Taking Care of the CO.
IDW/MTMTE
Rodimus/Drift
sticky and PWP
for
It certainly built the ego, Rodimus thought, tipping his head back against the chair’s high rail, tingling pleasure washing over him. Not that his needed building, but, well, leadership was a lot less fun than he’d imagined, and this? This was some much needed stress relief.
Drift’s ventilations washed against him, the white mech’s hands gripping at Rodimus’s thighs. Powerful hands, the servos gripping into Rodimus’s sleek armor. Drift panted, mouth parted, optics fixed on Rodimus’s face, from under his downturned helm. His spike thrust, slow and steady, into Rodimus’s valve, optics burning with desire. Rodimus’s own hands clutched at the arms of the chair, holding himself still, so that the only movement between them was Drift’s thighs against his, Drift’s spike in his valve.
It had been a bit of a surprise to Rodimus, who knew Drift as quiet, almost shy, to find him such a fierce, almost ardent partner. The good kind of surprise. And Primus knew Rodimus needed a few of those, lately.
Drift didn’t speak, his hands and body communicating all he needed to say. Rodimus watched him from under lowered optics, the powerful lines of the armor: the broad chest, housing powerful arm servos, tapering to a narrow, lithe waist. And the face, normally so composed, wracked with desire, open and wanting.
Rodimus’s valve fluttered, and he felt a wash of fluid from his systems, clutching at the spike inside him. Drift quivered, the hands gripping harder into Rodimus’s thighs, forcing himself to keep his tempo. Rodimus could feel him fighting off the overload, pushing for more.
That, at least, was Drift—intense, focused, pushing for more. Rodimus could feel the struggle, the other mech’s EM field swirling and eddying around him, before the white mech shuddered, letting a sharp cry slip from his throat, and he felt the sudden rush of heat and fluid inside him, washing around him, crackling over his sensor nodes. He could feel the tops of Drift’s thighs against him, slippery with their commingled fluids, as Drift rocked forward, bracing his hands on the back of the chair, his cooling systems venting down Rodimus’s frame. The blue optics hovered a handspan from Rodimus’s, scintillant and bright and for a long moment Rodimus felt an electricity rise between them, and he tipped his chin forward for a kiss.
Drift shivered, and then shifted his weight, pulling his spike gently from the valve. Rodimus sighed, feeling the spike slide from the slick lining, calipers rippling and squeezing as it passed, still stiff from the overload. Drift’s optics slipped down Rodimus’s body, taking in the seep of silver from the valve, then back up, something like a smile glimmering in the corner of his mouth.
Before Rodimus could react, Drift folded back onto his heels, and he felt the sudden contact of the glossa tracing a slow, lazy circle around the valve’s rim. Drift looked up, letting his glossa flick into his mouth, slick with their mingled fluids. His engines gave a purr, and he bent again, in earnest, pressing his mouth against the valve, seeking more.
Rodimus could feel the glossa spiral around the valve’s rim, sinking closer, flirting with the lining, before dipping inside, a quick dart of movement. He twitched, hands clutching suddenly at Drift’s shoulders.
A soft chuckle, and Drift pressed closer, mouth sealing over the valve, sucking gently.
“Oh!” Rodimus squirmed, before Drift clamped his hands over the flame colored armor, bracing him down. Rodimus’s feet scraped on the floor, in a paroxysm of sensation. It felt good. Really good. Better than it should, probably. His optics locked with Drift’s, down the length of his body. “You should…stop.”
Another chuckle, and a small shake of the head that slid metal over metal.
“If…this is part of that ‘command cadre’ thi—ah!” Drift cut him off, nipping sharply at one of the sensor nodes.
“Maybe,” Drift said, after a moment, barely raising his mouth, so the words vibrated against the sensitized metal and lining mesh, the nip still sending ripples of raw sensation over Rodimus’s net. His voice was rough with need. “I just want to hear you scream.”
That was not hard to indulge: Rodimus’s hands clutched into the cabling of Drift’s shoulders, bracing him against his pelvic frame, his thighs clinging around the other’s armor. His torso bucked, suddenly, his valve spinning into a wild release, tearing a raw sound from his vocalizer.
He sagged down onto the chair, slowly releasing his grip, his fingerstalls having locked into position. He stroked a shivering hand over Drift’s helm, toying with one long finial, as the other sat back, licking his glossed lip plates with a coy grin of satisfaction. “Seriously,” he said. “That cadre thing.”
A shrug. “Told you. What I’m used to.”
“We’re not Decepticons anymore,” Rodimus said, sliding a thumb along the finial, smiling as Drift tilted his head into the touch.
“Not Autobots, either,” Drift countered. “Why not keep some traditions, if they work?”
“Does this work?”
“Does it?” Drift had told him that in the Decepticons, the command cadre ‘took care of their own’—a rank structure to prevent rank fraternization. And there was a moment of fragility, Drift unsure if he’d overstepped his place, if his history, what he knew of how the world worked, would be pushed away, rejected.
Rodimus grinned, tugging the helm upward, letting his glossa flick just on the edges of Drift’s mouthplates. “Yes.”

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Implying Rodimus was one?
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Though I was referring to the fact that the crew is mixed, after all and aggregate titles are inadequate.
Sorry you didn't care for the story.
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I adore Rodimus's "must keep my cool" attitude, and Drift, who is determined to break it. A bit of competitiveness between these two? Who would have thought? XD :D
And the cadre headcanon-- Yeah, I could see that. And oh...OH... I almost see this as part of a series now, along with the Rodimus/Drift in medbay and the two Ultra Magnus/Drift ones... YEAH. Hello vivid imagery of a Drift sandwich. *¬* UNF.
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