[IDW] Tyrannosaurus Wrecked

The calm after the storm is almost as tense as the frenzy leading up to it. Post-battle, Grimlock still feels as if he needs to move. Defensive protocols shift and lurch inside of him; his offensive code claws for attention. The urge to destroy something, anything, nestles in his internals and takes up residence.

There’s nothing and no one left to fight.

The air tastes of ash and ordinance. It’s humid and heavy on his glossa. There’s no wind. Not that there ever is.

Grimlock vents, in and out, frame tense, his gaze locked on the horizon, a hazy shade of noxious gray where the aftermath of spent ammunition clogs the air. Below him, the battlefield is littered with the fallen neither side has the time or resources to reclaim. Behind him, the rest of his team takes what rest they can, preparing for the next battle.

Because there is always going to be another one.

Debris skitters down the incline behind him. Someone curses and grunts, muttering to themselves in an annoyed tone.

Amusement floods Grimlock’s processor. He doesn’t have to look to identify his visitor. There’s only one mech in the battle group with such a naive and innocent field, though perhaps a little less of both after today.

“Why in the world would someone climb all the way up here, Primus,” Hot Rod mutters as he hauls himself up into view, vents heaving from exertion. His optics are pale, though whether from fatigue or because he’s short on energon, Grimlock isn’t sure.

Grimlock stares at him. “It’s usually a sign they want to be alone, kid.”

Hot Rod doesn’t sound the least bit chastened. “Not a good hiding place, if you ask me.” He comes up even with Grimlock and leans over, hands braced on his thighs, spoiler halves limp against his back. “Kind of wish I had wings right now.”

“It’s different when it’s not a simulation, isn’t it?”

Hot Rod snorts. “I’m not that inexperienced. Geez.” He sucks in a huge ventilation and straightens, planting his hands on his hips. He looks around, surveying the landscape below. “Phew. Good view though. If you ignore the death and destruction, I mean.”

“It’s a good reminder.” Grimlock’s smile lingers behind his mask. There’s something charming about Hot Rod, and there shouldn’t be. He’s just another recent graduate, another newbie with grand ideas and grand beliefs about what war should be.

In the beginning, Hot Rod had irritated the slag out of him. Fresh-faced, full of ideals because the war hasn’t stripped them from him, he’d seemed ignorant of the realities of what they faced. Had probably fancied himself a hero, too. But there’s a darkness inside him, a fire and fury Grimlock can recognize. He feels it, too. Familiar and encroaching, threaten to swallow you whole, if you’re not careful.

Hot Rod is not so irritating now. Exasperating perhaps, but Grimlock doesn’t have the urge to punch him on sight anymore, so he supposes that’s progress.

“Reminder, huh? I really don’t think I’m ever gonna forget this.” Hot Rod scrubs the back of his head, his optics dimming. “Just another mental image to add to the album, I guess.”

Grimlock grunts. The kid’ll get used to it. After a while, it all blurs together. Battle and death and scorched energon and exhaustion so heavy it leaves you energized.

“So…” Hot Rod’s hands tuck behind his back as he bounces on his heelstruts. “Do I have your respect now?” He peers up at Grimlock, bright and earnest, and everything fresh-faced recruits are when they first graduate.

“Heh.” Grimlock chuckles, amusement fluttering through his spark all over again. “You’re getting there, but don’t get too cocky.”

“Awww, come on.” Hot Rod grins and rocks on his heelstruts, back and forth and back and forth, his spoiler halves twitching up and down in barely restrained delight. “I fought good, didn’t I?”

“Pah. You’re still green. Nothing but experience will change that.”

Hot Rod sidles closer, his field rubbing up against Grimlock’s in a warm ripple. “Who says I’m not experienced?”

Grimlock barks a laugh and looks down at the charming speedster, who doesn’t seem to fear anything. “I ain’t talking about the berth, kid.”

“Now that’s a shame,” Hot Rod purrs, his engine revving audibly, purring like a finely tuned work of art. His glossa sweeps over his lips, making them glisten.

Kid really isn’t one for subtlety, is he? Grimlock gives him an appraising look because maybe Hot Rod’s not that green after all. There’s a tension in the way he holds himself. His armor keeps fluttering, alternately clamping tight and flaring loose. He’s shivering, too, but absently.

