Archive of Our Own

It started with sound.

Not an alarm, not a voice, not even the ambient hum of Cybertronian machinery cycling overhead. It was quieter than that. Quieter than anything. A slow, patient tapping. Liquid against steel. A sound without urgency, but insistent in its rhythm — like the tick of some clock in the wall. The kind of sound you hear just before you realize you’re not where you’re supposed to be.

Optimus woke slowly, not all at once. It wasn’t the sharp slap of returning consciousness, the cinematic jolt so many survivors of war claim when they recount their stories. It was a dragging thing, a climb up through a vaccum. The edges of his vision flickered in and out like a corrupted transmission, and his body felt alien — as though he were piloting it remotely from somewhere else. Somewhere safer.

He blinked. Once. Twice. The ceiling above him was a dull slate gray, crisscrossed with thin piping and lit by a single flickering beam. It was the kind of lighting you’d find in a mining tunnel or a some underground laboratory. There was no movement in the air. No shifting of machinery. Just the drip.

He tried to move, and the realization that he couldn’t came not as a shock, but as a resignation. His arms wouldn’t lift. His legs refused to shift. His core locked tight in place. Not in chains — he would’ve felt the weight of those. This was something different. Built into the chair, perhaps. The kind of restraint that hugs instead of clamps, that molds to your shape like it was made for you.

And below him, he saw it then, a shiny pool of blue.

Energon, unmistakably. Clean and glossy, spread across the floor like the beginning of a crime scene, already beginning to dry at the edges. The source of the drip. His own body, still leaking, the fear settled in silently.

The pain came next, as it always does, not as a scream, but a low throb just under his right hip, blooming outward through his side. He couldn’t tell if it was a slice or a puncture. It wasn’t fatal. He knew fatal. This was something designed to keep him uncomfortable, to remind him every second that he wasn’t in control. It pulsed with the seconds. A metronome of suffering.

He swallowed. The sound cracked through his vocalizer and reminded him that he was falling slowly apart. His throat was dry. Processor hazy. Logs corrupted. He tried to recall the last moment before this — the battlefield? A conversation? A fall? There were fragments, but nothing cohesive. It was like grasping smoke, or trying to rebuild a fortress from debris.

A low exhale pushed from his vents, rough and slow, and the sound startled him more than he cared to admit. He was alone. He was awake. And something had gone very, very wrong.

For a while, he just sat there. Or rather, was sat there. Time didn’t move in a straight line anymore. It bent. Curved. Doubled back on itself in an endless loop. Sometimes he counted the drips. Sometimes he stared at the wall, thinking maybe there were shapes in it, symbols he was supposed to see. Sometimes he whispered things just to hear the rasp of his own voice. Most of it was nonsense. Old mission codes. A few syllables of his name. At one point, he called for Ratchet. No answer. Of course.

When the door finally opened, a soft, seamless slide of heavy machinery, he didn’t lift his head.

He didn’t have to.

He could feel it. The presence. The weight in the air shifted, subtly, like the moment before rainfall. Footsteps followed, slow heavy, purposeful without being threatening. There was no urgency in them. No theatricality. Just presence. And when the voice came, it was not cruel. It was not even loud.

“Well,” Megatron said, voice smooth and maddeningly calm, “look who finally decided to rejoin us.”

Optimus lifted his head slowly, reluctantly, as if it weighed more. His optics adjusted. There was Megatron, still massive, still imposing, framed against the cold light. His armor was polished to a mirror sheen, no visible scrapes or dents, and his cannon was absent. He looked… relaxed. Domestic even. Regal. As if he’d just stepped out of another room in a house he owned.

Optimus tried to speak. A static crackle was all that emerged.

Megatron chuckled, soft and amused, walking past him with barely a glance. “Don’t strain yourself. You’ve been out a long time.” He stopped near the far corner, where a simple steel table stood under the halo of another light. His back turned, he began sifting through items laid out in a careful row. The sounds were muted, metal shifting against metal, something glass-like being set down gently.

Optimus forced himself to ask, voice gravel-worn and quiet, “Where am I?”

A pause. Megatron didn’t answer at first. He lifted something in one hand, a small, blunted object, perhaps a mallet, and turned it over in the light as if he were inspecting a fruit at market. “You ask that like it matters,” he said at last, tone philosophical. “Where you are. As if where has anything to do with what’s coming.”

“What… happened-?”

“That’s better,” Megatron murmured. He set the tool down and reached for another. A scalpel. The light caught the edge just enough to shine. “You’ll remember in time. But memory’s a funny thing, isn’t it? So slippery. So malleable.”

Optimus gritted his denta. His wrists twitched, testing the binds again. Still nothing. His hip throbbed. The energon still dripped, tick. Tick. Tick. Megatron hummed, tuneless and soft, as he selected the next item on the table

And in that silence, Optimus felt it — the slow, heavy tide of something settling over him. Not dread. Not yet. It was something colder. Something quieter.

The realization that this had only just begun.

“You’re quiet,” Megatron said, still facing the table. His voice wasn’t baleful yet. It dripped with something worse, domestic  familiarity. Like this wasn’t the first time they’d interacted in this room. Like he was picking up an old conversation they’d had dozens of times before. “That’s unusual. I expected more questions.”

Optimus blinked, slow. Each time his optics shuttered it felt like a choice, as if they might stay closed for good if he wasn’t careful. He could feel the sluggish weight in his systems now, a chemical drag somewhere under his helm, sedatives, maybe. An inhibitor cocktail. Not strong enough to keep him unconscious, just enough to slow him down. Just enough to make him feel slow.

“I asked,” he rasped, voice peeling away from his throat like rusted sheet metal, “what happened.”

Megatron gave a soft hum, noncommittal, almost indulgent. “And I gave you the courtesy of acknowledging your effort. Let’s not pretend this is how answers are bought, Prime. You of all mechs should know that.” He picked up another tool, long and thin, and flicked it once against the edge of the table. It made a hollow, tuning-fork chime that hung in the air for far too long.

Optimus shifted slightly in the chair, the only movement allowed to him, and even that sent a slow bolt of fire down his spine. Whatever injury had pooled the energon beneath him was more serious than he’d initially guessed. Not fatal, but deliberate. crippling. A message written in pain across the vulnerable machinery beneath his armor. And Megatron… Megatron hadn’t even touched him yet.

“I don’t remember,” Optimus admitted, and hated the way the words sounded. Like surrender.

“That’s the thing about memory.” Megatron finally turned, a thin hooked probe in one hand and a rag in the other, polishing the tool like it were a piece of silverware. His optics flicked up to meet Optimus’, and there was nothing casual about them anymore. They gleamed, not bright, not cruel. Focused. “It comes back in pieces. Some of them wrong. Some of them stitched together with lies.”

The slow rhythm of dripping energon had faded now, or maybe he’d simply grown used to it. Maybe that was the point. Maybe everything in this room was designed to become normal the longer you sat in it.

Megatron stepped forward. Not fast. Just deliberate. One step. Another. Until he was in front of him, towering as always, shadow spreading across the floor like the silhouette of death. He crouched slowly, knees creaking faintly beneath his weight, until he was eye level. The tool remained at his side. He wasn’t threatening with it. 

“You’ve asked what happened,” Megatron said, voice softer now. Intimate. The type of softness used in confessionals or graveyards. “You’ve asked where you are. But the question you should be asking is… how many times?”

Optimus stared at him. The words didn’t make sense. Not at first. They hung in the air like a foreign language translated phonetically, technically understandable but fundamentally wrong.

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Megatron tilted his head, the way a sculptor might admire his work from a new angle. “Or have you simply forgotten what you let me do?”

There was silence. It stretched between them, heavy and humid. Optimus searched his logs again, desperately now, clawing through the nothingness for something — anything — that would prove this moment was new. That this wasn’t a cycle. That he hadn’t already screamed in this chair, hadn’t already bled, hadn’t already leaked beneath his restraints.

But there was nothing.

Just that flickering gray ceiling. Just the walls. Just Megatron’s voice.

“You’re trying to disorient me,” he said, low and even.

