulk in a way that was, unfortunately, way too attractive for Ratchet—and he’d growled out, “I need you to listen to me and listen good, alright? No joking slag, you take this scrap seriously or not at all.”
Rodimus had given his firm and somewhat harried agreement and then Ratchet just—just—
Dropped a fucking bomb on him.
“You… want me… to frag your conjunx?”
“Do I need to say it a third time?” After Rodimus boggles for a couple more seconds, Ratchet rolls his eyes and goes on, saying, “I know you’re helm over heelstruts for him.”
Immediately, Rodimus brings his servos up to backtrack away from that, holy shit, he didn’t think Ratchet was gonna come out swinging twice. “I don’t—I’m fine with us just being friends! It’s really not a big deal, I’m—I’m over him, y’know! I don’t ever want to come between the two of you! I swear to Primus on our ship himself!”
Ratchet gives him an indulgent look and continues, “And I know he’s still not over you.”
That’s—
Rodimus actually doesn’t want to think very hard on those words or else he’s gonna do something really embarrassing. Like… cry. Or whatever.
“So you,” and here, Ratchet pokes Rodimus’s chest with a single digit, “are going to go and cuddle him and kiss him and, yes, frag him. Because I am a good conjunx and I don’t want the love of my life to be wallowing over the fact that he can’t make sweet love to his best friend.”
“But… your conjunx?”
“Yes, my conjunx,” Ratchet agrees amiably. “My conjunx who I have already had a long and extensive conversation about polyamory with.”
Poly-what-now.
“I?” Rodimus says intelligently.
“So? Will you do it?”
Rodimus thinks, I get a choice? But what comes out of his intake is a blurted, “Sure!” that cracks awkwardly in the middle. Immediately he’s internally wringing his own neck, furiously chanting, Why! Would! You! Say! That!
But Ratchet simply nods, turns, and begins walking back down the hall.
He gets a few long strides in before pausing and turning back, giving Rodimus a long-suffering look. “Well?”
Well? Well what?
“Huh?” Rodimus asks, looking around briefly to see if Ratchet is—okay, nope, yup, they’re still the only two mechs in the hallway. Ratchet tosses his head slightly, a gesture that says, get over here, and Rodimus hurries after him now that his pedes aren’t glued to the floor. “Coming! I’m coming.”
His slightly frantic words get a little chortle of amusement from Ratchet, who snarks, “Oh, you will be.”
Rodimus nearly trips over his own two pedes and the only reason he doesn’t fall flat on his faceplate is by virtue of Ratchet grabbing his arm and steadying him.
“Um,” Rodimus says, glancing down at where Ratchet pointedly isn’t letting go of him. “Are you sure we have to do this now? I could totally show up at, like, a more convenient time for—”
“Don’t pretend like you were actually planning to do anything today,” Ratchet snorts. Rodimus makes a little noise of protest, but Ratchet just keeps tugging him along. “I am not letting you procrastinate about this. Your date’s happening the minute we get to my hab—” his what is what? “—and you’re not weaseling your way out of this.”
Rodimus gapes a little and his processor goes a bit fuzzy as he attempts to comprehend everything that’s happened to him in the last, like… five minutes maybe.
‘Cause, like. Obviously he likes Drift. That’s his best friend! His almost-amica! And, sure, yeah, the guy he was ‘helm over heelstruts for’, as Ratchet so kindly put it. But also he’s totally over that! They’re in a new universe, Ratchet and Drift are super conjunxed and very happy, and Rodimus is extremely happy for them! He’s glad that they have each other. Honestly, his spark gets all warm and fuzzy when he thinks about how sweet they are on each other.
… But in the spirit of honesty, he can admit to himself in the privacy of his own thoughts that he still thinks a lot about Drift. About what they could’ve been, what they could’ve had. And sometimes he’ll see Drift press a kiss to Ratchet’s cheek and wonder what it would feel like for Drift to kiss him like that. And sometimes he’ll see little remnants of paint transfers and wonder what he’d look like smeared with Drift’s colors.
And, yes, sometimes in the solitude of the captain’s quarters, when it’s late into the recharge cycle and Rodimus can’t sleep, he’ll fist his spike or stuff his valve and he’ll often find himself thinking of sharp finials, of red facepaint, of sinful thighs, of clawed servos, of Drift, Drift, Drift, until he has to bite his glossa to avoid saying the name aloud. Because saying it out loud would make it too real and Rodimus isn’t ready to face the consequences of it being that real.
But apparently he’s ready for it to be real enough that he’s agreed to frag Drift?
Let it be known that Rodimus is a mechanism of many multitudes. And also that he doesn’t think. And also that Ratchet is scary and hard to deny.
So it is that Rodimus winds up standing in front of a familiar habsuite door, staring at it and feeling a rising panic in his spark. Why did I agree to this? He thinks. Because he’s changed his mind actually, he cannot do this, he’ll actually die. Of… of sparkbreak or something suitably dramatic. He’s about to turn to relay as much to Ratchet, but then—
Then Ratchet? Smacks his aft?? As he pushes him forward???
Rodimus gapes and is positive that if Cybertronians could blush, he’d be glowing pink. As it is, he’s sure his eyes are nearly white with the intensity of their brightness.
He just kinda stands there for a second, staring at the door, utterly baffled. After about a minute of trying to unravel that, Ratchet gives him another firm push, thankfully leaving his aft alone this time. “Go, Rodimus.”
“Going,” Rodimus says reflexively. “I’m gone.”
Rodimus pings the door and watches it slide open with no small amount of trepidation. The room inside is a familiar one. Not surprising, given how often he’s visited to be with one of its inhabitants or the other. But something about it is different with the new context. It feels less like Drift-and-Ratchet’s-hab and more like… like he’s about to be walked off the plank of his own ship.
Not that his ship has a plank for walking off of. But the metaphor stands!
Ratchet takes him by the shoulders and bodily marches him forward when he takes too long just standing in the doorway. Very soon, he’s brought before Drift, who’s fidgeting from where he’s kneeling on the floor. Maybe in attempted meditation, although he doesn’t seem very meditative right now. He looks up, starting to say, “Ratchet, I really don’t think it’s necessary that—” before shutting up at the sight of Rodimus.