“It’s a post-battle high,” Grimlock says, recognizing in Hot Rod the same uneasy storm racing through his own spark. “It’ll pass.”

Hot Rod’s aft gives a wiggle, and now he’s close enough for their armor to brush together, a spark of charge flicking between them. “More fun to enjoy it though. I mean, we shouldn’t waste it.”

Kid does have a nice aft. Would fit right nicely in Grimlock’s palms.

Grimlock tilts his head. “Bit pushy, aren’t you?”

Hot Rod laughs, wild and free. He has a pleasant laugh. “I like big mechs, not gonna lie.” He waggles his optical ridges, blue optics bright and earnest.

Grimlock shakes his head, laughter rumbling in his chassis. He can’t help it. He likes the cheeky speedster. Sure, he’s not a powerhouse soldier, and he has the kind of confidence only a trainee could have, but he’s determined. And he doesn’t back down.

“I don’t know.” Grimlock eyes Hot Rod top to bottom, tracing the bright colors of his frame, and the curve of his thighs. “You’re pretty small. I’d hate to break you.”

Hot Rod cocks a hip and plants his hand on it. “I’m a lot tougher than I look.”

“I’m starting to realize that.” Grimlock curves a hand around Hot Rod’s head, nearly engulfing his face. Their size difference is almost ridiculous.

Grimlock is tempted. Heat broils off Hot Rod in tantalizing waves. His field is an electric flicker, and the taste of arousal in his field is enough to seduce Grimlock into making what is quite possibly a very dumb mistake.

“All right.” Grimlock’s thumb strokes over Hot Rod’s lips, and the newbie’s glossa flicks over it, wet and enticing. “Since you think you can handle it and all. Don’t got a berth for you though.”

“Don’t need one anyway.” Hot Rod captures his thumb, pins it between his denta, his optics flashing with desire.

Grimlock growls, his engine rumbling. Well, then.

He drags his thumb free and scoops Hot Rod up, easily lifting the slim speedster in one hand. Hot Rod gives an adorable little squeak of surprise, squirming in Grimlock’s grip, before Grimlock sits and gently sets Hot Rod in his lap, thighs splayed wide.

Hot Rod’s elbows swing back and hook over Grimlock’s knees, his lips twisting into a smirk. “You could have said this was where you wanted me,” he purrs as he arches his spinal strut. His heels dig into the ground to either side of Grimlock’s aft.

“Actions are a hell of a lot louder,” Grimlock grunts.

He leans back against the jut of rock behind him, debris pinging down on his shoulders, but it’s a good enough perch for now. Means he can balance the pretty speedster on his lap and still have both hands for touching.

“Course you could always change your mind,” Grimlock adds. Gotta give the kid plenty of outs. The last thing Grimlock needs is some newbie screeching that the big, bad pred tried to eat him.

“No way,” Hot Rod says with a lick of his lips. He tosses his head back, baring the length of his intake. It’s soft and pretty, all but demanding a nibble. “Give me all you got.”

Grimlock drags his palm down Hot Rod’s chassis. Primus, the kid’s so small. He could curve his hand around Hot Rod’s waist. His palm flattens over Hot Rod’s groin, where true to his designation, the full broil of arousal rises from the speedster’s panel.

“Hot little thing, aren’t you?” Grimlock says.

Hot Rod squirms enticingly, his thighs splaying further apart. “Be even hotter if you actually did something about it.”

A quiet snick signals his panel sliding aside, and Grimlock’s mouth waters at the sight of the newbie’s plush, swollen valve. Puffy red pleats are striped with gold, and the sensor cluster at the apex of his folds is a bright, throbbing yellow. Lubricant has already gathered in the depths, glistening dewy and sweet.

Grimlock drags his forefinger through the wetness, teasing the tip of it against Hot Rod’s hot little button. Hot Rod hisses out a vent and arches his back, hands clenching around Grimlock’s knees.

“Tease,” he breathes, his optics bright and hungry. More lubricant drips out of his valve, painting Grimlock’s finger with slick.

“Gotta check and see if I’ll even fit,” Grimlock grunts, refusing to admit that the rising wave of desire in him is more like a flood.

He slips a finger into Hot Rod’s valve, curving it to taste all those inner nodes. Hot Rod moans and rocks against him, thighs squeezing inward, trapping his hand. He rolls his hips, riding Grimlock’s finger, calipers rippling in a restless wave. Primus, he’s so hot, so wet.

