Chapter Text
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Getting away with it, as it turned out, was just the first of numerous hurdles in a cross-factional hook-up. And no amount of chanting ‘stupid, stupid, dumb, dumb idiot’ was going to get Hot Rod out of the work.
He was glad to be alive, yes. Definitely. Escaped from the jaws of death once again; good ol’ Hot Rod! But this time he felt no sense of pride and accomplishment in his achievement. His friends and squadmates chalked it up to disappointment that he didn’t snuff the ‘Con and embarrassment at needing to be rescued. The reality was far more depressing.
Really, what Hot Rod was waiting around for, was the regret.
He waited for it in the medibay while Ratchet harumphed over his vital signs. He waited for it in the mess while he queued for his ration pack. He waited for it in the barracks, staring at the ceiling. But he found himself stubbornly unable to feel any sense of guilt for his actions.
It was shameful…wasn’t it? Cavorting with the enemy. Taking pleasure from his frame, and giving him pleasure in turn. All the Decepticons stood for—now long-departed from their original, noble mission—was disgusting. Was supposed to be disgusting? Hot Rod should feel disgusted with himself, with Deadlock, and with the entire situation.
He tried to be. He looked in the mirror and said, ‘That was a very bad thing you did,’ and, ‘You should feel ashamed of yourself,’ and, ‘Delete that message and Deadlock’s commlink right this instant.’ And then he would scrunch up his face and pull up the message. He would read it again, and, very slowly, close out of the message without deleting it.
It’s not like he was going to use it for anything. Maybe Autobot intelligence could do something with Deadlock’s commlink, but then Hot Rod would have to explain why he had it. So instead he just opened and closed it a few times daily and let the knowledge of it fester.
Hot Rod would not be seeking out any repeat performances. And he doubted that Deadlock, having gotten what he wanted—Hot Rod’s virginity, eugh—would be coming around for an encore. He probably had his sight set on his next victim by now. The next mech he could ruin with that terrible, monstrous spike of his and that filthy glossa. All he had left Hot Rod with was the onus of deflecting questions about his first time for the rest of his functioning. ‘Who’d you lose it to?’ Oh, haha, you know, just another soldier. ‘How was it?’ Well, I mean, for a first time and all, it was…
I’m gonna overload inside you, Roddy. Spill deep in your valve and have your forge drink every single drop.
…fine.
It had taken him forever to get himself cleaned up, once Ratchet was willing to sign him out for light duty with observation. He was restricted to admin duties, which would have him driving up the walls in boredom under normal circumstances, but for which he was grateful for now. While his bunkmates were out in the field, Hot Rod had their shared washracks all to himself, and could begin the onerous process of making himself decent once more.
He took down the flexible jet nozzle, and, after wavering in embarrassment, finally sat down on the washracks floor and spread his legs. Deadlock had at least had the propriety to wipe him down before discarding him like a heap of slag so his thighs hadn’t been splattered with lubricant for all and sundry to goggle at. But inside, behind his tightly shut panel, Deadlock’s scent lingered.
It became real, all over again, as soon as Hot Rod retracted his valve panel and the stale scent of dried transfluid hit his olfactory sensors. Suddenly he was back in that tunnel, Deadlock heaving and slavering above him as he labored to bury himself as deep as Hot Rod’s valve permitted. In the present, Hot Rod’s node twitched and his valve clenched down on nothing. Was it his imagination, or did his calipers feel looser than before? Hot Rod let out a choked whimper that was swallowed by the sound of rushing solvent.
He couldn’t smell Deadlock, specifically, on him. It was the distinctive sharp scent of ozone, dulled and flattened with time, that stunk of old transfluid. The smell of sex. Hot Rod had smelled it on mechs returning from shore leave and on those with less-than-hygienic habits around self-servicing. He had rarely smelled it on himself, and never mixed with the scents of lubricant and heated mesh. This was new; bright and unpleasant against his olfactory sensors. Deadlock’s transfluid was in him, still. Sticky and coating his valvemesh. Clinging, like claws hooked in his seams.
“What have you done?” Hot Rod mumbled to himself, and for once, he actually sounded ashamed.
