When Rodimus walks into Drift’s habsuite completely unannounced and uninvited, Drift knows he wants something. He’s not sure what that something is, though, until Rodimus throws himself dramatically onto the berth and announces, “I don’t want to be able to walk tomorrow.”
Drift can’t help it: he bursts out laughing. “What?” He puts his datapad away and pushes his chair back from his desk, spinning around to face Rodimus, who’s sat up and looking very offended.
“I said, ‘I don’t want to be able to walk tomorrow.’” He pouts at Drift, putting on that face that means he’s planning to be a brat tonight. “I’m trying to be sexy and you’re laughing at me.”
Drift shakes his head. “You’re being ridiculous and demanding and I’m laughing at you.”
“Yeah, well, you think that’s sexy, so there.”
He’s right. Sprawled out on Drift’s bed with those thighs and that look on his face, asking as politely as he’s able for a good fuck, he does look sexy. Drift takes a moment to settle the sudden excitement stirring in his core and shifts his posture, planting his feet more firmly on the floor. He reaches for the drawer behind him. “Fine. If that’s the kind of mood you’re in,” Drift drops his voice down into that register he knows Rodimus likes. “Come here.” Rodimus’s vents catch, but he doesn’t move. Drift gets his hand in the drawer and pulls out the collar. “Come here. Now.”
Rodimus can’t resist. He gets up and makes his way over to Drift, but at the last second, he smirks and makes as if to sit in his lap.
“No,” Drift snaps. “On your knees.” He points to the ground in front of him and Rodimus drops like a stone, falling to his knees. He looks up at Drift and his eyes already have that hazy, pleading look he gets when he drops into subspace. Primus, Drift’s already wet behind his panels. His interface array pings him with a request to open his panels and pressurize his spike and he declines it. Not yet. “Good boy,” he purrs at Rodimus. He picks the collar up in both hands, holding it in front of Rodimus. “Show me your neck.”
He needn’t have asked. Rodimus is already tipping his head back, optics at half-brightness as he exposes his neck cabling to Drift. Drift nods his approval and reaches down to buckle the collar snugly. It’s heavy black leather, shining in the dim mood lighting of his habsuite and accented with silver buckles and a large silver loop on the front. Drift adjusts it until it sits just right, then gives it a gentle tug that has Rodimus’s engine revving. He makes a small sound, just a breathy little gasp of want, and Drift has to suppress a moan of his own. Gods, Rodimus is pretty like this.
“Good boy,” he tells him again, straightening up to appreciate the view of his collared little Prime, kneeling between his knees and practically begging already. “Now, what do you want?”
Rodimus keens. “I want you to fuck me.” Drift tilts his head. “Sir. I want you to fuck me, sir.”
It’s rare for Rodimus to be so obedient so early in a session. He must be desperate. “You’re probably already soaking wet behind your panels, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Drift’s expression darkens. “But you didn’t answer my question properly. What do you want? How do you want me to fuck you?”
Rodimus’s mouth falls open, showing off the edges of fangs as he pants. Drift wants to put his fingers in there, grab Rodimus’s jaw and press on his tongue and feel him suck Drift’s fingers, but first, he needs to hear Rodimus say what Drift already knows he wants. “I want you to fuck me hard, sir,” Rodimus gasps.
“How hard?”
Rodimus is shifting his hips now, rolling them in little circles like he wants something to grind against. He’s being good, though, keeping off the ground. He’s desperate, more desperate than usual, and Drift can’t for the life of him figure out why it’s now he decides to be a brat. “Don’t you know?” he says, and though he tries to smirk, the pleading look in his optics gives him away. “Sir,” he tacks on. He has a way of making the title mocking when he wants to.
Drift knows when he’s being baited. He also knows he’ll win in the end, so he has no problem reaching down and slapping Rodimus across the face. Rodimus cries out in half-pain, half-delight, hips jerking even as he stays kneeling. “Want to try that again?” Drift growls.
“No, sir,” Rodimus pants, and this time, Drift doesn’t hesitate to grab him by the jaw.
He leans in close, listening to the roar of Rodimus’s fans. “If you want to get fucked, you’d better tell me how, or you’re going to get something else instead.”
Rodimus’s eyes light up and for a moment, Drift thinks he’s going to get to flog him tonight. He tightens his grip on Rodimus’s jaw. All that comes out of Rodimus’s mouth, though, is a strangled, “Yes, sir.” Then, “I want you to use me like a toy, sir. I want—” His voice breaks. “I want you to fuck me like you did back in the Wreckers. Please, sir. I need it.”
