[TF] Exponentiation Epilogue

Prowl
Formulaic Expression

The program works far better than expected, Prowl muses as he flips through his datapad, reviewing all of the successful sparkings thus far and their respective parentage.

Over two dozen! He’s optimistically hoped for a half-dozen at best. The war has been long and bitter. Grievances have been born on both sides. Resentment had practically sealed itself into their sparks.

The amount of cross-factional sparklings is even more impressive. Of the two-dozen sparked mechs, half have been born of cross-factional connections. The amount of discreet relationships coming to light in the wake of the truce might have something to do with it. So many have gone unnoticed over the centuries, though Prowl is not at all surprised.

The war had divided them, friends and family and co-workers.

Their first cross-factional conjunx ceremony had been a week ago. Prowl hadn’t even realized Thundercracker and Bumblebee knew each other or had crossed paths during the war. It is surprising how much he hadn’t known.

Prowl leans back, his hand naturally wandering to his abdomen, still flat for now, but as the life within his gestational tank grew, so would his abdomen. Internals would have to shift aside. His plating would extend, however slightly. It would be obvious enough to the average Cybertronian, not so much to others.

Let it never be said Prowl would not undergo that which he asks of his subordinates.

If there’s anything that’s going to cement this peace, it’s the way at least half of both armies have eagerly given into the Repopulation Project, preparing the way for new life, growing both protective and determined. No one wants to see the little ones come to harm.

Which isn’t to say there has been no grumbling. Quite a few mechs on both sides of the line have expressed their displeasure over the surge of newsparks. They want nothing to do with raising the next generation. That’s fine. Prowl has plenty of other tasks for those who don’t want to be parents. There is so much work, no one will lack for duties.

It’s a good thing. A very good thing.

Prowl can’t help but be pleased with himself. And yes, perhaps Shockwave is also one to thank for this.

This being the truce, the Repopulation Plan, and the sparkling in Prowl’s tank. Praxians might not be as fertile as Seekers – Prowl had only been the fifth mech to wind up sparked – but he’d been one of the first. He’d intended to pave the way.

Oh well.

At least the truce is all but set in duryllium. A carrying Megatron is even more effective than a warlike one. Surprising had been the sire, and possessive, too. Sunstreaker tends to growl if anyone gets too close to Megatron, and Prowl has never seen him look so fierce.

It’s a bit unnerving.

Sideswipe finds it hilarious.

Prowl is simply glad that Sideswipe has yet to sire or carry. He seems to be in no hurry, and Prowl hopes for everyone’s sake that Sideswipe waits for the second or third wave of sparkings. The spawn of Sideswipe will no doubt be twice as aggravating as the mech himself.

Still, it’s a good plan. A good end. Prowl couldn’t be more proud.

He smiles and reaches for his datapad, getting back to work, his spark soaring with delight. He’s where he’s always wanted to be. He can’t possibly be happier.

The war is over.

Long live peace.

[TF] Exponentiation 03

Thundercracker and Bumblebee
A Sum of Parts

“Have I told you how glad I am you came back?”

“Twice already.” Thundercracker chuckles as he nuzzles the top of Bumblebee’s head. His lips brush over a sensitive horn, but don’t linger. For now. “But it’s nice to hear it again.”

Bumblebee curls closer to him, his field wrapping around Thundercracker like a secondary embrace, his frame warm and his engine thrumming. This, right here, is the reason Thundercracker ventured back to Cybertron. No other. When he’d received the all-call return, Thundercracker had debated ignoring it. What if it is false? What if the truce fails like so many before it? What if he finds himself caught up in another battle, another episode of horrendous, pointless destruction?

What if?

He’d let curiosity take him back to Cybertron. He promised himself he’d stay low, stay out of sight, try and get a read on the state of the planet, and decide then. He’d seen two factions on opposite sides of a city. Weapons were laid aside. A recurring broadcast outlined the terms of the truce and the Procreation Project. An ambient buzz of hope lay over the entire city.

