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Jetfire did not rush. He loomed.
Not with threat, not with menace—but with intent so vast it eclipsed the air around them. Like the orbit of a larger planet pulling a smaller one inward. He kept Optimus flat against the wall, one arm braced near his helm, the other low, spread across his midsection—not holding so much as commanding: you are here because I keep you here.
His hands were enormous. Not just big, but powerful in a way Optimus could feel even before they moved. The kind of strength that could shatter armor by accident—yet didn’t. Not here. Jetfire’s fingers didn’t squeeze, they explored.
Thumb dragging slowly down the curve of Prime’s plating, he mapped every seam and sensitive protoform like he was reading scripture.
“Still?” he asked, close to Prime’s mouth now.
Optimus nodded. Barely. “Still.”
Jetfire kissed him.
But not like a mech his size should. Not the way brutes kiss, not the way war leaves marks. This kiss was methodical. Slow. Like he wanted Prime to squirm under it, to feel every micron of contact. His dermas moved with gentle precision—tasting more than consuming. Prime shuddered, because it felt wrong that something that huge could be so measured.
Then Jetfire’s hips rolled forward, slow and deliberate.
The contact was massive—overwhelming. Optimus could practically feel the weight of Jetfire’s spike still sheathed behind his plating, but even so, the grind made his legs shake.
“You asked for rough,” Jetfire murmured, voice vibrating through their frames as his mouth traced a hot path down Prime’s throat. “But you didn’t mean fast.”
Optimus gasped as Jetfire’s glossa slid over a line of cabling, just before his denta grazed metal. “No. Not fast.”
Jetfire bit.
Not hard—not yet. He simply pressed his denta to the cable, sank just enough to make the wires stretch beneath his mouth, to pull a grunt from Prime’s core. Then he stopped, lips hovering, his breath washing warm over the bitten place.
“You want to flinch,” he said, watching the tremor move through Prime’s thighs. “Do it. That’s the point.”
Optimus arched his back, involuntarily. The contact of plating against wall, of Jetfire’s solid weight holding him in place, grounded him—but the ache of being held in that space, half-touched, fully known, was maddening.
Jetfire licked the bite. “Good.”
One massive hand moved to Prime’s hip, then slid under the crook of his thigh pressing into the joint as his other hand found the small of Optimus’s back. He rolled his hips again—grinding slowly, purposefully. The sheer scale of it made Optimus twitch.
“I haven’t even prepped you yet,” Jetfire warned, voice low, biting. “And you’re already shaking.”
“I’m not—”
Jetfire growled. The sound was soft, but Prime felt it down to his core.
“Don’t lie. ” Jetfire’s hand wrapped around his throat—not to choke, not to restrict, but to still. “You are shaking. You want it, and you’re afraid of it. That’s what makes it sweet.”
Optimus whined, optics dimming. “I trust you.”
“I know,” Jetfire whispered, and his helm dipped again, denta pressing into a different line on Prime’s shoulder—this time harder. The metal dented. Optimus gasped, but didn’t pull away. Couldn’t.
Because Jetfire didn’t just bite—he kissed afterward. He ground his hips forward again, unhurried but massive. The friction alone made Optimus’s valve twitch, sensitive and unprimed.
“I’m not inside you,” Jetfire said, not asking. “But you’re already reacting like I am.”
Optimus’s hands clenched into fists, desperate to move, desperate not to.
Jetfire saw it. He always saw it.
“Still,” he said, pressing Prime harder to the wall with his body. His chest covered Prime’s completely now, shoulder to shoulder, frame vibrating with restrained motion. “You will not grind back.”
“I’m—trying.”
Jetfire chuckled. “I can tell.”
Then he dragged his claws down Prime’s sides—slow, measured, just sharp enough to tease sensors. It wasn’t pain. Not yet. It was permission.
“Tell me,” Jetfire said, mouth pressed to the curve where neck met shoulder. “Tell me how it feels.”
“Big,” Prime whispered. “All of you… you’re too much.”
Jetfire growled again. Louder. Hips pressed forward once more, not faster—just deeper.
“Too much is the point.”
Optimus gasped, hips twitching. He fought not to move. Fought hard.
Jetfire watched it. Studied it. He pulled back just slightly—just enough for Prime to feel the space that was not being filled.
“You want me to stuff you full of spike before you’re ready?” he asked, almost amused. “You want to tear?”
Optimus groaned—quiet, raw.
“No,” Jetfire answered for him. “You want to be opened. Prepared. Touched. You want my fingers inside you first, spreading you until you can’t think.”
Optimus moaned, helm falling back against the wall. “Please.”
Jetfire’s optics burned with heat. He pressed one last kiss to the bite-marked neck and exhaled.
