The last thing Drift expected when he walked into Megatron’s office was to see Rodimus bent over Megatron’s desk getting the frag of his life. Knowing both Rodimus and Megatron as he did, Drift should have seen this coming.
Somehow, he’d actually expected better of them. Worse, he didn’t know which of the two had disappointed him more.
Words crackled to static in his vocalizer. The datapad in his hands felt superfluous. He wasn’t third in command; things weren’t that simple. But his welcome return suddenly felt hollow.
He was an intruder.
Bad enough he’d returned to the Lost Light knowing his former leader – former lover – was now Co-Captain. But this…?
This was something wholly unpleasant altogether.
Rodimus moaned, a sound familiar to Drift. Megatron slammed harder into him, the pitch of his engine different than the one Drift remembered. Megatron’s energy field, however, was the same, and it took greater effort than Drift liked to keep his own in check.
They hadn’t even noticed him yet.
Drift ground his denta and whirled on a heelstrut. He didn’t have time for this.
He miscalculated in his haste. His right sword sheath smacked a chair, one that was out of place, perhaps hastily shoved aside in the heat of passion. The loud screech was enough to be heard over two frames colliding.
“Wha…? Drift!?” He heard the two mechs scramble apart.
He couldn’t leave now. They’d only give chase, or at least Rodimus would, and Drift had no intentions of taking this into the hall and into public. Drift turned slowly, careful to keep his face a mask.
Megatron had disengaged from Rodimus and both were standing, their equipment still bared. Rodimus’ optics were wide, but Megatron’s face was as blank as the mask Drift now wore.
“I came to give you this report.” Drift caught Megatron’s gaze and gestured with the datapad. “If you’re in a private meeting, you should learn to lock the door.”
His optics shifted to Rodimus, who was speechless for once. The office stank of overload and lubricant. Lubricant glistened on Rodimus’ thighs and Megatron’s spike. Rodimus’ flame-colored paint glistened with condensation.
“I’ll come back later,” Drift said and couldn’t fight the frown this time. He spun again on a heel, tucking the datapad back into subspace.
“Drift, wait!” Rodimus ran into the desk as he scrambled to get around it. “Ow! Wait! It’s not what it looks like.”
Drift laughed; he couldn’t help himself. “Really?” He half-turned, but it was enough to see the lubricant staining his best friend’s thighs. “Then I guess command meetings on the ship haven’t changed after all.”
It hurt. He didn’t deny it. But neither could he explain it. Megatron and Rodimus didn’t owe him anything.
“You never used to be so emotional.”
Drift stiffened. His armor rustled. Megatron interrupted Rodimus with an even tone, a placid observation.
“Are you angry, or are you jealous?”
Megatron’s voice cut to the spark now as it always did. Drift ignored the yearning. The way he longed at the same time he loathed.
“Sometimes, not even I’m sure,” Drift admitted quietly. “Right now, anger’s winning.” He fingered one of his swords as he faced the two Co-Captains again. He was barely mollified by the distance between them. “You always go for the ones who don’t know any better, don’t you?”
Red optics narrowed, the only indication that Megatron was offended. “I never lied.”
“You never had to.” Drift stalked toward the desk, sheaths smacking against his thighs. “You always spoke just enough truth that we could ignore the rest.”
In his peripheral vision, Rodimus stirred, but he didn’t speak. A first.
Closer now to Megatron, Drift could smell the aroused heat of him, stalled though it was. It stirred something Drift had long thought buried. He pushed it back down, focusing instead on the anger.
“What sweet words did you use this time?” Drift asked, his voice cool enough to soothe an overworked hydraulic system. “What promises did you make?”
“None. Because I didn’t have to.” Megatron moved closer, within reach, though the desk still separated them. One hand rested on the top, fingers splayed like a cage. “Rodimus came to me.”
“I don’t believe you.” Drift’s engine snarled, his hands forming fists. He had no right to be angry, yet it broiled inside of him, rising like a tide.
“Well.” Megatron’s lips pulled into that sly, seductive smirk Drift loved to hate. “Why don’t you ask him?”
“Oh, no.” Rodimus held up his hands, gaze skittering between them. “Whatever is going on between you two right now clearly doesn’t involve me.”
He took a sliding step backward. “In fact, I should just go.”
“Don’t,” Drift said, and Megatron echoed him, them speaking in unison without taking their optics off one another.
