Work Text:
The first thing to know about alt modes, especially of the servoheld variety, is that their sensors are leagues more sensitive than you think. It's much easier to stimulate one who has mass shifted into an object the size of your palm by way of just being smaller; you can glide your servos over every bit and light up every sensor much more than you would a car or jet. Megatron is subject to this as well.
That is to say, cleaning a gun really does look like you're fucking it with a brush. Since Megatron can't be dismantled like you would a real pistol for cleaning, the most you can really do for his internals is to… well…
Megatron is trying really hard not to groan; he was already lubricating before he transformed just to get started, but the mere anticipation is getting him wetter by the second. Optimus hasn't even touched him yet. The Prime is still rummaging around the box of cleaning supplies while Megatron is laying on a towel on top of the desk in gun mode.
He's without his extras right now, without his stock, silencer, or scope, laying himself vulnerable and easy to clean, though it's not much. Dismantling a gunformer is far too dangerous, even for a gunformer to do it for another. It's far too easy to expose parts meant to be kept hidden and far too titillating to feel platonic for many. Had this been on old Cybertron, masseurs unrepulsed or downright apathetic to interfacing would not mind, though they would complain about the shivering and heat from clients.
The sounds of the box, miscellaneous and mundane, sets to fill the air with noise before the odd drop of a liquid in bottle sounds. Megatron's ventilations catch. Cleaner. Gun cleaner. The good stuff. Smooth and lewd, the same as the gun oil. The bottle seems to have been placed adjacent to him, the box all closed again and set on the desk with a loud clatter, and so are a set of tools, presumably cleaning patches and a cleaning rod with both a patch holder and bore brush implement. Megatron feels himself be lifted.
Optimus's digits are blunt and worn, and they press into his plating like pools of heat. A thumb glides against his slide and catch onto his detailing, right where his chassis would be. In this form, the best one could describe the effort to hold back noise to be akin to gritting your teeth. It's a maddening time to be had when you've barely just started.
He's rotated, the bottom of his grip being examined where a magazine would be, and he has half a processor to say, "I'm not loaded, Prime," before said Prime probes further.
"Just making sure." There is most definitely a smile on that beautiful face. "You have treat every gun like he's loaded beforeservo."
Megatron can feel the breath of his lover, warm and soft. It pools a condensation and is wiped away just as easily. It works him up. A finger traces his trigger guard, following the line down to smooth against of his grip. No. No, this is far too much to merely be foreplay. He hasn't even reached a peak of climax, an overloading of pleasure yet.
An unscrewing of a container, polish that he guesses, and it's soon confirmed once a soft cloth meets with his plating. Normally, this would be saved for last, but it suits better as foreplay than aftercare for him with the way they do this. The polish is the good kind, the kind you buy once and it will last you for ages before you run out, digs into the places that need it and shines your whole frame if you knew how. And Optimus, oh Optimus, he knows how.
Megatron's panels are still closed, but it's agonizing to feel the pressure of both arrays wanting as his form is buffed and wiped down with hands so firm and deft. His barrel is wrapped around that cloth, held to it by way of an index and thumb making a hole; the barrel slides between those digits as a mere simulacrum in both spike and valve.
He heats up. It's inevitable when there is nowhere else for the charge to go that he does. He vibrates and melts the polish, it melds into his very being. All he can hear is Optimus laugh softly, but that just makes the wanting worse. The stroking of his barrel in those warm large hands, and a voice that resonates so deeply with its bass, reaches and reaches and reaches Megatron to his peak quite quickly— but, he cannot overload. What would've been one passes over his systems and save it for later to execute.
"Hh… ah ah…"
The charge that would be dispersed via climax is instead held there, stored indefinitely. You cannot overload in your alt mode, so instead the systems put it off until you return to root, i.e. you will only get to overload then. It backlogs the pleasure. It does not do it once. It does not do it twice. It does it as much as you can take it. You could theoretically build up as much as you could and be wracked with consequences later. Megatron has done that to Optimus once or twice, but the hauler has never gotten to the same levels as Megatron has.
And that is where they had decided their interfacing for their night to go. To make Megatron repeatedly reach that peak again and again until he can't take it anymore. It's indulgent of the gunformer, to be at the mercy of those beautiful hands and quality tools. He's far more easier to bring to the brink of pleasure, and so a denial of many would be intense and desired even just once.
"Gah!"
The cloth is gone. He's still held in those servos, one cupping over his slide and then cocking the whole part back. From here, Optimus could see inside his firing chamber, the area where a bullet may lie. Of course, he's empty, but that particular area is erogenous, a confused mishmash of pleasure centers and neurality, and yet hidden away is his valve, wanting and waiting. Optimus taps the outside, right at the rim, teasing him, goading him; the heat feels too much yet again.
