Chapter Text
This occurs before chapter 1 and is from Optimus’ point of view.
Optimus raises a servo to knock on the door to Megatron’s habsuite, then stops, fist in the air. Megatron’s irritated face during this morning’s briefing flashes through his processor. For Cybertron, he sternly reminds himself, for peace. He takes a deep in-vent, then raps sharply on the door.
A moment passes, then another. Just when Optimus thinks that Megatron is not home, there’s a shuffling behind the door then it swings open.
Megatron looms in the doorway, “Optimus, this is a surprise.” For all that Optimus knows Megatron is ill, his frame–sturdy and shining–does not show it.
Optimus squares his shoulders, “Hello Megatron, may I come in?”
Megatron stares at him for a long moment, then steps aside. “You may.”
Optimus walks in and looks around the spartan habsuite. He’s seen Megatron almost daily since Cybertron settled into its post-war reality, but he’s never been to the mech’s habsuite. It feels odd being in his space.
Megatron sits on the couch, “Why are you here?”
Optimus joins him then hesitates, not sure how to broach the topic. This is Megatron, he reminds himself, better to cut to the chase. “I’m here about your condition.”
Megatron stiffens minutely. “Go on.”
Optimus swallows, “Ratchet told me about the…cure. The temporary one.” He resists the urge to look away.
A sneer slips over Megatron’s face and Optimus braces himself. Megatron only makes that face when he’s intensely uncomfortable or about to go on a rampage. Usually with the same result.
“You mean fragging,” Megatron bites out.
Optimus feels color rising on his cheeks and keeps his optics firmly on Megatron’s face. For peace, he reminds himself and forges ahead. “Do you have a partner who can assist you?”
Megatron’s lip curls. He folds his arms and leans back, “Why does it matter to you?”
Optimus keeps his face carefully blank, “Because no one deserves to die like this.”
Megatron’s optics narrow and he smiles bitterly, “What you really mean is that you need me to keep my Decepticons in line. You need me to keep the peace.”
Optimus winces internally, “That too.”
Megatron looks away. “No, there’s no one.”
Optimus blinks. Supreme Commander of the Decepticons and there’s no one he can take to berth? “Surely someone…”
Megatron looks back at him, steel in his optics, “I said there’s no one. This is not something I’d ask of any of my mechs either. They’ve given enough of themselves for my cause.”
Optimus’ spark stutters in his chassis even as something inside him is darkly gratified at Megatron’s words. “Please, let me help you.”
Megatron’s snarl is cut off by a coughing fit. The crystal bloom he hacks up this time is the same blue as Optimus’ optics. He wipes his mouth with the back of a servo, “Do you even know what that means?”
Optimus swallows. His gaze flicks down to Megatron’s modesty panel.
Megatron grits his dentae. “Say it, Prime. What does that entail?”
Optimus meets his optics. “You’ll take me,” he says softly, “every night.”
Megatron’s engine rumbles threateningly. He lunges off the couch and shoves Optimus hard into his seat, pressing his entire frame against him. Optimus’ combat protocols roar to life and he hastily disengages them. He holds himself very still.
Megatron leans in and hisses into his audial, “No, I don’t think you do understand. It means I’ll spread you out on my berth and take you, Optimus. Snap back your panel and pierce your forge. Frag you until you beg for mercy. Then we’ll see each other the next morning in the command center and work together like nothing has changed.”
Optimus shivers at the hot air against his neck. Unbidden, images from his most secret fantasies flash before his optics–Megatron’s weight pressing him into the berth, his throbbing spike spearing him open. He swallows, “I know.”
Megatron abruptly draws back. “No, you don’t. And it doesn’t matter. I refuse.”
Optimus blinks, both at the sudden rush of cool air where Megatron’s frame had been and at his words. “What?”
Megatron turns away, “I said no. Find some other mech to martyr yourself for.”
Ice floods Optimus’ fuel lines. He seizes Megatron by the shoulder and whirls him around, “Megatron, please.”
Megatron shakes him off and starts toward the door.
Optimus grinds out, “4 million years.”
Megatron stops. “What?”