Megatron gave the barest smile, and it was terrible in its lack of cruelty. “Disorientation is simply the mind attempting to reconcile incompatible truths. And that, my dear Prime, is the first true step toward change.”

He stood again, slow and precise, and let the words hang in the air like incense. His fingers flexed around the handle of the tool, but he didn’t raise it. Not yet.

Instead, he reached out and pressed one heavy hand to Optimus’ jawline.

It wasn’t a violent touch. It wasn’t even forceful. Just gentle contact, palm resting flat against the angle of his jaw, thumb tracing the faint seam beneath his cheek plate. In another life, another context, the touch might’ve been mistaken for affection. For comfort. But here, with his fingers still smeared in energon and his optics far too steady, it landed like a death sentence.

“Listen to how carefully you’re breathing.” Megatron whispered, gaze never breaking. “Still counting. Still trying to be responsible for the air.“

Optimus gritted his denta, but didn’t flinch.

”you always do that. Even now. Even here.”

Optimus’ vents rattled. “Get it over with.” 

Megatron smiled again, and this one was sadder. Older. Like he’d asked himself the same question a hundred times and always come up with the same answer.

“Oh prime. You don’t actually believe this is about pain.” he said. “You’re confused because you’ve spent your entire existence pretending that choice absolves consequence. That if you meant well, the wreckage behind you would eventually forgive itself.”

he Leaned closer, as if confiding something precious. 

“But look at you. Still standing. Still intact. All the ones that trusted you—buried. Mutilated. rebuilt wrong.” 

Optimus swallowed. His law flexed against Megatrons palm. 

“You call it sacrifice,” Megatron continued calmly, “I call it delegation. You never paid the cost yourself. You just kept walking while others paid it in pieces.  

Optimus’ voice came out pained. “I did what I had to do.” 

Megatron hummed, thoughtfully. 

“Yes.” He said. “That’s what you told them too.” 

“but survival…” he straightened. “Is not the same as innocence.” 

And with that, he took the tool, the thin, hooked one and, with the care of a craftsman, drove the blunt end against the middle digit of Optimus’ left hand.

A sharp, clinical krk cracked through the air.

Pain — hot and sudden — bloomed like light behind his optics.

The finger bent the wrong way. Fractured clean through the knuckle.

Optimus gasped, loud and reflexive.

Megatron watched his face. Not the hand. Not the break. Just his face.

Looking for anything, the barest hint of fracture.

The pain didn’t flare — it bloomed. Sharp at first, surgical, like the clean slice of a scalpel across an untouched seam. But what followed was heavier. Denser. A deep pulsing ache that radiated out from the snapped digit like heat from a reactor core. Optimus exhaled slowly through gritted denta, not in protest but in restraint — because reacting would be a kind of permission. And he wasn’t ready to give Megatron that.

But Megatron didn’t need permission.

He stepped back with the air of a painter admiring the first streak of pigment across an empty canvas. The tool was set down, delicately, as if it had earned its rest. His optics scanned over Optimus not for damage, but for reaction.

“Still no screaming,” Megatron mused aloud, hands idle for the first time since entering. “Still preforming for an audience that isn’t there.” Megatron frowned. “That restraint used to inspire them. Made them feel safe. if you weren’t breaking, neither should they.” A pause. “Oh, but they did didn’t they. Did you ever notice how they often broken anyway?” 

Optimus said nothing. He kept his optics locked forward, focused on a dark smudge on the wall — something oily, half-wiped away, shaped vaguely like a handprint. Anything but Megatron’s face. Anything but the faint, humming tremor in his own core.

Megatron paced a slow, deliberate half-circle behind him. The sound of his pedesteps echoed like punctuation. One. Two. Silence. One. Two. Pause. He stopped at the side of the chair, his presence warm despite the coldness of the room. And without a word, he reached down and grasped Optimus’ shoulder — not roughly, but with weight. With ownership.

“Relax,” Megatron said. Not a command. Not a suggestion. Something in between.

Optimus tried. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. The ache in his hand began to dull slightly, but only just. His frame was still locked, but that old instinct to square his shoulders, to prepare for combat, flared anyway — the soldier’s autopilot. Megatron noticed, of course. He always noticed.

He gripped the shoulder tighter, fingers pressing into the plates above the joint.

Then, without delicacy, he crushed.

There was resistance. Not much. Enough to make it a process. A flexing grind of alloy and internal cabling, a growing pressure that bloomed into sharpness, then into something worse — the wet, sliding shift of the joint pulling free from its socket.

Pp-kchk!

A second rupture. Different than the finger. Deeper. More primitive.

Optimus’ vents cycled hard once — a guttural sound that barely qualified as breath.

Megatron’s hand remained where it was, the weight of it pressing down like punctuation. “There it is,” he murmured, not triumphant, but satisfied. “That’s the sound your body makes when it surrenders. Just a little.”

“You think this is surrender?” Optimus rasped. His throat ached from the earlier effort. The words were strained, half-swallowed, but whole. “You’re unstable.”

Megatron didn’t answer. Not directly.

he laughed. 

a smooth, charismatic chuckle, a horrible, lazy, ugly laugh. 

Mhmhmhm… heh.

The sound rolled out of him, low and amused, intimate in its tone.

haha… hahahahaha…

haha 

haha…

He stepped away again — and this time, there was a faint hiss as something was activated behind him. The tools. One of them. A new light flickered on above the table, casting his shadow long across the floor, split by the bright pool of energon now mixed with something darker. Thinner. lubricants maybe. Or maybe hydraulic fluid. It was hard to tell in this light.

“Oh, Optimus. You always go straight for the moral core, don’t you?” Megatron said, voice low and thoughtful, slithering like a snake. He was selecting something again. A small blade, no longer than a finger, vibrating at a frequency too low to hear but high enough to feel in the teeth. “As if that’s the fortress I’m trying to breach. But this isn’t about breaking your will.”

Optimus tilted his head, ever so slightly, tracking him with effort. His vision blurred at the edges, but he focused anyway. “Then what is it?”

Megatron looked at him then, really looked — and for a moment, something flickered in his expression. Not anger. Not pleasure. Something quieter. Reverence, maybe. Or hunger.

“It’s about showing you what’s beneath it. Your truths.”

He crossed the room slowly and knelt beside Optimus again. The blade shimmered slightly in the light, humming softly as it vibrated in place. Megatron didn’t raise it yet. Instead, he leaned in — close enough for Optimus to feel the brush of his field against his own, that heavy electromagnetic signature thick with intent.

“You think this is pain, pointless torture.” Megatron said, voice barely audible now. “But pain is just… a point on a map. A place you pass through on the way to something else.”

He slid the blade down — not against armor, not yet — just resting it against the outer thigh, just at the edge of a seam. The sensation was faint. Almost ticklish. But Optimus’ vents stuttered again, and his digits twitched in their restraints.

“You’ll see. Eventually.” And with that, the blade pressed in.

It didn’t plunge. It sank, slow and patient, through the soft mesh between armor segments — shallow, but deep enough to part the thin alloy and invite the energon up and over, a clean beautiful drip.

The pain was sharp, clean, immediate.

Optimus gasped, a full sound this time, and his body tensed reflexively — but still, he didn’t scream.

And then he felt it.

It wasn’t much. Just pressure. A tightening of something lower, deeper. A faint hum behind the pain, like resonance. Like a string pulled taut.

Something in his pelvic frame had pulsed.

He told himself it was nothing. A reflex. A glitch in the sensor relays.

But he knew better.

And Megatron — who was still kneeling beside him, optics locked on the place where the blade disappeared beneath his thigh plate — knew better, too.

He said nothing. Not yet. He just pulled the blade free with the same patience he’d used to insert it.

The energon dripped again. But it wasn’t the only thing leaking.

The blade had cut clean, but the aftermath felt messier — a warm trickle sliding down the inside of his thigh, the faint metallic tang of energon drifting up with every vent cycle. It was becoming harder to separate physical sensation from mental recoil. Harder still to ignore the steady, low thrum in his interface housing — not active, not yet, but stirring.

