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The war had chewed through this patch of Cybertron’s crust years ago, leaving nothing but shattered scars and the husks of the fallen. Now it was just the two of them—Megatron, laying in the rubble, and Optimus Prime, standing over him, silent as a monument.
Megatron’s frame was a ruin. His right arm hung limp, his fusion canon shredded, its barrel cracked, exposing yawning wounds that sparked with each passing second. Energon seeped from gashes in his chest plating, pooling beneath him in a sluggish, glowing puddle. One optic flickered, dim and erratic, while the other was dark, shattered in its socket. His legs were a mangled mess—shrapnel had torn through the joints, leaving them useless. He’d dragged himself this far on sheer spite, clawing through the dirt with one functioning arm. The other dangled, wires spitting sparks where it had been half-ripped from its moorings.
He was dying. He knew it. Prime knew it. The air hummed with the inevitability of it, thick and heavy as the smoke curling off the wreckage.
“Do it, Prime,” Megatron rasped, his voice a grinding snarl, wet with energon that gurgled in his throat. “Finish it.” He bared his dentae in a smooth, bloody grin, daring him. “You’ve wanted this for millennia. Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft now.”
Optimus didn’t move. His battle mask was retracted, exposing a face weathered by too many wars—scratched and dented, but still infuriatingly composed. His optics glowed a steady blue, unreadable, fixed on Megatron like he was studying some ancient relic instead of a dying enemy. The Matrix pulsed faintly in his chest, a dull heartbeat of light, but his hands stayed at his sides. No weapon raised. No killing blow.
Megatron’s grin faltered, twisting into a sneer. “What’s the matter? Lost your nerve? Or is it guilt?” He coughed, a slick, rattling sound, and energon splashed on his chin and ran down his neck. “Don’t pretend you’re above it. You’ve got my spark on your conscience already—might as well make it official.”
Optimus said nothing. The silence stretched, sharp and oppressive, broken only by the distant screams somewhere in the debris. Megatron’s optic narrowed, his chest heaving with the effort of staying online. He hated that silence. Hated the way it sat there, heavy and smug, like Prime thought he was better than this—better than him. Always had. Always would.
“Coward,” Megatron spat, dragging himself forward an inch, digits scraping against the ground. “You think this changes anything? You think dragging it out makes you noble? Kill me, or I’ll crawl back and rip your spark out myself.”
Still nothing. Optimus just stared, his expression carved from stone. Then, slowly—too slowly—he crouched, bringing himself level with Megatron. Close enough that the heat of his frame cut through the chill of the wasteland air. Close enough that Megatron could see the faint flicker of something in those optics. Not pity. Not triumph. Something colder. Something that made Megatron’s energon run a little thinner.
“You’re not dying today,” Optimus said finally, his voice low, steady, like he was stating a fact instead of making a choice. “Not like this.”
Megatron barked a laugh, harsh and jagged. “Oh, spare me the sanctimony. What’s the plan, then? Parade me through Iacon in chains? Let your Autobots cheer while you play the merciful hero?” He leaned forward, as much as his broken frame allowed, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss. “You don’t have the guts for that either, do you?”
Optimus didn’t flinch. Didn’t rise to the bait. He straightened, towering over Megatron again, and turned his head slightly, as if listening to something in the distance. The wind howled through the shattered landscape, carrying the faint whine of Autobot engines—distant, but closing. Reinforcements. Megatron’s lip curled. Of course. Prime’s little flock, come to gawk at the fallen tyrant.
But Optimus didn’t signal them. Didn’t call out. Instead, he bent down again, sliding one arm under Megatron’s shattered torso. The contact was rough—and Megatron snarled, thrashing weakly.
“Don’t touch me!” he roared, but his strength was gone. His arm flailed, hand raking uselessly against Optimus’s plating, leaving shallow scratches that didn’t even hurt. “I’ll kill you—Prime, I swear—”
“Stay still,” Optimus said, and there was steel in his tone now, an edge that cut through Megatron’s fury. He hoisted Megatron up, slinging him over one shoulder like a salvage haul. The movement bumped every damaged strut in Megatron’s frame, and he bit back a groan, optics flaring with pain and rage.
“Where—” Megatron managed, his voice choking on static, “—are you taking me?”
Optimus didn’t answer. He started walking, his steps deliberate, heavy, carrying them away from the battlefield. Away from the approaching engines. The horizon swallowed them, a bleak expanse of rusted spires and cracked terrain, and Megatron’s protests faded into guttural curses, then silence. He didn’t have the strength to fight anymore. Not yet.
But he’d remember this. Every second of it.
Optimus trudged forward, Megatron’s weight a grinding burden across his shoulder. Each step sent a shock through Megatron’s frame, rattling his fractured plating and sparking pain along his severed lines. Energon dripped steadily from his wounds, leaving a faint trail of luminescent smears in the dust—breadcrumbs for anyone dumb enough to follow. Not that they would. The Autobots would assume their precious Prime had finished the job. Megatron was dead, as far as they’d know. Another victory for the great Optimus Prime.
He hated how easy it was to imagine it: Prime standing tall, optics dim with noble regret, reporting Megatron’s “fall” to his council of sycophants. They’d nod, somber and satisfied, and etch another mark in their ledger of triumphs. Meanwhile, here he was—alive, broken, slung over Prime’s shoulder like a trophy no one else could see. The irony burned worse than the shrapnel still lodged in his side.
