Chapter Text
He slammed Optimus into the sharp edge of a toppled support beam, and the whole framework groaned around them like the corpse of a dying god. Concrete dust coughed upward in a cloud, and the lights of Prime’s optics flickered as metal shrieked under his back. It wasn’t elegant—wasn’t even strategic. Megatron had seized him like a rabid dog, not a tactician, driven by something older than programming. His fingers clamped onto Prime’s shoulders hard enough to dent the armor there, leaving indentations like warning marks, but Prime didn’t resist. Didn’t reach for his rifle. Didn’t even speak.
That’s what made Megatron snap.
“You think you won something?” Megatron snarled, his mouth too close to Prime’s face, vents wheezing raw against the haze. His weight pinned the Prime fully, frame coiled over him in a hunched, territorial hold, hips bracketed to his, their bodies grinding with the ache of battle—of something else. “That little show you put on in your chair? That pathetic performance?”
Optimus didn’t respond. His optics held steady, but the rest of him trembled. Barely. But Megatron could feel it. The tension in his thighs. The soft hitch in his frame. A shuddering pulse against his abdomen that wasn’t from overheating.
“You made yourself my pet,” Megatron spat. “And now you look at me like you want me to be merciful.”
Then Optimus finally moved. Not a blow. Not a shove. Just leaned his head closer, exhaled heat through the slats of his intake, voice cracking with the aftershock of restraint that had long since stopped being strategic. “No,” he said, “I want you to mean it this time.”
And that was it.
That was the detonation.
Megatron’s mouth curled in something beyond rage—something that smelled like obsession. He grabbed Prime’s wrists and slammed them down, one after the other, against the debris beneath. The rattle of cabling gave way to the grind of warped armor being dragged into submission. The older mech forced his thigh up between Prime’s, pried them apart by inches— enough. Enough to slot in. Enough to grind. He didn’t open his own panel. Not yet. This wasn’t about pleasure.
This was about answering the message.
“You want pain,” Megatron said, voice low, brittle, warped with hunger he hadn’t let himself voice for decades. “You’re going to earn it.”
He dropped his weight down fully. Their chassis locked with a deep, clanking grind—plates against plates, nothing soft between them, Just the impact of mech on mech, the rattle of internal systems trying to compensate. Prime’s interface panel spasmed against his will, the lock disengaging with a sharp hiss—his spike twitching half-hard against his lower abdomen, blue-lit with shame. Exposed.
And Megatron didn’t touch it.
Instead, he moved lower.
Dragged Prime’s thighs apart farther with the weight of his own body, until he could hear the actuators in Prime’s pelvic plating begin to groan. Until every inch of his vulnerability was laid bare against metal soaked in battle grime and old ash. The brush of his exposed array against Megatron’s thigh made the warlord shudder. But he didn’t relent.
“Beg for it,” he said, voice gravel churning in the gears of his chest.
Optimus turned his head to the side. Eyes shut. Mouth open but mute. Still disobedient. Still trying to hold something back. That tape had been a confession—but this moment, this breath, was where it became real.
And so Megatron gripped his throat.
Thick digits around the base of his neck, not choking, not yet—but there, pressing, threatening, keeping Prime’s head forced against the ash choked ground while he leaned down to whisper against his audial.
“You said you wanted to scream.”
Optimus’ panel twitched again. Valve slicked, Spike fully hard and sandwiched between them, helpless and reactive, shamed by its own betrayal. The mech beneath him trembled again—this time, less from restraint and more from anticipation.
“I’m going to make sure the whole battlefield hears it.”
Megatron’s own interface lock hissed open, finally. Slow. Impossibly inevitable. The tip of his spike pressed up against Prime’s port—not hard, not penetrating—just present. Threatening. So close that Optimus’ whole frame tensed on contact. His vents stuttered into high gear.
He was ready. He was More than ready.
But he didn’t dare ask again,
Because Megatron had already decided.
He was going to take this. All of it.
And then leave Prime with the memory.
There was no warning when Megatron breached him. Just the steady plunge of his spike pushing through the lips of Optimus’ interface port, spreading him with the inevitability of invasion. The contact was raw—steel against the fragile lining of his valve, to little slick, no gentle easing in. There was only pressure. Resistance. And then pain.
Optimus choked on it.
His frame arched without permission, helm knocking backward against the cracked beam with a jolt that should’ve made him cry out, but instead he bit down —hard—on his own fist, the sharp corners of his denta grinding into the thick metal of his knuckles to hold the sound inside. His optics flared wide, pale blue stuttering with every centimeter Megatron pushed deeper. It was too much. And yet not enough. The pain was searing, hands clawing at the earth as the stretch became unbearable—but he took it. On instinct. On need.