Optimus says, “4 million years. That’s how long our war was. We fought for so long, Megatron, and are only now beginning to rebuild. Please, let me help you. You deserve to enjoy the peace.”
Megatron is quiet for a moment, “You don’t know what you’re offering.”
Sensing an opening, Optimus steps closer. “I do. And no one is forcing me. If I don’t like it, I can always ask you to stop. And you’ll listen to me, won’t you?”
Megatron stares at him, stricken. He looks away.
Optimus brings Megatron’s servo to his lips and kisses the scarred knuckles. “Please,” he whispers, “let me help you.”
Time ticks by, then Megatron sighs, deflating. “Fine. But you’ll tell me if you don’t like something.”
Optimus’ spark soars within his chassis. He nods vigorously, “Of course–”
“And,” Megatron glares at him, “You’ll tell me if you want to stop. None of this ‘falling on my sword’ business. You’ll use your words.”
Megatron’s servo is trembling in his grip. Optimus runs a thumb soothingly over it. “I will, I promise.” He steps into Megatron’s space, so close that he can hear the hum of his engine. “Should we…start now?”
Megatron’s optics widen and he freezes. Suddenly bold, Optimus cups Megatron’s face and guides it down into a kiss.
It’s less a kiss than a meeting of lips. Megatron is stiff and awkward, lips barely moving, but his in-vents hitch gratifyingly. Optimus presses closer and probes at Megatron’s lips, beckoning for them to open. They part and he slips his glossa into Megatron’s mouth, kissing him as gently as he knows how, tracing the inner contours of his mouth. They part and come back together, Megatron swiftly warming up to the kiss and starting to press back into it. Optimus’ spark whirls within his chassis. 4 million years of war–heartache and regret and secret longing–and finally Megatron is his, even if it’s only out of necessity.
He pulls away, “To the berth?”
Megatron is panting and his optics are glassy. He nods then leads them into a berthroom. He gets into the wide berth then turns, looking at Optimus expectantly. Optimus swallows at the sight of Megatron’s powerful frame, laid out for him to take.
Optimus slips into the berth and stretches out alongside him. It’s…odd being so close to Megatron. They haven’t been this close since the last time they tried to kill each other. He’s near enough that he can smell the earthy scent of Megatron’s polish and something heady that is uniquely Megatron.
Megatron glances at him as if to ask for permission and shuffles closer. For a moment they share breath, then Megatron presses in and probes at his lips with his glossa. Optimus obligingly opens his mouth and shudders at the slick heat of Megatron’s glossa as it trails along the sides of his mouth, mapping it in turn. Optimus feels a servo come up to cup his face – no, to hold his face in place – as Megatron takes him apart with lips and glossa. Heat trickles into Optimus’ array and he lets it, for once embracing the need instead of shoving it down with self-recrimination. They kiss for such a long time that Optimus dismisses multiple ventilation alerts, but finally he has to tear his mouth away, gasping for air.
Megatron places a featherlight kiss on his jaw and pulls back. He palms Optimus’ interface panel. “Open for me?” For all that his tone is gruff, there’s an uncertainty in his optics that Optimus wants to kiss away.
Optimus swallows hard then obediently snaps back his panel. He shivers at the cool air against his valve. Megatron stares down at it, transfixed. Optimus suppresses a shudder at the feeling of Megatron’s gaze and squeezes his optics shut. There’s a quiet ‘snick’ from Megatron’s panel, then a hot pressure between his legs.
“Ah–” Optimus’ says, optics shooting open, “I don’t think I’m re–”
“Ready, I know.” Megatron kisses the corner of his mouth so sweetly that Optimus’ spark aches within its chamber, “This is just to get you warmed up.”
Then he smears pre along his spike’s shaft and shoves it between Optimus’ thighs just below his valve. He pumps his hips, spike rubbing against Optimus’ anterior node, sending flickers of pleasure skittering up his array. Optimus’ optics widen and his servos clench on Megatron’s hips. Megatron’s spike is hot and heavy, and so thick that it causes his thighs’ protoform to bulge out around it. Optimus’ frame initiates lubricating protocols and his valve cycles down, anticipating a spike even though they’re just grinding against each other.
