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[xdxelaa]

Heel

A glimpse of the interface-life between two old, kinky mechs.

There's never a dull moment for them.

ship: Megatron/Optimus Prime

tags: boot worship, sir kink, dom/sub, bottom Optimus, Megatron's pov, frottage, established relationship (old men in love wehhh)

A/N: I wanted to focus on boot worship, but well, Megatron's too in love with his sub—it kinda went away from me. Oppy seduced me like he did Megatron, lol.

If only you could see yourself now, Beloved.

Should he wish to, Megatron could always photograph or record their scenes to later show Optimus, but it'd greatly pale in comparison to experiencing it firsthand.

There's nothing quite like Optimus being in the moment. No lens or microphone could ever hope to capture the entirety of pure perfection. It simply isn't possible.

Placing down the whip, Megatron pauses to admire the artistry done on the canvas of Optimus's exposed back. The multitude of marks—all varying degrees of sizes and intensity of blue, betraying the severity of the hits—paints the expanse of smooth protoform beautifully.

A deep sense of satisfaction curls around his spark. And from the small puddle of lubricant underneath blue pedes, he left Optimus very satisfied as well.

It's nearly time to end tonight's scene, but before that, he has a Sub to treat. Coming up from behind, Megatron traces one of the darker welts; he revels in Optimus's shudder.

"Are you ready to be let down?"

"Y—," Optimus clears the excessive wetness from his intake, "… Yes, Sir."

Without another word, he slowly lowers Optimus, making sure he's steady on his pedes. Once stabilized, he unfastens the restraints that kept those strong arms bound and held up. Megatron smiles at the little sigh of relief he catches.

As he checks over Optimus's wrists, who dutifully held them out, he hums a short contented note; there's no sign of any lasting damage. Glancing at his Beloved's face, he sees the streaks where tears ran down light-silver cheeks and the blissed out glaze over shiny, wide optics.

His lover has done well. He withstood the pain, all while fighting off the urge to overload. He knew Optimus could do it.

"You were so good for me," the purr of Optimus's engine warms his spark, "I believe it calls for a reward. Would you like that?"

"Very much so."

"Tell me what it is that you want. I'll grant it if it's in reason, otherwise you'll have to wait until next time."

"Yes, Sir, I understand," Optimus leans into Megatron's palm over his tacky cheek. Megatron is patient as he tweaks a finial—he huffs out a laugh at the rapid flicks it makes; they've always been sensitive, "I think… I'd like to overflow on your boot. If that's okay."

"That's more than okay. Afterwards, you know what to do, correct?"

"Of course, Sir. I could never forget."

And this, Megatron knows as fact. It's the one thing Optimus can't go without.

"Go to your place and get in position twenty."

Once the order leaves his mouth, Optimus promptly walks near the front of the room and gets on his knees. With his legs spread, he keeps that fat dripping valve of his exposed. He holds his posture, poker-faced with optics to the front, paying his lower half no mind.

As he saunters near, Megatron makes sure to emphasize the heavy steps made in the customized pedes he wears for special occasions. Optimus wants to look—the bob of his intake tells him everything he needs to know—but his discipline doesn't break.

Not even when Megatron finally stands in front of him.

"Look up," Optimus lifts his helm to stare lovingly into Megatron's optics, not breaking contact at the sound of a pede sliding between his legs, "Now show me how much you crave release."

"Y-Yes, Sir," his affirmation comes out as a breathy little thing, and it's oh so lovely. The whimper he makes when his warm valve meets his pede is even lovelier.

Witnessing Optimus become undone is something to behold; he remembers the time Optimus seldom got this way. Nowadays, his Sub is easily lost in unadulterated lust, yet nothing gets him more hedonistic than lavishing Megatron's ceremonial boots.

He has grown to love it almost as much as Optimus does.

Megatron gives rapt attention to the way Optimus grinds and frots, in the seductive sway of brightly-colored hips. He drinks in every whine and plea that falls from those glossy dermas; Opitmus is at his most wanton.

"Hah, hgn… Mmn… Please, Sir, please," Optimus moans as he tightens his hug around Megatron's leg, "I'm so close."

A stab of arousal has his spike beneath his codpiece trying to perk up, but he's had enough action—it's Optimus's turn. He nudges the top of his pede in tangent to Optimus's downward grind; he's rewarded with a sinful cry.

