Chapter Text
The room is hot and humid. Coolant beads on Megatron’s face as he pants heavily. He shoves his hips forward again and bites his lip as the silk-soft valve around his spike clenches. Optimus cries out, scrambling on all fours to keep from falling face-first into the berth. Megatron grips him tighter and a groan slips out from between his dentae at the sight of Optimus, strung out and begging beneath him.
“Ah! Me—Megatron! Oh Primus, Mega—“
Megatron wraps an arm around Optimus’ chassis and hauls him up so that he’s kneeling on the berth, back pressed against Megatron’s front. He thrusts up, relentlessly and powerfully, and Optimus keens and gropes backward for Megatron’s servo. He intertwines their fingers and clutches it as though his life depends on it.
He turns his helm and Megatron captures his lips with his own. Optimus’ lips are swollen and kiss-bitten from his earlier attentions and Megatron hungrily licks into his mouth. Optimus whimpers into their kiss and Megatron pauses, then gentles his lips, turning the kiss languid instead of biting. He smooths a servo down Optimus’ chassis. His optics trace the contours of Optimus’ face and his spark throbs within its chamber. It’s incredible that Optimus would let him see him like this. Would share his frame with him. The scene from a decacycle ago flashes before his optics:
“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 pulls away from their kiss and guides them down onto the berth so that they’re lying on their sides. Megatron kisses Optimus softly, then hooks one of the Prime’s legs over his arm and lifts it up. He rolls his hips in little circles, grinding against Optimus’ ceiling node. Optimus writhes, pressing back into it even as he shies away.
“Ple—ahh! Mega--Megatron!”
Megatron hikes Optimus’ leg up farther, pressing so close that their arrays meet. Optimus’ servos are clenched around Megatron’s wrists but he doesn’t pull them away. He jerks against a particularly harsh thrust and sobs, tears trickling down his face. The tears had started a joor ago when Optimus really started feeling sensitive and Megatron both hates and loves them. In the decacycle that they’ve been fragging, he’s treasured seeing new things about Optimus—the barely-there shivers when his finial is teased, the hiccuping sobs he makes when he’s so overcome by sensation that he forgets to silence himself. How he shudders apart when Megatron worships his frame, one plate at a time, mapping the curves of his frame with servos and glossa.
Megatron mouths at Optimus’ neck then bites down hard.
Optimus shrieks and bucks wildly. Crackles of electricity flicker across his frame as his valve rhythmically clenches around Megatron’s spike. His mouth drops open in a silent scream, optics forced wide open but unseeing. Megatron grinds up into Optimus, prolonging his overload as long as possible until Optimus is sobbing, servos scrabbling against Megatron’s grip. Megatron clutches him closer and grits his dentae as his own charge releases in a rush, transfluid splattering Optimus’ valve. Optimus groans, valve clenching weakly around his spike in a second, smaller overload at the feeling of being filled.
They collapse into the berth and lie together in the aftermath, the only sound in the empty room their in-vents. The air shimmers above them from the heat radiating off their cooling frames. Optimus shivers and, tentatively, Megatron wraps an arm around his back and pulls him in so that they’re flush, hip and chassis. He tenderly wipes the tear tracks on Optimus’ face, then leans down and presses his lips against damp optics and cheeks. A tiny noise escapes Optimus and he stretches up to catch Megatron’s lips. Megatron’s spark flickers in his chassis and he opens his mouth, kisses him deeply and thoroughly. He doesn’t want this to end .
Optimus pulls away and Megatron’s spark throbs, but Optimus only yawns and snuggles into Megatron’s chassis. Megatron wraps his arms around them and Optimus rests his helm in the crook of Megatron’s neck. It’s not long before Optimus’ breaths even out and he falls into recharge. Megatron stares into the empty room, spark spinning in its chamber and something close to grief seeping in between his plates.
When they first fragged, it had been awkward as they learned each other's frames. Now, it’s almost worse that their interfacing is more akin to making love. The nightly high of imagining Optimus as his, his to cherish and adore and treasure, is chased away each morning by their return to stilted professionalism. Pretend you’re mine, at least for tonight, he longs to say every time they come together. But no, Optimus’ dedication to the tenuous peace between Decepticons and Autobots is so great that he gives his frame to Megatron every night, if only to slow the progression of the crystals blooming in Megatron’s vents.
