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lyricalityTitle: Belonging 3/6
Rating: M/NC-17, Slash
Universe: Transformers: Animated
Pairing: Megatron/Optimus Prime
Author's Note: Spoilers for A Bridge Too Close, follows an alternate ending into a new continuity. A number of small changes from the original version posted on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
tfic_contest.
Thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lady_oneiros, whose tireless efforts to correct my grammar have made all the difference. ♥
Part III
Shockwave tried to kill him, of course.
Optimus had expected the eventuality from the moment Megatron's forces had swept onto Lockdown's ship. The bounty hunter had fled in the interim, abandoning his ship but taking most of his precious trophies and upgrades with him in the single shuttle. In a fit of displaced rage, Megatron laid waste to the rest, and Optimus had no interest at all in trying to stop him. He submitted uneasily instead to Shockwave's reluctant examination of his internal and external damage, as per Megatron's snapped command.
Regarding each other with distrust, they spoke only as much as necessary. His previous disguise fully discarded, Shockwave cast his single optic in swift, furtive glances at Optimus' face, clearly baffled at Megatron's benevolence toward him...at least until a cursory scan of his damaged spark chamber revealed the connection that Lockdown had deduced from behavior alone.
Antennae flattening, Shockwave edged back a step, his optic flickering in shock. “That is...not possible.”
Optimus stared back at him, gallows humor in the curve of his mouth. “I wish you were right.”
Sputtering for a moment, Shockwave flattened his antennae further, glancing uneasily from side to side, wary of anyone within eavesdropping distance. His optic narrowed in unapologetic, apoplectic loathing. “No. You are...” His claws flexed and clutched for just a moment at the cabling of Optimus' neck. “In no way are you worthy of such honor.” He hissed an insult that Optimus knew only from rusting records of the Wars, a word that meant utterly offensive blasphemy in any Cybertronian derivative.
Optimus lifted a hand and shoved him away. “The universe disagrees with you.”
Neither of them could deny the truth, after all, and Shockwave finally conducted far better, far less painful repairs upon Optimus despite the resentment seething poisonously through the spaces between them. The correct restoration of his chest plates gave him some sense of security—however vulnerable he still remained.
Despite his increasingly dire circumstances, Optimus found some solace in the improvement of the Decepticon warship over Lockdown's waspish craft. The Tidal Wave shared the dim lighting and raw metal of Lockdown's ship but not its strange curves or its worming corridors. Megatron, or perhaps Shockwave, preferred spare angles and vaulted ceilings: space enough to stand and fight beyond narrower hallways meant to discourage or destroy invaders. Despite the potential acoustics of its configuration, the ship carried few echoes due to sound-dampening surfaces fitted into the walls and ceilings, and Optimus relaxed despite himself under the influence of so much simple quiet. Megatron kept himself at a distance for several orns, though Optimus often felt the unmistakable double-thrum of his spark that meant the Decepticon leader was nearby.
Optimus was a prisoner in more ways than one, but the spacious rooms of his confinement, the ready supply of good-grade energon, and the steady healing of his physical injuries provided a certain hollow comfort.
Additionally, Megatron had allowed him the security of weaponry. Optimus retained the ax, and while he didn't delude himself that any attention toward his protection was thoroughly selfish on the Decepticon's part, he still appreciated the opportunity to defend himself. Shockwave seemed utterly, almost unbelievably loyal, but as demonstrated by experience, not all Decepticons were so enamored with Megatron's continued function.
The weight of the weapon felt good in his hands, pulling against the cabling of his shoulders as he swung it through the advanced drills of the Elite Guard. Movement provided focus and lent purpose to his thoughts. He'd had plenty of time for thinking in the last few orns, but meaning and understanding still eluded him no matter how he concentrated on his own impressions of Megatron's mind. Quite plainly, Megatron was very old, even by the standards of their kind. He was old enough that to him, the war seemed young yet. He had learned something about patience during his dismantled imprisonment in Sumdac's lab, and he had more plots and plans and potentials than Optimus could easily interpret.
He was worth fearing. The Autobot Council had done Cybertron terrible harm by encouraging widespread belief in his deactivation.
And yet...
Optimus pivoted in place, frustration stiffening the strikes of the ax, his dental plates pressing tight together and making incidental friction burns against the delicate wiring in his mouth. He should have killed them both when he had the chance, and he hadn't been capable. Not then, not now.
His spark gave a low flutter behind his chest plates. In retrospect, his reaction felt more like descriptions of organic instinct than the processes of his own base programming, because he moved to intercept before consciously deciding on the need for defense. The blade of the ax met both of Megatron's descending swords with a shattering clang.
He'd had no idea that Megatron had commissioned new weapons; he had no idea when Megatron had entered the room.
“Malfunctioning again?” he managed in the raw moments before Megatron surged forward in another attack. Metal clashed with a ringing shriek. Optimus hissed and raised his battlemask, struggling to keep his footing.