Most of the lubricant and transfluid would have been absorbed by his mesh in either liquid or vapor form and repurposed. But the essence remained—the molecular and chemical components of both that his frame deemed either useless or hazardous. All that was left for Hot Rod to do was flush it out.
He adjusted his grip on the jet nozzle. He tested the pressure and temperature with his free hand, then, chewing on his bottom lip, he pushed it up against the entrance of his valve.
The sudden, brutal pressure made him jump. He fumbled with the nozzle and nearly dropped it, cursing. It wasn’t even his first time using it—everyone who played with their valve got curious—but he was unexpectedly keyed up. Sensitive. He refused to attribute it to the memory of Deadlock.
Still, as he molested his inner nodes with the spray, his processor started to wander. Activity spiked in his generation cores and memory banks. Even having dulled the sensation in his nodes prior to entering the washracks, it was impossible to avoid the gradual build-up of a low, teasing charge. Hot Rod attempted to drag his processor back to the task at hand, but it was much more interested in paying attention to his softly warming array.
What made solvent spray so different from transfluid? Both were a stream of hot liquid rushing into his delicate core. In fact, the solvent could even be hotter and more pressurized. So why didn’t he crave that? Why was his processor dancing around the memory of a thick spike, its lines heavy with transfluid and dribbling from the tip?
Hot Rod felt oral solvent build up in his mouth. He groaned, helpless.
Deadlock was wrong. He was a good fuck—fine, Hot Rod would admit it. He’d heard Bluestreak wax maudlin about so many bad sexual encounters that Hot Rod knew it wasn’t a given that have spike; will overload. But Deadlock wasn’t so good that self-servicing couldn’t replace him. Deadlock hadn’t fucked him how Hot Rod liked. He hadn’t taken him slow, hadn’t let Hot Rod bask in the stretch and sing so pretty for him, head thrown back. He hadn’t let Hot Rod set the pace, riding him and showboating with flicks of his spoiler and a hand tracing the shape of his chestplate. The end had been good. Hot Rod could only work his hips so hard before gravity and fatigue set in, and Deadlock had—he admitted this grudgingly—blown Hot Rod out of the water in that respect. He had pistoned Hot Rod right through systems crash. But he had been so mean about the whole thing. Forcing Hot Rod open, taking him before he was ready—who would ever want pain with their interface except the kinkiest of freaks? Deadlock was rough and uncaring. Callous in his words. Seeking his own pleasure. Using Hot Rod. Like he was a spikesleeve Deadlock had picked up off the ground and would discard just as easily.
Hot Rod whined, the teasing charge strengthening and becoming impossible to ignore.
It was all Deadlock’s fault. Hot Rod had told him no. Hot Rod had said stop. He had done everything he could to get Deadlock off and out of him. He had made it clear he didn’t want it. He hadn’t fought, physically, but Deadlock outgunned him. He had…opened up for Deadlock, but Deadlock probably would have ripped his panel off anyway. Hot Rod couldn’t be held accountable for what he said at the end there, after the third overload. About needing it. About wanting to know what it felt like. Anyone would have said that, if they had been on the verge of overload and Deadlock’s spike had been splitting them open and carving them out…
Hot Rod’s plating rippled and he shuddered his way through a minor overload. Once it passed, he stared numbly at his hand holding the flexible jet nozzle.
…So much for no repeat performances.
“To the pit with him,” Hot Rod growled.
He cleaned the rest of his valve with brisk efficiency, thinking of nothing at all until he got to the seal on his forge.
This was the part he had been dreading. His forge was cycled shut; air and watertight. He had hoped—in a fruitless, despairing kind of way—that it might open up to the insistent pressure of a high-power solvent jet. It had opened to the brutal insistence of a spike, after all. Hot Rod turned the pressure to its maximum, jolting and whimpering as the stream stung his ceiling node cluster, more pain than pleasure. He wiggled it slightly in a simulated caress, and eventually his pleasure subsystem got with the program and his whimpering took on a different color. But even as the charge built in the deepest part of his array, his gestational system remained stoic. It was silent; not even a text log to alert him that it had initialized beyond the smug, unchanging status of 63% capacity utilization.
