Chapter Text
Optimus is moaning like a whore, louder and louder, when something goes wrong.
Megatron is fragging him like his spark depends on it, slamming into Optimus’ drenched valve, when there’s an alarming rrrrrrip! and Optimus’ moans turn into a shriek of pain.
It’s not a good pain, either; Megatron knows exactly what that sounds like. He knows what Optimus sounds like when he’s on the edge of pleasure and pain, overcharge and overstimulated, begging and pleading yet pulling away and still desperate.
Optimus slams his servoes into Megatron’s chest and he stops immediately.
“Optimus?”
Optimus is still venting hard, optics dilated and face flushed with energon. “I think,” he starts. “I think you need to call Ratchet.”
“Let me pull out first,” Megatron murmurs, carefully dragging his spike out. Optimus makes more pained noises, and as Megatron watches he notices energon coming from Optimus’ valve. “Optimus?!” he shouts in alarm. Impulsively he reaches up to touch at it, but Optimus yelps and pats his servoes away.
“Megatron,” Optimus covers his valve with his servoes, and then slowly hides it behind his interface cover, hissing through his dentae. “Call Ratchet now.”
-
Megatron had tried to leave the berthroom, give Opimus his privacy, but Optimus had gripped his arm so tightly when he tried he couldn’t bear to leave (not without ripping off Optimus’ servo, at least). So instead, here he is, sitting awkwardly—but cleaned up, at least, Optimus let him grab a few towels so they weren’t completely indecent—as Ratchet shines a light onto Optimus’ bleeding valve.
“Yep. Torn mesh,” Ratchet announces. Megatron cringes; Optimus makes a winded noise. “No fragging for at least three weeks,” Ratchet says, turning to Megatron, as if Optimus wasn’t the insatiable one demanding to frag and be fragged at least once a day. Instead, Megatron rolls his optics and nods.
Mollified, Ratchet turns back toward Optimus, glaring at him now. “And as for you, you slagger—have you been using the manual lubricant I gave you?!”
Manual lubricant? Megatron blinks, then looks down at the suspiciously-recalcitrant Prime. Prime’s finials flick back agains the mesh pillow, and he glances away from the both of them. “Optimus?” Megatron growls out.
“I didn’t think it was necessary,” Optimus mumbles.
“Optimus!”
Optimus is moaning like a whore, louder and louder, when something goes wrong.
Megatron is fragging him like his spark depends on it, slamming into Optimus’ drenched valve, when there’s an alarming rrrrrrip! and Optimus’ moans turn into a shriek of pain.
It’s not a good pain, either; Megatron knows exactly what that sounds like. He knows what Optimus sounds like when he’s on the edge of pleasure and pain, overcharge and overstimulated, begging and pleading yet pulling away and still desperate.
Optimus slams his servoes into Megatron’s chest and he stops immediately.
“Optimus?”
Optimus is still venting hard, optics dilated and face flushed with energon. “I think,” he starts. “I think you need to call Ratchet.”
“Let me pull out first,” Megatron murmurs, carefully dragging his spike out. Optimus makes more pained noises, and as Megatron watches he notices energon coming from Optimus’ valve. “Optimus?!” he shouts in alarm. Impulsively he reaches up to touch at it, but Optimus yelps and pats his servoes away.
“Megatron,” Optimus covers his valve with his servoes, and then slowly hides it behind his interface cover, hissing through his dentae. “Call Ratchet now.”
-
Megatron had tried to leave the berthroom, give Opimus his privacy, but Optimus had gripped his arm so tightly when he tried he couldn’t bear to leave (not without ripping off Optimus’ servo, at least). So instead, here he is, sitting awkwardly—but cleaned up, at least, Optimus let him grab a few towels so they weren’t completely indecent—as Ratchet shines a light onto Optimus’ bleeding valve.
“Yep. Torn mesh,” Ratchet announces. Megatron cringes; Optimus makes a winded noise. “No fragging for at least three weeks,” Ratchet says, turning to Megatron, as if Optimus wasn’t the insatiable one demanding to frag and be fragged at least once a day. Instead, Megatron rolls his optics and nods.
Mollified, Ratchet turns back toward Optimus, glaring at him now. “And as for you, you slagger—have you been using the manual lubricant I gave you?!”
Manual lubricant? Megatron blinks, then looks down at the suspiciously-recalcitrant Prime. Prime’s finials flick back agains the mesh pillow, and he glances away from the both of them. “Optimus?” Megatron growls out.
“I didn’t think it was necessary,” Optimus mumbles.
“Optimus!”