And then Bumblebee’s voice crackled through his comm.

“Hey, Thunder,” Bumblebee said. “I’ve got a berth for you if ever feel like coming home.”

Home.

The word rocketed through his spark like a blaster shot, sent him bobbing mid-flight. He wanted with a longing so intense it took his vents away.

Thundercracker flew out of sight from Crystal City, and perched in an abandoned aerie. He watched Cybertron. He took in the devastation. He considered his options. And then he followed the call of his spark, and Bumblebee’s voice, home. Just this once, he’d put his faith in hope. This one last time.

Now here they are, wrapped together in Bumblebee’s berth, one he must have requested with Thundercracker in mind because it’s far too large for a minibot alone. Bumblebee’s vents rattle. His armor is pitted and scored. From here, Thundercracker can see his cane, propped up against a desk. Sometimes, it’s hard to remember that Bumblebee is as old as he is. Perhaps even older.

“Are you planning on staying?” Bumblebee asks.

Thundercracker doesn’t miss the yearning in his voice. It probably matches his own.

“If this truce is sincere, then yes.” Thundercracker strokes a hand down Bumblebee’s back, fingers tracing an old battle wound. “Are you asking because of Prowl’s repopulation plan?”

Bumblebee chuckles. “You know me so well.” He stirs and rises up, meeting Thundercracker’s optics. “But you know, if we do participate…”

“I’ll have to carry,” Thundercracker finishes for him. His spark does a little flip of excitement. “I don’t mind.”

“Really?”

Thundercracker brushes his thumb over Bumblebee’s lips. “Would you believe me if I told you I’ve always wanted to carry?”

“I would. It seems to be a Seeker trait.” Bumblebee cracks into a grin, probably referencing both Starscream and Skywarp, both of whom are already sparked. Or maybe that’s because dinobots are so particularly fertile. “I’m just surprised you’d want to carry for me. I mean, I am–”

“A minibot?” Thundercracker arches an orbital ridge and shifts so he can pull Bumblebee closer, pressing their foreheads together. “What you are makes no difference. You’re the one I love.”

Bumblebee’s field pushes at him, vibrating with warmth. “And won’t that horrify everyone?”

“We’ve been killing each other for millennia. If knowing we can love each other is what terrifies everyone, I worry for the future of our people,” Thundercracker says dryly. He brushes their noses together. “So yes. I’ll carry for you.”

Bumblebee’s engine purrs. “Good.” His lips brush over Thundercracker’s. “Because you know how much I love to make you moan for me.”

A thrill dances through Thundercracker’s spark, and sends a surge of charge through his lines. “Is that so?” he asks lightly, trying not to show how very suddenly aroused he is.

“Mm hm. We can start now if you like. It might take a few tries.” Bumblebee chuckles and shifts, nudging his way between Thundercracker’s thighs with insistent presses of his knees. “I’m not a dinobot. But you know what they say, practice makes perfect.”

Thundercracker shivers. “You’ll see no protest from me.”

“I thought so.” Bumblebee’s lips hover over his, tempting him with a kiss. “I love how your optics darken to a most beautiful blue when you want me. They are a few shades shy of your paint, you know.”

“I did not miss how much of a tease you were,” Thundercracker groans. He grips Bumblebee’s hips, trying to push him down, toward the heat growing behind Thundercracker’s panel.

Bumblebee resists, much stronger than he looks. “It’s called foreplay, love.” He seals their lips together, glossa slipping into Thundercracker’s mouth. He kisses slowly, languidly, like they have all the time in the world.

Which now they do. Now that the war isn’t hanging over their heads and peace is a real possibility. Thundercracker is here to stay so he supposes they can savor all they want now.

It’s an intoxicating though.