In the beginning it had been easy to hide. He’d crumpled the first tiny blossoms in his servo when he’d coughed them up. Then the blossoms became larger, more frequent. Now his chassis aches all the time and the sharp edges of the crystal petals tear at the inside of his throat. The memory of Optimus’ face, frozen in horror, when he first saw Megatron cough up a crystal blossom smeared in energon is fixed in his processor with a sort of macabre fondness.
It’d taken Ratchet and Hook’s combined efforts to find records about the nature of the archaic disease. Primus inflicts the crystal flowers on certain mechs with unrequited love. They must unite with their beloved or die—choked slowly to death by the flowers growing in their internals. Progression of the disease is only slowed by regular interface and even then, a painful death is inevitable. 4 million years of war and it is his pathetic infatuation that will offline him.
He studies the Prime, optics tracing the curve of his lips, lingering on a scar that cuts through them—a vicious jagged line. Did I do that? he wonders. Memories of their battles, once scrutinized from every angle for tactical advantage, now cut him to the core, almost too painful to contemplate at all. Now he knows that the Prime had been sincere all along in his pleas for peace, and so tender-sparked that the atrocities of war tore at who he was until he became but a shadow of himself. Megatron adores the mech that is emerging during peacetime. He’s finding that Optimus is quietly compassionate and gentle despite his size. Restrained is probably the most apt description of him. He wields staggering influence as Autobot leader and Prime of Cybertron but he has yet to leverage it for selfish gain. Megatron suspects that had Optimus been Prime before the war, his revolution would not have been necessary.
Optimus grumbles in his sleep and Megatron strokes a servo down his back until he settles. He resists the urge to press his lips to the top of his helm. Outside their agreement to interface, he has no claim on Optimus. It’s foolish to fantasize that Optimus interfaces with him for any reason but duty. He’s merely buying time for Megatron to pick a successor and make his final arrangements. (Megatron ignores the pang in his spark at the thought.)
He feels a tickle in the back of his throat and coughs, clapping a servo over his mouth to muffle the sound. Pain radiates from his throat as the crystal flower makes its way out of his internals. He jerks, choking on it, then spits it out, glad that Optimus hasn’t stirred. It’s the most radiant golden bloom he’s seen yet, the same shade as the accents throughout Optimus’ frame. The blossom is so delicate it seems ephemeral and glowing but its edges are razor sharp when he traces them with a finger. He stares at it until morning, feeling hollow inside, recharge eluding him.
Sometime in the early hours of the morning, Optimus shifts, tangling their legs together, then onlines. His optics seek out Megatron and a sleepy smile creeps onto his face as they make optic contact, then his gaze catches on the blossom and a shadow falls over his expression. Megatron grits his dentae. He knows it’s grotesque and disgustingly organic. Flowers don’t exist on Cybertron, Hook had to consult the Galactic database to identify what exactly it was. Still, he wishes it didn’t repulse Optimus the way he knows it does.
He rubs Optimus’ back soothingly, “I’m sorry for waking you. Go back to sleep, Optimus.”
Optimus’s gaze flicks to him then back to the blossom. He touches it gently with a finger then jerks it away, a bead of energon swelling on his finger tip. “Ouch, that’s sharp.”
Megatron slips Optimus’ finger into his mouth and swirls his glossa around it. Before Optimus can tug his servo away, he presses a kiss into his palm. “Be careful,” he says, then struggles to suppress his blush. Somehow, even though they have just interfaced, the gesture feels scandalously intimate.
Optimus’ mouth has fallen open and color is swiftly rising on his cheeks. He swallows, throat bobbing with the motion and Megatron resists the urge to bend down and press biting kisses there.
Optimus asks, “Are you ever going to tell me who they are?”
Megatron looks away. He doesn’t need to ask for clarification. Every night Optimus asks him, begs him, to say who his beloved is so that he can talk to them on Megatron’s behalf.
Optimus takes him by the chin and turns his face to look at him in the optics. “If not me, then have someone talk to them. They might have told you no, but they just don’t know you. If they only knew what you were like, if someone could tell them about you…” He trails off at the look in Megatron’s optics. “Please, Megatron. I don’t want you to die. Not when you haven’t had a chance to enjoy peace.”