Megatron thrusts again and Optimus grits his dentae against the embarrassing noises he knows he’ll make. They fall into a rhythm that matches the heavy in-vents in his audials. Megatron ruts into the tight space between his thighs and Optimus bucks up to meet him. The tops of his thighs are swiftly becoming slick with lubricant. His valve feels hollow inside and clenches down on nothing with every thrust. For all the throbbing need between his legs though, Optimus can’t tear his gaze away from Megatron’s face. His jaw is clenched, dentae gritted against each other as though he, too, is fighting the onslaught of pleasure. Megatron’s optics aren’t closed, a hopeful voice in Optimus’ processor notes. He’s not imagining himself with his beloved instead of me, it whispers.
Optimus must flinch at the thought because Megatron pauses in his movement and looks questioningly at him. He takes Optimus by the chin and slots their lips together, softly, gently, in a way that takes Optimus’ breath away. Optimus cups his face and kisses back, licking into his mouth and intertwining their glossa. Megatron makes a pleased little noise in the back of his vocoder and closes his optics, leaning into him. He rolls his hips and Optimus stifles another noise as he grinds their arrays together.
Megatron kisses the side of his helm and resumes thrusting, this time faster and harder. Optimus groans and squeezes his legs together, trying to get more of that delicious friction against his node. He feels Megatron’s servo come around to the sensitive protoform of his aft and feel the weight of it in his palm, then squeeze.
“Ah~” slips out from between Optimus’ lips. He feels his face flush–he hasn’t been touched there with any deliberateness since before the war. Amusement and an edge of hunger flickers through Megatron’s optics and he experimentally fondles it again. Optimus shudders and his valve clenches against the spike between his legs. Megatron grips Optimus’ aft in both servos and massages it, and Optimus can’t repress the sounds struggling to break free from his vocoder. Megatron glances at him, then takes a neck cable into his mouth and swirls his glossa around it. Almost by accident, he nips at it.
“Oh fra—” Optimus’ frame jerks and he digs a servo into the blankets. He bites his lip, nearly drawing energon, and fights to hold his frame still even as his hips jerk. Megatron releases his neck cables and stares at him with wide optics. Optimus can feel heat radiating from his face. He’s not sure what it was that sent such a frisson of heat down his spinal struts—the scrape of dentae, the pressure, the sharp edge of pain. Perhaps all three. Megatron’s optics narrow, then he bends his helm and licks soothingly over the bite mark. Optimus can feel it twinge and sting, but somehow it feels satisfying. He wishes that Megatron were truly marking Optimus as his, his to love and keep.
Megatron nibbles on his neck, lavishing it with light bites and kisses. Optimus pants for breath, vision going fuzzy and world narrowing to the weight on top of him and the electric heat pulsing in his array. He shifts a little and tries to relax his frame – he doesn’t want to end this by overloading so soon.
Megatron pecks a featherlight kiss on his finial, “Can I try something?”
Optimus stares at him while the words process. He nods.
Megatron kisses the finial again, then bites down on it, hard.
Optimus’ frame arches, electricity crackling over it, and he gasps, mouth falling open. He shudders all over and the servo that is embedded in Megatron’s shoulder clenches almost painfully. His valve cycles down then relaxes over and over again, each tremor sending frissons of pleasure skittering up his frame. He feels Megatron stop thrusting and reach between his legs, fingers gently massaging his anterior node. It feels so good it hurts.
Optimus shifts away from Megatron’s servo when the sensation tips from pleasure into overstimulation. He shivers in the aftermath of his overload. His engine is running so hot that when a drop of coolant drips off Megatron onto his chassis, it sizzles. He blinks rapidly, clearing his vision, to see Megatron watching him with optics that glow with a hungry intensity.
“Ah,” he looks down, “You didn’t overload.”
Megatron’s gaze flicks over his face, drinking in his hazy optics and kiss-bitten lips. “I’m fine.”
Optimus frowns. A vague sense of dissatisfaction with this statement makes its way to his processor. “No, I think you have to overload for this to work.”
