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Fortress Maximus fights the urge to yell at everyone staring at him like he’s some freak.
He doesn’t want to be here. Hedonia was one of the last places he thought he’d ever end up. Not that he dislikes it—it’s nice. Neutral.
He just wishes he were here under different circumstances.
Maybe with Cerebros and Red, if only he’d manage to convince the last one, Red has been more jumpy than usual.
But that’s not the point.
He doesn't want to be here following up this poor excuse of a complaint about a group of mecha, quote, “hunting down those who left the cause.”
For frag’s sake—they’re not the DJD.
Still, part of him would love to laugh at Prowl’s face for thinking he could just go around taking down whoever he damn well pleased. He thinks the NAILs and/or the rest of the galaxy are just going to ignore the Autobots ex-SIC, who casually has a bounty in his helm, going around and that CASUALLY, in all those places he goes around, there are casualties? As if it wasn't enough that those fraggers did nothing else than cry, they like to stick their noses everywhere.
There’s a reason he sends others to do the dirty work—and not himself.
If you asked him, he’s far more concerned about the group of mecha accompanying him than about Prowl.
And yet, here he is.
It's part of the job. All the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord crap. He doesn't envy Ultra Magnus but still wonders how the mecha managed to do this for so long. Maybe because, back when they were still at war, there was actually something to do.
He tries to find something—anything.
He talks to locals, even if they shoot him wary glances when they think he’s not looking and lie to his face.
He scans for spark signals and gets nothing.
He tries. Well. Looking.
Ridiculously, that last one works.
So if he’s surprised to spot a familiar black and white frame, with red and broken chevron threading through the crowd, he’ll just tell himself he thought the report was fake.
Again.
He ducks behind a stand, trying to crouch low enough to avoid detection but still standing tall enough —above the stand's tent— to keep Prowl in sight.
He lets out an exasperated sight.
“Red,” he calls, opening his comms, shifting restlessly as he tries to find the perfect balance between staying hidden and keeping his target in sight.
He’s not entirely sure how well he’s doing. And is having internal conflict, he doesn't know if he actually cares or not.
He just hadn’t expected to find anything.
The last real lead he’d found had been the whole mecha trafficking complot, and those weird Cons —who surprisingly weren't part of it—. After that, it’d been one fake report after another. He felt bad for it, but he envyed Cerebros, at least he could do something while reverting the domestication process on those poor mecha.
And Hedonia was…
Well.
Hedonia.
He’s thankful Tyrest is dead—because if the mecha were still around to witness this sloppy excuse for fieldwork, he might’ve executed him on the spot.
He's also grateful that Ultra Magnus is too busy dealing with the walking disaster that is the Lost Light to keep tabs on him.
It doesn’t take long before Red’s familiar voice crackles through the line.
“Maximus! There you are—I was starting to worry about you.”
A smile tugs at his faceplates. He leans slightly over the stand he’s using as cover, just enough to confirm it: Prowl, standing still, scanning the crowd.
Fortress Maximus ducks back out of sight.
“Looks like this one’s real, Red.”
There’s a pause on the line—then Red gasps.
“Is he—? Oh, please, tell me we’re not calling Starscream. I don’t want to call Starscream,” Red practically wails.
Maximus chuckles under his breath.
“No, no Starscream. I’ll try reaching Prime once I have Prowl secured in my ship. Hopefully, he’s not too busy reconnecting with the old colonies to deal with this.”
Red Alert lets out a sigh of relief.
“Do you have any idea what he’s doing?”
Fortress Maximus leans forward again, scanning the crowd.
There he is—Prowl, just standing there, moving his doorwings slightly.
“No. He’s just… there. Standing. It’s creepy.”
He hears Red muttering something on the other end of the line, low and tense—until the mutter turns into panic.
“He’s trying to block me! He’s trying to block me!” Red shouts and Maximus can practically see him now: hunched over his monitors, too close to the screen, fingers flying while doing what he does best—besides panicking.
“Red, it’s okay. Prowl is—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
Because suddenly, Prowl is gone.
“Frag. Red, keep doing whatever you’re doing. If Cerebros is nearby, call him. And remember the venting exercises Rung taught you.”
He moves from his hiding spot —ignoring the startled complaint of the organic who probably owns the stand he was using as hiding— and straightens up to his full height.
“Fortress Maximus? What’s going on?”
He scans the crowd. Everyone is avoiding him—naturally—but he zeroes in on where Prowl had been.
Nothing.
No trace.
No sign he was even there.
“Prowl’s trying to escape. I’m initiating pursuit.”
There’s an alley not far from where he last saw him.
“Fortress Maximus, wait! You shouldn’t—”
He cuts Red off, already moving, footsteps heavy and fast as he charges forward, ignoring the scattered yelps in his path.
“I’ll call you if I get something!”
And he hangs up.
Red immediately tries to call back, but he ignores it—too focused on getting into the alley.
It takes more effort than it should. He has to walk on the tips of his peds just to navigate the crowd without hurting someone. But when he finally reaches the entrance, he doesn't hesitate—he throws himself forward into what turns out to be a dark, filthy corridor.
He runs toward the end, ready to take the turn on the left—where he’s certain Prowl must’ve gone. But when he gets there—
He halts.
Because he’s met by another mech.
Not Prowl.
But someone he's deeply familiar with.
"Impactor."
It’s been a long time since he last saw the mecha—and the last time he did, Impactor was locked in one of his best cells.
He hadn’t been the easiest of prisoners.
Impactor had been confined to Garrus-9 after the massacre of Squadron X. Despite what was released to the public, Fortress Maximus was given the full report.
The real one, not the one full of black.
And the last time they spoke was before the whole... fiasco.
"Warden. Long time no see," Impactor says with something like emotion—though his faceplate stays still.
"I could say the same," Maximus observes him from pede to helm.
Impactor stands in the center of the corridor, arms relaxed at his sides… but one servo is curled into a fist.
He’s watching him, too.
"Look, after all the..." Maximus pauses, then shakes his helm. "The whole G9 thing—you were exonerated. I don’t think you want to go back to prison."
Impactor’s still face shifts in an instant. The stiffness breaks—he laughs, hard, almost folding in half, and one servo lands on his thigh.
"You’ve got it all right, Warden," he says, mostly to himself, straightening slowly.
A chill runs through Maximus’s frame at the sight of that familiar, vicious smile.
"Just tell me where Prowl is. I can pretend this never happened."
"Oh? The new Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, going soft?" Impactor teases. "Didn’t Magnus teach you the basics?"
Maximus doesn't respond. He’s losing time—Prowl might already be off-planet.
"You don’t have to keep doing Prowl’s dirty work. The war is over."
"And what would a mecha like me do? You know better than anyone; I’m not a fan of peace." Impactor steps to the wall on his left and leans against it, never taking his optics off him.
"I know a place you could go."
"A place for mecha like me? Don’t give me false hope."
"They let Whirl in."
Impactor chuckles again, softer this time. It’s not dramatic. Just… exhausted.
"I’m sorry, Warden. But I’m doing this willingly..."
Maximus thinks he says more—something quiet, something too low to make out.
"Is that so?"
Impactor doesn’t answer.
Suddenly, a blaster shot streaks toward his helm.
He ducks just in time, falling to his side. When he looks back up, Impactor is already running—almost at the next corridor.