All it took was a few more nudges for Optimus to overload.

He lets Optimus ride it out before taking a full step back, making Optimus release him. Hearing the amount of transfluid that squirted on him is enough to drive anyone crazy with want, yet he remains still. He waits for Optimus to gather his bearings before they can end the night.

"What do you say for tonight's activities?"

"Thank you, Sir. Am I allowed to honor you now?"

"You may begin."

Megatron had asked Optimus once: Why does worshiping his ceremonial boots rev him up? What is it about this act specifically, brings him immense joy? He recalls the way his lover struggled to find the words to help Megatron understand this side of him.

"I suppose it's of what it represents. When you wear them, you look your position; it screams of power… control. So when I do that, it's my way of giving thanks in a manner that won't overstep my role. The boots are an extension of you, and there's something, ah… addictively submissive being at your pedes. Does that bother you?"

Staring at him now, the only thought in Megatron's helm is the same one he had at the time: He is far from bothered if it means he gets to render Optimus to this state.

His optics never leave that plush mouth—he notes all the ways his boot is cared for. Every inch of the waxed surface is licked clean of transfluid; he's kissed all around as digits reverently stroke the laced-designed biolights. Optimus is so enamored with it all.

There's nothing more satisfying than this, he thinks.

Megatron's arousal simmers in his core, yet it never threatens to boil over. It's mentally stimulating having Optimus at his pedes—something that is worth more than mere lust. He figures it's similar to what Optimus gets from this, only on the opposite end of the spectrum.

After a few breems of Optimus alternating pedes, it's time to officially end things.

Megatron shifts the pede in Optimus's hold; a silent command to stop. With one final kiss, he parts from it, but not before whispering a reverent thanks against the shiny metal. Placing his servo in Megatron's outstretched one, he's pulled up to his pedes.

With the help of Megatron's EM field weighing against his and murmured praises said near his audial, Optimus soon emerges from sub-space. Megatron smiles in the kiss he's gently coaxed into.

"Welcome back," he rumbles out as he strokes Optimus's side, mindful of his tender back, "How do you feel?"

"Mn… it was good. I really needed that."

"We both did. Now, are you ready to get cleaned up, or you need a moment?" It's only after a few more kisses and shows of physical comfort did Optimus gave the green light.

Tonight was great for them both.

[xdxelaa]

D. H. Lawrence, from a letter featured in The Selected Letters of D. H. Lawrence

[xdxelaa]

Chris von Wangenheim - "Acting Beastly" (Playboy 1977)

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cinnamon roll weather...

[xdxelaa]

Sinéad O'Connor, from her book titled "Rememberings," originally published in June 2021

[xdxelaa]

Ball and Chain

If Suguru thinks too hard about her newfound life, she might just lose what's left of her corroded mind.

Maybe it's what she deserves, after everything.

ship(s): Yuuta Okkotsu/Suguru Geto (implied Satoru Gojo/Suguru Geto)

tags: post-JJK0, fem Geto, attic wife Geto, implied abuse, not graphic non-con, age difference, depression, resentment, asshole Yuuta, abrupt ending

A/N: this was a request from twt lol, but it was mad fun to write and see what I could've came up with from their prompt :)

Gingerly lifting her chained wrist, Suguru can't bring herself to care about her dirty, sweaty skin. The warm metal slides down her atrophied arm, aided by the dampness clinging to her.

All that surrounds her, fills her senses, is nothing but this maddening dampness she's in. It's stuffy, cloying, and makes it on the verge of overstimulating to exist here. To make matters worse, the perpetual darkness makes it hard to tell the time of day, but there's little Suguru can do about it.

She is stuck here. Has been for some time.

She wonders when the victor—her captors—will grow tired of this game and snuff what little life she has left. She knows the boy wants to.

The creak of wooden floorboards pulls her attention towards the singular door. Think of the Devil, and he shall soon appear, it seems. Closing her eyes, Suguru leans her head back against the textured wall and waits.

“Morning.”

She doesn't deem that a response.

The door clicks closed, the dim yellow light turns on, and an oppressive quiet fills the space between them. Still, she doesn't move an inch. Footsteps grow closer as his heavy presence comes right up beside Suguru; looks like he's going to be here awhile.

Opening one eye, she checks and sees that he's holding her daily ration in his hands—she closes it again. A sharp sigh reaches her ears as the clatter of the tray being put down does.