Bumblebee’s always been like this, one to relish, even when they didn’t truly have the time for it. He’s always been more interested in pleasuring Thundercracker, even if meant having to drive away unsatisfied. He’s exceptionally giving, or maybe it’s a kink of his, who knows. Either way, Thundercracker has benefited in spades over the decades.

Bumblebee’s lips wander away, following the curve of Thundercracker’s jaw, down and around, past his audials, to the hollow of his intake. “You smell like the sky,” Bumblebee murmurs as he licks and nuzzles, stirring Thundercracker’s sensor net.

“Well, I am a Seeker,” Thundercracker replies. He fists the covers and sinks into the sensation. He knows better than to try and rush Bumblebee.

The minibot has always had his own pace. Thundercracker can only lay back and enjoy.

Bumblebee chuckles. “And a pretty one at that. The prettiest.”

“Now I know you’re just flattering me.”

Bumblebee looks up from mouthing the edge of Thundercracker’s cockpit. “You think?”

“Mm hm.” A shiver of arousal throbs hot and heavy through Thundercracker’s lines. “Starscream’s the prettiest. Everyone knows it.”

“Mmm. Well, to each their own.” Bumblebee licks the seam of Thundercracker’s cockpit and shimmies further down, mapping each seam with his glossa. “Personally, you’re my favorite.”

Thundercracker licks his lips. “Your opinion is biased.”

Fingers trace his seams, and charge crackles up, nipping at Bumblebee’s fingertips. Thundercracker swallows a moan.

“When you squirm like this for me, how can you be anything but gorgeous?” Bumblebee asks as he presses a kiss to Thundercracker’s abdomen, his hands making broad sweeps, painting lines of pleasure over Thundercracker’s armor. “I love to watch you, Thunder. Love the way you twist and writhe for me.”

Heat throbs through Thundercracker’s lines. It stains his face. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the worship in Bumblebee’s words, like he has to make Thundercracker feel desired in every way. It’s seduction in itself.

Thundercracker’s head tips back against the berth. “We’ve not seen each other in years, and you’re still going to take your time.”

“Of course.” Bumblebee ex-vents, hot and damp over Thundercracker’s interface panel. “Open for me?”

Spike and valve bare themselves without a second thought. A brief puff of air teases the damp tip of his spike and then the gentlest of kisses graces his anterior node. Thundercracker garbles an untranslatable sound, and his fingers twist in the berth sheets.

“There you are,” Bumblebee murmurs. The flat of his glossa slides over Thundercracker’s valve, tracing the rim, teasing the cluster of sensitive nodes at the lower edge of it.

Thundercracker shivers. His thighs tremble where they press against Bumblebee’s shoulders. “I’m nothing special,” he says.

Bumblebee licks him, his glossa pushing deep, before he laps over Thundercracker’s nub with the tip of his glossa. “You’re gorgeous,” he corrects, and he buries his face against Thudnercracker’s valve, licking and sucking and worshiping with evident enjoyment.

Pleasure shoots through Thundercracker’s lines like lightning. His spike throbs, and he closes a hand around it before he thinks twice. Bumblebee’s words have always been a seduction, and now’s no different because he sounds so certain, so matter-of-fact. As if his observation is a universal truth.

Water is wet. All suns die. And Thundercracker is beautiful.

He shivers, heels digging into the berth. Bumblebee’s mouth makes lewd, wet sounds against his valve. He licks and sucks until Thundercracker drips with lubricant, his valve pulsing hungry. His glossa pushes into Thundercracker’s valve, as deep as he can reach, and Thundercracker’s calipers flutter.

Thundercracker squeezes his spike, stroking himself, sweeping his thumb over the tip. He’s not sure if he wants to delay release, or encourage it. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, his free hand tangling in the berth covers.

Bumblebee wraps his lips around Thundercracker’s nub and gives it a suck. Thundercracker looses a strangled cry, his backstrut arching, charge a surging tide through his sensornet. His nub throbs. His valve ripples. More fluid dribbles from the tip of his spike.