“I have yet to decide what I should do with you.” The calm of Megatron's voice distracted from the ferocity of his frame, his double swords flashing quicksilver. Optimus trembled with effort, blocking blow after blow with first the grip and then the blade of his borrowed ax. “So long as you live,” Megatron continued, “I am threatened by the possibility of your death.”
Optimus ducked beneath a swipe that could have decapitated him and scored a glancing strike along the backs of Megatron's legs. “I think the—threat's the same for—both of us,” he retorted, frame heaving, forced to retreat before a set of blows that struck sparks from the ax blade.
Unexpectedly, Megatron paused in his assault, regarding Optimus with narrowed optics. Optimus worked to regain his equilibrium.
“I am faced with the prospect of keeping you uncomfortably close to me. Unwilling as we both must be.”
Optimus shook his head.
Megatron raised the swords, surging forward, placing Optimus on the desperate defensive yet again in the face of such slashing grace. “Is this all the resistance you can offer me? Were you never the pride of the Autobot Academy? Can you do nothing to deserve the title they gave you?” Stung, Optimus still fell back before the assault, barely blocking again and again. “You are fairly large, for an Autobot,” Megatron said, slamming a shoulder into his and wrenching him off his feet. “I suppose they never bothered to teach you how to use your lighter frame as an advantage, in close combat with a larger mech.”
Optimus braced himself for impact, wincing as he skidded across the floor and twisted back to his feet. “Strangely enough, it never came up.”
Poised with dual blades fanned before and behind him, Megatron shook his head in level disgust. “So I must watch your back, as well as my own. What joy is mine.”
“Not all battles are won with weaponry,” Optimus said, vents panting.
Scowling, Megatron straightened. “How typically Autobot. Falling back on negotiation when your physical incompetence becomes clear.” He stretched out each arm in turn, components twirling and shifting as he reassimilated one sword blade and then the other.
Optimus kept his mask raised along with his ax. “In my defense, I'd rather negotiate first.”
“Imagine my astonishment.” Resting his hands on his hips, Megatron raised an optic ridge at Optimus' defensive stance. They watched each other in silence for a moment or two before he spoke again, his tone darkly wry. “If you have had enough recuperation, perhaps you would consider following me.” He tilted his head toward the door panel.
He had phrased the statement as a request, but his tone made no similar concessions. Badly off-balance and working hard for equilibrium, Optimus nevertheless straightened up and tucked the ax away. It didn't fit correctly—it hadn't been made for him—and he felt it jostling against his interior wiring.
Megatron gave him a singularly unpleasant smile and palmed open the secured door, leading the way into the hall beyond it.
This was Optimus' first journey out into the greater part of the ship since Shockwave had consigned him to his de facto imprisonment, and he followed with wary care through the dim corridors, keeping close to Megatron's broad back and listening for movement in the shadows. They saw no one, but Optimus heard the erratic clash of metal in the distance, and his discomfort grew. Megatron halted at last just beyond a narrow archway that opened onto a railed balcony, his impressive frame silhouetted in the light of the wider room below. Optimus hesitated on the threshold, but curiosity triumphed over trepidation, and he moved to stand at Megatron's side.
The balcony looked over a broad training hall, its size clearly meant for full-squad military drills. At the moment, it was empty but for a seeker of Starscream's basic model and a slender creature built on an even smaller scale than Prowl. A femme, in fact. Optimus recognized her build with a complicated burst of startlement and shame.
“Is she a...” He knew several less flattering terms, but he couldn't quite work them past his vocalizer. “Pleasure model?”
Megatron cast him a sideways glance, amused. “Thunderblast? Yes. Such was her original purpose. Since pledging herself to the Decepticon cause, she has turned her talents in somewhat different directions.”
The femme flipped backwards into an elegant handspring, twisting in midair to strike at the seeker with several lean vibroblades. She was no Cyberninja, but her form was excellent. Optimus wondered uneasily who might be responsible for Decepticon battle training.
“You really take all kinds,” he said, thoughts listing dangerously toward Blackarachnia again.
“Unlike your hypocritical superiors, we do not dismiss individuals based on supposed directives alone.”
Optimus bristled. “Autobots reward excellent service. With respect. With honor.”
“And I suppose the Elite Guard welcomed your friends with open arms in the aftermath of Starscream's capture,” Megatron drawled. “Without derision or disbelief. Regardless of their designations as repair drones.”
“Repair bots,” Optimus murmured, but otherwise he offered no protest. The rejection by Autobot high command still stung in wounds he'd thought healed.
Megatron studied him in silence; Optimus kept his optics on the training floor. The uncomfortable awareness between them seemed far stronger in the absence of conversation, and Optimus found himself almost grateful when Megatron spoke again. “So long as a creature is useful, I make no distinctions. I measure value in terms of competence.” Irritation prickled through the undercurrents of his voice. “No useless fool will ever advance among us due purely to build or to connections.”
With difficulty, Optimus bit back any commentary about Megatron's team on Earth.
