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The lights in the Council Hall were harsher than they needed to be—white-bright and focused down from above in sterile, militant cones. Optimus stood behind the speaker’s console, waiting for the last of the camera rigs to be adjusted. His plating was polished, every inch buffed smooth, optics lit with the artificial calm of rehearsed conviction. But below the quiet composure of his posture, just beneath the armor along his inner pelvic plating, something soft and compact trembled.
A low vibration. Steady. Controlled.
His fingers flexed against the surface of the console—curling subtly, deliberately. One of the diplomats shifted in the front row. Another rustled a datapad. Optics shifted toward him in the rows beyond. They were waiting. Megatron sat just three meters away, in the front row with his arms draped across the back of the bench, his frame relaxed, his expression unreadable. But his optics were not passive. They were trained directly on Optimus like a scope.
And the remote was in his hand.
Optimus’ voice activated the podium. It crackled softly, and the room hushed.
“Esteemed delegates. Comrades. This cycle, we gather not as combatants, but as Cybertronians.” he said, the word rolling low and smooth through his vocalizer. “Peace requires intention. Effort. The active resistance of instinct.”
The vibration rose a notch—just a thread of stimulation, enough to distract without debilitating him. Optimus inhaled through his vents, slow. Managed.
He could feel the base of the plug against his inner interface nodes—deep, snug, the bottom of it held in place by his modesty panel. It was seamless. No one would know. He had checked twice in the mirror backstage after Megatron had walked off, smug and silent, the control unit still clutched in his palm.
“Even now,” he continued, “during a ceasefire that both factions agreed upon, we wrestle with that instinct. We want to fight. To dominate. To survive by submission of the other.”
Another pulse. Stronger now—sudden, hard. His voice caught. A flicker. Just half a note off-pitch, but it rang in his own audio sensors like a klaxon.
He didn’t move. His optics didn’t shift. Only his thighs tensed under the plating, the hydraulics within resisting the impulse to lock.
Megatron sat completely still. His thumb hovered—just barely—over the device resting in his lap. He wasn’t smirking. That made it worse. If he’d shown any pleasure, any indulgent cruelty, Optimus could hate him for it openly. But he simply watched. Quietly. Patiently. Like he could wait all day for his toy to tremble.
Optimus’ fingers curled slightly tighter around the edge of the podium. He missed a line.
“The war has lasted longer than most of us have been functional,” he said, his voice level again, though rougher at the edges. “We know battle. We know fire. We know victory and loss—but we do not know what it means to live beside one another without fear.”
His valve was beginning to pulse—not actively, but with that pre-activation throb that came with high stimulation. The plug was tight inside him, just firm enough to make him feel every shift in intensity.
He glanced at Megatron. Not long. Just a flicker of optical contact.
Megatron tilted his head. No smile. No emotion.
The next pulse hit harder. Optimus swayed almost imperceptibly on his feet. The plug vibrated in a pulsing pattern now—quick, sharp bursts, like feedback against the lining of his valve.
He cleared his throat. That bought him a second.
“If we want peace,” he said, and the words were starting to strain now—each one pressed from his processor like he was holding back a groan, “we must not think of it as an end. Peace is not the closing of a conflict. It is the acceptance of restraint.”
Megatron’s optics narrowed.
Another pulse. Longer this time—drawn out. A warm pressure flushed across his valve’s inner walls. He could feel his slick systems reacting. His internal vents cycled more sharply.
He gripped the edge of the console tighter.
“Restraint,” he repeated, voice barely above a murmur. “The discipline to deny ourselves the luxury of vengeance. Of pleasure.”
The room was still. Not even the clink of armor in a seat.
And Megatron—
Megatron adjusted his grip on the remote, subtly. Like it was nothing.
The warmth was growing between his thighs now, low and blooming and awful. Optimus held his ground, vocalizer steady, but inside, he could feel the stimulation unfolding into heat, the rhythmic hum teasing along the rims of his interface valve. The plug was more than mechanical—it was precise, designed for overload, targeted pressure. The kind of stimulation he couldn’t ignore without consequence.
He continued. Carefully. A measured cadence.
“We are capable of restraint,” he said. “Even in the presence of those we once saw as enemies.”
He let the sentence stretch. Used the silence to focus his weight on one hip joint and not the other, trying to distract himself from the tension building in his pelvic expanse. The plug twitched again—short burst, then nothing. He almost gasped. It was the absence that cracked him for a moment.
“And restraint is more than control,” he added. “It is willpower.”
He locked optics with Megatron again, the first full-second glance since the speech began.
Megatron stared back, impassive. The tip of his thumb pressed the next setting. The device surged.
Optimus’ valve contracted around the pressure with a lurching ache, lubricant slowly beginning to gather at the rim. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t physically touched. The internal response was reflexive, mechanical. His valve sensors, designed for interfacing efficiency and sensation management, didn’t care that he was trying to deliver a public address to a room filled with dignitaries.
He clenched his denta together, briefly enough that the room wouldn’t notice. Beneath the console, one of his thighs shifted minutely—his plating brushing, trying to close tighter.
“I have stood beside M-Megatron on the battlefield more times than I can count,” he said, ignoring his mistake. “I have seen his methods. I have fought against them. And still…”
Still. Still.
Still his hips wanted to shift forward into the invisible rhythm between his thighs. Still the slick low hum of heat flickered across his neural net, drawing his thoughts further away from diplomacy and deeper into the terrible feeling of desire.
“…Still I believe restraint is possible,” he said, swallowing the heat in his throat. “Because I have practiced it. Even now.”
That one, Megatron caught. A flicker across his optics. A spark of challenge. He dialed the control with one tap.
The next vibration nearly took him out at the knees.
A deep, flooding pulse vibrated through his valve, against the tight sensitive rim, pressing into his most responsive nodes with slow, grinding force. Lubricant began to drip internally, small spurts from the mouth of the valve as his interface system reacted to the overload. The pressure against the calipers of his inner walls was like a phantom finger inside him— intentional.