Megatron doesn’t lean into Optimus’ servos and tell him, It’s you. Optimus could never love him, but he knows that Optimus would try, and would grieve when Megatron continued to cough up flowers. He doesn’t want to be another death for his Prime to carry. He jerks his face out of Optimus’ grasp and twists away, getting out of berth. Behind him, he hears a wounded little sound, as if Optimus were protesting the loss of his warmth.
“No. I can’t. What I have with them is more than enough.” Internally, he winces at how harsh the words sound when Optimus flinches. But, the more Optimus speaks, the more Megatron wants to be weak and selfish. It’s for your own good, he doesn’t say. Instead, he takes Optimus’ servo and holds it out, studying how their fingers are intertwined. He doesn’t bring it to his lips in a gentle kiss. Not this time. His Optimus, his noble Prime who’s taken all of Cybertron into his spark. Who paid the ultimate price and continues to pour himself out in service of his mechs. Who lays out his frame every night for a former enemy in the name of peace. “No, they’re so…generous, Optimus. And everyone wants something from them so they give themself away until they’ve nothing left. I can’t be the reason they run dry, Optimus, I won’t.”
There’s a barely-there glimmer of tears in Optimus’ optics. He gently tugs his servo away. Megatron lets him. “It’s quite a mech you love.”
Megatron smiles weakly. “Would you expect anything else?”
Optimus doesn’t smile back but his gaze softens and something fragile comes into his optics, “No, I wouldn’t.”
Megatron lets the silence rest then jerks his helm at the washracks. “Go ahead, I know you have an early morning meeting.”
Optimus slips gracefully from the berth. He hesitates as he walks past and leans in, and for a moment Megatron thinks he’s going to kiss him, but he only murmurs, “If you change your mind, you need only ask.” Then he turns and disappears around the corner.
Optimus is gone by the time Megatron is done using the washracks in his turn, so he goes to the command center alone. News of his condition has spread and he hates how gently mechs treat him now, as though he is glass instead of a mech who’d fought their Prime to a standstill for millennia. Hostility and fear he is used to, not the pitying looks that make him want to bare his dentae and remind them why he was called the Slagmaker.
Mechs in the command center come to attention. He skirts Soundwave who’s plugged into a console, “What’s the status on Tharkoros VII?”
Strika and Jazz look up from the simulation they’re arguing over. They nearly came to blows multiple times over the past vorn when his and Optimus’ commands came together, but they’d come to an agreement and were nigh unstoppable now. Meanwhile, Prowl and Soundwave had understood each other immediately and combined forces to reach levels of efficiency that Megatron would have previously believed to be impossible. Seeing their forces work together, with each other instead of against each other, awakened something within Megatron. Allowed his hopes for the future to click into crystal clear focus where before mere survival had been victory.
Prowl straightens, “Tharkoros VII responded favorably. They advised that they’re open to negotiating a trade agreement.”
Forming alliances with neutral planets is an integral part of rebuilding Cybertron. Tharkoros VII’s support will give them access to palladium, a key metal they need for industrial plants. Prowl and Soundwave had been working for nearly a vorn trying to get Tharkoros VII to engage with them. The neutrals were understandably skeptical that their peace would last. It wasn’t until several vorns had passed since their peace treaty was enacted that they’d even respond to their hails.
He grins broadly and opens his mouth to congratulate them, then feels the edges of a blossom at the back of his throat. He bends double, coughing violently as it works its way out of him. He spits it out of his mouth and studies it. It’s large, nearly half the size of his servo and a stunning fire-engine red like Optimus’ chassis. Energon drips between his fingers and he winces. The little cuts inside his mouth from the petals ache and sting. Megatron finally notices the silence in the room and looks around. Mechs of both factions watch him, that damned sympathy in their optics.
He grits his dentae and straightens. Determined to ignore the stares, he turns to Prowl and Soundwave, “You both worked hard to achieve this. Well done.” He smiles and they wince at the energon staining his dentae.
He looks around. His co-leader is conspicuously absent. “We have a strategy meeting in a few breems. Is Optimus out with the construction crews again?”
Soundwave nods, “Affirmative.”
Megatron sighs, “I’ll go get him.” He leaves, eager to escape the pall that’d fallen over the room.
Hadeen is just rising when he finally finds Optimus assisting the Constructicons near the nuclear plant they’re building. As he approaches, Optimus heaves a beam up, the cords in his shoulders flexing, and Megatron feels a frisson of heat skitter down his struts. Optimus sets the beam into its place and turns, laughing at something another mech says; the sun glints off his plates and the smears of dirt only emphasize the brightness of his paint
“Optimus!” Megatron waves him over.