“Do you need him to hide behind? Is that it Megatron?” Drift leaned forward, bracing his hands on the desk. “That way you don’t have to answer me.”
Megatron leaned forward as well, the desk bearing his weight. Now they were face to face, inches apart, sharing ventilation space.
“I hide from nothing,” Megatron said. “Unlike you, Deadlock. Or should I call you, Drift? That is the mask you wear now, isn’t it?”
Drift narrowed his optics, engine growling. “So says the mech who now wears an Autobot badge. Tell me, Megatron, how easy was it for you to abandon your principles?”
Crimson optics flashed. Megatron’s engine roared a muted growl. There was threat in the way his plating ruffled, the way his right arm twitched as though reaching for and missing the weight of a familiar weapon.
“Whoa. Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?” Rodimus said, still moving in Drift’s peripheral vision.
Drift shoved off the desk and stalked around it. “Not even close.”
“Strong words from a mech who defected, abandoning both his faction….” Megatron’s gaze raked him from head to foot. “And his lover.”
Drift snarled. He felt trapped, caged by Megatron’s gaze and the hot static of their energy fields clashing. It pushed and pulled, oh so familiar, like the foreplay of the past, when Megatron and Deadlock grappled before giving in to passion.
Megatron had always been the hardest thing to leave, and the only thing Drift regretted leaving behind.
“If I was ever the latter, I didn’t know it.” Drift shoved at Megatron, rocking him back on his heelstruts. Nothing but Fool’s Energon and Megatron was still as immovable as a mountain. “I was your trophy. Your pet. Your–”
Megatron lashed out, grabbed his right arm, fingers curled around the wrist tightly, but not enough to dent. His field was blistering, chaotic where it crashed against Drift’s. His optics darkened.
“Do not tell me what you were to me, Deadlock,” he growled, his throttled engine giving a muted rumble. “Because I remember even if you don’t.”
Drift hissed, “Let go.”
Megatron’s fingers tightened, putting pressure on his wrist. “No.”
“Damn it, Megatron!” Anger bubbled and boiled over.
Drift swung at Megatron again, a wild swing that he should have known would never connect. But his frame vibrated and his spark whirled so fast that inaction was impossible.
Megatron grabbed his left hand as easily as the right. Drift snarled, but the curse died in his intake when Megatron yanked him forward, his lips slanting over Drift’s. It was barely a kiss; it felt an attack. Megatron’s mouth covered his, glossa shoving inside. Drift bit at him and all Megatron did was chuckle.
He leaned harder into Drift, kissing him deeper, heavier. His denta scraped Drift’s lips, his glossa plunged inside, possessive and claiming. Drift’s knees wobbled.
He counted ten ways he could get out of this hold, and even half of them wouldn’t harm Megatron too terribly. Megatron had left himself wide open, as if daring Drift to break free. The option was there.
He only had to stop kissing Megatron back and take it.
This was painfully familiar. This was how it had always been. It was what Drift had craved, the further he ran away from Deadlock, something he he’d been unwilling to admit he wanted.
The longing burst inside of him again and again, peppering him with hunger with every nip of Megatron’s denta and every taste of his glossa. He wanted to lash out at Megatron on principle alone, but the rest of Drift screamed for him to seize the opportunity. He might not get another.
Drift moaned into the kiss and pressed back against Megatron, biting the former Decepticon’s lips, but this time drawing energon. If Megatron wanted to play rough, to relive the past, then Drift would remind him. A trickle of energon painted their kiss.
Megatron chuckled against his lips, his vents sounding loud in the confined space of the office. “That’s what I thought,” he said and claimed Drift’s mouth again.
Drift’s engine revved into a higher pitch. Heat burst through his frame like a flash-fire, pooling in his groin. His spike throbbed to the same beat as his valve, processor remembering what his frame had forgotten – how good Megatron had always felt inside him or over him.
Megatron tugged on his wrists again, pulled their frames flush together, the heat of him burning against Drift’s armor. One knee nudged between Drift’s legs, rubbing against his panel. His spike surged against the cover.
Drift’s field pulsed. He tasted energon in the kiss, and it had to be his own because it was too sweet to be that bland blend Megatron was now forced to consume. Arousal dripped into his groin.
The fingers around his wrist tightened again before abruptly releasing him. Drift’s hands hung in mid-air as Megatron gripped his hip with one hand and grabbed Drift’s chin with the other.
