Chapter Text
This was Rodimus’ best idea ever.
At least, it was his best interfacing idea ever. Swerve had been amenable to it, and hopefully so would everyone at the after-hours party. After all, Rodimus would be the life of that party.
Or rather, half of him would be.
As he stood with his midsection wedged through the hole in the wall, Rodimus hoped he wouldn’t regret missing out on all of the drinks and chatter of the party. The room his front half was in was just a storeroom, but at least he had a table to lean forward against.
His back half, starting at his abdominal plating, stuck out of the other side of the wall at the edge of the dancefloor at Swerve’s, his pedes just barely touching the floor enough to rest on the fronts of his stabilizers. He was bent forward at a right angle, his legs spread slightly, with this aft out, and panels open. His entire array was on display: port, valve, and spike all out for all the patrons to see.
To a degree, Rodimus preferred the fact that he couldn’t see who was on the other side of the wall. Though he was proud of his frame and was eager to try out a more public approach to interfacing, the idea of being aware of all of the optics on him was unsettling. Besides, the thrill of being fragged without being able to touch his partner back was all the more appealing. He couldn’t hear too much on the other side of the wall, just the vague pulsing of music and warbling of voices. It was almost impossible to make out individual voices, or what they were actually saying, let alone who the speakers were.
The night started out exciting. The first bot to use him brushed their spike beneath his, rubbing them together, before slowly caressing them both with a skilled hand. Rodimus’ frame reacted in kind, his spike stiffening to full pressurization from the attention. Another hand caressed his aft, teasing along the edge of his port. The digits pressed along the aperture, working it open, then abruptly left.
They were replaced by a different spike from the one that had rubbed against his. The tip pressed against his port aperture, then retreated, only to go for his semi-charged valve instead.
Rodimus was lucky that he was already wet and dripping with excitement from the prospect of it all, because the spike against his array was already prodding against the edges of his valve. It worked in carefully at first, but its owner’s impatience grew as they began to thrust into him before he was ready, and Rodimus had to steady himself, holding his hands against the wall as they pushed into him over and over—and Rodimus’ charge built.
Their buzzing excitement was contagious, and Rodimus could feel the pleasure in their field. It gave him a sense of pride that he could charge a bot up so well, and they rutted into him over and over—but pulled out well before Rodimus’ charge reached a peak.
The next touch he felt was just nanokliks later, with shorter digits that rubbed against his valve, curling into it enough that Rodimus’ felt the charge arch all the way to the tips of his pedes. They pulled away, and returned to his aft, slick with lubricant as they worked his port open further. Eager, Rodimus tried to tilt his aft up into the touch, but the servos grabbed his hips, pulling them down slightly, as his port was messily fragged by a stubby spike.
Perhaps if he were in the berth with a bot like this, it would have satisfied him, but as expected, this bot was treating him more like a hole to frag than a lover. They took annoyingly long to overload, long enough that Rodimus resisted the urge to tap his digits against the table impatiently, ready for the next bot to come along.
What started out as exciting and fun quickly made Rodimus realize he was… more into the idea of being objectified and used as a toy, than he actually was with being used by multiple bots in succession. Especially multiple bots who were not bringing him to overload.
By the fifth partner, he could feel the transfluid dripping down his leg, and he was aching for an overload. His node was plump and swollen, popping out at the front of his valve, his spike dripping tiny droplets of transfluid onto the floor. Rodimus was throbbing, in desperate need for release.
Something.
Anything.
Luckily, release did come, in the form of more a hand slowly wrapping around his length, and stroking it until Rodimus overloaded—which didn't take long, considering how thoroughly worked up he was. It milked him until he was messy and trembling.
He wanted to be excited, that this was more like it, but another bot's hands were caressing his hips and thighs now, and gripped his pelvic plating to position their spike at the base of his valve. Though he was loose and nearly-limp from the overload, the bot pounded into him at a steady pace, with little regard for his charge level.
As the night went on, the partners blended together, and the overloads were sporadic. None of them quite satisfied him how he hoped. They were either too rough or too gentle, and their overloads were sloppy, leaving him wanting more. As the joors passed, Rodimus found himself growing bored. This somehow both was and wasn’t quite how he expected being the free use toy to go, and he was certain Whirl had come around three separate times to milk his spike, which Rodimus responded to with a kick. Of course, in response, Rodimus received a slap to the aft, and he could feel the odd sensation in his tacnet of someone writing on his aft with a marker.