Grimlock adds another finger without a hint of struggle. Hot Rod opens up for him, two of Grimlock’s fingers as thick as the spike pressurizing free of Hot Rod’s now open panel. It’s a gaudy thing, as flashy as its owner, with flames painted up the side of it. There’s a spiral of tiny nubby nodes around the length of it though, and Grimlock thinks he might want to explore them later. Specifically with his glossa.

“You’ll fit,” Hot Rod breathes. His fingers rhythmically grip Grimlock’s knees, optics half-slitting.

His lips part, glossa dancing across them, making them slick. Like an invitation. One Grimlock wants to accept.

His engine rumbles. His mouthguard parts before he thinks twice about it, and Grimlock curves forward, capturing Hot Rod’s mouth with his.

Hot Rod gasps into the kiss. His glossa flicks against Grimlock’s, hot and quick, before retreating. Grimlock chases it, demanding more of the newbie’s mouth, as Hot Rod grasps his chestplate, hauling himself closer. He’s riding Grimlock’s fingers eagerly now, his mouth equally hungry.

Primus.

Grimlock eases in a third finger, because he can’t stomach the thought of hurting the kid, and his spike gives a sharp throb as wet heat ripples around his fingers as if trying to drag him deeper. Hot Rod keens deep in his intake, and he nips at Grimlock’s lips, denta blunt compared to the edge of Grimlock’s.

“More,” Hot Rod gasps out, against Grimlock’s lips, his field a blazing frenzy crashing against Grimlock’s.

He nudges his fingers deeper, the longest of them brushing over Hot Rod’s ceiling node, and Hot Rod cracks like a whip against him. The speedster writhes, electric fire dancing over his frame, his valve clamping down hard on Grimlock’s finger. The sharp ozone scent of overload hangs tangy in the air as Hot Rod whimpers and bucks.

Grimlock’s spike spills pre-fluid as lubricant soaks his fingers, getting into his joints, so hot and slippery. Hot Rod rides all three of them, hips working in little rolls, making such delicious sounds that Grimlock’s mouth waters.

He has to taste him. See if his valve is as sweet as his mouth.

A growl rises in Grimlock’s engine as he withdraws his fingers, ignoring Hot Rod’s whimper of disappointment, and grasps those slim hips in his hands. Hot Rod’s so tiny that it takes nothing to lift his lower half up, to bring him close enough for Grimlock to bury his face between Hot Rod’s thighs.

He drags in a ventilation, tastes the sharpness of Hot Rod’s overload with his olfactory sensors, before his glossa drags a wet swipe up the soaking folds of Hot Rod’s valve. Hot Rod gasps and bucks up against him.

“Oh, Primus, more!” Hot Rod babbles, his hands scrabbling at Grimlock’s head and armor and hands, whatever he can reach. His feet drum a nonsense rhythm on the back of Grimlock’s shoulders. “Yes, more, more, more.”

Grimlock growls, the vibrations spilling from his mouth against Hot Rod’s valve. That bright and swollen node cluster throbs against his lips. He dives into Hot Rod’s valve, laps up dribbles of lubricant – sweet indeed, like an energon candy. But still only half as sweet as the way Hot Rod squirms and begs for more.

“Ah, ah, ah, please,” Hot Rod whines, his engine revving to a sharper pitch, vents roaring and fans sputtering. “More.” Without shame, he rocks his hips, riding Grimlock’s mouth, and it’s the sexiest thing Grimlock’s seen in ages.

He grins and grabs Hot Rod’s node cluster with his denta, pins it gently, flicks his glossa across it. Hot Rod’s head tosses, backstrut curving, heels slamming against the back of Grimlock’s shoulders. He gasps, and his valve throbs against Grimlock’s lips, his node so swollen and bright it deserves several sucks. So Grimlock does, locking his lips around it, suctioning pull after pull after pull until Hot Rod shrieks in his grip and overloads again.

He comes undone, uninhibited, babbling praises, his fingers digging tight against Grimlock’s seams. Lubricant dribbles from his valve, and his vents roar. Damn, but he’s a hot little thing, and he’s so open now, so loose.

Grimlock might even fit.

He grins as he gives Hot Rod a delicate lick and then lowers the panting wreck of a speedster back into his lap. He can’t help but touch Hot Rod’s armor, hot to his derma, plating agape to allow for rapid cooling, cables beneath still shiny and new.