The next part: barrel cleaning.
To make the image better in your head, imagine the eye of a needle but bigger, and instead of thread you're putting through it, try a tissue but smaller and square. Now imagine that tissue soaked in cleaner, put through said needle eye, which is called a patch holder. This is what Megatron anticipates.
The first pass of the patch holder will be quick, but the waiting beforeservo is maddening. He can feel it, the wetness as the soaked cleaning patch has at his muzzle when his picked up again, cleaning rod positioned just so. Optimus will meet resistance, but he will push that cleaning rod in, wettening the inside of Megatron's barrel just once before—
"Ah, a-ah… Nghh… Ah! A-ah!"
The first insertion of the cleaning rod resists and pulls at his insides, before the cleaning patch at the end clears into his firing chamber. It is like a false spike down his valve, lubricated but nothing like the warmth holding him now. It's far too quick for his overload to peak and yet again be it denied, but this alt-mode is a dramedy, and his plight is pure pleasure. He does not feel any reason to complain.
The cleaning rod is sticking out the other end where the slide revealed the firing chamber. The cleaning patch is torn out. Megatron feels the patch holder tap against the barrel as it rescinds. He shivers to think of the bore brush to be next, but alas. Optimus usually waits for the cleaner to soak in before using the brush. The prickly, rough— oh, he might make you feel odd with how he's getting horny over a brush. My apologies.
It's comedic to hear Megatron, lord of the Decepticons, be undone by simple niceties and basic maintenance. To Optimus, it is endearing. He has expressed this before, in very quiet voices, right up against the hammer of the gun, where Megatron's audials lay.
"You at my mercy, I shall give you all of it when you are like this for me."
The way Optimus strokes him, lets his digits run over the edges, makes him shiver. The condensation of ventilations will ruin his already marred polish, and come morning, they will have to wash him up again. But that doesn't matter right now. What matters is this esoteric foreplay that Megatron is receiving. Tools, servos, digits, cleaner, oil, all to serve practical purposes being used in a perverse manner for him.
The servo retracts, and what comes back is a dentae brush about to rail his rails, brushing out debris before the quality products are used on him once again. It's a pace rougher than everything else so far, and it slingshots him into yet another denied overload. The feeling passes by him as yet another charge is built up, goaded again by the rough bristles cleaning out the carbon in his creases. The legs that became the grip of the gun threaten to split and shake, even more as it delves into that part to clean where a magazine would go. T-the brush, it's so rough and so good.
The brushing only lasts for about 30 seconds, but slams another release yet to be released within him.
Up next is a q-tip dipped in cleaner. The liquid is cold to the touch, and it digs into the grime built up on the rails his slide is on. It soaks the dirt that the dentae brush missed, picking up on the soft cotton. It's like a cloud.
There isn't much you can do for a gun you cannot dismantle, but for said gun? What you can do feels amazing.
What is next is the nozzle of gun oil teasing the rails once again. One drop. Two drops. It's enough to lubricate that area. It's enough for him to start lubricating again. He trembles in those strong, deft servos. He's pointed upward this time, presumably to let the oil drip and seep into his rails. He feels bared to the world with his slide still slid back. He feels himself leaned against the larger bottle of cleaner, as his audials make out more movement.
A spritz. Servo sanitizer. Cloth. Drying off. Tapping subdued. It's on the towel. He's leaving him wanting. A tool picked up. The unscrewing of the patch holder. The screwing of bristles. The bore brush.
He's picked gingerly, his slide cocked back into position. Optimus does this several times, sliding the slide back and forth, jerking his lover off. The oil lubricated his rails and glides his slide. A garbled moan comes out without warning, and Megatron's reward for such a noise is a light laugh yet again. He's almost there again, his peak, his codpiece tight. Another release set aside for later. Megatron's slide is back in place with a click.
There it is. He's ready, has been. But no real interfacing just yet, no. His barrel is soaked in the cleaner, cold now, but that doesn't matter. A patch to his muzzle, and Optimus twists him into it, catching the loose dirt to it. It makes perfect circles on it, before the real part begins. The bore brush, poking at his barrel. Rough bristles bristle against his rim.
But then Optimus stops, and his voice dips into a jest. "Oh, I should've done this before I polished you. I'll ruin the finish more if I do this now. Hm. Maybe I should stop?"
Megatron suddenly jerks, "Prime!"
"I'm joking! I'm joking." A deep laugh, belly deep, resonates. "You're far too needy for me to stop now."
