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The first time it happened was on the outskirts of Iacon, an ancient, half-decommissioned factory building near a plaza where Decepticons had been sighted a few days previously.
The wall on Optimus’ right exploded out of the darkness, superheated air and warped metal a shockwave slamming into him so hard it lifted him off his pedes and tossed him into the debris drifts lining the opposite wall. Deafening clatter filled the tight hallway like a physical presence, beating down around his audials and half-burying him under a shallow coating of twisted metal, smoke and metal dust. He reached for comms on automatic, and got only static fuzz in response.
Decepticons. Of course.
His headlights flickered, then died. In that brief moment before they cut out for good, the soft white light revealed a familiar frame looming up out of the darkness, victorious smirk firmly ensconced on his faceplates, red optics glowing a malevolent beacon in the sudden darkness. One heavy silver pede lifted and pressed down on his abdominal plating before he’d collected himself enough to scramble out of the way. Megatron pressed down on him, leaning forward with a cruel smirk, just enough weight that his plates locked together under the pressure.
A threat, a display of dominance all in one. Optimus’ situational-response systems didn’t know which way to turn.
He levelled his ion cannon straight at Megatron’s chest, his aim steadier than it had any right to be. The weapon mounted on the warlord’s right arm hummed in response, the thick taste of the opposing charges filling the atmosphere.
“Really, Optimus?” Megatron asked, tilting his helm to the side in a look that was probably intended to be quizzical. Megatron just didn’t do non-threatening very well—Optimus wondered why he’d never noticed that before. “Has leadership warped you so badly?”
The Matrix pulsed softly next to his spark chamber. Whatever gave it life was worried.
“I am not sure how to answer that, Megatron,” he said truthfully, holding back a frown as the warlord’s optics narrowed fractionally. As Orion he’d known the little tells that made up Megatron’s expressions and actions intimately, enough to keep himself alive in a fight, in a war he clearly wasn’t made for. The Matrix had given him the mass and ability to stand his ground against his old friend, but whatever it had done had also affected the way he saw Megatron. Traits he’d once admired now became the reasons which made him such a dangerous opponent, general as well as gladiator. Mannerisms which had once drawn him so strongly to the revolutionary now felt like threats.
Optimus Prime did not know Megatron as well as Orion Pax had. Whether he was misinterpreting the signals Megatron gave off, or simply seeing the warlord in a clearer light, was a sobering thought.
His automatic reactions, however, seemed unchanged.
Megatron shifted, scraped his pede downwards. Optimus moved, scrambling to get up, but froze with a startled click of his hydraulics as the pressure returned—this time right over his primary interface array. Megatron ground down with gleeful intent, his field telescoping delight in shades of ultraviolet.
“Orion was a careful creature,” the warlord said offhandedly, pressing down hard, scraping his pede over Optimus’ panel. The pressure and vibration set off a handful of the sensors underneath the plating, the sensation utterly wrong, strong enough to make him shiver. “I doubt that you are much different. So why, pray tell, would you separate yourself from the rest of your group? Anything could be lurking in these corridors.”
“You being the obvious sparkeater behind the door.” Optimus brushed the debris from his chassis, trying to ignore the beginnings of arousal prickling sluggishly between his legs. He propped himself up on his forearm, his ion cannon – powerful enough that even Megatron respected it – still aimed steadily at the warlord. “That being the case, I might wonder why you yourself seem to be alone.”
He… wasn’t afraid of Megatron. Perhaps he should be, and sometimes he was – but they were alone. And in the dark, Megatron could be trusted.
Ironhide would haul him off to Ratchet’s little psychology specialist if he ever said so, though.
Megatron chuckled, his pede pushing down against him forcefully enough to press him down into the pile of deconstruction debris. His array’s external nodes lit up under the rough touch, and despite his battle protocols rerouting power to his weapons systems and reaction circuits he felt the first prickles of a charge building in his wiring. Optimus narrowed his optics – what sort of game was Megatron playing at?
“I am alone because there is no match for me in all the little armies the Senate has put together around you,” he said, leaning down. His cannon glowed menacing purple. “Only you – and by coincidence, tonight it is you alone who acts as my prey.”
“Prey?” Optimus repeated, his optics narrowing.
“Indeed,” Megatron said cryptically. “Do you know what losing one’s closest friend does to a mech?”
Systems jolted out of alignment by the initial explosion roared back online, sudden anger uncorrupted by fear flooding through him.
"I do," he said.
The ex-gladiator moved like lightning, hooking his servos around the backs of Optimus’ knees and wrenching them up, apart, bending his thighs up parallel to his body, forcing Optimus’ backstruts to curve. The pede between his legs was suddenly painful, preventing his hips from lifting, the hydraulics in his inner thighs bent in ways he didn’t have specs for. He snarled and lashed out, his composure snapped. His cannon fired; the first bolt went wide as his fist connected with Megatron’s chest, but the second sheared off the tip of a proud shoulder spike.
“Orion was my friend,” Megatron said calmly, as though the damage meant nothing. Gladiator armor was infamously thick; it probably felt like little more than a tickle to his sensornet. “My lover, my equal in zeal if not physical strength. Losing him to first the Senate, then you, hurt more than I would have imagined.”
“Orion Pax and I are one and the same,” Optimus doggedly insisted. He kicked out, but Megatron’s grip on his legs was strong. “You lost me when you refused to see anything but war in our future.”
His backstruts ached with the unnatural position Megatron held him in. He was at Megatron’s mercy, held in a way that mimicked sexual submission, that bared his valve panel to the mech above him and would even if he managed to close his legs against the gladiator’s hold. His ventilations heaved, fans whirring rapidly as situational-response protocols tried to decide whether this was the prelude to a beating or to a rape. The signals in Megatron’s stance and field were unfamiliar, anger mixed with desire and base pleasure.