“Where are you taking me?” Megatron repeated, his voice a low, guttural scrape. He twisted his head, trying to get a read on their direction, but the landscape was a featureless blur of darkness and dust. His functioning optic flickered, struggling to focus. “Some secret pit to rot in? Or are you just too spineless to end it?”
Optimus didn’t break stride. Didn’t even glance at him. His silence was a wall, inflexible and infuriating, and Megatron’s hands twitched with the urge to claw it down—to rip an answer out of him, even if it cost him the last of his strength. But his arm wouldn’t move right. The servos whined, stalled, and gave out, leaving him limp again. Useless.
“Talk, damn you,” he snarled. “You owe me that much.”
“I owe you nothing,” Optimus said at last, his voice flat, cutting through the wind like a blade. It wasn’t anger—anger would’ve been something Megatron could grab onto, twist, throw back. This was colder. Detached. Like Megatron was beneath his notice. “You’re alive. That’s more than you deserve.”
Megatron’s laugh was a broken, wheezing thing, edged with venom. “Oh, listen to you. The great Optimus Prime, doling out mercy like it’s a gift. You think this is kindness? Dragging me off to bleed out somewhere quiet so your hands stay clean?” He shifted, ignoring the stab of pain it sent through his chest, and spat energon onto the ground. “You’re pathetic.”
Optimus kept walking. The rhythm of his steps didn’t falter—steady, mechanical, relentless. Megatron’s words bounced off him, swallowed by the wasteland’s emptiness. It was maddening. He’d spent eons fighting this mech, matching him blow for blow, scream for scream, and now—nothing. Just this quiet, plodding indifference. Like all those years, all that blood, meant less than the dust under Prime’s feet.
The terrain shifted. The ground sloped downward, sharp outcrops giving way to a shallow ravine. Ahead, half-buried in the earth, loomed a structure—blocky, brutalist, its edges worn smooth by time and neglect. A bunker. Old Cybertronian design, wartime vintage. Probably an interrogation outpost, back when the war still had rules. Now it was a relic, its hull streaked with rust and pitted from acid storms. The entrance yawned open, a black maw framed by collapsed supports.
Optimus slowed, adjusting his grip on Megatron. The shift ground wounds against steel, and Megatron bit back a curse, his frame shuddering. “What’s this?” he rasped, squinting at the bunker. “Your private dungeon? Planning to chain me up and preach at me until I repent?”
“You talk too much,” Optimus said, and there was a faint edge to it now—exasperation, maybe. Good. Megatron clung to it, a crack in the armor he could pry at.
“Someone has to,” he shot back. “You’re too busy brooding to say anything worth hearing.”
Optimus didn’t respond. He ducked through the entrance, carrying Megatron into the dark. The air inside was cold, stale, thick with the smell of mildew and old energon. Dim light filtered through cracks in the ceiling, casting long, skeletal shadows across the walls. The bunker was a hollow shell—empty save for a few scattered crates and a slab of metal that might’ve once been a table. A single flickering lamp hung from a frayed cord, its glow weak and unsteady
Optimus dumped Megatron onto the slab without ceremony. The impact sent a shockwave of pain through his systems, and he roared, optics blazing. “Careful, Prime! You’ll break your new toy!”
“You’re not broken yet,” Optimus said, stepping back. He crossed his arms, staring down at Megatron with that same unreadable look. “Not enough.”
Megatron grinned, sharp and feral, despite the agony clawing at his circuits. “Keep dreaming, Optimus. You’ll have to try harder than that.”
The bunker’s silence was a living thing, pressing down on them like a fist. The flickering lamp buzzed overhead, throwing creepy shadows across the walls—Megatron’s broken silhouette sprawled against the slab, Optimus standing rigid a few paces away, and every creak of the decaying structure sounded like a countdown. Megatron’s energon still leaked, slower now, clotting into sticky patches on the metal beneath him. His systems whined, protesting every movement, but his mouth—he’d keep that running until his spark guttered out.
“So,” he said, voice rough as gravel, “what’s the grand plan, Prime? You’ve got me off the grid, away from your adoring masses. No witnesses, no applause. Doesn’t sound like you.” He tilted his head, optic narrowing as he studied Optimus’s unmoving form. “Unless this isn’t about them. Unless this is personal.”
Optimus didn’t bite. He turned away, rummaging through one of the crates with slow, deliberate motions. Metal clinked against metal—tools, maybe, or restraints. Megatron couldn’t tell from this angle, and it gnawed at him. Not knowing was worse than the pain. He flexed his one working hand, digits scraping the slab, testing how much fight he had left. Not much. Enough to scratch, maybe. Not enough to kill.
“You’re wasting your time,” Megatron said, louder this time, trying to drag Optimus back into the fight. “You think you can fix me? Reform me? Turn me into one of your obedient little drones?” He laughed, a harsh, scraping sound that echoed off the walls. “I’d rather bleed out here than kneel for you.”
Optimus straightened, a length of heavy chain in his hands. The links gleamed dully under the lamp, pitted with age but solid. He didn’t look at Megatron as he spoke. “I’m not here to save you.”