“Don't be like that. I'm not—I'm only doing this because Gojo-san asked me to. Don't take this kindness for granted.”

The hiss of the word kindness… the utter hatred that colors his tone. If there's any joy to be had here, it's the fact that this kid hates this as much as she does. Hates how he couldn't just finish what he started, to put an end to the enemy that threatened his newfound peace.

But now, thanks to one man's inability to let go, they're both stuck in this predicament.

Maybe if she pisses him off enough, he'll snap. Give herself the dignity to go out as intended since she couldn't achieve what was out of reach in the very beginning. Maybe he'll finally see Gojo's selfishness for what it is and that the man only cares for him to an extent—that it’s very much conditional.

If Suguru genuinely thought it'd work, she already would've been in the next life. It's just too bad her torment is just as much of a balm for his own. This damn boy. That must've been the reason Gojo felt secure enough to allow Yuuta to own her.

She grits her teeth.

Turning her head, she finally opens her eyes and looks into Yuuta's equally empty ones; she'll admit defeat for today. He smiles—it's an empty one.

“See? It's not so bad. Afterwards, I can leave you back to your lonesome.”

Having to eat from Yuuta's hand no longer humiliates her. She opens her mouth for every bite and thoroughly chews each piece of food he drops in. The taste blends into one, making it hard to tell if it might've been something of a favorite meal of hers. She hardly cares anymore.

She doesn’t care when his hands start to wander, or when his deceitfully soft touch twists and presses against fairly fresh wounds. She barely even registers the scalding hate battling with typical lust of a teenage boy being directed at her lying body, though the phantom limb of her missing arm does turn biting.

This numbness that has made itself at home won’t be leaving anytime soon, and for that, she’s grateful.

“If I were any nicer, I’d pity you more, Geto-san. Such a beautiful woman ruined like this”, Yuuta mutters directly against her ear as he runs his fingers through her oily scalp. What used to be so soothing once in another lifetime only makes the hopelessness calcified in her gut harden a little more.

“... It really is such a shame.”

His hand yanks on her knotted hair, yet the pain is grounding. She doesn’t so much as grunt when he applies enough pressure to extend her thin neck; a meek submissive gesture. If she had any pride left, the hitch of his breath and slightly faster breathing would’ve grated at her, but now? This little boy’s power trip is sad.

This whole thing is genuinely pathetic. What Gojo and their clan are turning this naive fool into is just sad. Truly.

But really, Suguru thinks it says something about her to still find some semblance of pity in the one who's responsible for the state she’s in now. Never let it be said she doesn’t have a heart.

She lies unresponsive to Yuuta’s touch to her face and trailing fingers that brush her cleavage—she doesn’t even blink when he gropes her spilling breasts. He takes, takes, takes while she receives it all with little to no complaint. She barely acknowledges the heat in between her bitten thighs when he slots himself there.

“I know it’d be easier on both of us if you were to just… y’know? But, I will be honest here, Geto-san. I’ll say something only for your ears to hear.”

Lifting her gaze from the trained spot on the floor, Suguru looks into Yuuta’s twin voids he calls eyes and sees something profoundly foul in them—something all men are bound to have, it seems. That certain something brightens his expression as he leans closer, just enough to share each other’s breath.

“I’m glad everything you’ve done ultimately brought you to me. I hate being your keeper, and yet, this rush is something I’d never have known without you, Geto-san. Thank you. And because of this, I love you.”

I love you, he says…

Suguru, suddenly tired, sighs through her nose and closes her eyes. It doesn’t matter that it forces her to be more aware of the eager thrusting in her pliant cunt, she just—it’s all extremely draining all of a sudden.

“You’re such… a fucking child. ”

Yuuta, for the first time in a while, simply grins.

[xdxelaa]

A Wicked Picture

A classmate's perspective of the true nature of their teacher's relationship with the class president.

ship: Satoru Gojo/Suguru Geto

tags: outsider pov (Utahime), referenced underaged sex, teacher/student, dark!GoGe, grooming, internal conflict, teacher Satoru, open ending

A/N: this was me playing around with an outsider pov on a situation that'd be seen in either a rose-colored view (Geto) or an outright unreliable one (Gojo)

It's happening again.

As Utahime sits at her desk, pencil in her hands idly touching the paper, she sees it unfold right before her eyes—how could she have missed this before?