Optimus’ hand spasmed on the podium edge. He squeezed the steel, hard, fracturing it slightly at one corner, silently praying the camera angle wouldn’t catch it.
His vocalizer lagged half a second before it recalibrated.
“I’m aware,” he rasped, “that peace feels unnatural. That it feels…exposed.”
The word hung there.
Exposed.
He glanced down—not long, just enough to avoid locking eyes again. He could feel the slickness building inside him, the faintest leak of heat between his thighs. His valve rim clenched again involuntarily. The plug held position. The vibrations stilled.
That was worse. The stillness. The waiting.
He cleared his throat again and straightened his stance, a vain attempt to regain composure, to stall his systems from activating fully. But even that felt fragile. His internals pulsed from denial, his interface array aching behind its plating. He felt wet. The seal between his thighs was tight, but not perfect—and the feeling of being filled but untouched was driving him to the brink.
“I want to speak frankly,” he said. “Because peace cannot be forged on euphemism.”
The corner of Megatron’s mouth twitched. Barely perceptible. A flicker of approval—or warning.
Another pulse surged. Not a buzz this time, but a trembling thrum—like a low growl vibrating inside his valve walls. It rolled deep, slow, dragging pleasure up into his lower abdomen like a magnetic draw.
His optics flickered. Not a glitch. Just heat.
He was hard.
Primus.
He was half-engorged behind his panel. The plug wasn’t just stimulating his valve—it was activating him completely. He had never been—active—while giving a speech. He had never wanted to. He shouldn’t want to now.
But something in his processor looped a thought back over itself:
He’s watching. He’s watching me take it.
He tried to focus. Reconnect to his speech, the political script, the pre-written notes buried in his memory banks. But the vibration spiked again and Optimus’ valve clenched around the movement like it wanted it. Like his body was betraying him, humiliating him publicly with arousal.
Another brief glance.
Megatron’s optics glinted back. Silent. Still. And somehow closer.
“…We must hold ourselves to higher standards,” Optimus said, and his vocalizer grated slightly, dragged down by the static friction of overheating systems. A pulse of pressure rolled through him again, slow and shuddering, gliding up the walls of his valve with a deliberate rhythm. “Even when no one is watching.”
A lie.
Megatron was watching.
His optics flicked to the warlord again—not by mistake this time. It was intentional. A glance laced with something obscene. The room’s silence was almost oppressive, filled with attentive faces, optics, data recorders, monitors. It should have grounded him. Instead it made the heat in his pelvis flare hotter. Every gaze felt like a spotlight trained just below his armor. And yet only one pair of optics made him feel exposed.
Megatron had crossed one leg loosely over the other. One elbow rested on the arm of his chair, the remote now held between two fingers like it weighed nothing, like it wasn’t the most dangerous object in the room. He looked… comfortable. Curious, almost. Like he wasn’t just watching Optimus squirm—he was waiting for the moment he slipped. Waiting to watch him fall apart with his mouth still moving.
A new vibration pulsed into his valve—shallow, quick, teasing. Just enough to draw another drop of lubricant from his port, not enough to satisfy. The pressure kept building behind his interface panel. His spike remained locked behind it, stiff and aching and unrelieved. His body wanted friction. Any kind. Any relief.
But instead, he spoke.
“We’ve grown accustomed to conflict,” he continued, voice deeper now, hoarse with the effort of masking the storm inside his frame. “It has become part of our identity. Our legacy. But that doesn’t mean it should define our future.”
Another wave hit. His hips barely shifted, a twitch of movement—a reflexive posture to ease the tension riding up his spinal struts. His thighs trembled for a split-second before he rebalanced. And still the heat built. His array was a mess: overstimulated, wet, clenching on nothing but the buzzing plug and the ghost pressure of fantasies he didn’t want to be having.
Megatron pinning him down in the dark behind the stage.
Megatron grinding into his valve while he writhed.
Megatron gripping his thighs, his voice saying—No, commanding—“Speak.”
Megatron sliding his fingers inside, one, two then three. He wanted—no needed, Megatron inside him.
Optimus blinked hard.
“I know how it feels to want to punish,” he said quietly. “To want to prove y-your strength not through patience, but through—control.”
That time, he saw it. The tiniest flex of Megatron’s large digit on the remote. The next surge was sharp, targeted, a deep-thrumming pressure against a node just behind his valve’s inner ring.
He flinched. Just slightly. He bit the inside of his mouth plate to stop the moan that rose in his throat. His cooling fans kicked on low—whining softly, too quietly for the audience to hear, but to him it sounded filthy. Like a signal that he was slipping out of control.
The vibration held steady. Pressing. Pressing.
He clenched around it involuntarily, his inner walls twitching with desperation, leaking slick around the seal. He could feel it now—warm, damp between his thighs. The frictionless heat pooling in soft glides against his frame. His valve tried to spasm again, half-primed for a spike that wasn’t coming.
And still, he talked.
“It takes discipline,” he rasped, “to stand before your former enemy and offer them… dignity.”
Megatron leaned forward a fraction. Elbows resting on his knees now, remote still cradled loosely, optics narrowed. He didn’t need to press the button. He didn’t have to. Optimus was already panting softly through his vents, holding himself upright with sheer will. He didn’t know if Megatron would go further. Or stop. Or—
Another pulse. Higher frequency. It buzzed right across the sweet spot of his node and made his knees nearly lock.
His voice cut out. Just for a second.
A murmur passed through the front rows. A few whispers. One of the reporters looked up, a slight tilt of confusion in their optics.
Optimus swallowed hard. “—Even… when dignity is the last thing they’ve offered you.”
His vocalizer smoothed again, the last syllable clinging to control. But the crack had happened. He’d stumbled.
And Megatron knew it.
The next buzz was softer. Gentler. Like a reward.
The worst part was how his body liked it.
He fought the urge to grind his hips forward against the podium. Every instinct screamed to move, to get just enough pressure on his node, just enough to tip him over the edge. But he stayed still. He had to. He was already leaking. If he came—if he so much as twitched wrong—someone would notice. His armor wasn’t that sealed.