Maximus starts to rise—and freezes.
Impactor is running.
Impactor, who would fight just for the sake of it. Running from a fight.
And he thought Prowl was the idiot here.
Maximus pushes forward, reaching the corner—he lets the mecha make the turn, then angles himself with a single thought: property damage can be sorted out later.
He crashes straight through the wall separating both corridors—slamming into Impactor.
They hit the ground together, Impactor crushed beneath him. Maximus doesn’t move—he can feel the mecha squirming under his weight, but Impactor’s fallen on his side and can’t shake him off.
After a while, Impactors efforts to shake him off cease, and the mecha starts muttering nonsense, judging by the tone, he is being insulted. He's not interested into knowing what kind of vulgarity the mecha is saying.
It doesn't take a long time before all Impactors' efforts cease.
He slowly gets back on his pedes.
Impactor lies on the ground, offline, with a —hopefully— minor injury on the side of his helm.
In his servo, a discharged electro pulse.
There was a reason traps were more a Prowl thing.
Well. At least he’ll not leaving Hedonia empty-handed.
The way back to his ship was quiet. The locals don’t even look at him as he carries Impactor over his shoulder, and honestly? He prefers it that way.
He also finally answered Red’s call.
At least he managed to calm him down with the “good news.”
If calming Red down meant getting yelled at for the entire walk back.
Once he boards the ship, he heads straight to the command center and drops Impactor onto one of the chairs. The mecha doesn’t move—stasis cuffs secure on his wrists, frame completely inert.
Maximus lets out a tired sigh and drops to the floor, sitting with his back against the console.
Now what?
Prisoner?
Inmate?
Hostage?
Detained?
He could just take off, and leave Hedonia behind with Impactor in his custody.
But that would mean giving Prowl free rein to keep doing whatever the frag he wants. And now he has a better idea of the type of mechs Prowl has doing his dirty work.
He could interrogate Impactor… but the mecha obviously isn’t going to confess slag. He could leave him here and go back out, try to track Prowl again. Red is still watching every ship docking and leaving the planet—none of them suspicious, yet.
It’s almost insulting. Like Prowl doesn’t even consider him a threat.
But what did he expect from the mecha who left him —left all of them— to rot in Garrus-9?
He’d done what he could back then. But Aequitas was the priority.
Was it? He didn’t get access to it by the end. But now. Now it's in Prowl’s servos. Like that’s any better.
“Fragging scrap. Fragging Prowl. Fragging Aequitas. Frag everything,” he murmurs, resting his helm against the console and trying to vent.
He’ll call Rung later. Right now, he has to decide what to do with Impactor.
He stands up and walks to the hallway just to grab a first aid kit, then returns to where the other mecha still lies unconscious.
The injury isn’t critical—he’d just hit him hard enough to knock him out. Still, he takes some of the gel meant to speed up self-repair and applies it gently.
Impactor’s faceplate is calm. Unusually so.
Oddly so... it fits him.
Better than that constant scowl he permanently wears. Not that he looks bad with the scowl, no, he pulls it off—but this, this peaceful and serene expression, it’s—
Okay. No. He shouldn’t be thinking about that.
It's just that. It's been a while.
Especially back when he was the Warden of one of the, if not the, most secured Autobot prisons. Everyone he interacted with was under his command, and the few who weren’t only ever showed up to dump someone into that Primus-forsaken pit and then left without a second glance.
And then there was his height. He was already bigger than Optimus Prime, and Prime was already considered a big mech. That alone shortened his options.
And his last... it hadn’t been the best experience. He’d rather forget about it. It was easier that way.
He finishes patching up Impactor’s helm injury in less than a few kliks. Then, instead of returning to the floor, he drops into the captain’s chair and waits.
It takes Impactor several kliks to online. His optics light up dimly, flickering at first, and he blinks sluggishly as he reboots from the forced stasis. Eventually, he notices the stasis cuffs clamped around his wrists and tugs instinctively—of course, to no avail.
“Finally awake?” Fortress Maximus comments dryly, resisting the urge to chuckle as Impactor jolts upright in the seat.
The mecha quickly turns to face him, frowning. His optics scan him, sharp and calculating. Whatever he’s looking for, he must find it, because his expression shifts—easing up slightly.
“Warden,” Impactor says with a rough exhale, voice recovering as his systems sync. His faceplates twist into a skeptical look. “Thought that back there had been a lovely dream.”
It’s Fortress Maximus’s turn to shoot him a skeptical look in return.
“Good to see I didn’t break anything important,” he says instead, rising from the captain’s chair and approaching. He halts a step in front of Impactor. “Now—I’ve got a few questions for you.”
Instead of telling him to frag off—or something equally harsh—Impactor just smiles at him, slowly and dreamily.
“Go ahead.”
It takes Fortress Maximus a few kliks to pull himself together before finally stepping closer. Even then, he hesitates.
“I need you to tell me what Prowl is planning.”
Impactor examines him briefly… then bursts into a low laugh.
“Prowl’s always planning, Warden. You might want to narrow that down a bit.”
Fortress Maximus grunts in frustration.
“What are you doing here, Impactor?”
“Well, Warden, last I checked, you’re the one who dragged me here.”
“You know what I mean! What are you doing in Hedonia?”
His irritation is evident, and it only seems to amuse Impactor further.
“Oh, that.” Impactor tilts his head, smug. “Yeah, I don’t think I’m telling you.”
“Impactor,” Fortress Maximus growls, “if you don’t talk, that makes you an accomplice. You know what that means? You and Prowl are both headed to the same pit.”
But he just keeps watching him, the grin never leaving his face.
“You know,” Impactor says thoughtfully, “for someone who’s supposed to be the new ‘softer’ Duly Appointed Enforcer of Tyrest crappy Accord, I expected a bit more diplomacy. Maybe a bribe. A little incentive to get me talking.”
This mecha—
“Fine,” Fortress Maximus mutters, already regretting all he has done to end in this situation. “What do you might possibly want, Impactor?” He pauses at the mecha name, trying to make it sound as irritated as possible, but it ends up more...exasperated.
Impactor scans him again, and this time his gaze lingers—pointedly—lower.
“I want you to sit on my face."
Fortress Maximus just… stares.
For a moment, he wants to curse Impactor out for the fragging joke and toss him in the brig until he finds Prowl. But the thing is—Impactor isn’t laughing. The grin in his face has faded away, his optics are staring at his spark.
He’s dead serious.
“No. Frag you. Why would I even—”
Impactor cuts him off, voice unnervingly calm.
“Prowl is looking for Punch. An Autobot spy he thinks might’ve deserted—and is now using classified intel to extort mecha. ‘Bots and ‘Cons.”
And Fortress Maximus freezes.
He blinks. Stares. Lost.
“What—why—how—No!” he mutters, stumbling over his own words as he shakes his helm and instinctively backs away. “You’re my prisoner, I can’t—no.”
He's definitely not running.
Definitely not fleeing straight to his habsuite.
“Just think about it, Warden!” Impactor calls after him, smug as ever. “Your pretty valve on my intake while I eat you out for cycles! Lubricant dripping all the way to-”
Fortress Maximus slams the door behind him, trying to ignore the heat crawling up his back strut—and Impactor’s vulgar laughter echoing through the corridor.
