Flash Fiction Fills Take 63 Part Three
a/n: Three more flash fiction fills, ahoy! One is cute and adorable, the other is mildly nsfw, the last is NSFW LIEK WHOA. Also, these are barely self-edited. Enjoy!
For kitsummer
Prompt: Starscream/Drift, “you are seriously terrified of heights?”
Fandom: Transformers IDW AU. Warnings: None
“Let me take you flying,” he said, and there was something in the way he grinned and purred the suggestion that made it as much challenge as invitation.
“Sure,” Drift said, and he added an easy smile to it that in no way matched the tremor of discomfort through his spark.
Drift was a grounder. He’d always been a grounder. He’d always had his wheels firmly planted on the ground. If he was flying, it was because he was falling.
But the last thing he was going to do was say as much to Starscream. Not to the mech who sniffed out weakness the same way Springer could sniff out high grade or Blurr could sniff out expensive armor wax.
They made plans. They re-arranged their schedules. Drift wrote out his last will and testament and sent it to Ultra Magnus (because Rodimus was many things but reliable when it came to legal documents was not one of them). Besides, Rodimus thought he was being over-dramatic, rolled his optics, and told him to go flying with his Seeker for all of their sake.
Starscream was trying to be romantic. Didn’t Drift see?
Sure he saw. He was just… cautious. Not terrified. No. Whatever gave anyone that idea? It was perfectly acceptable to be wary.
“I am not giving you a parachute,” Ratchet said when Drift proposed it to him a day before he was supposed to meet Starscream for their flight. “For one thing, I don’t have time to install one and for two, you don’t need it.”
“I’m going flying with Starscream,” Drift retorted.
Ratchet snorted and bent back over the whatever-it-was he was repairing. Some kind of hip joint? “You’ve been with him for six months. He hasn’t killed you yet. I think that’s some kind of record. So you must be safe.”
Drift fidgeted. He folded his arms over his chest. He stared.
Ratchet looked up at him. “You’re not scared, are you?”
“Of course not!” Drift’s plating ruffled.
“Then you’ll be fine. Now shoo. I have work to do.”
And that was the end of that.
Drift met Starscream the next day, absolutely not nervous, without a parachute but with Ultra Magnus in possession of his last will and testament. Just in case.
Starscream grinned at him, his wings flicking, his field bright and sparkling and… happy. Starscream was happy and yes, it was far too late for Drift to back down now. Starscream was in a genuinely good mood and that was rare enough to be treasured.
“Ready?” Starscream asked as he held out his hand. And it was there, in the undercurrent buried deep in his field, that Drift saw the concern. The uncertainty. The fear that Drift would not take what had been offered.
Drift cycled a ventilation. He trusted Starscream. Which was a lot more than about ninety-five percent of Cybertron could say.
“Yeah,” he said. And he took Starscream’s hand.
For Skywinder
prompt: Tracks/Ultra Magnus, what took you so long?
Fandom: Transformers G1, potentially part of Apple a Day. Warnings: Fluff and a touch of spark sex at the end
He’d been so jittery all day that even Sunstreaker, the perpetually unaware, noticed. Of course his way of solving the matter had been to bark at Tracks to sit still and stop twitching, but still, he’d noticed. Mirage had noticed, too, but he’d been too polite to say anything. And then there Tracks was, sharing a table with a frontliner and a spy staring at him, wanting to know why he was so anxious.
He spat out words that barely resembled an answer and fled to his quarters. He’d sacrificed two tins of the good wax, his last cube of Polyhexian high grade, and advanced copies of the new Star Trek movie to convince his roommate to be gone for the next two days. But it would be worth it, Tracks thought. So worth it.
Time ticked slowly by. He cleaned his quarters for the third time. He obsessively rearranged his belongings, his favorites getting point of pride in first place viewing. The announcement regarding the arrival of the new soldiers from Cybertron nearly made him spill his mid-grade all over himself.
Not much longer now.
He checked his appearance in the mirror again. Not a scuff or scrape. He glowed. He’d even bitten his glossa and asked Sunstreaker for help to make sure of it. He was perfect.
He started to pace back and forth. His spark throbbed harder and faster. His sensory net tingled with anticipation. He’d long distanced himself from the bond so that the quiet was easier to bear, but now it flared wide open. Tracks almost sobbed as a mixture of relief and love and joy pulsed warmly through his lines.
Four million years was a long time to wait. And yet, the passion hadn’t waned. It was still present and strong.
Tracks waited, on bolts and brackets, as introductions were made and new positions discussed until finally Optimus dismissed everyone to their assigned quarters to rest. Space was limited on the Ark, but they’d all made do.
Tracks rushed to the door, his ventilations near-stalled with anticipation. The door opened before a hand could even lift to ping for entrance. Tracks grabbed and yanked, pulling his sparkmate into the privacy of his quarters.
“What took you so long?” he demanded as within two steps, Dion - now Ultra Magnus - swept Tracks into his arms.
“I should say the same for you,” Ultra Magnus replied, but his vocals were warm and their fields clashed together, strong enough to rattle all the knickknacks on the shelves. “I thought you dead if not for the beat of my spark.”
