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shadow_vectorIDW/MTMTE
Rodimus/Drift, Ultra Magnus/Drift
sticky, dom/sub, humiliation, dirty talk PWP
This was probably not a time to think about how he’d gotten to this point. But this was Ultra Magnus, and overcerebrating at inappropriate moments was his job description.
And this moment could not be much more inappropriate: Drift, bent over before him, valve exposed, slick and ready, the spinal struts in a graceful arch, the mech’s hands braced on the wall.
“You’re serious about this,” Ultra Magnus said, but it was mostly to himself.
“Yes,” Drift murmured, unnecessarily, without turning his head.
It had started a decacycle ago, when Ultra Magnus had gone to see Rodimus. About some matter the other clearly thought too trivial to deal with. He’d had the datapad ready, and a list of reasons, bullet-pointed, cued up on it as he’d tapped in the door’s code to Rodimus’s captain’s office…and then stopped.
Ultra Magnus, who stopped at nothing, who looked evil and wrongdoing and a hundred flavors of miscreancy in the face every day, stopped.
Because this was something beyond his comprehension: Rodimus, seated, spread-legged, in his chair, and Drift, kneeling between his knees, mouth eagerly working his spike. He could see them both, in half-profile, enough to see the blissful-edged smile on Rodimus’s face, his half-closed, unfocused optics. Close enough to see the ring of Drift’s lip , silver swallowing the red and saffron spike, close enough to hear the wet sounds of lubricant on metal, the huff of Rodimus’s ventilation systems.
It was wrong, a violation of about ten fraternization policies, even if one considered Drift not a Decepticon. It was wrong, an abuse of power, to be doing it to an underling in his command chair. It was wrong…and he couldn’t stop watching.
Especially not when Rodimus began speaking, lifting a hand to stroke over Drift’s helm, guiding its tempo. “Like it, huh?”
A rumbling assent from Drift, the little winglets that normally gripped the Great Sword giving a twitch.
A chuckle. “You really do like the taste of my spike. You keep coming back for more.”
Another rumble, one of Drift’s hands tightening on his thigh.
“Gotta admit, I fraggin’ love looking at you like this. Almost as much as,” his voice dropped to a stage whisper, “almost as much as I love watching you swallow my fluid when I overload.” He tweaked a fingertip on Drift’s cheek. “So greedy.”
Drift’s rhythm picked up, the mouth sliding over the spike’s girth more quickly, and Ultra Magnus could see little flashes of the glossa flicking out along the spike’s undernodes, in skillful little prods. He could see Rodimus’s thighs tense, as the overload charge built in him.
“Know what I want to see?” Rodimus continued, as though the talking were half of what got him off. “I want to see you and Ultra Magnus.” A chuckle. “What do you think? I bet his spike’s huge. I bet he’d come hard.”
Drift whimpered: Rodimus twitched at the added sense over his spike.
“I bet he’d frag you so hard you could barely walk the next day.”
Another whimper, Drift pausing for a klik as though thrown off his tempo. Rodimus’s mouth quirked into a grin. “What do you think, Drift? You’d like that? Feel all of him just…pounding inside you?” One hand tweaked one of Drift’s helm finials. “Finger yourself, if you want it. If you want to feel Ultra Magnus slamming into your valve.”
Ultra Magnus was glued to the spot, half horrified, half feeling a strange burning arousal as Drift’s free hand crept between his legs, the fingers working furtively in the shadows of his thighs.
“Frag, yessss,” Rodimus crowed. “So fraggin’ hot when you do that, Drift.”
Ultra Magnus could only stand, rooted to the spot, as Drift shuddered, mouth still working over the spike, optics lidded in concentration, his hand between his thighs. All he could do was stand, and stare at the small puddle, the glossy drip of lubricant, from the valve, stringing down from Drift’s fingers to create a shiny wet spot on the floor between his legs. It was shameful and disgusting and licentious and he should want to stop it, but all he could do was watch, his spike jumping behind its housing with an unfamiliar rush of heat, as though wanting to hike up the narrow white hips and sink home in the dripping valve.
“Gonna come,” Rodimus gasped a warning that seemed already too late, throwing his head back, hips bucking against Drift’s mouth, jamming the mouthplates to the base of his spike, holding the head there, thighs quivering, as his transfluid pumped into Drift’s mouth.
The angle hid Drift’s face, Rodimus’s wrist blocking his view, but Ultra Magnus could imagine it all too well: the frantic swallow, the release of heat and wetness. Just the idea of Drift, submissive, suckling at a spike, greedily swallowing the fluid, even as more fluid dripped from the valve, was almost enough to break Ultra Magnus’s composure.
