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Megatron had endured battlefields littered with shrapnel, the searing bite of plasma fire, and the crushing weight of defeat. None of it compared to this indignity.
The forest canopy pressed close, branches tangling like a net woven by some malicious hand. He had thought to take a shortcut through the organic growth—an error he would never admit aloud. Now the branches clung to him, their fibrous strength surprising, their angles cunning. His horns, proud crests of command, were wedged fast. Every shift sent a jolt down his neural net, a treacherous ripple of sensation that made his vents hitch.
He stilled, forcing his frame into rigid composure. This was not pain. Pain was weakness. This was irritation, nothing more. Yet the branches creaked with every breath cycle, reminding him of his captivity.
He tried brute force first, because of course he did. His servos flexed, hydraulics straining, shoulders twisting against the stubborn snare. The forest answered with a groan, bark scraping against his armor. The branches only tightened their hold, tugging at his horns until his vision sparked. He bit back a growl.
How absurd. The warlord of the Decepticons, conqueror of countless battlefields, undone by a cluster of trees. If any of his warriors saw him now, he would slag them on the spot to preserve his dignity.
He tried subtler maneuvers, angling his helm, easing one horn then the other. The result was worse. The branches flexed and caught, tugging at the sensitive ridges until his vents stuttered. His claws curled into fists. He could not—would not—acknowledge the way the sensation crawled down his spinal strut, distracting, insistent.
A sound reached him.
He froze.
Footsteps, deliberate and measured, approached through the undergrowth. Not the erratic scurry of wildlife, nor the clumsy crash of a lesser mech. This tread was familiar, maddeningly so. He had heard it across battlefields, felt it reverberate through the ground long before the clash of blades.
Optimus Prime.
Of all mechs to find him here.
Megatron’s field flared with involuntary static, then snapped tight. He straightened as much as the branches allowed, forcing his frame into a parody of dignity. He would not be seen as trapped prey.
The footsteps drew closer, unhurried. Prime never hurried. That calm, infuriating patience was as much a weapon as his blade.
The forest parted, and there he was: tall, composed, optics steady. Optimus regarded him in silence for a long moment, helm tilting slightly. Not mocking, not pitying—worse. Assessing.
Megatron bared his denta in a snarl, though the branches muffled the gesture. “Enjoying the view, Prime?” His voice was steady, sharp as ever, though his spark hammered against its casing.
Megatron’s claws dug into the bark at his sides. He would not beg. He would not explain. He would endure this humiliation with the same iron will that had carried him through centuries of war.
And yet, with every subtle shift, the branches tugged at his horns again, sending another unwelcome shiver through his frame.
“Enjoying the view, Prime?” Megatron’s tone dripped with venom, though the branches muffled his posture into something far less imposing than he intended.
Optimus did not answer immediately. He never did. That silence was its own weapon, a pause that forced others to fill it with their own weakness. Megatron refused to give him the satisfaction.
At last, Optimus spoke. “It’s… unexpected.”
Megatron’s optics narrowed. “Say it. Go on. You’ve dreamt of this, haven’t you? The mighty Megatron, brought low by a tree.”
Optimus tilted his helm, and if there was amusement in his optics, it was maddeningly restrained. “I admit, it’s not how I imagined our next encounter.”
A snarl tore from Megatron’s vocalizer. “Spare me your commentary. If you’ve come to gawk, then gawk quickly and leave. I have no patience for your sanctimonious presence.”
The branches tugged at his horns again as he shifted, and a shudder betrayed him before he could suppress it. His field spiked with static, and he cursed himself for the lapse.
Optimus’s gaze lingered, steady, infuriatingly calm. “You’re caught.”
“Your observational skills remain unparalleled,” Megatron snapped. “Perhaps you should write a report.”
For a moment, he thought he saw the faintest flicker of humor in Prime’s optics. It was intolerable. That calm, that composure—it was worse than mockery. Mockery he could fight. This… this patience was a mirror, reflecting his own absurdity back at him.
He thrashed once, violently, the forest groaning in protest. The branches held fast, biting once more into the sensitive ridges of his horns until his vents stuttered. He froze, unwilling to give Prime the satisfaction of seeing him falter again.
Optimus stepped closer, his shadow falling across Megatron’s frame. “You’ll damage yourself further if you keep struggling.”
The words were simple, but Megatron heard the weight beneath them. Concern. Pity. He bared his denta in a snarl. “Do not presume to lecture me.”
“I’m not lecturing,” Optimus said quietly. “I’m observing.”
That calm tone cut deeper than any blade. Megatron’s spark hammered against its casing, fury and humiliation warring in his chassis. He wanted to lash out, to spit venom, to remind Prime of every battlefield where he had stood unbroken. But the branches held him fast, and every movement sent another treacherous ripple through his frame.