Fortress Maximus has locked himself inside his habsuite.
He lies on his recharge slab, staring at the ceiling, his servos twitching restlessly in his lap as he fights the overwhelming urge to punch something.
He's worried. Restless. And trying not to call Red.
He could just tell him. Tell him what Prowl is after, and let Red track him down. That’s what he's supposed to do. He has the information now. It should be easy.
But he can’t get Impactor’s offer out of his processor.
He tells himself it’s not about that. That this is about duty, about doing the right thing. Prowl is still Prowl, after all—always planning, always five moves ahead. Having a direct lead like this is rare.
That’s the reason. Not the loneliness. Not the few hundred vorns spent with nothing but his own thoughts. Not the fact that he can probably count all his berth partners with one servo—and still have digits to spare. He appreciates Red and Cerebros’ company, but it's not the same.
Yet.
He can’t. He shouldn’t. Impactor is his prisoner.
He's the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord—he’s not even supposed to consider this kind of offer.
The power imbalance. The mere fact it could take him to martial court.
But Impactor was the one who made the offer.
And it's not like he has to accept it. One call to Red, and this is over. Done.
But it’s been far too long.
No. He shouldn’t. Definitely shouldn’t.
He could just let Impactor go. He got what he wanted, the intel. End of story. Maybe they’d never cross paths again.
But if he lets him go, he’ll just go back to Prowl.
And as much as Fortress Maximus knows he could win a one-on-one fight, he knows the truth: he got lucky catching Impactor. And Prowl doesn’t play fair. He never has. And he’s never alone.
Still… Why would Impactor suggest something like that?
He doesn’t want to admit it, but—if it had been any other mech, he would’ve shut it down without thinking. Because that would have definitely been a trap.
What assures him this isn't some kind of trap? Why is he trusting the mecha that much? What if this an attempt to get revenge from his megacycles as a prisoner? For his failure to protect them from Overlord? But Impactor—despite the vulgar tone, the teasing—had seemed... genuinely interested, not resentful. And he hadn’t needed much incentive to spill Prowl’s plan, so the mecha isn’t even offering this as some kind of bargain.
Maybe.
Fortress Maximus pushes himself off the recharge slab, his frame heavy with indecision but finally moving. He steps out of the habsuite and makes his way toward the command center.
He won’t get any answers by sulking.
Fortress Maximus stares down at the mecha still seated in the commands' chair.
He’d been gone for a while—too much precious time lost—but Impactor hadn’t made the slightest attempt to escape.
He’d been waiting.
For him.
And now he had that cocky grin plastered across his faceplate.
Fortress Maximus fights the urge to shoot him.
“You're back, Warden,” Impactor drawls, entirely unbothered. “Did you give my offer some thought?”
He’s looking him up and down, optics pausing—too long—at his array.
Fortress Maximus had, in fact, given it more thought than he’d like to admit.
But he’s not going to tell Impactor that.
“Do you even realize you're my prisoner?” Fortress Maximus snaps, straining to keep his tone even. “What you suggested breaks every law, every regulation—there's a clear power imbalance, and whatever you're expecting out of this, I promise you it’s not worth it.”
That wasn’t what he meant to say. But this is what came out. And he doesn’t regret it, actually, his needs don’t come first, for more tempting his horny and touch-starved frame and processor are trying to make the offer sound.
And he can't believe Impactor's words yet.
Impactor blinks, as if genuinely caught off guard by Fortress Maximus’s words—then bursts into laughter, loud and unbothered.
“Oh, Warden,” he chuckles, grinning. “You think I give a frag about what I’d get out of this? Frag Prowl, frag Punch, frag the whole damned lot.”
He leans back in the chair, relaxed and maddeningly casual.
“Maybe there is one thing,” he adds, his voice dropping. “I would benefit from you actually sitting on my face and letting me eat you out. Just saying.”
He shrugs like it’s the most casual offer in the galaxy.
“Don’t feel pressured, sweetspark. Really. You can go off and hunt Prowl yourself. Or—” his grin widens, a little crooked now, “—you can stay right here. I’ll even tell you where he is. That’s on me, you will not even need to sit on my face.”
He sighs, almost theatrically —but he actually seems upset with his last words—, then flashes Fortress Maximus a flirtatious smirk.
“Though I would prefer you to sit on my face. Did I already say that?”
Fortress Maximus stares, optics narrowed, processor struggling to accept any of this as real.
And Impactor just keeps going.
“Don’t worry about that other thing, Warden,” he murmurs, voice going low, rough. “I might hate the cops and all their righteous scrap, but... for you? I could make an exception.”
Then, softly, like a promise:
“Let me make you sing, Warden"
This makes him want to fly again—to flee to the safety of his habsuite—especially when he feels heat crawling under his array. But he stays still.
"Impactor, I—look, I can’t accept this. It’s inappropriate. Even if I would appreciate you telling me where Prowl is, we can’t do this." He mutters, barely above a whisper, shaking his helm weakly.
“Can’t isn’t the same thing as don’t want to.”
The words hit him like a convoy. He realizes he's started to stare at the floor for a while —and when he looks up, Impactor's grin has grown even wider.
“You want it, Warden. Don’t worry about the Duly Appointed Enforcer slag—I’ll tell you where Prowler is either way. Let’s just... have a good time.”
Despite the clearly teasing in his tone, the clear interest and eagerness—and the rising heat Fortress Maximus feels in his core—some part of him still screams no. A part that tells him this is wrong. Like he's bartering his body for intel.
He’s not better than—
Click.
The sound snaps him out of it. He looks up just in time to see the stasis cuffs fall from Impactor’s wrists.
He fights the urge to curse.
“How long,” he says, exhausted, “have you been able to do that?”
Impactor hums, mock thoughtful. “Long before the war,” he says with a smirk, then stands up and starts walking toward him.
Fortress Maximus doesn't move. He should, but—
“Say the word, Warden,” Impactor says. “Say no, and I’ll walk straight to the brig. Or—” his voice drops, low and rough yet somehow soft.“—we could have a little fun. Prowl’s not going anywhere for at least a megacycle. You’ll have plenty of time, whatever you decide."
Fortress Maximus stares, processor stalling, something soft and vulnerable stirring inside him.
“Why...” His voice cracks. “Why would you even want to?”
Impactor stops right in front of him. Laughs—low, almost sweet.
“Because I think you’d sound beautiful in pleasure, Warden.”
Fortress Maximus lets out a soft whine as his knees buckle, trembling beneath the weight of want and indecision. He barely manages to compose himself, lifting a servo to signal toward the hallway that connects with the command room.
“L-Let’s... let’s go to my habsuite,” he murmurs, voice thick with self-restraint.
The words barely leave his intake when he feels Impactor’s servos already on his hips—firm, grounding. Too warm. Too nice.
Primus help him. He lets it happen.
Red is going to kill him, he thinks, but it doesn’t stop the heat pooling under his array, doesn’t stop the way he leans into the touch.
He’s not sure which is worse: that Impactor offered, or that Fortress Maximus wants it.
Maybe both.
He fights the urge to snap open his panels in that instant.
Impactor is sprawled across the berth, a wide, hungry grin stretched across his faceplate like he’s already won a prize.