Rodimus lowered his hips down to the seat, hand still holding Drift’s face against him, his spike lodged deep in the other’s throat, taking a long moment just to feed on the sight himself.
And then Rodimus looked over, right at Ultra Magnus, and smiled.
And now…here. Drift bent before him, that same valve he’d only half-seen in shadow exposed and already wet with arousal. Professional model, he noted, and the thought seemed to fire his spike’s desire up even higher. “Interesting model,” he said, trying to sound in control but the words coming out gravelly and raw.
“Has its uses,” Drift said, mildly.
He wanted to throw the word ‘whore’ at Drift, just to see what Drift would do, just to see what he himself would do, if he could push the vulgarity over his vocalizer.
“Rodimus sent you,” he said, instead. It implied the same.
“To apologize.” Drift shifted his weight, hips rocking from side to side. The light caught on the lip of the valve, a bead of lubricant collecting on the rim, flanked by the hip scabbards. Was Drift aroused, just by this? By the humiliation of standing, exposed?
Ultra Magnus grunted, optics locked on that quivering clear drop. His spike raged behind its cover, and almost without thinking, he whisked the hatch open, the spike springing erect between them, pointing at the valve.
His spike was enormous compared to Drift, thick and blue and white and already glossy with its own lubricant. His hands came to Drift’s hips, tugging them back, and he laid his spike along Drift’s aft, sliding its wet underside over the clean white armor, taking some perverse pleasure in the smear of fluid. He rested a thumb on Drift’s back, measuring the place of the tip of his spike. If he did this, if he sheathed himself in Drift’s valve, he’d be this far in.
It was deep. Drift would be impaled on his spike, his internal components thrust aside.
It was…a thought. His spike surged at it, wanting to be inside Drift, wanting to claim him, take him that far inside, like an ownership, a possession.
“Apologize,” he echoed, trying to regrasp the thread of an already frayed conversation, even as his hips rocked back, grating the spike’s underside against Drift’s aft again, letting the spike blaze a wet trail down the aft to the valve’s edge.
A quiver, from Drift, subtle but unmistakeable, and a sudden press of heat from the valve. Drift did want this. And he wanted it, he realized, so before he could give a second thought, before he could recite the number of laws against this, he drove his hips forward, jamming his spike into the valve.
The calipers whirled frantically, spreading to accommodate him, the mesh lining stretching, slick and snug around him. And he was in: the head of his spike hard against the roof of the valve, Drift’s rim against his spike base. All of him, lodged in the smaller mech. He looked back to where his thumb had been, the mark of how far deep inside Drift he’d be, and gave a growl of pure, raw lust.
Drift panted against him, hands clutching at the table, helm flung back in surrender.
It wasn’t…quite…enough: Ultra Magnus stretched one hand, wrapping it around the back of Drift’s neck, holding him down, like a collar, like a hundred criminals he’d pinned to the wall. Only this time, he was pinning him another way, his spike filling the valve.
“You want this?” Ultra Magnus asked, hearing the taunt in his own voice, as he began thrusting into the valve, feeling the calipers squeeze and part around him, time and again. “This what you wanted?”
“Ye-es!” Drift managed, the word split in two by the force of Ultra Magnus’s thrusts.
“You like being taken? You like being used, do you?” He could feel his own tempo pick up, heat and a tingling pressure building behind his spike. He could see—easily—what Rodimus saw in this: complete submission, complete ownership.
“Yes!” Drift gasped, his valve giving a hard clutch and a wash of heat over the spike as though the admission brought him closer to overload.
“You like sucking Rodimus’s spike, do you?” He leaned in. “I saw you, Drift. I saw everything.”
Another sound, like something trying to be a word but giving up, and the spinal struts bucked beneath him. Still he drove on, harder and faster, against the sleek narrow white hips. The wetness from his lubricant glistened on Drift’s aft.
“Filthy,” Ultra Magnus said. “Filthy ex-Decepticon.”
Nothing but a moan this time, Drift having gone someplace beyond words, his fingers gripping the table’s edge.
Ultra Magnus could feel the overload rushing at him—powerful and intense—his spike pounding inexorably against the valve, charge rising all along its length. He could feel flutters of the valve against him, little pre-shocks of Drift’s own overload, and the thought that the mech was getting off on this drove him wild, drove him to the edge. “You little whore!” The word itself pushed him into overload, the sheer filthiness of it, the sheer weight of accusation and contempt. Drift cried out, a high, keening sound, as his valve was flooded with Ultra Magnus’s transfluid, liquid and hot. His valve couldn’t contain it, fluid leaking around the spike, in long hot trails down his quivering thighs.