He forced his voice into a sneer. “Enjoy this moment, Prime. Commit it to memory. It will be the last time you see me at a disadvantage.”
Optimus’s optics softened, and that was worse than laughter. “You think disadvantage defines you. But it’s only another form of truth.”
The words struck like a blow. Megatron’s field flared, static crackling in the air. “Truth? Do not speak to me of truth. You know nothing of it.”
Optimus did not flinch. “I know enough to see you’re not invincible. And perhaps that frightens you more than being trapped.”
For a long moment, the forest was silent save for the creak of branches and the hiss of Megatron’s vents. His claws dug into the bark, fury burning through him. He wanted to deny it, to drown Prime’s words in rage. But the weight of them lingered, heavy and undeniable.
He turned his optics away, unable to bear that steady gaze. “Leave me.”
Optimus did not move.
Megatron’s spark thudded harder, each cycle a reminder of his humiliation. He had meant to wield sarcasm as a shield, to turn this absurdity into a weapon. But Prime’s calm had stripped the humor away, leaving only the raw edge of truth.
And for the first time in countless vorns, Megatron felt cornered—not by chains, not by battle, but by the quiet inevitability of what Prime would do next.
The silence stretched, thick with the hum of Megatron’s own systems and the gentle rustle of leaves. Optimus did not leave. He did not gloat. He simply stood there, a monolith of calm observation, his field a placid lake against the storm of Megatron’s churning energy.
“Do you intend to stand there all cycle, Prime?” Megatron spat, his tone sharp enough to cut steel. “Or are you waiting for me to beg?”
Optimus’s optics brightened faintly. “I was waiting to see if you could manage it yourself.”
A snarl tore from Megatron’s vocalizer. “I do not require your assistance.” He twisted again, branches creaking, horns catching tighter. The jolt that followed made his claws curl into fists. He masked the involuntary shudder with a growl.
“Clearly,” Optimus said, voice infuriatingly mild.
Megatron’s field flared with static. “Mock me, then. Take your victory where you can find it. You’ve never bested me in combat, so perhaps this will suffice.”
Optimus stepped closer, his shadow falling across Megatron’s frame. “You mistake me. I’m not mocking you.”
The words landed heavier than they should have. Megatron’s spark hammered against its casing, fury and something else twisting in his chassis. He wanted to sneer, to dismiss the notion outright, but the branches tugged again, and his vents hitched before he could stop them.
Optimus’s gaze flicked to the movement, then back to his optics. “You’re hurting yourself.”
“I am not,” Megatron snapped. “This is nothing. A momentary inconvenience.”
“Then allow me to make it shorter.”
The calm offer cut deeper than any insult. Megatron’s pride bristled, every instinct screaming to refuse. And yet, with each breath, the branches pressed tighter, the pull at his horns more insistent. He could feel the humiliation mounting, the inevitability of Prime’s intervention closing in like a trap.
He bared his denta in a snarl, but the sound lacked its usual weight. “Touch me, Prime, and you will regret it.”
Optimus did not flinch. He only stepped closer, steady as ever, and the forest seemed to hold its breath. He reached out, one broad servo brushing against the branches near Megatron’s helm. The contact was not even with him, not truly, yet the proximity made Megatron’s vents stutter. He forced them steady, optics narrowing.
“Do not touch me,” he hissed.
Optimus’s optics met his, steady, unflinching. “If I don’t, you’ll remain here indefinitely.”
The words were simple, but the weight behind them was unbearable. Megatron’s spark hammered against its casing, fury and humiliation twisting together. He wanted to sneer, to spit venom, to remind Prime of every battlefield where he had stood unbroken. But the branches held him fast, and every movement sent another trecherous ripple down his frame. It was a strange, unwelcome resonance, a vibration that seemed to hum in the very metal of his horns and travel downwards, pooling as a low, unsettling warmth in his core. He ignored it, burying it beneath layers of rage.
Optimus’s servo moved again, this time sliding between two thick branches. The wood creaked as he tested their give. His movements were careful, deliberate—infuriatingly gentle.
Megatron bared his denta. “Do you intend to cradle me free, Prime? How noble. How pathetic.”
Optimus did not rise to the bait. “Hold still.”
The command grated. Megatron wanted to snarl, to remind Prime that no one commanded him. Yet when Optimus’s servo pressed against the branches, testing their give, he found himself obeying.
The wood creaked but did not break. Optimus shifted his grip, tried again, hydraulics straining with a low, powerful whine. The branches flexed, fibers groaning, and as they did, they twisted just so around the base of Megatron’s left horn. A sharp, electric jolt, startling in its intensity, lanced through him. It was gone as quickly as it came, but it left a phantom echo, a tingling heat that spread across his sensory panels. His internal temperature monitor flickered, registering a minor, inexplicable spike.