Fortress Maximus crouches above his helm, tense and still, caught in a moment of hesitance. He can feel Impactor’s grip tightening on his thighs, encouraging—daring—him to go lower.
Impactor has been strangely quiet. No teasing remarks, no vulgar jokes since they entered the habsuite. Instead, his attention turned physical: a series of deliberate touches on their way from the command center to his habsuit. A palm pressed to his lower back. Fingers dragging across his waist. A thumb brushing over the seams in his hips.
And three separate, unmistakable touches against his array—lingering just close enough over his valve cover to make him ache. He hoped he didn’t make any sounds. Hopes Impactor didn’t notice how warm he’d become, how his valve had started to lubricate.
He probably noticed.
Before collapsing onto the berth, Impactor had leaned in and pressed a kiss just beneath Fortress Maximus’ chest plate—his height making anything higher a challenge without help. Then he’d dropped onto the berth with a smirk and a lewd gesture that Fortress Maximus has been trying very hard to forget.
Now, here they are. Fortress Maximus feels the weight of those rough thumbs stroking gentle circles into his inner thighs, coaxing him down, closer, where gravity wants him. He swears he can taste the mech’s desperation in the air.
It’s thick. Tense. Almost reverent.
And still, Impactor hasn't said a word.
This wasn’t going the way Fortress Maximus had expected.
He’d braced himself for something rough and briefly fantasized something charged with resentment, maybe even revenge. Wreckers weren’t exactly known for their tenderness, and Impactor’s reputation certainly didn’t suggest otherwise.
But this?
This was gentle.
Nice.
He really likes it.
Impactor’s touch has been nothing but patient, two words that normally don't go in the same sentence.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Fortress Maximus finally asks, voice low and hesitant. “We can stop—”
He doesn’t get to finish.
A smooth, wet press of glossa against his inner thigh cuts off the rest of the sentence. It’s slow. Intentional. A tease.
He fights the urge to moan.
“You can cut all that scrap, Warden,” Impactor murmurs against his plating. “You don’t have to worry.”
He pauses for effect—and because of course, he does.
“Let me tell you something,” he adds, his tone dropping, warmer now, almost delighted. “Remember when you tackled me in that alley? Gonna be honest… that got me fragging hot. Might’ve been the moment I started wanting you to sit on my face.”
Oh.
So the vulgar nonsense earlier…
Oh.
Fortress Maximus opens his intake to say something, anything—but no words come out. Instead, he shifts, moving lower with doubtful resolve.
Impactor’s grip tightens immediately.
Welcoming.
Encouraging.
“You don’t have to worry about breaking me,” Impactor says, voice low and rough with excitement. “I’ve had worse. This? This is paradise compared to anything else.”
Fortress Maximus hadn’t really doubted Impactor’s durability—but still. He’s not exactly light. And this… this isn’t something he does.
Nobody’s ever eaten him out before.
Not once.
Okay, maybe that made his decision biased. Maybe he was letting himself slip a little too easily into the moment, into the heat and anticipation and quiet want that had been sitting heavy in his chassis for far too long. But even now, crouched over Impactor’s helm, the indecision won’t leave him.
He’s heavy. Too heavy.
He doesn’t want to hurt him.
Impactor doesn’t say anything else—doesn’t mock him, doesn’t push—and that’s somehow worse. Instead, Fortress Maximus just feels it: a slow, deliberate lick tracing the seam of his leg joint.
Then another. And another.
They’re long, smooth, warm. Purposeful.
Each one ends in his inner thigh, and then starts again lower, dragging upward in steady, even strokes. Fortress Maximus shudders as the wet heat follows the curve of his plating, and it’s so soft—almost reverent. His thighs twitch despite himself, and Impactor’s servos move to cradle them, thumbs pressing gentle circles into the inner plating.
There’s a rhythm to it now. A slow, focused pattern—glossa and fingers moving in tandem, coaxing him to relax, to lean in.
To let go.
He sucks in a shaky intake, frame trembling.
This is nothing like what he expected.
This is—
Frag.
Fortress Maximus lets out a low string of gasps, his vents stuttering as heat coils tighter in his array, radiating out through his frame. He dims his optics, trying to focus—trying not to focus—as his servos twitch uselessly behind his back, against Impactor's chest plate. He doesn’t know what to do with them. Doesn’t know what to do with himself.
And then—
He jerks, startled when he feels a sharp nip at the inside of his thigh. Impactor bites him—just enough to make him twitch—before following it with a slow, deliberate lick. He draws a circle around the tender spot with the flat of his glossa, then presses a soft kiss over it, almost like an apology.
Fortress Maximus whines, low and helpless, as heat spikes hard in his array. His valve cover pools with lubricant. His whole frame feels full—taut with pressure and need, and something that’s starting to feel frighteningly close to desperation.
He can feel it humming in his spark. Gnawing at the edges of control.
Impactor’s voice rumbles from beneath him, soft and coaxing.
“Come on, Warden. Open for me… please?”
Who would've thought?
One day, he would have Impactor —The Impactor— beneath him, voluntarily, practically begging to eat him out. Saying asking him nicely —saying please- to open and expose his valve.
In any other circumstance, he might've laughed. Might've mocked the idea, even. But today?
Today, he yields.
His valve cover retracts so fast it's embarrassing—but there's no time for shame, not when Impactor takes that very moment of hesitation and pulls him down. Not forcefully, but decisively. He stops just short, holding him barely centimeters above his intake.
Then the first kiss.
A tremble rolls through Fortress Maximus’s frame, hips squirming as Impactor lays a soft, lingering kiss right against his folds. The mecha doesn’t rush, doesn’t speak—just lets his intake explore. A trail of slow, wet kisses follows down the seam of his valve, each press sending another jolt through Fortress Maximus’s systems, ignoring the slick evidence of his arousal entirely.
Impactor stops just beneath his node, and Fortress Maximus leans down slightly, catching a glimpse of the mech’s faceplate—what little isn't hidden beneath his frame. His optics are focused, and intense, staring straight at his valve with the kind of hunger that makes Fortress Maximus’s spark stutter in his chamber.
Then, another kiss—right on his node.
He gasps, back arching as heat explodes outward, pleasure crackling through his sensory net. Only Impactor’s grip on his thighs keeps him from outright collapsing.
The kisses continue—soft, teasing—each one more unbearable than the last, making his hips twitch and servo joints lock from sheer restraint. Fortress Maximus clings to that grip like it’s the only thing anchoring him.
And then that glossa returns.
Impactor presses it against his valve lips, dragging it slowly, deliberately. Up. Down. Circles. Pauses between to press more kisses into the heat of him, and Fortress Maximus melts. Fully, utterly melts—his armor plates loose, his vents overworked, his frame pliant in Impactor’s hold. Charge building up slowly.
Impactor finally pulls back from his folds—but only just.
His glossa shifts lower, slipping between them, and lingers at the rim of his valve. The first touch to his entrance is tentative, almost curious. Fortress Maximus freezes—there’s a flicker of realization, far too late—and then his knees buckle.
His weight drops without warning, and he lands right against Impactor’s faceplate, the ridges of his helm pressing firmly to his valve—his node. The sudden pressure and friction send his systems flaring, and the soft, exploratory flicks of Impactor’s glossa at his entrance make him buck, a sharp, helpless yelp escapes his intake as his whole frame curls in on itself.