Megatron bit at his bottom lip and pushed. Drift’s aft hit the desk. He heard something rattle, and another item toppled to the floor with a dull clatter. In the next moment, it was lost to the whirr of his cooling fans, to the labored ventilations of Megatron’s frame caging him in.
“Tell me to stop,” Megatron growled, his optics crimson fire as he met Drift’s gaze.
Drift swept his glossa over his own lips, the dermal plating swollen and warm. “Since when have you paid attention to what I want?”
“Since now.” Megatron’s thumb swept over his chin, gathering up a drip of energon. “Tell me.”
Drift stirred himself into motion, grasping Megatron’s helm and dragging the warlord back to his lips. There was nothing sweet or savory in the kiss, but biting and desperate.
Megatron’s engine purred. He pressed Drift harder against the desk, his field slamming against Drift’s with arousal and intent. His spike, having never retracted, pushed wetly at Drift’s right hip, leaving a streak of pre-fluid behind.
He let go of Drift’s jaw. Both hands gripped Drift’s hips, lifting him with ridiculous ease, planting his aft on the desk. His sheaths clattered noisily. He was glad he’d left his Great Sword in his quarters.
Drift’s thighs found Megatron’s hips, his feet hooking behind his former lover’s knees. His panel, hot to the touch, rubbed against Megatron’s groin, streaks of arousal shooting through him.
Rodimus loudly rebooted his vocalizer.
Drift’ went absolutely still as Megatron pulled back from the kiss. Mortification crept in at the edges. He’d forgotten.
“Right,” Rodimus said, clapping his hands together. “So you guys are clearly busy and I’m feeling more than a little unsatisfied, so I’m just going to go.”
Megatron’s gaze shifted to Drift. There was a query in the look, and Drift knew what he was asking. He tipped his head in a nod.
It was probably not a good idea. A terrible one. The repercussions could be disastrous. But maybe, just this once, that wouldn’t have to matter.
“No,” Megatron said, his fingers flexing on Drift’s hip as he looked past Drift. “You are welcome to stay.”
Drift twisted around until he could at least see Rodimus, who had folded his arms over his chestplate. He looked uncomfortable and bothered, his field unreadable. Or perhaps that was because Megatron’s was so prevalent, Drift could sense nothing beyond it.
Rodimus arched an orbital ridge. “Doesn’t look like it.”
“Pfft. It never does.” Drift met his best friend’s gaze, wondering if perhaps too much had happened for Rodimus to trust him again. “This is just the way it is. Always has been. But Megatron’s right. You should stay.”
“So I can watch?” Rodimus snorted and took a step back, toward the door. “No, thank you.”
“No.” Megatron leaned back over Drift, his gaze on Rodimus, but the warmth of his mouth enclosed Drift’s nearest audial, scraping it with his denta. “So you can join.”
Drift shivered, his hands sliding from Megatron’s head to curl around Megatron’s torso. His fingers played in the seams of Megatron’s back, urging him closer. His fingers sunk into a transformation seam, pressing down hard against cables, and Megatron shivered in his hold.
Rodimus stared at both of them. “Say what?”
“You heard him,” Drift said, swallowing down a moan as Megatron’s nibbling turned into a bite hard enough to leave a dent behind. There was a flash of pain, quickly swallowed by a burst of pleasure. “Get over here.”
Drift hoped he didn’t presume too much. He hoped that maybe now was the chance to bridge the gap, the way he and Rodimus had been dancing around each other since Drift’s return.
Rodimus stared at them for another long moment before he lowered his arms and approached the desk. His field sliced into the fray, a dizzying mix of uncertainty and lust.
“Doesn’t seem to be much room,” he observed.
“Sure there is.” Megatron straightened, his right hand leaving Drift’s hip only to plant on Drift’s chestplate.
Drift blinked, confused, until Megatron gave him a push, tilting him backward onto the desk. Something went crunch beneath his shoulders, a datapad perhaps, and this left him looking somewhat upside-down at Rodimus.
“Right here,” Megatron said as he patted Drift’s chestplate. He smirked at both of them, suddenly every inch the commander he had been.
Understanding lit up Drift’s processor like fireworks. His thighs tightened around Megatron’s hips as his panels clicked open, his spike surging free. The idea of having both of them, at once, together, sent his arousal skyrocketing.