Megatron’s lips quirk and a glint enters his optics. Suddenly Optimus feels like a cube of energon placed in front of a starving mech. Megatron reaches between them, “Alright, let me?”
“Let you…?” Optimus yelps as Megatron plunges two fingers into his now loose and dripping valve. “Ack! Give me some warning next time.”
“Apologies.” Megatron doesn’t tear his gaze away from where his fingers are pumping into Optimus’ valve, the lips stretched wide around them. A string of lubricant stretches from it to his servo. Optimus swallows; he knows his valve is a little small for his frame type–a holdover from his transformation. He hopes Megatron doesn’t dislike it.
Optimus blushes at the squelching sounds audible in the room. “Primus, Mega–oh frag! Megatron, you don’t have to look.”
Megatron glances up at that, his optics sharp and bright with a kind of banked intensity that Optimus has only ever seen on the battlefield. “No, I think I do have to.”
Optimus bites his lip again and tries (fails) to keep his hips from bucking up into Megatron’s servo when he slips a third finger in. Megatron spreads them, pushing at delicate mesh to coax Optimus’ calipers into relaxing. Optimus stifles a whimper and Megatron’s gaze flicks up. He smiles evilly, then scoots down Optimus’ frame. He lowers his helm and laps at Optimus’ anterior node.
“Oh Primus,” Optimus whispers. His whole frame shudders as arousal streaks through his frame at the sight.
Then Megatron closes his lips around Optimus’ anterior node and sucks, and Optimus’ vocoder spits static and his hips buck. Megatron throws an arm across Optimus’ hips, pinning him down, and worries at the little node–lapping at it in broad strokes with his glossa and sucking until Optimus is incoherent with pleasure. Megatron looks up when Optimus finally goes limp against the berth, then reaches up to wipe Optimus’ face. Optimus blinks, Is he crying?
“Feeling good?” Megatron asks.
Optimus groans and twitches. With great effort, he wipes his face with the back of his servo. Yes, those are tears.
Megatron pulls his fingers–four now–from Optimus’ valve with a squelching sound and crawls up his frame. He lowers himself onto Optimus and stretches up to press their lips together. Optimus lets his mouth fall open and cups the back of Megatron’s helm to clutch him closer, almost desperately. He knows that Megatron loves another mech, that this pleasure is just a gift to thank him for his…service. His spark stutters at the thought and he closes his optics. He wishes this was for him; whoever has captured Megatron’s spark is lucky indeed.
Megatron guides his legs apart and slips between them, his frame a warm heavy weight on top of Optimus. His spike is shiny with a mix of pre and Optimus’ lubricant, and it bobs between his legs. Megatron catches him by the chin and tilts it up until Optimus is looking him in the optics.
“Do you still want to do this?” Megatron asks, voice rough.
Optimus swallows hard. He nods.
The tip of Megatron’s spike grazes the wet slickness of Optimus’ valve and Megatron’s face screws up almost like he’s in pain, then flattens out just as quickly. Megatron’s jaw works, “I need words, Prime.”
Optimus swallows the coolant pooling in his mouth, “I…yes. I want this. Please, Megatron.” The spike brushes against him again and he barely keeps himself from rolling his hips to chase the contact. He can hear his fuel pump in his audials. Every inch of his protoform is so hyper-aware and sensitive that even his own armor feels like too much.
Megatron pecks a kiss against the corner of Optimus’ mouth. He takes his spike in servo and lines it up with Optimus’ valve then presses in, agonizingly slow. Optimus sucks his lip into his mouth and tries to relax against the blunt pressure working him open. Megatron rocks into him by increments, pausing every time Optimus’ valve clenches down and waiting for it to loosen before pushing farther in. The entire time, his gaze remains fixed on Optimus’ face, intently watching his every twitch and change in expression. It almost feels like just before their fights during the war, when Megatron would size him up for weaknesses. Except now, he’s studying him for ways to make him fall apart with pleasure. Optimus forces himself to take deep in-vents and maintain optic contact with Megatron.