Their frames came together and Tracks could feel the pulse of Ultra Magnus’ spark, even through the armor that separated them. He clung to his larger mate with arms and legs, half wishing he could crawl beneath Ultra Magnus’ plating so that they might not be separated again. Large hands gripped his thighs, helping to support his weight.
“We have been most fortunate,” Tracks said as he held Ultra Magnus’ helm, his thumbs sweeping over Magnus’ cheeks. He did not know that happiness could still be found in the midst of war, but here it was.
“Indeed.” Magnus leaned in close, pressing their forehelms together. “You are even more beautiful than I remembered.”
“And you are twice as handsome,” Tracks replied with another hungry pulse of his spark. He could barely keep his chestplates closed as it was. “Please tell me you’re staying.”
Magnus’ fingers flexed around his thighs. “I am staying. And I will explain later but for now, I wish to feel you. I need to know you are here.”
Tracks panted as their lips were mere inches apart. “Yes,” he said, tightening his arms over Magnus’ shoulders. “Without question, always yes.”
He heard the click and slide of Magnus’ chestplates parting and felt the tingling wash of Magnus’ strong, bright spark against his armor. Tracks shivered and finally allowed his own disengage, their sparks leaping together with an eager urgency that far outstripped Tracks’ leap into Magnus’ arms.
Their lips came together immediately thereafter, their embrace tightening, and nothing else mattered because Magnus was here, they were together, and finally, Tracks was home.
For ephdraws
Prompt: Megatron/Rodimus, be careful what you wish for, it might come true
Fandom: Transformers MTMTE Season 2. Warnings: NSFW, sticky, gentle hate sex?
“Make it hurt,” Rodimus challenged. “Make me feel it.”
Megatron wished he could slam a door in the brat’s face. Instead, all he could do was scowl, step back, and ignore him.
Something easier said than done.
Rodimus pushed into his habsuite, jittery and anxious, his plating fluffed and his field a maelstrom that grated against Megatron’s.
“By all means, come in,” Megatron said sarcastically.
“I’m Captain. I don’t need an invitation.”
Megatron stared at him. “Your idea of leadership leaves something to be desired. No wonder Optimus decided you needed a keeper.”
Rodimus whirled toward him, mouth agape, outrage wrote into every quivering armor plate.
“How dare-”
“No,” Megatron interrupted and he didn’t have to raise his voice to make a point. He took a step forward and was almost impressed when Rodimus held his ground.
“How dare you?” Megatron demanded as he shoved a finger toward Rodimus’ chestplate - badge and flames alike.
“You barged in here. You showed up at my door with an outrageous request. You smiled and waggled your aft because it’s how you get your way. And I said no.”
Rodimus’ optics narrowed. His spoiler went rigid.
“Fine,” he spat, all full of righteous indignity. “Then I’ll just take myself back out!” His field whipped through the room, as sharp as a slap to the face.
Megatron watched, amused, as Rodimus stormed past him. “Is that how you always behave?” he asked, his tone mild but enough for Rodimus to grind to a halt and whip around to glare at him. “Do you huff and puff and throw a fit until you get your way?”
Rodimus’ face twisted with outrage and it looked so familiar in that moment, Megatron had a brief flash to a time eons ago when a certain second in command of his had offered that same expression.
Come to think of it, there was a lot of similarities between the two.
“What is it you want from me, Rodimus?” Megatron demanded, folding his arms over his chest and shaking away the memories.
Rodimus’ spoiler twitched. “I thought I made that clear.”
“Surely there are dozens of mechs more interested in sharing your berth than me,” Megatron said as he started to circle his fellow co-captain, impressed when Rodimus didn’t flinch away. If anything, his field reached toward Megatron as if in yearning.
How long had he been like this? Had he been waiting for someone to come along, to put him in place?
“Or is there something you think I can offer that they can’t?” Megatron asked. He reached for Rodimus’ back, dragging a finger across red paint and between the two planes of Rodimus’ spoiler. They were not unlike wings.
A visible shudder raced across Rodimus’ armor. His field flexed, full of heat, and pressed harder against Megatron’s own.
Needy little thing, wasn’t he?
Rodimus’ hands pulled in and out of fists. His ventilations were harsh and too quick. Was this a desire or a need?
A lot like Starscream indeed.
“What,” Megatron said, carefully enunciating each word as he circled Rodimus until he faced his fellow co-captain again, “do you want from me, Rodimus? And don’t be shy. It’s not in your coding.”
Rodimus looked up at him, optics blazing with ate and something else, something oh so familiar and tantalizing. “I hate you,” he hissed.
So be it.
Megatron grinned, more denta than humor. “Mmm. That’s what I thought.” He tilted his head toward the berth. “Get on the damn berth.”
He sent the code to lock his door. The only one who would be able to override it was the mech currently scrambling to get on his berth, his field a mixture of dread and anticipation.
“No need to be rude,” Rodimus retorted but he propped himself up with one elbow and reached between his legs, fingers stroking over his panel. “I’m practically doing you a favor.”