Hot Rod growled and pulled the nozzle out of his valve to focus on wrangling his processor. The gestational system was notoriously resistant to internal overrides, as it operated on a set of core parameters from Hot Rod’s source code. Like his emergency survival protocols and his personality cores, it refused to be overwritten or modified except by medical port hardline. Didn’t mean he couldn’t try. He tried framing his request ten different ways, referencing the lack of sparkling in his chest that would necessitate a full forge and the dampeners that made getting sparked impossible anyway, but was rebuffed every time. Whatever Hot Rod’s feelings on the matter, his breeding instincts had no intention of giving up Deadlock’s transfluid.
Eventually, when the sentio metallico had denatured to the point of being inviable, his forge would let go and Hot Rod would have a second mess to clean up. A second washracks tryst. And who knows how many weeks of Deadlock lingering in him, his spill sloshing around Hot Rod’s insides whenever he took a turn too fast. Deadlock clung like a spot of rust itching at him.
Hot Rod just hoped that when his forge seal started to relax, it would be at a convenient time like this.
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Prowl was eight minutes into a tangent on an anomaly his specialized tac unit had detected in the expected thermal readings of fringe Decepticon strike camps, involving words and symbols that even Hot Rod’s extended dialectical dictionary couldn’t parse, when he felt the tingle. Which was probably why, at first, he thought his processor had overtaxed his logic cortex and started glitching out via sensory hallucinations.
Hot Rod idly killed the queries into the meaning of the word ‘tactispeculovariance’ and the variable onscreen that looked like an asymmetrical, dive-bombing seeker with a diagonal line running through it. He reset his entire sensory suite, enjoying the few blissful seconds of silence and darkness away from Prowl before he was thrown back into the present. Ironhide, seated next to him, covered up a snort at the flickering of his optics. If Prowl or Optimus noticed, they were steadfastly ignoring him.
Hot Rod shifted in place. Even with the reset, he didn’t feel right. It was in his valve of all places—a temperature disagree in the lubricant, he guessed, because he could feel something thick and semi-liquid and cool rolling down inside him, tingling where it met with the nominal warmth of his valveport—
Hot Rod froze.
Now? Now?!
But with his processor cleared of specops jargon, he could tell that he wasn’t imagining it. The iris of his gestational port was steadily spiraling open, allowing Deadlock’s cooled transfluid to follow the natural course of gravity and slide down his valve, pooling behind his panel. A particularly thick glob dripped and smacked against the back of the panel. Hot Rod jolted, spark whirring, certain that the gentle internal plap was as loud as a thundercrack in the war room. Another drop joined it, creating a thin film over the inside of his panel.
This was really happening.
He straightened up, as subtly as he could, and scooted his chair closer to the table, tucking his legs and his treasonous array under its shadow. Ironhide gave him another brief side-eye—Hot Rod was notorious for his strut-snapping slouch, after all—but looked away a moment later. Hot Rod squeezed his thighs together until the metal creaked. Someone towards the back of the room coughed.
He could almost hear Deadlock in his audial, a warm vent across the side of his helm as he chuckled. Better hold tight to that panel of yours, pet. You’ve kept our dirty little secret this long. What would they say if you drip ‘Con fluid all over their war room now?
Nothing. They would say nothing, because no one was ever going to find out about this.
Hot Rod locked his frame in a mimicry of rapt attention, then focused on running a cyclical check to make sure his valve panel stayed closed. He refused to think any further of Deadlock. He treated this task as if it were mission-critical—no room for erroneous thoughts or actions. By the time Optimus gave his closing remarks, Hot Rod’s frame had developed a faint tremble from the effort of staying completely still.
He put all his speedster talents and Wrecker training to use in escaping the war room as quickly as possible, but he was not fast enough to get out of auditory range before Optimus-fucking-Prime called out to him, “Hot Rod. If you could spare a moment?”
Hot Rod stopped, but did not turn around or acknowledge the summons.
Optimus finished saying a few final words to Ratchet and Prowl in turn, then joined Hot Rod at the doorway, placing a hand on his shoulder pauldron and turning him around.
“Hot Rod,” he said gently.
Oh my fucking fuck, Hot Rod thought helplessly.
“I apologize if this is overstepping, just—” Optimus furrowed his optic ridge. Even behind the battlemask, concern and distress were written across his face. “...You did not seem yourself today. Do you take issue with some part of Prowl’s evaluation?”