Past and recent past, colliding together. It was something from the depths of his fantasies.
Rodimus approached the desk, his hands planted to either side of Drift’s shoulders as he looked down at him. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.” Drift looked at him, upside down, reading the concern, the uncertainty in Rodimus’ expression.
A large, warm hand enclosed his spike, thumb rubbing the tip. Drift moaned, hips rocking upward into Megatron’s grip. His spike pulsed a rhythm of welcome.
Drift licked his lips, directing a glare at Megatron. “And you better finish what you started or I’ll finish it for you, and you may not like it when I do.”
“Oh, you’ll get what you’re asking for,” Megatron purred, his optics flashing with challenge. He squeezed Drift’s spike, but his gaze shifted to Rodimus. “You heard him. Get up here.”
“You’re my co-captain, not the boss of me,” Rodimus snapped, but his outrage didn’t stop him from heeding Megatron’s directions and climbing on top of the desk.
It creaked, but bore their combined weight as Rodimus straddled Drift’s waist. Right side up, Rodimus braced his hands to either side of Drift’s head, leaning in close.
“Hi,” he said, something abashed in his tone.
Was it awkward? Of course it was. They hadn’t really talked since the Overlord incident, and Drift still remembered how it felt to have Rodimus, his friend, cast him out. They had agreed to it, but it still hurt.
His chestplate was still bare, scraped. He hadn’t replaced his badge, not because he hadn’t been given permission, but because he didn’t know if he wanted to.
“Some things don’t change,” Drift said, and hooked a hand around the back of Rodimus’ head, pulling him down for a kiss.
This, too, was familiar. A different flavor of familiarity. Megatron was force and command, only yielding when it suited him. Rodimus was sloppy and sweet, fire and passion. He had been a welcome change. He’d been the berthmate who made Drift laugh with one outrageous thing after another. He was a breath of fresh air.
He was Drift’s best friend and more than anything, Drift missed that. Having a friend. Having someone he could rely on. Someone he felt he could trust. Ratchet helped fill in some of the empty spaces Rodimus left behind, and he was a treasure in his own right. But nothing could replace how important Rodimus had been to him, just as nothing could replace the space Megatron had taken either.
Drift had surrendered a lot for Rodimus’ sake. He still wondered if it was possible to get any of that back.
Rodimus’ kiss was eager. His mouth moved against Drift’s, lips soft and soothing against the bitemarks Megatron left behind. He was a warm, welcome weight. His hips rocked down as Drift’s spike rubbed against his aft.
It took him that long to realize Megatron had abandoned his spike to stroke around his valve panel.
“You two make a pretty picture,” Megatron commented.
Drift nipped at Rodimus’ lips and tilted his head to stare at Megatron. “That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? You just want your trophies.”
“Is there something wrong with that?” Megatron asked as Rodimus jolted on top of Drift, his engine shifting to a rumbling purr. Drift could only assume that Megatron had started groping him as well.
Lecherous old tyrant.
“Is that all you do?” Rodimus demanded as he pushed himself upright, his faceplate radiating heat as his armor flared. “Bicker at each other?”
“Not always,” Drift replied, his hands sliding to Rodimus’ hips.
The other captain’s spike had re-emerged, glossy and bright, red and yellow banded. Drift’s mouth filled with lubricant at the sight of it. Rodimus was such a delight to pleasure.
“At times,” Megatron admitted, but there was little apology in his tone. “So do us all a favor and occupy Drift’s mouth.”
Drift narrowed his optics. “This isn’t over,” he said as he tightened his grip on Rodimus’ hips, giving them a tug forward.
Megatron chuckled, his dark gaze locked on Drift’s. “It never is,” he replied and rubbed firmly at Drift’s panel. “Open.”
“I’m suddenly feeling a little less certain about being between you,” Rodimus said, though his field didn’t quite reflect that.
“You’re perfectly safe.” Drift rubbed his hands down Rodimus’ thighs. “Turn around and slide up here so I can reassure you.”
Rodimus’ optics brightened as he obeyed, a bit clumsily given what little room was available on the desk. “You still like that, huh?”
“He has something of an oral fetish,” Megatron commented.
“No one asked you,” Rodimus growled as he settled, facing Megatron this time, presenting his aft to Drift. And what a fine aft it was.
