Chapter Text
This was just another impossible turn in a life full of them. Stranded after his nemesis sacrificed himself to save him, Optimus was left with nothing but two sparks and a promise to keep them safe. That promise had driven him to this shattered world, where he found the last person he expected to help him.
He had taken those sparks and given them life as Nova and Scourge. They had built a life. They were, by definition, a family. And that fact was creating a tension that Optimus could no longer drive away.
That radian, Optimus’s engine was a low, steady baseline against the whine of the toxic winds. He was in his truck mode, his chassis straining against the immense weight of the oversized cargo hauler he was towing. Behind him, Onslaught and Motormaster formed the rest of the main convoy, a lumbering procession across the rust-colored wasteland.
The journey was necessary and, at the present moment, deeply infuriating.
It wasn't the weight of the cargo that bothered him, his frame has always been built for hauling. It was the extra weight. The entirely unnecessary, several-ton-heavy lump of Jet Bomber currently lounging on the roof of his trailer.
Megatron, who possessed a perfectly functional and far more useful flight mode, had decided his role in this migration was that of a sedentary sentinel.
Optimus’s internal processors cycled through a list of complaints. Megatron should be at flying point, scouting for dangers or "Eyes" in the sky or managing the convoy’s flanks or doing anything other than treating Optimus’s trailer like a personal sun deck.
He knew, with a weary certainty, what Megatron's excuse was. I'm going to guard the sparklings. It was a flimsy excuse. But, the real reason must be far more irritating. This was a power play, a lazy, arrogant display of dominance.
Or... was it something else?
Optimus’s engine gave an involuntary, frustrated rev. He needed to focus on the road.
Then, a high-pitched, analytical voice suddenly crackled over Optimus’s audial, piped in from the trailer, was Scourge.
"Lord Megatron," Scourge's voice droned, a flat monotone that Optimus was beginning to find strangely familiar. "What is the probability of incoming storms?"
There was a long pause, filled only by the rumble of Optimus's engine and the wind.
"We will be fast enough to get there," Megatron's voice finally rumbled back, lazy and bored.
"That is an inefficient metric," Scourge countered immediately. "Furthermore, what is..."
" Scourge, BE QUIET!" Nova's shriek cut through, making Optimus's audial receptors ringing. "We are on a glorious migration, not in field trip for nerds!"
"Data acquisition is essential for..."
"What's essential," Megatron's voice cut in, "is that you both stop making so much noise. I'm trying to... contemplate."
Optimus let out a low vent of air, focusing on the treacherous, debris-strewn road ahead. The silence lasted for several long, peaceful breems, allowing Optimus to almost forget the several-ton warlord lounging on his roof.
He should have known it wouldn't last.
"You know, Prime..."
Megatron's voice chirped from the roof, projected for the entire wasteland (and the two trucks behind them) to hear.
"There's a certain... majesty to your engine's thrum out here," Megatron mused, "A low, steady rhythm that speaks of deep, reliable power."
Optimus could practically feel the energy fields of Onslaught and Motormaster change behind him. They were absolutely listening.
Megatron continued, clearly warming to his topic. " vibrates right through the caravan. It's was almost... Divine"
Optimus was flustered, his faceplates heating under the cab. His processors were scrambling for the correct protocol.
"Are you... courting me, Megatron?" Optimus blurted, the words escaping his vocalizer before the logic module could stop them.
From behind him, came the distinct, weary groan of Onslaught’s engine, followed by a short, sharp cackle from Motormaster. The sound of their tires churning dirt grew fainter as they deliberately slowed, giving Optimus a very wide berth.
Megatron himself let out a sarcastic bark, completely breaking the mood.
"No, Prime! I'm busking!" he yelled down, his voice dripping with mockery. "Who knew some crowd would drop me shanix for my grandiose performance?!!"
Optimus processed the sarcastic denial. Megatron wasn't courting him, he was just being... Megatron.
The disappointment was a heavy weight that settled in his tanks, joining the extra tonnage on his roof. A quiet, almost imperceptible "Oh..." escaped his vocalizer.
The Prime said nothing else, his full attention returning to the road.
The convoy rumbled on for another joor, the heavy silence from Optimus's cab a stark contrast to the occasional, muffled sounds of the sparklings bickering inside his trailer. Megatron, for his part, had gone quiet on the roof.
Eventually, Onslaught's voice crackled over the public comm,
[Onslaught]: Command, we're approaching a defensible rock formation. Suggest we halt for the cycle to refuel and check the cargo."
[Megatron]: Acknowledged.
They pulled the massive convoy into a rough circle within the shelter of the towering rock spires.
The moment Optimus transformed, Megatron gracefully hopped down from the trailer, landing with a heavy, solid thud. He stretched his arms over his head, as if he'd been the one doing all the work.
Optimus merely gave him a sideways glance before opening his trailer to let the sparklings out.
Starscream, who had been scouting ahead, landed with an annoyed huff and immediately began directing the distribution of rations.
Optimus took his ration and sat on a low rock, breaking off a piece with clean, economical movements. He watched as Megatron was handed his own cube.
The warlord didn't bother finding a seat. He just leaned against a trailer wheel and bit directly into the cube with a loud, crunching crack. Shards of the solid energon sprayed from his mouth as he chewed with absolutely no regard for tidiness.
Optimus paused, his own hand halfway to his mouth. He found himself staring.
It was such a small, brutish detail, but it was another stark point of difference. His D-16... had been fastidious. He had never been this messy.
This Megatron, however, ate like a starved scraplet, with a kind of focused, unapologetic gusto.