The coils in her chest tightens when she sees her teacher's hand place itself right where neck slopes down into her classmate’s shoulder. It's overly familiar and held for a beat too long to her hyper-focus mind. She tries to force herself to look away, but her body is frozen.

The scene reminds her of locked-up princesses, Prince Charming, and greedy ferocious dragons in the fairy-tales she used to love. But instead of slitted ruby red eyes from a picture book, Mr.Gojo’s are wide azure blue.

Seeing—no, finally registering the way Mr.Gojo looks at Suguru as he murmurs something solely to his ears, how different it is compared to when he talks to another student now that she knows, makes her blood run cold. Briefly, she wonders how nobody else has noticed when the man is so obvious with it.

Utahime thinks that's what's getting to her. At the end of the day, Mr.Gojo doesn't care enough to hide his perversion or do it well. He didn't care when he did what he did to Suguru two weeks ago and he doesn't care now—she even believes getting caught by her made him lose the little bit of discreteness he did have.

It was sick how he only paused before resuming, having the audacity to grant her one of his signature smiles before tuning out her presence completely as if she wasn't peering through the cracked door. Now, when he smiles during a lesson or talking to one of his students, it makes her ill.

(So fake, yet it fooled her like the others before coming to the truth. His perfectly aligned teeth gleam for the persona he displays)

But the worst thing about it? He smiled because at that very moment they both knew what she was going to do with her new knowledge—simply nothing. Absolutely nothing at all. She's not the confrontational type, not when it comes to authority, and Gojo is unfortunately one of said authorities.

Her grip on her pencil tightens.

Finally glancing down to her assignment, blank with only her name and half of today's date at the top, Utahime takes a small breath and allows herself to ignore what's happening two desks across. She ignores the tension only the three of them are aware is in the air.

Oh, why did she have to find out?

How come she's the one who figured out what's been going on with Suguru, albeit unintentionally? Utahime seriously doubts any of his friends are in the know and they are only acquaintances at best.

She never would've expected her class president to be in this sort of predicament, and not for the first time, she wonders just how this all started. Wonders if Suguru even knew how he came to be wrapped in this fucked up situation.

Back when Suguru was simply “the Geto boy”, she didn’t pay him close attention outside of their few interactions. The complaints she once overheard his friends make about his gradual withdrawal from them or him being busier than usual didn’t even stay in mind for long.

In hindsight, perhaps those were all signs of something wrong. It says a lot that none of his so-called friends questioned it deeper…or maybe it attests to Suguru’s ability to make it seem like all is well with him. Suguru can be very persuasive, she’s come to find out.

Contrary to what Mr.Gojo might’ve thought of her, Utahime did in fact reach out to Suguru two days after.

He looked as uncomfortable as she felt, but she wanted (needed) to check up on him. Needed to let him know that somebody had his back and encouraged him to report it with her as his witness.

(Even though the thought of having to hear his recount of it made her stomach roll)

If she hadn’t seen hard proof of what Mr.Gojo really has the class president do after-hours, Utahime probably would’ve believed whatever lies he’d come up with. But there was no faking it with her, not anymore—she saw him unmasked and knew how he was actually handling things.

She could tell Suguru was scared she found out something that must’ve been humiliating to him. It was to be expected.

What she wasn’t expecting was the warped sort of fondness he had for their teacher; the excuses, the ramblings that went nowhere, the tremors in his voice as he pleaded for her to not tell anyone and that “he’s not all that bad”. The only thing she could think was: Wow. He really fucked you up.

Mr.Gojo truly did a number on Geto Suguru—Utahime bets it greatly pleases him.

As she fills out each bubbled answer, her eyes drift up to occasionally look at Suguru’s tense back. True to her word, she kept their secret under lock and key, but she still doesn’t get it. How exactly did Mr.Gojo manage to twist his mind so much? And how can she undo it?

They aren’t even close like that and it's really not her place since she's not directly involved, but they can't seriously expect her to not try, right? She can't understand why Suguru is bent on protecting a man he's clearly nervous of, but for his sake alone, she'll remain quiet.

It's not her business, but having her eyes forced open to their relationship makes it hers regardless.

Just the thought of that albino bastard nearly has her biting her tongue from the sheer amount of disgust festering in her. Lifting her head, she sees those fractured glass eyes already trained on her—the wry humor in them apparent.