He waves a little and Drift, looking about as thrown as Rodimus himself feels, waves back.
Ratchet’s servos give his shoulders a firm pat, and he presents Rodimus less like a berth-partner and more like a prized catch.
“Alright you two,” Ratchet says, “have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
And then he’s gone. Walked right out of the hab, the door sliding shut behind him.
For a moment, neither Drift nor Rodimus moves.
Then, stiltedly, awkwardly, Rodimus sits down so he’s kneeling across from Drift. The two of them stare wide-opticked at each other for a long moment. When it becomes clear that Drift is about as paralyzed as he is, Rodimus swallows his nerves and decides to break the ice.
“… So—”
“I’m sorry you got dragged into this!”
Rodimus blinks. “What?”
“Frag, I’m sorry,” Drift says, running a servo down his faceplate. “You must be so—so weirded out by all this. I’m sorry. I told Ratchet—frag, I don’t even know, and he thought—what I’m trying to say is you—you don’t have to be here if you don’t want to be.”
Pause. “What?”
“I have—I had this…” Drift struggles for a moment, looking anywhere but at Rodimus, “this… this crush on you, I guess, and I told Ratchet about… s-some of the things I’d thought about and he… he orchestrated this whole thing where we’d frag, I guess. But—but you don’t actually have to do it just because he made you.”
Rodimus… chews on that information for a bit. Considers it. Ponders a little, maybe. And then decides to do what he does best and run his mouth before his processor can cough up anything of substance.
“Dude, are you kidding? I’d never turn down the chance to frag my bestie,” Rodimus blurts out through a growing grin.
Drift opens his mouth… and closes it. A small noise of confusion escapes his vocalizer, and his optics dart about Rodimus’s faceplate. When Rodimus flicks his glossa out to wet his derma, he can see the moment Drift’s gaze locks onto it. It stays there, stuck for several very long seconds.
“So,” Rodimus says a little slyly, scooting forward until his knees knock into Drift’s, startling him slightly. “This was all your idea, huh?”
“I just said—”
“Nah, it’s cool, we’re cool,” Rodimus interrupts, leaning forward. Drift makes as if he’s going to lean back, but instead just goes stiff as a board even as Rodimus moves ever closer. He braces his servos on Drift’s thighs and feels the full-body flinch he gives at the touch.
“Hey,” Rodimus says, nearly nose-to-nose with Drift.
“Hey,” Drift says back, voice just a little strangled. His hands move, hovering in the ever-lessening space between them. Rodimus wants him to touch, wants Drift’s servos on his plating, wants to feel his claws dip into his seams. But Drift continues to hesitate, never quite touching.
Rodimus leans forward that last little bit and bumps their crests together.
“Go on,” he says, voice soft as air.
Slowly—so slowly, and so carefully, like he’s afraid a rough hand might shatter Rodimus—Drift settles his servos onto Rodimus’s frame. One resting on his hip, the other sliding up his side, teasing over his vents.
“Is this okay?” Drift asks, digits ghosting over Rodimus’s plating.
“I’m here for you. You can do whatever you want to me.” Mmh. Little honest, there. Whatever, it’s still true.
Drift nuzzles closer, optics going dark as he seems to focus all his attention on the sensation of touching Rodimus. Rodimus would expect his hands to make a quick path downward—that was ostensibly what they were here to do—but Drift’s hands traveled up Rodimus’s frame, coming up around him in something almost like an embrace. Rodimus opens his mouth to encourage Drift to do something a little less PG—
But whatever was going to come out of his mouth turns into a gasp as one of Drift’s servos curls around one of the wings of his spoiler, one clawed digit teasing at the spot where it connected to his back. Without really thinking about it, Rodimus’s own hands come up. “Drift,” he gasps, clutching at broad shoulders. “Oh, Primus, Drift, please—”
“Roddy,” Drift breathes, and then his mouth is on Rodimus’s, tongue teasing over his bottom lip.
It’s everything he wanted. It’s everything he’d enviously dreamed of. Drift’s arms wrap around him until their bodies are pressed flush together. Rodimus makes a soft little wanting noise into the kiss and Drift’s engine roars, a sudden and wonderful heat spilling out of his vents and onto Rodimus.
Drift pulls away too soon. Rodimus is swaying back towards him before he’s even left, but Drift doesn’t leave him waiting long. Barely a second later, he’s laying another kiss on Rodimus’s lips, and this time he bites, sharp fangs nipping at the softer mesh of his derma. Rodimus—well, he kinda… he squeaks, okay? He lets out a high-pitched, undignified noise and his mouth opens on instinct and then the kiss starts getting wet.
Oh, Rodimus needs more of that. He needs more of that yesterday.
Drift’s tongue is in his mouth. Drift’s tongue is in Rodimus’s mouth. Rodimus’s fans—which clicked on at some point while he wasn’t paying attention—whine with how hard they’re running. A part of Rodimus wants them to struggle some more, for Drift to plug up his vents with his digits, make Rodimus overheat until his processor is halfway melted and he’s dumb as a brick—
Woah, okay, cool down Rodimus. You’re here for Drift, not the other way around.
This time it’s Rodimus who pulls back, softly murmuring, “Drift—”
But Drift just leans forward and laps up the oral lubricant that had spilled out from their kiss and then uses the upward slide to drag Rodimus right back into another. Rodimus shifts his hands to cup Drift’s face instead of clinging to his shoulders and Drift purrs, holy Primus he purrs into their kiss. Rodimus is actually going to die.
Drift gives Rodimus another nip that he knows is just deep enough to draw out a tiny drop of energon, and he can’t quite stop the loud moan he gives at the little twinge of pain. He… also… kinda maybe sorta accidentally opens his panels right around then. He doesn’t mean to! Really! But it just! Kinda happens!
Drift goes still against him at the snap of metal and he draws back. Rodimus lurches away and shoves a hand between his thighs, trying to push his slowly pressurizing spike back into its housing so he can shut his panels again.