Hot Rod splays across his lap, squirming a little, and one hand drags down his frame, fingers curling into his own valve. “Primus, that was good,” he breathes, and bright blue optics look up at Grimlock imploringly. “Gonna frag me now?”

Grimlock blinks. “You just got two overloads, brat,” he growls. He has to resist the urge to palm himself at the sight.

Unashamed, Hot Rod continues to finger himself, little gold digits getting liberally coated in lubricant, glistening. Grimlock wants to lick them clean, because every careful touch of Hot Rod’s fingers makes him gasp and quiver. His thighs splay wider as if demanding Grimlock enter him.

“So?” Hot Rod licks his lips. “I want more. And it looks like you could use a couple, too.” He drags his heels, slides down a bit, until his thighs and the heat of his valve bracket Grimlock’s rigid spike. “Come on. I can take it.”

Grimlock curves a hand around Hot Rod’s waist, pulls him a few inches down, until the head of his spike can paint itself in all that copious lubricant.

“Are you sure?” he rumbles, grinding the thick head against Hot Rod’s valve, lubricant and pre-fluid mingling together.

Hot Rod’s rim flutters against his spike, providing the barest resistance. If anything, it seems to be inviting him inside.

Hot Rod grins and grabs onto Grimlock’s wrist, trying to shove his frame downward. “Positive.”

Grimlock groans as Hot Rod’s valve slides along his spike, slick and plump. He bucks his hips, spikehead grinding on Hot Rod’s rim.

“You say stop, I stop,” Grimlock manages to get out, even as his processor spins with need, and his fans cycle faster.

“Won’t need it. But I got it.” Hot Rod squirms, making an urgent noise in his intake. “Now come on, Grim. I can take you. Do it. Frag me now, frag me hard, like I know you can.”

The kid’s going to be the death of him.

Grimlock grinds his denta, curving forward as he tightens his grip on Hot Rod’s waist and pulls Hot Rod’s hips down, easing his spike into that tight, welcoming heat. Hot Rod moans, his entire frame arching, splaying, guiding Grimlock onward. He starts and there’s no way he can stop, the girth of his spike slowly swallowed by rippling calipers, tugging him deeper.

Lubricant squelches out around his spike. Hot Rod’s field flares, bright and hungry, not a bit of discomfort to be found. Hot Rod tosses his head back and keens, fingers tight around Grimlock’s arm, his valve squeezing before relenting and leaving plenty of room for Grimlock to bury himself to the hilt, to grind against Hot Rod’s ceiling node.

“Yessssssss,” Hot Rod hisses and starts rocking his hips madly, riding Grimlock’s spike like he hasn’t overloaded twice already.

Grimlock groans, his spike throbbing as Hot Rod’s valve feeds him bright bursts of charge with every thrust. Hot Rod’s thighs tremble around his hips, his biolights pulsing in a quick pattern.

“You’re… a menace,” Grimlock grits out.

Heat floods his frame, pulsing through him in ever-increasing waves. His array tingles, fire coiling in his groin. He pulls Hot Rod hard against him, grinding deep against the furthest inset clusters of nodes.

Hot Rod manages a sloppy grin. “Have I… impressed you… yet?” He gasps out before his hips start rocking madly, and his valve ripples in a telltale rhythm.

Of all the – he’s actually overloading again, Grimlock realizes. Hot Rod moans, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, his fingers gripping tight. His valve spirals down, milking Grimlock’s spike, feeding him such hot bursts of charge that Grimlock is helpless to it.

He tries to hold back, to cling to some semblance of control, but it’s impossible. It’s like Hot Rod is pulling the overload out of him, and he stripes Hot Rod’s valve with his transfluid, washing hot bursts of it over Hot Rod’s charged nodes.

Grimlock’s hips jerk as the tremors of pleasure leave him shaky, but not entirely satisfied. His spike is still firm, sensitive now, to the quivers of Hot Rod’s loosened calipers, clicking gently around his derma.

Hot Rod starts squirming again, like his frame can’t seem to cycle down from the pleasure high. He licks his lips, his hands sliding up Grimlock’s arms, leaving prickles of charge in their wake.