"Optimus, I swear to- agh ah!"
His calipers clench on nothing as the bore brush enters his barrel. The metal inside is slick with the cleaner, touching on all sides by the bristles tickling it. The base of a palm leans against him, presumably to hold the brush by the end of the handle. The servo moves, and brings down the brush into the barrel.
"Ah!"
Just as quickly, the brush is brought the other direction, out, but not yet. The cleaning rod is held by the servo, and begins to be pushed in and out of his barrel, only the barrel. Megatron's noises are more like a young spark's, feeling a sensation that is merely a simulacrum. Unlike a valve, his barrel cannot clench down on that rod, not that he would want that; it's simply his pleasure centers equating the sensation to being spiked.
That doesn't negate the feeling. The groan that pushes over when the brush is pulled out, followed immediately by a push in, repeating over and over again until his charge builds and overflows, until his systems put a lid on it yet again. The heat he's feeling feels so abnormal for him as a gunformer. It's like he's fresh from the firing range, still at the firing range, like someone has their finger barely on the trigger— yet here, the pull never comes unless Megatron allows it, allows himself to be lost in that pleasure for who knows how long?
"Oh.., oh more. Let me hear more," Optimus says, and he punctuates that by letting the cleaning rod go all the way in.
Megatron lets out a yelp, and he wishes so badly to keen into the brush currently spearing him. It roots inside of him, ghosting over the internals of his barrel and chassis, hilting all the way back to where his firing chamber is. It bumps against the back of the chamber as you would a kiss to a cervix. The cleaner slicks inside like lubricant. His protoform is searing. It begs and begets more heat. Optimus holds that brush there, the coarse, prickly thing, and he rotates it.
The roughness of such a tool makes Megatron reach his peak again, and yet again, his overload is denied as it's backlogged. Optimus pulls and twists the brush, having it catch on the junction where the barrel meets the chamber, letting it circle, and then back at the back wall inside him— the pleasure comes in another wave, adding more and more to the list of overloads denied. How many has Megatron had? He's lost count.
"Opti… Op-optimus…" Whimpering. Half begging. Pathetic. Endearing. Yes, it's endearing. Only to him. Only to Optimus, that is. "A-ah…"
Eventually the brush properly enters the barrel once more, but only after considerable pulling from Optimus. It undoes Megatron, even more when that tool is tight against the inside of the barrel, even rougher than it was deep within him. The bore brush is wide, but has enough give in its bristles that it scrapes against the inside of his cylinder. His heat must be unimaginable to Optimus and his servos, who has been indulging him with this play.
"Optimus!"
He reaches the peak yet again, the feeling passing over and denied once more, this time spurred on by more enthusiastic brushing, and ending with the tool finally being rescinded with a lewd pop. He's shaking. It is a relief, it is a dread. Pleasurable dread, more so anticipation really, but still. He knows what's next. His systems have so many overloads logged for when he transforms back that he dreads to see the real number. It will feel amazing. It will feel too much. But he will have to do it regardless.
"I think that's clean enough for now." Breath on him again, followed by a kiss to his muzzle and a hum. Warm servos encase him, barely anything to his heated plating, he's held close and carried off to berth. He can sense the weight Optimus presses down on it. "Are you ready to transform back?" As if to sweeten the pot, the barrel of him is teased just at the rim. "Well?"
That voice dips into the deepest it's ever been. "You have to show me on your own how pretty you climax."
Fuck.
Megatron jerks, he falls to the berth and transforms back there so he does not kick his lover in the face when he does so. His back meets the mattress and it takes all but a split second for his systems to dump numerous overloads upon him.
His panels snap open as he's suddenly very aware of the pleasure wracking his body. He nearly seizes from it, his optics quickly trying to manage the overstimulation via tears, and drool becomes from his mouth. He writhes. His calipers clench on nothing, and his spike is spilling out transfluid to the open air. Not to mention the noises he's making. It's unrestrained, oscillating between whimpering and crying; it feels too much yet not fast enough for his systems to dispel the charge. He feels a slave to the pleasure for so long but he does not think on it. It keeps coming in waves, rolls over him because as soon as one ends, his systems start another one, overclocking every part of his frame to balance out the intensity. All he can think about is the overabundance of ecstasy wracking him, and his lover watching him with optics warm.
It's so much. It's too much. He wants it to stop. He wants it to continue. It's giving so much that he's arching up just to try and escape. From what? He still doesn't know. He wants to stay.
Megatron settles thankfully, soon after Optimus lays a servo to his chassis, pressing him down. Megatron's faux resistance is only to coax out any remaining charge, settling to an erratic jerking of his frame that quickly dies off.