Glancing toward him, Megatron arched an optic ridge, apparently aware of Optimus' line of thought. “I suppose you profess to prefer leadership by unworthy militants and untried diplomats,” he said. “From those who lied willingly and often in the interest of your supposed protection.” He paused. “From those who held you back and caused you grief for daring to make decisions for yourself. That is what disgusts me in your Autobot philosophy.”
“That makes a certain sense,” Optimus admitted.
A smile ghosted over Megatron's lip components, the ends of it curling like scimitar blades. “That was the argument that won Starscream,” he said. Optimus sensed something far more bitter than amusement in his tone. “Four million stellar cycles ago.”
Drawing back a step, Optimus shook his head. “I'm nothing like him.”
“Oh, but he was young, too.” Intentional cruelty widened the smile before resentment banished it entirely. “Full of ideology and unpopular ideas,” Megatron snorted. “But no. You are otherwise nothing alike.” Optimus tried to ignore a certain upwelling of relief at the admission. “Starscream's potential has always been limited by his appalling obsession with himself. The inability to see beyond one's own wingspan has a certain quelling effect on scientific observation.”
“I see.” Optimus couldn't quite repress a reluctant smile of his own.
“By contrast, you have a ludicrous surplus of compassion,” Megatron continued, one finger tapping lightly against the metal rail. “Your incapability of placing yourself above other creatures renders your leadership ridiculous and your battle strategy self-destructive.”
So much unexpected venom after a little backhanded praise left Optimus oddly bereft. He answered lightly, but sharpened his words to a barb. “Well. None of them have tried stabbing me between the back plates, yet.”
Megatron turned on him so swiftly that he expected violence; he actually stiffened with preparation for it and raised his chin in defiance. To his surprise, Megatron merely loomed over him for a moment or two, and then the Decepticon gave him a smile that spoke of chilly calculation and a long memory for insults real or imagined. “You would have been wasted on the Elite Guard,” Megatron said, astonishing Optimus so thoroughly that he barely heard the additional command. “Come.”
He followed only to avoid being abandoned in a hostile environment. Megatron strode ahead of him through the numerous intersections of corridors, and occasional Decepticons swept or scurried out of their Lord's path, speaking in sibilant whispers once Optimus had passed them as well. They were constructed mostly of hard-edged angles and bristling weaponry—nothing like the Autobots that Optimus knew. They regarded Megatron with all the respect afforded by fear, and they stared after Optimus with loathing tinged by curiosity.
By the time they reached the end of a corridor that culminated in vaulted, double-panel doors, Optimus felt raw with the wheedling pressure of so many optics upon him, all of them an unfamiliar and alien red. The doors opened to Megatron without so much as a vocal command, and Optimus followed him inside with trepidation that couldn't quite smother his relief.
The room stretched vast and dark around them after the doors slipped shut again. Here, someone had neglected or removed the soundproofing, and Optimus' steps echoed when he shifted from foot to foot.
Attuned to movement, low-energy lighting flickered on around the edges of the room, revealing width and breadth in dim blue. The corners dissolved into deep shadow. The lighting traced the walls but didn't reach the ceiling, lending the chamber a sense of cavernous space belied only by the automatic ping of Optimus' echolocation. Brighter lighting centered around the far wall, where on a raised dais stood something tall and angular that Optimus could only describe as a throne. Megatron stalked across the room, his footfalls ringing heavily against the smooth, seamless paneling of the floor before he ascended the dais and settled himself into the ostentatious seat with the obvious pleasure of a creature returning home. He braced an elbow joint against one arm of the throne, rested his chin on the back of his hand, and stared at Optimus as if expecting entertainment.
Optimus experienced a strange juxtaposition, as if he were viewing something at once unspeakably private and thoroughly public. No doubt the emotion was orchestrated, this venue chosen to impart a layered message: this was Megatron's space, and he filled it with absolute authority. Despite the show, however, Megatron kept silent. Optimus suspected that neither of them had any idea what to do with the other.
“This wasn't the ship you chose,” Optimus said at last, if only to break the silence. “When you went looking for the Allspark.” He took a few steps, exploring what he could see of the room, watching out of the corner of one optic as Megatron watched him.
Megatron made a show of consideration before answering. “The Nemesis was lighter, swifter. My purposes required speed and a far smaller force than that wasted on such a ship as this.”
“How many Decepticons are on this ship?”
Arching an optic ridge, Megatron smiled with patronization in every faceplate shift. “Hardly your concern,” he said, straightening just enough to reach for something on a raised surface beside the throne. Two objects, in fact—one of them a goblet fired of dark metal, and the other a container that Megatron opened and tipped, emptying its contents into the cup. Megatron took a sip, and Optimus drifted closer until he could identify the scent.
The substance wasn't highgrade, but oil, and Optimus wondered how much Earth had affected the Lord of all Decepticons, after all.
Megatron glanced at him sideways, optics glittering with banked but beautiful fire, and Optimus did battle with a welling ache of undeniable attraction. He meant to step back and put distance between them, but Megatron frowned, and something subtle in the expression drew Optimus forward instead, despite his better judgment.