“Then why?” Megatron snapped, his voice rising, edged with something raw—frustration, maybe, or the first flicker of fear. “Why drag me here instead of letting me die out there? You had your chance. You could’ve ended it clean. Instead, you’ve got me in this pit, playing nursemaid to a corpse. What’s the angle, prime?”
Optimus approached, the chain dragging behind him with a slow, grating screech. He stopped at the edge of the slab, looming over Megatron, and for a moment, his optics met Megatron’s lone functioning one. There was no warmth there, no righteousness—just a cold, fathomless weight. “You don’t get to die yet,” he said, voice low and final. “Not until I’m done.”
Megatron’s grin faltered, then sharpened into something vicious. “Done with what? Torturing me? Interrogating me? You think there’s anything left in me you don’t already know?” He leaned forward as much as his wrecked frame allowed, his voice dropping to a hiss. “You’ve spent eons picking me apart, Prime. There’s nothing new to find.”
Optimus didn’t answer. He knelt, threading the chain through a set of rusted loops bolted to the slab—restraints, old and brutal, designed to hold something big. Something like Megatron. The links clanked as he worked, securing one end around Megatron’s functional arm. The metal bit into his plating, cold and sharp and Megatron snarled, jerking against it. Pain lanced through his shoulder, but the chain held firm.
“Keep struggling,” Optimus said, not looking up. “You’ll only make it worse.”
“Go to the Pit,” Megatron spat, yanking harder just to spite him. The chain rattled, but didn’t give. His strength was fading fast—his vision blurred at the edges, static creeping in. He slumped back, panting, optics blazing with hate. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? The great Optimus Prime, finally getting his hands dirty.”
Optimus finished with the chain, standing to survey his work. Megatron was pinned—arm locked down, legs too broken to move, torso too damaged to twist free. A predator caged, but still snapping. Optimus’s face remained a mask, unreadable, but his hands flexed briefly at his sides, a flicker of something—tension, maybe—before they stilled.
“I’ll be back,” he said, turning toward the entrance. The words hung there, heavy and vague, a promise or a threat.
Megatron watched him go, the bunker swallowing Optimus’s silhouette as he stepped into the dark. The lamp flickered, dimming for a moment, and the shadows stretched longer, sharper. Alone now, Megatron tested the chain again, weaker this time, his growl dissolving into a low, bitter curse. He didn’t know what Prime wanted—not yet. But he’d figure it out. And when he did, he’d make him pay for every second of this.
Outside, Optimus paused, staring into the wasteland. The wind howled, carrying the faint hum of Autobot engines far off—searching, maybe, but not here. Not close enough. He vented a slow, heavy sigh, then started walking, disappearing into the haze.
Megatron wasn’t dead. Not in the field. Not anywhere. And that was the problem.
The bunker was a tomb, its walls drinking in every sound. Megatron lay chained to the slab, his frame a patchwork of dents and drying energon, his single optic glowing faint in the gloom. The lamp above flickered, its hum a constant irritant, like a spark struggling to stay lit. He’d lost track of time—hours, maybe days, bleeding together in a haze of pain and fury. His systems stuttered, low on fuel, but he’d be damned if he begged. Not for Prime. Not for anyone.
He expected torture. Electrocution, blades peeling back his plating, something to match the war’s brutality. He’d braced for it, stoking his defiance like a shield—let Prime try, let him see how little it’d get him. Or maybe lectures, those endless, sanctimonious rants about duty and honor that Optimus loved to spew. Megatron could’ve handled that too—spat it back in his face, turned every word into a weapon. He’d rehearsed the barbs in his head, sharp and ready.
But this? This was worse. Optimus didn’t talk. Didn’t taunt. Didn’t even glare. He’d come and go, silent as a specter, bringing scraps of energon or tools to patch Megatron’s leaks—just enough to keep him online, nothing more. And the way he looked at him… it wasn’t hate. It wasn’t even the cold disdain of an enemy. It was something else—something that made Megatron’s plating crawl, his spark pulse unevenly in its casing. Like he wasn’t a prisoner, wasn’t a threat. Like he was already owned.
Optimus stood there now, a shadow against the bunker’s cracked wall, his optics fixed on Megatron. No words, just that stare—steady, unblinking, cutting through the dark. His battle mask was off again, exposing a face too calm, too controlled. Megatron hated it. Hated how it stripped him bare without a single blow.
“What’s your game, Prime?” Megatron rasped, his vocalizer scraping with static. The chain rattled as he shifted, testing its give—still none. “You think silence’ll break me? I’ve endured worse than your brooding.” He bared his dentae, a jagged grin. “Hit me. Cut me. Say something, you coward!”
Optimus didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, his pedefalls echoing in the hollow space. The lamp’s light caught the edges of his armor, glinting off the scratches and scuffs—proof of their wars, their history. He stopped at the slab’s edge, towering over Megatron, and his optics traced him—not with anger, not with pity, but with a quiet, possessive weight. Like he was measuring something he’d already taken.
Megatron’s grin faded, replaced by a snarl. “Stop looking at me like that.” His voice cracked, rougher than he meant it to be. “I’m not your trophy. I’m not your pet.”
Optimus tilted his head, just slightly, and the motion sent a shiver through Megatron’s struts. No response. Just that look, peeling him apart layer by layer—his ruined plating, his leaking valve seal, the exposed wiring sparking faintly at his hip. Megatron’s spark flared, a mix of rage and something he wouldn’t name, something that tightened his chest and made his vents hitch.