Megatron stood again, moving with the deliberate ease of someone who had all the time in the world. He didn’t look at the energon trail or the cut or the faint tremor still traveling down Optimus’ leg. He walked back toward the table and set the blade down with care, its soft hum dissipating as soon as contact broke.

“You’re leaking again,” he said without turning.

Optimus kept his jaw clenched, breath measured, gaze locked ahead. “You did that.”

“Not that leak.”

There was a silence — not long, but impossibly loud.

And then, finally, Megatron turned.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t gloat. But there was a softness around his mouth, a kind of satisfied understanding, a scholar recognizing a theory proven correct.

Optimus shook his head. Slow. Mechanical. “You’re conditioning me. Your lying to me, all of this is a lie.”

“I haven’t lied to you once.”

“You’re manipulating me.”

Megatron considered that. “Yes,” he said simply. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

He crossed the room again, this time without a tool in hand, and stopped in front of him. For a long moment, he said nothing. He just looked at him — the cuts, the posture, the shallow energon on the floor, the faint, betraying shimmer of lubricants around his interface housing. He didn’t reach for it. Not yet. That would come later. But the acknowledgment hung in the air now, silent and unavoidable.

Optimus tried to pull his legs in tighter. The restraints didn’t allow it.

“I remember everything,” he said, quieter now.

“You remember what you’re allowed to remember,” Megatron answered. His voice had lost its earlier theatrics. It was soft now. Almost gentle. “But your frame keeps count prime. That’s what makes it beautiful. And pitiful. And very, very honest.”

Optimus felt something crack deeper inside him — not physical, not yet. But a line of certainty splintered in his mind, and he didn’t like the way the silence wrapped around it, as though Megatron could see it breaking from the outside in.

“How many times have we done this?” Megatron asked. Not teasing. Not rhetorical. He knelt again, his hands resting lightly on the thighs of the chair just beside the new cut. “Answer carefully.”

Optimus glared down at him. “This is the first.”

“Is it?”

He didn’t respond.

Megatron leaned in closer. His field pressed forward — thick, possessive, inescapable — washing over Optimus’ own. It didn’t shock. It didn’t burn. It just settled, like a blanket laid over a dying fire.

“Then tell me why your panel’s trying to open,” he whispered.

Optimus closed his optics, just for a moment, just to break the world into darkness — but it didn’t help. He still felt everything. The ache in his shoulder. The throb in his hand. The wet pulse of the cut. And beneath it, louder now — or maybe just more honest — the fullness in his lower abdomen, the tight press of panel locks shifting softly under stress.

It was happening. Slowly. Involuntarily.

Megatron reached out, not to touch it, not yet, but to rest one hand beside it, thumb tracing the edge of a thigh plate, so light it barely registered as contact.

“I know what this means to you,” he said. “To admit your frame has needs you didn’t authorize. But that’s always been your problem, hasn’t it? You think you’re just a saint with unfortunate biology. But this—” He tapped the edge of the array once, gently. “—this is the truth. This is what you are.”

“Shut up.”

Megatron ignored him.

“Do you want to know what the worst part is?” he asked. “It’s not that you’re reacting. Not that you’re leaking. Not that you’re grinding yourself half-open in a chair I built to restrain you. No. The worst part is that this has happened before. Exactly like this. Do you remember yet?”

“You’re sick.”

“You begged me to do this last time.”

Lies. All of it. Smoke. Noise.

But Optimus’ pulse was spiking now. He could feel it — too fast. Too hot. It wasn’t just pain anymore. It wasn’t even just arousal. It was fear. Not of Megatron. Not even of the violence.

Fear of himself.

Of what part of him might be remembering after all.

Megatron stood again, slowly, and began to circle the chair.

“We’ve done this before,” he said, softly now, as if speaking a prayer. “And we’ll do it again. Until you stop lying to yourself. Until you understand that this—” he tapped the back of the chair lightly “—is the most honest you’ve ever been.”

And Optimus sat there, shoulder out of socket, hand twisted and swollen, energon dripping from his thigh and something else pooling under his panel — and for the first time, he didn’t know what part of this was real.

He didn’t know what part of him still belonged to him.

Optimus shifted again, or tried to. The restraints didn’t allow much. His frame creaked with the effort, subtle rotations of actuators and plates attempting to find balance against pain. His left shoulder sat crooked, his arm half-hung from its socket like an afterthought. The joint pulsed. The cut along his thigh had stopped dripping, but its sharp sting reawakened each time he flexed against the cuffs. The pain was everywhere now. Like light. Like breath. Like home.

But worse than the pain was the heat.

It was low at first — a smoldering thing. It didn’t register right away as arousal, not clearly, not consciously. It felt like tension. Like friction. core temperature running high from trauma, as if the systems were misfiring because of injury.

But then the panel twitched again.

A flicker. A nudge. Not open. Not yet. Just pressure, subtle and betraying, his body was giving him away.

And Megatron saw it.

He didn’t comment. Not immediately. He just turned back toward him from the tool table, empty-handed now, and took a slow, thoughtful step forward. Then another. Until he stood directly in front of him, optics low and unreadable. His gaze didn’t go to the panel right away. It didn’t need to.

He could smell it.

Optimus didn’t realize until that moment how thick the air had become. Vent emissions laced with hydraulic vapor and stress lubricant. His own body was radiating it now — a low, mechanical humidity, fogging up the space between them. And Megatron… Megatron drank it in like some fine perfume.

“You feel it,” Megatron said, quiet.

Optimus didn’t answer.

“It’s not pain anymore, is it?”

Still, nothing. Just the slow sound of his own cooling fans trying to regulate his core.

Megatron stepped closer.

Optimus turned his face away, sharp and fast — or as fast as the neck brace would allow. His jaw locked, and his optics narrowed to slits.

“You’re confused,” Megatron went on, voice almost kind. “You think this is some kind of malfunction. You think it’s the drugs. The dislocation. A trick I’m playing on your perception.”

Optimus said nothing. His fingers flexed weakly. His broken digit throbbed in time with his core.

“But it isn’t. You’re not malfunctioning, Prime.” Megatron’s tone dipped lower. “You’re waking up.”

Something in Optimus’ thigh spasmed. The movement made the cut ache and ooze. Another twitch passed through his panel — there, undeniable this time, a short burst of fluid pressing forward behind the locked seal. Not enough to drip. Not enough to be called anything more than a pulse.

But it was there.

And Megatron’s optics darkened.

“There,” he whispered. “There it is again.”

He reached down — not to touch, not yet, but to rest his hand just above the edge of the panel, palm spread wide across Optimus’ lower abdomen, as if anchoring him to the chair.

Optimus flinched.

“I’m not doing anything,” Megatron said, soft. “This is all you.”

“Don’t,” Optimus rasped, but his voice cracked down the center.

“Why not?” Megatron tilted his head slightly, studying the point of contact like a scientist. “You’ve already reacted. Twice now. Maybe three times. I could check the logs. But I won’t. I’d rather watch your face.”

He leaned in.

Not cruel. Not greedy. Just close.

The weight of his field pressed again — warm, saturated, full of that particular gravitational arrogance that only Megatron possessed. It wasn’t meant to threaten anymore. It was meant to fold. To slide inside the cracks.

“You know what I think?” he said, mouth just beside Optimus’ audio receptor now. “I think some part of you always wanted to lose. To be taken apart. Not on the battlefield. But here. Quietly. Slowly. Where no one could see what you’d let happen.”

Optimus’ hands trembled in their restraints. Not from rage. From effort.

“Shut up.”

“But you chose this.”

“I didn’t.”

Megatron leaned back slightly, optics scanning his expression with calculated ease.

“You are choosing it,” he said. “Every cycle you stay silent. Every twitch. Every shiver. You’re choosing.”

Optimus wanted to fight. Wanted to spit something sharp and righteous. But his body — his traitorous frame — chose that moment to cycle again. A loud, hot vent burst from his chest. And lower… another twitch. Wet. His valve begging for contact. Pressure built. His spike ground faintly against his panel.

Megatron watched it all.

He did not move.

He just smiled.

Not with pleasure. With certainty.

And when he finally spoke again, it wasn’t to taunt. It was to promise.