It's still not over since aftershocks shudder through him. His spike has enough to give out a few more spurts, creating an obscene and opaque puddle of transfluid on his torso. His valve is still convulsing despite nothing being there for his walls to milk, and he feels a resonant afterglow in his gestational seal from when Optimus was stimulating the back of his firing chamber. He's leaking lubricant and dripping transfluid all over the berth. It's a messy sort of thing; it's somehow humiliating and beautifying and nothing at the same time when he sobs.
His vision is hazy, even as he lolls his helm to the side. There's a big, dark shadow looming over him as his optics blur. The shadowy form then takes shape as Optimus, closer now, and the Prime takes Megatron's helm in his servos. He coos.
"There you are. Pretty little thing." Optimus leans in to kiss the very point of his nasal ridge. "How are you feeling?"
"Ngh…" Megatron weakly upturns his jaw to try and kiss him. He fails. Optimus does not do much besides swipe his thumbs under the optics.
"I need words, sweetspark."
He's essentially strutless at this point. He's too addled at the moment to really speak, which is fine for the Prime; he's always had unwavering patience. He feels tissues on his midsection, probably to clean up the amount of transfluid he spilled as the two wait. It would be a bit gross if his release is mashed between the two of them.
Megatron blinks; the world's no longer a bunch of blotches of color. His torso feels cleaner. He sits up slightly, and notes how Optimus's finials flick. "Mmmore."
"Hm?"
"I want more," he croaks out.
"I know you want more," his lover says, "but how are you feeling?"
Megatron pauses, his vision still equalizing. "Feel… good."
"Tired?"
"No."
Their digits touch at the tips, slotting into each other while staying flat on the berth. Megatron bows his helm. "I want more."
"I just told you; I know." Optimus keens in. "Which do you want first?"
Megatron stops for a moment, deliberates, quickly mind you, on his answer. "Spike."
"Yours or mine?" It takes great pains to lift his helm and see that dopey smile of his. Beautiful, if campy.
"M-mine."
His vents hitch as that wonderful servo grips his spike well. Another settles to his struts to support him, but it ultimately does nothing when Megatron grips the hauler by the forearm, as he is so slowly stroked. His lover looms over him, his smile unfettered as he works Megatron up again, in earnest this time, to the parts meant to be worked up like this.
The servo at his struts soon climbs to cup his helm, and guides his face to the Prime's. He's a tease, that Optimus Prime, only pecking freckles of kisses to his face whenever the slow tears roll down them; after so many overloads all at once, a simple servojob almost seems too much. Fortunately, he doesn't feel the ill effects of overstimulation after this kind of game for so long, it feels pleasurable. The crying at this point is just to manage the stimulation when his energy is more focused on moaning incoherently.
It is a lazy servojob, slow and steady, but not at all a horrible one. Optimus likes it slow. He noses Optimus's helm, if only to tell him to speed up, because Megatron is quite impatient. He does not like waiting, but Optimus would probably spew out some fortune cookie nonsense or a Saturday morning cartoon lesson if Megatron told him that.
He whimpers, gripping tighter at the cardinal colors of his lover's arm, trying to press his face into that beautiful mouth. The stroking becomes that of quick motions, and for the first time since they've started his overload is goes undenied. Optimus kisses him as his climax splatters into the open air, guiding their helms into each other as meager tears flow. A glossa worms its way into his mouth, if only for presence, and there is no noise of complaint when Megatron gently bites down.
A few more stokes coax more out of him, several stray spurts of transfluid that still cling to his spike, even as they land in a puddle of messy release. The intimate twitches, still half hard. A gentle huff comes out of Optimus, lifting away from that kiss and wracking his servo off to inadequately clean it.
It's possible Megatron is fully a mess at this point, despite best efforts. His face is stained with tears and drool, his torso painted in his own pink, and his aft is certainly soaked with lubricants of his valve. But he doesn't pay attention to that. Or rather, his optics are too distracted with the ceiling to care to look at that. The sensation however… he can tell.
"Messy," Megatron breathes.
"Hm, you're messy with a lot of things," his lover hums. Optimus is turned away, presumably to grab some spare cleaning implements to wipe him down.
"Now, what's that supposed to mean? Gh…" It's a very light cleanup, just a wipe down down of a servo and his spike, but it's inevitable to be sensitive after overloading.
Optimus tosses the tissues to bin and finally settles to sit between Megatron's legs. The Prime reaches, takes ones of Megatron's servos and soon the other as well, and interlaces their fingers. "I won't tell."