Megatron’s optics narrowed. “A favor,” he repeated flatly as he climbed onto the berth, pushing himself between the brat’s legs.
Rodimus tilted his chin, a light of triumph in those fragging Autobot blue optics. “You think anyone else on this ship would let you frag them?”
“Let,” Megatron repeated, unsure if he was offended or amused because it was almost like looking in the mirror, except Rodimus’ flavor of arrogance was different.
He swatted Rodimus’ fingers away from his panel and then flicked the panel itself. “Open,” he said.
Rodimus smirked and the panel snapped aside, lubricant immediately dribbling free, soaking the berth beneath his red-painted aft. “Eager?”
Megatron leaned over him, planting one hand near Rodimus’ helm as two fingers poked at the swollen, heated valve. How long had Rodimus been like this, aroused and desperate for relief? Had he gone pounding on other doors looking for someone to frag him into oblivion? Or had Megatron been his first choice and he wasted time pacing in the hallway?
He didn’t bother to ask. He knew Rodimus wouldn’t give him an honest answer.
“You came to me,” Megatron reminded him as he slid two fingers into the grasping heat of Rodimus’ valve, calipers clutching at him as though Rodimus hadn’t used his valve in quite some time.
“Yeah, and so far, you’re disappointing,” Rodimus retorted. He shifted and closed his legs about Megatron’s waist, dragging him down. “Frag me already, old mech. Or can’t you do anything right?”
Megatron knew a goad when he heard one. That didn’t stop him from obeying it. He pulled his fingers free of Rodimus’ valve, and grabbed Rodimus’ hands before the other captain could start pawing at him or trying to force the pace. He sent the command for his spike to extend, pressurizing quickly despite the situation. Irritating Rodimus might be, but he was a hot fragger.
Megatron rolled his hips, felt his spike nudge at Rodimus’ valve. He looked down into defiant blue optics as he pinned Rodimus’ wrists to the berth, feeling them flex within his grip.
“Tell me to stop,” Megatron said.
Rodimus rocked his hips, smearing lubricant on the tip of Megatron’s spike. “I can take anything you think you have, Megatron.”
There was something unappealing in Rodimus’ bravado, but Megatron couldn’t quite put a finger on why. So he tightened his grip on Rodimus’ hips and slowly thrust forward, knowing that Rodimus expected to be fragged into the berth and rutted upon like some beast.
Rodimus squirmed beneath him, his ex-vents leaving him in a heated rush. His valve clutched at Megatron, hot and hungry, but Megatron kept his slow pace until he bottomed out. He ground the head of his spike slowly against Rodimus’ ceiling node, and the brat threw his helm back and gasped. His hips rolled, working himself on Megatron’s valve.
“Primus,” he moaned. “Can’t you… can’t you frag me harder, old mech?”
Megatron smirked and leaned down, nipping at one of Rodimus’ helm spars, prompting another full frame shiver. “I could,” he purred and rocked his hips, barely shifting himself within Rodimus’ valve. “But I don’t need to.”
And he proceeded to prove it.
He ignored Rodimus begging him. He ignored Rodimus trying to tug his wrists free or his pedes beating against the back of Megatron’s thighs.
He fragged Rodimus slowly, carefully, like he held something delicate. He bore down on Rodimus with all his bulk and squeezed his wrists hard enough to feel the plating buckle, but his spike was nothing but soft and sweet in Rodimus’ valve.
Rodimus whined. He complained. He tried to move himself, but Megatron had him effectively pinned.
And he watched as Rodimus turned into a whimpering, moaning mess beneath him. As lubricant pulsed out of Rodimus’ valve and yet his spike never made an appearance. Rodimus’ plating flexed and lifted, desperate to ease the heat pooling under his armor. He made the sweetest cries and Megatron was tempted, for a moment, to ease the pleasurable ache.
But no, this was what Rodimus had asked for. It wasn’t Megatron’s fault that Rodimus didn’t know what it meant. Or that he hadn’t been specific enough.
Megatron leaned further over Rodimus, thrust deep and then ground down. His plating rubbed on Rodimus’ swollen anterior, making Rodimus’ hips jerk and his calipers cycle down. They trembled, clutching at Megatron’s spike, more lubricant welling up around them. Rodimus’ optics were a bright, startled blue.
“Let me overload,” he sobbed, panting for cooler air.
Megatron nibbled on a helm spar, sucked it into his mouth, breathed down damp, hot ventilations. “Do you hurt?” he asked, hearkening back to Rodimus’ demand earlier.
“You fragger,” Rodimus cried out and he tossed his helm back, his frame trembling, cycling higher and faster toward that overload that Megatron kept just out of reach.
His flexing intake was an offer Megatron couldn’t refuse. So he pressed his mouth against those cables and nibbled at them with his denta and Rodimus shivered beneath him, his thighs trembling around Megatron’s hips.
Rodimus tugged harder at his wrists and Megatron retreated, sliding into him with slow, dragging thrusts. Overload hovered at the base of his own spinal strut, a tightening knot of tension, but he would at least attend to Rodimus first.