A thrill rushed up his struts at the prospect, but the excitement faded as his partners continued to be inconsistent and sloppy as the partygoers became increasingly intoxicated.
He was almost, almost getting bored (though he found some renewed excitement in wiggling his aft until someone grabbed it and used him again,) when the loud din of the party came to an abrupt halt. With a great collective groaning and shuffling of tires and stabilizers, Rodimus heard the music stop and the exodus of partygoers.
Either somebody died, or Ultra Magnus shut down the party.
Given the distinct lack of screams (outside of a few raised voices and a colorful string of swears that were untranslatable in most languages), probably the latter.
Once the party dispersed, silence reigned.
After the near-constant thrum of the crowd and Earth faux-80s-pop, the absence of noise filled the space. Rodimus' own vent cycles and the sounds of his engine alone were loud.
There was no one who would hear Rodimus if he called out now, and Swerve wasn't answering the 43 comm messages he'd left.
Did he have to resign himself to hanging here and accepting his fate? That he’d have to wait here until Swerve returned tomorrow to open up shop? Maybe he’d be into it, but instead his entire frame would be sore, and he seriously wanted a shower. His lower half was definitely some kind of gross, and he could feel the excess lubricant and transfluid dripping down his thigh. No matter how he kicked and squirmed, he couldn’t free himself. His matrix-given strength was no match for the magnetized bolts that held him in the wall.
He tried anyway, squirming and fighting against the restraints until he could feel himself getting charged up again. Really? After all of this!? Then again, the prospect of being trapped and helpless here was kind of exciting.
Suddenly, there was the touch of a hand upon his aft. He couldn’t make out the specifics, only that it was large-ish, and covered by a damp cloth. It rubbed across his aft in slow circles, then traveled downwards, repeating the process on Rodimus’ thighs. The movements were precise and smooth, and the attempts at cleaning were only serving to rev Rodimus up once more. His lubricant and transfluid reservoirs were nearly empty, but the deliberate attention to his tacnet only made him splay his digits against the wall and try not to cry out for more. Not that the bot on the other side could even hear him! Still, Rodimus leaned into the touch, savoring the attention on his sore plating.
After a few moments, the cloth receded, only to return, this time upon his array. It teased around his valve lips, pressing against them gently until Rodimus moaned and squirmed, then traveled upwards, brushing against the underside of his spike until it was once more dripping with bits of transfluid. Rodimus’ field was still staticy with desire, and the gentle rubbing alone was enough to leave him trembling.
Digits pressed against the edge of his valve, testing how open and pliant it was, infuriatingly avoiding his node, but teasing the ring of sensors just inside. When they pulled back, they lingered on either side of his valve, holding him steady, despite Rodimus’ instinctive attempts to cycle down on empty air.
The tip of a spike pressed against his entrance, deliberate and cautious, and slowly eased into him. A strong hand held his hips steady, and there was a loud gasp and whine, that Rodimus barely registered to be from his own vocalizer.
Near-constant working over of his valve earlier left him open and ready, but Rodimus was still amazed by how smoothly this spike was pushed into him.
It was girthy, but not painful, and Rodimus was nearly delirious with delight by the time he was fully sheathed upon the spike. He was stretched nearly full, but comfortably so. His node was pressed against the base of the huge shaft, and Rodimus could only watch as the edges of his vision turned to static, only further blurred once the mech began to move. Their rhythm built slowly, and Rodimus had to plant both hands against the wall. The tips of his digits were curling with delight, and he leaned into every thrust. He didn’t even know spiking could feel like this!
He was ready to take back every complaint from earlier.
The tip brushed against his ceiling node when he was fully sheathed, and Rodimus saw pixels. They twisted and burst as his hyper-stimulated sensors spat errors at him, dumping enough charge into his already-overcharged systems that his HUD began to spit errors at him. His ventilation fans were going full blast, but every thrust sent his charge surging higher and higher, until the relentless pace sent him over the edge.
Power surged through his systems, making him spit static and tremble with need. There was nothing else but pure bliss, mighty and overpowering, until his frame gave out, sending him into a system reset.
It was actually happening! He was overloading so hard he needed to reboot!
The thrill was more than he could handle (speedster-frametypes were more accustomed to repeated smaller overloads), rather than a massive dump of charge, and he told himself that this was worth the excitement, and certainly wouldn’t have any repercussions later.
Definitely not.