As if sensing the weight of the stare, Megatron's chewing slowed. He looked up, his azure optics locking with Optimus's over the convoy. A slow, wicked smirk spread across his faceplates as he realized he'd been caught.
But, he didn't stop. Instead, he made a show of it. He lifted the half-eaten cube, his glossa darting out to slowly lick a crumb of energon from his lip. Then, with his optics still fixed on Optimus, he took another, deliberately suggestive bite.
Optimus's faceplates flushed. He quickly looked away, turning his attention back to his own ration. Until, he soon was rewarded by a sharp noise that made him look back up.
"Motherboard!" Megatron roared, more at himself.
Apparently, Megatron had fumbled his cube, with it slipping from his grip and hitting the dusty ground below.
A flash of temper Optimus had seen before ignited. With a low, frustrated snarl, Megatron kicked the dropped ration, sending the precious fuel tumbling further into the dirt.
The outburst echoed loudly in the small camp. Nova and Scourge, who were quietly examining a rock, both looked up.
Megatron immediately froze, his own anger visibly evaporating as he realized what he'd done. He stared at the cube, now already covered in grime.With a heavy, long-suffering groan, he stalked over to the cube.
He sheepishly picked it up, brushed it off on his leg with a look of profound self-disgust, and, before he could change his mind, shoved the entire remaining piece into his mouth.
He then turned back, his expression a thunderous mask of embarrassment, ready to snarl at anyone who had witnessed his lapse in temper.
But, his gaze found Optimus.
Optimus's shoulders were shaking, his battle mask firmly in place, a series of high-pitched, repressed huffs and snorts were escaping his vents. He was trying, with every ounce of his Prime-level discipline, not to laugh.
And, he was failing.
The sight of Optimus Prime, the noble, stoic leader, visibly trembling as he held back a fit of laughter at his expense was, for Megatron, the final humiliation.
Megatron’s faceplates burned. Without another word, he turned and stalked away from the campsite, leaving Optimus to finally dissolve into a quiet, and thoroughly deserved fit of chuckles.
After his embarrassment, Megatron had busied himself on the far side of the camp, overseeing the Stunticons as they set up a perimeter, all while pointedly ignoring Optimus. But as the chill of the Cybertronian night set in, Optimus saw him approaching, his earlier frustration replaced by that familiar, calculating smirk.
Optimus was attempting to configure a single, modest shelter for himself and the two sparklings.
"That is inefficient, Prime," Megatron rumbled, stopping a few feet away. He gestured at the small structure, where Scourge was already calculating the interior dimensions and Nova was complaining about the lack of throne space.
"It's too small for one adult and two growing sparklings. It's a security risk if you're all crammed in there. Inefficient," he repeated, the word practically purring.
Optimus straightened, wiping a smudge of dust from his hand. He was wary. "It will suffice, Megatron."
"No, it won't," Megatron said, his smirk widening. "I have a much more sound solution." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward his own shelter with larger, better-insulated model.
"My shelter is more than large enough for two," he said, his azure optics fixed on Optimus. "You can... recharge with me. We can conserve energy. The sparklings can have this one all to themselves."
The proposition was as blunt and unsubtle as a fusion cannon blast. The air crackled with the obvious subtext.
Optimus stared at him, his face an unreadable mask. He was still parsing if this was genuine desire or just another one of Megatron's bizarre, sarcastic power games. He decided, as always, to counter the proposition with its own flawed logic.
"Your logic is sound, Megatron," Optimus said, his voice perfectly even.
Megatron's smirk widened. He'd won. He'd actually won. "Exactly. So, come on..." He gestured toward his shelter.
"Nova!" Optimus called out, his voice cutting through the camp.
The white and gold sparkling, who was trying to get Roller to build a nest, looked up. "What?!"
"Lord Megatron has insisted you recharge in his shelter tonight," Optimus announced, his voice carrying clearly. "He wishes to guard you personally."
The smirk on Megatron's face didn't just vanish; it imploded. His optics widened in pure, unadulterated disbelieve.
Nova, on the other hand, was ecstatic. To be personally guarded by the leader? It was the respect he deserved! He puffed out his chest, snapped his fingers for Roller, and marched imperiously toward Megatron's shelter. "It is... acceptable," Nova declared, brushing past the frozen warlord and disappearing inside.
Megatron was left standing there, his jaw slack, thoroughly cockblocked by the very sparkling he'd been using as an excuse.
Meanwhile Optimus, his expression was one of perfect, stoic innocence, settled into his own shelter with Scourge. "An efficient solution, Megatron. Good night."
The last thing Optimus heard before sealing his shelter flap was Megatron letting out a low, strangled groan, followed by Nova's high-pitched voice from within the dark. "Lord Megatron! This thermal blanket is substandard! I require a bigger blanket!"
The next morning arrived with a deceptive calm. The only sound inside Megatron's shelter was the rhythmic, high-pitched snoring of Nova, who had sprawled out across the majority of the thermal blankets like a tiny, recharging starfish.
Megatron sat up, his optics cycling online with a low hum. He didn't need a scanner to know they were being watched.
He could feel it. And, they thought they were being clever.
He glanced at the sleeping sparkling. Nova mumbled something about his status and rolled over.
Satisfied that the brat was asleep, Megatron quickly grabbed his energon sword activating their energy.
He slipped out of the shelter, moving with a silence that belied his massive frame, and headed away from the camp, drawing the hunter's attention away from the sleeping convoy.
He walked until the camp was just a speck behind him, entering a labyrinth of jagged rock formations. He stopped in a small clearing, his back to a towering spire.
"You can come out now," Megatron rumbled, his voice bored. "I can detect your field from here."