“Then ask for it properly,” he said, claw at the edge of Optimus’s lower interface seam.
Optimus opened his mouth. It took a moment for words to come.
“Jetfire,” he said, voice wrecked. “Prepare me. Stretch me. Make it slow. Make it hurt.”
Jetfire smiled. Finally.
“Good mech,” he whispered.
And then he dropped to his knees.
Jetfire descended like a stormcloud settling low over the mountains—deliberate, vast, and humming with the tension of restrained destruction. The moment his knees met the floor, the air shifted. Everything changed. The power dynamic that had been simmering now cracked open like a fault line, and Optimus felt the weight of it not just pressing into his shoulders, but coiling around his spark.
Jetfire didn’t look up at him.
Instead, he leaned in—forehead grazing the inside of Optimus’s thigh as he exhaled slow heat through his vents, letting that warmth pool against the trembling seams of Prime’s panel lines. His hands slid from Prime’s hips down to his thighs, where they spread wide, firm, confident, each digit a band of steel designed not to grip but to command stillness. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. His thumbs traced idle circles just above the sensitive ridges of Prime’s interface housing, and even that soft motion felt obscene—because Optimus knew what came next. Knew what Jetfire’s fingers were capable of. Knew how devastatingly patient he could be.
One finger moved to the locked seam of Optimus’s lower panel and pressed—not enough to force it, just enough to remind him who was in control of the unlocking.
“You’re not ready yet,” Jetfire said, his voice low, reverent, eyes fixated on the join like it was the only thing in the universe worth worshipping. “Not until I say.”
Optimus swallowed a moan. His knees buckled slightly, just from that—just from the almost. Jetfire’s optics flicked up, a slow-burning smirk tugging at his lip.
“You like that? Being denied?”
Optimus’s vocalizer crackled. “ yes..” “Good. Then stay open for me, Prime.”
He didn’t just pry the panel. He coaxed it open, inch by inch. His fingers worked the locks with care, with intimacy, as though he were disassembling a sacred mechanism, not teasing apart the body of a luminary. The panel released with a soft hiss of heat, valve trembling just behind it—already swollen, already slick at the rim. Prime let out a gasp that wasn’t quiet, optics fluttering offline for a brief second as air caught in his intakes.
Jetfire leaned in and breathed on him.
Just that. No contact yet. Just the sensation of warm, humid vented air rolling directly over trembling valve mesh. Prime’s legs nearly buckled from it.
“Sensitive already,” Jetfire murmured, admiration thick in his tone. “Haven’t even touched you yet, and you’re clenching.”
“Touch me,” Prime begged, shame running parallel to need.
Jetfire obeyed—eventually. One finger, thick and perfectly calibrated, dragged down the outer rim of the valve, circling with maddening slowness. He didn’t push in. He outlined. He mapped. He whispered to the twitching frame in front of him with the kind of touch usually reserved for relics—rare, volatile, priceless.
Then he dipped his digit just barely inside.
Optimus arched violently, hands scrabbling at the wall for stability. His valve fluttered around the intrusion, trying to suck him in deeper, but Jetfire held the line. He stopped just at the first knuckle and stayed there, letting Prime squirm around the breach, letting the tension build like steam in an overfilled kettle.
“You feel how tight you are?” Jetfire said, optics pinned to the sight of his finger slowly, slowly being devoured by that twitching valve. “You asked me to be rough— this is what rough means. Not fast. Not cruel. It means you open for me because I make you.”
Optimus’s head slammed back against the wall, jaw clenched as a groan tore free. “Jet—Jetfire, more—please—”
“You’ll get more when you stop clenching,” Jetfire growled, voice suddenly darker. His second hand came up, palm flat against Optimus’s lower abdomen, pinning him there, grounding him while the first finger began a slow, careful rotation.
The friction was maddening. Too shallow. Not enough. But perfect.
He pulled the first finger out and then slowly pushed it back in—just a little deeper. And again. And again. Each time the valve gave a little more, stretched a little further, heat and static pulsing around the digit like it wanted to be wrecked.
Jetfire didn’t stop watching his work. He was fascinated by the way Optimus opened for him—slow and twitching, inch by inch. When he finally added a second finger, he didn’t give warning. He just did it. Smoothly, competently, a stretch that made Prime cry out loud, the sound sharp and high and involuntary.
“There it is,” Jetfire murmured, beginning to scissor them. “That’s what I needed.”
Optimus writhed against the wall, optics shuttered, mouth open and slack as his frame tried to adjust. It burned, in that slow, exquisite way that only good preparation can—pain that uncoils into hunger.