Megatron’s field spiked with static. “Pathetic. Even your strength fails you.”
Optimus didn’t rise to the bait. He only adjusted his stance, trying another angle. His frame brushed against Megatron’s as he leaned in—a full, solid press of cab armor against his own trapped side. The incidental contact was like a completed circuit. The residual warmth in Megatron’s core flared, becoming a distinct, uncomfortable heat. His cooling fans gave a single, soft click, priming themselves before he ruthlessly suppressed the command. He forced his vents to remain in a steady, controlled rhythm, optics narrowing to slits.
“Still,” Optimus murmured again, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through the point of contact.
The branches shuddered under the pressure, bark splintering, but they held. Megatron felt the vibration travel down his horns, through his struts, a cascade of minute tremors that felt less like strain and more like… stimulation. His claws dug into the bark at his sides, splintering it to pulp. He cursed himself for the involuntary shiver that followed.
Optimus drew back slightly, optics narrowing in thought. “They’re stronger than they look.”
Megatron bared his denta, using the gesture to hide the way his ventilation system was starting to labor against the building internal pressure. “And here I thought you were the paragon of Cybertronian might. Perhaps the forest has bested you where I could not.” The words came out slightly strained.
Optimus’s gaze flicked to him, steady, unreadable. “You’d prefer I leave you here, then?”
The words struck harder than they should have. The thought of being left alone, trapped with this burgeoning, humiliating heat, was suddenly intolerable. Megatron’s spark hammered against its casing, fury and something else—a sharp, desperate anxiety—twisting in his chassis. He wanted to say yes, to dismiss Prime’s presence entirely. But the branches chose that moment to shift with a groan, tugging at his horns in a way that sent another wave of that strange, pleasurable resonance through him. His vents hitched in a ragged, audible gasp before he could stop them.
Optimus tried once more, bracing his weight against the thickest branch. The forest groaned, fibers straining to their limit. The pressure transferred through the wood, creating a firm, constant friction against the most sensitive ridges of Megatron’s horns. It was too much. The heat within him crested, no longer a subtle undercurrent but a palpable fever. His armor felt tight, his wires singing with a charge that had no right to be there. A fine sheen of condensation formed where his plating met, his systems working overtime to cool a fire they couldn’t comprehend.
The wood refused to yield. At last, he stepped back, his vents cycling in a steady, even rhythm that was a stark contrast to Megatron’s own increasingly labored attempts to siphon off the overwhelming heat.
“They won’t break,” he said simply.
The admission should have pleased Megatron. Instead, it left him raw, exposed, and burning. He had expected mockery, or pity, or some sanctimonious lecture. Not this quiet acknowledgment of failure while he stood there, vents huffing steam into the cool air, his frame overheated and thrumming with an arousal that had snuck up on him and now held him as captive as the branches themselves.
Optimus’s optics lingered on him, calm but heavy. “You’ll have to wait it out.”
Megatron’s claws curled into fists. “I do not wait.”
“Then endure,” Optimus said. His voice was quiet, but the weight of it pressed heavier than any chain, a command that seemed to speak directly to the humiliating struffle raging within Megatron’s own traitorous frame.
The silence that followed Optimus’s command to “endure” was a crucible of Megatron’s own making. Megatron’s pride was a solid burning thing in his chassis, but the heat in his frame was starting to rival it. He couldn't stay still. A small shift of his shoulders, just trying to find a better position, made the branches creak and tighten. The movement sent a fresh wave of that strange, unwelcome sensation through his horns, a vibration that went straight down his spinal strut.
“This is absurd,” he growled, the words meant to be a dismissal of the entire situation but landing as a strained, personal confession.
He tried twisting again, a slight adjustment of his hips meant to ease the building charge coiling in his lines. It was no use. Every movement just seemed to make it worse. The heat inside him was building, a steady climb that made his armor feel like a smothering prison. Every movement was a betrayal, stoking the internal fire rather than quenching it. His cooling systems had now worked themselves to a roar he was sure Optimus could hear, but they weren't enough.
A soft, distinct puff of steam escaped his intake. He cycled his vents open wide, a loud, desperate gasp. It didn't help. The heat kept climbing. Another puff of steam, then another, little clouds of his failure hanging in the air.
Then he felt it. Deep down, in a part of his frame he usually ignored, a faint wetness. A single bead of lubricant formed on an internal node. His valve, a complex set of internal mechanisms, gave a tiny, involuntary twitch. He went completely still, horrified.