Drift chuckled and tugged on Rodimus’ thighs again. “Ignore him,” he said as he allowed his panel to open, hoping it would serve as a distraction for Megatron. He shivered as two fingers immediately plunged into his valve, aided by the copious lubricant he produced.
“Let me taste you again,” Drift asked as the scent of Rodimus’ lubricant floated to his nasal ridge.
Rodimus’ panel was already open. He’d probably left a streak of lubricant behind him. Nothing that couldn’t be washed away in the racks. Rodimus’ field was hot, throbbing with need, as he worked himself into position, presenting Drift with the sight of his swollen, aroused valve.
Red biolights blinked fitfully at him. Lubricant gathered around the rim and soaked the paneling of his groin. It dripped down his thighs in pretty rivulets. Rodimus’ anterior node was swollen, begging for Drift to taste it.
Drift ex-vented over it, and Rodimus shuddered. His hands braced on Drift’s abdomen, and Drift felt them curl around his armor.
“Oh, Primus, I missed this,” Rodimus moaned as two more inches brought him within reach and Drift parted his lips, the tip of his glossa touching that glowing node.
Rodimus shifted backward, putting Drift at the perfect angle to dive into Rodimus’ valve with lips and glossa. He gripped Rodimus’ hip and aft, pulling him down until his head was bracketed by Rodimus’ thighs, until his world-view was nothing but Rodimus’ array and the curve of his aft.
Drift purred into Rodimus’ valve, capturing the anterior node and suckling on it. Rodimus shivered, panting a ventilation. His hips rocked down, his valve giving a needy squeeze that eased more drips of lubricant onto Drift’s face.
“Why are you so good at that?” Rodimus demanded.
“Practice,” Megatron answered and his fingers vanished from Drift’s valve, only to be replaced with his spike.
The thick, blunt head pressed against the rim and Drift tipped his head, focusing on sensation for a moment. This frame was technically new. It had never felt Megatron, and resisted at first. The brief moment of push-pull was intoxicating until Megatron rolled his hips and slid inside, igniting the sensors around his rim.
Drift’s legs tightened around Megatron’s waist. His heels pushed at Megatron’s thighs as a full-frame shiver stole over him.
“That’s so hot, why is that so hot,” Rodimus groaned, his valve pulsing against Drift’s lips.
Megatron rocked his hips, inch by inch, until his spike was buried in Drift’s valve. The head of it nudged his ceiling node, and pleasure lit like a lightning bolt up Drift’s backstrut. If not for Rodimus on top of him, he probably would have rolled onto Megatron’s spike. But as it was, Rodimus kept him pinned, and a whine from the flame-colored mech reminded Drift that he had a task to complete.
He refocused on Rodimus’ dripping valve, the swollen fold of it desperate for contact. Drift licked around the rim of it, lapping up Rodimus’ lubricant, trying to ignore the pleasure Megatron wreaked on his valve.
Megatron set up a steady rhythm, long and slow thrusts into his valve that raked against every sensor node in his lining. He kept one grip on Drift’s hip, but the other alternated between stroking Drift’s spike and his anterior node. Heat buzzed in Drift’s array.
He swallowed down his moans, giving twice as much attention to Rodimus’ valve, pulling his old friend down until Rodimus was seated on his face. He had no choice but to offer Rodimus pleasure, to feel Rodimus squirm on top of him, little gasps and moans escaping his mouth.
And babbling. In the midst of pleasure, Rodimus was a babbler, murmuring encouragement and praise and suggestions.
“Right there, suck a little harder Drift,” he moaned, his fingers kneading a pattern against Drift’s abdominal armor. “Use your denta. Oh, Primus. Like that.”
Megatron rumbled a deep laugh. “Here I thought I was special, Rodimus. But you’ll sing for anyone who goes down on you.”
“Shut up,” Rodimus gritted out, though it lost its harshness when Drift nipped at his anterior node and Rodimus shuddered.
“You first,” Megatron retorted, and Drift heard Rodimus make a muffled sound. He couldn’t see what they were doing, but guessed they were kissing, and the mental image of that was enough to make his engine rev.
Drift worked his intake and redoubled his efforts. He shoved his glossa into Rodimus’ array, grinding his chin against Rodimus’ anterior node. He licked just inside the rim, flicking against the ring of sensor nodes within, and Rodimus ground down, his hips rocking in a steady rhythm.