Another thought slipped through:
He wants me to break here. In front of them. He wants them to see me fall.
And worse—
Part of me wants to.
The silence stretched just long enough to taste.
He stood like a statue behind the podium, hands braced to either side, optics lowered for one beat too long before he raised them again. A leader’s gaze. Impassive. Measured. But behind it—beneath it—his neural net buzzed with the dull throb of heat radiating from between his thighs. Not pain. Not pleasure. A fog of need.
It would be easy—so easy—to misstep now. To crack. To twitch.
But he didn’t.
He pulled in a breath through his vents—slow, shaky, pretending it was nothing—and continued. “We must find ways to live without war. And that will not come easily.”
The vibration was gone again. Off. The plug was still lodged inside him, firm and filled, keeping his valve spread open just enough to maintain a low-grade hum of overstimulated tension. His inner walls clenched and relaxed rhythmically, struggling to find purchase on a sensation that had ceased. His frame shivered once from deep within, subtle but unmistakable to him.
He almost missed the buzz.
He wanted it.
The absence of sensation was worse than the pressure. It let his thoughts fill in the silence, gave room to the images that drifted up unwanted—Megatron’s optics dark and fixed on him, the flick of a finger pressing the button, his spike heavy in one hand, his words low and brutal in Optimus’ audials. You’ll speak through it. Say it clean. Look them in the eye while you come undone.
He cleared his throat—softly, to bury the thought.
“There is no easy reconciliation. No switch we flip to reverse—what’s been done,” he said, voice low, tighter now. The grip on the podium had returned, one hand curled slightly inward. The metal creaked.
From the crowd: silence. Rows of faces, some expectant, others skeptical, a few disarmed by how sincere he sounded. Only one face held him—held him open.
Megatron hadn’t moved since his last touch. He sat as if he had all the time in the world. One digit traced a slow idle line along the remote’s edge, resting the pad of his thumb against it, not pressing.
Optimus fought not to look again. He didn’t need to. His frame knew the distance between them. The heat of that gaze felt more solid than the plug inside him.
He shifted just a little on his heel struts, realigning his balance to accommodate the pressure in his thighs. His spike was still half-pressing against its panel, straining gently, full but trapped. It pulsed in time with his ventilation.
He shouldn’t be this close to losing composure.
But every second Megatron didn’t press that button only made him burn worse.
“It will take time,” Optimus said, vocalizer rough. “Time, and discomfort. Not just politically. Personally. For each of us.”
His thoughts blurred with friction. His valve ached. His whole pelvic assembly ran warm enough now that his sensors began compensating with slight coolant release. Still not visible. Still hidden. But his internals whispered panic.
He was soaked.
He stole a glance. Not at Megatron—but the crowd. Just enough to track the optics, see the angle of the cameras. No one had noticed. No one except—
The remote clicked.
A low thrum. Slow, heavy, full.
His knees nearly gave. He gripped the edge of the podium and bit his bottom lip—held himself still. The vibration had shifted deeper, pressing against the ridge of his inner valve wall with a pulse timed to his own sparkbeat. Not fast. Not cruel. Just… purposeful.
It made his interface panel flicker again, spike pushing harder behind it.
It was shameful.
It was ecstasy.
Optimus’ gaze found Megatron, couldn’t help it—and this time, Megatron’s optics glowed just slightly brighter, lips faintly parted in what might have been a smirk.
The throb continued. And still—he spoke.
“I cannot demand forgiveness,” Optimus said, each word forced through the low drone of stimulation. “But I can model restraint. Because restraint is not weakness. It is power over one’s own— systems.”
He didn’t blink. Couldn’t. His mouth trembled slightly as he spoke the last word.
And Megatron, slowly—cruelly—turned the remote off.
Silence.
Like a void where pressure once lived.
Optimus’ systems nearly stuttered from the drop. His valve clenched around the absence. Nothing filled it. He trembled once, visibly.
He’s edging me.
He’s doing it in front of all of them.
He swallowed hard. His voice dropped even lower—into something that almost sounded like warning, almost sounded like desire.
“And power… without control,” he murmured, “is only destruction.”
And this time, Megatron pressed the button again—just once.
The vibration returned.
There was a pause—he let it stretch deliberately.
A leader’s silence meant something. It commanded attention. It gave weight to what followed.
But for Optimus, this silence was a battlefield.
The vibration inside him had resumed its deep, rhythmic pulse, not overwhelming—but persistent. No teasing now. It worked into him like a low, knowing hand, cupping his slick-wet valve, coaxing his internals into motion. It rolled across his most sensitive node like tide over metal, enough to keep him on edge, to keep his spike hard behind its panel, the need blooming into something painful.
He didn’t want to shift. Didn’t dare. But his leg trembled slightly.
“Power…” he said, voice quieter, softer than before—like it had to be spoken from somewhere deeper. “It always wants to move. To act. To dominate. That’s its nature. It’s temptation.”
He shouldn’t have said “dominate.” The word clung to his tongue, echoing inside his helm like a bad song.
Megatron was still seated.
Still calm.
Still watching him as if Optimus had already surrendered.
Another pulse rolled through his valve—deeper this time, longer. He clenched around it. Slick noise, just audible to him, came from inside his closed panel. He hoped to Primus no one else could hear it, hoped the podium’s size masked the flex of his thighs.
He swallowed, mouth dry.
“But,” he said, and his voice caught—one word, snagging on the heat building in his throat. “But power is meaningless without… without discipline.”
The delay between “without” and “discipline” was less than a second. But enough. Enough that one of the reporters glanced up. The delay made it real. Made it feel like a stutter.
He tried to keep speaking. He felt like he was talking in circles.
“Discipline is…” He blinked. It came again—harder this time, longer. His node throbbed and sent a flutter through his entire pelvic array. “Is— nnnh— is what separates tyranny from s-strength.”
The noise he made— nnnh —was quiet. Could’ve passed as clearing his throat. But Megatron heard it. His optics narrowed, his hand flexed faintly on the remote, and his mouth curled up at the corner.