One of these days, Utahime will see those eyes shatter when his evil deeds catch up to him. He will get what's coming to him, that she can promise.

But until then…she’ll politely smile, keep her head down, and get back to work.

[xdxelaa]

☆ Welcome to my page! ☆

I'm a multifandom/multishipper who has a fixed t/b dynamic for most of the ships I write.

Current Fandoms: Transformers, DC (mainly Batman), Marvel (mainly X-Men), JJK

⚠︎ DISCLAIMER: this is a dead dove account, so pay attention to trigger warnings ⚠︎

MASTER-LIST

Exquisite Tension [transformers - MegOp]

Hollow Body [transformers - hinted MegOp]

Heel [transformers - MegOp]

A Wicked Picture [jjk - GoGe]

Ball and Chain [jjk - YuutaSugu + hint of GoGe]

[xdxelaa]

Hollow Body

Every so often, when waking nightmares run him ragged, Optimus performs a well-practiced ritual.

ship: barely hinted Megatron/Optimus Prime

tags: descriptive emeto, Optimus-centric, angst, techno jargon, purging as self-harm, guilty pleasures, guilt-ridden Optimus

A/N: I had G1 Oppy in mind when I wrote this, but this can be literally any version you'd like.

Optimus has a problem.

His bad habit is something that formed in his days at the docks and has stayed with him even after becoming Prime. He had hoped it wouldn't.

Even now, as he kneels over the shower drain, he hopes the urge doesn't flare. But he knows that it's futile to dream.

His tank will churn and his fucked-up coding will recalibrate that sense of wrongness into contentment—that's how it goes when everything gets too much.

Rubbing his servos on his thighs, Optimus squeezes his optics shut as his gag suppression turns off with little to no prompting. He wants to stop it, he does, it's just… Primus, how did he start this?

He can’t even recall the time when he hadn’t. He doesn’t remember how he came across the knowledge of what forced purging does to him specifically.

For some reason, it makes his emotion matrix flood his processor with a mild form of pleasure programming—enough to override any stressors and this crippling guilt he manages to carry.

Ratchet could possibly have an answer, but in all honesty? Optimus would rather keep this shameful compulsion to himself. There’s no reason to alarm him.

It's not like it's life-threatening; these purges don’t entirely frag up his internals or intake tubing. Besides, Optimus doesn’t do it enough for it to be noticeable.

And he won’t—he can’t let this become too much of a crutch.

Adjusting his placement, Optimus commands his mask to pull back as he slightly hunches into himself.

His mouth starts to produce more salivary lubrication; his tank—not even filled by one-third—begins its familiar trembling; his intake is primed for the atypical act of regurgitation.

He is ready.

Opening some of his vents, Optimus focuses on the repetitive motion of gently heaving. The act itself is already doing wonders in silencing his otherwise loud thoughts.

Optimus can feel the telltale sign of the contents in his tanks gurgle, ready to emerge from the filler neck. The long-lived shame that comes with this surges, but is quickly shunted aside.

Finally, the liquid bubbles within—his very first gag is made.

The sound is horrid; it's viscous and disgusting. Still, he continues. Each gag brings him one step closer to the bliss he desperately needs.

From the discomfort of having warm energon spurt out further up his tubing bit by bit, Optimus can tell he's close but still not there yet. It looks like he'll need some assistance.

Lifting his servo, he looks at its digits with a grimace. It's been a while since he last had to use them. He's usually able to purge without.

Maybe it goes to show just how long it's been since the last time. He should feel proud, he thinks.

Opening his mouth, Optimus shoves three digits towards the sensors near the back of his intake. He violently gags when they get scraped; a large amount of liquid emerges halfway up.

Almost there.

The ease he falls into rhythm—this trance he gives into for all these years—starts to trigger his emotion matrix. His optic brighten and field spreads out as that overpowering euphoria encompasses his helm.

Soon, he can stop seeing ghosts that won't leave. Soon, he can vent without that heaviness. Soon, he can stop feeling him on his beaten-down frame as if his claim on Optimus' processor isn't enough.

He'll know some peace without the shadow of burden—if only for a short while.

Icky, warm energon shoots up his tubing and reaches the back of his mouth; he pulls out his servo just in time. Bliss at feeling the sensation of it leaving him saturates his processor; that instant joy is addicting.