“Mm,” Bumblebee hums, the sound vibrating over Thundercracker’s array. “You taste sweet.”

Thundercracker huffs a laugh. “I taste the same as everyone else.”

Bumblebee mouthes a firm pressure around Thundercracker’s swollen node and Thundercracker jerks. He looks down, and Bumblebee smirks at him, all Autobot-bright optics, his mouth visibly slick with Thundercracker’s lubricant.

“Better than,” Bumblebee corrects and he shifts, crawling up Thundercracker’s frame as far as he can reach, two fingers slipping into Thundercracker’s valve in his wake. They crook, pressing hard over the nodes on the inner rim.

Thundercracker jerks, head tossing back, as overload tears through his frame. His spike dribbles, valve clamping tight, trapping Bumblebee’s fingers. He pants heavy ventilations through the pleasure, and then he’s gasping into Bumblebee’s mouth, tasting himself on Bumblebee’s glossa and the sweeping brush of Bumblebee’s finger over his node.

Bumblebee vents. The thick length of his spike ruts over Thundercracker’s thigh. His fingers are sticky-wet against Thundercracker’s side.

“I want you so much,” Bumblebee says over his lips and nuzzles into Thundercracker’s intake. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Thundercracker’s spark throbs a heavy, hungry beat. He draws up his knees, traps Bumblebee between his thighs, rolls his hips to get his spike where it needs to be. He shivers as the head of it bumps over his swollen node, teasing him.

“Spike me before I change my mind.” Thundercracker’s frame trembles with the echoes of his last release, his spark thrumming with emotions. He doesn’t know how Bumblebee always manages to do this to him.

He’s not complaining.

Bumblebee licks the corner of his mouth. “You’re not going to,” he teases, but he obeys.

He slides down – the height difference is a little irritating sometimes – and fits himself between Thundercracker’s thighs. His hands are full of worship as they sweep Thundercracker’s sides, his hips, his thighs. They slip inward, thumbs framing Thundercracker’s valve, one brushing over his node and sending a sharp ache of need through Thundercracker’s lines.

“I’m going to spark you,” Bumblebee says in a quiet, reverent tone. His thumb rubs gentle circles over Thundercracker’s node as he rolls his hips, the head of his spike teasing the inner rim of Thundercracker’s valve. “You’re going to carry my sparkling, a little Seekerlet, and everyone’s going to know how much I love you.”

Thundercracker’s spark swells. It’s the first time Bumblebee’s ever said that word aloud. It’s been an unspoken truth between them, both refusing to admit it because the war tends to tear down and destroy anything so precious. Neither of them have dared take that risk.

It’s different now. The world is different now. There’s a future, however tentative. The risk is worth it.

Affection surges through Thundercracker’s field. He tightens his thighs around Bumblebee’s hips, rocking upward to encourage Bumblebee deeper.

“Yes,” he moans. “I love you, too.”

Blue optics glimmer. Bumblebee cradles Thundercracker’s hips, and then he slides into Thundercracker, slowly so slowly, like he’s trying to sample each and every node. Bumblebee’s so thick, his spike broad and smooth, and a shiver starts in Thundercracker’s feet and travels up his entire frame.

He wishes he could kiss Bumblebee, but their height difference makes that impossible. All Thundercracker can do is shove his knuckles against his mask, muffle his embarrassing cries, as Bumblebee drives him crazy with slow, savoring pleasure. Thundercracker pulses affection in his field, feels Bumblebee respond in kind, with something softer. Sweeter.

With love.

Thundercracker groans. His spark fills the entirety of his chassis, his chestplates juttering beneath the cover his cockpit.

“We can have the ceremony now, if the truce lasts,” Bumblebee murmurs, his hands sweeping reverently over Thundercracker’s armor, his hips moving in slow, deep rolls, dragging pleasure with every thrust. “Will you be my conjunx, Thundercracker?”

“Yes. Oh, Primus, yes,” Thundercracker moans, feeling dizzy. The agreement spills out of him without hesitation.