“You’re sick,” he spat, jerking against the chain again. Pain shot through his arm, but he ignored it, glaring up at Optimus. “All that talk of justice, and this is what you are. A hypocrite. A liar.”
Optimus’s expression didn’t change. He reached down, his hand hovering over Megatron’s chest—close enough that the heat of his hand brushed the cracked plating. Megatron tensed, expecting a strike, a twist of metal. But Optimus’s fingers moved lower, deliberate, tracing the edge of a gash near Megatron’s waist. The touch was light, clinical, but it lingered, and Megatron’s systems stuttered—his valve array twitched, seal compromised from the damage, and he cursed internally as a faint leak of lubricant seeped out.
“Get off me,” he growled, thrashing weakly. The chain clanked, holding him fast, and Optimus’s hand stilled, resting there, heavy and hot. Megatron’s optic flickered, his voice dropping to a hiss. “You don’t get to touch me like this. Not you.”
Optimus met his gaze then, optics burning blue, and for the first time, there was something there—a flicker of intent, cold and sharp. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His hand pressed harder, fingers curling into the gash, and Megatron bit back a sound—pain, yes, but something else too, something that made his spark pulse faster, traitorously.
The silence stretched, taut and unbearable, and Megatron realized, with a sick twist in his core, that this wasn’t torture. Not the kind he’d expected. This was something worse. Something Prime had already decided was his to take.
The bunker’s chill sank deeper, or maybe that was just Megatron’s systems faltering, his heat sinks struggling to compensate for the slow bleed of energon. The lamp buzzed overhead, a sickly pulse that matched the erratic flicker of his optic. Optimus hadn’t moved his hand—not yet. It stayed there, pressed against the large tear in Megatron’s waist, fingers splayed over the exposed wiring like he was feeling for a pulse. Megatron’s frame buzzed with static, a low hum of overstressed circuits, and he hated it—hated the way it betrayed him, hated the way Prime knew it.
“Get off me,” he snarled, voice a rough scrape, but it lacked bite. His strength was gone, leached out with every drop of energon pooling beneath him. He yanked at the chain, a weak, futile gesture, and the links clanked mockingly. Optimus didn’t budge. His optics stayed locked on Megatron’s, and then his hand slid lower.
No warning. No words. Just a slow, calculated drag, fingers tracing the seam where Megatron’s abdominal plating met his pelvic array. The touch was precise—too precise—probing the edge of his valve cover with a clinician’s detachment. Megatron’s vents stalled, a harsh choke of air, and his optic flared wide. This wasn’t torture. This wasn’t interrogation. This was—
“What the are you doing?” he rasped, voice cracking on the edge of disbelief. He twisted, or tried to, but his broken legs wouldn’t move, and the chain pinned his arm. His components ticked under Optimus’s fingers, a faint, involuntary twitch, and heat surged through his lines—unwanted, humiliating. “You sick—”
Optimus didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. His hand pressed harder, forcing the cover to retract with a soft hiss. The sound echoed, obscene in the silence, and Megatron’s frame seized, a jolt of raw sensation ripping through his neural net. His valve lay exposed now—damp with lubricant, untouched for eons, and painfully sensitive. Optimus didn’t hesitate. He slid two fingers inside, stretching the calipers with mechanical efficiency.
Megatron’s roar was half rage, half something else—something he couldn’t name, wouldn’t name. “Prime—stop—” His voice broke, static flooding the words, and his free hand clawed at the slab, leaving shallow gouges. The intrusion was brutal, clinical, no trace of passion—just Optimus working him open, mapping every sensor node with ruthless precision. His fingers curled, brushing the anterior cluster, and Megatron’s back arched, a quick, involuntary spasm. Charge crackled along his frame, and he bit down on a sound that threatened to escape.
Optimus watched him, face blank, optics steady. No triumph, no cruelty—just that cold, claiming gaze, like Megatron was a machine to be disassembled and studied. His fingers moved faster, a steady rhythm, teasing the valve’s inner walls without mercy. Lubricant welled up, slicking his fingers, and Megatron’s systems screamed—overheating, overloading, teetering on the edge of a spike he couldn’t control. His vocalizer glitched, spitting static, and he snarled through it, “So this… this is what it takes to break a Prime…”
There was no satisfaction in it. No victory. Just a hollow, gnawing fear clawing up his spark—fear that this wasn’t about breaking him. This was about owning him. Optimus didn’t slow. His thumb pressed against the exterior node, a hard, deliberate grind, and Megatron’s vision whited out, charge surging to the brink. His valve clenched, calipers locking around Optimus’s fingers, but Prime didn’t push him over. He held him there—right on the edge, trembling, helpless—then stopped.
The withdrawal was abrupt, fingers slipping free with a wet shlick. Megatron shuddered, a ragged vent of air escaping him, his systems stalled in a torturous limbo. Optimus stood, wiping his hand on a rag from the crate—casual, methodical, like he’d just finished a repair. Megatron’s optic tracked him, dim and flickering, his voice a raw whisper. “You… bastard…”
Optimus didn’t respond. Didn’t look back. He tossed the rag aside and walked out, the bunker door grinding shut behind him. The silence returned, heavier now, suffocating, and Megatron lay there—bound, leaking, teetering on the edge of release. His valve throbbed, unspent charge prickling under his plating, and he cursed, low and bitter, into the dark.