Some of the half-processed fuel splatters on his lap, contrasting heavily with the white plating, yet Optimus isn't even disgusted. He needs to release everything to feel good.

Coolant spring in the corners of his optics as several heavy retches leave his vents stuttering. Each purge is like an expulsion of the rot in his spark—it's a cleansing in the literal sense.

A shaky smile forms after the last bit of fuel escapes him; he notes the mixture of energon, oil, and bits of metal shavings from his irritated tank slowly swirling down the drain.

His frame is trembling, his intake feels incredibly raw, and there's a grounding pain within his tank; Optimus hasn't felt better than he is now in several cycles. He sighs in utter relief.

On unsteady pedes, Optimus stands and goes to his berth, letting himself fall onto it. His helm is hazy—buzzed with nothing but serenity—and none of his protocols or subroutines are rampantly active, merely running in the background.

He can even think of Megatron, of how this endless war could possibly end, without the grief and guilt threatening to consume him.

As he rolls onto his back, Optimus’ gaze unfocused from the ceiling when he recedes into his processor. For a few minutes, he can just… float. He can separate him and Prime for a few moments and just… exist.

Orion Pax had started this habit out of a need to regulate his stress— over stuff that seems so trivial looking back now. But Optimus keeps it going because it's become important to keep a clear-helm; a necessity.

He should stop before he does gradual, intensive damage to his fueling lines; this is a form of passive self-harm since Cybertronians don't naturally purge. Optimus knows, and yet…

He also knows it's only a matter of when the next time will be. Optimus has never once claimed he wasn't a self-flagellating mech.

[xdxelaa]

Exquisite Tension

It didn't take Optimus long to learn Megatron's depravity knows no bounds; he's seen how far he'll go throughout their war. But to have it directed at himself outside of it—of being subjected to his perversions—is another matter entirely.

ship: Megatron/Optimus Prime

tags: referenced non-con, Decepticons Win au, non-con groping, dehumanization, humiliation, forniphilia, forced fingering, bottom Optimus

A/N: there's no true continuity in mind, but maybe G1 would be fitting.

It hurts.

The metal clamps latched on his nozzles—numb from the lack of circulation and the chill of the office’s air—continue to make their presence known. He can’t even try to alleviate the tension. One wrong shift and all the items on the tabletop, connected semi-securely at his waist, will go careening.

So he bears it.

Optimus has no choice but to.

Glancing down, he listlessly notes some of the contents he’s being used to hold. A full, well-loved ashtray; two cubes of high-grade, one empty and the other half drunken; the reports Megatron has been going through for the past joor—the ‘to read’ pile is almost done.

A grunt threatens to slip when a data-pad is added, but he strangles it before it can.

Even now, he refuses to show his current discomfort. Of how it prickles at his processor being in this state of indecency. He won't because it’ll only serve to greatly please Megatron, and that's the last thing he wants.

Behind his back, his clasped servos tighten. These silent shows of frustration and muted anger are what he’s been reduced to.

“I won't be pleased if you've pinged me for something trivial.” A pause; Optimus can hear the subtle release of a vent, “If it's truly that important, then drop it off at my office. You're at the door? Hm.”

Optimus doesn't bother checking who comes through. Not when he knows their gaze will land on his half-exposed frame. They'll revel in its smaller stature, stripped of its kibble and heavy armory; they'll leer at his pouches being pulled by the chains keeping the tabletop upright.

There's no need to subject himself to the humiliation of confirmation.

“Here's the results Shockwave wanted you to look over, Lord Megatron,” the nameless grunt (a mech, he observes) places the data-pad in an outstretched servo. It's utterly respectful, a touch reverent, in a way only a devout follower can manage.

As much as Optimus would love to mentally retreat… he can't. He must remain aware of his surroundings. Whatever happens next will indicate how the rest of his night will go.

After becoming attuned to Megatron's ever-changing moods and what each one means for him, Optimus learned to accurately predict the next emotional shift. His deceptive sense of stability depends on it.

The few breems Megatron takes to skim through the lengthy report is enough to determine he's pleased with what's on there, yet isn't completely satisfied—something within unfurls, letting him properly vent.

That's when he senses it; the grunt's optics, ones that made a passing once over, linger. His unbridled lust is so blatant… disgustingly so. Optimus can practically see what's playing in his imagination matrix.

