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The barrel of Megatron’s cannon is hot.
The air around them is tight and close, the immeasurable crushing pressure of debris, surrounding them, enveloping them. One of Optimus’s gyros has cracked during their long tumble and he cannot determine the direction to the surface, even if he could move. The mouth of Megatron’s cannon is driven into the rock beneath him, deflected from spearing his abdominal plating and wedged beneath his pelvic span instead. A metal strut digs into his dorsal plating, a single point of agony. One of Optimus’s arms, thrown up at the last moment, is braced against the debris above them, half-curled around Megatron’s shoulder guard in mockery of a lover’s embrace. Energon, he’s not sure from whom, drips down his face, onto his face.
Above him, Megatron snarls.
Optimus resists the urge to shift, to claw and tear at the cocoon of rock. He counts the pulses of his spark and pings Prowl for assistance.
The reply is prompt and relieved. Prowl has already triangulated their location and is negotiating with the Constructicons to excavate them. Optimus focuses back on Megatron. “Our soldiers are coming.”
“Excellent,” says Megatron. “Then you are possessed of a glimmer of common sense.”
Optimus narrows his optics and doesn’t reply.
The cycles tick onwards.
A tensor cable in Optimus’s left leg seizes and he squirms slightly to ease it, sending a tremor through their shared tomb.
“Watch it!” says Megatron, voice sharp with annoyance and, Optimus is queerly gratified to notice, not a little fear as well. Megatron’s arm jerks in reflex, shoving the barrel of his cannon harder against Optimus’s pelvic span. The weapon buzzes with energy and Optimus mutes his vocalizer to keep from gasping as contact sends a wave of unexpected charge through his circuitry.
“Perhaps,” he says, when he has reset his vocalizer, and Primus Below he hopes his voice doesn’t sound too strangled. “Perhaps you could turn that off for the moment? While we wait?”
Megatron laughs, rough and far too loud in the enclosed space. “Clever, Prime. A brilliant strategy; asking the enemy leader to disarm himself for you.”
Optimus cants his optics downwards in exasperation before realizing that he actually has no idea of the position of the Core in relation to himself. The thought nearly makes him laugh. “Indeed,” he says instead, flat. “My congratulations on foiling my plans. Now are you going to shut that monstrous overcompensation for your interfacing equipment down before we both fry in here?”
Megatron scowls. “Quid pro quo, Prime,” he says, tone peevish.
Optimus almost asks him what he means when he realizes. With his arm crushed against Megatron’s shoulder as it is, the barrel of his ion blaster, clutched in his hand with the reflex born of vorns on the force, rests directly against Megatron’s helm.
Optimus groans, helm clinking against rock as he lets it drop backwards. “What sort of fool would I be to blow your head off when it is your soldiers that are digging us out?”
There is a long silence and Optimus raises his helm, crest scraping against the rock above them and provoking a shower of dust. He narrows his optics at Megatron, whose expression is petulant. “Of course, look who I’m talking to.”
“A wise general takes advantage wherever it may be found,” says Megatron, his tone snide.
“I believe you are confusing ‘wise’ with ‘ruthless’,” says Optimus. “Unless you prefer to suffer the blowback from your own cannon while attempting to murder me in the most inefficient way possible?”
“I leave concerns of efficiency to Shockwave,” says Megatron. “I care only for results.”
Optimus presses his blaster against Megatron’s helm. “Then keep in mind that I held the precinct record for sharpshooting for six vorns running. At this distance? Your circuitry wouldn’t have a chance to relay the pain signals.”
Megatron laughs. “Better, Prime. You’re learning.”
Optimus shakes his head and shifts again, trying to ignore the way the movement slides his interface hatch up the barrel of the cannon. The size really does border on ridiculous. And it’s not as if it provides Megatron with that much extra firepower; a talented weapons specialist could put together integrated weaponry with as much kick at half the size.
Like his own blaster for instance, and Optimus smiles to himself behind his mask. No, the cannon is statement more than weapon.
“The real question about that cannon,” says Jazz, lifting up a cup of energon to the light and scrutinizing it. “Blast, there’s rust flakes in this. As I was saying, there’s only one question to ask about that cannon. Compensation? Or advertisement?”
Optimus forces his thoughts away from that particular avenue of inquiry and wishes Megatron would power down the weapon. The barrel is almost unbearably hot, and vibrating slightly from the unreleased charge, which rises and falls in consistent cycles, sending small pulses of current through Optimus’s interface array. It seems preposterous, but with the proximity, and when you consider the fact that a spike is really no more than a means of introducing charge to induce current flow it’s really not that surprising—
Oh.
Oh no.
“Megatron,” he says, keeping his voice as even as he can. “Power down the cannon.”
“Why?” says Megatron. “Uncomfortable?”
Optimus almost headbutts him, the instability of their tomb be slagged, but then he realizes that in spite of Megatron’s sarcastic tone the expression on his face is oblivious.
Megatron has literally no idea what his arrogant refusal to put down his weaponry is accomplishing.
Optimus momentarily considers the possibility and prudence of shooting them both, before deciding that one of them needs to behave with intelligence if they are to make it out of this with all their components intact. “Yes,” he says.