Megatron's servos tense. Optimus's fingertips rest on the back of the gunformer's metacarpals, slightly squeezing down. Megatron feels it, the warmth that always feels like a hot plate flat against his palm, a scalding temperature to anyone's regulation wasn't shot near nonexistent. His fingers flex to do the same, interlocking them in voids still left unfilled between his lover's digits.
"Ngh…" Optimus bows forward, overtop of him, shifting his legs to shimmy Megatron's upward. Their servos push against the berth, and there goes a click. Megatron does not have to look to know what it is: his lover's spike, rutting against him. Servos squeeze against each other so begins a very… well, it wasn't awkward, but it was slow and soft, just the way Optimus likes it. It takes a couple tries, in part due to neither party wanting to release their servos to guide their sexes together.
It's after a few subdued sighs from Optimus and severe stimulation to Megatron's anterior node that the two can finally join, though it's still at that slow, agonizing pace that Optimus likes. It doesn't really matter, since Optimus is actually fucking him right now, slow as it may be.
Optimus is the sensual type, sappy, hopeless romantic and savors every moment. It's the little things that get him going. It's things like squeezing Megatron's servos and bowing forward as he slides his spike into him that elicits little noises. The way his servos minutely shift as Optimus now slots himself into him, holding there and kissing at the gestational seal in the lewdest of manners.
Optimus is looking at him, which half lidded optics and a huffing mouth. He's drunk on frankly petty pleasure, his optics filled with a haze suited for someone who has also denied himself release. Megatron wonders sometimes if it's his conjunx punishing himself by doing so. But that's neither here nor there. What matter right this second is that Optimus is leaning forward, grinding the helm of his spike into Megatron, and looming over his face.
"Ah a-ah mn…" It's always Megatron's favorite part, the kissing. The making out. He likes the ones where he gets kissed as he overloads, but the ones where it's mere sensuality, simply feeling Optimus's glossa on his, those are his favorite.
It's here that Optimus fucks him at the slower steady pace the Prime always likes, gently letting that spike kiss his seal whenever his lover bottoms out. Megatron's legs bow over those silver thighs, tensing as they coax open more access to inside of him. He can feel his calipers and his sensitive valve lips sense the ridges of that spike, as it's so slow that he can feel the difference in variation. Girth is no problem, especially when Optimus stops when hilted inside, and merely looks at Megatron with erotic optics. Megatron's valve is stretched on that glorious spike, minutely clenching down to fit him all.
Megatron is very spent from the amount of overloads he's had, but the look on Optimus's face is everything. The huffing of ventilations as smokestacks blow hot air, the way his optics pinch and wink, and the way he bites down on his lip are all things Megatron adores about him.
"O-oh fuck…" And the voice. That too is something he loves.
Finally, finally, finally! Optimus picks up the pace. It's a sign of being lost to pleasure when he does that, since Megatron's lips and seal are now being kissed obscenely, and wantonly. Inside his chamber, his nodes are bullied, hitting his sweet spots while edging into his mouth. Erotica or not, Megatron doesn't care that he's simply words on a screen; all he knows is the breadth of pleasure he's being steeped in. He feels every thrust and pull that fills and empties him, how he knows now that Optimus is finally giving himself pleasure. He does not care that his voice is spilling loose moans between kisses; all he cares is to hear Optimus's voice against his own in their intimacy.
While his own spike is neglected between them, Megatron's only focus is on his valve being speared, and how he knows his lover is close. He knows it from the look in in his optics, the brightness of that blue homogenized amongst the other's faction. He hears in in the speed of his lover's ventilations, the smell of smoke billowing into the air from smokestacks. Servos squeeze against his own and are pushed into the mattress gently.
"Hah, h-ah… ngh—"
Megatron's own overload isn't as strong as the last few, though that's fine as it's overshadowed by Optimus's release. The slick hot pink splashes inside of him, in tandem with Megatron's own weak overload at his spike. The release fills him up quite well, when there had been nothing to squeeze on before. It's punctuated by a few welcome, forceful thrusts to fill him, spill that transfluid into him and keep it there, just as a foreign glossa licks against his dentae.
Optimus backs away for a moment, before he goes right back to kissing him, leaving Megatron's servos to hold his helm closer to him. Megatron's servos feel him up, glide against the grill and planes, to come him down from that high. The heat radiates off both of them, a warm engine thrumming underneath his palms. The kiss is addicting. He wants it all poured into him. Keep doing that. Keep kissing him.
He bites lightly on the glossa that leave his mouth, and he's indulged with another kiss as their sexes grind together. He's thoroughly addicted to his lover's touch, and it seems unlikely they will let go when the sun rises into morning.