He’s trembling—venting harshly, every sensor overwhelmed.
It takes longer than he’d like to find control again. His thighs tremble with the effort to lift himself, just enough to breathe, to apologize, to explain he didn’t mean to—
But he doesn’t get the chance.
Impactor’s grip tightens. Firm. Steady. Welcoming.
And that glossa doesn’t retreat. It teases his rim in slow, practiced movements—circling, pressing, testing. Fortress Maximus chokes on a cry, optics fluttering dim as his array pulses with heat, lubricant slick and unrelenting.
Apparently done with games, Impactor’s glossa finally slips past the rim of his valve. Fortress Maximus barely stifles the sharp whine that climbs up his throat, a startled gasp escaping as the warm, skilled glossa begins to move deeper, searching—the slow, deliberate intrusion brushing against the first sensitive calipers inside him.
He can feel Impactor drinking his lubricant as a starved mecha.
His hips jerk involuntarily, instinct guiding him to lean into the contact. Every time that glossa grazes an inner node, his frame flinches; every movement of Impactor’s helm against his node sends jolts through his circuits. He starts to grind—barely, desperately—trying to build more friction, more pressure, more anything.
Impactor clearly notices.
His helm shifts, pressing tighter into his node, and the rough texture of his ridges and the deliberate movement sends a rush of static through Fortress Maximus’ backstrut. His vents stutter. His processor begins to cloud, sparks of charge dancing over his plating.
He doesn’t catch what Impactor mutters into his valve—but he feels it.
The vibration makes his frame quiver, funny, and unbearably good. And then there’s something sharper—Impactor’s denta catch on the edge of his folds with sudden, rough pressure.
Fortress Maximus screams—sharp, startled, overwhelmed. The bite is a bolt of pain and pleasure that splits through his valve and explodes across his frame, coaxing a too-fast overload from his trembling systems. His spark flares with heat, too bright, and he slumps, weak, his frame folding toward Impactor’s.
He barely catches himself on his servos, each one at Impactor's sides, trembling from the release.
Impactor doesn’t let him go.
His thumbs resume their slow massage on his inner thighs, grounding him, while his glossa and lips return to his folds—gentle now, toying. Soft kisses, and light flicks at his rim that grasp around nothing. His valve tries to clench, searching, aching.
And Fortress Maximus—he lets out a broken, desperate moan, frame trembling with need.
“Ugh…” he cries out, trembling within Impactor’s grip.
The other mecha notices. He pauses, pulling back just slightly to nuzzle against his inner thigh.
“Are you with me?”
Impactor’s voice, usually gruff and cocky, comes out surprisingly soft—grounded, almost tender. His helm rubs slow circles into his frame, coaxing him back from the haze.
“T-That… that was a pit of an overload,” Fortress Maximus admits, still dizzy, his vents stuttering with the aftershocks. But he doesn’t resist. Instead, he leans into the mech’s hold, letting the moment settle.
Impactor hums against his plating.
“You looked a bit out of yourself,” he remarks casually, but there’s something observant in the tone.
“It’s—It’s been a while,” he murmurs, optics flickering. “Not like I get much time for this kind of stuff...” He pauses, then lifts himself just enough to meet Impactor’s gaze. “Not like you would care.”
Something shifts.
For a split second, feelings flicker across Impactor’s faceplate—something Fortress Maximus doesn’t recognize immediately, but it’s genuine, and it lands deeper than he intended. Before he can speak, he feels it: something hot and wet pressing against his node.
He gasps, surprised.
“You—!”
Impactor laughs. Low, smug, and right against his most sensitive spot. The vibration makes Fortress Maximus shake.
“Told you I'd eat this sweet, soft, fluffy, wet, fat valve for cycles, didn’t I?”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He dives back in, lips closing around the node with hungry precision, sucking experimentally.
Fortress Maximus tries to move away, but his own frame betrays him. His legs are pinned, folded tightly under his aft, knees resting by Impactor’s sides. His arms are stretched too far to brace himself, elbows and palms flat on the berth. When he shifts, he falters—his body collapsing against Impactor's frame, as the mecha adjusts his grip, dragging him closer.
He gasps again, grabbing at Impactor’s midsection for stability, but a particularly hard pull against his node drains all his strength, making him fall against his servos, trapping them under his continuous tracks. His back arches uncontrollably, his chest heaving.
He mewls.
Impactor doesn’t let up. He sucks with obscene dedication, glossa teasing and circling inside his intake, flicking and pressing from angles that make Fortress Maximus shudder with every pulse of charge dancing through his frame.
When he tries to squirm or kick, Impactor’s servos only hold him firmer.
"Impactor! Y-you, I... oh—!"
He tries to protest, to catch his breath, to stop the mecha below him—but the pleasure is relentless, crashing over him in surges too intense to ignore.
Impactor chuckles low against his node, the vibration sending another jolt through Fortress Maximus’ array. Then he sucks harder.
Fortress Maximus gasps, optics dimming, his grip tightening on whatever part of Impactor he can reach. He’s too lost in the flood of stimulation to notice the shift in touch—until something new brushes against the rim of his valve.
A digit.
No warning. No pause.
The intrusion is sudden, and he jumps with a shocked whimper as the digit pushes in deep. His valve clenches immediately, calipers fluttering around the intrusion, desperately trying to drag it further in.
He’s overwhelmed. Each ridge of Impactor’s digit feels clearly, traced and mapped by every twitching caliper, like his valve is trying to memorize its shape—mark it, keep it.
It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t make his frame beg like this.
But it does.
And Impactor, sensing that raw desire gives him more.
The digit sinks in all the way to the knuckle, and once there, Impactor doesn’t hold back. He begins to thrust it in and out, slow at first, then deeper, firmer, each motion perfectly timed with the obscene suction on his node.
The dual sensation short-circuits Fortress Maximus' thoughts.
He can't tell if he’s shaking from overstimulation or if he’s already on the edge again.
“Impactor!” he moans, the name spilling from his lips with no real intent—just the delirium of a mecha drowning in pleasure.
He shudders when he feels a second digit joining the first, and Impactor pushes it in without hesitation. It’s careless, maybe even crude, but the sound that tears from Fortress Maximus’s vocalizer is a cry of sheer pleasure. Because then the digits spread, stretching him open, rubbing gently against his calipers and inner nodes with maddening precision.
And then—Impactor pulls away from his node.
A desperate, broken sound escapes him as he tries to follow the contact, grinding his hips down toward the absent glossa, searching, craving.
“Why?! No—please!” he begs, no shame left in his voice, just need. He struggles to free his servos from behind him, and tries to push himself up—but just when despair starts to rise in his core, he feels him again.
Impactor leans back in.
And bites.
The overload hits like a strike from the pit, raw and brutal. His whole frame seizes, shaking violently as the charge tears through him. This time, Impactor doesn’t let go. He holds on, keeps sucking, lips locked around his node with a ravenous rhythm, biting just enough to make Fortress Maximus lose whatever control he had left. The fingers inside him don't cease, dragging in and out of his valve, stoking the fire instead of letting it fade.
And then—he feels it.
A third digit, teasing the rim of his valve, pressing just enough to make his systems scream with anticipation.
Fortress Maximus lets out a shattered wail, his frame already overwhelmed and trembling.