“I can feel you fluttering,” Jetfire growled, voice ragged. “You’re trying to pull me in. Trying to suck me down, even though you’re not ready.”
Optimus couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. He managed a strangled gasp that might’ve meant yes. Might’ve meant please. Might’ve meant don’t stop.
Jetfire crooked his fingers just right, and Optimus bucked.
“There,” Jetfire whispered. “That’s the spot.”
And then he held them there, fingers pressing slow, brutal rhythm into that tender place. No mercy. No speed. Just pressure. Sustained and unrelenting, until Optimus was mewling, his thighs shaking, the urge to overload clawing up his spine like static fire.
But Jetfire didn’t let him. Not yet.
“You do not overload until I say,” he snapped, voice like thunder breaking. “I’m not even inside you yet.”
Optimus screamed—not from pain, not from release. From denial. From the raw ache of a spike that still hadn’t come, from the sensation of being stretched too wide and not filled.
“ Please. ”
Jetfire kissed the valve—just once.
Just once, and it undid everything.
A single, reverent press of his mouth against trembling mesh, and Optimus shattered around it. Not in overload, not yet, but in will. In resistance. In any illusion of control. The kiss was wet, slow, not even a flick of glossa—just heated lips dragging across parted, exposed valve folds like a seal being placed. Like a signature of ownership.
Optimus moaned helplessly, body arching into the contact, thighs spreading further apart on instinct alone. His valve pulsed visibly, twitching and glistening under Jetfire’s mouth, lips begging for deeper invasion, leaking arousal in thick drips that clung to his own thighs.
Jetfire exhaled a low sound—half-growl, half-purr—and began again.
Not with spike. Not yet.
He pulled his fingers free of the soaked valve, the drag of withdrawal making Prime whimper from the sudden emptiness. Before Optimus could even protest, Jetfire reached between his own legs and gathered thick, glowing lubricant from the base of his spike, now unsheathed, heavy and twitching against his inner thigh. The scent of it hit the air— sharp, mechanical, intimate. It filled the space like ozone before lightning. Optimus’s optics fluttered behind his shutters, the smell alone pushing him closer to another edge.
“Going to ruin you slowly,” Jetfire said lowly, voice dark as deep space. “Going to stretch you until you can’t close again.”
Optimus bit down on his own fist, a tremor overtaking his entire frame. “Do it.”
Jetfire’s lips curled upward.
With one hand flat on Optimus’s abdomen again, he returned his fingers to that throbbing valve—this time soaked in his lubricant, not Prime’s. He massaged it over the mesh first, coating every inch with slow, circular motions, letting the slick warmth drip into every fold. The touch was obscene—tender and clinical, indulgent and possessive, all at once.
Then he re-entered. Two fingers. Then three. No warning.
Optimus jerked , a broken moan escaping him as the burn bloomed bright and sharp, teeth gritted, armor creaking under tension. But he didn’t pull away. He pressed back. He wanted it. He wanted all of it.
“Good mech,” Jetfire growled, and bit his thigh.
Optimus screamed—short, high, raw—more from the timing than the pain. The bite came just as Jetfire crooked all three fingers up and pressed down into that sensitive node deep inside. The valve clamped, fluttering, pulling, thirsty for more, for anything, for him.
“You’re so tight,” Jetfire rasped, his voice gone ragged with restraint. “I could spike you now, and you’d scream for it. But I’m not going to.”
He twisted his wrist and added a fourth finger.
Optimus convulsed, spark flaring against his chest like it wanted to burst free from its casing. “Nnngh—Jetfire—I—”
“You can take it,” Jetfire snapped, grinding the fingers deeper, stretching him wide with punishing precision. “You asked for it rough. Take it. ”
And he did. Prime took it, body trembling, circuits twitching, processor skipping from the sheer force of preparation. His valve dripped around the intrusion, loose but still straining, still not wide enough for what was coming.
Jetfire leaned in again. His mouth found Optimus’s abdominal seams this time, pressing kisses to each trembling joint like he could hold him together. Each kiss trailed lower, until his glossa dragged along the exposed valve again, lapping at the slick that pooled there, mixing his lubricant with Prime’s.
His moan was feral.
“Primus,” Jetfire growled against him. “You taste so good. ”
Optimus sobbed, knees folding in further, hips tilting up, silently begging.
Jetfire’s four fingers pistoned once, and then again, each thrust angled to grind perfectly against that swollen inner bundle, while his glossa traced slow, liquid strokes between the folds—careful not to enter, only tease. Each movement was calculated. Each breath hot and guttural. He wasn’t just preparing Optimus—he was training him. Winding him up like a stringed instrument, just to hear what song he would make when snapped.