“We’re going to go deeper,” he said. “Not just the frame. The mind. The memory. You’re going to remember what you asked me for.”

Optimus swallowed, thick and tight, and his panel twitched once more — this time opening, just a hair, before clamping shut again in shame.

And Megatron nodded.

Not triumphant.

Satisfied.

When Megatron stood again, the room had changed — not physically, not visually, but energetically. The silence that had once felt sterile and cold now rang with something denser. There was heat in the air, invisible but undeniable, like condensation on glass —It wasn’t just from Optimus. Megatron radiated it too, thick and certain, not aroused in the same way but fed, invigorated, by what he was building.

Optimus was shaking now — not dramatically, but steadily. His broken finger throbbed with each cycle, his shoulder screamed each time he tried to ventilate too deeply, and the cut on his thigh burned with every minuscule twitch. But none of that was the center anymore. The pain had become background noise. The center had shifted.

The heat in his lower frame refused to be ignored.

The panel at his interface housing had twitched three more times in the last few minutes. It didn’t open fully — not yet — but it responded with every pulse of pressure. With every memory his body seemed to recover without his consent.

And Megatron, ever the patient architect, began to match it.

He moved beside him now, one hand pressed lightly against the frame just above Optimus’ knee. Not a bruise. Not a cut. Just contact. His thumb began moving in small circles, pressing into the thigh plating as if kneading something just beneath it.

“There,” he murmured, more to himself than to Optimus.

Optimus’ optics narrowed, but he didn’t speak. The warmth in his frame surged again. His vents cycled faster.

Megatron shifted slightly, pressing the heel of his palm into a different point — just above the injured joint. There was bruising there already from earlier blows, and the push made Optimus grunt under his breath, a quick, tight sound that skittered out before he could stop it.

Megatron smiled.

“That resonates,” he said. “I wonder if you can feel it.”

Optimus jerked, restrained, full-bodied but mostly internal. The motion jostled his arm enough to send another fresh bolt of pain through his shoulder. His vents kicked into a short staccato.

Megatron didn’t back off. He kept pressing, palm sliding in slow, shallow movements across the surface of the thigh — never touching the panel directly, never touching. Just rhythm. Just pressure. Like tuning an old mechanism. reminding something forgotten how to respond.

“You’re fighting so hard,” Megatron murmured, shifting to the other leg now, repeating the same motion. “But your frame isn’t. It wants this.”

Optimus clenched his fists. His right one. The left was still fractured, hanging loose.

Megatron’s fingers trailed upward now, pressing lightly into the seam near the lowest edge of the abdominal plate — just high enough to be non-sexual, just low enough to threaten. His thumb applied subtle, rhythmic pulses, and every time he pushed, Optimus’ frame responded. A flicker beneath the panel. A twitch of lubricant. A tremble through the joint lines.

“This is learned,” Megatron said. “This is familiar. Your body’s reacting like it’s being welcomed.”

“Stop,” Optimus rasped.

Megatron tilted his helm. “Why?”

“Because it’s not— it’s not me.”

“But it is,” Megatron whispered, voice low, like a secret. “It’s you without all the guilt. Without all the Command Code. This—” his palm pressed again, timed now with each vent cycle “—this is the real you.”

Optimus’ optics flickered, just for a second. His head dropped slightly against the brace behind him.

And the panel twitched again. This time, it opened a fraction of a millimeter. A hiss of warm, damp air spilled from within. Only a whisper. Only a taste.

But it was enough.

Megatron leaned in close. Not touching it. Not yet.

He watched it.

“You’re dripping.”

Optimus said nothing. His mouth was locked half-open, vents cycling at maximum.

Megatron pulled back, finally, and turned away — a slow, theatrical motion, but not for cruelty. For effect. He let the silence build again. Let Optimus sit in what he’d done — or what his body had done without him.

From the tool bench, he picked up something small. A thin, cold metal rod — no blade, no hook. Just a probe. Tapered. Blunt. The kind of thing used to test sensitivity.

When he turned back around, he didn’t approach.

He just looked at Optimus.

His voice was quieter than it had ever been.

“You’re ready,” he said. “Aren’t you?”

Optimus swallowed. A long, low sound that scraped his throat on the way out.

He didn’t answer.

But his panel stayed open.

Megatron stayed still for a long moment, tool in hand but unused, watching the fractionally opened panel like it was the beginning of a spring bloom. The room had grown quiet again — not peaceful, not safe — just that eerie stillness before an inevitable crash. Optimus sat in the center of it, breathing too hard, optics dull but locked forward. Every fan in his frame was running at mid-cycle. Not overheating, but close. The fluid loss hadn’t stopped. The pool on the floor was darker now, tinged with hydraulic fluid and humiliated arousal.

And then Megatron spoke.

“You’re doing so well.”

The words shouldn’t have felt like a threat. But they did.

His voice was low, delicate, like a cool cloth applied to a burning wound. His steps were soft, the tool now discarded again — unnecessary, for now. His hand touched Optimus’ good shoulder, gently this time, like he might adjust him in the chair, like he might ease the weight of the dislocated opposite joint. But it was too gentle. It was wrong.

“You’re opening so beautifully,” Megatron whispered, pressing a finger just beside the interface housing, careful not to make contact with the valve itself.

Optimus turned his helm slightly, mouth tight.

“Go to hell.”

Megatron smiled.

And then without a warning, without a shift in expression, without even winding up — he punched Optimus square across the face.

The crack rang out through the room like a burst of thunder.

His head snapped sideways into the neck brace — hard. The metal groaned with the impact, and a sharp hiss of static sparked from the corner of his right optic. He grunted low in his throat, biting down on the pain, refusing to cry out.

“Not yet,” Megatron murmured. Adjusting himself.

And another blow followed — this one to the dislocated shoulder.

A full, open-palmed impact. Not enough to reset the joint. Just enough to jolt it, to twist the already-damaged socket deeper into agony. Optimus gasped and jerked, a tremor shaking through his frame.

“I want you aware,” Megatron said, calm again, almost affectionate. “Not dissociating. Not leaving. You stay here with me.”

He circled again, like a cat stalking a mouse — toying, taunting, taking delight in watching him squirm. This was his game to play.

“You think you’re resisting,” he said, knuckles dragging softly down the uninjured side of Optimus’ helm. “You think this is strength. But this isn’t resistance. This is ritual.”

And then came the pressure — sudden, brutal, a digit poised at the cut on Optimus’ thigh. Without ceremony, he dug it in, twisting it, widening the wound. Digging deeper.

The chair rattled.

The energon squelched beneath it.

Optimus jerked, involuntary, half a cry catching in his throat before it died. His panel, still open, twitched. A bead of slick lubricant spilled through, hot and viscous. It didn’t drop — just hung, stretched between his thighs like the string of a moan that hadn’t yet made it out of his throat.

Megatron crouched again, now eye-level, optics narrow with study. The violence didn’t fluster him. If anything, it seemed to deepen his focus.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “You look so good like this.”

Optimus looked away, mouth slack but sealed. His faceplate was cracked at the corner, faintly dented from the punch. A thin trickle of energon crept down his cheek, catching against his lower lip.

Megatron reached up and rubbed it in with his thumb — smearing it across his mouth like paint.

“You want this,” he said, and his voice was low, warm, certain. “You’ve wanted this for so long. Someone who wouldn’t flinch when you begged for pain. Someone who wouldn’t stop. Someone who’d see how deep it goes.”

He stood up, slow, towering over him again.

“And now you’ve got me,” Megatron said, stepping back once, twice. “So open your panel all the way and show me. Show me what you want.”

Optimus didn’t move.

His breath was heavy.

The heat between his thighs pulsed — once, twice — and then the panel slid fully open.

Click-hiss.

Exposed.

Vulnerable.

Wet.

Megatron smiled.

And then — without another word — he turned off the light.

The darkness came down like a veil— not blinding, but suffocating. Every exposed circuit in Optimus’ frame felt newly raw beneath it. Without light, the silence thickened again, but this time, it pulsed. Every vent cycle echoed off the walls. Every faint leak of lubricant dripped like a death knell down the inside of his thighs, warm and constant. The chair was slick now. The panel fully open, interface vulnerable, throbbing, and slick with heat.