“Sorry!” he blurts. “Sorry, oh Primus, that was um—that wasn’t intentional, haha!”
His hips give an involuntary little twitch at the pressure against his spike which protests the sudden rough treatment, but it can fragging deal because Rodimus isn’t ruining things by moving too fast—
But Drift’s hand wraps around his wrist and pulls it away. And they watch, backed by the harmonizing chorus of both of their fans, as Rodimus’s spike fully pressurizes.
“Hello,” Drift says, lips pulling into a little smile. He reaches down between them and—and oh fuck, wraps a servo around Rodimus’s spike.
Rodimus lets out a long whine and tucks his head against Drift’s neck. He swears he’s not usually this sensitive, but something about it being Drift… It’s like every tiny shift of metal against his spike has been magnified.
Drift gives it a little squeeze, drawing his hand up with a slight twist that forces a full-frame shudder out of Rodimus. He hears a soft laugh in audials, and because Drift is being mean to him, he gets his own little piece of revenge. Drift’s main energon lines are warm against his derma and Rodimus gives into the urge to bite.
Well. Nibble, anyways. Obviously he doesn’t actually want to do any real harm to Drift, but a little nibble? That’s totally fair game. And more than a little appreciated, given the way Drift’s vents stutter. Though perhaps Rodimus shouldn’t have started anything, what with his spike in Drift’s hand, because wow.
The slide of Drift’s servo goes a little quicker now, wetted by the lubricant leaking from Rodimus’s tip. Rodimus groans and has to darken his optics for a moment lest he get lost in the sensation. Actually—actually, um, maybe—
One of Rodimus’s hands shoots down to grab Drift’s wrist and he makes a keening noise as Drift goes still, as that wonderful slide comes to a stop.
“Sorry,” Drift is quick to say. “Did I—?”
“No, no, you’re fine,” Rodimus interrupts, and is only slightly embarrassed at how breathless he sounds after, like, half a handy. “I just, uh…” Frag, he does not want to say he almost overloaded from that tiny bit of action, that’s pathetic! “Do you… want to do this somewhere that isn’t on the floor of your hab?”
Drift’s surprised little face, like he’d forgotten that was even an option or something, is outrageously adorable and Rodimus desperately wants to kiss him. Which, actually, he apparently can do now. Bringing one hand up to cup Drift’s face, he gives him a little peck on the lips before moving to stand.
Drift leans up after him like he’s chasing Rodimus’s lips—which again, augh, adorable—and rises with him. Rodimus feels… a little silly, walking around with his panels open and probably leaking all over Drift and Ratchet’s habsuite, oops. But Drift takes both of his hands and Rodimus doesn’t even care that one of them is a little sticky with his own fluids.
Drift is the one to lead them to berth, but Rodimus is the one to gently push Drift back onto it, climbing up on top of him. Rodimus takes a moment to just… to just look. To see Drift laid out beneath him and marvel at the fact that this is somehow real and happening. Then, because he really cannot resist the urge, he leans down to kiss Drift again.
Rodimus is getting a little addicted to the taste of him and he really has no idea what he’s gonna do when this is all over. Ugh, but no thinking about that now. Now is Drift time. Drift’s hands wander down his frame and Rodimus is sure that he’d like to go back to having his servos on that spike, but Rodimus still isn’t sure how long he’ll last if that comes to pass.
So he gives a parting peck to Drift’s lips and then begins kissing his way down the mech’s frame. There’s a powerful urge to press a kiss right over Drift’s spark chamber, but that’s probably pushing it, right? Anyways. Rodimus leaves a trail of kisses in his wake, scooting down the berth until he’s face to face with Drift’s panels. And, instead of just kissing them as he’s been doing to much of the rest of Drift’s plating, he opens his mouth and drags his glossa over white panels.
Drift groans and, with a move much more dignified than Rodimus’s hasty snap, his panels slide open. Before his spike can even properly pressurize, Rodimus puts his mouth on Drift’s spike housing, sticking his glossa into the component to feel the way Drift’s spike gives an interested twitch. And he keeps his mouth there even as the spike pressurizes, just to feel it extend up and into his mouth, into his throat.
And oh, the feeling of it… The weight pressing down onto his tongue, stretching out the tubing of his throat, a comfortable heat settling into his intake… Rodimus’s own spike burns from where it’s been left on its lonesome, but Rodimus doesn’t even care enough to touch it. Placing one hand beneath Drift’s aft to tilt his hips up just a bit, Rodimus wraps the other around the base of Drift’s spike as he pulls back until just the tip is left on his tongue—vents hitching with each little ridge that momentarily catches against his throat.
He glances up then. Locks optics with Drift who’s pushed himself up onto his elbows to get a better view of all that Rodimus is doing to him. All that he’s going to do to Drift. He feels his lips twitch into the slightest smile before he offlines his optics and takes Drift’s spike back into his mouth.
A moment later, he’s bobbing his head up and down the length of it. Each movement sends the flaring ridges of the member scraping against his tongue and tubing, and under his hands, he can feel the barely-restrained jerks of Drift’s hips. Rodimus can’t help the noise he makes imagining what it’d be like for Drift to just—to just grab Rodimus by the helm and move him up and down at whatever pace Drift wanted to take. And, fuck, would Rodimus just take it.
For a moment, he pauses with the whole spike stuffed down his intake. Just to savor the feeling again, the fullness. Drift makes a strangled noise overhead and gasps out, “Oh, Primus, Roddy I—” before his voice abruptly goes muffled. When Rodimus onlines his optics again to look up, he sees Drift biting down on his own servo to shut himself up, drool dripping from his derma.
Frag, it’s not fair that Drift can look so hot when he’s drooling. It’s tasteful and artful on him, while Rodimus is slobbering so much over Drift’s spike that he can feel his own fluids on the hand he still has on Drift’s aft—
Except… No, that’s not quite right. Because whatever liquid he’s feeling down there isn’t the right consistency to be his own oral fluid. He pops off of Drift’s spike—wrapping a servo around it to keep it company while his mouth is elsewhere—and pulls back to see what’s gotten him so wet—
Oh. Well, it’s not exactly Rodimus who’s gotten wet, but rather Drift. Drift, whose valve is practically dripping with lubricant.