Optimus looks up and his whole face brightens to match his paint. He skirts a pile of debris and walks up to Megatron.
They clasp forearms and Megatron can’t help how his optics soften. “Did you forget about the strategy meeting at 07:00?”
Optimus’ optics widen and he checks his chronometer, “Frag!”
Megatron’s lips twitch, “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Come on, we can still make it.”
They hurry back to the command center, Megatron shortening his strides so that Optimus can keep up. Mechs from both their commands look up when they enter the conference room.
The strategy meeting is nothing unusual. Status reports on various construction projects. Updates on the integration of neutral mechs returning home. Meetings have lost their urgency as they settle into their post-war reality. Midway through Prowl’s report on energon reserves, Starscream bursts into the room.
“I’m here! We can get started now.” He flounces to an empty chair to the left of Optimus.
“Oh! You brought little Axolon today?” Optimus turns to Starscream eagerly, already holding out his servos for the sparkling.
Starscream hands his sparkling over, “It’s my turn to watch her. Thundercracker has drills and Skywarp is out doing…something. I don’t know what.”
Axolon burbles and reaches out her little servos to squish Optimus’ face. Optimus laughs, face splitting into a broad smile, and blows a raspberry into her servo. She giggles.
A warmth blossoms in Megatron’s chassis at the sight, his lips pulling unbidden into a gentle smile. Optimus is going to make a wonderful carrier with whichever mech is lucky enough to conjunx him. He adores sparklings and they adore him right back. Optimus cuddles his face against Axolon’s then his optics flick up and, almost by accident, meet Megatron’s. Megatron abruptly realizes he’s staring like a besotted fool and tears his gaze away only to catch Starscream watching him with narrowed optics. The seeker flicks his gaze to Optimus then back to Megatron, a smirk growing wider on his face by the second. He opens his mouth—
Megatron abruptly rises, making Optimus jump, “Starscream! I need to discuss something with you. Immediately.”
He takes Starscream by the arm and half-leads, half-drags him to the nearest room. He slams the door shut. “Alright, out with it. What do you want to say?”
Starscream stares at him in delighted malice then says, “It’s the Prime, isn’t it?”
Megatron grits his dentae, “You’ll have to be more specific.”
Starscream snaps his fingers, “It’s the Prime and you haven’t told him yet. Oh this is delicious!”
Of all mechs to find out … Megatron fights down a flush, “If you tell him, I’ll make Axolon an orphan.”
Starscream looks him straight in the optics and laughs , “We both know you’re bluffing, but I won’t. This is too good. Besides, you’ll need Soundwave and me to carry on your work once you’re gone, won’t you?”
He cackles then cuts himself off. “Wait, when you’re gone, I’ll need to carry on your work. And work with the Prime.” He tilts his helm thoughtfully then his face screws up, “That’s disgusting…You know it’s never going to go anywhere if you don’t tell him.”
Megatron raises an incredulous eyebrow, “Starscream, are you…trying to help me?”
Starscream rolls his optics, “Consider it a moment of insanity. If you offline, I’ll have to take over your job and that means I won’t have time for Axolon.” He jabs a finger at Megatron’s chassis, “You can keep it. But only if you actually tell the Prime. Let him deal with the guilt if he turns you down. At least you’ll have tried.”
Megatron glares, “Absolutely not.”
Starscream huffs and turns to leave, “I’ll keep your little secret, Megatron. But I’ll leave you with this—I never figured you for a coward.”
The door slips shut with a quiet ‘click’ and Megatron barely resists the urge to punch it. Starscream doesn’t understand, not when his ethos revolves around greed and self-indulgence. If Megatron tells the Prime and offlines, Optimus will be devastated. Worse, it’ll become known that the Prime was the reason for his death. That could shatter their peace and trigger another civil war. He can’t risk it. Painful as it is, this is his burden to bear. One he must carry alone.