He didn’t know where Megatron had gone. There had been no sound of departure, no shift in the weight of the room. Just the dark. And then — breath.

Close.

Too close.

It ghosted across the outer rim of his valve, a slow exhale, almost reverent. No contact yet. Just air. But it was hotter than anything else in the room, and his array tightened in response, instinctive and shameful, his valve fluttering once — clenching around nothing.

Then came the voice, low and saturated.

“You opened it for me.”

Optimus bit down on the inside of his cheek.

“You could’ve stayed shut. Could’ve sealed it. Even with everything I’ve done, you could’ve resisted.”

A pause. Another breath. This one closer, brushing the lowest part of his port, where fluid had begun to collect. He felt it move. A thin streamlet slid down into the open air, and caught at the edge of the chair.

“But you wanted it.”

Still no touch.

Optimus turned his helm slightly, even in the dark, instinctive denial.

“I didn’t.”

“Yes,” Megatron whispered, “you did.”

The first touch was not what he expected. It wasn’t a finger. It wasn’t sharp. It was lips. Full. Solid. Pressed directly against the open rim of his valve, sealing against the heat like a kiss that had nowhere else to go.

Optimus gasped. His hips jerked, despite the restraints.

The wet suction that followed was slow — not greedy. It was studious. The tongue didn’t plunge. It circled. It tasted. It traced the slick edges where lubricant had gathered, following the outline of his trembling valve with the care of someone memorizing a shape they already knew by heart. His body betrayed him again — a loud, helpless vent spilling from deep in his chest, followed by a low vibration in his thighs as his calipers clenched hungrily around nothing.

Megatron groaned softly into the contact.

“You’re already soaked,” he murmured between slow, dragging licks. “I haven’t even fingered you yet.”

Optimus grimaced at the lewd word and tried to turn his body, to escape it — but there was nowhere to go. The restraints held everything. The only thing moving was the panel and the shame-drenched valve below it.

Megatron’s mouth returned. This time, he didn’t tease. He latched — full contact, suction applied directly to the upper rim of the valve, where the node bundles were clustered thick and starved. His tongue pressed flat and strong, dragging up the center, and then flicked — just once — against the swollen edge of Optimus’ exterior node

Optimus moaned.

Raw. Unintended.

His thighs trembled.

The sound that followed from Megatron was nearly a purr.

“I’ve missed this,” he whispered. His breath smeared fluid across Optimus’ interface with every word. “Your body, all opened up. Your valve can’t lie. It never could.”

Another lick. Slower this time. From bottom to top, thick and deliberate. His hands had come up now, resting on either side of Optimus’ thighs — not restraining, just anchoring. And with each lap of his tongue, the tremble in Optimus’ legs worsened. His calipers had begun to twitch again — mild at first, then stronger. A faint spasm with every new swipe. The slow start was beginning to build into something harder, faster, more needy.

Megatron’s mouth closed over him fully.

This time he sucked.

A long, drawn-out pull that hollowed his cheeks, that made his valve clench so tight it spasmed, made lubricant spill with a soft, indecent squelch between his mouth and Optimus’ array.

Optimus gasped again — sharper this time. The sound bounced off the walls like a confession. His head hit the back of the brace. His panel twitched again.

The stimulation was unbearable — not because of intensity, but because of truth. His body had stopped resisting. Had given itself up. And Megatron hadn’t even used a finger yet.

“Delicious.” Megatron murmured, voice muffled by the press of fluid against his lips.  “Just a matter of time.”

Optimus swallowed.

“No.”

Megatron chuckled.

And this time, he bit — soft, but with pressure — right against the sensitive edge of his entrance, just enough to make Optimus cry out again.

And his mouth sealed to him again — drinking him down like fuel, drawing the pleasure up through the pain, until Optimus couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

He felt the finger before it entered — a subtle press, not where he expected, not bold and centered, but off to the side. Just beneath the sensitive rim, where swollen, flooded mesh flexed in rhythm with his pulse. It wasn’t pressure yet. Just contact. Just presence. But it made every fan in his frame flutter harder, the heat blooming out like fire pressed beneath a sealed hatch.

Megatron’s mouth hadn’t left him. His tongue was slow now — almost lazy — lapping along the edges, teasing the fluid that slicked down in slow strings from the valve’s mouth. Optimus could feel it — the sheer wetness of himself — and it made something in his mind snap. Not all the way. Not out loud. But there was shame building in the tight hollows of his chest, a slow, cloying throb of humiliation that pulsed in sync with every gentle lap.

Then the finger pressed in.

Not deep. Just past the first line of resistance, just enough to make the valve tighten in reflex, just enough to make Optimus jerk as if shocked. The restraints held him still, but every internal system flared — spike twitching beneath its sheath, ventilation ducts opening wider in panic or readiness, he couldn’t tell.

Megatron moaned softly against him.

“You’re even tighter than I remember,” he murmured, withdrawing the finger partway, letting the slick suction cling to it before pushing back in again — just a little deeper.

Optimus shook his head, wordless.

“You’re clenching already,” Megatron went on, mouth still pressed to his valve as he spoke. “You want to come on my hand, don’t you?”

“No,” Optimus rasped, but his voice cracked in two places. The pitch was wrong. The desperation too clear.

Megatron licked him again — a deep, slow drag of his tongue over the spot just above the rim where the nodes were richest again.

The second finger slid in alongside the first.

The stretch was worse — not painful, not yet — but intrusive, full. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t greedy. It was slow, spreading him inch by inch, his valve walls fluttered, pulsing wetly around the intrusion. Slick flooded down in response, an obscene, syrup-thick sound filling the space between them as Megatron pushed deeper, curling the tips just inside.

Optimus’ mouth opened. No words came out.

Just a long, tight breath that felt like grief.

Megatron kissed the inside of his thigh, mouth still wet with fluid. “You can’t hide from this,” he said softly.l

Then he curled his fingers.

And Optimus arched.

It was unintentional. Violent. His backplate bowed against the restraints, hips trying to lift off the seat despite every joint screaming in protest. The broken finger twitched, the dislocated shoulder flared with pain, but none of it stopped the reaction. His valve had clamped hard around Megatron’s fingers, suction strong and rhythmic, calipers fluttering in helpless rhythm.

“That’s it,” Megatron growled, almost reverent. “That’s what I wanted.”

He didn’t thrust. Not yet.

He just moved in slow, practiced pulses, curling, pressing, releasing, exploring every node inside the passage like someone returning to familiar ground. His thumb rested against the outer rim, slick with lubricant, occasionally sliding across it in smooth circles as his tongue returned to lap at the swollen upper ridge.

The dual stimulation was unbearable.

Too deep. Too complete.

Optimus let out a choked noise, somewhere between a vent cycle and a sob.

“You’ll overload like this,” Megatron said, voice lower now. “Without your spike. Without contact. Just my hand. My mouth.”

“No,” Optimus hissed, but even he didn’t believe it anymore.

Another curl of the fingers. Another ripple of inner mesh clutching down, so slick now that Megatron’s palm was coated, wrist dripping with fluid. Optimus’ thighs trembled violently, restraints creaking.

And through it all, Megatron watched him.

Not cruel. Not mocking.

But with possession.

“You’re already coming undone,” he whispered. “And I haven’t even spread you yet.”

Optimus’ valve throbbed — hard — releasing another rush of liquid that ran down over Megatron’s knuckles.

And still, the fingers moved.

Curl.

Hold.

Withdraw.

Slick sounds echoing in the dark.

Split open, inch by inch.

The stretch came not as a sudden breach, but a slow persuasion — a widening, steady and terrifying, until the sensation blurred. It wasn’t pain exactly. Not the same kind that lived in the socket of his shoulder or the bruises tightening along his thigh. This was something else. Something deep. Inside. Where his thoughts were supposed to live.

Megatron’s fingers moved with obscene patience, easing the tight calipers apart with each flex, each wet, gliding curl. There were two still — thick, coated, gentle only in tempo — but it felt like more. Like he was being mapped, not just entered. Like Megatron was drawing something out of him he didn’t know was there.