Gaze flicking to the oil, then to Optimus again, Megatron frowned a little more deeply, and finally he held out the goblet.
Not quite moved by the gesture, but somewhere uncomfortably close, Optimus ventured near enough to ascend the dais and take the cup from Megatron's outstretched hand. They didn't touch. Wary, Optimus took a careful sip, remembering Lockdown's revolting blend, but this had none of the same slippery bitterness. Not bad. He swallowed, and even dared a second sip before offering the goblet back to Megatron, who took it with a curve of his lip components.
“I could drug you perfectly senseless for the rest of your long existence.”
Fuel tanks churning at the thought, Optimus held his bondmate's narrowed gaze. “Let's assume that's not going to be necessary.”
“Is that so. I cannot imagine that my arguments have won you so easily.” Megatron took another sip, optics focused on Optimus' face, and Optimus shifted faintly with the answering lurch of his spark.
“No. But I don't think I need to stay in a locked room, either.”
Megatron widened his optics, then narrowed them to gleaming slits. “You have an unusual position, true enough,” he admitted, his expression turning his features into sharp angles under the wash of blue light. “But do not make the mistake of assuming me a fool where you are concerned. Or imagining that our shared...vulnerability will grant you any privileges.”
Optimus had no particular plans, manipulative or otherwise, but he couldn't doubt that Megatron, too, felt the pull of their sparks when they stood so close as this. For an instant, Optimus shuttered his optics, feeling an interior and exterior thrum like violent melody. “No,” he murmured, answering belatedly as he took another step forward, optics activating again. “You're not a fool. But neither am I.” Megatron would argue, but Optimus had suffered through enough recent battles to know when a head-on fight wasn't worth the cost. Even so, he thought Megatron more vulnerable now than ever before.
Feeling more awkward than he wanted to admit, Optimus placed his hands on either arm of the throne. He lifted his weight and then settled over the heavy plating of Megatron's slightly spread legs, his own legs falling open, slight curves along the outsides of the Decepticon's thighs.
Optics narrowing, Megatron pulled the goblet reflexively back against his chest, frame going otherwise still. “And what exactly are we doing?”
“You tell me.” Optimus kept still as well, a nervous tremble localized beneath the many layers of his chest, both originating from and contained within his spark.
Such physical presence—not just the powerful steel of smooth plating against his own, but the strangely visceral burn of heat through that plating, the vibration of fuel circulation and the whine of shifting servos. Utterly real, entirely present, Megatron was the uncomfortable culmination of all Optimus' fascination with the Great Wars. Who could know more about the wars than the one who began them so many millions of stellar cycles ago? The fluttering leap of excitement in Optimus' spark left him more uneasy than the weight of Megatron's hand as it lifted, hesitated, and settled against his hip.
Optimus asked, “Tell me something.”
Megatron was rigid beneath him, all tension of more than one type. “What.”
Considering all the many things that he might ask, Optimus hesitated before choosing his question. “Did you kill Prime Nova?”
For a moment, Megatron's hand curled hard against his hip, and Optimus' sensor relays protested. Then Megatron chuckled. “No,” he said at length. “But I orchestrated his assassination.” His fingers uncurled and splayed, drifting gradually upward along Optimus' side. “Does that comfort you? To know that his death is not literally on my servos?”
“Not particularly.” Intention wasn't identical to action, but in this case, it was close enough. Optimus arched his back a bit, stretching the plating just enough that Megatron took the opportunity to slide his fingertips into the gaps. Optimus shifted and hissed through his intakes, his engine turning over with an audible shudder.
Megatron smiled, but the expression was stretched thin over something deeper. “You haven't the experience to defeat me in this.”
Optimus shook his head, the silence filled by the growl of his engine and the whine of metal on metal.
The sudden interruption of footsteps echoing across the floor gave them both a shock. Optimus gasped, mortification rising more quickly than his internal temperature, and even Megatron jolted beneath him. The Decepticon extracted his fingers, but kept Optimus still with a hand pressed hard against his hip. He glared at someone over Optimus' shoulder.
“What is it, Shockwave?” he snapped.
Who else. Optimus gritted his dental plates together and gave up on at least one sort of dignity.
“Forgive me, Lord,” Shockwave said after a long stretch of apparently mortified silence. “I had no indication that...forgive me.” To his credit, the communication expert recovered quickly. “We are approaching the coordinates you had discussed.”
Beneath Optimus' thighs, Megatron appeared to relax, but Optimus felt a savage thread of readiness in those hydraulics despite appearances. “Then carry out my orders without plaguing me with trivialities.”
Twisting just enough to peer over one shoulder, Optimus saw Shockwave stiffen and bow low, all formality and careful apology. The double agent's every movement seemed like a demonstration of Megatron's authority, and Optimus thought uneasily of Megatron's earlier criticism. He tried to imagine Bumblebee or Prowl so loyally subservient, and discovered that he did lack that sort of imagination after all. Even Ratchet resisted him now and then, and the medic believed in the necessity of military obedience.