Rodimus spat out several more unpleasant words and squirmed. His ex-vents were hot enough to sting Megatron’s substructure. His energy field was a frenetic whirl of need, a chaotic maelstrom of emotion that was rasping to the touch, no matter how much Megatron pulled in his own.
“Do you want to overload?” Megatron asked into Rodimus’ audial. He circled his hips, stirring all of the sensors in Rodimus’ valve.
“Yes,” Rodimus moaned.
Megatron’s lips painted a path of desire over the curve of Rodimus’ jaw. “I didn’t catch that. You’ll have to repeat yourself.”
He rocked into Rodimus and ground down, exciting both anterior node and ceiling node all at once. “Do you want to overlord.”
“You manipulative slagger!” Rodimus snarled and his entire frame tensed, hovering right on that cusp, that painful, pleasurable moment before the next beat of an overlord. “Give it to me!”
“Yes, Captain,” Megatron purred and rolled his hips again, the tip of his spike catching Rodimus’ node in the same moment he ground hard against the brat’s external node.
Rodimus’ backstrut bowed as he overloaded, his mouth open in a soundless cry. His valve clamped down like a vise, preventing Megatron from retreating as release ripped through the co-captain. Rodimus’ fans whirred, hard enough to vibrate Megatron’s frame. Lubricant spilled out of his valve before the clamp of his eased into a repetitive ripple that drew Megatron into an overload of his own.
He groaned, forehead pressed to Rodimus shoulder as he spilled deep into Rodimus, a small chuckle escaping him at the idea of staking a claim on someone like Rodimus. He was the type of catch better suited for returning to its natural habitat. One did not take Rodimus home to be an obedient pet.
Rodimus sagged against the berth beneath him, a tremor taking over his entire frame. He panted and struggled to cycle in cool air. He lay there limply, his valve twitching around Megatron’s spike, but his desperate clutch was gone.
Megatron released his hold on Rodimus’ wrists, but Rodimus didn’t move. His optics were dim until he shuttered them entirely and cycled a loud ventilation.
Megatron sat back on his heels, slipping free of Rodimus’ valve with another trickle of lubricant and transfluid. The berth was a mess he realized dourly as Rodimus’ legs slid from his waist and his pedes panted on the berth. He still hadn’t closed his panel, not even after Megatron tucked his spike away.
He frowned and was two seconds away from throwing the baby Prime out of his berth and out the door, now that Rodimus had gotten what he wanted.
Rodimus was still shaking. And that… bothered Megatron. He wasn’t sure, before, if Rodimus came here to exercise some kind of inner sparkeater, or to make a point, but signs seemed to point to the former and Megatron wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with that.
He was the Decepticon Warlord. Formerly. He was an evil tyrant who had taken millions upon billions of lives or ordered them anyway. He had no patient for a mech who hated difficult questions, thought way too much of himself, and was the kind of commander whose reckless behavior got the mechs around him killed.
But the idea of tossing Rodimus out on his entitled aft left an uncomfortable pit in Megatron’s tanks.
Fragging brat.
Megatron cycled a ventilation and shifted position, easing from between Rodimus’ legs to stretch out in what limited space was next to Rodimus on the berth. Rodimus, suddenly, felt a lot smaller as Megatron rolled him into an embrace. He was hot, too, and nestled into Megatron’s chestplate when Megatron stroked a hand down his back.
Okay. He was almost adorable like this. Almost.
They lay there for several minutes, Megatron counting his ventilations and wondering if maybe he’d have to call Ultra Magnus and explain that he’d somehow broken Rodimus and could he please come and retrieve his wayward co-captain. And then walk down to the brig because he was rather certain there was no way to come out of this without someone accusing him of dastardly behavior.
Rodimus chose that moment to stir - how did he have such impeccable timing - his engine giving a slight rev. “You’re such an aft,” he grumbled.
Wow.
Megatron grunted at him. “Then get out of my berth,” he said, yet his hands continued to pet the baby Prime’s spoiler and back, like they were magnetically attracted.
“No.” Rodimus snuggled in closer, like he belonged here in Megatron’s berth and didn’t have his own, probably ridiculously luxurious berth. “I’m comfortable.”
“This was not in the original agreement,” Megatron pointed out.
Rodimus threw a leg over his. “You didn’t follow the rules either.”
“And my punishment is to share a berth with you?” Megatron rolled his optics and tilted onto his back, unsurprised when Rodimus followed him and lay draped atop him. “I ought to throw you on the floor.”
Or better yet, out the door.
Rodimus made a noncommittal noise.
Megatron didn’t throw him anywhere.
He supposed he would have to share his berth or risk causing a scene. The latter was most unappealing at the moment.
Megatron sighed.
Trust Rodimus to get his way after all.
a/n: Ah. Having so much fun with these. That Tracks/Magnus may or may not make it into Apple a Day. I might expand it a bit and sliiiiiide it right in there. And I'm definitely editing and polishing and re-working that Rodimus/Megatron piece. This is my new ship-jam, just FYI. :)
Hope you enjoyed! 13 more to come! And as always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/305866.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
For kitsummer
Prompt: Starscream/Drift, “you are seriously terrified of heights?”