“Let me overload,” Optimus rasped. “Please—just—one—”
“No.” Jetfire’s tone cracked across the room like a whip. “You hold it. You hold everything, until I tell you to let go.”
He curved his wrist, dug deeper.
Optimus choked on his own scream.
“You’re almost ready,” Jetfire murmured into the swollen lips of the valve. “One more stretch.”
He removed his fingers— all at once. The emptiness struck like decompression. Optimus nearly collapsed.
Jetfire then brought his thumb into play—wide, firm, pressing directly against the outer valve rim and pushing down in a slow, expanding circle, using the slick mess of mixed lubricants to spread the rim wide with only surface contact. No penetration. No spike.
Just pressure. Cruel , intimate pressure that made Optimus sob openly now, mouth slack, frame juddering with restrained overload.
“You’re going to take every inch,” Jetfire whispered, kissing the valve again, softer this time. “And when you do… you’ll thank me for making you wait.”
He rose up, towering again—massive, eclipsing.
Jetfire’s frame cast a long shadow over Optimus’s heaving form, every cable and piston flexing under armor plates stretched tight by the force of his restraint. The air between them thickened—charged, magnetic. His spike jutted forward now, slicked from base to tip in his own lubricant, glowing dimly with heat where it throbbed against the cooler air. Each pulse mirrored the storm in his spark. And still, he didn’t push inside.
Not yet.
Instead, Jetfire dropped his weight, pressing the thick head of his spike down against Optimus’s valve—not to breach it, but to grind. Slowly. Exquisitely. With a drag that sent shuddering tremors through both their frames.
“Let me feel you,” Jetfire murmured, his voice rasping like static through grit. “All of you.”
He rocked his hips forward, letting the thick crown of his spike slot against the soaked, twitching lips and rub, again and again, dragging lube across mesh, parting the folds just enough to slide, but not to enter. The friction was maddening. Slick and raw. The ridge of his spike caught against Prime’s rim with every pass, and each glide forward set the mesh aflame—too much and not enough, the taste of penetration without the invasion.
Optimus twitched , arching off the berth, valve fluttering helplessly. “Primus—Jetfire, please— please—”
Jetfire growled in response, low and primal, his hand flattening over Optimus’s chest. He leaned in until their armor scraped, until Optimus was pinned by sheer mass again, caught between the crushing pressure of Jetfire’s frame and the merciless friction of that thick spike grinding into him without yield.
“Feel what you’re missing,” Jetfire whispered into his audio. “Feel what I haven’t given you yet.”
And he thrust.
Not inside. But hard. Down and forward, dragging his length along Optimus’s spread valve in a punishing stroke that ended with the head catching just under the rim and holding. Pressing. Refusing entry.
Optimus’s moan broke into a sob. He clenched at Jetfire’s shoulders, servos digging into reinforced plating. His thighs trembled, valve drooling slick in long strings that glued their frames together in a filmy heat.
Jetfire did it again. Harder.
The spike ground against the rim, spreading him open without entering, smearing fluid in filthy trails between them. He angled his hips just so, letting the base of his spike slap against the underside of Optimus’s valve with every glide forward—wet, obscene, intimate.
“You want it?” Jetfire hissed, nipping the side of Prime’s throat. “You begged for this. But you didn’t think it through.”
His voice dipped lower, his spike pulsing thick and heavy between them.
“I can’t even spike you like this. Look at you. Flat against the wall, valve open like a door, and you still can’t take it unless I lift you.”
Optimus whined—a keening sound of desperation, humiliation, want.
“Then lift me, ” he rasped. “Do it. I want you—I need it—please—”
Jetfires engine roared alive.
Without warning, his arms locked around Prime’s waist and shoulders, scooping him off the ground in a single, seamless lift. He cradled Optimus like something precious—like a weapon, forged for one use only. Optimus’s frame curled instinctively, thighs parting, valve spread wide in open invitation, the swollen folds twitching in the charged air.
Jetfire stood fully now, wings flared in silhouette, the expansive floor below them suddenly small. His spike bobbed against Prime’s slick valve, leaking thick streams of lubricants down over Jetfire’s inner thighs, steaming slightly on contact.
“You’re going to sit on it,” he growled. “And I’m going to guide you down. Inch. By. Inch.”
He positioned the head of his spike at the opening. Optimus hung in his arms, trembling, bracing, every sensor overloading from anticipation. He felt the heat of the tip, the stretch just beginning, the rim parting—
Then Jetfire stopped.
He held Optimus there, trembling in his arms, spike kissing the entrance but not pushing in.
Optimus clawed at his shoulders. “Please. ”
Jetfire’s optics burned. “You’ll take it my way, Prime. You asked for this.”
And with that, he began to lower him.