The bastard was going to make him come in front of the High Council.
No. Not yet. He couldn’t. He needed to last.
Another slow drag of friction rolled over his inner lining. His fans kicked on harder—still within normal range, but edging into audible. He clenched his jaw.
“I—I know,” he said, trying to string the words together while the pressure inside him doubled. “That… many of you—still harbor—anger. P-Pain. And some of you—some of you may not want to let that go.”
His fingers gripped the edge of the podium hard. He knew he was leaking down his thighs. His panel was catching the majority of it, but his interface was begging for release—hot, soaked, spasming in short bursts of desperate tension.
His optics flicked toward Megatron again.
He shouldn’t have.
The look on Megatron’s face was one of cold enjoyment. Not lust. Not hunger. Not even amusement.
It was satisfaction.
Because Optimus was obeying. Because Optimus was enduring it. Because Optimus had become his stage-puppet.
“Because pain,” he said, voice rough now, lips dry, “pain reminds us we were alive. It reminds us of what we lost.”
He exhaled slowly.
Another hard vibration dragged across his node and stayed there, buzzing.
His legs locked. His thighs clenched. His spark skipped a beat and a thin moan—it couldn’t have been anything else—escaped his vocalizer before he cut it off with a cough.
This time, several people glanced up.
A silence followed.
“Excuse me,” he said, almost breathless, optics dimming for a fraction of a second.
Megatron hadn’t moved.
He hadn’t needed to.
Optimus straightened slowly. He had to fight to do it. He was close now. Too close. If Megatron didn’t back off—if this kept going—he wouldn’t make it to the end of the speech.
But somehow, that was the point.
He cleared his throat, leaned on the podium.
“And yet,” he said, “we must… choose peace.”
He shouldn’t have used “must.” It sounded desperate. It sounded like a plea.
“Even if it’s uncomfortable,” he continued. “Even if it demands things from us we never imagined giving.”
The remote pulsed twice.
Optimus moaned again—low, too quiet for most—but Megatron heard it.
And for a moment, Prime’s optics met his.
The warlord didn’t move.
Didn’t blink. But the look on his face said everything. You’re going to break. And they’re going to see it.
And you’re going to let me.
There was a sharpness to his breath now—measured, audible. His vents hissed softly in between phrases, subtle but unmissable if one was paying attention. And some were.
A few optics in the audience had begun to shift. Not enough to disrupt, not enough to accuse. But aware. Some tension in the front row—neutral command officers, perhaps sensing something beneath the surface. The mech behind the cameras was narrowing his optics.
But Optimus kept going.
Because Megatron had not let up.
The vibrator was pulsing now in slow, high-pitched waves, perfectly calibrated. It wasn’t brutal. That would have been easier. A rough overload could be disguised with a wince or a stall. But this was… elegant. Refined. Every second dragged across his node like silk-drawn blades—no relief, only the tease, the endless whisper of almost.
“I believe,” he said, swallowing, “that each of us must… consider not only what we’ve lost, but what we risk by refusing to move forward.”
His hands twitched. One of his fingers spasmed against the podium edge. His thumb flexed awkwardly and then froze. The tremor didn’t stop.
His valve was clenching uncontrollably now—cycling open and closed, a slick, wet suck against the vibrator. It was obscene, if he let himself feel it fully. His lubricant was leaking steadily, no longer held back. His spike had begun to ache from its confinement, its panel fluttering under the pressure like it might burst open.
Still, he did not stop.
“R-rebuilding is not just a function of resources,” he said, slurring slightly, “but a… a function of will. Of— mmh, Primus —of purpose.”
Another moan. Quiet, but real.
A few heads lifted now. Too many.
Optimus straightened instinctively—then immediately faltered. The movement shifted the plug deeper. His knees buckled—just slightly—and his vocalizer glitched mid-syllable with a sharp static click.
Megatron shifted in his seat.
Still composed. Still watching.
And the pulse doubled.
“F-function—,” Optimus whispered again, breath catching. “Forgi… veness.”
He swallowed. Hard. His hands squeezed the podium until metal groaned.
“Forgiveness,” he repeated, more firmly, correcting himself. “Is not compliance. It is not weakness.”
It was coming now. Too close. His frame trembled, spike hard and twitching against his panel, valve squeezing down against the vibrator in desperate, unsatisfied pulses.
He was so full. And so empty.
He glanced toward Megatron again. Just one second.
The warlord’s face was still. Not smirking anymore. Intent. Focused. Watching him with a gleam of something darker—pride, perhaps. Possession.
The remote clicked.
The vibration changed frequency—sharper now, strobing across his internal ridges in a tight, high cycle. Fast. Brutal.
It took everything not to cry out.
“W-we must… demand of ourselves…” Optimus said, his voice barely holding. “What we… what we d-d—dese— ”
A stammer.
He paused. Froze. Panic flashed across his field. Not visible—only to those tuned into him.
He reset his vocalizer with a click.
“What we deserve to be.”
The crowd stilled again.
He didn’t know if they had caught it.
His fans were roaring now. Lubricants leaked along the inside of his thigh plates. His whole frame was heating in pulses, tighter and tighter.
The heat was real. The want was agony.
And Megatron… had not looked away.
One digit tapped the remote again.
A single long pulse. Deep. Heavy. It buzzed through Optimus’ valve, hit his node directly, and held.
His mouth parted with a breathy whine.
And this time—this time—he leaned forward. Just an inch. One hand left the podium and braced the front edge, his body instinctively pushing downward into the vibration. His thighs clenched, array throbbing.
His optics lowered.
And he said nothing.
For four full seconds.
Then: “Unity is not com- mfhh… comfort.”
His hips shifted forward. He lifted his optics again.
“It is effort. Real—effort. To face the… the worst of ourselves, and still— still —choose each other.”
He was panting now. Subtle, but real. He was wet. He was clenching on nothing. His spike throbbed and leaked behind its panel in quiet bursts, aching with withheld release.