A figure detached itself from the shadows of the rocks. It was a sleek mech with a deep red paint.
"Deadlock," Megatron greeted. "The Traitor."
The mech bowed mockingly, his hand gripping on his own blaster. "Lord Megatron," Deadlock replied, his tone smooth and irritating. "That was an offensive word."
"You have no idea how many deranged words I have saved for you," Megatron growled.
Deadlock shrugged, circling slowly. "Well, it was a hard time, and we need to keep to stay live. A mech does what he must to survive the regime." He paused, his optics flashing with amusement. "Anyways, I heard you have moved on. Rumor has it you've taken in a stray Prime. How does that feel?"
Megatron snorted, crossing his arms. "It was nice. Usually, I got punched in the face," he said, referencing the brutal, endless brawls with his Optimus. "Now, I get a slap in the face. Very bonding activity."
Deadlock blinked. "That doesn't sound very healthy."
"It never was."
In a blur of motion, Megatron raised his fusion cannon and fired. A blast of blue energy scorched the air.
As a Wrecker, Deadlock was fast. He dodged the attack, the blast singing his plating. Hi quickly drew his own blasters, returning fire as he sprinted for cover.
"Talking about healthy," Megatron shouted over the roar of the blast, deftly deflecting a plasma bolt with his energon swords. "How is the Doctor doing? Still assembling dead husks, I guess?"
"He is busy!" Deadlock yelled back, ducking behind a boulder and popping out to fire a suppression volley. "Taking care of our beloved Prime. Now, don't you want to hear some hot news down there?"
Megatron didn't take cover. He drew his energon sword, the blade humming with lethal cold light. He parried a blast with the flat of the blade, the energy dissipating with a hiss.
"Did he crack jokes now?" Megatron jabbed, closing the distance. "He is growing sentimental? A dead bot make him cry?"
Deadlock was forced to be defensive, drawing his own blaster to block Megatron’s heavy strike. He shielded himself, the metal of his blasters groaning under the warlord's strength.
"Not any of them, yet," Deadlock grunted, straining against the pressure. "But, I heard he went insane."
Megatron broke the lock, shoving Deadlock back. He squinted his optic, a look of genuine, if petty, disdain. "You Autobutt truly living under the rock."
He swung his sword again, a brutal, horizontal slash. Deadlock barely managed to duck, the blade shearing the top off a rock formation behind him. Deadlock was fast, but Megatron was a force of brute strength.
Megatron prepared for a finishing blow, he stepping forward before he heard the distinct hum of a power generator cycling up beneath his pede.
Click.
A sphere of translucent, shimmering blue energy sprang up around him, encasing him completely in a force shield bubble.
From the top of the cliff, a manic, high-pitched laughter echoed.
"Gotcha! I got him! I finally bagged the big one!"
A red and white mech leaped down, landing next to a panting Deadlock. His optics were spinning with a dangerous, unhinged hunger that made even other Wreckers uneasy.
Megatron straightened up inside the bubble, testing the surface with a light tap. It hummed, pushing his finger back.
"I miss you too, Ricochet," Megatron deadpanned.
"Spare the reunion, Megs!" Ricochet hissed, licking his lips, a gesture that was horrifyingly literal for him. "I have been waiting! I have been starving! Not even the Primes can save you now! Bon appétit!"
"You've tried to eat me three times," Megatron sighed, looking at the shimmering wall. "It's not good for diet."
Ricochet's laugh echoed louder. "This shield is military grade, Megs!" Ricochet gloated, tapping on the outside. " Slicer new invention! You should appreciate it. It withstands fusion charges and bludgeoning damage! You're canned food, now."
"Is that so?"
Megatron deactivated his fusion cannon. He analyzed the frequency of the shield. It was designed to disperse energy blasts and blunt force.
But, it was not designed for concentrated, physical piercing.
With a sudden, violent thrust, Megatron jabbed the tip of his sword directly into the shield's matrix.
CRACK.
The shattered like glass, raining localized static shards down onto the two Wreckers.
"That is unfortunate," Megatron said, stepping over the debris of the trap with his sword still humming. "You shouldn't have trusted Slicer's invention that much."
Ricochet shrieked, raising his weapon, but Megatron was already there. He backhanded the wrecker, sending him spinning into the rock wall with a sickening crunch.
Deadlock lunged, trying to capitalize on the distraction, but Megatron caught his blaster with his bare hand, deforming the metal. Then, he wrenched the weapon from Deadlock's grip and kicked him in the chest, sending him skidding across the dirt to land in a heap next to Ricochet.
Megatron stood over them, sheathing his sword. He looked down at the two elite Wreckers, who were now groaning in the dust, broken and defeated in less than a breem.
"This is pathetic," Megatron sneered, dusting off his shoulder. "I feel pity for both of you."
He leaned down, his shadow engulfing them.
"Next time, send Ultra Magnus or Grimlock to face me. At least they don't break when I look at them."
He grabbed Ricochet by the throat and hauled him up, ignoring the mech's clawing hands.
"Now," Megatron growled, his voice dropping to a terrifying timber. "Tell me exactly where the rest of your squad is, before I decide to see if you taste like chipsken."
The interrogation was just getting interesting when Megatron’s audials picked up a familiar, heavy rumble approaching from the south.
It was the distinct, high-torque growl of a truck engine pushing its limits.
Optimus.
Megatron looked down at Ricochet, who was currently dangling from his grip, and then at Deadlock, who was trying to reboot his internal gyroscope in the dirt. A wicked, opportunistic idea sparked in his processor.