“Ha!” says Megatron, triumphant. “As well you should be, Prime. This cannon is the pinnacle of Decepticon engineering,” the charge jumps and his arm jerks again, shoving the barrel hard enough against Optimus’s pelvic span that for a moment Optimus wonders if he’s going to dent something, “specifically designed for the purpose of toppling your pathetic regime—”
“Megatron,” Optimus grits, trying to hold back another gasp as his valve cycles in response to the increased stimulation, “Shut up.”
Megatron opens his mouth, no doubt to spew some nonsense about the silencing of Decepticon voices, before he breaks off, optics wide, as though he’s only just become aware of their positions, the overpowering heat, the whiff of ozone. He looks completely flummoxed.
Optimus reconsiders shooting himself.
He braces for laughter, for triumph. He gets neither. Megatron is staring at the cannon, staring between Optimus’s legs with an intensity that’s left awkward in the dust and is rapidly approaching alarming.
“Megatron…” he says.
The charge cycles higher, sending a sharp spike of current through Optimus’s array and he does gasp this time, the power surge in his already-stimulated valve a near-pain. He’s about to shove Megatron away and hope that the collapse of the rubble around them will terminate any ideas Megatron has of humiliating his opponent, when the charge modulates, a series of rhythmic pulses that leave his valve clenching, gushing lubricant as his systems strain towards overload.
“Megatron,” he manages, and presses the barrel of his ion blaster harder against Megatron’s helm, a clear warning, but Megatron just shudders, optics bright with charge from battle, from arousal, and the thought of Megatron aroused is doing entirely inappropriate things to Optimus’s interfacing systems.
“Going to shoot me, Optimus?” says Megatron and it’s far too intimate. “Going to splatter my components and energon for daring to touch you?” The cannon growls beneath him and Optimus bucks, sending a cascade of small rocks and bits of metal until he forces himself still again, legs trembling as his charge ramps higher.
“You sound entirely too enthusiastic about that prospect,” says Optimus and Megatron chuckles.
“Perhaps,” he says.
Optimus can’t squash a moan as Megatron manipulates the cannon’s charge again, “Pervert.”
“Maybe,” says Megatron. “But considering your less-than-prurient interest in my cannon, I think we may be even.”
Optimus wants to tell himself it’s just stimulation, he would respond the same with any mechanism, here in the same position, but if he is honest it is the expression in Megatron’s optics, the fire and strange fascination, as much as the heat and vibration and charge, that pushes him into overload.
Besides, no mechanism other than Megatron would ever end up in a position this ridiculous.
As he comes down from the overload, the cannon’s charge dampens, though the residual heat remains. He expects Megatron to speak, to shatter the veneer of intimacy, but the other mech says nothing, watching him with strange, solemn optics.
Optimus clutches his blaster tighter and slides his arm across Megatron’s back, shifting the muzzle out of position and Megatron’s helm out of the line of fire. It’s not an embrace, not really, but Megatron reads it, as he always does, because he smiles slightly, wry and sad.
When the Constructicons finally break them from the cocoon of rock, Optimus has to remember to let Megatron go.
The barrel of Megatron’s cannon is hot.
Beyond the porthole the stars are bright and clear, but Optimus has no eye for them. His hand is digging dents into Megatron’s shoulder guard, his knees scraping the floor as he rocks back and forth, bared valve pressed to the cannon, lubricant slicking the way as charge hums through the weapon and crackles across his nodes. He wants to give into the tremors in his legs, fall to his hands and knees and clutch at Megatron, ride the cannon to ecstasy, but he must keep himself steady.
“You are so beautiful like this,” says Megatron. His voice is rough and strained, the movements of his body growing less coordinated as he rubs his own valve against the barrel of the ion blaster, optics bright and lubricant dripping to the floor. “Do you wish that I could ‘face you with it? Put it inside you, all that heat and charge? You’d never want a spike again, would you?”
Optimus groans and nearly doubles over as pleasure stabs through the internal mechanisms of his valve, bracing himself at the last moment and holding the blaster stable. “If you wanted to ‘face me with your cannon,” he gasps, “you should have gone for something smaller.”
Megatron laughs, breathless, grinding down on the barrel of the blaster. “True. Pity, that.” Charge roars through the weapon and Optimus cries out, resistors tripping as he overloads. Disequilibrium rolls through him, leaving his legs weak and Megatron withdraws his cannon, using his freed arm to brace Optimus so he can use both hands to hold the blaster in place and allow Megatron to ride it more freely. Optimus is torn between watching Megatron’s optics as he moves towards overload or watching the lips of his valve part over the barrel of the blaster, the way the lubricant smears down it as he moves.
“Of course,” Optimus says, lifting his optics to lock on Megatron’s. “There are those of us possessed of more…reasonably-sized equipment.” He angles the blaster on the down stroke, nudging the muzzle gently into the entrance of Megatron’s valve and the other mech freezes. “Perhaps something could be arranged.”
He half-expects to be thrown to the floor, but to his utter shock, Megatron hunches towards him and overloads, startled optics flaring bright with current. His fingers crack and dent Optimus’s shoulder guards as he gasps out his climax.
He lets Megatron sag against him, releasing the blaster with one hand to take Megatron in his arms, a true embrace this time, stroking his dorsal plating and letting Megatron bury his face in Optimus’s neck. “I take it the thought appeals?”
“Slagger,” says Megatron. His panting slows, the buzzing field from his whirling spark settling. “We’ll talk about it,” he says at last, sounding grumpy at the prospect.
Optimus smiles and tightens his hold, “I look forward to it.”