“Hope that’s not all you got for me,” he says with a hint of wickedness. His aft rocks against Grimlock’s thighs, his spike jutting proudly from his groin, still liberally weeping slick.

Grimlock’s hands slide down Hot Rod’s thighs, thumbs sweeping inward, caressing Hot Rod’s spike housing. “What kind of batteries do you run on, kid?”

Hot Rod barks out a laugh. “Aw, is the old mech getting worn out?” His spoiler moves up and down in cute little flicks, betraying his restless energy.

Grimlock’s visor flattens. He’s not about to let himself get goaded by some freshly graduated upstart, but there’s challenge in Hot Rod’s tone, and Grimlock’s never let a berthmate walk away unsatisfied.

He slides a hand down to Hot Rod’s spike, curling his fingers around the hot length. Hot Rod hisses a ventilation and rolls up into his fist, which is so large it swallows Hot Rod’s spike. It throbs in his grip, spilling pre-fluid on his derma.

“Hardly.” Grimlock sweeps his thumb over the head of Hot Rod’s spike, the high-pitched whine in Hot Rod’s intake making his own spike throb with want. “Just making sure you can take more of me.”

Hot Rod hums a nonsense note. “I can take anything you think you have left.”

Cheeky brat.

Grimlock’s engine rumbles. He leans forward, so he can ex-vent over those damp, tempting lips. “We’ll see,” he growls.

He takes Hot Rod’s mouth, glossa plunging inside, denta leaving nips behind. Hot Rod’s fingers tickle at his chestplate, gripping onto seams. He pushes his spike into Grimlock’s fingers, fragging his fist as he chases another overload. His energy field flexes and tugs, charged as it batters against Grimlock’s, hot like fire.

Hot Rod’s glossa lashes back at him, turning the kiss into an erotic battle Grimlock had not foreseen. He growls, senses set ablaze by the unexpected spirit, his spike giving another throb in Hot Rod’s valve. His free hand slides to Hot Rod’s aft, cupping the red armor easily, pulling Hot Rod tighter against him.

Hot Rod squirms deliciously, and the smell of his arousal is dizzying. Grimlock groans into the kiss and bites his way to Hot Rod’s intake, feeling the vibrations of Hot Rod’s moans against his lips. His denta leaves little nips behind and Hot Rod makes the most intoxicating noises, his valve clamping down rhythmically and demanding more.

More is what he’s going to get.

Grimlock forces his attention away from the delectable cables of Hot Rod’s intake and grips the speedster’s hips.

“No, don’t stop,” Hot Rod pleads, his frame writhing in Grimlock’s lap, his face flushed and his field coiling playfully against Grimlock’s.

“Just aiming for a change in scenery,” Grimlock says.

Hot Rod blinks up at him, cutely confused. Grimlock grins and easily lifts the smaller mech, guiding him to hands and knees instead, giving Grimlock a nice view of that handsome aft. He can’t help but put his hands all over it, even though Hot Rod’s so small and his aft vanishes behind Grimlock’s palms.

Hot Rod moans and curves his backstrut, rocking his aft back toward Grimlock, his knees sliding across the rough ground. Every motions screams of invitation, especially as Grimlock’s thumbs dip down and taste the swollen pleats of Hot Rod’s valve. He’s still so slick, so open, his anterior cluster a plump little nub of need, and his biolights blinking in fitful intervals.

Transfluid trickles loose, mingled with lubricant, and Grimlock swears he can see up into the depth of Hot Rod’s valve. Biolights blink like running lights, coaxing him inside.

“Are you just gonna look or actually do something with it?” Hot Rod demands as he peers over his shoulder, his optics bright and needy.

Grimlock chuckles and rises up on his knees, looming over the much smaller mech, which gives him a little thrill. “I was admiring,” he rumbles as he slides his hands up Hot Rod’s back and hooks his fingers over that very mobile spoiler. “But point taken.”

He curves over Hot Rod, nudges his spike at that welcoming valve, grinding the head of it against the gathered moisture. Hot Rod’s head dips, fingers digging into the ground as he pushes his aft back.

“Hurry up and frag me then!” he demands, breathless and hungry. “I don’t have all night.”

Mouthy little thing, isn’t he?

Good thing Grimlock likes it.

“Guess you’re too much of a rookie to understand the value of patience,” Grimlock teases, but lust surges in his lines, and he’s equally impatient.