And he wanted it. He wanted Megatron to finish it. He wanted—
He locked eyes with Megatron.
Now, he mouthed—barely.
But Megatron didn’t press the button again.
He only sat there.
And waited.
He inhaled sharply.
The pulse had eased—but not stopped. Now it lingered in that maddening midpoint, the slow hum that burned worse than pain. Worse than teasing. It wasn’t stimulation anymore—it was haunting. His valve was overworked, oversensitive, soaked and fluttering uncontrollably with every breath. His thighs had gone numb with pressure. He could feel the static in his vision creeping in at the edges.
And still—he spoke.
“We… can’t restore what was lost.”
His tone was quieter now. Hoarser. Not with drama—but strain. And it was different from before. His pitch trembled faintly, like the vibrations were rattling through his very vocal lines.
He steadied his grip again. His servo had left a streak of slick on the corner of the podium.
“I’ve come to accept,” he said, “that this… new world we’re building… it won’t resemble what we had. Not entirely.”
He paused. Not for effect. For control.
He felt himself slipping again—his vents rising, rising, louder than before. His internals spasmed around the device. He clenched so hard it sent a burst of fluid down between his thighs, his pelvic seams slicking beneath the armor. His spike throbbed, angry in its cage.
He had to stay focused.
“Maybe that’s the point,” he said, more forcefully. “That survival isn’t… rebuilding the same structure. But making something… different. Something we’d never have allowed Our… sselves before.”
His optics lifted.
But he didn’t look at the crowd.
He looked at Megatron.
And his spark gave a hard, painful beat.
The Decepticon warlord didn’t smirk. Didn’t shift. His hand rested calmly on his thigh. But he knew. He always knew when Prime’s armor started shaking When his thighs locked. When the desperation overtook his restraint.
The remote clicked again.
Just once.
A single pulse—deep and drawn, like the hand of Primus dragging through his inner walls. It struck the node dead-on. Optimus’ knees buckled.
A half-step forward—his balance gone.
He caught himself with both hands on the podium, and the thud echoed slightly through the comm system. A murmur rippled through the back of the crowd. Two reporters exchanged glances. A cam drone zoomed in—not fast, but clearly recalibrating focus.
He had slipped.
He knew it.
So did they.
He straightened again— calmly, slowly. His venting had crossed a threshold—his fans audibly active now, whirring at his sides, his frame lit faintly by internal glow. Overclocked. There was no disguising it.
He made his voice lower.
“Forgive my fatigue. Long cycles,” he said shortly. “Reconstruction waits for no mech.”
A few polite chuckles.
That bought him a second.
Just one.
But the tension hadn’t faded.
He couldn’t shake it. The vibration hadn’t resumed—but the absence made it worse. Like being cut off mid-sentence. Like being left open.
And he was. He could feel the plug seated deep inside, still throbbing faintly with the memory of the last cycle. Still warm with his own lubricants.
He shouldn’t have looked down again.
But he did.
Just a flicker—across the crowd, across the front row, to him.
Megatron’s optics were narrow now. Reading every tick of his body language. The faint parting of his lips. The light tremble at his sides. Prime’s behavior was no longer invisible. Not to him.
And not, he suspected, to a few others now.
So Optimus did what he always did—he redirected.
“I don’t ask you to forget,” he said, voice steadier now, rising with forced command. “I ask you to build anyway. Despite what happened. Despite what was taken. The future we speak of—it won’t com- oh come clean. It won’t come simple. It comes with grief. With anger. With… uncertainty.”
Another pause.
This one stretched too long.
His fans were still going.
A droplet of fluid leaked down the inside of his thigh—he felt it trail down the seam, hidden just beneath the plates. He shifted just slightly to close his stance. No one would see it.
Unless they were watching.
“Survival is not fluid,” he said, the line sounding almost like a whisper. “It evolves. Or it collapses.”
Megatron’s hand twitched.
Optimus felt the anticipation in his own core now—like a rising scream he couldn’t voice.
The remote didn’t buzz.
It didn’t need to.
He was already right there—teetering at the brink, valve soaked and fluttering, spike straining to breach, and his optics faintly unfocused as he stared into the pit of a future that felt less like peace and more like submission.
“…so when… when we speak of peace…”
Optimus stopped.
The word hitched halfway out of his vocalizer like a sharp breath before sobbing. It was too tight. Too raw.
Another step in the wrong direction, and the wave was going to crash through him.
His thighs pressed together under the weight of it—valve spasming around the device, pulling in again and again like it needed something deeper, something harder. But there was only the pressure. The friction. The need.
He tried again.
“When we speak of… of forging forward…”
His optics were half-lidded now. He couldn’t keep them wide anymore. The heat, the vibrations, the thick, hot curl of lubricant backing inside his valve—it all blurred the light in front of him. The crowd became silhouettes. The podium, an anchor.
And Megatron—
Megatron sat still, calmly watching from the front row. One claw rested on his thigh, the remote tucked discreetly in palm.
It hadn’t buzzed in minutes.
But his body remembered.
The plug still throbbed with phantom pulses. His core clenched around it reflexively. Again. Again. He couldn’t stop.
He leaned forward—pretending to glance at his datapad. The angle shifted everything. Just enough.
And Megatron saw it.
His optics flicked—sharp. Calculating. Then he pressed.
Click.
Optimus bit his glossa.
The sudden, slow surge of vibration hit him like a beam to the chestplate.
It pulsed deep inside—thick, rolling waves that didn’t give him time to brace. His valve seized down hard, locking around the plug, suctioning the heat in tight. His frame arched imperceptibly. He gripped the podium.
Another pulse.
And another.
And then— deep, longer now.
His breath caught with a sound dangerously close to a moan.
“…ah—…”
One hand lifted instinctively toward his mouth—then faltered in midair, then dropped. It would look strange. No movement was better.
He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.
But his frame shivered.
And now the words wouldn’t come.
