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When Megatron says “I haven’t done this in years. I haven’t wanted to do this in years,” Rodimus prepares for it to be… not necessarily bad, he doesn’t think it could be – just getting to see Megatron like that – open, vulnerable – will be worth it. But maybe not good either.
Mostly, that warm, syrupy feeling sliding down his spinal strut at the thought that he’s the first mech in millennia to make Megatron want keeps him from feeling too disappointed. He lets Megatron set the pace, back him up against the bulkhead and tip his helm back into a slow kiss with a shockingly gentle hand under his chin.
For a while, that’s all they do. Soft, exploratory kisses become deep, sensual drags of lip plates against each other, over his jaw and under, a hint of teeth against neck cabling. Rodimus almost forgets there’s the promise of more, lost in the building charge crackling between Megatron’s mouth and his own rapidly heating plating, until strong hands slide under his thighs and lift him bodily off the ground.
He doesn’t yelp, and even if he had, there’s no way Megatron heard it over the clatter of their armour colliding, the screech of metal scraping against metal as his thighs are guided around Megatron’s hips, so there’s no reason for him to be laughing.
Okay, maybe it’s not so much a laugh as a quiet chuckle, one that rumbles through his chest and all the way down to Rodimus’ pedes, but Rodimus smacks him anyway, hand coming down to rest on one broad shoulder. The other hovers awkwardly at his side, floating in the air until one of Megatron’s – much larger, Primus – lifts away from his thigh to wrap fully around it.
Rodimus turns his head to watch his hand disappear into the curl of Megatron’s, bright yellow paint eclipsed under a cover of scuffed, matte black. If he focuses, he can feel every unmended dent and scratch, is so absorbed in it that he doesn’t notice Megatron moving until his back hits the berth. Gently, with Megatron’s other hand curled around his helm to keep it from smacking against the criminally underpadded recharge slab Megatron has the audacity to call a berth.
Rodimus’ eyes snap back to Megatron’s. A lopsided curl to his lips, not quite a smile, but enough to soften the deep, dark red of his optics.
(Rodimus sometimes wonders if the subroutines for actual smiling were permanently deleted from Megatron’s processor after sitting unused for millions of years. He’d tease him about it if he didn’t suspect it, just a little, of being true)
He’s quiet for a little too long, staring at Megatron and forgetting to do anything with his face. The almost-smile slips from Megatron’s lips, his hand squeezing Rodimus’ where their fingers are still tangled loosely together against the berth.
“Still good?” Spoken so softly, Megatron’s weight and heat inching backwards, giving Rodimus the space to push him away. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Megatron this quiet, the whisper smoothing out the rasp in his voice, leaving a pleasantly low rumble. A shiver passes through Rodimus, and he brings his arm up to clutch at Megatron’s waist. Oh yeah, definitely still good.
Still, he grins up at Megatron, says “What do you mean still? We haven’t even started yet,” going for that exasperated look Megatron gives him with less frequency now, which only makes him feel like he has to work harder to earn it.
If he gets it he can’t tell, Megatron’s mouth pressed insistently to his almost as soon as he gets the words out. There’s nothing hesitant about this kiss, firm and almost desperate from the start. The heat between them skyrockets, Megatron’s hands hot over his plating, running from his arms to over his chest, sliding down his waist like his need to touch is overwhelming his ability to decide where first.
Rodimus gasps when sharp denta nip at his bottom lip, his fingers sliding down Megatron’s chest and coming to grip just under the armour, hooked into the panel just above his vents. Megatron groans, and the sound vibrates from Rodimus’ fingers up his arms, leaves him jittery and wanting more.
He teases the fingers of one hand in between the slats and Megatron shudders, his lips sliding hot over Rodimus’ cheek, open in a pant. It’s intensely gratifying, and Rodimus is about to do it again until those lips move down, brushing over his spoiler before a hot, wet glossa licks a wide stripe across the guard and Rodimus shouts.
In retaliation, he hooks the fingers of his other hand in as well and tugs, pulling a low moan of out Megatron and crushing their chests together.
Megatron is shaking over him, and while at first Rodimus is sure it’s in pleasure, and he won, he realizes a half-second later the afthole is laughing again. It may or may not have taken him a bit to realize because through his chuckles, Megaton has started rubbing circles on the inside of Rodimus’ thigh with his thumb.
“Rodimus, it’s not a competition.” He can’t see Megatron’s face from where it’s tucked into the crook of his neck, warm breath ghosting over the cabling there, drawing small shivers from his frame, but he can hear the slag eating grin.
“The pit it isn’t.” Sliding one hand free from under Megatron’s chest, he brings it down between his legs, cupping the panel there, feeling the heat radiating from it. “Also, I’m totally winning.” Megatron says nothing, but bites down just a little rougher on his neck, pinching a cable between his teeth, creasing it. Rodimus groans, his back arching up off the berth before Megatron’s grip on his thigh pushes him back down again.
“Primus.” Rodimus curses when Megatron’s lips move back to his spoiler, his tongue dragging a path across it that has Rodimus’ whole frame shaking, but he doesn’t linger. His mouth moves down Rodimus’ chest, soft kisses over plating and long teasing licks to transformation seams a contrast that has his processor spinning, optics heavy lidded as he watches Megaton make his way down his frame until his lips brush over his panel and – oh, frag – come away wet.
He hadn’t even noticed when he’d started leaking, tracks of lubricant smeared around the edges of his panel and spotting his thighs, and he hasn’t even opened his fragging panel yet.
He would be embarrassed about that, maybe – he can’t see what state Megatron is in, and his hand slid away from Megatron’s hips when he began his descent down Rodimus’ body and ended up curled in the thin cover laid over the berth – except.