How long, he wonders. How long has been craving something exactly like this?

His valve ripples around Bumblebee’s spike, clutching at the charge being offered, his frame quickly building to another overload, so soon after the first. It’s all Bumblebee’s fault. He has to be here like this, so sweet and adoring, so focused on Thundercracker’s pleasure as though it’s the only thing that has ever mattered.

He’s the only one who’s ever made Thundercracker feel like this. As if he’s valued for who he is, not what he is and what he can do.

“Good.” Bumblebee tilts forward, mouths Thundercracker’s cockpit, presses gentle kisses to it. “Will you overload for me now, sweetspark? Will you let me taste your pleasure?”

The rattles start in his knees and work their way through his entire frame. Charge crackles over his armor like blue-white fire, lapping out from his substructure, as his valve spasms and he overloads again, thoughts going blank in white-hot bliss. He feels like he’s floating on a tide of pleasure and it’s not until he feels a squeeze around his fingers that he realizes Bumblebee’s took his hand and laid kisses across his knuckles.

Primus. The adoration in the move sends another, smaller release through Thundercracker’s spark. He crashes back into his frame, shivering and panting, lying limp in the berth beneath the hot, silken weight of his minibot lover.

“So beautiful,” Bumblebee murmurs, his optics blown wide, his hips pushed deep. “You feel so good around me, Thunder. I love it, love this, love you.” He moans, ex-vents hot and damp over Thundercracker’s knuckles, and then he’s hunching, thrusting, spike spattering hot and liquid inside Thundercracker.

It’s a pleasure that has no end. He clutches Bumblebee as close as he can and curls forward, snatching Bumblebee’s head for a sloppy, warm kiss. He has to brace one hand behind himself to keep his balance, the other curling around Bumblebee, teasing those cute horns on his head as he does.

Bumblebee shivers and deepens the kiss, his glossa sweeping into Thundercracker’s mouth, his field wrapping tightly around them both.

“I’m going to carry your sparkling,” Thundercracker says against his lips. “I’m going to carry our Seekerlet. And everyone’s going to know how much I love you.”

Bumblebee clutches him close, the rise of warmth in his field echoing Thundercracker’s. It’s as much a promise as the vows they would have made in a conjunx ceremony. It is truth.

“I’m not leaving again,” Thundercracker promises, barely louder than a murmur.

“You’d better not,” Bumblebee says, pressing their foreheads together, their frames as linked as their fields. “I’m going to hold you to it.”

Thundercracker nuzzles him. “It’s a promise.” Or a vow. Whichever has more weight. He doesn’t want to walk away from this again.

He’ll fight to keep it. He’ll fight the world. He’s tired of war. This is the only thing still worth fighting for.

This is home.

[TF] Exponentiation 02

Deadlock and Hot Rod
Be Careful With Exponents

Hot Rod has never been more nervous in his entire functioning. That includes the time he first stepped onto a battlefield, and the first time he had to shoot another mech to save his own spark. Back then, it had been fear, maybe terror. But this anxiety? It’s anticipation more than anything. That and the worry he’s going to screw everything up.

He paces around his quarters, smaller than everyone else’s, but at least he doesn’t have to share. It’s his and his alone, which is a novelty after spending the whole war sharing with someone else. Sharing berths, sharing private spaces, sharing everything. He’d recognized the necessity of it, but he’d always hated it.

He’s so glad the war is over. More than that, he’s thrilled about Prowl’s new plan. The Procreation Project? Hot Rod’s been wanting to carry his whole life! Before the war broke out, he had dreams of having a family some day, though most mechs preferred the new methods of hot spots and Vector Sigma. Easy, no mess stuff.

There’s something about getting filled with transfluid that drives him wild. Not that he’d ever admit it aloud. It’s one of his dirty little secrets. Just like, um, his relationship with Deadlock. Or maybe rivalry is the better word for it?