The valve walls had stopped resisting. Not out of agreement, but fatigue. They had begun to welcome the intrusion — leaking to accommodate it, softening at the edges, twitching instead of clenching. And deeper, Megatron found what he was looking for: a cluster of node filaments , buried at the back wall of the valve, usually unreachable without full spike insertion.

But he reached them.

Of course he did.

The fingers pressed up — there — a deliberate angle. A slow push and hold.

Optimus’ optics flared wide.

His vents hitched. A strangled groan tore from his throat.

Megatron stopped moving.

“Feels good, doesn’t it.”

No answer.

“You remember what happens when I do this.”

Still nothing. Just his own systems howling to stabilize.

The fingers pressed again — harder this time — then held. No rhythm. No teasing. Just pressure against the most vulnerable point inside him. The node cluster flared in response, pinging electrical pulses through his pelvic joints, up his backstrut, down his thighs. Every limb twitched in the restraints. His broken hand jerked.

“I can keep it right here,” Megatron said, breath ghosting across the still-wet lips of his valve. “Right at the edge. As long as I want.”

Optimus let out a low, hoarse, please — but whether it was a command or a protest, not even he could tell.

Megatron moved.

Curl. Hold. Slide back. Push again.

And every time he returned to that node cluster, the flood of wetness increased. By now, the seat beneath Optimus was slick with it. The fluid dripped freely, smearing down his thighs, pooling beneath his interface housing with every clench. It wasn’t just lubricant anymore. It was desperation. And it ran like wine.

“You haven’t said stop.”

The fingers pressed deep.

“You haven’t said anything at all.”

Another curl.

Another jolt of pleasure, sharp as a blade, lit up behind his optics.

“You’re going to overload like this,” Megatron murmured. “But I won’t let you.”

A thumb dragged in slow, wet circles around the rim while the fingers moved inside him again, gentler now, more precise. They stroked over the bundle. Again. Again. Never fast enough. Never rough. Just constant. Unavoidable.

Optimus whimpered.

It slipped out before he could stop it — soft, high, broken.

Megatron stilled.

Then leaned in.

“Say it,” he whispered against the heat of his valve. “Tell me what you need.”

Optimus’ throat worked, but no sound came.

The fingers thrust — once — deep and slow, spreading him wider at the knuckles before pulling halfway out.

“Tell me.”

Nothing.

And then the valve pulsed — a sudden, sharp clutch. Not release. Not climax. Just his frame screaming for one. A mechanical sob rumbled out of his chest.

“You’re begging,” Megatron said, voice low and calm. “Not with words. With your frame.”

Optimus’ mouth opened. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to break.

But the only thing that came out… was another moan.

One word.

Barely audible.

“…stop.”

Megatron smiled.

And his fingers began to move.

The fingers didn’t speed up. They didn’t plunge. Megatron was too careful for that. Too cruel. He didn’t want climax. Not yet. He wanted orbit. He wanted Optimus caught in a perpetual state of almost — right on the lip of it — valve clenching, fans roaring, overload rising but never peaking.

It was practiced.

A rhythm so methodical it felt religious.

Curl, pause.

Pressure, release.

Drag along the inside ridge of the valve, just grazing the node cluster, just enough to light it up — then nothing. A half-inch retreat, a drop in stimulation, and Optimus’ whole frame would jerk, chasing it like a creature too far gone to distinguish pleasure from pain.

“You don’t even know how many times I’ve done this,” Megatron murmured, voice thick against the inner thigh he now kissed between every pulse. “Kept you like this. Cycles, sometimes. No spike. No release. Just your valve sucking on my fingers until you’d sob.”

Optimus twisted in his restraints, teeth clenched.

“Liar,” he hissed.

“Maybe,” Megatron said, deadpan. “But why would I lie to you?”

And then — another pause.

No pressure.

The fingers stayed inside him, still, unmoving.

The silence that followed was thick and punishing. Optimus could hear every part of himself now. The hiss of his vents, the soft ripple of fluid as it dripped from the valve’s mouth to the floor, the irregular click of his hips jerking in frustration. His thighs trembled violently. His calipers clenched so tight around Megatron’s fingers it was almost painful — as if his valve could trap him, force him to finish what he’d started.

But Megatron didn’t move.

“You’re going to say it,” he whispered. “Or I leave you like this.”

Silence.

One finger curled, slow.

Another beat of pleasure shot through Optimus’ backstrut like a jolt of electricity.

Then stillness again.

“Say it.”

Optimus gasped through his teeth, hands balling into fists despite the broken one. His thighs shook.

Megatron gave him a single, shallow thrust. A ripple. Nothing more.

Then another pause.

“Your valve’s soaked. Open. Begging. But you won’t beg with your mouth. And I know why.”

He leaned in, lips barely brushing the slick, flushed interface.

“You still think this isn’t you.”

Optimus’ helm tilted back against the brace, optics dim, body vibrating.

Another thrust. This time slow and full — down to the palm, fingers twisted just so, dragging over every filament.

He moaned.

Loud.

And Megatron pulled out completely.

“No—!” Optimus gasped, the protest snapping out of him before he could reel it back.

But it was too late.

Megatron backed away.

Footsteps. Light. No longer in contact. No more breath. No more lips. Just absence. The room returned to stillness again, thick with lubricant and heat and loss.

Optimus sat there, valve open, dripping, aching. His panel twitching involuntarily. The heat inside him flared and flared and went nowhere.

“You need my spike,” Megatron said from somewhere behind the chair. “But I want your voice first.”

Optimus’ throat was dry. His jaw locked. But his valve betrayed him — still pulsing, still flexing in empty air. Still leaking.

Megatron stepped forward again, close enough now that his field pressed against Optimus’ frame like bondage.

“I’ll ask once,” he said, voice low and unflinching. “Beg for my spike. Or I walk away.”

Silence.

And then — raw.

Quiet.

Cracked.

“…please.”

Megatron’s optics gleamed in the dark.

“I knew you remembered.”

His footsteps were slow, each one echoing against the floor like a countdown. Optimus lifted his helm weakly, optics flickering, his throat scraped raw from breath that had never resolved into sound. The air between them carried more than scent. It carried intention.

Megatron stood before him again. massive frame casting a long, brutal shadow. And when he reached down, it was with deliberate precision. His hand found the release along his lower plating — a sound like a hatch unlocking, hiss-click, pressure shifting — and then his spike came free.

It was heavy. Sleek. Dark with heat and slick with natural fluid that beaded along the ridges even before the air touched it. A faint pulse moved along its base as it fully extended, metal warm and ridged, not biological but alive, with power and memory and threat.

Optimus turned his face slightly, not away — not quite — but instinctively wary.

Megatron said nothing.

He stepped forward once more.

And then, with the same terrible gentleness he’d used when pressing into Optimus’ valve, he reached down, gripped the base of his spike, and dragged it across Optimus’ face.

It left a smear of slick fluid across his cheek. The scent was immediate — electric, thick, unmistakable. The warmth of it sank into the plating. The shape of it pressed against his jawline. Then, slower this time, Megatron drew the head of his spike down along the curve of his lower lip, letting it linger there — not pressing in, not demanding — just marking.

The smear trailed across Optimus’ mouth, hot and humiliating. His lips parted despite himself, not out of desire but reflex, and Megatron didn’t miss it. He turned his wrist slightly, adjusted the angle, and with a soft groan from deep in his throat, pushed forward — just the tip. The heat of it breached his mouth like a command.

Optimus tensed.

The taste flooded over his tongue — sharp and warm, laced with charge and fluid and something addictively sweet. His jaw ached around it, but he didn’t close. He couldn’t. Megatron slid deeper, slow enough to feel each inch claimed, slow enough that his mouth adjusted by instinct. The ridges of the spike caught along the inner seams of his mouthplate, pressing down on his glossa until he could do nothing but let it rest, heavy and undeniable, across his tongue.

He tried not to gag.

Megatron placed one hand behind his helm, not roughly, but with authority. The weight held him there, made escape unthinkable. And when he finally spoke again, it was low, almost tender.