“How exactly did you manage this?” Optimus’s voice cut through his torment, calm and conversational, as if they were discussing tactical formations over a comms line. He had settled onto a fallen log nearby, observing with that infuriating, placid curiosity. “A simple navigational error? Or was there a more… compelling reason to venture so deep into the organic wilds?”
Megatron clenched his jaw, his denta grinding with a sound of stressed metal. To speak was to risk a moan, to let the static-laced strain in his vocalizer betray the storm of humiliating pleasure raging within him. He remained silent, his helm bowed.
“No one is coming for you, are they?” Optimus continued, his tone even. “You would never allow your subordinates to see you like this. The mighty Megatron, brought low. It is a lonely place you’ve put yourself in.”
Puff. Hiss. More steam, thicker now. The heat was peaking, a critical mass of pent-up energy screaming for release. The wetness inside him was no longer a single bead but a gathering slickness, a humid warmth that made him acutely, agonizingly aware of the empty, clenching space of his valve. His entire world had narrowed to the creak of the branches, the electric torture translating directly into throbbing need, and the terrifying, imminent cataclysm building within him.
He was balanced on the razor’s edge, his HUD flashing a cascade of warnings for system instability and thermal runaway. His spark spinning so fast it was a nauseating blur of light in his chassis. He was going to overload. Here. Like this. The humiliation was absolute, the pleasure an unstoppable seismic event he could no longer contain—
“Don’t.”
The word was quiet. An order, flat and final.
It hit Megatron’s audials and lanced straight through his processor to the overload teetering on the brink. The overload that was about to happen slammed to a halt. The energy, with nowhere to go, crashed back into him. He let out a strangled, guttural cry. The pressure was immense, a deep, aching cramp that was worse than any weapon. His optics stung. A film of optical lubricant blurred his vision, turning Optimus's calm face into a smear of color. He started to shake, his whole frame trembling violently from the strain of holding back. And the branches, those mindless, torturous instruments, held him fast, their persistent, rubbing pressure making certain that the torment had no end in sight.
“The branches,” Optimus said, his voice still calm, but now with a new, considering tone. “They seem to be causing you… significant discomfort.”
Megatron didn’t answer. He squeezed his optics shut, trying to will his systems back under control. The denial of the overload had left every wire humming, every sensor raw. The heat was a low, constant burn, and the slickness inside him was a persistent, shameful presence.
Optimus stood up from the log and took a single step closer. Not enough to touch, but enough for his shadow to fall over Megatron again. “It must be frustrating.” He tilted his helm. “It’s the horns, isn’t it? That’s where the sensation is most acute.”
A full-body shudder wracked Megatron’s frame. His claws dug deeper into the bark. The verbal acknowledgment of his vulnerability was a different kind of violation.
“I fully believe,” Optomus mused, his gaze fixed on the trapped crests, “that you might be enjoying this, Megatron.”
Megatron’s vents hitched. A low, wounded sound escaped him. A sound of pure, desperate static.
“No?” Optimus asked, though Megatron had said nothing. He took another half-step. Megatron swore he could feel the heat from the distance.
The building pressure was returning, coiling tighter and lower than before, fed by the words, by the proximity, by the sheer humiliation of being seen and known in this state. His valve calipers clenched rhythmically, a useless, empty motion. He could feel the lubricant gathering, a slow, warm leak he was powerless to stop. The earlier peak felt like a distant memory; this was a slower, deeper, more insistent climb.
“You are holding remarkably still,” Optimus observed, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Such control. Even now. It’s impressive.”
The praise was acid and ambrosia. It seared through him, making the heat spike. Another ragged puff of steam. His arms felt weak. His knees felt weak. The world was narrowing to the sound of Optimus’s voice and the throbbing ache in his array.
“Just a little more,” Optimus said, so quietly it was almost to himself. “I think you can take a little more.”
And Megatron broke.
His lips didn’t move. No sound left his vocalizer. But in the heart of his processor, in the private, shattered core of his being, a single, silent plea formed. It wasn’t for freedom. It wasn’t for release.
It was a raw, unbidden signal of pure need.
…more…
It was a thought without shape, a begging pulse of energy directed at the mech who held him captive not with branches, but with perception. Anything. Just… more.
Megatron’s frame was a bowstring pulled taut, every cable straining, his vents ragged gasps that did nothing to cool the inferno within. The pressure was a physical weight, a deep, throbbing ache that demanded release.
“Please.” The word was a broken, staticky gasp, torn from a place of utter defeat. It was barely audible, swallowed by the sounds of the forest and his own labored systems.
Optimus went very still. He leaned forward slightly, his helm tilted. "What was that?" he asked, his voice deceptively mild. "I didn't quite catch it."
The cruelty of it, the deliberate misunderstanding, was the final straw. The optical lubricant that had been gathering, blurring his vision, finally spilled over. Two slow, hot tracks carved their way down the grime and dust on Megatron's faceplates. He was trembling so violently now the branches creaked in protest.