"Put me down, you rust-bucket!" Ricochet wheezed, clawing ineffectually at Megatron’s arm.
"With pleasure," Megatron whispered.
He dropped Ricochet.
But, instead of resuming his imposing stance, Megatron let his own legs buckle. He collapsed to the ground with a heavy, metallic crash, landing in a carefully calculated sprawl that looked both agonizing and tragic. He clutched his side and let out a low, pained groan.
He just looked like a warrior who had been worn down by an unfair fight. It was a subtle performance, relying on the Prime's own protective idiocy to do the heavy lifting.
"Arrghhh…" he muttered, perhaps a little too loudly.
The two Wreckers stared at him. Ricochet, rubbing his bruised throat, looked utterly baffled. "What are you doing?"
Before he could get an answer, the roar of the engine became a scream of tires on rock. Optimus burst into the clearing, drifting his massive frame around a spire before transforming mid-slide. He landed heavy and hard with his battle mask already snapping into place.
His ion blaster was charging with a high-pitched whine.
Optimus sapphire optics swept the scene. He saw the Wreckers standing and Megatron broken in the dust, clutching his chassis.
"Megatron!"
Optimus rushed to his side, dropping to one knee. The sheer panic in his voice was almost enough to make Megatron feel guilty. Almost.
"Optimus..." Megatron rasped, dimming his optics to a faint, flickering blue. He reached up with a trembling hand. "Be careful... they ambushed me."
Optimus’s head snapped up. The concern in his optics vanished, instantly replaced by a cold, white-hot fury that lowered the temperature in the clearing by ten degrees.
He stood up slowly, turning to face the two battered Wreckers. His energy field flared, not with the warm protection of a guardian, but with the terrifying, oppressive weight of a Prime ready to pass judgment.
"You," Optimus said, his voice a low, vibrating growl that shook the loose stones on the ground. He had fought Decepticons for eons, but he had never seen an Autobot look quite this easy to commit a war crime.
"Wait, hold on—" Deadlock started.
"Silence!" Optimus roared, stepping forward. He raised his blaster, the barrel glowing with lethal intent. "You dare strike him down when his guard was down? When he was merely defending his convoys?"
"Defending?!" Ricochet shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at the fallen warlord. "He broke my nose! He shattered my force field with a stick! Look at him! He's fine!"
"He's faking!" Deadlock yelled, exasperated. "We didn't even scratch him!"
"Lies!" Megatron shouted from the ground, putting a hand over his optics as if the light hurt him. "They're trying to deceive you, Prime!"
"He's lying!" Ricochet screamed again, desperate. "Do you really believe this Decepticon than the words of your own kind"
That almost hits a nerve.
“Leave," Optimus commanded, his voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow louder than the shout. "Before I forget that I am a Prime and remember only that I am a soldier."
The Wreckers didn't need to be told twice. They had seen an Optimus Prime fury before, and they never had wish to saw another of the Prime's fury targeting at them.
"You're both crazy!" Deadlock yelled, transforming into his sleek car mode.
"He's the devil!" Ricochet added, transforming and peeling out after him.
They fled into the wasteland, engines whining, desperate to get away from the victim and his terrifying avenger.
Silence returned to the clearing. Optimus stood breathing heavily, his vents cycling hard, watching the dust settle. He stared at the empty horizon for a long moment, the anger slowly bleeding out of his frame.
He deactivated his blaster and turned back to Megatron, his demeanor shifting instantly from rage to a quiet, simmering guilt.
"I apologize," Optimus said softly, kneeling beside him again. "I should have noticed them earlier. This... is my fault."
Megatron watched him, his face impassive. "Yes," he said bluntly. "It is."
"They are gone, now. Let me see the damage." Optimus said softly, kneeling beside him again.
"My leg strut is locked up," Megatron lied, his voice flat and matter-of-fact, offering his hand not for help up, but as a command. "You're carrying me back."
Optimus stared at him. He knew that Megatron weighed as much as a small tank and was perfectly capable of limping if he really had to.
But the guilt of the ambush was still fresh in Optimus's processor. If Megatron was damaged, it was his burden to bear.
"Very well," Optimus sighed.
He bent down, sliding one arm under Megatron’s knees and the other behind his backplates. With a groan of servos straining against immense tonnage, he hefted the Decepticon warlord into the air.
Megatron settled into the hold with practiced ease, looping an arm around Optimus’s neck to secure himself. He didn't look in pain. He looked like a king being carried on a palanquin.
Eventually, the walk back to the camp was long and silent. The convoy was still parked, the other Decepticons likely assuming their leader were scouting.
As they walked, the proximity began to chip away at Optimus’s stoicism. Megatron was heavy, solid, and undeniably there. His field was pressing against Optimus’s, low and thrumming.
Then, Megatron shifted, leaning his helm in until it was almost resting on Optimus’s shoulder near his smokestack.
"You run hot, Prime," Megatron murmured, his voice a low rumble right next to Optimus's audio receptor. He didn't move away. Instead, he pressed closer, soaking up the thermal energy radiating from the Prime's engine. "It's... comforting. Like a furnace."
Optimus’s internal fans kicked on with a soft whir. He swallowed his oral fluid, its sound can be heard in the quiet atmosphere.
"We are almost there," was all he managed to say.
Optimus bypassed the main camp, carrying his injured charge directly to a small, secluded maintenance shelter set up near the rear of the formation. He ducked inside, the thermal flaps sealing them off from the wind and the prying eyes of the convoy.
He deposited Megatron onto a repair slab.
"Stay still," Optimus ordered, turning to grab a medical kit. "I need to assess the damage to your side."