Except Megatron is looking up at him through optics blown wide with a desire so intense it pins Rodimus to the berth, his whole body still as he watches Megatron’s optics cycle to their widest setting, heavy lidded as his tongue moves slowly, torturously over lip plates slick with Rodimus’ fluids, like he can’t bear to miss a single drop.
Rodimus tries to say something. His vocalizer clicks once, twice, before rebooting entirely. The air between them fills with the heavy, stagnant haze of both their vents running at full speed and managing to do nothing but push the superheated air in circles around them.
Megatron lowers his lips to Rodimus array cover again and, lip plates dragging over sensitive seams manages a hoarse “please,” that nearly sends Rodimus into a full system failure. His panel snaps open with a quiet click that is inaudible over their roaring fans.
One of Megatron’s hands cups Rodimus’ thigh, lifts it to bring it up over his shoulder. Rodimus gets the hint and moves his other leg to mirror it, thighs clenching once around Megatron’s helm before relaxing. Megatron’s other hand rests on his hip, for now just stroking the plating in soothing, abstract patterns until Rodimus relaxes fully and, propped up on his elbows, gives him a brisk nod. His stupid vocalizer is still running sudden restart debugging routines.
The first touch of Megatron’s glossa to his array is a soft, broad stoke over the slit of his valve. Rodimus shivers, already struggling to hold himself up but needing to see the way Megatron shudders, his optics sliding shut as he repeats the motion, this time flicking his tongue over Rodimus’ anterior node. Rodimus’ thighs tighten around his helm, but Megatron barely seems to notice. He looks completely blissed out, like he’s the one getting his valve eaten out.
Megatron’s tongue pushes past the folds of his valve, sweeping upwards, seeking sensor clusters that light up under his tongue and send a feedback loop of charge through Megatron’s mouth and every concentric ring in Rodimus’ valve.
His head hits the berth with a loud crash he barely notices as Megatron’s tongue continues its exploration of his valve, hot and wet and almost perfect, he just needs –
His vocalizer comes back online with a loud click and he’s shouting, arching up off the berth and then curling forward as Megatron pulls back to suck on his anterior node, a soft suction and brush of tongue. Rodimus’ hands fly to his shoulders, scramble against his back as Megatron moves between his node and his valve, alternating long, broad swipes of his tongue with teasing licks.
His hand lands on the turret on Megatron’s back and he grips it tight, keeping his hold on it when Megatron’s strong servos push him back to lie flat on the berth again before he starts tongue fucking him in earnest, glossa pushing as deep into his valve as it can go. Calipers cling at it as it moves back, Rodimus’ valve desperately trying to clench down.
Megatron releases his hips to bring a hand up to his array, thumb brushing over his node while Megatron’s tongue is buried inside him. Rodimus thinks he shouts, thinks he’s been making humiliating noises this whole time but can’t actually be bothered to care. He uses his grip on the turret to push his hips up into Megatron’s mouth, start a dirty grind that pushes that sinfully talented glossa even deeper, and Megatron moans. That powerful engine sends the sound all through Rodimus’ frame, shaking his legs over Megatron’s shoulders, vibrating his tongue inside Rodimus’ valve and suddenly his overload is crashing into him, head thrown back, optics glitching, Megatron’s name on his lips.
Pleasure crawls over his plating, runs through every line for what feels like an eternity before he finally starts to come down, and realizes several things all at once.
One, his thighs have a death grip on Megatron’s helm, enough to have dented it.
Two, ditto for the turret. His fingers have left long, gauging scratches in it.
Three, Megatron is covered, obscenely covered in a heady mix of trasfluid and lubricant, Rodimus’ transfluid and lubricant, coating his mouth, nose, and chin, except for the places where Megatron is currently licking it away. Rodimus is similarly debauched, which might have escaped his notice for a somewhat humiliating amount of time while he stared at Megatron if not for the fact that the mech himself had started cleaning the inside of Rodimus’ thigh with his tongue.
When he can finally speak again, he goes with “Haven’t done this in years my aft.”
Megatron’s optics cycle slowly, lazily as they flicker between Rodimus’ eyes and his array. His tongue gives one final, soft lick over the swollen mesh that makes Rodimus’ shiver before his levers himself up, Rodimus’ strutless legs falling from his shoulders to rest in the crook of his elbows.
“It’s true.” At Rodimus’ skeptic look he just shrugs, one of those massive shoulders lifting up and jostling Rodimus’ leg. Megatron slides his palm from ankle joint to the inside of Rodimus’ knee, using a light grip to tug him forward on the berth, until they’re pressed chest to chest again. His optics, the low, rough tone of his voice dripping satisfaction when he continues, “I will admit to thinking about doing that recently. Often.” They’re kissing again before Rodimus can even begin to think of something suitably clever to say to that.
At the feeling of hot, hard metal against his inner thigh Rodimus breaks away with a gasp, hands flying from Megatron’s shoulders and down his frame, knuckles brushing against the ridged, interlocking panels of a thick spike, already slick with pre fluid. Megatron shudders above him, whole frame rocking forward, catching himself against the birth just before his weight crashes into rodimus.
Rodimus grins, relishing the broken sound that leaves the strained vocalizer of the massive mech above him at the first real stoke of his curled fingers.
“That can’t be all you’ve been thinking about, big guy.” A breathless laugh, tumbling into a low groan when Rodimus’ thumb swipes over the head. Megatron’s servos come back up to cup his thighs again, already mechhandling Rodimus so he can fit between his spread legs, one massive knee propped in between them on the berth.
“No, captain, we’re just getting started.”