Fandom: Transformers IDW AU. Warnings: None
“Let me take you flying,” he said, and there was something in the way he grinned and purred the suggestion that made it as much challenge as invitation.
“Sure,” Drift said, and he added an easy smile to it that in no way matched the tremor of discomfort through his spark.
Drift was a grounder. He’d always been a grounder. He’d always had his wheels firmly planted on the ground. If he was flying, it was because he was falling.
But the last thing he was going to do was say as much to Starscream. Not to the mech who sniffed out weakness the same way Springer could sniff out high grade or Blurr could sniff out expensive armor wax.
They made plans. They re-arranged their schedules. Drift wrote out his last will and testament and sent it to Ultra Magnus (because Rodimus was many things but reliable when it came to legal documents was not one of them). Besides, Rodimus thought he was being over-dramatic, rolled his optics, and told him to go flying with his Seeker for all of their sake.
Starscream was trying to be romantic. Didn’t Drift see?
Sure he saw. He was just… cautious. Not terrified. No. Whatever gave anyone that idea? It was perfectly acceptable to be wary.
“I am not giving you a parachute,” Ratchet said when Drift proposed it to him a day before he was supposed to meet Starscream for their flight. “For one thing, I don’t have time to install one and for two, you don’t need it.”
“I’m going flying with Starscream,” Drift retorted.
Ratchet snorted and bent back over the whatever-it-was he was repairing. Some kind of hip joint? “You’ve been with him for six months. He hasn’t killed you yet. I think that’s some kind of record. So you must be safe.”
Drift fidgeted. He folded his arms over his chest. He stared.
Ratchet looked up at him. “You’re not scared, are you?”
“Of course not!” Drift’s plating ruffled.
“Then you’ll be fine. Now shoo. I have work to do.”
And that was the end of that.
Drift met Starscream the next day, absolutely not nervous, without a parachute but with Ultra Magnus in possession of his last will and testament. Just in case.
Starscream grinned at him, his wings flicking, his field bright and sparkling and… happy. Starscream was happy and yes, it was far too late for Drift to back down now. Starscream was in a genuinely good mood and that was rare enough to be treasured.
“Ready?” Starscream asked as he held out his hand. And it was there, in the undercurrent buried deep in his field, that Drift saw the concern. The uncertainty. The fear that Drift would not take what had been offered.
Drift cycled a ventilation. He trusted Starscream. Which was a lot more than about ninety-five percent of Cybertron could say.
“Yeah,” he said. And he took Starscream’s hand.
For Skywinder
prompt: Tracks/Ultra Magnus, what took you so long?
Fandom: Transformers G1, potentially part of Apple a Day. Warnings: Fluff and a touch of spark sex at the end
He’d been so jittery all day that even Sunstreaker, the perpetually unaware, noticed. Of course his way of solving the matter had been to bark at Tracks to sit still and stop twitching, but still, he’d noticed. Mirage had noticed, too, but he’d been too polite to say anything. And then there Tracks was, sharing a table with a frontliner and a spy staring at him, wanting to know why he was so anxious.
He spat out words that barely resembled an answer and fled to his quarters. He’d sacrificed two tins of the good wax, his last cube of Polyhexian high grade, and advanced copies of the new Star Trek movie to convince his roommate to be gone for the next two days. But it would be worth it, Tracks thought. So worth it.
Time ticked slowly by. He cleaned his quarters for the third time. He obsessively rearranged his belongings, his favorites getting point of pride in first place viewing. The announcement regarding the arrival of the new soldiers from Cybertron nearly made him spill his mid-grade all over himself.
Not much longer now.
He checked his appearance in the mirror again. Not a scuff or scrape. He glowed. He’d even bitten his glossa and asked Sunstreaker for help to make sure of it. He was perfect.
He started to pace back and forth. His spark throbbed harder and faster. His sensory net tingled with anticipation. He’d long distanced himself from the bond so that the quiet was easier to bear, but now it flared wide open. Tracks almost sobbed as a mixture of relief and love and joy pulsed warmly through his lines.
Four million years was a long time to wait. And yet, the passion hadn’t waned. It was still present and strong.
Tracks waited, on bolts and brackets, as introductions were made and new positions discussed until finally Optimus dismissed everyone to their assigned quarters to rest. Space was limited on the Ark, but they’d all made do.
Tracks rushed to the door, his ventilations near-stalled with anticipation. The door opened before a hand could even lift to ping for entrance. Tracks grabbed and yanked, pulling his sparkmate into the privacy of his quarters.
“What took you so long?” he demanded as within two steps, Dion - now Ultra Magnus - swept Tracks into his arms.
“I should say the same for you,” Ultra Magnus replied, but his vocals were warm and their fields clashed together, strong enough to rattle all the knickknacks on the shelves. “I thought you dead if not for the beat of my spark.”