“Well, hello to you,” Rodimus purrs, in part a fun little callback to Drift’s line just a little while ago. Drift makes a little noise of confusion as Rodimus leans back down. But, instead of returning to sucking Drift’s spike, he aims a little lower and laps over Drift’s valve, glossa dragging over the twitching hole up to the blinking anterior node.
“Oh, frag!” Drift hisses, his whole body arching up into the touch. Rodimus keeps his mouth open, tongue grinding down on that sweet little nub, all the while pumping Drift’s spike as he does. “Roddy—Rodimus, frag, I’m—I’m gonna—”
Oh please, Rodimus thinks, I wanna see it, I wanna feel it, please, please, please…
He licks another stripe up through Drift’s valve, and this time he closes his mouth around the mech’s anterior node, suckles on it as it pulses charge, quickens the hand he still has wrapped around Drift’s spike—
Drift’s own hand comes down, wraps around Rodimus and holds him still and for a moment he wonders if he’s done something wrong—
But Drift lets out a cry as he overloads over his and Rodimus’s hand both. Rodimus gives the spike a little squeeze and Drift’s own grip encourages him to make it a little tighter than he might otherwise. He keeps his mouth on Drift’s anterior node, but pauses the suction after a moment, just letting it rest against his tongue.
It’s only as Drift pulls his own servo away that Rodimus pulls back—though he does take a moment to admire the thin line of mixed lubricant that briefly connects his mouth to Drift’s valve—and scoots forward to kneel between Drift’s shaking thighs.
“Was that—”
“Do you—”
They both pause and look at each other. Rodimus can’t help it—he laughs. He crawls forward slightly so he’s leaning over Drift again and bumps their crests together. Drift smiles, perhaps a little bashfully, and says, “You first.”
“Was that—good?” Rodimus asks and then immediately wants to hit himself because, way to sound confident and sexy.
But Drift just leans up a little more to nuzzle him and responds, “So good. You were so good to me, Roddy.”
“I’m glad.” Rodimus tries to ignore both the slight pang in his spark and the way his array is begging for relief.
“Do—” Drift starts and then stops. Something about his expression closes off and Rodimus is quick to try and—and do something to reassure him.
“Hey, I’m here for you,” he reiterates, voice a little bit softer than he intends but—frag it, whatever, he cares about Drift, okay? He’s allowed to be soft about it! “Whatever you want, I’m here to give it to you.”
“You’re… you wanna keep going then?” Drift asks.
“Hell yeah, dude,” Rodimus says—sexiest mech alive, let him tell you. “Do you need a minute or do we go now?”
“Roll over,” Drift says in lieu of a true answer. “It’s my turn to be on top.”
Rodimus makes a giddy little noise and they execute a little roll—with Drift easing the transition with a hand on Rodimus’s spoiler housing, trying to prevent any discomfort from the sensitive component getting squished—so that Rodimus is the one lying flat on his back on the berth and Drift is practically laid out on top of him, knees bracketing his legs. The weight is pleasant and soothing and gone far too soon when Drift pushes himself up so he can look down the length of Rodimus’s frame.
Rodimus stretches out his body in a way that he hopes comes off as more alluring than needy. His neglected spike bobs with the movement, a few drops of lubricant splattering over his stomach. One of Drift’s servos slides down his frame, tracing over biolights on its journey to his array, but for some inane reason, Rodimus finds his attention caught by the hand drift places by his head to stabilize the mech.
He’s caught up in how close they are to each other. There’s only just enough room for Drift’s servo to fit between them. Rodimus reaches up to take Drift’s helm in his hands, bringing one up further to pet over one of Drift’s finials. Drift makes a pleased noise and ducks his head down to—heh, to basically gently headbutt Rodimus’s chest.
Rodimus wraps his arms around Drift’s neck and peppers kisses up and down one finial, which gives a little flick at the attention. Drift makes a wanting sound, a noise muffled by his intake being pressed up against Rodimus’s chestplate. Rodimus lets out a soft laugh, his derma pulling back into a cheeky little grin.
Drift shuffles slightly, using the hand that had been petting over Rodimus’s biolights to tug one of Rodimus’s legs out from between his own. Rodimus resists the urge to use his freed leg to wrap around Drift’s waist and pull him in so he might just… grind one out against Drift’s abdominal plating. He’s at Drift’s mercy, he’ll let Drift do whatever he wants to him.
Rodimus makes a sharp noise of surprise when he feels dentae sink into his collar faring. Drift growls, a sound that Rodimus recognizes as being more playful than anything. Drift’s hand bypasses his spike completely and pets over his valve. Rodimus leans his head back and Drift takes it as an invitation to mouth over the cables of Rodimus’s neck, fangs brushing dangerously over his main energon lines. He offlines his optics once more and falls into the feeling of it all.
Two digits part the lips of Rodimus’s valve and a third massages over his hole. He clenches around nothing and tries to push his hips forward into the touch. Drift chuckles but ultimately obliges, sinking one digit into Rodimus’s valve. For a moment, he rests it there, cradled in the soft hold of Rodimus’s quivering calipers.
When he pulls the finger out, Rodimus makes a wounded noise, but Drift is sinking back in a moment later with two digits, slowly moving them in and out of Rodimus’s valve. All the while, he keeps his mouth on Rodimus’s neck, sucking and biting at the cables.
“Oh, Drift…” Rodimus sighs out when Drift presses his digits in down to the knuckle joint and spreads them inside him. Rodimus can’t help the way he rocks forward into the touch and he can feel as Drift smiles against his neck.
Drift quickly leaves behind the slow and sensual and begins to roughly drive his digits in and out of Rodimus’s valve, creating loud squelching noises as Rodimus produces lubricant like a fountain. And with each rough movement, Drift’s forearm rubs roughly against Rodimus’s weeping spike.