Optimus groans low in his throat and claps a servo over his mouth, muffling a cry as Megatron thrusts slowly into him. Megatron reaches a servo over Optimus’ frame from where he’s spooning him and traces a teasing circle over his anterior node, then presses down and massages it. Optimus whimpers beneath his servo and jerks, hips bucking uselessly against Megatron’s grasp. The Prime had come to berth pensive and downcast. The look on his face when Megatron coughed up another flower—this one the bright silver of Optimus’ smokestacks—made something cold twist in Megatron’s internals and he’s done his best to lavish his Prime with pleasure. He’s working Optimus toward his third overload of the night, having brought him to climax first with a servo around his spike then with his helm between his thighs.
“You’re doing so well for me.” He murmurs into Optimus’ audials. “No shame here. Let me hear you, Optimus.”
Optimus’ optics flick to meet Megatron’s as he removes his servo from his mouth. He’s trembling, lips pressed firmly together to silence himself. Megatron presses his lips against Optimus’ neck and thrusts again, and Optimus’ mouth drops open in a moan and his valve flutters around Megatron’s spike.
“Beautiful, just like that.”
Megatron rocks forward, setting a gentle pace. He works Optimus’ anterior node, rolling it between his fingers then pressing his thumb directly down on it. Optimus shudders and his servo twists in the blankets. Megatron takes a neck cable into his mouth and worries at it with his dentae. He feels Optimus stiffen at the sensation then tense even further as his thrusts grow stronger and deeper.
“Ah~” Optimus’ voice hitches and his hips jerk, then his valve clenches down and electricity sparks across his frame. Megatron stops and strokes a gentle servo along his side as Optimus catches his breath, chassis heaving and coolant beading along his frame.
Megatron kisses his finial. “Feel better?”
Optimus groans and rolls to face him. His optics catch on Megatron’s still-pressurized spike. “You didn’t overload.”
Megatron cups the side of his face then pulls him in to kiss him as softly as he knows how. “I don’t need to. You seemed to have something on your processor tonight. Everything okay?”
Optimus meets his optics, “Interfacing will only help you if you overload. You need to let me get you off.”
Megatron studies him. There’s a determination in his Prime’s optics that he knows not to argue with. “Fine, but afterwards you’ll tell me what’s bothering you.”
Optimus nods then crawls down his frame until he’s over Megatron’s valve panel. He taps it, “Open for me?”
Megatron snaps it back and Optimus hovers over it, breath hot against his valve. Megatron is already close to overloading from using his spike, and his valve is wet and dripping. Optimus glances up and catches his optics, then his gaze flicks down and he licks a long stripe up Megatron’s slit. Megatron’s engine rumbles and he groans, spreading his legs wider. He feels Optimus smile against him, then Optimus spreads the valve’s lips with his fingers and latches onto his anterior node, worrying it with his dentae then dragging his glossa soothingly over it. He crushes his lips to the opening of the valve and shoves his glossa as far inside as it can reach, then licks at the inner walls of Megatron’s valve, questing glossa seeking out clusters of nodes.
Megatron grits his dentae and, despite himself, his hips surge up and grind against Optimus’ face. He digs his servo into the bedding as he feels the delicate mesh of his valve twitch and clench at the hot slickness of Optimus’ glossa. His thighs tremble around Optimus and he resists the urge to clamp them shut. Then Optimus wraps a servo around Megatron’s spike and pumps once, twice, and Megatron cries out and his frame arches, spike spurting transfluid. The world goes hazy for a moment as he comes back down. Optimus wipes his lips then kisses the inside of his thigh and crawls up to lie on him.
Megatron drapes an arm over Optimus’ back. “Thank you,” he says into the space between their lips.
Optimus kisses him on the cheek, then shifts against him to entangle their legs. “Of course.”
Megatron strokes a servo down his back. “Do you want to tell me what was bothering you before?”
Optimus is quiet for a moment, then “You. I’m worried about you. It’s getting worse, isn’t it.” At Megatron’s silence he levers himself onto his forearms to look him in the optics. “Please, Megatron. I was talking with Starscream and he told me that you haven’t even told the person you love. At least give them a chance to save your life.”
Megatron looks away and clenches his dentae. “I can’t, Optimus.” He meets Optimus’ optics, laying bare the desperation and sincerity in his own. “Please, let this be.”
Grief trickles into Optimus’ optics and Megatron’s spark twists at the sight. He gently pushes Optimus’ helm down to rest against his chassis. “We can talk in the morning. Go to sleep.”
Optimus squeezes him tight. “You do them a disservice by not telling them.”
Megatron hugs him back but doesn’t answer.