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prowl wants ops face to himself !!

megamilky:

Red hues drip over Optimus’ frame as Megatron regards him with ireful amusement as he’s defied, the other stumbling through some sort of ridiculous explanation for the feverous heat and need blistering from his core. “Sick,” he repeats, suspicious and unbelieving.

Craving to be burned and ruthless in his wanting, Megatron takes hold of the handcuffs, forcefully dragging Optimus backwards. There’s sparks as their bodies collide, scalding carnality radiating from his field as he reaches up with his other hand to grip him by the neck. Slipping a thigh between his legs, Megatron grinds it roughly against slick panels, chuckling against his audial. “What sickness leaves you soaking through your armor? Does the emptiness of your valve have you ill for me?” he mocks, hand tightening around his throat. “I’ll take care of you.”

Spurned once, Megatron shoves him forwards, forcibly guiding Optimus to the captain’s chair. He’s certain there’s a painful strain in his beloved enemy’s shoulders when he sits down and pulls him down backwards onto his lap, trapping his bound arms between their bodies. He’s certain there’s embarrassment as he pulls Optimus’ thighs apart, draping them over each arm of the chair, spreading him wide and exposing him. Biting the back of his neck, Megatron sinks both hands into that guarded, locked heat, blunt digits working to forcefully pry his panels open.

He grinds his hips upwards into the dripping mess, wanting bruises and scrapes and friction. Frustration builds at the edges of his field, processors swimming with his own lust - how dare he hide, how dare he deny me, how dare he warn me away from an infectious lust that will only be mine.

Wedging too-wide digits into a seam, Megatron wrests the panels apart and jams them open. The entire universe would see Optimus torn apart and undone.

His ventilations shudder and armor plating flares with greed as he fingers though swollen, damp folds, his spike swelling almost painfully within its housing. “I will fill you so full of me…” he rumbles harshly against his neck.

Megatron seems fond of dragging Optimus back and forth at his will, bending him like some ragged doll. And maybe that is accurate, not the peculiar likeness of toys but essentially the uselessness of limbs that are meant to be directed by something far stronger than yourself. Optimus stumbles dumbly at the first drag, grinding his heels into the ground with an ear-piercing shriek of metal streaking along pristine floors and he pants wetly, fractured dense gasps that pour from the thin vents of his mask until he stills with a sudden choked sound. Megatron’s hand, battle scarred and rough with uneven welds, wrapping around his throat and tightens as if testing the strength of him. His pride dimly swells, ugly and raised all the same, and it demands anger, resistance, fight damn you. But he does not know how, not with the pounding of feverish energon rushing through his helm and his optics flash erratically with an abandoned attempt to clear the haze.

He’s vaguely aware of Megatron’s voice, slowly picking through words as to piece them together, and he is abruptly brought into some diluted version of clarity when a thigh pushes against his panels and heat flares again, surging into his abdomen. Mortification fixes itself between the lust and the hunger at last. “Megatron”, he tries again and yet, his tongue feels heavy like lead. There’s an attempt for something stern, but the usual clipped note he carried had melted into a breathy sort of tone, golden-soft and slurred. He sounds pathetic. Even worse, he finds it hard to speak, much less argue on what should be deemed worthy of illness. Instead, he shoots him a glare over his shoulder as if that would be enough to ward him off.

Apparently, that did very little.

A hiss filters past his teeth as he is pulled down into Megatron’s lap. His chest heaves and he can barely hear past the sound of his own fans, desperately working to bring his core temperature down. A stinging part of code begs him to sit still, pleads to fall into Megatron’s promises and just let him break his frame in until his valve is molded to only fit him. Until he’s flooded, full, and spilling across the floor. He scowls quietly at the thought, biting his lip hard enough until it bleeds, dribbling down his chin and his frame trembles. All he can do is watch as his thighs are gripped and pulled wide and his helm slams violently back against Megatron’s shoulder as deft fingertips seem to try and cleave open his molten seam. He pulls against the cuffs once more, irritation budding at Megatron’s manhandling and the uncomfortable twist of burning wires and metal bending into each other, a slow torture that seems to inch down his spinal strut.