“I—It’s too much—it’s too much!” he chokes out, processor fogged, thoughts scattered like the sparks flying loose across his frame.
Impactor doesn’t stop. His digits keep moving, relentlessly, curling and dragging inside him, working his calipers and inner nodes with unerring precision. His glossa teases his node with a maddening rhythm, wet and hot, keeping Fortress Maximus on the edge.
Too much. It’s too much.
He sobs in pleasure, writhing, desperate, as his valve pulses around the intruding digits. The heat, the stretch, the stimulation—every nerve is on fire.
Then Impactor pulls back just slightly—still brushing his node, still there—but enough for the sudden lack to make Fortress Maximus cry out.
“I thought a big bot like you would last more, Warden,” Impactor hums over his node, voice smug and low. His glossa flicks over the swollen node again, making Fortress Maximus jolt. “But I ain’t complaining. You look pretty like this, Warden. I think I prefer you singing like this rather than hearing you cry.”
Fortress Maximus lets out a needy whimper, no response in his throat except another moan. He can’t think, there are too many feelings happening to do so.
Impactor chuckles and presses a soft kiss to his node before pushing the third digit in.
A cry breaks from Fortress Maximus’s intake as his valve flutters violently around the intrusion. The stretch, the friction—his calipers spasm and suck hungrily, overwhelmed but welcoming.
Impactor doesn’t give him time to recover. The digits thrust harder now, faster, pulling wet sounds from between his thighs, while his intake returns to Fortress Maximus’s node.
“You’re doing so well, Maximus. Just keep going like this.”
He lets out a deep, satisfied sound as Impactor returns to his node—licking, mouthing, sucking with that same infuriating rhythm. The feeling makes him twitch.
He barely notices when Impactor shifts, gripping his waist with one hand and freeing the other. Then he’s being guided—clumsily but firmly—until he’s fully seated on Impactor’s face, thighs spread wide, frame leaning forward, giving him room to keep working his digits in deep, probably in a really uncomfortable position.
Fortress Maximus whimpers when his node makes full contact with Impactor’s intake again, the sudden, intense friction too much too fast. His arms move slowly, weary, until his palms press against the berth for balance, trembling under his own weight.
Impactor groans into him.
The vibration hits like a surge, and he wails out, hips bucking. His back arches when those fingers curl just at the right angle inside him, dragging against every burning inner node.
Everything is too much—and just right.
And Impactor doesn’t stop.
He keeps going, his thrusts are fast and relentless, his dermas sealed tightly around his node, sucking with practiced precision. Every motion pulls new sounds from Fortress Maximus — desperate, raw sounds he hadn’t heard himself make in vorns.
“I’m close! I–Impactor, I’m gonna—ah!”
But before he can fully tip over the edge, Impactor pulls his digits out. The sudden emptiness nearly draws a protest from him, his hips jerking to follow the retreat. Yet the complaint dies in his intake when he feels a hot glide against the rim of his valve — Impactor’s glossa, slow and deliberate.
Then, while his overstimulated node twitches in need, he feels it — pressure. A steady, circling press from Impactor’s thumb right against that sensitive node. Fortress Maximus chokes on a moan, his helm tipping forward until it thuds softly against the wall the berth is pressed against. It’s easier to brace there, easier to vent, though barely.
His arms give out, servos clutching at the berth for dear life as another scream tears from his intake.
Primus, it’s too much.
The sensation coils deep in his spark — his valve is sore, and his canal is twitching around that glossa, aching from how Impactor had worked it moments ago. Every nerve-ending is live wire, buzzing. The overload he couldn’t fully release before is still simmering in his circuits, trapped and burning hot, and now it’s fusing with this new build-up — sharper, heavier, impossibly intense charge.
It feels good.
His valve aches for more. His frame, wrung out and gasping, still trembles with want.
Just one more.
"Impactor—please, please, please—!" he begs, voice breaking with desperation.
Impactor’s thumb stills for a moment, yet pressed against the side of his node. Then, there's a shift—another digit joins in. Fortress Maximus gasps as Impactor pinches his node between his fingers and gives a firm tug.
He overloads for the third time.
His frame jerks against Impactor’s intake, spasming with intensity. He barely registers that Impactor has stopped using his glossa—only to return to teasing the rim of his valve again, lips sealed over his folds, drinking down his squirt with single-minded focus. It's overwhelming. No one’s ever done this to him—no one’s ever wanted to.
Fortress Maximus lets himself collapse forward, pressing his helm and shoulders against the berth wall, his entire frame trembling as it sags in surrender. All tension drains from his limbs.
Impactor keeps going; soft, slow circles around his node. Still gentle, just as a few moments ago. Fortress Maximus whimpers, aching and sensitive, his frame squirming with every touch.
Eventually, he feels Impactor pull away, only to place a servo on his hip and guide him slightly upwards. Fortress Maximus follows without thinking, now resting on his knees. He lets out a low, unsteady sound at the loss of contact—but then those same strong servos return, wrapping around his waist and pulling him back.
He lifts his arms from the berth and places them over Impactor's, letting the mecha guide him down, settling onto his aft, and leaning into Impactor’s frame. He makes sure his exposed, oversensitive array never touches the berth.
Both of them just lay there. Fortress Maximus lets his frame down a bit so he's now more laying into the berth, his helm resting against impactor chest plate.
He thinks he's a big mech because otherwise, the position would have been uncomfortable.
They remain in silence for a few kliks, Impactor's servos move to his waist, petting him softly.
He lets out a soft sigh while he still feels the leftovers of charge dancing through his frame, not as intense as before, so it should disappear by itself.
That was-
He doesn't know how to call this. But if eating one mecha out isn't like this always, he's afraid he has got himself quite a high bar.
Or maybe it was the fact his array had been inactive since....since the rescue.
He shakes the thought, and focuses on Impactor, in the frame below him, in the firm servos over him.
"...You didn't even overload once," he murmurs as realization sinks in, a frown pulling at his faceplates.
Impactor chuckles, helm shaking slightly against him.
"You don't need to worry about that, Warden. I got what I wanted."
But he does worry. Interfacing is supposed to be mutual—reciprocal. And he actually wants to give something back.
He shifts one servo behind his back, the angle is awkward, but he manages to reach his goal: Impactor’s array.
The other mecha freezes. For a second, Fortress Maximus wonders if he’s overstepped. But then he feels the press of Impactor’s shin against his helm and hears a low, rough groan rumble from deep in his intake.
"You sure, Warden? You really wanna frag with scum like me? Let me bury myself in that sweet valve of yours?"
His words are crude—his dirty talk a little clumsy—but it still makes heat coil low in Fortress Maximus's tanks.
"I—" he stutters, then gasps softly as a drop of lubricant slides down from his valve, betraying him. "I would like to..."
Impactor’s hand strokes his midsection, fingers slick and warm as they trail over his frame and slide to his back strut.
"Then get comfy, Warden. Lay down proper for me."
Fortress Maximus sighs, half-exhausted already, regretting how much effort this might take. But he shifts, dragging himself up on his knees—
Smack.
A sharp yelp tears from his vocalizer as a stinging ache blooms across his aft. He twists around, stunned.
Impactor’s got that smug, infuriating little grin, despite half his faceplate being covered with his lubricants.
"You smacked me!"
He laughs, unrepentant.