Hot Rod’s not sure when their little fights started to become fun instead of life-threatening, when they started to meet outside of the framework of battle. They never did anything. Just raced sometimes. Sparred. Shared energon or supplies, but never intel. Hot Rod knew better than that. But he’s always harbored a little something deep in his spark. He’s always wondered what it would be like to kiss Deadlock.

Now’s his chance.

He’s the first Autobot to volunteer for Prowl’s project. But he ignores every designation offered on his list until the one he really wanted pops up. Hot Rod can’t click ‘accept’ fast enough, and apparently, Deadlock’s been waiting on the other end, because the ‘connection confirmed’ receipt hits his inbox a few minutes later.

Deadlock’s supposed to be here any minute now. They’d arranged this date days ago. Hot Rod hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him since. Even now, his valve is already hot and ready, lubricant pooling at his panel, his spike throbbing. He’d self-service, if Deadlock wasn’t already on his way.

Primus, he can’t wait.

His door chimes.

Hot Rod startles. His spoiler flicks upward. He rushes to the door before he catches himself and forces a ventilation cycle or two.

‘Calm down, Roddy,’ he tells himself. ‘No need to act like a ‘face-starved idiot.’

He gathers his composure and opens the door, just as it chimes again. Sure enough, Deadlock stands on the other side, bigger, badder, sexier. He’s grinning, full of lazy grace, as he looks Hot Rod up and down.

“Hey sexy,” he drawls as he pushes out of his lean. “Gonna let me in?”

Hot Rod’s jaw drops.

“What happened?” Hot Rod asks, aghast.

Deadlock’s armor is a map of dings and scrapes. There’s a smear of fresh energon on his shoulder, and his lower lip is swollen.

He smirks. “Oh. Barricade and I had a little disagreement over who should be allowed to court you first.” His glossa flicks over his lips, cleaning up a drip of energon. “I won.”

A shiver dances down Hot Rod’s backstrut. “But I chose you,” he says, maybe a bit dumbly. “So it doesn’t matter anyway.”

“Mm. It matters to me.” Deadlock’s gaze turns molten, and he looks Hot Rod up and down again, the glance as hot and heavy as a grope. “I want everyone to know that you’re mine.”

Hot Rod swallows over a lump in his intake. He steps back so Deadlock can come inside. “Is that so?”

“It is.” Deadlock ducks a little to come in – Hot Rod’s room is so painfully small – and takes a look around. “You’ve always been mine, true. But now I get to make it official.” He glances over his shoulder. “Am I wrong?”

Hot Rod slams the door shut and locks it. “No,” he breathes, and his valve clenches hard. He presses his thighs together to keep his panel shut.

Deadlock tilts his head and then he stalks Hot Rod, backing him against the door. One knee nudges between Hot Rod’s legs. One hand braces above Hot Rod’s shoulder. The other palms Hot Rod’s abdomen, right where his gestational tank rests behind his grill.

“You’ll carry for me, hot stuff?” Deadlock asks, his voice better a purr, one that rolls through Hot Rod’s audials.

He swallows a moan. He clutches at Deadlock’s shoulders, feeling the pressure of Deadlock’s knee against his panel. “That was the plan.”

Deadlock leans closer, his lips inches away, his field pressing against Hot Rod’s. “Your field is as hot as napalm, Autobot.” He brushes their cheeks together as his hand slides down Hot Rod’s belly toward his groin, fingertips brushing over the domed panel concealing his spike.

Hot Rod whimpers. His head knocks back against the door as his fingers dig into Deadlock’s seams. “So’s yours,” he pants, grasping for any thread of composure that hasn’t melted out of his audials and left him an incoherent mess.

Deadlock chuckles against his audial, dark and lecherous. “That’s what you do to me.” He strokes Hot Rod’s panels, and then dips between his thighs, circling the heat of Hot Rod’s valve array. “You’re leaking.”