“You know how to do this,” he said. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

And then he pushed.

Not violently. Not cruelly. Just inevitably.

The spike moved in deeper, passing the halfway point, the heat from it bleeding into every inch of Optimus’ mouth. His lips stretched, his throat resisting. The brace on his neck held his head mostly still, but Megatron’s other hand guided the angle, making sure every movement lined up with long memory and buried obedience.

Optimus made a sound — not resistance, not acceptance. Just vibration. A low hum of helpless breath pressed against the base of the spike, and Megatron groaned, deep and sharp.

His hips rolled once, shallow. Not thrusting — just testing. Measuring how far he could go. How much Optimus would take before flinching. But Optimus didn’t pull back. His mouth, his jaw, even his throat were adjusting now — wrapping around the shape of Megatron’s spike like it had been made for it.

“You remember how to serve,” Megatron murmured, one hand gripping the top of the chair now, the other guiding his own spike as he began to move. “Even if you won’t admit it.”

The spike slid back an inch, then forward again, wet with oral lubricants. The rhythm was slow. Intimate.

Optimus’ mouth remained open, pliant now. His optics dimmed. His lips swollen. The fluid from the spike mixed with the slick of his own mouth. His valve ached still dripping below him, untouched but not forgotten.

“You look better like this,” Megatron said, his voice steady as steel. “Occupied. Controlled.”

And then he pushed deeper — slow, steady, until the tip kissed the back of Optimus’ throat.

And stayed there.

Not to choke. Not to punish.

Just to own.

Megatron didn’t move at first. The spike simply rested there — heavy and thick, filling the entire depth of Optimus’ mouth until his throat constricted faintly around it. Not gagging, Just that shallow reflex, that twitch of steel against the back of his glossa where instinct met helplessness. His intake systems flared, fighting to cycle quietly, unwilling to give Megatron the satisfaction of hearing his breath hitch, even as it narrowed to that faintest aperture, just enough to pass through the ventilation slats along his throat in soft pulses.

And Megatron waited.

Watching.

One hand braced high on the chair, the other curled around the base of his own spike. Not thrusting — guiding. His thumb ran in a slow, lazy arc across the ridged steel, catching the thin sheen of lubricants as it leaked from the corners of Optimus’ stretched mouth. It gleamed in the low light, slick and thread-thick, painting his lower lip.

When Optimus’ optics flickered — not dimmed, not bright, just barely reactive — Megatron began to move.

The first withdrawal was shallow. The tip eased back, dragging slow against the roof of Optimus’ mouth, the slick friction marked by the drag of ridges and the catch of plating against tongue. Megatron pulled back just far enough for Optimus to breathe freely again — and then pushed forward, reclaiming the space like it belonged to him.

Optimus’ jaw trembled around it, but didn’t falter.

“You remember how to relax your throat,” Megatron murmured, more observation than praise. “Your mouth knows its job even when you don’t.”

Another stroke. This time deeper. The tip breached the back of his throat, lingering just long enough to make the breath catch — to make the walls tense, spasm, adapt.

His hands didn’t tighten. They didn’t grip the chair with desperation. They just held. Held still. Because resistance was gone now, not torn out, but worn down. Guilt hadn’t left him. It just didn’t seem to matter as much as Megatron’s spike sliding in again, hotter than his own core temp, leaving behind strands of heat that soaked into the mesh of his mouth like water to a sponge.

Megatron let out a low exhale. Not quite a moan. Just something thick and satisfied .

“This is where I want you.”

He pulled back again, not fast, not all the way — just enough to see the glisten stretch between them. A string of lubricant clung to the underside of his spike, trailing out of Optimus’ mouth like a leash.

And he paused.

Just to look.

To see his mouth still open, jaw slack, optics dim and wet, lips parted around nothing now but the ghost of what had been inside. There was no defiance in that expression. Just something blank. Something open.

Megatron touched his cheek with two fingers, smearing fluid along the jawline, dragging it down slowly until it shone.

Then the spike returned.

This time faster.

The slide was smooth, practiced, full. Optimus’ mouth opened wider, throat stretching automatically. His frame jerked slightly in the restraints — not rejection, but sheer sensation — and when Megatron’s spike bottomed out again, tip kissing the back of his throat in a wet, blunt press, Optimus moaned around it.

It was quiet. Vibrating.

Megatron groaned aloud.

“There it is,” he said, voice rough now, strained through pleasure. “You want it deeper.”

The rhythm began. Not brutal. Not yet.

Just thrusts — deliberate, wet, thick — using the full length of the spike with every pass, dragging fluid out of Optimus’ mouth in shining trails that soaked his chin. The force of it rocked the chair slightly now. The restraints held, but barely.

And all the while, Megatron kept one hand on the side of his helm, steadying him, angling the mouth just right, like adjusting the fit of a weapon into a lock it had been forged to match.

“You’re made for this,” he whispered, thrusting again, deeper. “I don’t need to teach you anything.”

The spike slid home once more — all the way in, tip pressing hard into the back of Optimus’ throat until he shuddered.

And this time, Megatron held it there.

No motion.

Just pressure.

Just width.

Just Optimus, silenced, mouth full, throat flexing faintly with every hum of electricity running through him.

Megatron bent over him, close, one hand cradling his jaw now.

“You’ll swallow it,” he said. “Every drop.”

And his spike throbbed

The thrusts slowed, but the pressure only increased. Each movement of Megatron’s hips grew more possessive, more controlled, each draw-back dragging Optimus’ throat wider open before the next push drove deeper than the last. The chair creaked under the rhythm, the metal restraints groaned as Optimus’ body jerked forward in small, shuddering waves, no longer resisting but absorbing — shaping itself to the rhythm, opening by instinct where speech had long failed.

The spike throbbed once — then again — and Megatron’s grip on his helm tightened.

There was no warning.

Just a pulse of heat, sudden and jarring, flooding the back of Optimus’ throat. The first spurt hit deep, thick and hot, his valve instinctively fluttering in sympathy even untouched. Then another, slower, messier, spilling across the tongue, coating every inner ridge of his mouth until swallowing was the only option left. His throat convulsed once, trying to keep up, and Megatron let out a sound that was not a moan but something darker — a low, guttural growl dragged up from a place beyond words.

He held there.

Spike twitching between Optimus’ parted lips, still seeding the heat down his throat.

When he finally pulled back, it was with a long drag, drawing a line of fluid from mouth to spike that snapped wetly when the head slipped free. Optimus coughed once, His mouth hung open, jaw aching, lips flushed dark with friction, slick with oral lubricants and come.

But Megatron didn’t back away.

He leaned in.

And kissed him.

Mouth to mouth. No restraint.

The taste of transfluid still lingered between them — bitter, thick, clinging to every surface — and Megatron took it back with his tongue, sweeping across the inside of Optimus’ mouth like he’d earned it. Like it had been his to give, and his to retrieve. It wasn’t soft. It was intimate in that disgusting dominant way. A wet, deep, open-mouth kiss that forced Optimus to stay open, stay still, and let him take.

When he pulled back, there was a thin string of fluid between their mouths, connecting them for one breath longer before it snapped and dripped onto Optimus’ chin.

Megatron stared down at him.

“You took all of it,” he said, voice too calm. “You always did.”

Optimus didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His throat was raw. His valve still leaked down the chair. His body, held in place by bindings and overstimulation, had gone pliant again — but not limp. There was still tension there. Still awareness. Still the glow of shameful heat behind his optics.

Megatron smiled faintly.

And then, with the same terrible patience as before, he lowered himself — this time to his knees — his spike slick, half-hardened, trailing fluid that dripped onto the floor in long, deliberate arcs.

He didn’t speak.

He just bit.

The first bite landed on the inside of Optimus’ left thigh — just above the valve, where the slick had collected and pooled, glistening. Megatron’s mouth sealed around the plating and pressed hard — teeth digging in, no puncture, but a deep indentation that would ache for days. He sucked once, slowly, then licked, as if soothing delicately.

Optimus shuddered, legs twitching weakly in the restraints.