“What do you need?”
Rodimus whimpers. “I need your spike, sir.”
“Good boy.” He shifts his grip on Rodimus’s jaw and gets two fingers in his mouth. “Suck.”
Rodimus does as he’s told, closing his mouth around Drift’s fingers and going to work on them as enthusiastically as if they were Drift’s spike. Drift stops bothering with keeping his array closed, letting his spike pressurize between his legs as he loses himself in the feeling of Rodimus’s tongue on him. He might as well be sucking Drift’s spike for the way it throbs.
He’s so focused on the way Rodimus’s lips look and the obscene sucking noises he’s making that he almost doesn’t notice Rodimus’s panel snapping open. “Did I tell you you could open?”
Rodimus whines around Drift’s fingers. Drift pulls them out just enough to let him talk, leaving a thick, glistening strand of oral lubricant stretched between them. It breaks and falls onto Rodimus’s chin. Drift wants to lick him. “No, sir,” he says, but he doesn’t apologize. He just looks up at Drift with that pout and those eyes and Drift can’t decide if he wants to slap or kiss him. Brat.
“Whore. I haven’t even touched you yet.”
Rodimus grins. “Sorry, sir. It’s just that I’m so wet, and…” His gaze flicks down to Drift’s spike.
Drift laughs, dark and low. “Do you need my spike that badly?”
“Yes.”
Drift hardly notices the dropped title. He pushes to his feet and kicks the chair back from the desk. “Stand up.” Rodimus scrambles to obey. “Over the desk.”
It’s a testament to how many times they’ve done this that Rodimus doesn’t need any more instruction. He settles with his cheek on his crossed arms and his aft in the air, back arched to show off his dripping valve. Drift squeezes the base of his spike once, hard, to keep himself in check. Gods. Primus.
Rodimus throws him a grin over his shoulder and he’s just opened his mouth to say something obnoxious when Drift shoves both spit-slick fingers into his valve at once. Rodimus cries out like he’s been stabbed, his whole body tensing. “Drift!”
“Yeah, this is what you’ve been after, isn’t it?” He works his fingers all the way into Rodimus’s soaked valve, going right for the spot at the back he loves so much and rubbing hard enough to make his legs shake. “You’ve got to have that needy little valve filled, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, yes, yesyesyes oh, Drift, frag me.” Rodimus rocks back and forth, fucking himself on Drift’s hand as he scissors his fingers, stretching him until he’s ready for a third. “Oh, Gods, right there, nggh, Drift.”
“You’re already so loose. Bet I could get my whole fist in there. What do you think?” Rodimus might have answered, but Drift grabs his spoiler and pulls and all he can do is sob Drift’s name. “Yeah, I think you could do it.” Drift slips a fourth finger into him. From this angle, he can’t reach Rodimus’s node, but that’s alright. He’s shaking like he’s about to overload already and Drift wants him desperate for a while longer.
No matter how many times they interface, Drift will never get over how sensitive Rodimus’s spoiler is. Once, he’d tied him up and rubbed and pulled and licked and bit it until he was a trembling, crying mess, right on the edge of overload for so long that when he’d come, he’d thrown himself into a soft reboot. Now, he leans forward and sinks his teeth into the edge, rubbing his spike against Rodimus’s aft while his valve clenches around his fingers.
“Drift, sir, fucking Pit, oh Gods oh Gods oh Gods Drift please,” Rodimus sobs. “I need your spike, need to overload, Drift, Drift.”
Drift runs a soothing hand up and down Rodimus’s back, a cruel counterpoint to the fingers still buried in his valve. “You’ll get it, don’t worry. I just want to make sure you’re good and ready first.”
“I’m ready, sir, I’m ready, pleasepleasplease put your spike in me.” Rodimus is drooling all over the table and leaking all over Drift’s hand, running down his wrist. He’s ready, alright. He’s so ready Drift’s surprised he’s still coherent.
“If you’re sure….”
Rodimus squirms, trying to arch his back further but unable to move under Drift’s weight. Drift isn’t that much bigger than him, but he’s stronger and much more experienced. If Drift ever chose to truly fight Rodimus, it would be over in under a minute. “I’m sure.”
Honestly, if Drift waits much longer, this might be over embarrassingly quickly, so he acquiesces. He straightens and takes a moment to admire the bite marks he’s left in Rodimus’s spoiler, running a finger over them and making him twitch. Then, he pulls his fingers out of Rodimus’s valve and replaces them with his spike, bottoming out almost before Rodimus can process the change.