Optimus watched the tears fall. His expression was unreadable, but his optics were intent. He closed the remaining distance between them, his large, steady servo coming up to cradle Megatron's jaw. His thumb brushed away one of the wet tracks, the touch startlingly gentle. He applied a slight pressure, tilting Megatron's helm up, forcing their optics to meet.
Megatron was too far gone to resist. His gaze was hazy with charge and humiliation, his lip plates parted as he struggled to vent. Optimus's gaze dropped to his intake, lingering there. The intensity of the look was a physical touch. A silent question hung in the air.
Driven by an instinct older than their war, Megaton’s glossa darted out, a quick, subconscious swipe across his own dry lips.
It was all the invitation Optimus needed.
He closed the final inch, his own lip plates meeting Megatron's in a fierce claiming kiss. It was a release of pent-up tension that had spanned centuries, a collision of opposites that felt terrifyingly inevitable. Megatron groaned into it, a raw, helpless sound. His intake opened under the pressure, and Optimus’ glossa sweeping in, tangling with Megatron's in a fierce, passionate clash.
It was in that moment, as Megatron's world dissolved into the taste of ozone and heat, that the final vestige of his control broke. A single, warm bead of lubricant, no longer containable, escaped the seam of his lower armor plating. It welled up, clung for a moment to the dark metal, and then fell.
It made a tiny, almost imperceptible pat as it hit a broad leaf on the forest floor below.
The kiss continued, a conflagration of fierce claim. It was a battle and a surrender all at once, a frantic attempt to consume and be consumed, to lose himself in the physicality of it and escape the humiliating sensitivity of his own frame.
But Optimus, infuriatingly, would not let him. Just as the kiss reached a fever pitch, he slowed. His intake became softer, his glossa exploring, a slow, maddening caress that was somehow more intimate and devastating than the previous fury. He drew back just enough to break the kiss, his vents cycling warm air against Megatron’s overheated faceplates.
Megatron made a broken, needy sound, trying to chase his lips, but the branches and Optimus’s servo on his jaw held him fast.
“So impatient,” Optimus murmured, his voice a low, gravelly thrum that vibrated straight into Megatron’s spark. His thumb stroked the line of Megatron’s jaw. Then, with an almost casual deliberation, his other servo came up.
His fingers, broad and warm, closed not around a branch, but around the base of Megatron’s trapped right horn.
Megatron’s entire universe short-circuited. A sharp, punched-out cry escaped him. His back arched violently against the wood, his optics flying wide open. It was a direct, focused assault on his most vulnerable point, sending undiluted lightning arcing through his neural net. The charge that had been building in a low hum suddenly spiked, crackling across his plating in visible arcs of blue energy.
“There,” Optimus said softly, his grip firm but not painful, his thumb stroking a slow, torturous circle right over a cluster of hyper-receptive sensor nodes. “That’s the source of all this… tension, isn’t it?”
He began to move his servo, a slow, rhythmic stroking from the base of the horn up towards the tip, then back down. Gentle. Excruciatingly, deliberately gentle. Each pass of his fingers was a fresh wave of paralyzing pleasure, ratcheting the internal heat higher and higher. Megatron was panting now, his cooling fans a desperate, roaring whine, completely overwhelmed. He was crumbling, his thoughts scattering into static, his world narrowing to that single, devastating point of contact.
The heat became unbearable, a critical mass of sensation with nowhere to go. The lubricant gathering within him felt like a rising tide, his valve calipers clenching and unclenching on nothing in a frantic, useless rhythm.
Then, with a soft, precise snikt, the final barrier fell.
The armored panel protecting his valve array retracted, sliding smoothly back into its housing. It revealed the plush, swollen lips of his valve, now fully exposed and gleaming with a copious, slick layer of his own lubricant. The cool forest air hit the hypersensitive mesh, and Megatron jolted, a full-body shudder wracking his frame. He was laid bare, utterly vulnerable, the evidence of his arousal shining openly between his legs for his enemy to see.
Optimus’s gaze dropped, his optics taking in the sight with a heavy-lidded intensity. His stroking of the horn never ceased, its rhythm now perfectly matched to the frantic, visible pulsing of Megatron’s valve.
“Oh, Megatron,” he breathed, his voice thick with a dark, possessive warmth. “Look at you.”
His words are a soft, reverent breath against Megatron's audial. His fingers never stopped their slow, maddening stroking of the horn, each pass sending another shiver of raw sensation through Megatron's overloaded systems.