“Oh, oh, oh frag, Drift please—” Rodimus gasps and then starts pulling on Drift’s shoulders, begging him, “kiss me, kiss me, please, I—”
Drift surges up to meet him in an open-mouthed kiss that Rodimus moans into. He clutches at Drift’s shoulders while the swordsmech presses his digits in deep again, just rocking his servo forward without ever pulling out. Ugh, Rodimus is about a klik from overloading from that alone and he pulls back to say as much—
“Can I spike you, Roddy?” Drift pants out against his mouth.
Please, oh Primus, yes, Rodimus thinks. And then, because Drift isn’t a mind reader, he has to say his plea aloud—with much more dignity, of course.
“Please,” he whines. “Need you, Drift, need you in me—” and before he can bite his own glossa to shut himself up—because wow, little vulnerable there—Drift is kissing him again.
Drift shifts over him, slowly pulling his fingers out of Rodimus’s valve. Rodimus leans out of the kiss so he can look down at Drift’s array. His spike, which had never quite depressurized, is standing at full mast again, and Rodimus feels oral lubricant pool in his mouth at the sight of his own fluids being smeared onto that spike by way of Drift using his dirtied hand to guide it down to Rodimus’s valve.
The first slide of Drift’s spike against his valve is nothing short of pure sin. Rodimus lets out a soft noise, optics glued to the sight of their arrays pressed together. Drift vents out through his intake, long and slow, and repeats the motion a few times. Each pass drags the ridges of his spike against Rodimus’s folds, a bump of the tip against Rodimus’s node.
Rodimus lets his helm fall back again, groaning each time Drift doesn’t quite penetrate him. Drift chuckles, just a little, and hikes Rodimus’s other leg up to change the angle so that on his next pass, his tip catches against Rodimus’s hole and he can finally—finally—sink home. Rodimus’s whole body jerks as he feels Drift go in and in and in, so much deeper than his fingers could reach.
And then, after what feels like hours to Rodimus’s overclocked processor, Drift’s spike housing bumps up against the lips of his valve. They’re pressed together completely now, from their faces to their chests to their arrays. Drift doesn’t move for several long moments, fans screaming beneath his plating. It’s probably not helping that he’s fragging Rodimus, who notoriously runs hot—
Oh wow. Drift is fragging him. Full spike in valve fragging him. Wow. Even Rodimus’s dreams are never usually this explicit. More grinding and frotting, because that’s sort of easy to imagine. Rodimus kind of wants to snake a servo down and press over his abdominal plates to see if he might be able to just barely feel Drift beneath the plating… but that’s probably kind of weird isn’t it? Yeah, he won’t do that, he’ll just…
Well, he’ll kiss Drift some more, that’s for sure.
Drift growls into the kiss that Rodimus drags him into. And it’s honestly barely a kiss, really, more just open-mouthed panting into each other’s intakes—which definitely isn’t doing anything to vent heat, but whatever. Drift gives an experimental little tug of his spike before rocking back in the bare amount he’d pulled out.
“‘S good,” Rodimus manages to get out between kisses, and Drift makes a pleased noise while swiping his glossa against the inside of Rodimus’s lip. He’s evidently emboldened to do a little bit more as he begins a slow pace of—well, it’s not really thrusting, just little rocking motions of his hips that never pull more than, like, a third of the way out. Rodimus certainly isn’t complaining, not when each slide of that spike against his innards ends with a sweet little grind against his ceiling node.
And Rodimus expects him to pick up the pace, but… Drift never graduates from the slow and shallow. And it’s… nice. It is, really, Rodimus could probably overload just from this, but… but there’s a tension in Drift, in the shivers running through his frame, in the clench of his dentae that Rodimus can swear he hears creaking.
He’s… he’s holding himself back. For what? To… prolong things, maybe? To tease Rodimus, perhaps? At this point, it feels more like Drift is just torturing himself for fun. But, just in case…
Rodimus tilts his hips up and wraps his legs around Drift’s waist, drawing him deep again. Drift sinks into him with a sigh, his smile a physical weight against Rodimus’s lips. Rodimus can feel where his own spike has been leaving smears of lubricant against Drift’s abdominal plating. He lets out a groan, but he’s still here for one reason above all other more selfish ones.
“Drift—” he starts to say, but Drift shuts him up with another kiss. Rodimus takes a moment to enjoy the sweet slide of their tongues before bringing a hand up to push lightly at Drift’s chassis, enough to give him the space to repeat, more firmly now, “Drift.”
Drift goes utterly still, optics cycled wide.
“Rodimus?” His voice is so small, so scared. What does he have to be frightened of? As if Rodimus wouldn’t give him everything and more.
Rodimus slides his servo up from Drift’s chassis to his face, swiping his thumb over Drift’s cheek. “Hey,” he says with a grin, quiet and breathy because if he tries for louder he’s positive that his voice is gonna crack on it.
“Hey,” Drift says, hesitantly returning his smile. “You okay?”
“Can I ask why you’re being so…” Nice? Why Drift is being so utterly soft and sweet in a way that has Rodimus’s spark doing flips in its casing? Why he’s being so… romantic? “… Slow?” is what he settles on saying.
“I… don’t want to be too rough,” Drift murmurs, his mouth still so close to Rodimus’s own. He thinks he could lean up and taste Drift’s words on his tongue. “I want it to be good for you.”
Huh. Rodimus is… almost affronted, actually. And also he’s almost positive that Drift is lying to him. For what reason? Rodimus has no fragging clue. But from the shake of his limbs, the stiffness of his frame, the little twitches of his hips, Rodimus knows Drift wants more. Maybe all he really needs is Rodimus’s say so.
“Drift,” Rodimus breathes out, nuzzling their nasal ridges together before he pushes his face just a bit past Drift’s own. “You ought to know that I like it rough.”
Drift makes a little squeaking sound, especially as Rodimus tightens his legs around the swordsmech’s waist.
“Give it to me,” Rodimus whispers into Drift’s audial, feels the way his finial gives a little flick. “Give it to me hard.”
And that’s about all Drift needs.
When he next pulls out, it’s a rough tug that knocks the ridges of his spike against Rodimus’s calipers. He pulls almost all the way out before shoving back in and Rodimus throws his head back with the force of the moan that crawls up and out of his vocalizer.