The next mark came on the right thigh, closer to the panel. Not a bite this time — a kiss first, soft and warm, and then the full weight of his jaw clamped down. The pain was sharper here, more sudden. Optimus grunted low in his throat, his hips twitching, unable to pull away. His calipers clenched again, empty, still begging.

Megatron moved upward.

The next mark was across his abdomen, just below the lower seam of his chestplate. He didn’t bite at first — he licked — drawing a slow line across the plating there, tasting the metal like it might bleed. Then the bite came, hard and centered, directly over a vulnerable flex-joint. It wasn’t deep, but it was personal. Deliberate. Another claim, this one over the place where fuel lines met delicate circuitry.

Optimus’ whole body tensed.

Then — finally — Megatron rose again.

And the last bite landed at the curve of his neck, just beneath the audio receptor, where no plating could hide it. Where no armor had ever been designed to protect something so exposed. His mouth closed there, soft at first — a kiss — and then the bite came. Deep. Lingering. The kind of bite meant to bruise. To scar. A mark no medic could remove.

Megatron stayed there, his breath warming the shell of Optimus’ audio unit.

“You’re mine again,” he whispered.

And this time, Optimus didn’t say no.

His protests had died the moment the realization hit. Any resistance would be useless. There were too many systems online at once — pain, arousal, submission, shame — all humming together in a symphony that had no resolution. His mouth was still open slightly, lower lip swollen and wet, throat bearing the warmth of a kiss and the scrape of earlier use. He should’ve been relieved that Megatron had pulled away, that the spike was gone, that the bite marks weren’t deep enough to bleed. He should’ve wanted to shut down. Reset. Escape.

But his valve still throbbed.

Still so opened.

Still ached for something more.

And Megatron saw it.

Of course he did.

The silence between them had grown thick again, but this time it didn’t isolate — it cradled. Megatron stood above him only for a moment, eyes on the slick heat that pulsed visibly between Optimus’ thighs, open and twitching, the swollen rim still glistening with lubricant from the last wave of need that had crested with no release. The scent of it filled the room — rich, heavy, chemical and biological all at once. There was no hiding it. There was no pretending it hadn’t worsened.

Megatron moved slowly now.

No more swagger. No threat.

Just inevitability.

He knelt again, between Optimus’ spread legs, resting both hands on the insides of his thighs. He didn’t go for the valve right away. He touched the marks first — each dent, each bite — his thumbs running slow, circular pressure around them like they were sacred. Optimus hissed once, hips twitching, but Megatron only pressed firmer, grounding him with those wide, rough hands.

Then he moved inward.

And finally — after so long, after everything — he touched the valve again.

Not with penetration.

Not with power.

Just a finger — two at most — dragging lightly along the outer rim, tracing the swollen edges where wetness had gathered, where the silicon had darkened with heat. It was too much. Too light. Too precise. The contact made Optimus flinch, legs straining against their binds again as his spike sheath contracted once more, now hypersensitive with denial.

Megatron exhaled softly.

“Still this wet,” he murmured, voice low. “You’re everywhere.”

Optimus didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His jaw trembled. His valve twitched, trying to pull away and spread open all at once. Conflicted. Raw.

Megatron’s fingers returned.

This time — stretching.

Not deep. Just the tips. A shallow entrance, just past the swollen rim, sinking into heat that made his hand gleam with slick almost instantly. The valve clenched around him, sucking in greedily, fluttering with every inch gained. Megatron let out a sound low in his throat — not amusement, not pleasure. Pride.

“You never learned how to stop wanting me,” he whispered, curling his fingers once, slow.

Optimus moaned.

Not loud. Not involuntary.

Resigned.

The kind of sound made when there’s no one left to lie to. Not even yourself.

Megatron’s fingers curled again.

And again.

And again.

The rhythm was nothing. There was no speed. Just motion. Just that same impossible angle — the one he knew — stroking the inner bundle of node sensors  until the valve began to quiver. It was happening already. The slick overflowed down his inner thighs again, fresh and constant, matched only by the tremble of his entire pelvic assembly.

“You’re going to come now,” Megatron murmured. “Finally.”

He kissed the inside of Optimus’ thigh again — just above the freshest bite — and his fingers pressed deep.

Not to hurt.

To finish.

And Optimus — broken, stretched, ruined — began to shake.

The overload didn’t announce itself. It didn’t burst like a pipe blown under too much pressure. It crept. It uncoiled. It rose, quiet and crushing, like static humming up a wire — slow at first, easy to ignore. Then inevitable.

Optimus’ valve had gone from fluttering to trembling to outright convulsing, wetness pouring out with each contraction. The filaments inside clenched tighter with every curl of Megatron’s fingers. But it wasn’t the motion alone — it was the pacing, the brutal patience. That unbroken rhythm of pressure and drag, always hitting the same node, always turning the nerves tighter, tighter, tighter until the entire pelvic frame seized in a singular mechanical stutter.

Optimus made no sound.

Not at first.

Just a low intake of breath, sharp and shuddering, followed by a full-body jerk against the chair. The restraints groaned. The arm that had been broken twitched violently, pain flaring bright across the substructure, but it didn’t matter. Nothing did except the hot throb inside his core. The mounting, unbearable pressure behind the overload that refused to crest fast — it built like a siren rising inside him, shrill and unstoppable.

Then he gasped.

Needy,

Pleasurable.

Just a voice stripped of everything except reaction.

And then his frame snapped tight.

Valve calipers locked down around Megatron’s fingers, mesh spasming wildly in waves. The overload rolled out in long, devastating pulses, each one wet and shameful. Fluid spilled down over the back of Megatron’s hand in rushes, coating his palm, drenching the inner thighs, slicking the chair to the floor. Optimus’ head fell back. His mouth opened. No scream. Just breath, loud and helpless, engine revving beneath the chestplate, unable to stop.

Megatron didn’t move.

He kept his fingers buried — curled, firm, watching the whole event with eyes sharp and full of heat.

“There you are,” he murmured, voice low and thick.

Optimus shook through it. Twitching. Gasping. Body rebelling against stillness, even while his mind dimmed from the inside out. Every circuit in his lower half overloaded at once — sensory flood, interface cramp, fuel pressure spike. The intensity never dipped. It just stayed. It held him captive for seconds too long, riding him like a wave that never broke, dragging him against himself until the aftershocks trembled through his chest and his thighs stopped twitching.

Only then did Megatron pull his fingers out.

Slowly.

They left with a wet suction sound, the valve still fluttering in empty clutches, twitching open and begging for more even in the silence. His hand gleamed with slick. Viscous threads clung to his knuckles, stretching before they fell in long strings to the floor.

Optimus slumped forward slightly — not from choice, but collapse. His arms pulled at their binds weakly. His head dipped.

He didn’t speak.

His mouth still hung open.

And Megatron leaned in again.

Not to mock.

Not to wound.

He kissed him.

for the second time.

Lips to lips, glossa to glossa. Open, slow,.

The kiss wasn’t about comfort.

Because only now — only when Optimus was wet, spent, trembling, and too far gone to lie to himself — could Megatron finally say it with his lips instead of his hands:

You’re mine.

And this time, Optimus didn’t fight it.

Megatron deepened the kiss, with purpose sharpened into blade-edge need, not tenderness. His mouth opened over Optimus’, tongue sliding past bruised lips, tasting the heat, the surrender, the shame that still clung to every vented breath. It wasn’t a kiss meant to be returned. It was the kind meant to consume . And Optimus, too spent to resist, let him. He sagged into it, mouth parted, body still pulsing faintly with aftershock. The chair creaked beneath him. Restraints dug deep. The fluid on his thighs cooled.

And Megatron pulled back.

Just enough to speak.

His mouth hovered by Optimus’ audio receptor, breath warm and slow.

“No one else would’ve touched you. And every time they see you, they’ll know exactly what I’ve done to you. Be grateful I lowered myself to your level.”

The words landed like a punch. Not loud. Just final.

And then Megatron’s fist came down — hard and precise — slamming into the side of Optimus’ helm, just below the temple. The blow was clean. Efficient. Nothing wasted.

The world vanished before Optimus could even fall.

—Motörhead