Hot Rod’s panel snaps open, despite his numerous overrides. He moans as Deadlock immediately moves to touch him around the swollen rim of his valve, thumb brushing the puffy anterior node. Hot Rod’s hips jerk. He rides the pressure of Deadlock’s thigh, the flitting glances of his fingers.

“Oh, Primus, stop teasing me,” he groans.

Deadlock presses his face into the crook of Hot Rod’s neck, lips and denta teasing along his cables. “Should we do round one here?” he breathes, hot and wet, his glossa tracing a central energon line. “Against the door? Where everyone can hear you moaning my name?”

One finger slides up into Hot Rod, curling to stroke the line of sensors just behind his rim. Hot Rod gasps. His valve throbs. Primus, but he’s already so close to overload.

“I think you like the idea of that,” Deadlock purrs. His thumb circles Hot Rod’s node, over and over again, and stars burst behind Hot Rod’s optics.

“I’m gonna– I’m gonna–” He breaks off into a keen, back of his head hitting the door again, hips riding the motion of Deadlock’s fingers.

Deadlock mouths an audial. “Do it,” he growls, the vibrations rattling through Hot Rod’s processor. “Overload for me, sweetspark.” Another finger slides into Hot Rod and lubricant squelches, there’s so much of it.

He’d be embarrassed if he wasn’t so turned on. If pleasure hadn’t surged through his lines, through his sensor net. Hot Rod moans, fingers curled into hooks on Deadlock’s armor, his frame jerking against the door as release pours through him. His valve clenches down on Deadlock’s fingers, and charge crackles through his lines.

“Good mech.” Deadlock’s mouth seals over Hot Rod’s, glossa plunging into his mouth, less a kiss than a claim.

Hot Rod makes a noise he can’t define. He tries to tug Deadlock closer, his processor spinning. The fingers vanish from his valve, and he whimpers. But then there are hands on his hips, curving around to his thighs. He’s being lifted, pressed against the wall, and then he’s filled, Deadlock sliding the length of him into Hot Rod in one slow, firm push.

Hot Rod’s backstrut arches. His ankles snap against the back of Deadlock’s thighs, his spoiler clattering against the door. He pants over Deadlock’s lips, processor spinning, valve spasming around Deadlock’s spike as ecstasy lights up his sensor net. His head knocks back as he lets out a cry.

“You’re gorgeous,” Deadlock breathes over him, his field fierce and hot as it surges against Hot Rod’s. “You feel amazing around me, hot stuff.”

Hot Rod pants. “Yeah? And you feel amazing inside me.”

Deadlock chuckles against his intake, his pointed denta scraping delicately over the sensitive cables. “Always knew it would be like this, you and me. We’re gonna be incredible together. You know that right?”

Hot Rod’s grip tightens. His valve spasms, roaring toward the edge of ecstasy, but not quite there. Deadlock thrusts into him, so deep, grinding Hot Rod between himself and the door.

“Frag yeah,” Hot Rod moans. His spike surges free, the tip rubbing over Deadlock’s abdomen, leaving streaks of pre-fluid behind. “Come on, ‘Lock. Harder.”

Deadlock growls into his audial, the primal sound of it making Hot Rod’s spinal strut tingle. “Don’t test me, Roddy. I don’t want to break a little thing like you.”

“I can take it!” Hot Rod tightens his thighs, knocks his ankles against the back of Deadlock’s knees. “Leave my paint on the door. Make me scream your name. Make everyone know who I belong to.”

Deadlock’s engine roars. He pumps up into Hot Rod, grinding so deep his spike tastes Hot Rod’s ceiling node. Charge leaps between their arrays, crackling like electric fire in Hot Rod’s sensor node. He gnaws on his bottom lip, so close to overload he can taste it, and the way Deadlock throbs inside of him, he’s gotta be, too.

“You’re mine,” Deadlock presses their cheeks together, his voice a hot pant against Hot Rod’s audial. “I’ve wanted to claim you for centuries, Roddy. Wanted to leave my mark on you so you can’t ever drive away from me again.”