“…we… mmn—must…”
Another pulse. The toy’s ridges were stroking the upper edge of his valve now, grinding slow against his ceiling node. His fluid was building—he could feel it gathering, thick between his thighs. His spike jerked under its panel, unable to bear the pressure.
He couldn’t stop what was coming.
“…must h-hold… f—fast to… ah— to— …”
The tremor racked through him.
Optimus leaned harder into the podium. His thighs locked. His vents roared. His vocalizer clicked once—twice—as he struggled to suppress the next noise. But it came anyway. Soft. Guttural.
A low, almost breathless—
“—ohh… ngh—!”
His valve spasmed violently. The climax surged from deep within, thick and molten. He came hard— clenching around the vibrator, flooding it with hot transfluid. It leaked, unstoppable, down his thighs, between the armor seams. His spike twitched, untouched, barely held behind its panel, aching for friction it would never get.
The orgasm wracked him in near silence.
But not invisibly.
The pause was too long.
The air shifted in the room.
Noticed.
Someone shifted in their seat.
Another drone re-zoomed, too quickly this time.
He had seconds.
“…hold fast,” he rasped. “To vision. To the survival we… deserve. ”
He breathed through it. No shudder. No stumble now. He pulled himself upright, slow, deliberate. His fans were still going. His frame was glowing faintly with heat.
The stain was invisible, but the scent—if any of them had sharp olfactory sensors—was undeniable.
He cleared his throat. His next line came faster.
“Because if we don’t shape this future—someone else will.”
There was a beat. And then light applause. Sparse. Hesitant.
Megatron didn’t clap.
He only stared.
Optimus looked back.
The tension hadn’t left. It had deepened.
Because now—it wasn’t just between them. The room had felt something. Something wrong. A droplet of fluid rolled from between his thighs and struck the floor with a soft, unholy patter.
And he knew it wouldn’t be long before someone asked him about it.
The applause was lukewarm.
It wasn’t out of disrespect—no, they clapped. But not as one. The rhythm was off. Uneven. A few beats started too early, others too late. Mechs hesitated between glancing at each other and focusing on him, like no one was quite sure what they’d just witnessed. There had been something off. Not enough to call out.
But enough to notice.
Optimus stepped back from the podium slowly, hands releasing the edges with mechanical reluctance. His palms ached from how hard he’d gripped them. His limbs were stiff, over-tight, his thighs locked like girders holding back a faultline. Transfluid still leaked in thin pulses—hidden but present—coating the vibrator’s base deep inside his valve, every step risking exposure.
He felt every actuator grind in protest as he moved. Too hot. Too aware. Too wet. His plating twitched from residual charge. And through it all, the device remained. Silent now, unmoving—but unbearably felt. The ghost of each vibration still echoed up through his core.
Megatron had already risen.
He stood beside the aisle, arms casually crossed behind his back, looking as though he’d merely observed a political curiosity. His expression was unreadable. But his optics—
Optimus didn’t look at them again.
Couldn’t.
Not when he had to survive what came next.
The off-stage corridor was narrow, half-lit. Drones moved quietly along the edges, clearing signal feeds and resetting stabilizers. He kept his gait deliberate, shoulders high, stride measured. But something in him—it trembled. As though the speech had hollowed out something vital. His spark spun slow and heavy in his chest, like it was circling gravity it didn’t recognize.
He almost made it out.
Almost.
“Prime.”
The voice was casual. Too casual.
Optimus stopped, armor stiffening.
He turned.
Ultra Magnus.
Not in his uniform deadpan—he had the look of concern which was unusual. He wasn’t here to serve, He was here to observe.
And he had observed too well.
“You looked… off,” Magnus said gently, stepping closer. “Your field was—tense. And I think you missed the first drone cue near the middle. Are you alright?”
It was a kind question. A careful one.
But it sent a lance of panic through Optimus’ systems.
He looked at Magnus—his oldest ally. His most exacting second. Someone who knew him. Who would read the twitch of a digit, the pause between phrases. The stagger in his gait.
“I’m fine,” he said, too fast. “Just tired.”
“Tired?” Magnus stepped a little closer. “You seemed flushed. Fans were cycling hard by the end. Are you okay?”
Optimus tried to soften.
“Overclocking, probably. The notes were rewritten at the last minute. I had to route auxiliary processing to linguistic parsing.”
It was a good excuse.
Magnus nodded—but not immediately. His optics swept him quickly. Not suspicious. Just concerned. And that was somehow worse.
“Alright,” he said at last. “Just… take recharge soon. We’ll need your comm for reconstruction council at 0400.”
Optimus nodded.
But Magnus didn’t move.
His gaze lingered.
Then—just as he turned to leave—he said it:
“…You’re leaking energon. Left thigh plate.”
And walked away.
The corridor went silent.
Optimus stood there, alone.
He wasn’t leaking energon.
He knew that.
But did Magnus?
The private room was just off the northern wing of the hall—empty, featureless, sterile. A folding table. A chair. One paneled wall with a thin mirror, the kind meant to reflect composure rather than truth. The lights were kept low—Optimus hadn’t turned them up.
He didn’t need to see himself right now.
He stood there, hunched, two servos planted against the edge of the table as he tried to breathe. His plating trembled visibly now that no one was watching. The buzz had stopped, but his body hadn’t. His valve was still pulsing with ghost-spasms, overstimulated and leaking, his thighs damp with cooling slick. The release hadn’t satisfied anything. If anything, it had hollowed him out.
He gripped the table harder.
His spike throbbed inside its housing. The device was still inside him—warm, inert, present. He hadn’t dared remove it yet. Part of him didn’t even want to.
That scared him.
He looked up at his reflection—and almost didn’t recognize the mech in the mirror. Optics blown, lips parted, chest heaving, armor split at the seams with heat.
He looked ruined.
And then the door clicked.
A slow, deliberate release of the latch. Not hurried. Not cautious.
He turned—too quickly—and the small room seemed to contract inward.
Megatron stood just inside the doorway. No pretense. No false expressions. The door shut behind him with a soft hydraulic sigh. There was no need to lock it.
They both knew no one would interrupt.