The praise, so gentle and sincere, was the final crack in the dam. A ragged, broken sob tore from Megatron's throat, his helm falling back against the branches. It was a convulsion of pure, conflicting emotion—the searing humiliation of being seen and praised in this state, tangled with a deep, starving need for that very praise, all underscored by the relentless pleasure Optimus's touch was wringing from him. He was crying in earnest now, the optical lubricant flowing freely down his faceplates.
His valve, exposed and slick, gave another involuntary pulse. A fresh, glistening bead of lubricant welled up from the entrance and dripped down, tracing a path along the inner seam of his thigh.
Optimus's gaze followed the drop, his optics darkening with intent. He slowly, deliberately, sank to his knees in the soft loam before Megatron. The position was one of supplication, but the power dynamic was utterly reversed. He was at optic-level with Megatron's most intimate, vulnerable part.
From this vantage point, the details were starkly visible. The valve lips were a sleek, dark gray, swollen with charge and need. Delicate, intricate patterns of biolights traced a path inward, pulsing with a soft, rhythmic purple light that grew more intense the deeper it went, a visual echo of the desperate cycling of his internal calipers. Another drop of clear fluid escaped, clinging to the plump lip surface.
Optimus looked up, his gaze meeting Megatron's hazy, lubricant-filled one. "May I?" he asked, his voice low and impossibly calm.
Megatron couldn't speak. He could barely vent. His vocalizer produced only a static-laced whimper, his entire being focused on the aching, empty heat between his legs. He was too far gone to form words, too lost in the sensation to grant permission or refuse.
Optimus took the shattered silence as the only answer he would get. He reached out, but not to enter. Not yet. His thumb, broad and warm, came to rest on the outer swell of Megatron's valve lip. He simply held it there for a moment, feeling the fine tremor that ran through the sensitive mesh. Then he began to move, a slow, torturous sweep forward and back smearing the gathered lubricant, teasing the hyper-sensitive mesh without offering any real pressure.
Megatron cried out, a sharp, frustrated sound. He tried to clench his thighs shut, to force that touch inside where the ache was deepest, but the branches held him immobile. He was completely at Optimus's mercy, forced to endure this exquisite, gentle torture.
"Patience," Optimus chided softly, his thumb now at the entrance, circling. He pressed lightly but never breaching. He traced the inner folds, parting them slightly, revealing the darker, glistening interior where the purple biolights pulsed like a frantic heartbeat. "So eager."
Finally, when Megatron was certain he would shatter from the anticipation alone, Optimus pressed forward.
Not with his whole servo. With a single, thick finger.
The resistance was immediate, a tight, clenching grip from the ring of internal calipers. It was a tight fit, but the copious lubricant allowed a slow, inexorable glide. A choked, guttural sob of pure relief burst from Megatron as the digit sank into the wet, clutching heat. It was filling. It was right.
Optimus pushed deeper, his finger exploring the inner channel with a knowing, deliberate slowness. It seemed to seek out and find every hidden cluster of sensors, every sensitive node Megatron never knew he possessed. Each miniscule slide of the digit, each minute adjustment of pressure, sent jolts of blinding pleasure through his frame, ratcheting the charge higher and higher at a terrifying, exponential speed.
It built too fast. The slow burn was gone, replaced by a runaway reactor. The pleasure became a screaming feedback loop, the lingering stimulation from his horn and his valve merging into one overwhelming crescendo.
His world detonated.
There was no warning.
The first overload seized him with shocking suddenness, a violent, full-frame convulsion that ripped a raw, wordless shout from his vocalizer. His valve clamped down viscously around the invading finger, milking it, his biolights flaring a brilliant, blinding white. His back arched impossibly, struts straining, as the ecstasy tore through him, practically wiping his processor clean of everything but the shattering force of his own release.
It left him a trembling, gasping wreck, his systems reeling from the sudden, violent release. But the pleasure didn't stop. The sensation didn't ebb. Optimus's finger remained buried deep within him, a solid, unyielding presence in his spasming channel.
Before the last tremor had even faded, before Megatron's processor could reboot from the overload, he felt the pressure change. A second, thick digit pressed against his slick entrance, joining the first. The stretch was sharper this time, a desperate fullness that made him cry out, his oversensitive nerves screaming in protest and delight.
Optimus didn't pause. He began to move his fingers in a slow, scissoring motion, slicking him open, delving even deeper into the wet, clenching heat. "So good," he murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic thrum that vibrated through Megatron's very spark. "Look at you, taking me so well. A conqueror, conquered by simple feeling. It's beautiful."
The words were a brand, searing into him alongside the relentless, building friction. The overstimulation was agony, a raw, scraping sensitivity that should have been pain but was somehow, impossibly, transforming back into pleasure. The peak he had just fallen from was rushing back, faster and higher than before, a terrifying tidal wave of charge gathering with frightening speed. His valve clenched rhythmically around the intruding fingers, his biolights strobing a frantic purple. He was panting, begging with ragged, wordless sounds, hurtling towards the edge once more.