Finally, their arrays come flush together. Megatron is a solid, hot weight inside him and his valve’s walls ripple, trying to cycle down on the spike stretching it to its limits. The spike rests against clusters of nodes and sparks little flickers of electric sensation that fizzle out before they can build. Megatron strokes a servo soothingly along his thigh and belatedly, Optimus realizes the keening whine he can hear is him. He cuts off the sound and meets Megatron’s optics again, flushing. Megatron’s spike must be painfully hard right now, but he’s not moving so that Optimus can adjust, and Optimus aches. He wants so badly for this gentleness to be more than mere gentility, for it to come from a place of tenderness and adoration, but he knows better. Megatron loves someone else, and his loyalty to them is so great that it’s killing him. Optimus’ spark constricts painfully within its chamber at the thought.
Megatron strokes a servo down his chassis and Optimus nearly startles. “You feel like you’re ready for me. Can I move?”
Optimus grips Megatron by the hip and tugs him closer, jostling where they’re connected. They both stiffen at the flare of heat. “Please, Megatron.”
Megatron grits his dentae and very carefully pulls nearly all the way out then pushes back in, steady and inexorable. Optimus’ in-vents hitch and his valve flutters on the thick spike spearing him open. He can feel its every ridge and biolight pressing against the soft mesh of his valve, bumping against the node clusters embedded in his walls. Megatron pulls out again then rolls his hips, trying a different angle, and Optimus’ hips jerk as the head of the spike shoves against his ceiling node.
“Frag! There, Megatron, right there.” He gasps.
Megatron rocks into him, faster now, and Optimus wraps his legs around his waist. His valve throbs with every thrust into it, clamping down on the spike as though to keep it there. Coolant beads on his plates and there are obscene squelching sounds every time Megatron drives into him. He can feel lubricant trickling down his aft. His every sensory line is alight and alert, almost greedily adding to the heat of his frame, the charge that’s beginning to crackle across his frame.
Megatron’s frame is running so hot that the air shimmers above his frame. The plates along his chassis ripple and flex with every thrust, and Optimus is mesmerized by the powerful frame looming above him. There’s a muffled groan and his gaze flicks up to meet Megatron’s optics. Megatron is staring at him with an almost feverish intensity. There’s something…haunted in his face. A mix of longing and resignation that makes Optimus’ spark wither. He wishes he is with someone else, Optimus remembers. His hips still and he feels his charge ebb away, ardor cooled. Heat gathers behind his optics and he squeezes them shut, trying to hold back tears. He knows that he’s not Megatron’s beloved. He knows he’s merely a substitute meant to keep Megatron alive. A warm frame for him to use.
Optimus feels something ugly curl in his chassis. 4 million years of fighting Megatron to a standstill, matching him in all ways that matter. He knows Megatron’s frame, his strengths and weaknesses, almost better than the mech knows himself. And now peace. He’d seen a tendril of hope flicker to life in the beginning of their negotiations, and he’s fanned that hope into a flame that’s resurrected Megatron’s dreams of a utopia. Together, they’ve built a world where sparklings are free to grow up to be whatever they want to be.
And none of that entitles me to Megatron’s happiness, Optimus reminds himself. He swallows back the acid that rises in the back of his throat. That he is even capable of such selfishness horrifies him. He purges the thought from his memory banks and allows self-recrimination to rise. He should never think such thoughts again.
He glances back at Megatron, whose movements have slowed. He might not hold Megatron’s spark, but he’s here and Megatron’s beloved is not. Optimus is Megatron’s sole focus, privy to his sounds of pleasure and face slack with bliss, because Megatron’s beloved cannot be bothered, even to save a life. Optimus levers himself up on an elbow to cup Megatron’s face.
“Hey,” he says.
Megatron blinks at him, face clearing for a moment. “Hey” he says back.
Optimus carefully tucks away his feelings and slips on a gentle smile like a familiar mask, “I know I’m not who you want, but stay with me in this moment.”
Megatron goes very still. He smiles wryly but it doesn’t reach his optics. “You’re right. Thank you, Optimus.”