“I thought I might find you here,” Megatron said, voice low and smooth.
Optimus didn’t respond.
His mouth was too dry. His frame too weak. His instincts too tangled between rage and need. Every part of him screamed for distance, and yet he couldn’t move. Couldn’t retreat.
Megatron took one step forward. Then another. Each one purposeful. Calculated.
“You gave quite the performance,” he said. His optics flicked slowly down Optimus’ form—taking in the dim armor, the trembling vents, the faint streak of transfluid still glistening down his thigh.
Optimus shifted his stance—but it was too late. There was no disguising any of it. Not from him.
“You timed it,” Prime said hoarsely. And Megatron didn’t deny it.
“It would’ve been a waste not to.”
Optimus’ optics narrowed, but he still hadn’t moved. The table behind him pinned him in place. His hand clenched its edge until the metal creaked.
“You think this is a game?”
“No,” Megatron said, voice darkening. “I think this is a revelation.”
He moved closer—too close now. The heat of his frame rolled off in waves. He reached up, slow as gravity, and didn’t touch him. His hands hovered just beside Optimus’ hip, not making contact.
“I watched you tremble,” he murmured. “I watched you lose control— and stay upright. That wasn’t a fall, Prime. That was impressive.”
Optimus ex-vented sharply.
“You watched me—degrade.”
“I watched you evolve. ”
Megatron leaned in now, optics inches from his helm. Still not touching. The restraint was worse than contact. It pressed in around him like the walls themselves had turned liquid.
“You don’t want peace,” Megatron whispered. “You want permission. To stop pretending you’ve never bled for this. To stop hiding the part of yourself that aches to be used.”
A shudder ran down Optimus’ spine.
He hated how true it sounded.
He hated that his valve clenched around the inert device just hearing those words.
He hated the low, needy moan that almost escaped his lips.
Megatron’s optics lit faintly.
“You’re still wet,” he said, gaze locked low.
Optimus turned his face away—but didn’t push him off.
His voice came quieter now.
“You should leave.”
Megatron tilted his head.
“You don’t want that.”
A click of silence.
“No,” Optimus said finally. “I don’t.”
And the distance vanished.
Megatron’s hands closed over his hip— firmly now—and pushed him flush against the table’s edge. The contact was searing. Real. The first touch between them since the device went in.
Optimus gasped.
Megatron leaned into the crook of his audio, voice hot.
“Then ask me.”
Optimus’ vents stuttered. He trembled—then steadied.
“I want it,” he said. Quiet. Honest. Humiliated.
Megatron’s hand ghosted down—toward his valve.
“No. Not like that.”
Optimus grit his denta. A low, pained sound slipped through his throat.
“…Use me.”
Megatron’s hand slid down, finally curling between his legs. “Good,” he murmured.
Optimus didn’t brace when Megatron touched him again—he couldn’t. His thighs had gone weak, his plating twitching involuntarily beneath every inch of contact. Every movement set his vents screaming, his spike pulsing, his valve clenching on nothing but memory and slick and heat.
Megatron’s palm pressed low now—under the curve of his interfacing panel.
“You’re a mess down here,” he murmured. “Is that all for me?”
Optimus didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
He bit down on the inside of his cheek and held still as Megatron’s fingers curled against his panel. The latch clicked open with mechanical ease, revealing the still-glimmering slit of his valve— swollen, flushed with charge, fluttering as if it had been waiting.
Megatron inhaled.
“Primus, You’re open.”
And he was.
His folds were soaked. The inner ring spasmed with overstimulation the second fresh air hit it. Lubricant coated everything—thick, glistening strands that stretched and clung between his inner plating. The toy was still nestled inside, a dull, black shape glinting wetly within him.
Megatron hooked a digit inside, smoothly, agonizingly slow .
Optimus’ entire frame jolted.
“Stay still,” Megatron murmured, voice low. “I’ll make this easy.”
He didn’t.
He took his time.
He curled his digits inward and slowly withdrew the device—slick coating his fingers, resistance dragging against the rim of Prime’s swollen valve. It made a quiet, obscene sound as it slid free, catching with a faint suction before popping out completely. Lubricant spilled after it, dripping in heavy threads down Megatron’s palm, down Optimus’ inner thigh.
Prime groaned—quiet, broken.
“So tight.” Megatron said softly, cradling the now-glimmering toy. He set it on the edge of the table without looking, and wiped his fingers against his own thigh, slick smearing across the dark plating like proof.
And then he touched him again.
One hand braced at Optimus’ hip. The other returned between his legs—fingers gliding up the trembling line of his valve lips. A long, slow stroke. No pressure—just presence. The contact made Optimus twitch violently.
He tried to speak. Failed.
Megatron leaned in, his voice now just against his audio.
“You’re already clenching. Don’t lie. Your body’s aching for it— again. You’re gonna come just because I’m inside you..”
Optimus whimpered.
He didn’t mean to. It slipped out of him like static—raw and unguarded.
And then the fingers pushed in.
Two at once—deep, slow, gliding past every slick, swollen ridge inside him. His inner ring spasmed around the intrusion, trying to reject it and pull it deeper all at once. The heat was unbearable.
“Shh,” Megatron whispered, curling his fingers. “Let me.”
His claws moved in slow, precise motions—angled perfectly to stroke the edge of Optimus’ ceiling node, dragging against the soft, swollen tissues within. The slick noises echoed in the tight room, wet and rhythmic. His valve pulsed violently.
Optimus clenched the table harder, his optics fluttering offline.
“Y-you—” he gasped.
Megatron stroked deeper.
“I what?”
Optimus groaned.
“You— know what you’re doing.”
Megatron smiled.
“Of course I do.”
The rhythm deepened.
Every stroke grazed something raw. Something bruised from earlier. Something needy. His frame pushed back against Megatron’s hand, his hips starting to grind involuntarily. He moaned low and deep, letting his spike throb untouched inside its casing, just to feel the contrast. The denial.
Megatron’s fingers curled again.
“Overloaded once,” he said, voice low, “and you’re still this tight. Still begging.”