“Oh, frag, yes,” he says, drawing out the last word into a long hiss. Drift braces both of his hands on either side of Rodimus’s helm as he draws his hips back and then snaps them forward. After a few more rough thrusts, he stops pausing at all between them, just a constant slide in and out and in and out and oh Primus, Rodimus is going to fragging lose it.
He arches up against Drift, clutching at his shoulders, clawing at his back, leaving yellow streaks everywhere his digits drag against that plating. Drift just keeps going, fast and rough and deep enough that it feels like he’s bruising Rodimus’s poor ceiling node at the end of each thrust. Primus, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything.
He can’t even say anything—the only noises leaving his vocalizer are the sharp little moans being punched out of him, echoed by the clang of their hips meeting. Rodimus cannot believe Drift thought this wouldn’t be good for him. Frag, the soft and slow was good and he loved… he loved how close it was, how… intimate. But this? Rodimus is almost literally seeing stars, charge peaking high enough that it’s starting to glitch out his visual feed just a bit.
Drift keeps up his quick pace, but on one pull, Rodimus feels his spike pop out entirely. Drift snarls and his hips keep on shoving forward, rough slides through Rodimus’s slick that never find any purchase. Rodimus shoots an arm between them, grasping that spike and, with a shaking servo, presses the tip back up against his valve so Drift’s next jerky thrust goes in and his spike housing bumps against Rodimus’s fist instead of his valve lips.
Rodimus pulls his servo up to his own spike. Not to stroke, rather to squeeze the base of it, trying to stave off his own overload just a little longer. He can do that, he can last just a little longer for Drift. Drift who’s pressing their foreheads together again so he can pant against Rodimus’s mouth, stare into Rodimus’s eyes.
It’s… it really is like something out of a dream. Some part of Rodimus had hoped that ‘rough’ would mean… less of this, because every time Drift presses close, every time Drift kisses him, it makes Rodimus yearn a little more for the things he can’t have. The things he’s okay with not having, mind you, because he knows that he can’t have this. That it’ll never happen, that it’s just fragging, that it’s fine—
“Drift!” He squeals out when one thrust goes just a bit deeper than usual, knocking fully against his fragging forge, Primus. “Drift, Drift, I—”
He has to bite his glossa or else he’s gonna say something he’s gonna regret. But Drift’s eyes light up.
“Yeah? Tell me, Roddy,” he says between pants. “Tell me how it makes you feel. C’mon, sweet thing, tell me how good it’s making you feel.”
Rodimus wants to say something to the effect of, oh frag yeah, it’s so good, I feel so good right now, you’re so good to me.
“I love you,” is what he blurts instead. And then because he said it once, he has to say it again. “I love you, I love you—nnh, frag, I—I love you, please, oh Primus—”
“Rodimus,” Drift croaks out, his voice fractured like he’s in pain. A servo cups Rodimus’s face to bring their mouths together once more while Drift’s thrusts start aiming more for deep instead of fast.
Rodimus is going to overload. He’s—he’s gonna—
Rodimus switches from squeezing the base of his spike to roughly pumping it. He can only get a scant few strokes in before his charge crackles higher and transfluid is spurting out all over Drift’s stomach. Drift sinks deep and stays there, grinding the tip of his spike firmly against Rodimus’s ceiling node.
“So good,” Drift whispers into Rodimus’s audial—and he sounds wrecked, damn. “So good for me.”
“‘M good,” Rodimus gasps out, the words leaving his intake without ever even stopping to go through his processor. “Good for you. Drift, Drift, Drift.”
“I’m here,” Drift says, nuzzling his spike deeper so that it sends another jolt of pleasure through his frame. He brushes a thumb over Rodimus’s lower lip and, thoughtlessly, Rodimus takes it into his mouth, suckles on the digit a little. Just to have it there, more than anything.
“Oh, you’re so good, my good mech.” Drift presses a kiss to Rodimus’s crest and pushes his thumb just a bit deeper, petting over Rodimus’s tongue. A moment later, though, he’s pulling it out to once more get both hands on the berth as he begins to pull away.
Rodimus chokes around nothing as Drift drags his spike out, all those ridges scraping long and rough against his squeezing calipers. He bites at his lip as the shock of mixed pleasure-pain sends his overtaxed systems running haywire and he—he can’t—
He doesn’t yell, because his vocalizer is in the middle of a rough reset, but his mouth gapes around a silent scream as Drift’s backward pull drags a second little overload out of Rodimus, resulting in a shower of lubricant from his valve. Rodimus’s hips leave the berth entirely with how high he arches his frame, and his legs kick against nothing as the charge rolls through him.
Finally, he collapses back onto the berth, fans roaring and vents greedily sucking in air. In fact, you know what—Rodimus flares out his plating because neither his intake nor his vents are doing a good enough job and, fire-resistant as he is, he needs to cool down.
He feels fuzzy in the helm. Everything’s sort of far away and muddled by the lingering charge that makes his frame twitch and jolt every now and again. He does feel the comforting pressure of Drift’s helm pressed up against his and he leans up into the feeling.
“You okay?” Drift’s voice sounds almost muffled despite being so close. Rodimus intends to answer him with his assent, but what comes out is mumbled nonsense tinged with static. Drift lets out a soft laugh, a sound so lovely to Rodimus’s audials. “Take your time. I’ll be here.”
Rodimus’s arms are flopped at his side, but after a moment or two of thinking about it—manifesting it in his processor—he manages to bring them up to wrap around Drift. He makes a little happy noise and Drift purrs, all warm and pleased.
“Hi,” Drift says.
“Hi,” Rodimus manages to say back. His voice is still a little heavy on the static, but it’s comprehensible.
“That looked like a lot. Are you feeling okay?” Drift asks.
Never better. I think that was the best overload of my function, actually. Rodimus doesn’t say any of that, instead slurring out, “‘S good. ‘M good.”
“Rodimus,” Drift says, one servo petting over his cheek. “You love me?”
Rodimus… flails a little. He sobers with all the force of a freight train and stares wide-opticked up at Drift.