Tightening all the complicated components of his jaw, he gathered his courage. He guessed that his only advantage—under his current circumstances—was the ability to do what no one expected.
Shockwave hadn't moved, and Optimus sensed the stirrings of real impatience in his connection to Megatron's spark. “My liege,” Shockwave said after a few nanokliks of visible discomfort. “If you intend to so...blatantly exert your ownership...perhaps a different location—”
“Get out, Shockwave,” Optimus said.
Facial expressions never registered on Shockwave's unusual construction, but he did flinch backward, both antennae flattening. He turned his single optic on Megatron. “My Lord—”
Optimus steadied himself and turned back to meet Megatron's optics, which had widened momentarily. “You've interrupted us. Please never do so again.”
Unbalanced, Shockwave took a step forward, tone beseeching. “Excellency...” Megatron made no answer, vocally or otherwise; he looked amused, tapping one powerful finger against the arm of the throne. “Of course,” Shockwave murmured at length, and Optimus heard the edge of seething frustration that disrupted the mildness of his voice. “Call me when you have...need of me.”
Megatron said nothing, but he did incline his head with mocking good grace. After a moment more, Shockwave's footsteps retreated. The door opened, slid shut, left them in silence.
“How was that?” Optimus raised both optic ridges.
“Unconvincing,” Megatron judged with a snort. “Pure request. Please, indeed. Shockwave is easily moved by civility, but the others would tear you in two.” After a moment, he glanced sideways at Optimus again, a low glow in the depths of his optics. Optimus cursed himself for responding to that understated heat. “How did it feel?”
Tension moved in unpleasant coils through Optimus' frame; he knew what Megatron meant. “No different. Than usual.” Those in command expected quick obedience, though he had become more accustomed to immediate protest or unformed justifications as of late. His bots were not supposed to be soldiers—perhaps with the exception of Prowl and, once upon a vorn, Ratchet—and a certain measure of chafing under tighter restrictions and raised expectations should be expected.
Megatron chuckled with a razor edge. “Tell me...do those mechs under your supposed command ever listen to a word you say?”
Bristling, Optimus leaned back, hands clenching against his own upper thighs. “Not that it's any of your business—”
“Not that I have not noticed for myself.” Megatron was at ease, his frame loose but ridged with readiness under Optimus' weight—a predator at rest.
“They listen for different reasons,” Optimus said at length.
Megatron snorted.
His momentum lost by Shockwave's interruption, Optimus studied Megatron in silence for a cycle or more, watching as the Decepticon lifted the goblet to his mouth, swallowed, and prepared to do the same again. Reaching up, Optimus caught hold of his wrist, halting the movement. Megatron arched a questioning optic ridge. Optimus trembled in all of his base connections, but this was something he'd wanted to try since his thousand viewings of it throughout human culture and media. Kissing was not a Cybertronian custom, but Optimus didn't need to worry about Megatron's good opinion of him. In a very real sense, within a certain set of dimensions...Optimus could do as he liked.
He pulled the goblet aside and touched his mouth to Megatron's. Their lip components scraped together, clinging with delicate friction, and he felt Megatron stiffen until shuddering with so thoroughly new a sensation.
“Please,” Optimus drew back enough to whisper.
Megatron gave him a neutral grunt and pulled him close again with a hand hooking through the cabling at the back of his neck. Their lip components rasped again, and again, until Optimus cycled a groan through his vents and opened his mouth, sliding his glossa along the barrier of Megatron's lip components until the Decepticon growled and relented. Megatron let him in, biting him briefly in the grip of something primal and base. Optimus shivered and made no protest.
Megatron tasted powerfully of oil and faintly of grease, the lubricants that kept their delicate components from rubbing raw against each other.
Licking against wiring and circuitry, Optimus cried out aloud when Megatron bit him again in punishment as plainly as in permission. They had pressed so tightly together, chest to chest, that Optimus felt the plaintive throb of Megatron's spark reaching for his own, and continued separation was irresistibly torturous. He grasped at the Decepticon's shoulders and squirmed just enough to scrape metal against glass, his repaired windshields creaking under the strain. Megatron dropped the goblet with a careless splatter of oil across the floor.
Both massive hands wrenched into Optimus' chest plating, ready to tear him open, but Optimus arched his back and spread his plating wide at the first touch, spilling blue light across Megatron's lap and saturating them both with the energy of an eager spark.
Megatron struggled with surrendering. The gears behind his chest plates groaned, pulling open a narrow gap that seethed with white-hot blue. Vents panting, Optimus pushed tight against him, pressing him back against the throne with a shift of weight and kissing him again. Glossa slicked over glossa, nicking against dental projections. Megatron snarled into Optimus' mouth as his chest plates opened wide.
Spark touched spark with searing heat.
Not love, not even lust burned between them, but Optimus felt his spark and Megatron's react to something sharper: a profound and shared understanding. That was singular. No one had ever been in him so uncompromisingly deep, and he knew with bonded certainty that Megatron felt the same. Willing or not, comfortable or not, they understood each other. Something in that was like pleasure...or at least more like pleasure than pain.