“I’m not—” Optimus choked out.
But his valve twitched.
Megatron’s mouth hovered near his audio.
“You are. I can feel it.”
The pads of his fingers rolled against the topmost node inside— his sweet spot, swollen and slick and sensitive beyond measure. Optimus gasped aloud, hips jerking forward.
He was close. Too close.
“No—wait—” he hissed.
Megatron didn’t.
The rhythm continued, perfectly angled, stroking him from inside with mechanical precision—every curl and drag like a command written in code. Optimus’ frame jolted forward, helm lowered, vents shrieking.
And then he broke.
It hit harder this time. Deeper.
His valve clenched down around Megatron’s fingers like it meant to trap them, hold them inside forever. Slick surged, coating his thighs again. A broken moan tore from his vocalizer—lower than the last, almost feral.
Megatron didn’t stop.
He worked him through it—every spasm, every clench, until the overload passed and left Optimus sagging forward against the table, plating twitching, lips parted.
The silence after was deafening.
Just the sound of venting. Wet metal.
And then:
“Again,” Megatron said.
The words caught in Optimus’ throat before they even began. Megatron’s fingers were still inside him—slow now, gliding in a long, possessive rhythm. Not fucking. Stroking. Each movement slick, precise, invasive.
And Optimus was open. Soft. Leaking onto Megatron’s hand, thighs trembling, hands braced on the table like they were the only thing holding him together.
“I want to hear it,” Megatron said.
His voice was low. Controlled.
Optimus barely turned his helm.
“H-hear what…”
Megatron leaned in behind him, his mouth nearly brushing the cable-junction at the back of Prime’s neck. His voice purred like fire down steel.
“Your speech.”
Optimus blinked.
“What—”
“Start from the beginning,” Megatron said. “The one you just gave. Word for word.”
He curled his fingers inside.
Optimus jerked.
“Nn—ah—”
Megatron chuckled low. “Yes. Like that. ”
Optimus gritted his denta. His optics flashed, flickering with disbelief—but he didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. Not when his valve clenched around those digits so hungrily.
He drew a trembling vent.
Then he began.
“E-Esteemed…delegates. Comrades—This cycle, we gather nnn —not as combatants, but as Cyber…t-tronians…”
His voice cracked mid-word as Megatron thrust deep again—slow, gliding pressure that pressed just under the ceiling node, stroking that edge of heat buried inside him.
“Go on,” Megatron said, quieter now. “Don’t lose your place.”
Optimus moaned again—then forced the sound down. Bit it between his denta.
He tried again.
“Peace… requires I-intention. Effort—The active resistance ngh—of instinct...”
Megatron’s hand moved again, wet and steady. He twisted his wrist just enough to change the angle. The sound it made was filthy —slick dragging over slick, interrupted only by Prime’s staggered breath.
“Mmh— E-Even now, during a ceasefire that both… fuh —factions agreed upon,”
Another choked moan. Megatron thrust harder.
“…w—nghh…wrestle with… ahh—instinct—”
“Want t-to— frag —fight, we—we want to dominate—”
“S-survive by… uhhhnn—by submission—of—ah—the other—!”
Megatron twisted his wrist.
“P-Primus—!”
His knees nearly buckled.
Megatron’s voice was calm—amused.
“Is that what you believe?”
Optimus bit his lower lip until the metal creaked.
“…I believe… oh—” He broke again, spine arching.
He didn’t even remember where he left off.
Megatron was grinning.
“Start again.”
Optimus’ voice cracked.
“I—I can’t—”
“Yes,” Megatron said, and pushed deeper, “you can. ”
The fingers inside him curled perfectly—his valve clenched like it knew the motion. His inner ring fluttered, every part of him soaked and pulsing.
And still—he spoke.
“Together,” he moaned, “we s-stand under—nnn—under the burden of p-peace…”
He gasped. That was the line he forgot.
Thick digits stroked his node again. His entire frame jolted, stuttering mid-sentence like a machine fed the wrong code.
“…burden ohh— of… p-peace,” he repeated helplessly, as if that would satisfy something.
“Louder,” Megatron said. “Say it again.”
“…Burden of peace.”
“Good. Now tell them why. ”
Optimus groaned. His optics squeezed shut. His chest hitched.
“…Because it’s heavy,” he said. “Because it—it hurts—”
Megatron’s other hand reached forward— gripped his jaw.
Pulled his helm back until their optics met in the mirror.
“And who helps you carry it?”
Optimus trembled.
“…You do.”
He hadn’t meant to say it.
The truth slid out of his throat like sob—hot, shameful, undeniable.
Megatron’s optics darkened.
And that’s when he changed tempo.
The strokes deepened. Got rougher. Faster. Not punishing—taking His digits curled deep into him, pushing against the thick bundle of nerves inside until Optimus could barely breathe. Every sound that came from him was half-speech, half-moan.
“This war— ghnn —has lasted… nnh—longer—”
“Than most— frag —most of us’ve been… functional—”
“Louder.”
“… functional —!”
“Say my name.”
Optimus whimpered.
“…Megatron.”
“Say it again.”
“Mega—mmh—.”
“Again.”
“…M-Megatron—!”
And then he came.
No warning. No time.
Just a hard, body-shaking overload that tore through him like a power surge—his valve clenched down so violently around Megatron’s fingers that it nearly forced them out. Slick gushed over his thighs, onto the table, dripping audibly onto the floor.
He moaned.
Low. Broken.
And then again, softer. A plea. A prayer.
“…Megatron…”
Silence.
The air hung heavy.
And Megatron withdrew his fingers.
Slowly. Wetly.
The sound made Optimus shiver.
He collapsed forward onto the table, arms shaking, vents hissing loudly as his overload bled out of him in shudders.
Megatron wiped his hand across Optimus’ own thigh, spreading the fluid there.
Then he spoke.
“…Again.”
“Go ahead, control me
Say the word and own me
I’ll be anything you want
Just don’t leave me lonely…”
—Alex Saad