He rolls his hips forward, sinking slowly into the welcoming clutch of Hot Rod’s valve. He likes the way Hot Rod’s back arches, his fingers curl, a low and long moan spills out of his mouth to match the pace of Grimlock thrusting into him. Hot Rod’s field goes all shivery, and his spoiler twitches madly.

Grimlock wants to taste it.

He curves over Hot Rod, bracing his weight on one hand, keeping a firm grip on Hot Rod’s hip with the other. His mouth finds the top edge of the spoiler, lips dragging along it. Hot Rod shivers beneath him, loosing a soft moan. His valve quivers around Grimlock’s spike. His arms tremble.

“Good?” Grimlock asks as he sets his denta upon the edge of the spoiler as well, dragging along the sensitive edge toward the center mount.

Hot Rod garbles an unintelligible noise. His backstrut arches, aft pushing back against Grimlock’s spike, urging him deeper.

Grimlock chuckles and pins the spoiler edge between his denta, giving it a light bite. Hot Rod shudders and charge crackles over his armor.

“Good,” he gasps, words starting to slur together. “So, so good.” Lubricant leaks steadily from his valve, making for a frictionless thrust, and light explodes behind Grimlock’s visor as he starts to move into Hot Rod again.

The change in position adjusts the angle, making him rake across previously untouched inner nodes. It feels like he can go even deeper like this, take every inch of Hot Rod, and the speedster must think the same because he starts making helpless, breathy whimpers.

“Primus, you’re a hot little thing, aren’t you?” Grimlock growls against Hot Rod’s audial as the smaller mech’s aft rocks against him. “Can’t believe how sexy you are.”

“I’m… irresistible,” Hot Rod pants.

Grimlock chuckles. “Mmm. Yes, you are.” He quickens his pace a little, adding more force behind each thrust, driving Hot Rod forward.

Hot Rod gasps and his spoiler quivers, calling for Grimlock’s mouth again. He gives it a taste, glossa lingering on the sweet charge dancing over Hot Rod’s armor. He bites, firm enough to leave a mark. Hot Rod whimpers, his valve spiraling tight around Grimlock’s spike.

Mmm. That’s a nice reaction.

“Pretty thing, too,” Grimlock rumbles, his vocals spilling into Hot Rod’s nearest audial and making the speedster shiver. “Liked watching you on the battlefield. You’re fearless.”

Hot Rod audibly pants. He pushes into the cradle of Grimlock’s hips, pushing his spike so deep, his spoiler twitching against Grimlock’s mouth.

“Did I… impress?” Hot Rod asks, his field spilling desperation and need. More lubricant wells up around Grimlock’s spike, and all he can imagine is pulling Hot Rod up to his mouth and licking him clean.

Grimlock quickens his pace, feels Hot Rod squirm and writhe beneath him, little mewls coming from his intake. Each one was a ping to Grimlock’s spike, throbbing in bare restraint, raking across every sensor he could find.

Grimlock’s fans spin faster. The heat in his groin is an inferno now, and his spark tries to pound out of his chassis. He’s so close. But there’s no way he’ll let himself fall over the edge without taking Hot Rod with him.

He tightens his grip on Hot Rod’s hip and purrs into the speedster’s audial, “Then and now, kid.” He thrusts faster, deeper, grinds on all the nodes, driving Hot Rod into the ground and firmly into his grip. “You’ve got the kind of fire I like.”

Hot Rod moans, long and low, his valve rippling around Grimlock, like the praise was only turning him on more. Charge nips at Grimlock’s spike, and he grunts, a jolt of ecstasy nearly driving him to overload until he reins it in.

“Next time,” Grimlock continues, keeping his voice low, deep, certain to rattle through the rookie’s sensory suites, “You’re gonna ride me. Move those hips and let me see that pretty face of yours.”

Hot Rod makes a choked sound. His head dips forward, and Grimlock can’t resist the call of the back of his neck, bared and trusting. He drags the flat of his glossa up it, feels Hot Rod quiver around him.

“You’re mine now.” Grimlock plunges into Hot Rod, pleasure cresting with every thrust, fans spinning so hard they’re rattling his frame.

He’s close; Hot Rod is, too. Not much longer now. It’s taking all he has not to spill, mark Hot Rod from the inside out.