Jetfire held Optimus aloft like he was forged of glass and tension, cradled in those massive, war-scarred arms as if the Prime weighed nothing. His hands gripped with the precision of an engineer and the worship of a believer—one at the nape, the other slotted under the curve of Prime’s aft, fingers splayed possessively across armor seams polished raw from friction.
Optimus was limp in his hold, but not soft. His frame thrummed with pent-up charge, thighs twitching, pelvic plating retracted so fully that the soft, swollen rim of his valve trembled open in the cool air, kissed by the fat, flushed head of Jetfire’s spike.
Jetfire exhaled through his denta. “Breathe.”
He lowered him.
The head pressed inward—not fast, not forceful. Immovable. Like a planet’s gravity asserting itself on the tide. Optimus shivered , shoulders hunching against the curve of Jetfire’s chest, claws scraping ineffectually across armor.
The first centimeter disappeared.
Then another.
Then— stop.
A tight clutch. The rim clenched hard. Jetfire paused mid-air, holding Optimus half-impaled on the crown alone.
“Relax,” Jetfire rasped, stroking a hand slowly down Optimus’s spine. “Let me. Let me stretch you. Let me open you.”
The stretch wasn’t violent—it was dense, oppressive, as if his entire pelvic assembly had to shift just to accommodate the idea of Jetfire inside him. Optimus’s breath hitched, hips twitching involuntarily, but Jetfire held him still. His spike throbbed between them, every pulse a silent threat, a promise: more.
Another inch forced its way in. Slick squelched around the thick girth, leaking over Jetfire’s thighs and down the backs of Prime’s. The rim spasmed, fluttering wildly, and Prime whined, optics flickering white.
Jetfire kissed the side of his helm.
“You’re taking it,” he whispered. “You’re doing so well.”
He didn’t push. He let gravity and Prime’s own shudders do the work—slowly lowering him down, guiding his weight inch by inch onto the spike that felt as wide as an exhaust pipe. Every servo in Optimus’s thighs flexed against the strain, valve fluttering open in fits and starts, trying to suck the spike in faster while simultaneously clenching against the intrusion.
A few more centimeters.
Then half the head was inside. Then all of it.
Optimus let out a choked, broken sound—half sob, half growl. His fingers dug into Jetfire’s shoulders, desperate for purchase.
The spike was too big. It dragged against every sensor lining his valve walls, hitting pressure points too deep to reach on his own. The stretch made his back arch, overloaded his processor, tore static across his vision like heat lightning.
“ Jet—Jetfire, I can’t— ”
“Yes, you can.” Jetfire’s voice dropped to a growl. “You wanted this. ”
He gave another inch.
Another.
The pace never changed—slow, deliberate, steady as a knife gliding through butter. The slick noise of his valve swallowing spike echoed wetly through the room. Jetfire’s optics dimmed, burning blue as he watched himself disappear into Prime’s trembling valve, frame twitching under the exertion of holding so much in his arms and inside.
Two-thirds of his spike vanished inside.
Optimus couldn’t think anymore. His helm dropped against Jetfire’s shoulder, limp and shaking, lips parted with a stream of low static and breathless, half-formed moans. His valve was dragging now, clinging to every ridge of that monster spike like it couldn’t let go.
“Almost there,” Jetfire growled. “Almost— ”
Then—with one final shift of his arms—he dropped Optimus the last two inches.
Fully sheathed.
Optimus screamed.
Not in pain. Not quite.
It was something deeper—ripped out from the spark, primal and involuntary. A sound that said full, a sound that said ruined, a sound that said this is what I was made for.
Jetfire held him flush against his hips, spike seated to the hilt, his engines roaring in his chassis. His wings flared wide. His optics dimmed. He didn’t move. Not yet. He just held Optimus there— impaled, stretched taut, held together only by the hands gripping him and the spike buried in his valve.
They stayed like that for a long, endless moment—locked, motionless, the weight of Jetfire’s spike seated fully inside Optimus, the Prime’s inner walls quivering from the overload of sensation. Nothing moved but their vents, cycling heat into the close air, and the trembling flex of valve mesh clinging so tightly around girth too thick for this, let alone comfort.
Jetfire’s optics were slitted to a low glow. His entire frame was taut, wings flared behind him like a ship mid-drift, trembling from restraint. He could feel Prime’s valve clenching, spasming, struggling to accommodate the spike impaled in its core.
But still, he didn’t thrust.
He rotated his hips instead—subtle. Devastating. The motion dragged his spike in a slow, grinding circle, pressing against every overloaded nerve, the ridged crown scraping against inner lining that had already started to swell. It was as if he wanted Optimus to feel every contour of his spike, every bevel, every groove, every forged edge, memorize it by the way it carved fire into him.