"It's just a scratch," Megatron grunted, leaning back on his elbows, his legs falling open casually. "But if you insist on fussing..."
Optimus retrieved a laser scalpel and a bonding patch. He stepped between Megatron’s knees, his focus entirely on the scorch mark on the warlord’s flank. It was barely a scratch. By a simple cleaning and a patch, it would suffice.
He leaned in, his optics narrowing as he began to work. "This will sting."
"I've had worse," Megatron drawled.
As Optimus worked, careful and methodical, Megatron’s opportunistic streak began to rise. He watched the Prime’s face, the intense concentration, the way his battle mask was retracted to allow for better visual acuity.
Megatron reached out. His hand closed around the tall, silver smokestack on Optimus's shoulder.
Optimus froze for a nanoklik, but he didn't pull away. He assumed Megatron was just steadying himself. So he ignored it to continue to weld the patch.
Then, Megatron’s thumb began to rub. Up and down around the chrome. Slow and deliberate.
Optimus’s vents hitched. But, he kept working even when his movements became slightly more rigid.
With smug satisfaction, Megatron smirked. He let his hand slide down from the smokestack, trailing his digits over the sensitive plating of Optimus’s shoulder, down the broad expanse of his back, until his hand came to rest on Optimus’s waist.
Then, he squeezed.
Optimus stopped his welding. He stared dead at the patch on Megatron’s side, his processor racing.
Emboldened by the lack of rejection, Megatron’s hand drifted lower. His large, scarred digits slipped down past the waist, boldly cupping the curve of Optimus’s aft.
CLANG. The laser scalpel hit the floor.
Optimus straightened up abruptly, the sudden motion forcing Megatron’s hand to fall away. He looked down at the warlord, his expression a mix of exhaustion, confusion, and a rapidly fraying patience.
He didn't shout. He didn't lecture. He just looked Megatron dead in the optic.
"Megatron," Optimus said, his voice flat and completely serious. "Do you want to have an interface with me?"
The question hung in the stale air of the maintenance shelter, stripping away all the pretense, and the games.
Megatron’s optics brightened, his smirk widening into a genuine, predatory grin. He didn't hesitate. He didn't play coy. He ignoring the patch on his side, and reached for Optimus's waist with both hands.
"Finally," Megatron purred, pulling Optimus closer between his spread knees. "I thought you'd never—"
HISSS-CLANG!
The shelter door was wrenched open with violent force. A blinding wedge of daylight cut through the dim interior, obscuring the view of a frantic, winged figure entering in.
"Lord Megatron!" Starscream shrieked, barging in without a second of hesitation.
Starscream froze. His optics cycled wide, taking in the tableau before him.
He saw Megatron leaning back on the repair slab, legs sprawled, with Optimus Prime standing between the warlord’s knees, looking thoroughly flustered.
Starscream’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, a series of clicks emanating from his vocalizer. "What... the frag... ARE YOU DOING?!!"
Optimus stiffened, his faceplates burning, instinctively stepping back to create distance. He opened his mouth to formulate a tactical excuse, a medical inspection, a debriefing, anything.
But Megatron beat him to it.
"I am fraternizing with the Prime," Megatron answered, his voice a blunt, unapologetic rumble. He didn't move. He didn't even look embarrassed. "What does it look like I'm doing?"
Starscream made a sound like a dying compressor. "Fraternizing?! Now?!" He gestured wildly at the open door, at the convoy, at the dangerous wasteland beyond. "We are in the middle of a migration! On the open road! In broad daylight! Are you insane?!! This is NOT SAFE FOR WORK"
Megatron let out a huff of annoyance, swinging his legs off the slab as if he had never been injured.
He glared at his second-in-command, not for the intrusion, but for the buzzkill.
"You make a fair point, Starscream," Megatron grunted, standing up and looming over the Seeker.
He grabbed Starscream by the shoulders, spun him around, and marched him forcefully back toward the exit.
"It is dangerous out here. We could be interrupted by anyone."
"Wait! What are you—!" Starscream squawked as he was shoved toward the door.
"Guard the door," Megatron ordered, pushing Starscream out into the dust and slamming his hand onto the locking mechanism panel. "Don't let anyone in."
As the door began to hiss shut, sealing the two leaders back inside, Starscream managed one final, indignant screech through the narrowing gap.
“You have ten breems!" Starscream shouted. "TEN! I am timing you!"
Starscream stood outside the shelter, arms crossed, wings twitching violently. He glared at the heavy flap as if he could incinerate it with his gaze alone.
"Fraternizing," he muttered to himself, kicking a loose rock. "Unbelievable. I should have bang in there and retake my leadership."
He checked his internal chronometer. Thirty klik had passed.
"Nine breems and thirty kliks," he shouted at the door. "I AM COUNTING!"
He began to tap his foot, the metallic clink-clink-clink against the hard ground serving as an impatient metronome. He was so busy fuming about his demotion to door guard that he didn't hear the approaching footsteps until it was too late.
"Excuse me."
The voice was small, imperious, and chillingly familiar.
Starscream froze. He looked down.
Standing there, looking up at him with identical expressions of judgment, were Nova and Scourge.
Nova had his hands on his hips, while Scourge was staring at the shelter door.
"Where are our guardians?" Nova demanded. "Scourge broke his calculator."
"I dismantled it to improve its efficiency. Alpha Guardian should possesses the micro-tools required to reassemble it." Scourge corrected immediately.
Starscream forced a tight, fake smile onto his faceplate. “They are on diplomacy," Starscream improvised. "Very aggressive... physical... diplomacy."
Scourge stepped closer, sniffing the air.
