#that being said. me when the Kismesis start kismesing

[rodismancave]

He tries not to be too enthusiastic — tries not to show just how badly he needs this, how badly he wants it. It means showing too much. It means being vulnerable in front of a mech he doesn’t trust, not anymore.

Yet in his drunk stupor Rodimus returns Prowl’s actions in earnest— kisses him back like he means it— or, perhaps, kisses him like it means something.

Prowl’s touch is as intoxicating as the engex itself, and Rodimus feels sick about it. Tries not to think about it— tries to not think at all. It is forceful, and it hurts, and there’s nothing else he’d want or expect from the Enforcer. There is nothing gentle about their relationship.

(To return such kind cradle, Rodimus forcefully holds the hand at the small of his back, squeezing and intertwining their fingers. He raises the temperature of the tip of his own just enough for Prowl to feel it, like the familiar burn of a gun after it’s been fired. Just enough that it leaves a mark, enough that his presence can’t be so easily forgotten.)

There is an urge to speak, to respond to words spoken in kind with those that rot. Yet as much as he’d like to speak, the racer does not. There’s too much that can be ruined by speaking. There’s far too much that can be broken by words. He will let Prowl do that, this time. For as long as he wants to, or for as long as the engex in his systems tells him it’s okay to.

( His processor feels like it weights too much for his body. Though Rodimus lingers at Prowls lips, tasting the engex in his tongue and forcing himself to believe this is good and not a mistake, the Captain moves to his neck and preemptively bites it, light at first.

He lets out a sigh. There is no space here for something soft, even if deep in his processor, buried under six feet and a few more of betrayals and anger, he wishes there was.)

Something in his tank causes his grip to tighten, the flares to burn hotter. The engex refuses to let him forget— his best friend is gone, because of his mistakes. There are people who haunt his ship because of the enforcer before him and— and here he is, kissing said enforcer like none of it happened, like they’re just taking a break from patrolling the streets of a newly found planet.

He feels sick. His chest hurts. He must deserve this, certainly, because he wouldn’t be doing it otherwise. This disgust at himself— his actions, his own stubborn way of being rebellious, disgust at leaving marks upon a frame that would much rather take his home away than simply allow him this one thing.

Rodimus stops. Places his forehead against Prowl’s in a way that is full of sorrow and perhaps an underline of an apology, never looking him in the eye. He chews the inside of his cheek, moves his grip from Prowl’s hands to his shoulders, circles the armor with his thumb.

He opens his mouth to speak. (Words are stupid.) He forces himself to look at Prowl. (All he feels is nausea.) His optics flicker, rapidly, confusion and regret and everything coming at once, despite the engex. Rodimus wishes he’d gotten something stronger. Something that would allow him to forget this by morning, when he takes his shuttle and flies back home.

His tone is low, too uncharacteristic. His field, although disorientating, can pass on SorrowRegretAnger through the fog, thick as it is. “I’ve got—“ the first lie is terrible enough his processor spares him of it. Stops halfway through, starts again. “I’m not doing this.”

It’s been too many years, too long in forced solitude. His tank churns and he feels the engex attempt to make its way back up his intake. Though he takes his time to part (there’s too much he can’t say, too many things that he should’ve forgotten and left buried— despite it forcing him to go back for Prowl to what was obviously a trap) Rodimus does find the strength to do it. There’s too much to risk, too much harm he wants to inflict upon the mecha he had been sharing a drink and a chat with, and he’s too fucking tired for this. Megatron’s in his ship, and he has to do something other than— he doesn’t look at Prowl— doing things that will only worsen his state upon going back to the Lost Light.

To respect that, he doesn’t even truly say goodnight when he gets up and heads for the sofa. But the lingering, drunken touch on Prowl’s cheek is perhaps enough of a farewell.

There's a moment inbetween Rodimus' silence and his speaking where Prowl's smirk slips from his face in favor of a resting frown. Maybe it's when Rodimus pulls him closer, feeling the tug of warm arms snaked around his neck. A tac-net made to track the movement of a thousand things, down to the decimal, now focus intense on every little detail in the captain's face. The sink in his cheek from his dentae chewing at the inside of his mouth, the flickering shift in his optics, the flecks of darker metal that scatter under his eyes and nose. Prowl commits it to memory. A useless endeavour, a smarter part of his reminds, the memory will be corrupt by morning.

There's something funny about it. There's something funny about it but Prowl doesn't laugh. He does not offline his optics, but for a moment he relishes in the warmth of the room, the warmth of the mech sitting right up against him, hot in his hands. Prowl doesn't think his room has ever felt this warm before.

The comment of trust is nice, but it stops at that. Long has he moved on from the back then, and Prowl, ever famous for his pitiable foresight, appreciates it in the same way one might an unwanted gift. In consolation, or perhaps an inebriated apology, he moves his hand down to the small of Rodimus' back strut, holding him close.

Eye contact breaks when Rodimus kisses him under his optic. Prowl's vents stall at that, having expected something- he's not sure. Something worse. Something that hurt. It's curious. Prowl has never thought of Rodimus to be cruel. Neither of them are here to be gentle with each other, and yet, that is what the tactician is given, and that is what he gives in return when he kisses Rodimus back.

His other servo moves to the back of Rodimus' helm, pushing the shorter mech closer if only to meet him in earnest for a brief moment. The engex in his mouth is heavy enough that Rodimus could probably taste it, and as Prowl quietly breaks away to speak, he leaves no distance between their faces at all.

"...All that trouble tonight, for this." Spoken in a murmur, only for the other to hear. His tone is difficult to place. A pause- before Prowl quietly kisses him again, less tender and more urgent. There is a burning in his chest, all regret and revulsion, and- and there's a preemptive mourning, too. A kiss with a sense of finality. Prowl's servo tightens against Rodimus' back, enough to hurt only a little. This is uninhabitable. He is uninhabitable.