And then, just as the second overload was about to crash over him, Optimus stopped.
He withdrew his fingers completely.
The sudden, devastating emptiness was a physical shock. A broken, desperate keen tore from Megatron's throat. He was left empty, aching, throbbing with denied release, his body convulsing with the need to finish.
Optimus rose smoothly to his pedes, his own vents cycling faster now. He cupped Megatron's jaw again, his gaze intense. "Look at me," he commanded softly.
Dazed, overwhelmed, Megatron obeyed. His optics were glazed, his lip plates parted on a silent plea.
Optimus leaned in and captured his intake in a deep, claiming kiss. It was a reminder of who was in control. Megatron kissed him back with a frantic, desperate energy, trying to pour all his frustration and need into the contact, his glossa tangling with Optimus's in a messy, hungry clash.
Just as Megatron began to lose himself in the kiss, Optimus broke it and shifted to nibble on his neck cables. His servo returned to Megatron's valve, two fingers sinking back into the dripping, eager heat without preamble. And at the same moment, his other servo came up and closed firmly around the base of Megatron's horn.
The dual assault was catastrophic.
The direct, focused pleasure from his horn merged with the deep, filling friction inside his valve, creating a feedback loop of sensation that short-circuited every higher processor function. It was too much. It was everything.
Megatron's world went white.
The second overload ripped through him with a force that felt like his spark would tear loose from its casing. A raw, shattered scream was torn from him, his frame bowing against the branches as electricity crackled across his plating. His valve clamped down in a series of violent, rhythmic spasms, milking the fingers buried deep within him as the pleasure-pain crested and broke, washing over him in an endless, mind-wiping wave. He hung in the branches, utterly destroyed, consumed by the convulsions of his own release, completely at the mercy of the mech who had orchestrated his ruin. A thin line of oral lubricant dripped from the corner of his slack intake, unheeded.
“Do you still want me to leave,” Optimus finally said, his voice a low, resonant thrum that vibrated through the very air.
Optimus’s fingers were still moving inside him, a slow, deep rhythm now with three digits, stretching him with a gentle, persistent pressure. His other servo was a constant, soothing presence—stroking the sensitive curve of a horn, cupping his jaw, sliding down the cables of his neck, tracing the seams of his chest plates. The touch was possessive, reverent.
The question didn’t register as words. It was just a vibration, another sensation in the sea of them. All Megatron could manage in response was a low, thrumming moan that purred from his engine, a sound of pure, animal contentment. He was fully gone, lost in the aftermath, pliant and utterly conquered.
He was only dimly aware of the change. The slow, rhythmic fingering ceased. The comforting petting stopped. There was a shift in front of him, the sound of hydraulics and a quiet click of releasing armor. He didn't understand, his processor too fried to piece it together.
Then he felt it.
A new pressure, different from fingers. Broader. Blunter. Infinitely more substantial.
The broad, slick head of Optimus’s spike pressed against his valve opening, nestling between his well-prepared, lubricated lips. Megatron’s calipers, oversensitive and confused, gave a reflexive, hard cycle around the intrusion, gripping nothing but the tip.
Optimus simply leaned forward, his weight doing all the work, pressing in with an agonizing, inexorable slowness. It was a gradual, breathtaking stretch. Megatron could feel every ridge, every millimeter of the thick length as it forged a path deep into his clutching, heated channel. A high, thin whine escaped him, his optics screwing shut. It was too much, it was overwhelming, he was going to break—
And then Optimus was there. Fully hilted. Buried to the base.
The feeling of sudden, absolute fullness cut through the pleasurable haze like a physical shock. The stretch was intense, a burning, perfect pressure that erased everything else. The overstimulation faded, replaced by this new, profound sensation of being filled, of being completed. His internal systems, confused and overcharged, seemed to sigh in relief. The frantic cycling of his calipers slowed, instead settling into a firm, welcoming grip around the massive intrusion, holding it deep.
Megatron’s vents hitched. His optics fluttered open, dazed. The low purr in his engine deepened, becoming a ragged, appreciative rumble. He was so full. Stretched to his limit. And it was… nice. More than nice. It was an anchor in the storm of his own senses, a solid, grounding presence that promised not just more pleasure, but a strange, terrifying kind of peace.
For a long, suspended moment, there was only the feeling of that impossible fullness. Optimus was still, his own vents cycling hard, allowing his spike to acclimatize to the viselike, hot clutch of Megatron’s valve. Megatron, in turn, floated in the haze, his systems slowly recalibrating around the massive intrusion, the sharp stretch settling into a deep, resonant pressure that seemed to reach the very core of him.