Rodimus bled heat, his field crackling with static. He moaned into the kiss with Megatron, knees pushing further apart, until he thrust down against Drift’s mouth and his spike rubbed against Drift’s chestplate. The scrape of the head of his spike on Drift’s armor was desperate, arousing.
Drift’s valve clenched, tightening around Megatron’s spike. It was more than sensation now. It was situation. It was Rodimus moaning, his frame dancing above Drift, to the tune of Drift’s glossa. It was Megatron’s field, still powerful, enveloping them both.
Megatron’s rhythm increased. His hand tightened on Drift’s waist as their arrays came together in the dull clatter of metal on metal. His hand enclosed Drift’s spike, squeezing it to the pattern of his thrusts.
Drift moaned against Rodimus’ valve. His spark throbbed with arousal, his entire frame blasting heat. His field flashed through the room like fire, and when it clashed against Megatron’s and Rodimus’, instead, of fighting, they relented. All three of them yielded, agreed, until they were, as one, pulsing the same heat, the same need.
It felt like a tangible, physical touch. It felt like fingers against his lines, his cables. Drift writhed beneath Rodimus, his valve rippling around Megatron’s spike as Megatron thrust into him faster and faster, his ventilations erratic and labored. His spike throbbed, slamming against Drift’s ceiling node, and his valve responded in kind, rippling around Megatron’s spike over and over again.
Megatron groaned, the sound muffled by Rodimus’ lips. Megatron’s hands flexed around Drift’s spike and hip as suddenly he slammed into Drift and ground against his array. His field flared brightly, sticky with heat, before Drift felt the bloom of transfluid in his valve, Megatron overloading first.
The wash of transfluid against his ceiling node was a shock to the senses, a thrill of pleasure that drizzled down his backstrut and threatened to throw him over. But then Megatron drew back, from Drift and the kiss with Rodimus, his pants barely audible over three sets of whirring cooling fans.
“That’s one,” Rodimus said with a gasp. “Old mech.”
Megatron released Drift’s hip. “Do not test me, Rodimus,” he growled, the deep bass of it seeming to reverberate straight to Drift’s spark.
He moaned and realized Rodimus echoed him. His valve rippled against Drift’s lips, spilling more lubricant.
“Or what?” Rodimus demanded, his fingers curling into Drift’s abdomen, tugging on the smaller platelets.
“Or I’ll give you another lesson in obedience,” Megatron growled and Rodimus shuddered again, his node pulsing faster and faster.
Drift nibbled his way back to it, glossa flicking over the blinking sensor before he trapped it between his denta.
“Primus,” Rodimus breathed, hips pushing down, rocking on Drift’s mouth as though he were riding a spike.
Megatron chuckled darkly and Drift couldn’t see what he did, but whatever it was, caused Rodimus to cry out with pleasure. He sank down hard on Drift’s mouth, hips dancing uncontrollably.
Rodimus overloaded with a bitten off shout, his hips grinding down on Drift’s mouth over and over as the charge danced through his frame. Drift nuzzled him through it, suckling on his node, extending the overload, until Rodimus’ hips abruptly danced away. Too sensitive, always, in the aftermath of his overload.
Rodimus sagged forward, his valve open and dripping into Drift’s chestplate, his spent spike trapped between their frames.
“My turn,” he panted, and frame trembling, he dragged himself toward Drift’s spike, ex-venting wetly over it.
“Roddy, you don’t have to–” Any protest he might have had died as soon as Rodimus’ lips closed around the head, denta scraping at the sensor ridge near the crown of it.
Rodimus’ mouth was hot, his glossa eager as he slurped and sucked at Drift’s spike. Drift groaned, his hands clasping onto the back of Rodimus’ thighs as he rolled upward, gently rocking into Rodimus’ mouth.
“Oh, Primus,” Drift moaned.
“Don’t start praising him just yet,” Megatron said as his spike slipped from Drift’s valve, making him shiver.
“Primus!” Drift said, exasperated. “Not everything has to be competition!”
Megatron ignored him, vanishing from what little Drift could see of him. He unhooked Drift’s legs from his waist, but then they were draped over Megatron’s shoulders. Drift had only a moment of realization, as Megatron’s hands gripped his thighs and pushed them open wider, before Megatron’s mouth descended on his valve.