"NO SPARKLING IS ALLOWED." Starscream hissed, stepping in front of the door to block Scourge's path. "Now shoo away, you little pests!"
Nova narrowed his optics. He looked at the shelter. Then he looked back at Starscream, who was sweating coolant and visibly guarding the entrance.
"They're hiding," Nova declared. "They're hiding from us!"
"We should perform an investigation," Scourge stated.
"NO!" Starscream yelped, spreading his arms wide as both sparklings moved to push past him. "No entering! Absolutely not! Go find Soundwave! Or play somewhere else! Just not in there!"
Nova stopped. He looked up at Starscream, his yellow optics flashing with the entitlement.
"You're blocking my path, plane-mech," Nova said, his voice dropping to a menacing sound. "Move."
Starscream looked at the shelter, where the faint sound of Megatron’s rumbling laugh and Optimus's hushed frantic whisper could just be heard.
He looked at the two sparklings. And, he looked back at the shelter.
"Oh...slag." was all Starscream could whisper.
Optimus had dropped into the only chair the shelter possessed, one hand pressed hard over his burning faceplates as though he could physically smother the flush. There was no hiding the bright blue glow bleeding between his digits.
Megatron, shameless as ever, lounged back on the repair slab like a throne, one leg dangling, the other stretched out. His broad, armored pede of that outstretched leg nudged Optimus’s helm, rubbing idly along the side of his audial in slow, deliberate circles.
“Really, Prime,” Megatron rumbled, voice low and amused, “how are you this slow on the uptake? I was starting to think your logic center had rusted shut.”
Optimus’s answer came muffled against his own palm. “I genuinely believed you were injured.” A pause, softer still. “I was… worried.”
Megatron’s optics narrowed with wicked delight. He reached down, caught Optimus’s wrist, and tugged the hand away from that glowing face. At the same time, the flat of his pede slid under Optimus’s chin, tipping it up with lazy authority until the sapphire met azure one.
“Look at you,” Megatron purred. “The great Optimus Prime, ready to commit murder in my defense because two Wrecker scraps managed to scuff my paint.” He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping. “Foolish, Bot. Did you truly think a Megatron could be defeated by mere grunts?”
Optimus’s optics flickered. “You could have simply asked over private comm,” he said, the words clipped with lingering embarrassment. “There was no need to lie.”
Megatron chuckled, the sound rolling through his massive frame like distant thunder. His pede slid lower into the broad panel of Optimus’s chest window until it stopped directly over the glowing Matrix, directly over his spark.
Megatron gave a quick, deliberate hard shove.
Optimus gasped, back arching involuntarily, engine snarling to life in a sudden, startled roar.
“For someone named Optimus,” Megatron murmured, pressing just hard enough that the crystal pulsed brighter against his pede, “you are remarkably un-optimistic about where this was heading.”
His leg continued its lazy descent, the edge of his pede brushing over plating seams until it reached the codpiece. One slow, deliberate stroke along the release seam, and the panel snapped open with a soft hiss.
Optimus’s spike already fully pressurized and gleaming in the low light.
“Well. Someone’s eager.” Megatron’s optic ridges rose in theatrical surprise. He pressed the sole of his pede down, pinning the spike flat against Optimus’s abdomen, the pressure firm and possessive. “Look at you, practically throwing yourself at me the moment I give you an opening.”
Optimus’s fans spun into a frantic whine. The roar of his engine deepened, vibrating through Megatron’s pede and through both of their frames.
Then something in the Prime snapped.
With a growl that belonged to a starving beast, Optimus surged up from the chair. He crashed into Megatron like a runaway truck, mouthplates seeking and claiming his intake in one desperate, ravenous kiss.
Megatron laughed into it, low and triumphant, letting himself be shoved back against the slab as Optimus devoured him like the Cybertron had been starving him for centuries.
Outside the shelter, Starscream’s voice rose in pitch with every passing kliks.
“Nine breems and twelve kliks!” he barked like a malfunctioning turbofoxes.
Optimus had Megatron pinned against the slab, hips rolling in slow, punishing grinds with his spike dragging over armored abdominal plating in a slick trail of transfluid.
Their mouths were fused, messy and desperate, every time Megatron tried to speak, Optimus swallowed the words with teeth and glossa.
Megatron broke the kiss just long enough to rumble against Optimus’s lip plates, his voice a gravel-dark purr, “All that restraint, gone in one push of my pede. Tell me, Prime, how long have you been longing for—”
Optimus snarled and sank his denta into the thick cabling at Megatron’s neck, hard enough to dent his plating.
The warlord’s words dissolved into a sharp hiss of pleasure-pain. Optimus dragged his glossa over the fresh marks in apology, then he moved lower, mouthing along the chest plating, down the broad white expanse until Megatron’s valve cover snapped aside with an audible click.
Optimus didn’t wait. He hooked one of Megatron’s massive legs over his shoulder, spreading him open, and dove in like a possessed mech.
His mouth sealed over the valve, glossa plunging deeply, sucking hard on the swollen anterior node while three thick digits slid in alongside, thrusting hard and quick with aggressive curl every two shove in. Scissoring it enough to make lubricant keep dripping.
Megatron’s back arched off the slab, wings flaring wide and scraping the metal slabs. A guttural moan tore out of him, loud enough to rattle the slab.
“Eight breems forty-one!” Starscream screeched outside, now openly wrestling with Nova. “I will count every nanoklik if I have to!.... Scourge! stop calculating breach angles!”
The raised voices finally pierced the haze.