Their frames came together and Tracks could feel the pulse of Ultra Magnus’ spark, even through the armor that separated them. He clung to his larger mate with arms and legs, half wishing he could crawl beneath Ultra Magnus’ plating so that they might not be separated again. Large hands gripped his thighs, helping to support his weight.
“We have been most fortunate,” Tracks said as he held Ultra Magnus’ helm, his thumbs sweeping over Magnus’ cheeks. He did not know that happiness could still be found in the midst of war, but here it was.
“Indeed.” Magnus leaned in close, pressing their forehelms together. “You are even more beautiful than I remembered.”
“And you are twice as handsome,” Tracks replied with another hungry pulse of his spark. He could barely keep his chestplates closed as it was. “Please tell me you’re staying.”
Magnus’ fingers flexed around his thighs. “I am staying. And I will explain later but for now, I wish to feel you. I need to know you are here.”
Tracks panted as their lips were mere inches apart. “Yes,” he said, tightening his arms over Magnus’ shoulders. “Without question, always yes.”
He heard the click and slide of Magnus’ chestplates parting and felt the tingling wash of Magnus’ strong, bright spark against his armor. Tracks shivered and finally allowed his own disengage, their sparks leaping together with an eager urgency that far outstripped Tracks’ leap into Magnus’ arms.
Their lips came together immediately thereafter, their embrace tightening, and nothing else mattered because Magnus was here, they were together, and finally, Tracks was home.
For ephdraws
Prompt: Megatron/Rodimus, be careful what you wish for, it might come true
Fandom: Transformers MTMTE Season 2. Warnings: NSFW, sticky, gentle hate sex?
“Make it hurt,” Rodimus challenged. “Make me feel it.”
Megatron wished he could slam a door in the brat’s face. Instead, all he could do was scowl, step back, and ignore him.
Something easier said than done.
Rodimus pushed into his habsuite, jittery and anxious, his plating fluffed and his field a maelstrom that grated against Megatron’s.
“By all means, come in,” Megatron said sarcastically.
“I’m Captain. I don’t need an invitation.”
Megatron stared at him. “Your idea of leadership leaves something to be desired. No wonder Optimus decided you needed a keeper.”
Rodimus whirled toward him, mouth agape, outrage wrote into every quivering armor plate.
“How dare-”
“No,” Megatron interrupted and he didn’t have to raise his voice to make a point. He took a step forward and was almost impressed when Rodimus held his ground.
“How dare you?” Megatron demanded as he shoved a finger toward Rodimus’ chestplate - badge and flames alike.
“You barged in here. You showed up at my door with an outrageous request. You smiled and waggled your aft because it’s how you get your way. And I said no.”
Rodimus’ optics narrowed. His spoiler went rigid.
“Fine,” he spat, all full of righteous indignity. “Then I’ll just take myself back out!” His field whipped through the room, as sharp as a slap to the face.
Megatron watched, amused, as Rodimus stormed past him. “Is that how you always behave?” he asked, his tone mild but enough for Rodimus to grind to a halt and whip around to glare at him. “Do you huff and puff and throw a fit until you get your way?”
Rodimus’ face twisted with outrage and it looked so familiar in that moment, Megatron had a brief flash to a time eons ago when a certain second in command of his had offered that same expression.
Come to think of it, there was a lot of similarities between the two.
“What is it you want from me, Rodimus?” Megatron demanded, folding his arms over his chest and shaking away the memories.
Rodimus’ spoiler twitched. “I thought I made that clear.”
“Surely there are dozens of mechs more interested in sharing your berth than me,” Megatron said as he started to circle his fellow co-captain, impressed when Rodimus didn’t flinch away. If anything, his field reached toward Megatron as if in yearning.
How long had he been like this? Had he been waiting for someone to come along, to put him in place?
“Or is there something you think I can offer that they can’t?” Megatron asked. He reached for Rodimus’ back, dragging a finger across red paint and between the two planes of Rodimus’ spoiler. They were not unlike wings.
A visible shudder raced across Rodimus’ armor. His field flexed, full of heat, and pressed harder against Megatron’s own.
Needy little thing, wasn’t he?
Rodimus’ hands pulled in and out of fists. His ventilations were harsh and too quick. Was this a desire or a need?
A lot like Starscream indeed.
“What,” Megatron said, carefully enunciating each word as he circled Rodimus until he faced his fellow co-captain again, “do you want from me, Rodimus? And don’t be shy. It’s not in your coding.”
Rodimus looked up at him, optics blazing with ate and something else, something oh so familiar and tantalizing. “I hate you,” he hissed.
So be it.
Megatron grinned, more denta than humor. “Mmm. That’s what I thought.” He tilted his head toward the berth. “Get on the damn berth.”
He sent the code to lock his door. The only one who would be able to override it was the mech currently scrambling to get on his berth, his field a mixture of dread and anticipation.
“No need to be rude,” Rodimus retorted but he propped himself up with one elbow and reached between his legs, fingers stroking over his panel. “I’m practically doing you a favor.”