If anything, Hot Rod took issue with the fact that someone deemed it necessary that he show up to the meeting at all. ‘Disagree with Prowl’s evaluation’—ha! Now there’s an oxymoron if Hot Rod had ever heard one.
“Uh…no…? No. Nope. All good.” But it must have lacked his usual cheer because Optimus’s expression only darkened.
“Something else…?” Optimus ventured.
Nothing but the valve full of evidence that could see him court-martialed. “Nope!” Hot Rod repeated, grinding his dentae together in a grimace he hoped would pass muster. “Nothing my Prime need concern himself with!”
Wrong thing to say. Optimus’s electromagnetic field shrank back and he let go of Hot Rod’s shoulder. “...Ah,” he said.
“Not like—Optimus. I didn’t mean it like—”
Optimus waved a hand. “No, no, the fault lies with me for prying. I am always gratified to lend an audial to any concerns you may have, but I understand if you do not feel comfortable in doing so. It is fine, Hot Rod. Perhaps…Ratchet…”
“I assure you, I’ve never been better,” Hot Rod lied. “Prowl was just, um, going through the material a bit fast for me, so I had to reallocate some resources. Don’t…tell him I said that.” God forbid he be labeled a traitor and an incompetent.
It worked. Optimus brightened subtly. “Understood. Let me know if you would like a copy of the slides to review. I would be happy to discreetly request it from Prowl.”
“Thanks,” Hot Rod said. “I’ll…I’ll let you know.”
He fled.
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After returning to the Ark three weeks ago, Hot Rod was once again granted his private officer’s quarters and with it, his saving grace—private washracks. He waddled quickly into his habsuite and slammed the lock on the door. His thighs were already moist where the watery film on the transfluid had separated and seeped out from behind his panel. Hot Rod charged into the washracks and nearly knocked the controls off the wall as he blasted the solvent. He retracted his valve panel in a rush, watching as silvery spill trickled down his legs and to the floor where it mixed with the solvent and swirled down the drain. The last evidence of his transgression. The end to this fragging nightmare Deadlock had put him through.
He rinsed himself out brusquely. He had made it in time. He got away with it. There had been no one in the halls between the war room and Hot Rod’s habsuite after the command meeting. It was a straight shot to safety. He was clean, now. He could return to his normal life. It really was over. He sat in the high-velocity dryer for an hour, processor uncharacteristically blank.
Lacking anything better to do, Hot Rod climbed into berth and tugged an insulating tarp over himself, hoping that recharge would claim him soon.
Three hours later, the chimes sounded for shift change and Hot Rod was still staring at the ceiling, wide awake.
He sat up abruptly, kicking off the tarp in a sudden fit of frustration. What was his problem? It was over! He should fall asleep like a sparkling with a refinery nozzle in its mouth. He should be smiling. Content. Why did he instead feel a bubbling, swelling restlessness in his spark?
Hot Rod hopped up to pace. The walls of his habsuite caged him in, grey and suffocating. He clicked open the shades, allowing starlight to pour in through the large porthole on the far wall of his quarters. It did nothing to soothe the claustrophobia. He felt exposed, raw. Uneasy.
He wasn’t the only mech he knew to have conducted cross-factional relations. Some swore by it—easier, more pleasurable, less awkwardness. Remembering it now Hot Rod could strangle them. Easy? Nothing about his assignation with Deadlock had been easy. Not the lead-up, not the experience itself, and certainly not the aftermath. Less awkward? Yeah. His conversation with the Prime had been anything but awkward. More pleasurable?
Hot Rod snarled aloud.
No. He had hated it. He hated fucking a Decepticon and he hated Deadlock himself. Liar, creep, nymphomaniac, manipulator, unrepentant freak. Hot Rod had said no, hadn’t he? He said no. He said stop. He was being responsible, for both of them, even though Deadlock didn’t deserve it. No, Deadlock didn’t deserve any of it. He didn’t deserve to take Hot Rod’s virgin valve, to rub his repulsive scent and fluids all over it. He shouldn’t have been allowed even a finger inside Hot Rod’s core. He just took it, like the brute he was. And then he had spit his venom—boasting about how hot his transfluid would be, painting a picture in words of it streaming in and making Hot Rod’s forge swell, warming it from the inside out. How good it would feel to have a tankful of Deadlock slopping around inside him for weeks after the fact. Well, Deadlock was wrong.