The mech wants to use his frame, to debase him further. Even if he wasn't who he was, Optimus isn't blind to how he looks—with or without his exposed intimates. But outside the expected urge to disrespect his autonomy, a far deeper one resides.

There's some sick, deep-rooted need to trample on what Optimus ‘once represented’. Their backwards logic is that it somehow proves all of what Optimus and his Autobots fought for was pointless in the end.

Once born within the Decepticon leader, it passed down to all throughout their ranks like an infection. Evil taught filth; it was a never-ending cycle none wished to break.

That reminder—what's truly at stake in this twisted game he's forced to play—puts enough fire in him to glare at the offender. It burns brighter when the mech states back, amused as if it's mere posturing.

“Do you like my desk? It is rather nice.”

There's dull satisfaction when the other immediately breaks contact. His fear is crystal clear; he was caught. Optimus tries not to care too much about his own spotlight.

“Well? Isn't it?”

“Y-Yes, um… Y… Ye–”

“Yes, what? Speak. Up.”

“Yes, Sir.”

A looming sense of foreboding weighs itself down in the room; he can practically feel the new dents and aches that'll litter his frame.

“... I don't blame you for staring. Honest.” Megatron's voice, admittedly dark and smooth, runs down like fine oil. It leaves Optimus feeling dirty, “Not even for the interest in such a desk for yourself.”

He won't meet those Pits-damned optics. The obsessive-laced cruelty, meant solely for him, will be swirling in its depths. It'll only make the upcoming treatment more taxing to take.

Even if it's to be expected, a sliver of a grunt escapes when he's jerked to the front—the movement jostles the tabletop.

“After all, it's plenty useful and made exactly to my tastes. So like I said… I don't blame you.”

“M–... My apologies, Si—”

“The tabletop is sturdy—good material with no wear—and clearly, it can hold a lot more than assumed. Not only that, but its support is durable. See how it stays in place even as I do this?”

Megatron gives a few hard pats on the surface, making it yank his pouches with each one. The numbness in his nozzles is turning into a searing pain; Optimus's servos clench hard enough to dent.

He wants nothing more than to throttle him. Maybe he'll even grab that helm and dig into those smelters he calls optics.

“It sure is durable, Sir. Pretty too.”

That's some foolishly-gained confidence right there. The grunt mistook this demonstration as another humiliation ritual instead of what it really is. His grin grows wider when Megatron mirrors it.

“…Yes. Such a showy piece of furniture, with its color scheme and figure. Pretty to look at, pleasant to the touch.”

The chains are tugged hard enough to force him to bend into the motion. He stays in the awkward half-kneel to keep the table upright, but with that… the shame is back.

It's a corrosive thing, eroding his internals. The forced stance alone is enough to eat at him further—he doesn’t even care that his pouches are being groped.

“It’s soft in some places—perfect as servo-rests or to idly hold something.” The servo that gestures to his hips lightly strokes the cabling of his intake. He hates he still shivers, however minutely, at any contact there, “But there’s one spot different from the rest… something softer. Wetter.”

Optimus suppresses an instinctive jolt when his valve is touched.

“This is nice, I suppose. To feel the warmth on your digits. The tackiness of its lubricant,” Two digits methodically rubs the mesh, still sticky from earlier, before dipping inside. “It's even better when you press in… and that's what you want. You want what's here.”

It seems the nameless grunt finally senses the danger they're in. He tries to deny it, not wanting whatever Megatron’s tone promises is in store, but the loud bang of Megatron hitting the armrest silences him.

“Don't lie. This is what you covet—what you've been salivating like a cybo-hound for. You want to use what I own; what's made for me. Say it!”

“I do, fuck, I-I do! I'm sorry, Lord Megatron, I-I overstepped.”

“... I believe that will be all from you. Go.”

How lucky.

Looks like Optimus will bear the brunt of this ���slight’.

There’s a moment of stillness after the door slides shut—it lasts for a mere breem before Megatron’s jealousy-fueled anger rears its helm. Optimus chokes on a pained gasp when the tabletop’s underside gets swatted; everything gets strewn around the room.

He doesn’t fight getting pushed fully to his knees, or being pulled into settling between Megatron’s legs by a finial. For now, it’s best to play along… it’s been a very, very trying night.

“You can be a mech again, dear Optimus—just until I blow this load on your face.”

Dimmed-opticed and weary, he simply opened his mouth and allowed Megatron free use.