He closes his denta on the back of Hot Rod’s neck, bites lightly enough to leave a mark but not cause damage. Feels Hot Rod stiffen and jerk beneath him. Hears Hot Rod suddenly wail as his backstrut arches, and his valve spirals into a tight clutch around Grimlock’s spike.

He’s overloading, electric fire dancing over his armor in a yellow-bright wave, arms going limp until Grimlock has to curl an arm around his abdomen, hold Hot Rod tight against his frame. Hot Rod’s overload smells sweet and fiery all at once, tingling as it rushes over Grimlock’s olfactory sensors.

“Primus, kid,” he grunts, burying his face against Hot Rod’s back, against his spoiler hinges.

It takes only a handful of thrusts before he lets himself loose, holds Hot Rod down on his spike, and overloads. Transfluid bursts out of him, painting Hot Rod’s valve in hot spill, and the overload seems to drag into infinity.

Grimlock sits back on his heels, hips making tiny pushes into Hot Rod’s valve, both arms wrapped around the speedster, keeping him in place. He grips Hot Rod’s jaw with one hand, pressing Hot Rod back against him, until his mouth can latch onto the side of Hot Rod’s neck. His denta scrape over sensitive cables, and it takes all he has not to bite down.

Grimlock’s spike throbs, pushing spurt after spurt, ecstasy coursing through him in waves until its spent, and Grimlock sags. He pants for a cool ventilation, Hot Rod limp and venting heat in his arms. He licks the side of Hot Rod’s neck and slides his hand from Hot Rod’s jaw back to his hip.

Hot Rod moans, flopping back against Grimlock’s chest, his fans spinning madly. “Primus,” he pants, hands weakly patting at the arm Grimlock has wrapped around his waist. “That’s… that’s good.”

Grimlock grunts. “Glad you approve.” His free hand slides down Hot Rod’s thigh, but wanders back up again, finger nudging at the swollen, slick rim still wrapped around his half-pressurized spike.

Hot Rod laughs, and his valve ripples. “Hope you got more in you.” He sounds both hopeful and hungry as his hips give a weak, but interested rock.

Grimlock shivers, heat already starting to wind in his internals, but seriously? “Frag, kid, what kind of interface drive they giving newsparks these days?” he asks, mostly rhetorical. He has to admit, the little twitches of Hot Rod’s valve are delicious.

Hot Rod hums and pushes back against Grimlock’s chest, his fingers tight around Grimlock’s arms. “What? Can’t you keep up?”

“I didn’t say that.” Grimlock grabs Hot Rod by the hips, lifts him up, spins him around, plants the cute speedster back in his lap, but this time face to face. “Guess I gotta keep going if I want to find your off switch.”

Hot Rod laughs, and it’s a good look for him, so bright and carefree, like the world is a cheerful place and not one that reeks of ordinance and spilled energon. “Maybe I don’t have one,” he says, mischievous and teasing.

Hot Rod slides a hand down his frame, and he cups his own spike, giving it a squeeze. “Or maybe you’re not looking in the right places.”

Grimlock barks a laugh at the brat’s brashness. It’s amusing as the Pit, and he can’t believe how quickly Hot Rod has clawed under his plating.

“Well then.” Grimlock drags his palm down Hot Rod’s frame, flicking Hot Rod’s hand and replacing it with his own, giving that brightly-colored spike a squeeze. “Guess I’d better get more hands on.”

Looks like he’s going to get his mouth all over Hot Rod after all.

It’s enough to make him forget about the storm, the calm after it, and the jitteriness in his lines. Instead, it’s all pleasure and teasing, and overload after overload, Hot Rod living up to his designation and then some, until Grimlock forgets he’s supposed to be brooding, and remembers what it feels like to live.

~

Morning afters are always hit or miss.

Sometimes, Hot Rod wakes up feeling ashamed and guilty, and all he wants to do is creep out of whatever berth he found himself in and hope that the mech forgets his name, comm code, and his face.

Sometimes, he wakes up and his partner the night before is already going down on him, slurping him back to full staff and full slick and all Hot Rod can do is hang on and enjoy the ride. He’s no idea why his interface drive is powered by an unending energy source, and half the time, his berthpartners are annoyed by it. But sometimes, ahhh, sometimes there are the good mornings that continue into afternoons.

Hot Rod usually ends up stumbling home, satisfied and worn out, with a comm code tucked into his subspace. For a good time call… the next time he’s around anyway.