Hot Rod’s thighs were wet again.
“Primussake!” Hot Rod cried. “Can I not catch one damn break? How can there still be more fraggin’—”
Hot Rod patted along his inner thighs and was surprised when his palm brushed the already-swollen rim of his bared valve. He paused. He didn’t remember ordering it open. Carefully, he prodded at his array.
The slick coating his metal was his own. It was thin and gummy. Warm. As was the rest of his array, the rim of his valve so swollen that the entrance was little more than a thin slit. The silicone gripped at the finger he rubbed between the puffy mesh. His valve pulsed, a soft but insistent demand for attention. He ached.
…But not for Deadlock. Hot Rod jammed two fingers in his valve roughly. His lips twisted and he bared his dentae in a snarl, but the pain melted almost immediately into struts-deep pleasure. His valve rewarded him with a gush of lubrication; calipers unfurling, nodes singing. Hot Rod felt his knees tremble and he stumbled back to his berth, climbing in but sitting upright and back on the heels of his pedes. He half-rode, half-thrusted his fingers, thinking of anything but the fat, oversized tip of Deadlock’s spike popping inside and mashing its way deeper, seeking out his forge. He thought of—Primus, who did he fantasize about usually? His processor swam, stringing together disembodied pieces of different mechs into a blurry amalgamation, but always with Deadlock’s sneering fangs and pointed finials and live coals for optics. Hot Rod fed a third finger in and whined, miserable.
It just wasn’t enough. Frag! His toy chest had been left behind at the Autobot outpost another two weeks’ journey from here. He cast his optics across the room, but there was nothing he could shove up his valve without a trip to Ratchet’s afterwards. His digits, once so ideal for a lowkey, covert jack-off session, felt woefully inadequate. Even with the memories called to the front of his mind, he couldn’t believe he was ever able to overload like this. He crammed a fourth finger in and nearly toppled over, off-balance. The stretch pacified his need for girth, but his reach was pathetically shallow and he was jiggling his fingers more than properly fucking himself.
It was all Deadlock’s fault.
Hot Rod’s resolve calcified. An end to the nightmare? Oh no. No, no, no. This was just the beginning. He would make sure he saw Deadlock again. And when he crossed paths with that slagger and he opened up his big, scum-sucking mouth, Hot Rod was going to shove a blaster in it and blow his head off.
That would teach him where to dump his cum. Maybe next time he’d think twice before pawing at an Autobot’s panels. He should learn some fragging manners and apologize like the worthless slagheap he was if he ever spilled inside again. Make some proper amends, not just wipe a mech down and toss him in the dirt.
Hot Rod stilled, fingers still crushed up into his valve. Make amends. There was something to it, wasn’t there? Something appealing. Yes. If Deadlock had the gall to make a mess of Hot Rod’s array, then it was only right for him to clean up the mess himself.
With…with that filthy mouth of his.
Hot Rod’s calipers squeezed down on his digits.
Carefully, he extricated his fingers. He grabbed the gel cushion he liked to rest his helm on and lifted up on his knees to tuck it up against his array. He settled onto it. It was firm, but yielding. Cool to the touch, but that would change soon enough with all the heat pouring from Hot Rod’s array. Then it would be soft and mesh-warm. The kind of give Hot Rod might expect if he was mashing his valve against the face of an unruly ‘Con.
Tentatively, Hot Rod rolled his hips against the cushion.
…Oh. Yes. That was better. Pressure across his anterior node and all the way down his puffy valve rim. A slim, patchy trail of lubricant ran along the cushion where he’d ground up against it. The sticky line of it had stayed attached to his inner valve even as Hot Rod lifted his hips to check.
This was obscene. Hot Rod poised on his knees over a comfort item for recharge, aft tilted up, rutting like a mechanimal in heat. He was Cybertronian. He was above this. And yet…
“It’s my hab,” Hot Rod reasoned to himself. “My stuff.” He had brought the gel cushion with him from the outpost. “I’ll just clean up afterwards. No one will know.” It wasn’t even the worst thing he had done with his valve this campaign.