Optimus choked out something that wasn’t a word. His helm lolled back, optics fluttering dim behind the static. His frame spasmed in Jetfire’s arms, and he reflexively tried to lift himself—just a bit—to relieve the tension.
Jetfire growled.
“No,” he snapped, one hand gripping Prime’s hip to keep him pinned flush. “You stay. You take it.”
Then he began to move.
Not out. Not yet. Just a slow pull—half an inch, maybe less—followed by another slow, gliding push inward. A roll of his hips, deep and tight. It wasn’t rhythm. It wasn’t thrusting. It was pressure, slow drag and deeper impact, a forging motion, as if Jetfire was stamping his ownership in heat and overload, one stroke at a time.
Optimus’s legs wrapped around his waist—automatically. Out of need. Out of desperation.
Every time Jetfire pressed in again, Optimus made a noise—wet, helpless, a low mewl trapped in his throat. The slow friction along his valve walls was torturous. He was full, stretched so wide he could barely think, and yet every motion begged for more. There was no room to move, no space inside to give, and yet Jetfire took it—shifting him ever so slightly, driving the spike deeper, letting the weight of his own frame push Prime down while he rose up into him.
He leaned in, brushing his denta along the edge of Optimus’s jaw.
“Do you feel how deep I am?” he rasped. “No one else could reach you here. No one else would dare.”
And then he pulled out— just past the rim. The wet pop of the head dragging from the valve made Optimus jolt and keen, the sudden absence almost as shocking as the stretch had been. And then Jetfire slammed back in—not fast, but hard, deliberate. The full length seated once more in a single, brutal motion.
Optimus broke.
His frame jerked, overload threatening even without touch to his spike, which now leaked helplessly between their bodies, untouched and forgotten. It throbbed, aching in the space between their pressed frames, scraping against Jetfire’s abdominal plating.
Jetfire didn’t relent. He set a rhythm now—slow, but hard, each inward push like tectonic plates colliding. He pulled out only halfway, then drove forward again, the impact rattling Prime in his arms.
His spike glistened each time it emerged, slick with a sheen of lubricant and mesh fluid. The wet sounds were relentless. Louder now. Rhythmic.
Schluck. Schluck. Schluck.
Optimus’s valve was gushing.
Jetfire leaned in, lips brushing the edge of Prime’s audio.
“You’re dripping, Prime,” he murmured, voice thick and wrecked. “You’re going to soak my damn thighs.”
Optimus trembled. His mouth opened in a silent moan, expression slack with overstimulation. His frame had started to give in now—softening, surrendering—his inner walls no longer clenching in resistance, but fluttering, inviting, greedy.
Jetfire’s hands shifted to grip Optimus’s hips.
And then he started to thrust.
Longer now. Deeper. Still slow, but the power behind each stroke intensified, shaking Prime in his grip. Each slam dragged a harsh cry from Optimus’s throat. His head lolled back, optics offline, his entire world compressed to the unbearable stretch and the pulse of Jetfire’s spike grinding his valve deeper than he’d ever known.
Still Jetfire didn’t increase the pace.
He increased the intensity.
Each drive forward was a command. Each withdrawal a threat.
And Optimus took it.
He let his body be used. Let his valve stretch around something far too big and hold. Let his spark stutter each time that spike bottomed out. Because through the pain—through the overload, the stretch, the pressure—there was a sweetness. A safety. A reverence in the brutality. Jetfire wasn’t breaking him.
He was building him.
One overload at a time.
There came a point where slow stopped being kind. When it began to hurt more than help. And Jetfire knew the exact click when Optimus passed that edge—when his valve, swollen and aching, no longer flinched from intrusion but throbbed around the girth seated inside. Desperate. Greedy. Clinging to his spike like it couldn’t live without it.
Jetfire’s expression twisted—his helm bowed low, wings arching in a primal curve, mouth drawn back in a silent snarl that bared sharpened denta. One servo braced under Prime’s aft, gripping tight, and the other clamped down on his hip so hard the armor creaked. No more feather-light praise. No more breathless coaxing.
The time for worship had ended.
He snapped his hips forward.
The impact jolted Optimus like a weapon strike. His cry broke on contact—thin and torn, clawing its way up his throat as his valve squeezed too hard around the sudden, brutal thrust. Jetfire didn’t pause. Didn’t let him recover. He pulled back and slammed again, spike punching deep in a sharp, violent angle that forced Optimus to arch, servo shooting out to catch at Jetfire’s shoulder as his entire frame shuddered.
He couldn’t get his vents under him. Couldn’t think.
Couldn’t breathe.
