#barbob

B.O.B. only hunches forward, watching Bars grope and feel along every inch he can grasp, pant seams bulging. Bars’d love to tease him, get him steaming and clicking, earn some soft, needy whines so broken he shivers at the thought, fans racing to cool himself. Not this time, not while B.O.B. keeps glancing at the main road, and that’s fine. A nice, quick fuck would have to do.

He unbuckles B.O.B.’s belt with methodic ease, his cock hitting the swell of his stomach with an audible slap, slick dripping down the length of it. Bars smears it over the crown and the first few inches before turning and tugging his own pants to his thighs, bending over, backing up against the larger until they’re flush and B.O.B.’s cock slides over the small of his back. Bars almost wants to complain how gentlemanly B.O.B.’s being, hands bracing the old brick behind him instead of drawing Bars onto his cock, but there’s fun in this too, easing his hands between his thighs, grasping B.O.B.’s cock and pressing it to his opening, onlined but not nearly as much as the other.

It might hurt, and Bars groans, insides onlining just that much more. He bears down, and there’s resistance, deliciously so, feels B.O.B.’s shudder against his legs, and Bars bends over further, tries to cram that fat tip inside, the moments of too-full-too-much-too-soon burning through his circuits.

“Doesn’t this make you crazy?” His synth crackles, roughened when there’s finally some give; the first, sinking slide has him rolling on the balls of his feet. “If you want to fuck me up, I’ll let you.”

He braces his hands on his thighs, glances over his shoulder, sheathed completely with a hard chirp of his own. B.O.B.’s optics shine in the darkness, narrowed pinpoints of light, hands balled into fists at his sides.

Not what he expected.

“I—”

Bars begins to pull away, body protesting, catching, bugging as his sensors ping greedily for more.

Hard, heavy weight grips him from front to back, B.O.B.’s hands encircling his hips, he’d never, this is—

“Oh, fuck, yeah—”

Sharp snaps of his hips, deep and unyielding, not like how Bars would’ve done it with long, even thrusts, nearly draw off his cock before sinking back, letting his body feel empty and claimed again and again. It shorts him out, slick releasing in a hot gush that B.O.B. uses to his every advantage, more, faster. He’s been fucked harder, meaner, let his partners do anything he wanted before, but somehow he can’t keep quiet, grasps his throat to muffle his synth, buckles and snaps jostling and making enough ruckus to let anyone in throwing distance know what’s going on.

Bars tries to angle back, meet each thrust and then some, but he has no purchase, lifted, the fucker’s holding him off the ground, as useless as a toy in his hands, the angle changing, as deep as it can go and there’s a bite to it, hard and shocking and his fingers dig into the seams of B.O.B.’s wrists.

“Let me.”

Low, so low, he’s barely spoken more than ten times in Bars’s life. He tries to look behind him incredulously, but the thrusts turn brutal, and things get fuzzy and he’s making sounds, sugar-coated praise that would fry Bars’s circuits if he gave them an ounce of thought. He’d get B.O.B. back, slide onto his cock so slow and thoroughly he’d have him howling with it, remind him who’s in charge, but now he holds on and nearly busts his circuits growling and twisting and taking it, the pace too much for either of them, keyed up and hearing the scuffling of their comrades only a few yards away.

“Fill me, fuck me up, c’mon—”

And like sweet, stupid clockwork the larger, near silent omnic groans and yanks Bars down and holds, throbbing and convulsing, a hot heaviness settling, an immediate, incredible burst of sensation, no room for the slick to go besides dribbling out in gel-like rivulets while B.O.B. thrusts in short, aborted jerks, shaking and trembling, so much closer to the B.O.B. that Bars knows. Almost like B.O.B. comes back to himself, after that, slipping out and holding Bars while the smaller hisses and snakes a hand between his thighs, feels how hot and stretched and leaking he is while he fists his own neglected cock.

“Like that?” Bars grunts, touching himself shallowly, swollen and near breaking, “using me like a thing?” And it’s too much, far too much, when B.O.B.’s fingers brush over his own and push inside, slick splattering to the pavement as Bars jerks into his fist, only kept upright by the steady hand at his waist.

“God, what are you doing back there?”