This morning, Hot Rod onlines feeling warm and sated and not sure what kind of ‘after’ it’s going to be. His berthpartner’s proclivities are a mystery to him, and while Grimlock had kept up the pace last night, maybe he feels differently this morning. Maybe he’s ready to tumble the energy-battery of a speedster off his lap and out of his life.

Hot Rod comes to life slowly and onlines his optics a little at a time. He’s splayed in Grimlock’s lap. The fierce warrior is tucked up against the overhang they’d used a few times yesterday as a wall. He’s got his back against it, frame tilted a little and one of his hands is on Hot Rod’s belly, warm and big, like he just wants to make sure Hot Rod is still there.

It’s kind of nice.

Hot Rod looks up, finds Grimlock staring into the distance, toward the now empty battlefield, his visor half-lit as though his thoughts are elsewhere. If he’s recharged, Hot Rod can’t tell. He’s got to admit he’s pretty comfortable in Grimlock’s lap like this. It really highlights how much bigger Grimlock is.

Mmm. Big.

He’s always had a taste for the big ones. And Primus Below, Grimlock is the perfect size. Fierce and gentle, rough and sweet, all the best qualities in a lover actually.

A shiver runs through Hot Rod at the memory of it. His array gives a little ping, and Hot Rod’s face heats. Damn it. Sure, Grimlock had been all for it last night, but what’ll he say if Hot Rod wakes up hot and ready all over again?

“I know you’re awake.”

Hot Rod startles and looks up at Grimlock. That amber visor is turned toward him, and a smile graces Grimlock’s lips – scarred, Hot Rod realizes, all around his mouth and lips.

Hot Rod wants to lick those scars. He loves scars.

“Didn’t you recharge at all?” Hot Rod asks with a lazy stretch of his arms over his head. He splays over Grimlock’s lap because he can, and Grimlock hasn’t shoved him off yet.

“Enough.” Grimlock’s thumb strokes a small circle over Hot Rod’s belly. “Kid, I gotta hand it to you. I didn’t think it was possible for someone to go that much.” He doesn’t sound annoyed at least.

Hot Rod laughs. He rolls his hips, hoping to encourage Grimlock’s hand to go lower. “It’s a special gift.” He preens. “Do I have your respect now?”

Grimlock chuckles and his hand slides down, obeying the unspoken request. “Anyone that can do what you do definitely deserves it,” he says, in that rough gravel voice. He palms Hot Rod’s array, fingers finding the head of Hot Rod’s spike, peeking into view. “You wake up hot and ready, don’t you?”

“All the time,” Hot Rod says, singsong. He gives a little laugh and hopes his self-consciousness doesn’t show. “I mean, I can dial it down. I’m not crazed for it or anything. You don’t have to–”

Grimlock’s thumb rubs over the head of his spike, and Hot Rod shivers. “We’ve got time,” he rumbles, and his visor both brightens and darkens, lust spilling into his field. “Though I can’t promise we won’t be interrupted.”

Hot Rod licks his lips. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”

Another laughs rumbles in Grimlock’s chassis, vibrating through his frame and into Hot Rod’s. There’s so much power in him, contained and controlled, it makes Hot Rod shiver. He squirms in Grimlock’s lap, his array eagerly cycling to life.

“I like your flavor, Hot Rod,” he says as Hot Rod parts his thighs, and Grimlock takes the invitation, dipping a finger between them. “You’re gonna be a great warrior someday.”

Hot Rod hums in his intake. “You can tell all that from the way I overload?”

“Something like that.”

The world shifts beneath Hot Rod. He finds himself splayed out over Grimlock’s chest, looking down into the warrior’s face, his lips inches from Hot Rod’s own. There’s a heavy hand on his aft, a wrist over his thigh, fingers dipping between them. Oh, and the hard column of a spike poking at his belly. He can’t forget that important detail either.

“Well, well, someone else woke up ready for more.” Hot Rod squirms, the slick head of Grimlock’s spike leaving a streak of pre-fluid against his belly.

A finger traces the rim of his valve, stirring the lubricant already gathered there. “Let’s just see how many times I can make you moan before someone comes looking for us.”

Hot Rod shivers and buries his face in Grimlock’s intake, mouth tasting those strong, thick cables. “Sounds good to me.”

This morning after, he decides, is definitely going in his top three.

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