Megatron’s optics narrowed. “A favor,” he repeated flatly as he climbed onto the berth, pushing himself between the brat’s legs.
Rodimus tilted his chin, a light of triumph in those fragging Autobot blue optics. “You think anyone else on this ship would let you frag them?”
“Let,” Megatron repeated, unsure if he was offended or amused because it was almost like looking in the mirror, except Rodimus’ flavor of arrogance was different.
He swatted Rodimus’ fingers away from his panel and then flicked the panel itself. “Open,” he said.
Rodimus smirked and the panel snapped aside, lubricant immediately dribbling free, soaking the berth beneath his red-painted aft. “Eager?”
Megatron leaned over him, planting one hand near Rodimus’ helm as two fingers poked at the swollen, heated valve. How long had Rodimus been like this, aroused and desperate for relief? Had he gone pounding on other doors looking for someone to frag him into oblivion? Or had Megatron been his first choice and he wasted time pacing in the hallway?
He didn’t bother to ask. He knew Rodimus wouldn’t give him an honest answer.
“You came to me,” Megatron reminded him as he slid two fingers into the grasping heat of Rodimus’ valve, calipers clutching at him as though Rodimus hadn’t used his valve in quite some time.
“Yeah, and so far, you’re disappointing,” Rodimus retorted. He shifted and closed his legs about Megatron’s waist, dragging him down. “Frag me already, old mech. Or can’t you do anything right?”
Megatron knew a goad when he heard one. That didn’t stop him from obeying it. He pulled his fingers free of Rodimus’ valve, and grabbed Rodimus’ hands before the other captain could start pawing at him or trying to force the pace. He sent the command for his spike to extend, pressurizing quickly despite the situation. Irritating Rodimus might be, but he was a hot fragger.
Megatron rolled his hips, felt his spike nudge at Rodimus’ valve. He looked down into defiant blue optics as he pinned Rodimus’ wrists to the berth, feeling them flex within his grip.
“Tell me to stop,” Megatron said.
Rodimus rocked his hips, smearing lubricant on the tip of Megatron’s spike. “I can take anything you think you have, Megatron.”
There was something unappealing in Rodimus’ bravado, but Megatron couldn’t quite put a finger on why. So he tightened his grip on Rodimus’ hips and slowly thrust forward, knowing that Rodimus expected to be fragged into the berth and rutted upon like some beast.
Rodimus squirmed beneath him, his ex-vents leaving him in a heated rush. His valve clutched at Megatron, hot and hungry, but Megatron kept his slow pace until he bottomed out. He ground the head of his spike slowly against Rodimus’ ceiling node, and the brat threw his helm back and gasped. His hips rolled, working himself on Megatron’s valve.
“Primus,” he moaned. “Can’t you… can’t you frag me harder, old mech?”
Megatron smirked and leaned down, nipping at one of Rodimus’ helm spars, prompting another full frame shiver. “I could,” he purred and rocked his hips, barely shifting himself within Rodimus’ valve. “But I don’t need to.”
And he proceeded to prove it.
He ignored Rodimus begging him. He ignored Rodimus trying to tug his wrists free or his pedes beating against the back of Megatron’s thighs.
He fragged Rodimus slowly, carefully, like he held something delicate. He bore down on Rodimus with all his bulk and squeezed his wrists hard enough to feel the plating buckle, but his spike was nothing but soft and sweet in Rodimus’ valve.
Rodimus whined. He complained. He tried to move himself, but Megatron had him effectively pinned.
And he watched as Rodimus turned into a whimpering, moaning mess beneath him. As lubricant pulsed out of Rodimus’ valve and yet his spike never made an appearance. Rodimus’ plating flexed and lifted, desperate to ease the heat pooling under his armor. He made the sweetest cries and Megatron was tempted, for a moment, to ease the pleasurable ache.
But no, this was what Rodimus had asked for. It wasn’t Megatron’s fault that Rodimus didn’t know what it meant. Or that he hadn’t been specific enough.
Megatron leaned further over Rodimus, thrust deep and then ground down. His plating rubbed on Rodimus’ swollen anterior, making Rodimus’ hips jerk and his calipers cycle down. They trembled, clutching at Megatron’s spike, more lubricant welling up around them. Rodimus’ optics were a bright, startled blue.
“Let me overload,” he sobbed, panting for cooler air.
Megatron nibbled on a helm spar, sucked it into his mouth, breathed down damp, hot ventilations. “Do you hurt?” he asked, hearkening back to Rodimus’ demand earlier.
“You fragger,” Rodimus cried out and he tossed his helm back, his frame trembling, cycling higher and faster toward that overload that Megatron kept just out of reach.
His flexing intake was an offer Megatron couldn’t refuse. So he pressed his mouth against those cables and nibbled at them with his denta and Rodimus shivered beneath him, his thighs trembling around Megatron’s hips.
Rodimus tugged harder at his wrists and Megatron retreated, sliding into him with slow, dragging thrusts. Overload hovered at the base of his own spinal strut, a tightening knot of tension, but he would at least attend to Rodimus first.
