Archive of Our Own ^beta

Even with each and every non-essential program rapidly switching priority to all things Sunglider, Megatron still has a single rational one that makes him grateful Rodimus isn’t on shift or about to be. No doubt the more rambunctious of the co-captains would take the locked office door as an insult against his very person and barge in, a complaint and insult flying out of his voice box as soon as the door starts sliding open.

The sight that greets Rodimus if he ever did would hopefully leave the mech speechless for once.

After all, Sunglider spread so beautifully in his lap, spine arcing under his servos, and hips moving in an electrifying grind is something that can steal his words as well.

Not that he has the chance to use them— Sunglider hasn’t really stopped kissing Megatron since they straddled him. That is something he will never complain about.

Another grind of their hot panel over his; at this point there is no doubt about paint transfers. If Sunglider doesn’t care, neither will he. They surge against him, arms tightening around his neck as they kiss him harder, chassis knocking into his with a sharp sound.

The roar of both fans is not enough to cover the screech of metal at the next harsh grind, nor the way they both moan against each other. A singular digit slips in between the plating of chassis and thigh to touch their hip joints. Rubbing produces him a soft whimper which is just so… perfect.

He’s been captured by the flashes of hip joints for so long, and now he can finally hook his digits around the ball joint and help them with their grind. Their kiss turns sloppy, and Megatron presses kisses to the corner of their mouth, their cheek, along the line of their jaw. Sunglider pants hot air across his face, digits dipping down to the interconnecting plates of his back and sending bolts of pleasure across his shoulder blades and spinal strut.

His sensor-net is practically crackling— never before has it been so sensitive, so high in priority.

“Megatron,” they whisper, sending a new wave of sharp charge across his lines.

He bites their jaw, overwhelmed with how Sunglider simply saying his name like that makes him want to get to his knees. An unfamiliar feeling but nonetheless there when it comes to Sunglider. It is just as persistent as his affection for Sunglider is.

He tried to push this all away, to delete the sprawling thought trees that programs erected, to calm the spin of his spark whenever Sunglider got close. Sunglider is persistent, stubborn, and constant. Gorgeous, righteous, and brilliant. In this, in denying Sunglider what they want, Megatron wasn’t strong enough.

A servo slides up his turret. Sunglider grips it tight, frame thrumming just that much louder, grind just that much harder, and—

With a choked noise, Sunglider trembles in his arms. It is only his own ministrations that keep their hips steady in their movement.

When they stop, he does, and Sunglider slumps, frame sagging fully against his chassis and helm nudging at his. Carefully, he extracts his digits and places his servos on their waist instead. The tempo of their flashing bio-lights wind down.

A query gets pushed out by his analysis module.

“Did…” he resets his vocalizer. “Did you just overload?” He doesn’t quite believe it, but he reviews what just happened, and there is no other actuality.

In response, Sunglider whines, hiding their face in his neck. That is a clear yes. Gently, he strokes their waist and back, easing them down from their high as his processor whirls.

A pure tactile overload.

One that Megatron was able to give them. One that happened from a spontaneous office make-out.

“Glorious,” he whispers.

The first overload caused by him and it was purely tactile— another ripple of charge coasts along his wiring, reminding him of the ache hidden beneath panels. His array pulses and throbs with need.

But Sunglider is currently hiding, tucked small in his lap.

“Darling,” he coaxes, not yet willing to physically make them look at him. They whine again. “Do you… believe I’m upset about this?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s flattering,” he corrects, servo settling wide over the majority of their back.

They make another noise, and this time, Megatron gently makes them straighten, holding their chin so Sunglider can’t turn away. Their face is hot under his touch.

“I will never complain about you enjoying yourself, especially not when you’re deriving your pleasure from me. You overloading, no matter how quickly, only proves that I am succeeding in pleasuring you.”

Facial actuators twitch. Optical apertures dilate and shrink, ticking one way and then the other. It’s all hopelessly endearing. So, he changes his grip from holding their chin to cupping their cheek and helm.

“You’re really not upset?”

“Not at all,” he reassures, distracting himself by leaning forward to kiss their helm crest.

Picking apart why Sunglider has this reaction is a loop he doesn’t want to get caught in. At least not now. There is something far more immediately important. They can discuss this later, not when charge is still licking his plating, fans are still roaring.

He smiles down at them. “Would you like another?”

Megatron’s answer is another kiss.