Hot Rod began to roll his hips along the cushion in a rhythm. Yes…yes. This really was better than his awkward attempts to finger himself. His hydraulics and struts liked the position, too. He fell into the stance instinctually and his components shifted smoothly in time without a whisper of complaint.
It ought to be good, anyway. Hot Rod wasn’t about to accept some listless, haphazard lapping of his valve. Deadlock was going to get in there. He was going to make it good, and Hot Rod wasn’t taking no for an answer. In his fantasy, he had his favorite knife in hand, tucked up between the back of Deadlock’s neck and his collar fairing. Close to the main neural circuitry line. One slash and Deadlock’s motor functions would be severed. Alive, aware, but unable to locomote any component of his frame. Hot Rod had the tip turned in so that Deadlock had to keep his helm up, keep himself engaged in pleasuring Hot Rod’s valve with his mouth, or risk nicking his neural circuitry. Hot Rod’s spark spun up and his venting grew labored as nitro dripped into his lines.
“That’s right,” Hot Rod gasped. “It’s this valve you love so much. You remember?” His voice frosted over. “The valve you defiled with your huge, hideous spike. Well, can’t use that now, can you? I don’t give a damn about your spike. You’re going to apologize to my p-pussy for treating it so badly.”
He swallowed. “Now suck, you stupid bitch. Suck my node.”
The Deadlock of his fantasy dimmed his optics and reached with lips and glossa for the softly strobing and protruding anterior node at the top of Hot Rod’s valve. He laved his tongue across it, flat and heavy, almost dazing Hot Rod with the subsequent wave of charge.
Hot Rod sunk his fingers into the gel cushion and gripped. “No. I said suck. Suck like a starving soldier sucks down his last energon ration. Like you need it to survive.”
Hot Rod wiggled his hips, drawing the cushion back and forth across his node. “Nngh,” he gritted out, arousal stabbing at him.
Dream-Deadlock leaned in closer and wrapped his lips around Hot Rod’s node, suckling noisily. His finials wiggled up and down, kitten-like.
“How dare you,” Hot Rod hissed. “How dare you embarrass me like that? In front of High Command? During a strategy meeting? I had to speedrun a conversation with a worried Optimus Prime of all mechs because I thought I might leak through my pit-damned panel. You’re gonna learn some manners, fragger. You put your transfluid in me; you stick your glossa up there and lick it all out.”
He rutted frantically, chasing the fading crest of an overload, but it was gone a moment later. Hot Rod growled and smacked his fist against the gel of the recharge slab. How was this not doing it for him? He wanted Deadlock to pay!
Are you done yet? Dream-Deadlock drawled.
…No, that wasn’t right. This was Hot Rod’s fantasy, where he was in control and Deadlock did whatever he wanted.
That’s what I asked, Dream-Deadlock said. Are you done pretending that what you want is a tamed turbofox kit suckling at your node?
Hot Rod said aloud, “I want to make you pay.”
No, I don’t think so, Dream-Deadlock said.
“Suck my node!” Hot Rod demanded, trying to get the fantasy back on track. But even as he shouted, he could feel it slipping through his grasp like noxious smoke; the truth of his desire wrapping around him and choking his vents.
My node, my node, Dream-Deadlock mocked in a high-pitched squeal. Shut the fuck up about your clit. It’s nothing more than a button to make you lubricate. All you really care about is stuffing your greedy cunt until it feels like it’ll split open.
“N-no!” Hot Rod protested. “My valve…”
He rutted hard against the cushion and gasped.
You feel that? That rush through your system? You’re addicted to spike, you dumb slut. All it took was one good spiking and now you’re cumbrained shareware whose only concern is if the next spike he bounces on is girthy enough. True?
“No!” Hot Rod howled. “It’s not like that!”
No? Fine, then. I’ll play with your node since your princess-pussy is off-limits.
In the fantasy, Deadlock flicked his tongue rapidly, brutally. He interspersed licks with hard sucks, tugging the whole node into his mouth. In the present, Hot Rod ground his node against the rough seam of the cushion. He bit down hard on his lip, fighting back cries, but he could only bear it for a few moments before he was wailing, “S-stop! Deadlock—stop! ‘S too rough! Hurts!”