Panting through his intakes, Optimus pushed past sensation and back into himself, hooking his elbow joints over Megatron's shoulders and gripping at the back of the throne with both hands. The mechanical musculature of his thighs clenched, his body rising and falling again with a brief push of chest against chest, spark against spark, utterly bare and already raw with just that single overture. Real pleasure began in his sensory relays—a heavy pressure that caressed the delicate connections of his spark. Shaken, Optimus let his head tip back, his optics offline as he moved again, a slow and frictionless rub that nevertheless created sparks between the two of them. The sensation doubled, caught reverberating in the tangle of energies that united them. He heard Megatron grinding his dental plates together with abrupt and passionate tension in the moment before hands gripped at his back and crushed him closer.
“Ah,” Optimus groaned, all the articulations of his neural armor creaking under the pressure of a grip hard enough to hurt but not enough for damage. Optimus shuddered with helpless wonder, impressed by Megatron's peculiar sort of selective self-control.
He harnessed the emotion and let it flood the link between them. He earned a startled, wary skip from Megatron's spark in response.
Fingers scraped along the plating of Optimus' back, making his hands clench harder into the jagged edging of the throne. In the spaces between them, Megatron's thoughts pushed against his own, a strange mantra of entrenched disdain and beginning interest, an awareness of all the pieces of him. Something thrust into him, exploring roughly with extended claws, and Optimus countered with all the needle-points of his interior objections. They both retreated, stung. Arching with a ragged gasp, Optimus felt the gaps in their connection filled and then cauterized by the unexpected heat of Megatron's awakening lust.
“Fight me if you wish,” Megatron murmured against the curve of Optimus' audio receptor as one hand dragged upward to clench against the back of his neck. “I suspect you cannot resist.”
“I don't want to.” He could gaze effortlessly into even the shadowed places in Megatron's mind, and he understood with uncomfortable clarity what the greatest of Decepticons burned for over all else. Trembling, fighting despite himself, he strained first against Megatron's hold and then deeper into it. “If you want it...take it.”
He felt the reverberation of true desire as it impacted all their shared surfaces. Megatron had interfaced with any number of willing parties, allies and servants and soldiers, but he had never been offered the willing spark of an enemy.
One or two he had taken unwillingly, and Optimus pulled away from that asp's nest of memory.
Megatron pursued him, but with a different intent. Thoughts netted around his, and Megatron caught him in a sharp-edged snare, all the pointed barbs touching him with flickering sensation and unsettled emotion. Optimus fought back until he could surrender, accepting all those angles with gradually easing discomfort. Painful, powerful consciousness unfolded beneath the thin shielding of his plating, still so much to contain in so little. Built powerfully for his kind, he still struggled beneath it, crying out softly in increasing strain, gasping through his vents as the interior contours of his psyche adapted and rearranged. This burden was something he could carry, after all, and that discovery came with a shivering, liquid rush of triumph between them.
Shaken in return by shared effort, Megatron hissed and scratched his fingers down and then up Optimus' back, vents working hard for a moment or two.
You cannot possibly hold all of me, Autobot.
Optimus sighed, winced, and curled one arm tightly around the back of Megatron's neck. I already am.
Megatron growled for him, and Optimus' engine roared in response. The vibration made him desperate for friction; a million threads of heat and light buried in their merged sparks screamed to be stroked. Megatron hooked an arm beneath him and lifted him, carrying all the weight, rocking them together so hard that Optimus threw back his head with a static shout of affirmation. Megatron's passion was coarse, proprietary, and it burned at the blurred edge between agony and ecstasy.
Don't stop, Optimus thought fiercely, optics flickering with every grinding thrust of spark against spark, don't...stop!
He heard the guttural groan of Megatron's laughter, and his body jerked helplessly as the sound moved through him in a physical vibration. Emotions caught and clung, lacing pleasure with bitterness and beauty and striking him with the difficult realization that something needed to give before receiving—before achieving more than physical climax.
Optimus felt the ache; he approached an edge as hunger burned through to shivering heat. He unshuttered his optics and convulsed within and without as Megatron's features twisted with raw and ruthless bliss. They were together, so tight that Optimus felt a moment of precious calm at the apex and a precarious union in every point of contact. Sharing the emotion, he felt the transferred terror in the airless moment before Megatron's surrender. They teetered, balanced, found an emotional plateau somewhere in between, and fell so hard that Optimus heard something break. Something sheared free to leave him and join them yet again. Shuddering in spectacular overload, he didn't have, or want, the strength to care how much of himself was left over.
Megatron was silent in overload. Beneath the hands Optimus slid down to the Decepticon's chest, he felt the deep, stuttering thrum of overworked machinery nevertheless. Satisfaction settled between them, better than the liquid flame pooling in Optimus' spark and running rivulets through his limbs.
Astonishing—and disturbing—how the most terrible thing he had ever done could feel so appallingly right in the aftermath.