“Captain,” and finally he manages to spit acid into the sarcasm there. “I thought you medics had some oath about doing no harm.” He opens his palms, pinned between his own weight and Megatron’s armor and decidedly digs his digits into bright, red vents until paint transfers and dented metal is left in it’s wake. If he had the movement, he would have crushed them entirely. He seems to try anyway but the attempt is forgotten, no, stolen as searing pain spreads along his inner thighs and his optics short out, glowing a pale burst of white light. He squirms, back arching away from Megatron with an sharp groan as cool air suddenly hits his flushed cunt. He tries to shove his legs together, pulling his hips away but there’s nowhere to go.

It’s not shyness, it’s awareness. That’s why he dims his optics as the heavy scent of ozone hits him hard. He feels the clench of his valve, a slick little sound as wet, thick folds slide easily against each other. His cunt, which normally is a crisp white with glowing blue stripes, was blushed with a pink undertone and puffy from Optimus’ own ruthless treatment. It gleamed, purely soaked and drools a leaking translucent fluid down his aft and pools messily into Megatron’s lap. It reeks of desperation and its electric as Megatron dips his fingers against him. He widens his legs, not submission but a challenge.

“Well,” he rasps hotly, rolling his waist and urging Megatron’s hands against the hidden head of his clit. “Are you just going to stare at it all day?”

#megamilky #no proofreading we die like kings

megamilky:

It isn’t out of the ordinary that Optimus - on his time off - joins him in the bridge, the two of them orbiting one another like two celestial bodies caught in a relentless pull of gravity. From his seat in the captain’s chair, one leg crossed over the other, Megatron idly clicks a pen in his left hand, watching as Optimus busies himself at a console before him, blatantly invading his line of sight. Someone more respectful might have turned their optics away, content to work on in a comfortable silence. Cocking his helm, Megatron lets his gaze wander across sterling smokestacks and sleek red armor, downwards over the curve of his ass and between thick, gray thighs.

Telltale heat waves distort and waft through the air around Optimus, though there seems to be an effort to keep his field hidden, unreadable. Megatron’s lips pull into a smirk. Not from me, my dear.

Tucking his datapad into his subspace, he rises from the chair. Beneath the heaviness of his footsteps, he makes no effort to hide his approach, and doesn’t halt until he’s wrapped an arm around the former Prime’s tapered waist, until he’s pressed himself directly into his back, until his lips are smiling greedily against his neck. Megatron unleashes the heaviness of his own field, an iron wall of wicked wanting, as he crowds Optimus down, bending him over and shoving him roughly against the console. “Did you want my attention, Optimus? You’re foolish if you think I’d be content to simply admire you from afar.” His voice is thick, molten lead, as he drags his arm from beneath Optimus’ abdomen.

With one hand, he holds the former Prime’s wrists behind his back, his grip hard enough to bruise. His other hand fingers along the other’s side, searching until he sinks his fist into his subspace pocket. Megatron laughs lightly against the back of his neck as he gropes inside, searching until he produces a pair of handcuffs. Standing, he fastens them around his wrists and taunts, “Don’t break them. There will be consequences for that.”

Kicking Optimus’ legs apart, he presses himself between, admiring the tight squeeze of thighs draped around his own, of how his crotch slits perfectly into his ass. Slowly, he grinds his panels against Optimus’, squeezing his ass hard enough to dent. After a moment, he reaches between his legs, thumbing over his array. Static bristles from the tips of his fingers against the swelling heat.

Either Optimus can open for him or he’ll pry him open himself.

@martyrix

>> 𝙻𝙾𝙶 𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚁𝚈 𝟶𝟹𝟽 : 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙴𝚃 𝙵𝙾𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙰-𝟷

𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 : 𝚁𝙸𝙺𝙸 𝚀𝚄𝙰𝙳𝚁𝙰𝙽𝚃 𝙳𝚄𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙾𝙵 𝙴𝚇𝙿𝙾𝚂𝚄𝚁𝙴 : 𝟻 𝙳𝙴𝙲𝙰-𝙲𝚈𝙲𝙻𝙴𝚂