Optimus pulled off his intake with a wet pop, digits still buried but suddenly still. Megatron’s valve clenched around the abrupt absence, his calipers fluttering in frustration.
“You stopped,” Megatron snarled, wings trembling, optics blazing violet with outrage. “How dare you—”
Optimus clamped a hand over Megatron’s mouth, engine growling low. “Quiet,” he whispered, voice rough. "I don't want Scourge to hear what we did here."
Megatron’s snarl turned into a muffled growl against Optimus’s palm, but the warning worked, his volume dropped to a dangerous rumble.
Optimus withdrew his fingers deliberately, drawing a shuddering vent from the warlord. He rose up on his knees, guiding his spike to that slick, dripping entrance. He pressed the head in, thick and blazing hot.
Both of them gasped in perfect unison as the spike slid home in one long, relentless push. The flared head kissed the cluster of nodes guarding Megatron’s gestation chamber. One of Optimus’s shaft ridges locked perfectly against Megatron’s anterior node, dragging a full-frame shudder from the warlord.
Megatron’s wings snapped wide again. His valve clenched hard, calipers rippling in greedy, possessive waves, trying to drag Optimus deeper, milk him for everything he had.
But, Optimus paused, forehead dropping to rest against Megatron’s, savoring the tight, wet heat sucking at him like it never wanted to let him go.
“Seven breems fifty-five!” Starscream wailed outside. “I am literally dying out here!”
Hearing the count down, Optimus’s optics flared bright. He drew his hips back, slow enough to feel every caliper protest, then slammed forward hard enough to rock the slab on its mounts.
Megatron’s resulting moan was muffled against Optimus’s shoulder as the Prime finally, finally joined him fully on the slab, pressing him down into the battered padding, ready to give them both exactly what they’d been circling for the whole lunar cycles.
The slab creaked beneath them like it was begging for mercy.
Optimus drew his hips back until only the flared head of his spike remained inside, then sank forward again, slow, deliberate, impossibly deep.
The drag was exquisite, every ridge on his shaft catching on Megatron’s calipers, every forward roll seating him so perfectly that the tip kissed the sealed entrance of the warlord’s gestation chamber with a soft, wet nudge.
Megatron’s wings shuddered, one massive hand slid up Optimus’s back, tracing the broad red plating until his fingers curled possessively around the base of a warm, thrumming smokestack. The metal was almost too hot to touch, its heat bleeding straight into Megatron’s palm like molten metal.
“Look at you,” Megatron rasped, voice ragged with reverence and ruin. His thumb stroked up the stack in slow, worshipful circles. “So warm and strong… fragging me like you were forged for it. Foolish, Prime… you are submitted to mine now.”
The praise rolled over Optimus's head. His optics flickered, losing its focus. His processor, once a bastion of strategy and restraint, was now a staticky void filled with nothing but heat, and the overwhelming reality of finally being buried inside Megatron drove him wild.
He tried to answer, but nothing coherent came out.
A low, broken “M-Meg—” was all he managed before his hips snapped forward again, harder, deeper, a subconscious needed to override every protocol.
Megatron laughed, breathless and deranged, and he curled his other hand around the second smokestack, kneading both like they were the only things tethering him to sanity.
“That’s it,” he crooned, voice cracking as another slow thrust dragged a moan from his vocalizer. “Lose your mind for me. Every deranged thought you have, show it to me.”
Optimus’s arms wrapped tighter around Megatron’s waist, hauling him impossibly closer until there was no space left between their frames.
The Prime pace quickened, deep rolling thrusts turning into something hungrier, a relentless grind that never quite breached the gestation seal but teased it mercilessly, over and over until Megatron’s entire frame was trembling.
“Seven breems exactly!” Starscream shrieked outside, voice cracking with hysteria. “I am going to attempt MUTINY RIGHT NOW!”
Megatron didn’t care. He spread his legs wider, thighs trembling, and dug his heels into the small of Optimus’s back, dragging him in. “Deeper,” he snarled, voice raw. “Deeper, Prime, give it to me—”
Optimus’s answer was a strangled, desperate noise that wasn’t language at all. His hips slammed forward in a punishing rhythm now, fast, deep, grinding, each thrust kissing that sealed ring of nodes and dragging a broken moan from Megatron’s throat.
“Good,” Optimus managed to slur with heaving vents, optics blown wide and unseeing. “S-so good… so tight… Megatron… Meg—” Another thrust, harder, and the slab groaning in protest.
“I’m go—going deeper, want—want inside, please—”
His words dissolved into static and ragged gasps. Fans screamed. Coolant poured down his backstrut in rivulets. The only coherent things left were the slap of plating on plating, and the wet drag of his spike inside Megatron’s valve.
“Megatron… Meg… go… tighter… deeper…warmer... please—”
Megatron’s valve clenched hard, calipers rippling in frantic waves, trying to drag Optimus past that final barrier. His own voice cracked on a moan that was half-snarl, half-prayer.
“Yes,” he hissed, claws raking down Optimus’s back. “Yes, say my name while you frag me into this forsaken slab, Prime. Louder!”
Optimus obeyed, because it was the only thing left his processor can proceed now.
“Megatron—” Thrust. “Megatron—” Grind.
His rhythm stuttered, turned feral, hips snapping with single-minded desperation. Outside, Starscream’s countdown had devolved into incoherent screeching and what sounded suspiciously like Nova throwing tantrum.
Inside, Megatron was unraveling.
Every merciless grind of Optimus’s hips drove the Prime’s spike deeper, the thickest ridge scraping over his anterior node again and again while the flared head battered the sealed entrance to his gestation chamber like it was personally offended him.