Jetfire moved like a storm—no longer a slow-burn heat, but a wildfire, furious and unrelenting. The wet sounds of spike inside valve turned filthy, squelching between them, thick and sticky as lubricant flooded the space between their locked bodies. Optimus’s thighs were soaked. The spike kept hammering in, hitting so deep the crown ground against his ceiling node, again and again, until his optics fritzed offline.
He sagged in Jetfire’s arms.
And Jetfire lifted him higher, just slightly, so that every thrust hit up now, forcing the Prime to take every inch from a new, brutal angle.
“Don’t go soft on me now,” Jetfire growled, vents roaring. “You said rough. You said wreck me, Jetfire.” Another slam. “So I’m going to.”
Optimus made a strangled noise. It wasn’t resistance. It wasn’t protest. It was the sound of a mech who had lost control of his own vocalizer, his own grip on time and space. His spark howled in its chamber, rattling against the cage of his chest as every thrust overloaded one more line of code.
“Look at you,” Jetfire hissed. “You’re already shaking. Valve’s twitching like it’s gonna overload. But you’re not done, Prime.”
He slammed in again. Harder.
“You don’t get to be done until I say.”
Optimus’s overload teetered at the edge. It gathered fast—no build, just the crashing, unstoppable surge of a body pushed beyond its limits. His spike pulsed between them, untouched, leaking in great, uncontrolled spurts against Jetfire’s abdomen. His valve clenched. His body screamed.
And Jetfire held him there.
He stayed seated, spike buried to the hilt, grinding in slow circles with the full weight of Optimus in his arms— holding him right at the brink.
Not letting him fall.
“No,” he growled, tightening his grip. “Not yet.”
Optimus whimpered.
His body convulsed.
Jetfire slammed up again.
And Optimus shattered.
His overload detonated through him like a circuit-burst—violent and ugly, valve spasming in wild, clutching flutters as lube gushed around Jetfire’s spike. His spike fired too, uncontrollably, hot and slick between their frames, splashing between their chests in thick, glowing ropes. His limbs seized. His vocalizer shorted. His helm slammed against Jetfire’s shoulder, shaking from the force of release.
Jetfire didn’t stop.
Even as Optimus screamed, wrecked and twitching, he kept moving.
He fucked him through it.
Harder.
Slower.
Deeper.
He let him ride the wave—and then pressed him into the next one.
Optimus had barely come down.
His overload still burned through him in static aftershocks, tremors twitching down his thighs, spark guttering in a fragile, fluttering rhythm. But Jetfire didn’t stop. He held the Prime impaled in his arms, spike still thick and unyielding inside a valve now fluttering from oversensitivity. Lubricant leaked around the seal, dribbling in long strands onto Jetfire’s thighs as his vents roared against the back of Optimus’s neck.
Optimus sagged. Limp. Boneless.
And Jetfire shifted.
His stance widened. Servos braced tighter under Prime’s thighs. And then, with one brutal downward shove, he sank to the floor—on his knees, then lower still, guiding Optimus with him, until he lay the Prime down flat.
Sprawled across the floor like a broken thing. Armor flushed hot. Chest heaving. Spike dribbling against his belly, optics flickering.
Jetfire stayed on top.
And drove in deeper.
The new position let him stretch out—let him bracket Prime beneath his bulk, both knees to the floor, thighs spread wide enough to plunge. He pressed both servos to the ground beside Optimus’s helm, bracing his weight, and pulled back—slow, wet, grinding.
Then he slammed forward with everything he had.
The sound was obscene. The wet clap of interface housings. The sharp snap of armor against armor. Optimus’s valve squished from the force, inner walls already raw, and yet they welcomed the next thrust—hungry and wringing around the girth they could barely contain.
“Jetfire—” Prime gasped, barely a whisper.
“Shut up,” Jetfire snarled, hips snapping forward again. “You’re not thinking anymore. You’re not talking.”
He moved like a piston. Hard. Fast. Brutal.
Each thrust forced a helpless jolt through Optimus’s frame, pinned utterly beneath the mech’s bulk. He couldn’t move—Jetfire’s weight on him was too much, pressing him flat to the floor, both his wrists now trapped above his helm by one massive servo.
The other hand slid down.
Wrapped around his spike.
And squeezed.
Optimus bucked.
“Mmmh!—”
“You wanna overload again?” Jetfire rasped, leaning down until his chest scraped Prime’s. “Then you’re gonna fragging earn it.”
His spike pounded inside. Valve squelching. The floor beneath them shuddered with the impact, as if the mass of them alone could fracture metal and stone. Prime’s thighs kept twitching open, wider each time, giving more— needing more.
But Jetfire didn’t just want the body.
He wanted everything.