Time dissolved in the bunker, a shapeless haze of cold metal and flickering light. Megatron’s world shrank to the slab, the chain, and the slow drip of his own thoughts—bitter, hateful things that circled without end. His frame was a patchwork of half-healed wounds, energon crusting over gashes that no longer bled but ached with every shift. His systems ran on fumes, sustained by the meager cubes Optimus left behind, just enough to keep his spark from guttering out. He hated that too—hated how he needed them, how he’d started to notice when they appeared, like a stray spark of order in the chaos.
He didn’t count days anymore. Couldn’t. The lamp’s buzz was his only clock, and it lied, stuttering on and off at random. Instead, he counted Optimus. The sound of his steps—heavy, deliberate—echoed through the bunker’s walls before he appeared, a signal that snapped Megatron’s fading focus back to the present. Sometimes it was hours between visits. Sometimes days, or what felt like days, the silence stretching until Megatron’s own voice grated just to fill it. Each time, Optimus brought the same thing: no words, no explanations, just that cold, claiming touch.
It was routine now. Megatron loathed it—loathed how he’d started to expect it, how his frame tensed when he heard the door grind open. He was sprawled on the slab as always, optic dim but sharp, watching Optimus step into the light. Prime’s frame was a silhouette of scars and purpose, his optics glowing steady blue, unreadable as ever. He didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate—just crossed the room and stopped at the slab, looming over Megatron like a storm about to break.
“Back for more, huh?” Megatron rasped, voice rough with disuse and defiance. He bared his dentae, a weak shadow of his old snarl. “You’re predictable, Prime. That’s your weakness.” It was a lie, and they both knew it. There was nothing predictable about this—not the when, not the why, just the what. And the what was enough to make Megatron’s blood thicken.
Optimus didn’t answer. He never did. His hands moved instead, rough and fast, gripping Megatron’s pelvic array with a force that ground fresh bruises into his protoform. The chain rattled as Megatron jerked, a reflex he couldn’t stop, and his valve cover clicked open under Prime’s fingers—traitorous, automatic, already slick with anticipation he refused to acknowledge. “Slow down!” he growled, but it came out thin, swallowed by the buzz of his own systems spiking.
Optimus didn’t slow. His fingers plunged into Megatron’s valve, hard and thick, stretching the calipers with a brutal efficiency that burned. Megatron’s frame arched, a sharp hiss escaping his vocalizer as charge crackled through his lines. It wasn’t pleasure—not yet—just raw sensation, a violation he couldn’t fight. Prime’s other hand pinned his chest, holding him down, and the weight of it was a silent command: stay . Megatron’s claws scraped the slab, leaving fresh marks, but he didn’t push back. Couldn’t. His strength was gone, leached out by days of this—whatever this was.
Optimus worked him methodically, fingers curling against the inner nodes, each thrust a calculated strike. Lubricant welled up, hot and slick, and Megatron’s vents roared, struggling to cool his overheating core. His optic flickered, static creeping in, and he bit out a curse, “You… think this is punishment?” It wasn’t. Not entirely. The edge of pleasure was there, sharp and unwanted, coaxed out by Prime’s relentless pace. But it wasn’t about giving—it was about taking, about Optimus claiming every shudder, every moan, as his due.
Prime’s optics stayed on him, unreadable and steady, watching the way Megatron’s frame trembled under his hands. No words. No reaction. Just dominance, raw and unapologetic, and Megatron hated how it sank into him, how it made the silence louder. Optimus didn’t push him to overload—not this time. He stopped short, fingers slipping free again, leaving Megatron’s valve throbbing, charge unspent, teetering on the brink. Then he was gone, stepping back into the dark without a glance, the door grinding shut behind him.
Megatron lay there, vents heaving, lubricant cooling on his plating. His voice came out a low, bitter scrape. “Coward.” But it echoed hollow, and the fear was back—fear that this wasn’t about breaking him. It was about keeping him. And he was starting to lose track of how long he’d been kept.
The bunker had no rhythm, no pulse—just the endless hum of Megatron’s own systems, stuttering through cycles he couldn’t track. His optic dimmed between Optimus’s visits, conserving power, but it snapped bright the moment he heard those steps. It was involuntary now, a Pavlovian reflex that made his mind itch with self-loathing. He’d stopped cursing the chain. Stopped counting the scratches he’d clawed into the slab. All he counted was Prime—when he came, when he left, and the gnawing stretch of nothing in between.
Sometimes it was hours. Sometimes days. The uncertainty was its own kind of torture, worse than the pain ever was. His energon reserves remained low, barely enough to keep him online, but he clung to consciousness with a stubbornness that felt like defiance. It wasn’t. Not really. It was just all he had left—until Optimus walked in, and even that felt like it belonged to him.
The door ground open again, and Megatron’s head tilted, optic narrowing as Optimus stepped into the light. Same scars, same steady glow in his optics, but something was different—slower, maybe, in the way he moved. Not hesitation. Control. Always control. Megatron bared his dentae, a weak echo of his old snarl. “Took you long enough,” he rasped, voice raw and hoarse. “What’s the matter, Prime? Getting bored of your little game?”