Drift sucked in a vent and shoved his fist into his mouth. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined this. Spike and valve both being given loving attention, Rodimus sucking on him as though Drift’s spike offered sweet engex, and Megatron purring as he lapped at Drift’s rim and nibbled on his node.
Drift’s entire frame shook. He heard something that he swore was a whimper, and realized belatedly that it belonged to him. But what else could he do when it felt like an inferno had taken residence in his array. His entire lower half throbbed, pleasure sparking charge up his spinal strut. He lost control, bucking into their mouths, and only Rodimus’ weight on his hips kept him pinned.
His backstrut arched, optics shuttering as the pleasure consumed him, as Rodimus took him deep, all the way down Roddy’s intake. As Megatron sucked on his node, bit at his rim, fragged Drift’s valve with glossa.
Lights danced in the dim of his shuttered optics. His own vents made a roaring sound, his legs snapping back against the desk. There was no defense against this, no holding back.
Drift tasted energon as he bit his his knuckles, scraping right through the dermal layer. Something like a scream built in his intake as he overloaded, bucking his hips and spilling down Roddy’s intake as his valve pulsed wave after wave of lubricant into Megatron’s mouth.
His processor blanked, focusing only on pleasure, and a low keen echoed from his vocalizer. His entire frame shook as the intense sensation gradually ebbed to a low-grade hum of satisfaction.
Drift slumped strutlessly onto the berth, his spike slipping from Rodimus’ mouth, though not before Rodimus pressed a delicate kiss to the tip.
He unshuttered his optics, spitting out his fist to draw in big gulps of air through his intake. It felt as though he were overheating, his frame thrumming satedly.
“Wow, that was a good one,” Rodimus said as swung his leg over Drift’s frame and rearranged himself, tucking into Drift’s right side.
Drift’s arm curved up and around his back, stroking Rodimus’ spoiler. “Mmm. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Rodimus murmured, stretching up to steal Drift’s lips for a kiss that was soft and sweet this time, if not tasting of Drift’s own transfluid. Rodimus’ engine purred at Drift’s side, vibrating both of their frames.
“Guess I’m not the only one who sings, huh?” Rodimus added with a quiet laugh.
Drift’s lips curved. “Guess not.” He curled an arm around Rodimus, enjoying the warmth of the other speedster’s frame against his. Rodimus had always been a comfortable berthmate, and Drift had missed that as well.
He’d missed the weight of Rodimus obnoxiously draped atop him in recharge. He’d missed how much Rodimus insisted on having most of the berth to himself and then still recharging halfway on top of Drift. He missed how Rodimus clung in the middle of the night, sometimes shivering as though recalling things he wanted to forget.
It was the simple things, the quiet intimacies, that Drift had missed the most.
“I believe I had something to do with it as well,” Megatron interjected as he rose to his full height, one hand wiping at his mouth. His glossa swept across his lips.
Drift tilted his head. “Since when have you needed reassurance?”
“Sometimes, he just likes to know he did a good job,” Rodimus said, his tone sly and mischievous. “Performance issues, you know,” he added on a whisper.
Megatron rolled his optics and pulled a cloth out of subspace, wiping at his array. “You are making a mess on my desk.”
Drift twisted his jaw and lifted his foot, half-sparked kicking at Megatron’s side. “Don’t be an aft,” he said.
“But that’s his natural state of being,” Rodimus teased. He snuggled closer to Drift, throwing a leg over Drift’s as though he intended to recharge right here and now.
Megatron blinked at both of them before sighing and pinching his nasal ridge. “Fantastic,” he groaned. “Now there’s two of you.”
“Everything you ever wanted,” Rodimus said with a wiggle of his aft.
“Perhaps we should move this to a berth then,” Drift suggested as the damp beneath his aft started to grow. He could only imagine the look on Ultra Magnus’ face were he to walk in and see this debauchery.
Though honestly, it was not as though he could be surprised.
“The same berth?” Megatron questioned as he tossed his cloth to Rodimus, who caught it with one hand.
“That’s the only way we’re all going to be in it at the same time,” Drift said, arching both orbital ridges.
Rodimus buried his face in Drift’s intake, snickering. “I’m so glad you’re back,” he said, voice muffled by Drift’s intake.
Megatron rolled his optics.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was a damn sight better than it had been twenty minutes ago. It was a start, and right now, Drift was going to take any one of them he could get.