#rotenpk

Your lips are stretched wide, your jaw dropped and helm kept dutifully still for Rodimus. It wasn’t often that you bent over for the both of them at once, but the sensation of Rodimus’ spike pressing down your glossa and Drift’s length dragging along your valve walls makes you think about doing it more often.

Your wrist joints almost hurt where they are pressed into the berth. You don’t know how long you’ve been going at this for, but it’s enough to have a mark forming under your hips and your helm from the lubricant dripping from you.

Rodimus’ hips are quick and almost paceless as they rut into you, quickly, desperately filling your mouth again and again, not caring about the gentle scrape of your denta as he holds your helm and pulls you down onto him. The head of his spike hammers at the back of your throat, occasionally pushing down your intake. Every once in a while, he’ll strike up against a part of your mouth that has you gagging, and for some reason it warms your spark when he stops or slows to make sure you’re alright.

 Drift is almost the opposite. His thrusts are almost too restricted for you. He rolls and grinds his hips into you, making sure that he bottoms out on every thrust. You feel him sigh when your valve clenches down on him, and you notice that sometimes his grip on your hips may tighten, but besides that you can’t seem to draw a reaction from him. 

“Drift- hey,” Rodimus panted out, his dim optics glancing up from your stretched frame to Drift’s careful gaze. You feel one of Rodimus’ servos let go of your helm as he reaches out for Drift’s cheek. He gently guides the swordsmech over to press their lips to one another’s, Rodimus’ overly hot breath almost fogging Drift’s warm plating. That gets a reaction. Drift suddenly drives his hips into you, sending you forward down Rodimus’ spike, yanking a yelp from your vocalizer.

You moan around Rodimus’ spike, the red speedster echoing the sound into Drift’s mouth. Rodimus’ already faulty pace stutters further, devolving into little twitches of his hips to push his spike as deep as he could into your mouth.

“F-frag, Drift- [Y/N]- ooh-!” He growls and you hear and feel the noise of his engine revving and whining as he overloads down your intake. You can’t even taste his transfluid, his spike is too far past your glossa. Rodimus pulls back from you, his spike dropping out of your mouth and coughs rack you. As soon as you recover, Rodimus’ lips are on yours, his glossa slipping over yours as he pushes hard immediately.

“Put on a show for our Drift?” He whispers as he pulls back momentarily before resuming. You moan and whine into the kiss, Rodimus letting out his own sounds. Your moans aren’t exaggerated or fake, though. Drift’s spike deliciously raking along your ceiling node has you growing ever closer to your own overload.

Drift hunches down as he looks over to see you sloppily making out with Rodimus, the white mech’s hips finally picking up pace. It’s the sudden driving increase that has you tumbling into your overload, your valve bearing down on Drift’s spike in a fruitless attempt to keep it inside of you. 

“Overload for us, Drift.” Rodimus commands, pulling away from you and sitting back on his heels. Drift’s engine purrs and he thrusts into you and a hot rush of transfluid floods your valve, bubbling out around his spike and dripping down the backs of your thighs as he continues to rut into you. Drift slumps over your momentarily before freeing his spike from your valve, a mess of lubricant and transfluid following and sloshing onto the berth.

“Can you talk?” Rodimus asks you, his servo gently cupping your jawline. Your vocalizer warbles and croaks, and you laugh lightly, shaking your helm. “Okay, let’s get you two cleaned up.” He stepped off the berth, stretching his back with his servos pressing on his hips, his frame somehow ready to move and take care of yours. “Come on, you two.”