Then, Optimus moved.
It was the barest shift at first, a slow, deliberate withdrawal that made Megatron’s internal calipers cling desperately, followed by an even slower, grinding push back to the hilt. The friction was exquisite, a rough, sweet drag that sent fresh sparks skittering through his overloaded neural net. A broken, shuddering sigh escaped Megatron. His processor, already frayed, began to unravel completely at the edges.
Optimus set a rhythm, patient and deep. Each measured thrust was a study in torture, drawing out every possible sensation. But patience has its limits. The slow, rocking pace began to quicken, almost imperceptibly at first, then with growing intent. The deep, full slides became sharper, more purposeful.
And then Optimus found an angle.
The next thrust didn't just fill him; it speared him. The broad head of Optimus’s spike rubbed firmly against a bundle of nerves so deep and so sensitive that Megatron had never known they existed. A choked, guttural cry was torn from him, his helm snapping back against the wood. It was a pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain, a blinding white-hot point of contact that shattered the last of his coherency.
The tears came again, hot and fast, streaming down his face as Optimus’s pace became relentless. He was moaning with every thrust now, a continuous, ragged litany of sound. Words began to form in the static, pleas and begs he would never consciously utter.
“P-please—ah!—more, more—don’t stop—frag, Optimus—!”
He was unaware he was speaking, unaware of anything but the devastating rhythm and the two points of contact that were systematically destroying him. With every powerful surge forward, the ridge of Optimus’s spike kissed the swollen, hyper-sensitive anterior node at the apex of his valve, sending jolts of electric pleasure radiating outward. And on the deepest, most intimate part of the stroke, the very tip pressed firmly, insistently, against the sealed, dormant entrance to his gestation chamber.
The dual stimulation was unbearable. The shallow, frantic pleasure of his node and the deep, profound pressure against his most sacred, internal seal created a feedback loop that pushed him higher and higher, a screaming crescendo with no end in sight. He was sobbing openly, his body no longer his own, his voice a hoarse, begging thing, completely lost to the world and the mech who was claiming him within it.
With a final, thrust that pressed perfectly against both seal and node, Megatron’s world shattered.
His third overload seized him with a violence that eclipsed the first two. A raw, silent scream locked in his throat as his back arched impossibly, his entire frame seizing in a cataclysmic convulsion. His valve clamped down on Optimus’s spike in a series of vicious, milking spasms, gripping and releasing in a frantic, involuntary rhythm as wave after wave of ecstasy tore through him. His biolights flared a blinding, brilliant white, illuminating the dark forest around them.
Optimus groaned, a deep, guttural sound of his own release being torn from him. He surged forward, burying himself to the hilt as Megatron’s valve clenched around him, and held there. His own control fractured. His hips stuttered, then drove forward one last time as he spent himself deep inside the convulsing channel.
Megatron felt the hot, sudden flood of transfluid, a scalding rush that filled him, soaking his overheated internals. The sensation of being claimed so utterly, so completely, sent a final, weaker tremor through his wrecked frame.
Then, it was over.
The tension fled his body all at once. He went completely, utterly limp in the branches, held aloft only by the wood and Optimus’s frame still pressed against him. His vents were ragged, wheezing gasps. His optics were dim and unfocused, staring at nothing. The only movement was the slow, sticky drip of mixed fluids from his thoroughly used valve onto the forest floor below. He was empty. Hollowed out. A vessel filled and then drained. There was nothing left.
Then, a sharp crack split the quiet air.
The branch that had been wrapped around his left horn, strained to its limit by his violent convulsions and the added weight, finally gave way. The sudden release of tension sent him pitching forward, his limp frame collapsing directly onto Optimus.
They crashed to the soft, loamy ground in a tangle of limbs and heavy armor. The impact drove Optimus’s spike, which had only partially softened, even deeper into Megatron’s oversensitive, spent channel.
A weak, punched-out cry escaped Megatron’s lips, a frail sound of protest from a system pushed far beyond its limits. But there was no energy left for a real reaction. The spark of sensation was instantly smothered by the overwhelming tide of his exhaustion. He lay sprawled atop Optimus, his face buried in the junction of his neck cables, his entire body a leaden weight.
Optimus let out a soft grunt at the impact, his arms instinctively coming up to wrap around the massive, unconscious form now pinning him to the earth. He shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position in the leafy mulch.
“We should… get you home,” Optimus murmured, his voice a low, tired rumble against Megatron’s audial.
The words were just noise. They didn’t register. Megatron was already gone, his systems initiating an emergency shutdown, pulling him down into a deep, dreamless stasis. His last conscious sensation was the unfamiliar, solid warmth beneath him and the faint, rhythmic pulse of another spark so close to his own.