"Sorry, Warden. Couldn't resist that nice aft," he shrugs, raising both servos like he’s innocent.
Fortress Maximus drops onto his aft with a grumble, glaring, the frown deepening on his faceplates.
"You bastard..." he mutters, but ends up burying his face in his servos, knees pulled up to his chest plate as if to hide the heat flushing through his systems.
Impactor moves closer, and Fortress Maximus feels gentle servos on his knees, parting his legs with deliberate slowness, making space for the other mech’s frame. Impactor settles between them, his legs slipping under Fortress Maximus’s and pushing them further apart. Their frames align, and Fortress Maximus feels the hot throb of his valve press against Impactor’s closed, but steadily heating array, slick lubricant already smearing across the contact point.
Then he hears the telltale hiss of panels sliding open.
And he feels it—something pressing against his node.
He instinctively lifts his servos, pulling them away to look down.
And gulps.
Impactor’s spike isn’t as long as his, but it’s thick —to the point it rivals his—, clearly modded, and intimidating and slightly curved inwards. The spike is of a black color, with ridges along its length of purple and gold hues, and two lines of biolights trace up from the base to the flared tip. A few segments of matte black broken by gleaming yellow accents, and at the crown sits a rounded, almost bulbous tip—soft-looking but clearly swollen, flushed, and dripping.
There are two things that call his attention; First, there’s the knot. It looks thick, even if it's supposed to be deflated; Second, Impactor's spike is covered by those little spines, flat against his spike.
Fortress Maximus stares, caught somewhere between astonishment and arousal. He can’t see everything from this angle—but what he can see is more than enough to leave his valve pulsing in anticipation.
"You like what you see?" Impactor mocks, voice low and amused.
But Fortress Maximus doesn’t respond. He’s too focused, too captivated by the sight before him to care about being teased.
He usually offered his valve. That was the norm. And there had been one time he’d spiked someone—but even then, his spike had remained untouched, as the day he came online. He never saw the appeal in it, the mods, and most potential berth partners didn’t either. It was already intimidating.
But looking at Impactor’s?
It was doing things to him.
"...Could you, I don't know, put that in me?" he asks, voice rough and a little out of himself.
He hears Impactor laugh, low and unbothered, and then watches as the mecha wraps a servo around his own spike—starting at the base and sliding all the way to the tip in one smooth motion. He gives it a few leisurely strokes before shifting back just enough to line himself up, the head of his spike now nudging against Fortress Maximus’s node.
Fortress Maximus jerks at the contact.
"You don't have to beg, Warden," Impactor rumbles, his voice low and soft.
Then, with agonizing slowness, Impactor drags the slick head of his spike downwards, letting it part the folds until it catches on the rim of his valve. He doesn’t push in—not yet. He rubs it there first, teasing, before letting his spike fall forward and shake between the soaked folds, coating himself in Fortress Maximus’s lubricant.
Fortress Maximus trembles.
Impactor adjusts his hips, angling just right so the swollen head presses directly against his entrance, and then, with a steady roll of his hips, he pushes—just enough to let the tip breach him.
Fortress Maximus melts.
It’s not like Impactor’s digits. Those slipped past his calipers with ease, never wide enough to properly stretch. But this? This swollen, curved, ridge-lined spike? The bulbous head is immediately caught and held tight by his eager calipers, which flutter and clench to pull more of it inside. He can feel the internal tug, feel himself trying to suck Impactor in deeper without thinking.
Impactor groans, and Fortress Maximus feels the sound more than he hears it.
Then, suddenly, the spike is gone again, pulled back. A flash of confusion hits him—but it doesn’t last long. Because the next push brings not just the head, but the first ridge sliding in, catching the rim and dragging friction that sends static flaring across his field.
He gasps, legs squirming.
Impactor starts with slow, deliberate thrusts, each one sinking deeper, ridge by ridge, barb by barb —he feels shortly disappointed when they remain flat against the spike, but the thought disappears when another ridge goes through, making him jerk and moan—, making Fortress Maximus gasp and whimper as each new press stretches him just right. Every ridge teases against his inner nodes, sending shocks of pleasure rippling through his frame.
"I don’t think I’m going to last much longer, Warden," Impactor growls, his voice strained as he bottoms out, their arrays pressed together. Fortress Maximus moans loudly as his node rubs against Impactor's pelvic zone.
"Then… make it worth it," Fortress Maximus mumbles, pulling Impactor closer with his legs, his body already craving more. He moans as the ridges shift, each movement making his charge build up once again.
Impactor is barely halfway in— not like he could reach further. But he can feel himself thighen just to feel the ridges pressing and stimulating him, the same way his calipers were pressing and pushing against the base of the knot. The sensation is intoxicating.
"Oh, sweetspark, I will make you feel good," Impactor mutters, his voice low and filled with need before he starts thrusting again—slowly, but with a steady rhythm.
Fortress Maximus feels his optics clouding with each movement, his inner nodes sparking and sending waves of pleasure straight to his processor. He hugs Impactor tighter, his arms pulling the smaller mecha closer as he moans softly with each thrust. It’s overwhelming but in the best way.
“You’re so warm... you feel so good around me, pulling me deeper inside you.” Impactor’s servos grip his hips, and he can feel the mecha deliberately slide his digit down to his node, the touch soft but deliberate, sending waves of warmth through him.
But then, Impactor's other servo glides over his spike cover, teasing and rubbing it gently, making his spark race.
“Open up for me, Warden.”
A low groan escapes his throat as he surrenders, letting his spike cover slide open and his spike pressurizing instantly, his spike throbs as it presses eagerly into Impactor’s waiting servo; which can't even cover its width. The mecha gives a slow, experimental stroke, and the sensation makes him shake, his entire frame shuddering as he cries out in pleasure.
“Shh, you’re doing so well,” Impactor murmurs, his voice a steady, calm reassurance. “You can give one last overload. It’s all within you. Don’t think about anything else but this, Warden. Just feel good for me. Sing for me. I need to hear you.”
Impactor finds the perfect rhythm, each stroke deep and purposeful, his servos rubbing and massaging his node as he thrusts inside him. He pulls out slowly, leaving only the tip of his spike, teasing, before rubbing his node in slow, deliberate circles. Then, he pushes back in, the sensation overwhelming as Impactor strokes his spike with each deep thrust.
And again.
And again.
Every movement draws out a moan of pleasure.
But despite all that, Impactor goes slowly, tenderly—his movements soft, controlled, never pushing harder than necessary. It’s something one wouldn't expect from the mech, but it only makes the experience even more intense.
As the moments pass, Impactor’s pace quickens and Fortress Maximus can hear him groaning and whimpering, his voice rough and strained. The sounds of his pleasure are unmistakable. He doesn’t need to ask—he knows the mecha is close. They both are.
"Warden—Sweetspark, I’m gonna overload," Impactor groans, his voice thick with need. "can I overload inside you?"
Fortress Maximus, a little dazed by the way Impactor’s ridges now move faster against his inner walls, making the friction unbearable yet rousing, finally answers.
"Yeah! Frag, please!" he curses, closing his optics as he feels Impactor’s thrusts grow faster, getting closer.
It doesn’t take much longer for Impactor to reach his release. One hard thrust, then he tenses, and finally overloads deep inside, spilling transfluid into his insides, reaching parts the mech’s spike couldn't reach.