“Whuh?” he sputters out, very intelligently. “I mean. Um. What?”
“You love me,” Drift says, a statement this time, voice tinged with… with wonder? Rodimus resets his vocalizer with an audible click.
“I…” What can he say? It’s the truth. He loves Drift. He’s loved Drift for… frag, for a really long time. Honestly, since well before they ever walked onto this ship. And for all that he may have told all sorts of lies to himself about his own feelings, they never really went away. If anything, Rodimus would argue that they got worse.
Distance makes the heart grow fonder. And he just had to shoot himself in the pede back then, didn’t he?
“Yeah,” he admits after a long moment of silence. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh Rodimus,” Drift says, and his face is… is soft. He’s smiling, wide enough that his optics are narrowed and he’s looking down at Rodimus like… like he’s something precious. Something beautiful. Something lovely. “Don’t apologize.”
Rodimus opens his mouth to say something—probably to apologize again, actually—but he’s startled into silence when Drift leans down to press a kiss to the very corner of Rodimus’s intake.
“I thought—” Drift says and then stops abruptly, his smile going brittle at the edges. “I didn’t think you’d want—me.”
“What are you talking about?” Rodimus asks. “You’re all I ever wanted.”
Truthfully, he’s not sure which one of them leans in first. All he knows is Drift’s servo on his face, his digits curled over Drift’s vents, their lips meeting somewhere in the middle. And it’s just as good as before and nothing’s really different, but Rodimus could swear that something’s changed about it. That there’s something there that wasn’t there before.
Or maybe it was, and Rodimus was just too stupid and air-headed to notice it.
They pull apart for just a moment and Rodimus can’t help it, he has to say it again with intent, he has to say it again so Drift knows he means it—
“I love you,” he says, and Drift lets out a shuddering little vent.
“I love you too, Rodimus,” Drift answers and Rodimus could fragging cry—
He presses up against Drift, hungry for that full-frame contact even without a spike in his valve—and is surprised to feel Drift holding his hips higher, keeping them clear of ever touching Rodimus’s plating.
There’s something weird about that. Actually, there’s something odd in general about the physicality of the last few minutes. Rodimus has been caught up in his emotions, caught up in his own overload and the force of it, but there’s something niggling at him in the back of his processor…
He’s… he’s not as wet as he’d thought he’d be if Drift overloaded inside of him. Or on him, even. There’s no pleasant stickiness of a full load of transfluid seeping into his seams, just the splatters of his own spend that made it onto him instead of Drift.
Rodimus pulls away and pushes at Drift’s chassis to look between them, down the length of their frames to where Drift’s spike still hangs between his legs. Still hard. Weeping lubricant, with its ridges flared out to a degree that makes Rodimus’s valve clench with remembered sensation.
“You didn’t finish?” he asks, somewhat incredulously. Wow, Rodimus, way to go. You had one fragging job.
“It’s alright,” Drift says, “I can deal with it later. Right now, I just want—”
Rodimus reaches down to take hold of Drift’s spike. Drift makes a shocked little noise and gives a tiny thrust on instinct. His spike is so heavy, so full. Just waiting for a sweet little valve to overload into. Rodimus wants that. He wants that bad, wants to feel Drift frag him—no, he wants to feel Drift make love to him, cheesy as that sounds.
“Come on,” Rodimus says, hooking a leg around Drift’s waist and nudging his hips forward. “I can take it.”
“Roddy, I can’t—not after you just—” Drift starts, but he trails off as Rodimus moves his hand back to his own frame to part his folds, to show off his twitching hole, to entice Drift to take the plunge.
“… Are you sure?” Drift asks, even as his wide-opticked gaze stays stuck on Rodimus’s valve.
“Want it,” Rodimus mumbles. “Wanna feel you in me. Wanna feel you overload in me.”
“Frag, Roddy, you can’t just say something like that…” Drift says with a huff of laughter, but he takes his spike in hand and presses it into Rodimus’s valve with a groan, sinking right back in like he belongs there.
There’s something utterly intoxicating about the feeling of each ridged plate of Drift’s spike nudging past Rodimus’s fingers. He doesn’t even have to keep holding himself open after a point, but he keeps his hand there just to feel.
And what a feeling it is. It edges just over pleasurable into too much and Rodimus’s frame is screaming at him to stop whatever he’s doing. But he just bites his glossa around the cry that wants to creep up his throat and bears down on Drift’s spike.
It hurts. It really does hurt. But it hurts so fucking good.
“More,” Rodimus croaks out. Drift moans, a broken sound tinged with static, as he gives his first shallow little thrust.
Drift doesn’t return to that breakneck pace that had Rodimus seeing stars. But he doesn’t need to. He goes slow, but he goes deep, pulling out until just the tip of his spike is being hugged by Rodimus’s cinching valve, and then pushing back in until it bumps against Rodimus’s ceiling node. And it hurts and Rodimus wants to scream at each too-hot pulse of bright, scalding pleasure-pain, but he needs—he needs—
He presses his face against Drift’s shoulder and keens, hips jerking underneath the onslaught of sensation. He wants to pull away, he wants to push closer, he wants to kick with all his strength until Drift is out of him and across the damn room—
“Frag, Roddy,” Drift whines, “You’re so good. My good mech. Mine.”
“Yours,” Rodimus tells him, voice cracking around the word. “All yours.”
Drift’s thrusts quicken again, but he’s clumsier in his movements. Erratic in his pace. He’s close. Oh Primus, he’s close. He’s going to overload. Rodimus needs it. He needs it, he needs it, he needs it—
“Rodimus—Rodimus—” Drift stutters, his frame shuddering as his thrusting goes sharp and shallow.
“Dr-Drift?” Rodimus asks, pulling back to look at his—his—his something. His everything.
“Merge with me,” Drift gasps.
What? Rodimus thinks. Then, a second later, he says, “Oh fuck yeah.”
Before he’s even said the last word, Rodimus’s chestplates are parting. The room is bathed in a pale blue glow and Rodimus catches the reflection of his own spark in Drift’s optics. Then he’s blinded by a matching light as Drift’s chassis opens up. He only sees the full thing for a moment, though, because then Drift is pressing up against him and—
Their sparks collide and Rodimus wails.