And still, Optimus realised, he was unafraid.
He felt his optics go wide as Megatron’s interface panel pressed against his own. “That is the interesting thing,” the warlord said, manually hooking Optimus’ legs around his hips. “In fact, I never lost you. Your role in my life simply changed. The boundary between what you did, and what was the rest of the world, changed. Overlapped. You went from my friend to my nemesis, but the key to that is in the terminology. Either way, you are still mine.”
“And this is why you—“ he broke off with a startled oh! as Megatron shifted backwards, and the muzzle of his cannon was pressed very deliberately against Optimus’ interface array. The weapon’s charged vibrations flooded through his frame, powerful EM flares reaching into Optimus’ internals, his circuits brought to red-hot with reactive pleasure inside the tick of a second. He met Megatron’s red gaze with a look of wide-opticked confusion, and opened his mouth to ask what exactly the ex-gladiator thought he was doing, but what came out instead was a ragged moan.
Megatron shifted the setting on his cannon higher, and Optimus felt it, felt the mechanisms tick over, felt the intense electromagnetic field the weapon gave off flicker and change, polarities shifting in an artificial way that set his spark and field on edge but felt so good against his interface circuits. His situational protocols made their decision, shutting off his battle functions—he kept his weapons engaged through pure force of will and a quick code modification—and shunting his charge through to his interface hardware and processors. The heat pooled at the apex of his legs, spreading down his sides and the insides of his thighs.
“You may think of it as me testing a theory,” Megatron’s deep velvet voice rumbled. His cannon cycled up to a setting so high components smoked, the mechanisms inside flaring tongues of energy that reached through solid metal, charge conducting invisibly through cannon shielding, inner thigh armor and array casing alike.
Optimus screamed his overload, frame locking up as his hydraulics froze, circuits blazing with release, his valve clamping down on nothing.
Movement, strong and quick. Megatron’s servos caught him by the shoulders, effortlessly flipping onto his chest.
He landed facefirst on the debris, sharp pain lancing through his thorax as his windshield shattered on impact. A heavy weight settled on his back before he could push himself up, points of pressure on his shoulder, his hip. His legs were roughly drawn apart, aft lifted just high enough for a clawed servo to slip in front of his hips, and then there was a moment where his spark twisted painfully before he’d even realised his valve panel was open and Megatron’s fingers were inside him, stretching, twisting, spreading apart. He moaned, loud and shocked, his own autonomics pushing himself back and into the touch, unconsciously trying to push Megatron’s fingers deeper.
A fourth finger joined the three already in his valve, the burning stretch enough to make him arch and cry out: loud, desperate. A part of him—a large, selfish part—wanted it, wanted this, so badly it hurt. He shouldn’t, it would be betraying everything he stood for.
“It is all a matter of perception,” Megatron said, as though he could read Optimus’ thoughts. The fingers drew back, clawed tips pressed considerately against each other, and rammed inwards, hard enough to hurt. “Think about it, Optimus.” He chuckled darkly, his field switching moods so sharply the feedback crackled straight from Optimus’ spark to his valve. Those fingers gave another sharp thrust and twist, the sounds they made as they slipped through his lubricant wet and obscene. He was ready for it, dripping lubricant, his array pouring wet heat. His thighs shook underneath Megatron’s supporting servo as the other withdrew from his valve, quickly replaced by the blunt pressure of something much larger.
He could fight everything, everything but the reactions of his own body.
Optimus gave a wordless moan, his field thick with guilt, and surrendered.
“Shareware,” Megatron’s voice grunted in his audial, and the thick invasion of his spike stretched Optimus gloriously wide. “Lower than a buymech, Prime. Do you know what they call a mech who opens his legs for the first mech to master him? A slave.”
He held still for a moment as his spike sheathed fully inside Optimus. Current flowed between them, raw natron pleasure; Optimus’ valve calipers struggled to adjust to the sheer size of him, sliding open as far as they would go, the metalmesh lining stretched taut, every sensor cluster nestled up against the hard, hot metal of Megatron’s spike. Every tiny movement as Megatron adjusted above him moved their arrays together: Megatron’s spike housing grinding against his outer sensors, the little wash of electric heat as withdrawals too brief to notice flicked out the tiny barbs that covered the shaft of the gladiator’s spike, the blunt pressure of the head against Optimus’ terminal node cluster.
“Hypocrite,” Optimus managed, any words the rest of that sentence might have held torn away as Megatron pulled his hips back, barbed spike tearing trails of ecstasy too intense to be pleasure across his neural net, then slammed his hips back in, the curve of his spike just right to hit dead centre in Optimus’ terminal node. Lubricant gathered and overflowed, spilling out past Megatron’s spike and down Optimus’ hips and gathered thighs.
He couldn’t hold back a moan, low sound spiralling up into a scream, torn from his vocaliser over the wet shlep of his valve being roughly, cruelly, expertly fragged, the sharp clang of Megatron’s hips against his aft. Hypersensitive, he felt each and every dribble of lubricant trickling down his thighs, the ridges of Megatron’s spike as they passed through each constricting caliper ring, his body convulsing around Megatron as it simultaneously tried to push him out, and pull him deeper.
“You’re a slave, Prime,” Megatron whispered cruelly, his lips curving into a smirk against Optimus’ audial as he drove into him again. “My slave. Do you know why?”
His vision flashed white with every powerful thrust, every rush of electric release as the microcircuits in his valve connected with Megatron at the peak of each thust. “No—ooh, Primus— I don't-”
Behind him, Megatron’s grin stretched wide.
“Because you haven’t told me to stop.”
***