Fortress Maximus whimpers, his body trembling as the heat intensifies inside him, the charge creeping down his armor, and Impactor’s servo never stops stroking his spike. It’s too much, too fast, and yet it feels so good.
Fortress Maximus overloads shortly after, his entire body tightening around Impactor’s spike, a line of transfluid spilling from his spike, dripping onto both their chest plates. A stream of lubricant leaks from his valve.
He lies there, exhausted, too tired to move, his body still pressed against Impactor’s. The mecha shifts, still inside him, and Fortress Maximus catches a glimpse of his face and feels bewildered when he glimpses it distorted with worry. Then, he feels a gentle servo on his faceplate, a digit softly tracing around his cheeks.
"Fortress Maximus?" Impactor calls him softly, and hearing his name gets his attention back to the mech. "Are you okay? You’re crying."
Fortress Maximus blinks, confused, then slowly reaches up, one arm slipping out of Impactor’s frame, and touches his face. It’s only then that he feels the wetness, the stream of tears leaking from his optics.
He hadn't noticed.
He couldn't care less.
“It... it's okay. It's good crying, I guess... Rung says crying is okay,” he mutters, hiding his faceplate against Impactor’s neck, nuzzling into the warmth there.
“Oh, Warden, don’t mention other mecha—you’re gonna get me soft.”
Fortress Maximus giggles and lightly smacks his helm against Impactor’s. Still.
“Y-You... still have to tell me where... he is.”
He hears Impactor make a disgusted sound in response. Fortress Maximus laughs, but the sound melts into a moan when his sensitive array flutters, still twitching from overload.
“Don’t worry about that, Warden. I’d have told you regardless. You know it.”
“Maybe... let me recover a bit and I might...” he trails off, uncertain.
“I won’t interfere. Maybe... with a little incentive,” Impactor teases, giving a lazy, upward thrust that tears a sharp moan from Fortress Maximus’s vocalizer.
“I—time out! Frag, let me rest! You got me all this sensitive, my array is fragging burning and you want to...?! Frag off.”
Impactor chuckles and gently pets his waist, resting his helm against Fortress Maximus’s chest plate.
“It’s okay. Time out, time out,” he repeats and stays still.
A quiet, peaceful silence settles over them, and Fortress Maximus can’t help but let the exhaustion pull at him. He’s not built for this many overloads in a row—it’s a little embarrassing, especially considering he's a heavyweight. But he doesn’t really have anything to be ashamed of. Not right now.
He’ll think more clearly later.
After he rests.
“Just... give me five kliks,” he whispers, already slipping under, curled up against the warm bulk that is Impactor.
Red was going to offline him.
Impactor watches carefully as Fortress Maximus’s unconscious frame lies curled against his own.
He vents slowly, allowing himself a moment to enjoy the warmth of that soft, plush valve, still pulsing faintly against his spike now and then.
Seems the mecha didn’t have much stamina, but he'd kept up long enough. Impactor doesn’t complain. Fortress Maximus’s sounds of pure pleasure were music to his audials—the way he twitched, trembled, moaned on the brink of overload, or when overstimulated... The way his faceplates contorted, pure bliss etched in every movement. It had been perfect.
He could ask for more, sure—could start moving again, finish himself off, keep chasing that last overload, and draw more of those delightful sounds out of the big guy. But he doesn’t. That’d go against the whole point of this.
When Prowl had commed them all with the warning—Fortress Maximus of all mecha had compromised him—He was already on his way. Impactor hadn’t thought much. He just knew he had to get there, fast. Normally, he wouldn’t have cared. Not if it were someone else.
He hadn’t liked the Warden when he first arrived at Garrus-9. No one did. He’d despised Fortress Maximus—not for who he was, but for what had brought him there, for what he meant.
But then Overlord happened.
Impactor could never erase the memory of the Warden’s screams from his processor. Or the way he cried out for help while Overlord tried to break him down, trying to wrench Aequitas’s location from him.
Fortress Maximus was a tough mech—strong, brave. He never yielded, not even after the torture, not even when Overlord murdered his mecha in front of him. Not even when he fell comatose. He never gave up.
Impactor respects him for that. And that’s not something he does lightly. He can with one servo the mecha he respects—and still have digits to spare.
He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. He went to that alley intending to distract the mech—knock him out if he had to. He was already screaming at Prowl over the commlink, blaming him for being sloppy, for letting Fortress Maximus spot him, for putting them in this situation. He was about to tell Carnivac to frag off.
Then Fortress Maximus went through that wall and tackled him, and something old, long buried, awakened inside him.
He’d experimented before—with Roadbuster, back in their Wrecker days, before he died. Guzzle had never been interested, and Impactor respected that. Not everyone’s into this kind of thing. But he’d always had a thing for big, powerful mechs come undone under his glossa.
He’d had plenty of options back in the mines, long before the war. No one would’ve believed him if he said he used to meet up with Megatron, back before everything turned to slag—how he’d eat the mecha out until he was a sobbing mess. But then the war, and his reputation...made things complicated.
So when he came back online and saw Fortress Maximus again, all big thighs and silent strength, the idea of being between them—of holding the Warden’s trembling form as he shattered from pleasure—it was too much to resist.
He hadn’t meant for this to happen—the soft slag. The gentle touches, the murmured words. It wasn’t his style, never had been. But the moment Fortress Maximus started drifting too deep into his own thoughts, optics unfocused, face pulling tight like he was sliding somewhere dark in his processor—, he had already been moving before he even realized it.
The point was—he couldn’t seek his own pleasure while the mech was unconscious. First, Fortress Maximus wouldn’t feel it to its whole extent, so it made no sense. And second... because he knows what Overlord did.
That twisted, sick fragging sicko.
Impactor lets out a long, shaky vent as he watches the mech’s calm, serene faceplates. Relaxed in recharge, Fortress Maximus looks... at peace, tears already dried from his cheeks. And, for a moment, Impactor wonders if maybe—just maybe—he’s handled all of this better than he has.
He’d been nice, softer than he ever is, going slow, careful. Not because he’s some noble spark. It had been selfish in its own way. He’d thought that’s what Fortress Maximus needed. Something gentle.
And, surprisingly... he doesn’t regret it.
Prowl pings him again. He rolls his optics and sends a curt reply: "Busy."
Carefully, Impactor shifts into a more comfortable position. He moves Maximus, gently guiding the big mech’s frame until he’s resting against the wall. Then he sits back, nestled between those thick thighs, content to be trapped there.
Fortress Maximus lets out a few soft moans and whimpers as he’s adjusted—frag, those sounds. It shoots straight down his backstrut, and he gets harder. He stifles a laugh. It’s ridiculous how much this mech affects him.
Let Prowl frag himself. He can go run in circles trying to track down Punch. That mecha probably knows he’s being hunted down and has already hidden in some hole. Impactor doesn’t give a damn about the Punch/Counterpunch slag right now.
He’s fine right here.
He’ll wait. Fortress Maximus deserves the rest. And when he comes back online... well, he owes him Prowl’s location.
And maybe—if he’s lucky—he’ll get another round and another chance to test that sweet valve, the flavor still present on his intake -and lubricant still covering his faceplates
Well. At least he’ll not leaving Hedonia empty-handed.