Optimus didn’t answer. He never did. But his silence wasn’t as cold tonight—or maybe Megatron’s sensors were too frayed to tell the difference. Prime stopped at the slab, closer than usual, and his hand settled on Megatron’s thigh plating, heavy and intentional. The touch wasn’t rough—not yet—just a slow press, fingers digging into the seams where his armor had cracked and resealed. Megatron’s vents hitched, a sharp intake, and he growled, “Don’t drag it out. Just do it.”
Optimus ignored him. His hand slid higher, tracing the edge of Megatron’s pelvic array with a patience that felt like a taunt. The valve cover clicked open before Prime even touched it, a betrayal of Megatron’s own systems, already slick with lubricant he couldn’t will away. His optic flickered, static spiking, and he snarled, “You’re pathetic—needing this to feel strong.” The words were hollow, a reflex to fill the silence, but they didn’t land. Optimus’s gaze stayed steady, unyielding, and Megatron’s voice faltered.
Prime’s fingers slipped inside, slower this time—not the brutal thrust of before, but a deliberate stretch, calipers parting under his touch. Megatron’s frame shuddered, charge building in his lines, hot and heavy. It wasn’t just pain now—pleasure curled through it, sharp and insidious, coaxed out by the way Optimus’s fingers curled against the inner nodes, teasing without rushing. Lubricant welled up, hot and slick, and Megatron’s digits gripped the slab, a low, shuttering moan escaping his vocalizer before he could choke it back.
Optimus didn’t stop. His other hand pressed against Megatron’s chest, not pinning him this time—just holding, grounding, like he was anchoring him to the moment. The rhythm was steady, almost gentle, but the intent was the same: dominance, pure and unapologetic. Megatron’s valve clenched, calipers tightening around Prime’s fingers, and the pleasure was there—real now, undeniable, a slow pressure that made his systems scream. He hated it. Hated how it felt good, how it made him want more, how it made him wait for it.
“You think… this changes anything?” he gasped, voice a broken snarl, static lacing every word. “It’s still punishment. You’re still… a coward.” But there was no fire in it, just a desperate edge, and Optimus’s optics didn’t waver. His thumb brushed the exterior node, a slow, gentle circle, and Megatron’s vision whited out, charge surging to the brink. Not over—not yet. Prime held him there, trembling, valve throbbing under his touch, and the warmth of it was worse than the cold. It lingered, sank into him, made him feel seen .
Then it stopped. Optimus withdrew, slow and careful, leaving Megatron’s valve slick and aching, charge unspent. He stood, wiping his hand with that same detached precision, but his optics lingered a moment longer—warmer, maybe, or maybe Megatron was losing it. Then he turned and left, the door grinding shut, and the silence rushed back, heavier than ever.
Megatron lay there, vents roaring, frame buzzing with unspent charge. His voice came out a low, bitter scrape. “Bastard, Prime.” But it wasn’t hate anymore—not entirely. It was something else, something that scared him more than this bunker ever could.
Time didn’t blur anymore—it melted, a sluggish drip of moments marked by the creak of the door and the weight of Optimus’s presence. The lamp still buzzed, erratic and useless, but Megatron didn’t need it to know when Prime was coming. His systems knew—his vents quickened, his valve twitched, a humiliating conditioned tick he couldn’t override. He’d stopped fighting it. Not because he’d given up, but because fighting took energy, and energy was a currency he couldn’t afford to waste.
His frame was a wreck held together by spite and Prime’s scraps. Energon cubes kept him alive, barely, their bitter tang a lifeline he swallowed with gritted dentae. His wounds had sealed into ugly scars, plating warped where it’d fused back together, but the ache never left. Neither did the chain, its links a cold, constant bite against his arm. He didn’t pull at it anymore. He couldn’t. The real restraint wasn’t the chain—it was the routine, the way it sank into his circuits like rust.
Optimus stepped in again, silhouette cutting through the gloom. Megatron’s optic tracked him, dim but sharp, a flicker of defiance in the haze. “Right on schedule,” he muttered, voice a low grind, rough from cycles of silence. “You’re nothing if not consistent, Prime.” It wasn’t a taunt anymore—just words, a reflex to fill the void. Optimus didn’t react. He never did. But the air felt different tonight—thicker, warmer, like the bunker itself was holding its breath.
Prime stopped at the slab, closer than before, his shadow swallowing Megatron whole. His hand settled on Megatron’s chest, not rough this time—just steady, fingers splaying over the scarred plating with a weight that felt almost deliberate. Megatron’s vents hitched, a sharp rasp, but he didn’t snap. Didn’t curse. He just watched, optic narrowing as Optimus’s other hand drifted lower, tracing the edge of his pelvic array with a slowness that bordered on cruel.
The valve cover slid open, a soft click that echoed like a gunshot. Megatron’s frame tensed, lubricant already pooling, hot and slick, and he hated how ready he was—hated how Prime didn’t even have to force it anymore. “Get it over with,” he growled, but it came out weak, swallowed by the buzz of his own systems spiking. Optimus’s fingers slipped inside, slow and deep, stretching the calipers with a care that wasn’t gentle—just controlled. Megatron’s back arched, a low, glitching groan escaping his vocalizer as charge flared through his lines.
It wasn’t brutal now. It was warm, deliberate, each thrust a measured stroke against the inner nodes, coaxing pleasure out of him like a confession. Optimus’s thumb circled the exterior node, slow and firm, and Megatron’s valve clenched, calipers locking around Prime’s fingers. Heat surged, heavy and thick, and his optics flickered, static creeping in. “You… bastard,” he gasped, voice a broken snarl, but there was no venom left—just a raw, trembling edge.