.𝙳𝙰𝚃𝙰.𝚁𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 (

- 𝙻𝙰𝙱 𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚄𝙻𝚃𝚂 𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝙸𝙽𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚂𝙻𝚄𝚂𝙸𝚅𝙴. 𝙵𝚄𝚁𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙸𝙽𝚅𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙶𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝚁𝙴𝚀𝚄𝙸𝚁𝙴𝙳. 𝙴𝚇𝚃𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 (?) 𝙸𝚂 𝚈𝙴𝚃 𝚃𝙾 𝙱𝙴 𝙳𝙴𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙴𝙳. 𝙴𝙻𝙴𝚅𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝚅𝙸𝚃𝙰𝙻𝚂 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝚂𝙿𝙰𝚁𝙺 𝙲𝙾𝚁𝙴 𝚁𝙴𝙼𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚂 𝚄𝙽𝚂𝚃𝙰𝙱𝙻𝙴. 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙽𝙰𝙻 𝚃𝙴𝙼𝙿𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙴 ... 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙸𝚂𝚂𝙴𝙳 ... 𝟹𝟷𝟿 𝙵 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝚁𝙸𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙶.

) .𝙳𝙰𝚃𝙰.𝙴𝙽𝙳

>> 𝚂𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙻𝙾𝙶? : (𝚈/𝙽)

He quickly closes the file, finials flicking subtlety at the sound of Megatron’s approach and instead enters the coordinates for his next upcoming project, saving them into the ship’s database for Megatron to review later. Optimus hadn’t left his study since returning a week ago, barricading himself inside the room and claiming himself ill, and the intention was to steer clear of Megatron until whatever bug had left his system.

However, that option had briskly shattered once Optimus stepped foot onto the bridge. He merely grunted a small greeting as he walked to the console, not trusting his voice to break and began his report. But his hands shake desperately, smashing against the screen’s keys with the accuracy of a drunkard and he breathes out a hiss of pure frustration. Charge prickles his circuits, snapping along his armor and Megatron’s weighted gaze seems to follow his every move. He draws his field close to himself, expression blank and willing his hands to obey and keep moving.

But lubricant pools behind his panels and he shifts from side to side, stifling a heady little sound as his valve cycles down, clenching on nothing. He forces a manual lock as a request pops onto his feed, prompting him to open up and he grits he teeth. Staying on that planet was a mistake, he should have left the moment he realized something was wrong.

Stupidly enough, he stayed, entirely focused on the new dig even if it meant sleepless nights of him biting his tongue to keep quiet as he ground against his hands to find some brief moment of relief.

It was happening too often, without a single reason to back up why. Certain planets that made his plating stand on end and his spark thrum with unspent charge the moment he touched the ground. It was driving him to the brink of insanity.

Optimus’ breath jumps as Megatron suddenly vents against his neck. He gaze darts towards the door, trying to stumble through an excuse on why he can’t stay.

“Megatron, I - NGH!”

He’s shoved against the console, chest grinding against the controls and a groan erupts from his throat. Maybe it’s the shock of cuffs against his wrists or the sudden realization that he’s not going to cleanly slip away, but something snaps and he finally releases his field, crashing against Megatron with a delirious roll of need. He wants to push it all back inside, find something to shield himself against it but his frame shudders blissfully, betraying him in delight as Megatron rubs his fingers against his burning array.

"’M sick”, he blurts through static and kicks his leg out. It’s not well-aimed, it hardly has as force behind it, but it’s enough to make Megatron stumble as he quickly shoves him back. It’s enough to give him room as heat peels from his plating and he pushes himself from the control table, scrambling to sit up and put some space between them as he strains against the cuffs. They’re the good pair too. The sound of creaking metal fills his audials and he tries to shake the lust-filled fog from his mind, ventilations stuttering.

“You’ll catch something.”

#megamilky

Optimus growing more comfortable with his partner and suddenly he's a horn dog. A slut. A fuck bunny. You will not get any proper rest when he's in a mood. You just had an orgasim? You're tired? Worn down? He's ready for the round 5. Will 100% hold your hips up once you're too weak to do it yourself just to keep railing you. Will ask to ride you next if your pussy is too sore to keep going. Please tire him out. Make him give in and give up. He's a needy and demanding creature.

#hes ... energetic