Optimus pulls Megatron down on top of him so that he slips out and they kiss deeply, frames undulating against each other. Optimus shudders as Megatron’s warm weight presses him into the berth. For the first time in millennia, he feels safe. Borrowed or not, he has Megatron’s attention and he never wants to lose it. He wraps his arms around Megatron’s back and pulls him closer, and Megatron does something to make himself heavier. The heat in Optimus’ optics spills over and he pulls out of their kiss to bury his face in Megatron’s neck. He feels a delicate warmth bleed contentment into his chassis, a kind of aching joy that replaces the resentment in his spark.
Megatron pulls away and pauses at the sight of the wetness on Optimus’ cheeks. “Why are you crying?”
Optimus flushes, “It’s not you. I just feel…safe right now.”
Megatron softens and he presses a kiss against each of Optimus’ optics. “I understand. It’s an odd feeling after such a long time at war, isn’t it?”
Optimus smiles softly, “Exactly.”
Megatron brushes a kiss against the corner of Optimus’ mouth then pulls himself away. Optimus bites back a protest at the loss of his warmth. Megatron sits back on his haunches and guides Optimus’ legs around him.
“Do you want to continue?”
Optimus shifts so that Megatron’s spike rests against his opening. “Yes. I still want you, Megatron.”
Something flickers across Megatron’s face, too fast for Optimus to identify. Megatron tears his gaze away and lines himself up again then pushes inside, the way slick and easy after their earlier activities. He rocks forward, gentler than before, and Optimus wraps his legs around his waist again, pulling him close. They fall into a languid rhythm, reading each other’s movements with the ease of practice. Megatron grips Optimus’ hip, tugging him into every thrust, and Optimus clenches down with his valve as Megatron withdraws.
A hot coil of arousal winds itself low in his internals and his vision starts to fog over. He loses his rhythm and his valve flutters helplessly. Perhaps sensing how close to the precipice Optimus teeters, Megatron presses into each thrust, grinding his spike against Optimus’ ceiling node every time he hilts himself. Optimus can’t tear his optics away from Megatron’s. He reverently lays a servo over the one gripping his hip and squeezes it lightly.
Megatron grunts and presses in close, so that their arrays are flush against each other. He grinds his hips in little circles and massages Optimus’ anterior node. Optimus chokes and his valve ripples. He closes his optics, but that just makes the sensation that much harder to ignore. His mouth falls open in gasping in-vents and his frame begins to stiffen.
Megatron falls forward, frame rigid and spike throbbing. Rope after rope of transfluid gushes into Optimus’ valve and he jerks at the feeling of the hot liquid filling him. The spike twitches inside of him, giving one last spurt of transfluid, then goes soft. Optimus’ valve clenches down and he bites his lip in frustration. He’s close, so close. His overload is right there.
Megatron levers himself onto a forearm with a groan. His foggy optics meet Optimus’ and he must realize that Optimus didn’t overload because he tips them sideways, tugging Optimus with him. Then Megatron slips his fingers into Optimus’ valve and glides his thumb in little circles over his anterior node. Optimus presses his lips together, holding back a whimper. The delicate mesh of his valve twitches at the roughness of the fingers.
Megatron leans forward and whispers into his audial, “Thank you, Optimus.”
Optimus overloads with a cry, tipping into Megatron’s warm embrace as he shudders apart. Light dances in front of his optics and his valve repeatedly cycles down. It stirs his charge to greater heights until it disperses in a rush, sending tremors throughout his frame. Optimus’ chassis heaves, he can hear his fuel pump thumping in his audials. He tucks his face into Megatron’s neck and gasps for breath. Megatron crushes him close, stroking a gentle servo down his back as he comes back down from the high.
They stay like that for a while, until both their frames have cooled. Optimus feels his optics flutter shut, lulled by the quiet rumbles of Megatron’s engine. He nuzzles into Megatron’s neck then forces his optics open. He should leave, but he doesn’t want this night to end. He blinks dazedly. The gentle servo stroking down his back isn’t helping.
Perhaps sensing his thoughts, Megatron tightens his embrace and whispers into his audial, “Go to sleep, Optimus. I’ll be here in the morning.”
Optimus brushes a featherlight kiss on the side of Megatron’s neck, then allows himself to drift off.