Charge coiled tighter and tighter in his lower belly. His valve fluttered wildly. His calipers rippling in frantic, greedy waves, trying to lock Optimus in and never let go.
Megatron's coolant poured down his backstrut in sheets. His fans screamed like damaged turbines. He couldn’t stop the sounds tearing out of his vocalizer, raw, broken moans that climbed higher with every punishing stroke.
“Prime—” he snarled, voice fracturing, “Optimus, I’m— I’m so fragging close—”
Optimus was beyond words. His optics had gone completely unfocused, bright sapphire reduced to thin rings around blown pupils. His thrusts had lost all rhythm, turned savage and desperate, his hips snapping forward like he was trying to fuse their frames permanently.
Every time Megatron’s calipers clamped down, Optimus made a choked, helpless noise and drove in harder, deeper, chasing the heat that was swallowing him whole.
Just a little more, just a few more thrusts and he’d—
A strangled, broken cry tore from the Prime’s vocalizer. Optimus slammed in one final time, buried to the hilt, and froze.
His entire frame locked up, spike swelling impossibly thicker inside Megatron, ridges flaring—and then with hard, sudden, and completely out of control. He overloaded.
Thick ropes of transfluid surged into Megatron’s valve in heavy, endless pulses, flooding his gestation chamber seal, painting every inch of his channel in burning liquid heat.
Megatron’s optics blew wide.
Optimus collapsed forward with a shuddering vent, face buried against Megatron’s neck cables. His entire frame trembling through the aftershocks. His spike was still pulsing weakly, still leaking. The pressure, the friction, the relentless stimulation eventually dissipate.
Megatron’s overload, so close he could taste it, teetered on the brink…
…and fell away.
The charge in his lines fizzled, painful and unspent, leaving him aching, trembling, utterly denied.
For one stunned nanoklik, the shelter was silent except for Optimus’s ragged venting and the distant, hysterical screeching of Starscream outside.
Megatron’s optics flared a violent, furious deep blue.
“Prime,” he snarled, voice low and shaking with rage and ruined pleasure, “did you just overload before me?”
Optimus made a small, mortified noise against his neck cables, arms tightening reflexively around Megatron’s waist as if hiding might somehow save him.
Megatron’s wings snapped shut, folded back behind his back. His valve gave one last, betrayed flutter around the spike still buried inside him.
Then, he clenched hard in pure frustration.
“You absolute—” He broke off into a growl that rattled Optimus’s plating. “The first time I finally frag you and you overload like a freshly forged protoform?!”
Optimus’s face was still buried against the crook of Megatron’s neck cycling his vents in mortified little gasps.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered at last, voice small and cracked. “Truly. I… I lost control. It won’t happen again. Next time I’ll—”
Megatron’s wings gave one violent twitch.
“Next time,” he echoed, the words dripping acid. “There will be a next time, Prime. Several. Many. But right now—”
Optimus trying to soothe him is the only way he could think of. He shifted, pressing a soft, apologetic kiss to the side of Megatron’s helm.
But, Megatron’s hand snapped up, palm slamming into Optimus’s chest plate and shoving him bodily upright. The motion was so sudden that Optimus’s half-depressurized spike slipped free with a wet sound that made both of them flinch.
“Up,” Megatron snarled, optics blazing. “Now. Clean your fragging mess before my screeching Second in command and our two walking disasters barge in here and see what a pathetic performance their Prime just gave.”
Optimus scrambled off him so fast he nearly tripped over his own pedes. Transfluid was already leaking down Megatron’s thighs in thick, glistening streaks, pooling on the slab beneath them. The air reeked of overload and unfulfilled charge.
Optimus snatched a cleaning rag from the med-kit with shaking hands, knelt between Megatron’s still-spread legs, and began wiping him down with the frantic devotion of a mech trying to defuse a live fusion bomb. Every pass of the cloth made Megatron’s frame twitch, valve fluttering irritably around nothing.
“Faster,” Megatron hissed through clenched denta.
Optimus’s faceplates burned hotter than his own engine. He scrubbed harder, muttering another string of breathless apologies between strokes.
Megatron watched him with narrowed optics, fists resting on his hips, every line of his frame radiating frustration.
“Next time,” he said, cupping Optimus's blunt chin, “you will last until I am satisfied. Or I will tie you down and ride you until your spark begs for mercy. Do we understand each other, Prime?”
Optimus swallowed hard, rag trembling in his grip. “Yes, my lord.” he replied without second thought.
“Good.”
From outside came the unmistakable sound of Starscream clattering, “I am counting to three! One—!”
Megatron snapped his valve cover shut with a loud, final clack, swung his legs off the slab, and stood like a warlord who had definitely not just been edged within an inch of his life.
“Two—!”
Optimus tossed the soiled rag into the disposal chute, slammed his own codpiece closed, and tried to look like he hadn’t just fallen apart in under ten minutes.
The shelter door ripped open.
Starscream barged in, with Nova chewing furiously on his helm and Scourge following behind him.
“That is happened” Starscream said, sounding deeply offended by this ‘Diplomacy’. He leveled Optimus with a glare that could have melted tanks. “Now, get. Out.”
Starscream took one serious look on his leader’s face. Ready for his list of complaints.
Nova slid off Starscream's shoulder and marched straight up to Optimus, hands on hips.
“You took too long,” the sparkling declared. “Scourge’s calculator is still broken and I am bored.”
Optimus, still flushed, managed a shaky smile. “I’ll fix it right now,” he promised. He took one last glance at the expression on the warlord's face before he closed the door.
Next time, Optimus thought faintly, with his knees still trembling.
Next time he would last.
He had to.