“How flattering,” Megatron growled, verbally responding to the shared thought. Satiation rubbed along the syllables, rendering their sharper tones into little more than a rough-edged purr. Optimus quivered in response.
His systems began to cool; clean sanity gradually returned. In the quicksilver strands of their bond, he felt Megatron shuffling through the available images of his memory, exploring with casual, irresistible calm.
“Never the pride of the Academy, after all,” Megatron said at length. Optimus exerted all his will to keep tension from creeping back into his frame. He had looked into Megatron, and Megatron had looked into him. All the walls between them had gone transparent. “What minor catastrophes you've caused. And your Elita...one of mine. How unexpected.”
Fisting a hand against Megatron's neck, Optimus compressed the cabling just enough that he, too, felt the sting. “She's not yours.”
Megatron made a low, light sound that was not quite amusement. “Unquestionably, she would agree with you.” His fingers made one long, rippling stroke down Optimus' back and then upward again before a heavy hand splayed against the fragile constructions of the siren array between Optimus' shoulders. Possession burned in the touch, and awakened curiosity flickered in the continuous flow of their shared thoughts. The imperfections beneath Optimus' smoother surface caught Megatron's interest and snagged like burrs in chainlink mesh.
Not so perfect as you would like to pretend, Prime.
Tilting his head, he snared Optimus with another voracious, knife-sharp kiss. It was all rasping angles and heated metal. Optimus tasted oil and the slick afterburn of ecstasy. “Perhaps I will keep you,” Megatron mused, before he drew back again, barely brushing Optimus' faceplates with his mouth. “After all.”
“Don't,” Optimus whispered, but summoning the necessary willpower proved difficult, too difficult, with Megatron's dental plates skimming naked circuitry at the junction of shoulder and neck. They were falling too deeply into each other, seeking stability in all the ways they'd already found and all the ways they still had yet to find. Perhaps spark bonding was less about mystical union and more about a desperate search for balance between unbalanced individuals. Surely the will of Primus and all the universe had nothing to do with this sort of madness...but Megatron urged Optimus' chest plates farther open, all their tangled thoughts covetous for the incredible ache of spark joining spark, and Optimus thought he would be mad to resist.
(To be continued.)
*****
Rating: M/NC-17, Slash
Universe: Transformers: Animated
Pairing: Megatron/Optimus Prime
Author's Note: Spoilers for A Bridge Too Close, follows an alternate ending into a new continuity. A number of small changes from the original version posted on
tfic_contest.Thank you to
lady_oneiros, whose tireless efforts to correct my grammar have made all the difference. ♥Part III
Shockwave tried to kill him, of course.
Optimus had expected the eventuality from the moment Megatron's forces had swept onto Lockdown's ship. The bounty hunter had fled in the interim, abandoning his ship but taking most of his precious trophies and upgrades with him in the single shuttle. In a fit of displaced rage, Megatron laid waste to the rest, and Optimus had no interest at all in trying to stop him. He submitted uneasily instead to Shockwave's reluctant examination of his internal and external damage, as per Megatron's snapped command.
Regarding each other with distrust, they spoke only as much as necessary. His previous disguise fully discarded, Shockwave cast his single optic in swift, furtive glances at Optimus' face, clearly baffled at Megatron's benevolence toward him...at least until a cursory scan of his damaged spark chamber revealed the connection that Lockdown had deduced from behavior alone.
Antennae flattening, Shockwave edged back a step, his optic flickering in shock. “That is...not possible.”
Optimus stared back at him, gallows humor in the curve of his mouth. “I wish you were right.”
Sputtering for a moment, Shockwave flattened his antennae further, glancing uneasily from side to side, wary of anyone within eavesdropping distance. His optic narrowed in unapologetic, apoplectic loathing. “No. You are...” His claws flexed and clutched for just a moment at the cabling of Optimus' neck. “In no way are you worthy of such honor.” He hissed an insult that Optimus knew only from rusting records of the Wars, a word that meant utterly offensive blasphemy in any Cybertronian derivative.
Optimus lifted a hand and shoved him away. “The universe disagrees with you.”
Neither of them could deny the truth, after all, and Shockwave finally conducted far better, far less painful repairs upon Optimus despite the resentment seething poisonously through the spaces between them. The correct restoration of his chest plates gave him some sense of security—however vulnerable he still remained.
Despite his increasingly dire circumstances, Optimus found some solace in the improvement of the Decepticon warship over Lockdown's waspish craft. The Tidal Wave shared the dim lighting and raw metal of Lockdown's ship but not its strange curves or its worming corridors. Megatron, or perhaps Shockwave, preferred spare angles and vaulted ceilings: space enough to stand and fight beyond narrower hallways meant to discourage or destroy invaders. Despite the potential acoustics of its configuration, the ship carried few echoes due to sound-dampening surfaces fitted into the walls and ceilings, and Optimus relaxed despite himself under the influence of so much simple quiet. Megatron kept himself at a distance for several orns, though Optimus often felt the unmistakable double-thrum of his spark that meant the Decepticon leader was nearby.