Rodimus howls, frame jerking and vocalizer spitting static, valve clenching around Drift’s spike. Frag, he’s hot and wet and tight. Drift has a firm grip on his hips and holds him in place as he grinds deep into Rodimus’s valve, feeling the charge crackle between them as he hits all the sensitive nodes he hadn’t been able to reach with his fingers. He can hardly hear Rodimus over the white noise in his audials, but he thinks what’s coming out of his mouth is a mix of incoherent swearing and Drift’s name and “frag me, frag me, frag me,” over and over again.
Drift has never been able to resist Rodimus, not really, not more than playfully. So frag him he does. He thrusts into Rodimus hard and fast, unconcerned with whether or not Rodimus can overload like this, how pleasurable it is for him. Rodimus asked to be fucked like Drift fucked him back in the Wreckers. He’d asked to be used, and Drift is going to use him.
Rodimus is perfect for it. His narrow waist fits just right in Drift’s hands and his spoiler is in exactly the right spot for Drift to bite when he bends forward. He fucks Rodimus so hard the desk scrapes against the floor and Rodimus’s sobbing cries are almost lost in the sound of metal on metal. He’s close, so close he can feel the charge gathering in his spike and around his spark, ready to overload, and just as he’s about to, he grabs Rodimus by the back of the neck and shoves him down into the desk, holding him in place. He grinds in once, twice, and then with a shout of Rodimus’s name, he overloads.
It seems to go on for whole minutes, ripping through his frame in a crescendo of dizzying pleasure. He collapses over Rodimus, unable to support himself any longer as charge overflows and his spike throbs in the wet heat of Rodimus’s valve. It’s almost too much, and he mouths at Rodimus’s neck, biting down to relieve some of the pressure. Rodimus keens, and it’s that sound that starts to bring him back to himself.
“Drift, sir,” Rodimus is babbling. “Sir, please, I need to overload, please, I’m so close.”
Drift knows he is. Drift can feel the frantic throbbing of his valve, hear the desperation in his voice. He stands and grabs the back of Rodimus’s collar, hooking two fingers between the leather and the metal of his collar faring. “Up,” he growls, yanking Rodimus to his feet before he can do it himself. He flips him around and pins him to the desk again, this time on his back, aft hanging over the edge. Then, he drops to his knees. “Legs on my shoulders.”
Honestly, Drift thinks as the rush of his own overload begins to tip over into that post-interface afterglow, this is his favorite part. He loves fragging Rodimus, being rough with him, taking what he wants, but more than anything, he loves eating him out. He loves making him feel good, having no distraction from the gorgeous noises he makes when Drift’s sucking on his node.
Drift takes him by the hips and pulls him close, burying his face in Rodimus’s valve. He doesn’t bother with his fingers, just alternates between licking and sucking at Rodimus’s throbbing anterior valve until his thighs are shaking. He tastes so good, tangy and metallic and almost sweet.
“Drift,” Rodimus pants. “Drift, oh, right there.”
Drift does as he’s told, focusing on the left side of Rodimus’s node and applying just a bit more pressure. The sound that comes out of Rodimus’s vocalizer then is the most gorgeous thing Drift’s ever heard, and then he’s overloading against Drift’s mouth and it’s all he could ever ask for, all he could ever want.
He works Rodimus through it, running his tongue in little circles over his node until Rodimus bats at his finials to get him to stop. “Mmn, Drift, ‘m done.”
Drift lets him go and falls back on his heels, suddenly tired. Rodimus is sitting up now, looking down at him over the edge of the desk with the softest expression. “Take me to bed?” he asks, and who is Drift to deny him anything? He stands on shaking legs and picks Rodimus up. Even now, worn out and fuzzy as he comes down from his headspace, he’s more than strong enough to carry him. He brings him to the berth and lays him down carefully, then practically falls on top of him.
They’re kissing before Drift’s even had time to settle. Rodimus sighs into his mouth, wrapping his arms and one leg around Drift to hold him in place. They kiss lazily for a few minutes, running their hands over each other and trading “I love you”s as they settle down. By the time they manage to separate for more than a few seconds, they’re both half-asleep.
“Scene’s over,” Drift murmurs into Rodimus’s mouth.
“Kinda figured.” Rodimus kisses him again, sloppy and sweet.
Drift pulls him closer, leaning their foreheads together. “Brat.”
“Your brat.”