His mouth found Prime’s throat again—bit down, hard, fangs grazing armor. He didn’t pierce this time. Didn’t draw energon. Just clamped, hard enough to bruise. A claiming mark.
Then he bit again. Lower.
Prime’s whole frame jerked. A whimper ripped from his throat. The pressure on his spike doubled—Jetfire’s grip milking him as if squeezing fuel from an over-pressurized line. The second overload came faster this time— too fast, stoked by the pain and the rhythm and the way Jetfire wouldn’t let go.
“I can feel it,” Jetfire growled against his throat. “You’re gonna come again. Aren’t you?”
Optimus only moaned.
He couldn’t answer. Couldn’t speak. He was slipping —mind going offline, logic stripped from him with every thrust that dug deeper, every grind that forced the head of Jetfire’s spike against his ceiling node again and again.
“You’re close. Frag, you’re twitching around me—so tight. You can’t even stop it now.”
He sped up.
Thrusts growing frantic.
Desperate.
And Prime broke again —overload crashing through him in a wave of spasms, spark howling as his spike burst once more, painting both their chests in bright, hot fluid. His valve clenched so tight it almost pushed Jetfire out.
Almost.
But Jetfire held in.
Fangs on Prime’s throat.
Servo locked around his wrists.
And the hardest part—he still hadn’t come.
Not once.
He was saving it.
Saving everything.
Jetfire didn’t slow down.
Even with Optimus twitching under him—limbs jittering like a mech suffering from system shock, voice glitching into static and gasps—he drove in again, spike throbbing so thick and so deep it made every contraction of Prime’s valve feel crushing. Jetfire growled—low, primal, venting through his denta as he ground his helm against Prime’s, mouth still parted where he’d bitten down. His restraint frayed. His mass rippled with strain.
Still. Still he didn’t overload.
He was holding it—somehow. Every motion was savage now, brutal in its tempo, and yet calculated. A pilot managing the descent of a collapsing engine. Holding to the edge with inhuman control.
“Turn over.”
Optimus couldn’t obey. Not fast enough.
So Jetfire grabbed him.
He flipped him—body writhing beneath his, loose-limbed and spark-wrung, barely functional—onto his front. Dragged him by the hips until Prime’s chest was flat to the floor again, helm resting on one cheek, lips parted around unformed sound. Then Jetfire lifted his hips and slammed back in.
The angle changed.
Everything changed.
Optimus moaned.
High-pitched. Shocked. The spike drove straight into his ceiling node, the angle now perfect—pitiless. Jetfire’s hands dug in, gripping tight around Prime’s waist, thumbs pushing into seams not meant to be pressed, as if he wanted to mark him from the inside out.
“Beg,” Jetfire growled, mouth pressed hot to the audio fin beside Prime’s helm. “Say you want it. Say you want me to wreck you. ”
Optimus’s answer was a choked moan, ragged and low.
Jetfire thrust again. Harder.
Another yelp. Another stuttered, helpless buck.
“Say it.”
“I—” Optimus rasped, “I want—I want—”
“Want what, Prime?”
“I want you to wreck me,” he gasped, voice splintering. “Please. Just— frag me open. ”
Jetfire groaned—a full-bodied, shaking sound. Finally. Finally. He wrapped one arm across Prime’s chest, locking their bodies together, then shoved in to the hilt —deep enough to bottom out, deep enough to hammer every swollen, overused node inside the valve. Prime’s whole body jerked, optic shutters fluttering.
Then Jetfire overloaded.
It hit like a earthquake.
He growled into Optimus’s throat as his spike pulsed, surging wave after wave of hot transfluid into the valve already dripping with excess. It forced a new noise out of Optimus—a choked sob, his valve twitching, trying to milk every drop, even as his systems sparked with feedback from overstimulation.
But Jetfire didn’t stop.
Even as he came, he kept thrusting —short, hard, brutal ruts that made their armor shriek with each slam. It wasn’t rhythm anymore. It was possession.
“You take it,” he snarled, voice distorted by the overload. “You take all of me. ”
Optimus couldn’t speak
Couldn’t move.
His optics flickered out completely.
But his valve didn’t stop clutching. Didn’t stop pulling.
And Jetfire kept feeding it.
Something has to change
Undeniable dilemma
Boredom’s not a burden
Anyone should bear
Constant overstimulation numbs me
But I would not want you any other way
Just not enough
I need more
Nothing seems to satisfy
I said, I don’t want it
I just need it
To breathe, to feel, to know I’m alive
Finger deep within the borderline
Show me that you love me and that we belong together
Relax, turn around and take my hand…
—Maynard James Keenan, Adam Jones, Danny Carey, Justin Chancellor.