Hot Rod moans and clutches him tighter. “Then do it,” he demands, slamming himself down on Deadlock’s spike. His internals knot up with hot tension.

Deadlock’s mouth seals over his, fanged denta a sharp prick over Hot Rod’s lips, his glossa plunging inside. Hot Rod whines into the kiss, his back and spoiler scraping against the door. Deadlock’s hands on his hips tighten to the point of armor creaking, and then he yanks Hot Rod onto his spike as he overloads, spurting hot and crackling deep into Hot Rod.

Overload roars through Hot Rod’s frame, shooting electric fire through his lines. He spurts against Deadlock’s belly, his valve clamping down tight as though trying to keep Deadlock trapped inside him. And maybe he is. Keep them tied together so he doesn’t have to watch Deadlock drive into the night ever again.

The kiss softens. Hot Rod’s fans whirr as his engine downshifts to an idle, his forehead pressing to Deadlock’s, their ex-vents exchanging.

Hot Rod sucks in a shuddery ventilation. “Again,” he demands against Deadlock’s lips. He rocks down onto Deadlock, stirring the still firm spike in his valve. “Unless you got somewhere to be.”

Deadlock chuckles. “Hold tight, spitfire.”

Like he has any plan on letting go.

Deadlock’s grip shifts to Hot Rod’s aft. He grabs hold and spins, staggering toward Hot Rod’s berth. Hot Rod clings to him, shivering as each step jostles Deadlock’s spike, making his inner nodes sing. His back and spoiler hits the plush surface before Deadlock rolls him, and Hot Rod ends up on top, his thighs framing the girth of Deadlock’s spike.

Hot Rod rocks forward, his node rubbing up the length, a crackle of charge making him moan. “Round two?” he asks as he braces his hands on Deadlock’s abdomen, rutting his valve lips over Deadlock’s spike again and again. He loves the slow drag of the hot length on his puffy folds.

“As many rounds as you’ll give me, lovely,” Deadlock says with a fanged smirk, his hands smoothing up Hot Rod’s thighs. His knees knock against Hot Rod’s back as he draws his legs up. “We got all night.”

“Longer than that.” Hot Rod rises up and catches Deadlock’s spike with the rim of his valve. “Right?”

Deadlock licks his lips. He cradles Hot Rod’s hips. “Frag yeah,” he growls and his hips buck, teasing the inner rim of Hot Rod’s valve. “Never letting you go, Roddy-mech. Mine forever.”

Hot Rod’s spinal strut shivers. He sinks down, taking Deadlock deep, moaning as the change in position completely changes the angle, touching previously ignored sensors. His spoiler flicks in a little dance.

“Good,” Hot Rod pants.

Deadlock grins. He lifts a hand, fingers crooked at Hot Rod. “Come here, Roddy,” he says. “Wanna kiss you.”

Hot Rod’s internals tighten with heat. He shifts forward, his lips brushing over Deadlock’s, and the spike again touches something sensitive within him. He shudders, pleasure sparking through his lines, as Deadlock’s hand cups gently around the back of his head. He pulls Hot Rod in for a nuzzle, so soft and sweet, almost cognitively dissonant for how rough and tumble Deadlock could be.

“You’re going soft on me,” Hot Rod says.

Deadlock laughs, his free hand squeezing Hot Rod’s hip. He bucks up, spike grinding on Hot Rod’s ceiling node. “Not where it counts, lovely.” He seals their lips together, glossa slipping carefully inside, tasting the textures of Hot Rod’s mouth.

Hot Rod sinks into the kiss, clutching Deadlock’s head carefully, his hips moving in little rocks on Deadlock’s spike. Primus, this is so perfect. This is everything he’s ever wanted.

He’s not going to get any happier than this moment.

Well, until he gets sparked anyway.

Hot Rod can’t wait.