Optimus didn’t flinch. His optics stayed on Megatron, steady and warm—not cold anymore, not detached—just watching, claiming every shudder, every hitch of Megatron’s vents. His hand on Megatron’s chest pressed harder, grounding him, and the rhythm slowed further, drawing it out. Pleasure built, sharp and relentless, and Megatron couldn’t fight it—didn’t want to, not entirely. His claws scraped the slab, a weak, desperate rhythm, and his voice cracked, “I hate you!”
Prime didn’t answer. He never did. But his fingers curled, brushing the anterior cluster with a precision that made Megatron’s vision white out, charge surging to the brink. This time, Optimus didn’t stop short—he pushed, until Megatron’s valve spasmed, overload ripping through him in a wave of ecstasy. His roar was raw, echoing off the walls, and his frame trembled, lubricant and charge spilling over Prime’s hand.
Optimus withdrew, slow and careful, wiping his fingers with that same clinical calm. But his optics lingered, warmer still, a flicker of something Megatron couldn’t name—satisfaction, maybe, or something deeper. Then he turned and left, the door grinding shut, and the silence returned, softer now, heavier with what it carried.
Megatron lay there, vents heaving, frame buzzing with aftershocks. The routine wasn’t breaking him. It was remaking him. And he wasn’t sure he could stop it.
A few days later, he heard the steps again, heavy and deliberate, cutting through the bunker’s hum. His optic flickered, focusing as Optimus emerged from the shadows, his frame a fortress of dark arousal and anticipation. Megatron didn’t bother sitting up—couldn’t, not with his legs still a twisted ruin—but he tilted his head, baring his dentae in a jagged grin. “Back again, Prime? You just can’t seem stay away.”
Optimus didn’t respond. He stopped at the slab, optics steady, but there was a flicker in them—something restless, something new. His hands moved fast this time, gripping Megatron’s pelvic array with a force that startled Megatron. The valve cover clicked open, a sharp snap in the silence, and Megatron’s vents roared, lubricant already slicking the seams. He snarled, “Eager tonight, huh? What’s the rush?”
Prime’s fingers plunged in, hard and deep, stretching the calipers with a brutal thrust that made Megatron’s frame buck. Charge crackled through his lines, raw and jagged, and he roared, “too—fast!” But Optimus didn’t. His other hand gripped Megatron’s thigh, forcing it wider, and his fingers curled inside, raking the inner nodes with a precision that burned. Megatron’s valve clenched, lubricant spilling hot and thick, and his optic flared, static flooding his vision.
Then came the shift. Optimus’s spike panel retracted with a soft hiss, revealing him—hard, gleaming, ridges pulsing with heat. Megatron’s grin faltered, a flicker of something—shock, maybe—cutting through the haze. “Oh, you’re serious now,” he rasped, voice rough and unsteady. Optimus didn’t wait. He aligned himself, pressing the tip against Megatron’s valve, and thrust—slow at first, then hard, sinking deep until the ridges caught on every sensor cluster. Megatron’s roar was staticky, his frame arching as pain and pleasure slammed through him in equal measure.
Optimus didn’t stop. His hands gripped Megatron’s hips, anchoring him, and he drove in again, rough and unrelenting. The penetration was punishing—spike stretching the valve wide, calipers straining around him, lubricant slicking every brutal slide. Megatron’s digits gouged the slab, a low, glitching moan ripping from his vocalizer. “You… sick bastard!” he gasped, but it wasn’t defiance anymore—just noise, a shield against the heat coiling in his core.
Prime’s rhythm slowed, deliberate now, each thrust a calculated strike—deep, warm, dragging against the anterior nodes until Megatron’s systems screamed. His fingers joined in, slipping alongside his spike, teasing the outer rim of the valve while he pounded inside. Pleasure surged, sharp and overwhelming, and Megatron’s optic dimmed, charge building to a breaking point. “You’re… losing it, Prime,” he snarled, voice cracking. “Can’t even pretend this is punishment anymore.”
Optimus’s optics stayed on him, warmer than ever, but there was a crack there—a flicker of something raw, something unmasked. He didn’t answer, just thrust harder, fingers curling inside, and Megatron’s valve spasmed, teetering on the edge. The line was warping—revenge twisting into desire, dominance bleeding into something else—and Megatron felt it, hated it, craved it. His voice came out a low, bitter scrape. “Keep going, then. Break yourself on me.”
Prime didn’t stop. Not yet.
His fingers worked alongside rougher now, stretching the calipers wider, slick with lubricant that pooled beneath them on the slab. Megatron’s frame trembled, charge crackling through his lines, teetering on the edge of overload but never quite falling. Prime wouldn’t let him—not yet.
Megatron’s optic burned, locked on Optimus’s face—those steady blue optics, that unyielding mask. But there were cracks now, faint tremors in the way Prime’s hands gripped his hips, the way his rhythm faltered, just for a klik, before slamming back harder. Megatron saw it, felt it, and something twisted in him—rage, desperation, a need to claw back control. He bared his dentae, voice a rough, glitching snarl. “You were always like this, weren’t you? Hiding behind your precious morals, waiting for an excuse to let it out.”
