Rodimus couldn’t move, caught in a surprisingly heated moment between Drift and Deadlock. Drift’s servo rested on his thigh, fingers pressing just enough to send a message without a word. His gaze was locked onto Rodimus, a faint smirk on his lips, one that spoke of experience and control, of quiet but undeniable confidence.

On the other side, Deadlock’s grip was firm and unapologetically possessive, his optics gleaming with a predatory glint that made Rodimus’s circuits hum. There was nothing subtle about Deadlock’s intentions; his servo pressed boldly into Rodimus’ thigh, as though claiming his territory in the most direct way possible.

Rodimus let out a shaky chuckle, trying to mask the effect they were both having on him. “Is this some kind of team-building exercise?” he teased, though his voice was lower, his tone unsteady.

Drift leaned in, voice barely more than a murmur. “Call it a reminder, Rodimus… of what we both can be.”

Deadlock chuckled darkly, his optics never leaving Rodimus. “Or maybe it’s just our way of showing you who really knows you best.”

The intensity between them was almost palpable, a charged silence hanging in the air as Rodimus found himself held between two sides of Drift—the calm, collected warrior and the fierce, untamed fighter. For once, Rodimus didn’t want to break free.