Dream-Deadlock gave one final, rough tug then spat out Hot Rod’s node. What? he scoffed. I thought you liked that. I thought you liked playing with your node.
“Not like that…”
Dream-Deadlock hocked solvent onto Hot Rod’s node in disgust. It clung, then dribbled down towards the slit of his valve. You like it; You don’t like it. You want it hard, but that’s too hard. Primus, just listen to yourself talk. Actually—don’t. I’m sick of listening to you. Moan or be silent. And then Dream-Deadlock started in on the slit of Hot Rod’s valve.
“Oh—oh…n-no—mmm—that’s—unnh—! Haa…haa…”
His tongue was working Hot Rod’s valve in time with the long, brisk slides across the cushion. Having a faceful of valve didn’t impede Dream-Deadlock from speaking at all. …Yeah, that’s what I thought. You’re so fuckin’ easy. As soon as someone starts playin’ with your slit you’re putty in their claws. Where are your high-and-mighty Autobot morals now, Hot Rod?
“Sh…shut up…” Hot Rod panted. “Don’t you ever…fucking…shut up…?”
Oh, please. It turns you on. Look at how soaked my facial mesh is.
Hot Rod looked. His cushion was shiny with lubricant, the slide painless and smooth now. He imagined Deadlock’s dark mesh wet and shiny like it’d been freshly waxed, his glossa licking over fangs to taste Hot Rod’s slick.
The only thing you like better than some dirty talk and foreplay is getting your pussy fucked properly.
Hot Rod ripped open the tactile memory of Deadlock savaging his valve with his spike and overlaid it with the fantasy of Deadlock’s long, thick tongue plunging into him and the thrust of his valve against the cushion.
Whimpers and moans exploded from Hot Rod’s voxcoder. His fans screamed. Most higher processing was cut off and his vision and hearing went grey and dull. But in his mind’s eye, he could see the knowing sneer on Deadlock’s face and hear his taunts clear as day.
You want your virgin valve tongue-fucked, don’t you Hot Rod? Oh, sorry—your once-virgin valve. You’ve had fingers and spike but you’re still lusting for more. Can’t get enough of Decepticon brute, can you? Am I the first to get my mouth on you? The first to taste your slick? Oh, I bet I am. You’ve only ever popped your panels for me, haven’t you, Hot Rod?
“You think you’re so special,” Hot Rod rasped. “But I don’t care about you. Any old mech would d—oohhh…!”
Hot Rod tweaked his node between his fingers, flinching hard.
…Don’t lie to me, Dream-Deadlock growled. It’s not cute anymore. I can make you hurt a lot worse than that. Are you gonna make me hurt you?
“N-no,” Hot Rod mumbled. “Be—be good…be good for you, Deadlock…”
Good. I gave you what you wanted, after all. Are you satisfied?
“Yes. Yes, s-so satisfied.”
And what do you say to the mech who gave you such a nice treat?
“Thank you, Deadlock.”
For?
“Th-thank you for tongue-fucking my greedy whore cunt.”
Dream-Deadlock purred against his valve, nuzzling it and rubbing his tongue over it in pleasant waves. That’s it, baby. Spread your legs. Let me get in deep, yeah?
Hot Rod moaned and widened his stance, lowering himself further onto the cushion. His valve rim parted and allowed the cushion to brush the inner nodes lining the rim calipers. Fireworks went off behind Hot Rod’s optics and he let out a hiccuping gasp.
I know your secret, Hot Rod, Dream-Deadlock murmured.
Hot Rod shook his head.
No? But you know it’s true.
Hot Rod panted and rocked his hips faster.
You’re not mad that I came inside you. You’re mad that I’m not there to do it again.
Hot Rod hung his head and keened.
…But since you’re determined to hate it so much, how about next time I come straight down your intake instead, hm?
Overload tore through Hot Rod. He let out a strangled cry, so wild it was almost pained, and clenched the cushion hard between his legs as his frame spasmed. He collapsed a moment later, flopping on his side and shaking. His fans roared. The climate control in his quarters had clicked on at some point—Hot Rod had dumped enough heat to warrant room cooling.
He stared at the far wall, dazed. Slowly, his pleasure subsystem relinquished its resource stranglehold and clarity of thought returned.
“…Shit,” Hot Rod mumbled.
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