For a long moment, nothing but the sound of cooling fans, nothing but the feel of his own transfluid between them and the curious little touches of Drift’s valve, heat and release almost blurring the air between them.
He shoved Drift off him, abruptly, one hand hard on the smaller aft, feeling himself unsheathe so suddenly his spike scraped along the valve.
“I’m dirty, Drift,” he said, as Drift caught himself from falling to the floor. Ultra Magnus indicated his spike, streaked silver with transfluid and Drift’s own lubricant. His optics flicked to the other’s face in challenge. “Let’s see how well Rodimus trained you.”
Apparently, thoroughly: not even a glint of rebellion as Drift dropped to his knees, glossa already along the spike’s underside, lapping up the smeared fluids in neat little licks, optics nearly demure. He licked along the length of the shaft, as though knowing he was being watched, curling his glossa over the spike’s contours, as though savoring the shapes, until he came to the spike’s blunt head.
He nuzzled his cheek against it for a moment before swirling his glossa over the head, and then stretching his mouth around its girth.
There was no way Drift could take his spike in his mouth. The head itself seemed to fill his mouth—Ultra Magnus could see the sides of it stretching Drift’s cheek plating.
Still, the thought was beyond arousing, and he found his spike surging again, current tingling over the nodes. Drift could feel it too, a prickle along his glossa, and he responded, moving the glossa slowly over the spike’s head, probing expertly at the nodes.
He wondered how many mechs Drift had done this to, how many spikes he’d swallowed in his life, as the mech’s mouth moved along his spike. It was so different from a valve—less close perhaps, less snug, but there was that glossa, maddening and deft, darting over the spike.
And there was the submission. The power of it all, another mech suckling at his spike, dominated and wanting to be dominated.
“More,” he murmured. “You can take more.”
Drift tried, pushing his mouth onto the spike, until Ultra Magnus could feel the back of his intake, a hard stop, feel the throat closing over the head as Drift fought the urge to gag. It was intoxicating, this power, and he pushed into it, surging with lust.
“I could lay you on this table,” he whispered. “On your back, and go deeper, down your throat.” He could see it already: the open, vulnerable throat, his spike thrusting into Drift’s protesting mouth, dangling over the table’s edge. The whimper Drift gave vibrated over the spike, sending electric, delicious pleasure over his sensor net. “Next time,” he said. As though there would be a next time.
He thought back to Rodimus with Drift, and the branding-iron hot burn of watching Drift’s fingers, toying with his valve as he suckled at Rodimus’s spike. “Your spike,” he said, hearing his breath, ragged and raw. “Show it.”
One hand left his thighs to comply, opening the interface hatch, the spike autoreleasing from its housing, jutting between them. Drift’s hand circled the base, ready to begin working along the shaft.
“No,” Ultra Magnus said. “No touching.”
Another whimper, the hand falling away, even as a traitorous bead of silver appeared on the spike’s head.
Ultra Magnus wouldn’t last much longer: this was too much stimulation, too much heady power for him to resist. And he thought of holding Drift’s head in place, the way Rodimus had, pumping his fluid down Drift’s all-too-eager throat, watching him struggle to swallow it all, but as the overload slammed against him, he jerked back, his spike popping free of Drift’s mouth, giving three powerful spurts of fluid. Silver sprayed, in descending spatters, over Drift: the first catching his face, mouth still parted, a few drops beading over his mouth and glossa, the rest streaking his cheeks, his optic, the second on his chassis, silver smearing his Autobot brand, and the third on his belly, hot, scalding drops of it on Drift’s erect, neglected spike.
The sight of it all: Drift, on his knees, surprised, coated and shamed in Ultra Magnus’s transfluid, sent a pleasure beyond the physical vibrating through Ultra Magnus’s frame, sending a final, fourth spurt to splatter wetly on Drift’s thighs, on the dripping puddle of his fluid from Drift’s filled, used valve. He was owned, dominated, and mastered.
“Apology accepted.”
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no subject
Date: 2012-11-02 06:31 pm (UTC)Magnus frequently comes across as a kill-joy, but not in this!
(off to get a cold compress)
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Date: 2012-11-03 04:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-02 09:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-03 04:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-03 01:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-03 04:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-03 07:42 am (UTC)But it was really, really... strong. And cool :o
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Date: 2012-11-03 04:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-04 02:36 pm (UTC)Also, that chilly fall season got quite hot for a while... (although I cringed a couple of times)
Oh, and kudos for being more realistic about the, ehm, size difference - that doesn't happen often in fanfiction (BTW my headcanon is that's why Magnus is so uptight - poor guy's just frustrated)