Optimus froze. His spike stilled inside Megatron’s valve, fingers halting mid-thrust, and the sudden absence of motion was a jolt worse than the pain. His optics narrowed, a flare of something dark—anger, maybe, or something uglier—cutting through the warmth. Megatron grinned, sharp and feral, pushing harder. “All those speeches, all that sanctimony—just a cover. You needed this war, needed me, to justify it. Admit it, Prime.”
The silence snapped. Optimus’s hand shot up, slamming into Megatron’s chest with a force that rocked the slab. Metal crunched, and then his fist swung—hard, fast, connecting with Megatron’s jaw. The impact rang out, a sharp crack, and Megatron’s head snapped back, slamming into the slab behind him. Plating buckled, a dent spiderwebbing into the rusted surface, and pain flared through his helm, bright and blinding. His optic flickered, static flooding his vision, but he laughed—a wet, broken sound, energon flecking his lips.
“Hit a nerve, did I?” he rasped, voice thick with spite and triumph. “Truth stings, doesn’t it?”
Optimus loomed over him, chest heaving, fist still clenched. His spike was still buried deep, a hot, thick pressure in Megatron’s valve, and his fingers twitched, caught between pulling out and digging in. Then he leaned closer, close enough that Megatron could feel the heat of his vents, the faint hum of the Matrix in his chest. His voice came low, a whisper that cut deeper than the punch, each word a blade sliding into Megatron’s spark: “You wanted this war. I just want to end it. Over. And over. And over.”
The words hung there, heavy and final, and Megatron’s laugh died, choked off by a cold, sinking weight. Optimus didn’t wait. His hand dropped back to Megatron’s hip, gripping hard enough to dent, and he thrust again—brutal, deep, spike slamming into the valve’s core. His fingers curled inside, raking the anterior cluster, and Megatron’s roar was raw, torn between pain and a pleasure he couldn’t fight. Charge surged, valve clenching around Prime’s spike, and his systems screamed, teetering on the brink.
Optimus’s optics bored into him, cracked mask slipping further—revenge and desire twisting together, indistinguishable now. He didn’t slow, didn’t stop, just pounded into Megatron with a rhythm that was both punishment and claim. Megatron’s digits scraped the slab, voice a broken snarl. “You… will never end it.” It wasn’t defiance—it was truth, and it burned.
Prime’s grip tightened, and the line warped beyond recognition.
His fingers stayed buried alongside, stretching the calipers to their limit, slick with lubricant and sparking with every brutal curl against the inner nodes. Megatron’s frame bucked, a marionette on frayed strings, his roar a jagged mix of rage and surrender as charge tore through him.
Optimus’s mask was gone—shattered by that punch, that whisper, leaving something raw and unfiltered in its place. His optics blazed, blue fire stripped of sanctimony, locked on Megatron with an intensity that wasn’t just dominance—it was need, twisted and ugly, born from eons of war and hate. His hand gripped Megatron’s hip, denting the plating deeper, while the other worked inside, fingers scissoring the valve’s rim as his spike slammed home. “Over and over,” he growled, voice low and rough, echoing his earlier whisper but heavier now, weighted with something that wasn’t just revenge.
Megatron’s optic flickered, dimming under the onslaught. His valve clenched, calipers spasming around Prime’s spike, lubricant spilling hot and thick as pleasure and pain fused into a single, searing current. He couldn’t fight it—didn’t want to, not anymore. His hand gripped the slab, leaving deep furrows, and his voice came out a broken snarl, “Your… selfish.” It wasn’t baiting now—just truth, spat through gritted dentae as his systems screamed toward overload.
Optimus thrust harder, spike grinding against the anterior cluster with a precision that made Megatron’s vision white out. His fingers pressed deeper, teasing the outer node with a slow, deliberate grind, and the charge surged, unstoppable. Megatron’s roar cracked into a glitching moan, valve locking tight as overload hit—a blissful, brutal wave that shook his frame and sent sparks arcing from his joints. Lubricant and energon mixed, pooling beneath him, and his vents roared, struggling to cool a core that felt like it was melting.
Prime didn’t stop. His spike pounded through the spasms, drawing it out, punishing and claiming in equal measure. His own charge built—Megatron felt it, the heat of it pulsing inside him, ridges flaring as Optimus’s rhythm faltered. A low, guttural sound escaped Prime’s vocalizer—not a word, just a raw, primal release—and he slammed in one last time, spike pulsing as he overloaded, hot and thick, filling Megatron’s valve until it overflowed, dripping onto the slab.
For a moment, they were still—Optimus looming over him, vents heaving, hands braced on either side of the slab; Megatron sprawled beneath, trembling, optic dim and unfocused. The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint drip of fluids and the buzz of the lamp. Then Optimus pulled out, slow and deliberate, spike retracting with a slick click. His fingers lingered a moment longer, tracing the rim of Megatron’s valve—possessive, almost tender—before withdrawing completely.
Megatron’s voice came out a low, bitter scrape, barely audible. “You… will never end it.” It wasn’t defiance, not anymore—just a hollow echo of what he’d said, what Prime had whispered. Optimus stood, optics still burning, but the cracks were sealed now, masked again behind that stoic wall. He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He turned and left, the door grinding shut, leaving Megatron alone in the dark.
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
—Robert Frost