Megatron’s growl was deep and wet in his throat. “Tight,” he hissed, hips twitching forward as he fed another inch into the overworked array. “You let yourself get like this. You wanted to be made.”
Optimus tried to speak, tried to push a sound through his chest, but it caught behind the way his vents were seizing—fast, shallow, glitching with every hard pulse that forced his internals to accommodate something built for war, not connection. He tasted energon—his own fluids as his fist pressed tighter between his teeth. His thighs trembled around Megatron’s hips, locked open by the Decepticon’s strength, made to feel every piston and line of segmented metal sliding into him.
The pain didn’t fade. It changed.
Beneath the brutal pressure, beneath the way his spike twitched and dripped helplessly against his belly plating, something darker settled. The ache became tethered to his breath. It became a presence. Megatron wasn’t just interfacing him. He was claiming territory that had never been surrendered. He was taking —without ceremony, without foreplay, without tenderness—and Optimus was the one who’d asked for it.
And he couldn’t stop shaking.
Megatron’s hands pinned his wrists again, grinding them harder into the ground beneath. “You want me to frag you raw?” he muttered, voice thick with static, hips beginning to rock now, subtle thrusts that made Prime’s whole frame jolt against the debris, the clatter of armor-on-armor echoing off steel walls. “You want me to break that command tone out of your voice? Want to forget what the war’s even about—except this?”
Optimus bucked beneath him—reflexive, not resistance. The motion only drove Megatron deeper, spike lodging full inside now, grinding against internal nodes that sparked his circuits white-hot. Prime’s breath caught. His backstrut arched.
He nodded. Just once.
Not because he was weak.
But because this was the only way to take back control.
Megatron snarled in satisfaction. He slammed forward, hard enough to jolt Prime’s head sideways again, his helm scraping rough metal. The friction of it sent a fresh pulse down Optimus’ back strut, straight to his spike, which throbbed against his armor, untouched, leaking in trails across his stomach. His thighs trembled. His jaw clenched tighter, fingers curling into fists even as Megatron drove into him again, over and over, each thrust ragged and uneven, as if he was barely in control.
“You don’t get to come until I say so,” Megatron breathed, mouth close to Prime’s audial, the vibration of his voice sinking in deeper than the spike itself. “You don’t get to beg, not this time. You’re going to feel every second of this—every thrust, every movement—and you’re going to remember who made you frag yourself open on camera.”
Optimus moaned—low, broken. It slipped out without meaning to, and that, more than anything, made Megatron grind his hips in harder, twisting his angle to punch into him at a new depth. The calipers inside him spasmed, pulled taut by the overload that was now too close, far too early, riding the edge of every thrust.
Megatron didn’t give him a rhythm to settle into. The thrusts were deliberate but erratic—just enough to throw him off balance, never enough to time his breath around. He would lean forward, grind deep, pause with his spike pulsing full inside, and then withdraw almost completely before punching back in, making Optimus feel the difference between being penetrated and being possessed.
And Prime—he was shaking under it.
The overload had been coiling tight since the third thrust, drawn out of him not by pleasure, but by the ache of being split and held and denied. His spike was leaking so much it made a faint hiss against his plating every time it shifted, fluid caught in the narrow seam above his midline. But Megatron didn’t touch it. Wouldn’t. Wouldn’t let him touch it either. He held Optimus’ wrists pinned, shoved above his helm like a prisoner displayed, and rode him like a machine built to break.
Optimus’ legs locked around his waist, unconsciously, trying to find friction, to get something he could control—but Megatron caught one thigh and slammed it down again, forcing him flat to the ground.
“No,” he growled. “You stay open.”
Optimus bit down again, not on his fist this time—he’d lost that—on the edge of a strangled noise, something caught halfway between a sob and a moan. His interface panel was stretched so wide it trembled with each inward slide. His sensor lines were blinking static, edging into burnout. His vocalizer couldn’t form words anymore—just short, bitten-off pulses of sound that weren’t speech, weren’t protest, weren’t enough to make Megatron slow.
And he didn’t want him to.
This— this —was what he had been asking for in every log he sent. Not gentleness. Not softness. Not forgiveness. He’d wanted to be wrecked. To be used. To be hurt in a way that made the war fade, that made the burden of command something he couldn’t carry because he couldn’t even hold his overload back.
Megatron’s hand shifted—one palm pressing down on his throat, not choking, just pinning, and that was somehow worse. Optimus arched, body betraying him, spike twitching against his own armor.
“You’re going to overload,” Megatron murmured, lips close to his audial again, each word digging down into the space between agony and relief. “And you’re going to do it from this. From being fragged into the ground like a weakling. Like something owned.”
A tremor rolled through Optimus. Every muscle seized, every fiber of his core clenching around the spike impaling him. The overload hit like an implosion—sudden, violent, silent —because he didn’t make a sound.