It’s too much—it’s not enough—it’s everything he’s ever wanted—it’s nothing like he could’ve ever dreamed of having—
Rodimus feels as if he might rattle apart from the amount of everything pulsing in his processor, in his spark—
But Drift is there. Drift is there to shoulder the burden and Rodimus isn’t alone. Oh, Primus, he isn’t alone. Drift is there and Rodimus loves him, against all odds. Drift is there and he loves Rodimus, despite everything. And all that love and all that old longing crashes down on Rodimus like a tidal wave, enveloping him until his entire being, all he is, it’s all just love-love-love—
And there’s something else too, a long hallway, a thin tether. Rodimus thinks he could follow it, feel the amusement-satisfaction-love at the end—
But Drift draws him back and, without needing to say a word, tells him that right now it’s just them. Drift-and-Rodimus, Rodimus-and-Drift, so close they are one thing, never to be separate again.
When they do separate, when Drift lifts up off of him, Rodimus is a wreck. Drool spills from his open mouth, something like sparks are flying from his optics, he thinks he may have blown a fragging fuse or two.
And Drift’s spike is tucked up deep inside his quivering valve, spilling liquid heat into his gut and sending ever more sensations of euphoric agony that have him writhing around that spike.
“-odimus… Rodimus—” Drift is saying. Oh, Drift is here. And he’s looking down at Rodimus all soft and worried and if Rodimus glances down, he can still see the light tucked beneath Drift’s chestplates.
“Hnnnghhh,” Rodimus responds. Words. Those are things that exist, yes. He should probably say a few before Drift does something like pull out of him too quick and wring another overload out of his spent frame. “Dr’f…”
“I’m here,” Drift says, petting over Rodimus’s crest. He kisses Rodimus’s nasal ridge. Ugh, he’s so sweet, Rodimus is so fucking in love with him.
“L’ve you,” he says, because it seems like the thing to say right about now. And Drift’s expression goes somehow softer and he presses their foreheads together again.
“I love you too, Roddy.” Oh, and then Drift kisses Rodimus. Kisses, those are also things that exist. Mmh, and they’re good too. Rodimus doesn’t even really do anything—can’t really do anything, really—as Drift licks into his mouth. It’s wet, Rodimus is still drooling like a drunkard, but Drift doesn’t seem to mind.
Gently, clawed hands ease Rodimus’s chestplates closed—oh, he never did close those, did he? And Drift pulls back to ask, “Think you can get up?”
“Hmgh,” Rodimus mumbles. Words are a little beyond him right now. Also moving.
Drift laughs a little and kisses Rodimus again. Rodimus makes a displeased sound when Drift pulls away just a moment later, though.
“Just give me a second—” Drift starts, but anything else he says gets lost as Rodimus registers the sensation of the spike in him starting to pull out. His frame goes tense and he prepares for more pleasure-pain-stimulation—but it’s a relatively smooth slide. The ridges of Drift’s spike aren’t angrily flared in almost-overload anymore, they’ve flattened down enough that Rodimus just feels the barest hint of overstimulation before—
Unf, before Drift’s spike pops out of him, followed soon after by a slow trickle of transfluid. Rodimus whines. He doesn’t want it to leak out of him. He wants it to stay all up in his valve, keeping him warm and full and sticky. Drift laughs again—mean—and Rodimus vaguely registers that he slides down off the berth and stands up.
“Wait here, Roddy, I’ll be right back.”
Rodimus waits, though it’s less out of a want to follow the order and more because he really doesn’t think he can move. Frag, he’s been fucked out of his fragging mind. He giggles a little, strangely giddy after it all. He’s all soft and gooey and warm, and the only thing that would make this better is if—
“Alright,” Drift says—Drift! He’s here again! “Let’s get you wiped down, at least.”
Rodimus watches with considering optics as Drift swipes a rag down Rodimus’s front, up and down his thighs, over his array—and that one still hurts a little, but Rodimus valiantly only whines a smidge at the touch, earning a soft shushing noise from Drift who leans down to give him a little peck. All the lubricant and transfluid of their coupling is wiped away, leaving behind only paint…
Though Rodimus feels a certain delight in noticing all the streaks of bright white and bold black contrasting against his own colors. That feeling only blooms further as he realizes that Drift is now sporting his own smears of gold and orange. Rodimus does enjoy all the attention, though, enough so that he’s halfway to recharge by the time Drift is pulling away to discard the rag… somewhere.
When he returns, barely a moment later, he pats Rodimus’s inner thigh and says, “Close ‘em on up, Roddy.” Close… what—oh, his panels.
Rodimus’s modesty panels slide shut slowly, with a slight grinding sensation that tells Rodimus that something isn’t fitting right down there. It’d be pretty funny if Drift bent his array out of shape from fragging him too hard.
“What’s so funny?” Drift asks, sidling up next to him on the berth. Rodimus belatedly realizes he’s snickering.
“Nothin’,” Rodimus mumbles, rolling over to tuck himself close to Drift. Arms wrap around his frame and Rodimus feels that warm and gooey feeling rise in his spark again. “Hey Drift?”
“Yeah?”
“Love you.”
Rodimus can’t see Drift’s face from where he’s all snuggled up against Drift’s chassis, and his optics are offline besides. But he can feel Drift’s smile pressed into his helm.
“I love you too.”
Rodimus hums, pliant and pleased and he’s warm and surrounded by warm plating. He doesn’t know quite how much time passes like that, especially dipping in and out of recharge as he is. He only knows that, at some point, words are spoken over his head. Unintelligible to him, but resulting in another frame crawling into berth behind him. Rodimus makes another happy noise and feels a kiss pressed against the back of his neck.
“Go to sleep, kid,” a gruff voice says.
“L’ve y’,” Rodimus is sure to tell this voice as well. The frame against his front shakes a little with barely restrained laughter, but Rodimus is already slipping into recharge. Warm and soft and loved. Everything he’d ever dreamt of and more.