Rodimus spat out several more unpleasant words and squirmed. His ex-vents were hot enough to sting Megatron’s substructure. His energy field was a frenetic whirl of need, a chaotic maelstrom of emotion that was rasping to the touch, no matter how much Megatron pulled in his own.
“Do you want to overload?” Megatron asked into Rodimus’ audial. He circled his hips, stirring all of the sensors in Rodimus’ valve.
“Yes,” Rodimus moaned.
Megatron’s lips painted a path of desire over the curve of Rodimus’ jaw. “I didn’t catch that. You’ll have to repeat yourself.”
He rocked into Rodimus and ground down, exciting both anterior node and ceiling node all at once. “Do you want to overlord.”
“You manipulative slagger!” Rodimus snarled and his entire frame tensed, hovering right on that cusp, that painful, pleasurable moment before the next beat of an overlord. “Give it to me!”
“Yes, Captain,” Megatron purred and rolled his hips again, the tip of his spike catching Rodimus’ node in the same moment he ground hard against the brat’s external node.
Rodimus’ backstrut bowed as he overloaded, his mouth open in a soundless cry. His valve clamped down like a vise, preventing Megatron from retreating as release ripped through the co-captain. Rodimus’ fans whirred, hard enough to vibrate Megatron’s frame. Lubricant spilled out of his valve before the clamp of his eased into a repetitive ripple that drew Megatron into an overload of his own.
He groaned, forehead pressed to Rodimus shoulder as he spilled deep into Rodimus, a small chuckle escaping him at the idea of staking a claim on someone like Rodimus. He was the type of catch better suited for returning to its natural habitat. One did not take Rodimus home to be an obedient pet.
Rodimus sagged against the berth beneath him, a tremor taking over his entire frame. He panted and struggled to cycle in cool air. He lay there limply, his valve twitching around Megatron’s spike, but his desperate clutch was gone.
Megatron released his hold on Rodimus’ wrists, but Rodimus didn’t move. His optics were dim until he shuttered them entirely and cycled a loud ventilation.
Megatron sat back on his heels, slipping free of Rodimus’ valve with another trickle of lubricant and transfluid. The berth was a mess he realized dourly as Rodimus’ legs slid from his waist and his pedes panted on the berth. He still hadn’t closed his panel, not even after Megatron tucked his spike away.
He frowned and was two seconds away from throwing the baby Prime out of his berth and out the door, now that Rodimus had gotten what he wanted.
Rodimus was still shaking. And that… bothered Megatron. He wasn’t sure, before, if Rodimus came here to exercise some kind of inner sparkeater, or to make a point, but signs seemed to point to the former and Megatron wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with that.
He was the Decepticon Warlord. Formerly. He was an evil tyrant who had taken millions upon billions of lives or ordered them anyway. He had no patient for a mech who hated difficult questions, thought way too much of himself, and was the kind of commander whose reckless behavior got the mechs around him killed.
But the idea of tossing Rodimus out on his entitled aft left an uncomfortable pit in Megatron’s tanks.
Fragging brat.
Megatron cycled a ventilation and shifted position, easing from between Rodimus’ legs to stretch out in what limited space was next to Rodimus on the berth. Rodimus, suddenly, felt a lot smaller as Megatron rolled him into an embrace. He was hot, too, and nestled into Megatron’s chestplate when Megatron stroked a hand down his back.
Okay. He was almost adorable like this. Almost.
They lay there for several minutes, Megatron counting his ventilations and wondering if maybe he’d have to call Ultra Magnus and explain that he’d somehow broken Rodimus and could he please come and retrieve his wayward co-captain. And then walk down to the brig because he was rather certain there was no way to come out of this without someone accusing him of dastardly behavior.
Rodimus chose that moment to stir - how did he have such impeccable timing - his engine giving a slight rev. “You’re such an aft,” he grumbled.
Wow.
Megatron grunted at him. “Then get out of my berth,” he said, yet his hands continued to pet the baby Prime’s spoiler and back, like they were magnetically attracted.
“No.” Rodimus snuggled in closer, like he belonged here in Megatron’s berth and didn’t have his own, probably ridiculously luxurious berth. “I’m comfortable.”
“This was not in the original agreement,” Megatron pointed out.
Rodimus threw a leg over his. “You didn’t follow the rules either.”
“And my punishment is to share a berth with you?” Megatron rolled his optics and tilted onto his back, unsurprised when Rodimus followed him and lay draped atop him. “I ought to throw you on the floor.”
Or better yet, out the door.
Rodimus made a noncommittal noise.
Megatron didn’t throw him anywhere.
He supposed he would have to share his berth or risk causing a scene. The latter was most unappealing at the moment.
Megatron sighed.
Trust Rodimus to get his way after all.
a/n: Ah. Having so much fun with these. That Tracks/Magnus may or may not make it into Apple a Day. I might expand it a bit and sliiiiiide it right in there. And I'm definitely editing and polishing and re-working that Rodimus/Megatron piece. This is my new ship-jam, just FYI. :)
Hope you enjoyed! 13 more to come! And as always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.
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