His jaw was locked.
His optics flared once and stayed on.
His frame bucked so hard the back of his helm cracked against the floor.
And he came untouched—spike spilling against his chest, calipers contracting wildly around Megatron’s spike, dragging every nerve into that ruinous cascade. It wasn’t bliss. It was release. A purge. A forced emptying out of every command, every restraint, every lie he’d told himself about who he was beneath the leader, beneath the symbol, beneath the war.
When it passed—he didn’t speak.
He couldn’t.
He was still full. Still split. Still held.
Because Megatron hadn’t finished yet.
And that, more than anything, made Optimus’ frame spasm again. Weakly. Another pulse. Another trail of fluid across his plating.
Megatron leaned over him, breath stuttering hard into static, his own vents beginning to choke on the heat. “Good,” he hissed. “You’re going to take more.”
And Optimus didn’t nod. He Didn’t move. He just let it happen. Because now there was nothing left to hide behind.
The aftershocks didn’t stop.
Optimus lay beneath him, spent and still and too full, valve twitching as it tried—and failed—to adjust to the thick spike still buried to the base inside him. His armor steamed in the cold air. His optics, dimmed. The transfluid pooling across his chassis from his own overload hadn’t even cooled yet when Megatron moved again.
Slow. Cruel.
Just enough to grind the stretch wider. To remind him he hadn’t earned a reprieve.
Optimus flinched, or maybe arched—it was hard to tell. His legs trembled, no longer locked around Megatron’s waist, just open, slack, ruined. Megatron didn’t need to hold him down now. There was no fight left in the Prime. Only that fine, buzzing tension in the air around them. The kind that came just before the moment broke—when something gave way inside the other mech’s frame, like a dam finally ready to flood.
“You’re not going to ask me to stop,” Megatron said, and it wasn’t a question.
Optimus ex-vented, short and wet. His hands, unheld now, curled into fists beside his helm. He said nothing. But his body answered for him. Clenched tight around the spike still buried deep. A flicker of his interface panel trembling open wider, like his own systems wanted more. Or expected it.
Megatron’s servo slid low, thumb grazing along the thick base of his own spike where it met that tight, aching heat. His digits pressed gently into the underside of Optimus’ panel, just above the node cluster. A warning. A promise. His voice dropped—no volume, all violence.
“You want it left in you, don’t you.”
Optimus jerked. Not a nod. Not denial. Just a full-body shudder that traveled from shoulders to thighs, a tremor of overloaded nerves and some darker, unnameable desire.
Megatron leaned down again, his weight settling over him in a way that felt not like a lover’s embrace, but a battlefield collapsing. Pressed mouth to audial. “You want to feel it drip out of you later. When you’re alone in that chair again.”
The sound Optimus made wasn’t a word. But it was consent.
Megatron didn’t smile.
He started to thrust.
No more teasing. No more grinding pace. Just hard, wet, punishing strokes—full depth, steady now, heavy with purpose. His hips slammed into Optimus’ open thighs with the strength of artillery—no rhythm, no hesitation. Just claiming .
Optimus was wrecked beneath it. His voice gone, optics blown wide, frame shaking with every surge. His calipers had started pulsing again—trying to milk the spike, trying to keep it, as if it could anchor the warlord inside him. His own spike was leaking again—slow and helpless, twitching from oversensitivity but still hard. Still wanting.
“Did you think I’d give you a choice?” Megatron hissed, and his venting staggered. The hot rush of his own overload was close—he could feel it coiling at the base of his spike, thick and rising. The valve clamped tight around him was dragging him toward the edge faster than he wanted, like it was hungry too.
“You want to be bred, Prime. Say it.”
Optimus bit down on his fist again. Not to silence the moans this time—but to keep from saying it. From saying the truth he’d already sent in the tape. In the looks. In the way he’d opened himself, all those private words unspooling like a confession.
Megatron slammed in one final time—deep, brutal, burying to the hilt—and held.
He locked into place. Every system jolting with it.
And then he came.
Hard.
Hot.
The flood hit deep, pouring into Optimus’ valve in thick pulses. The Prime bucked again, like he could feel it coating the inside of his valve, every surge of transfluid forcing his panel to twitch wider, stretching to contain it. There was too much. It didn’t matter. His valve kept squeezing, pulling, like it wanted every last drop.
Megatron groaned low, guttural, shaking above him as the last wave spilled out, pooling wet between them.
And Optimus… still didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
His frame shook again—not from pain now. But from the sensation of it inside him. Of what had just been taken.
Of what had just been given.
Megatron leaned in, helm pressing to Optimus’ temple.
“You’ll feel that for days,” he whispered. “Every step. Every command. Every speech.
“You’ll remember exactly who put it there.”