Optimus was a prisoner in more ways than one, but the spacious rooms of his confinement, the ready supply of good-grade energon, and the steady healing of his physical injuries provided a certain hollow comfort.
Additionally, Megatron had allowed him the security of weaponry. Optimus retained the ax, and while he didn't delude himself that any attention toward his protection was thoroughly selfish on the Decepticon's part, he still appreciated the opportunity to defend himself. Shockwave seemed utterly, almost unbelievably loyal, but as demonstrated by experience, not all Decepticons were so enamored with Megatron's continued function.
The weight of the weapon felt good in his hands, pulling against the cabling of his shoulders as he swung it through the advanced drills of the Elite Guard. Movement provided focus and lent purpose to his thoughts. He'd had plenty of time for thinking in the last few orns, but meaning and understanding still eluded him no matter how he concentrated on his own impressions of Megatron's mind. Quite plainly, Megatron was very old, even by the standards of their kind. He was old enough that to him, the war seemed young yet. He had learned something about patience during his dismantled imprisonment in Sumdac's lab, and he had more plots and plans and potentials than Optimus could easily interpret.
He was worth fearing. The Autobot Council had done Cybertron terrible harm by encouraging widespread belief in his deactivation.
And yet...
Optimus pivoted in place, frustration stiffening the strikes of the ax, his dental plates pressing tight together and making incidental friction burns against the delicate wiring in his mouth. He should have killed them both when he had the chance, and he hadn't been capable. Not then, not now.
His spark gave a low flutter behind his chest plates. In retrospect, his reaction felt more like descriptions of organic instinct than the processes of his own base programming, because he moved to intercept before consciously deciding on the need for defense. The blade of the ax met both of Megatron's descending swords with a shattering clang.
He'd had no idea that Megatron had commissioned new weapons; he had no idea when Megatron had entered the room.
“Malfunctioning again?” he managed in the raw moments before Megatron surged forward in another attack. Metal clashed with a ringing shriek. Optimus hissed and raised his battlemask, struggling to keep his footing.
“I have yet to decide what I should do with you.” The calm of Megatron's voice distracted from the ferocity of his frame, his double swords flashing quicksilver. Optimus trembled with effort, blocking blow after blow with first the grip and then the blade of his borrowed ax. “So long as you live,” Megatron continued, “I am threatened by the possibility of your death.”
Optimus ducked beneath a swipe that could have decapitated him and scored a glancing strike along the backs of Megatron's legs. “I think the—threat's the same for—both of us,” he retorted, frame heaving, forced to retreat before a set of blows that struck sparks from the ax blade.
Unexpectedly, Megatron paused in his assault, regarding Optimus with narrowed optics. Optimus worked to regain his equilibrium.
“I am faced with the prospect of keeping you uncomfortably close to me. Unwilling as we both must be.”
Optimus shook his head.
Megatron raised the swords, surging forward, placing Optimus on the desperate defensive yet again in the face of such slashing grace. “Is this all the resistance you can offer me? Were you never the pride of the Autobot Academy? Can you do nothing to deserve the title they gave you?” Stung, Optimus still fell back before the assault, barely blocking again and again. “You are fairly large, for an Autobot,” Megatron said, slamming a shoulder into his and wrenching him off his feet. “I suppose they never bothered to teach you how to use your lighter frame as an advantage, in close combat with a larger mech.”
Optimus braced himself for impact, wincing as he skidded across the floor and twisted back to his feet. “Strangely enough, it never came up.”
Poised with dual blades fanned before and behind him, Megatron shook his head in level disgust. “So I must watch your back, as well as my own. What joy is mine.”
“Not all battles are won with weaponry,” Optimus said, vents panting.
Scowling, Megatron straightened. “How typically Autobot. Falling back on negotiation when your physical incompetence becomes clear.” He stretched out each arm in turn, components twirling and shifting as he reassimilated one sword blade and then the other.
Optimus kept his mask raised along with his ax. “In my defense, I'd rather negotiate first.”
“Imagine my astonishment.” Resting his hands on his hips, Megatron raised an optic ridge at Optimus' defensive stance. They watched each other in silence for a moment or two before he spoke again, his tone darkly wry. “If you have had enough recuperation, perhaps you would consider following me.” He tilted his head toward the door panel.
He had phrased the statement as a request, but his tone made no similar concessions. Badly off-balance and working hard for equilibrium, Optimus nevertheless straightened up and tucked the ax away. It didn't fit correctly—it hadn't been made for him—and he felt it jostling against his interior wiring.
Megatron gave him a singularly unpleasant smile and palmed open the secured door, leading the way into the hall beyond it.
This was Optimus' first journey out into the greater part of the ship since Shockwave had consigned him to his de facto imprisonment, and he followed with wary care through the dim corridors, keeping close to Megatron's broad back and listening for movement in the shadows. They saw no one, but Optimus heard the erratic clash of metal in the distance, and his discomfort grew. Megatron halted at last just beyond a narrow archway that opened onto a railed balcony, his impressive frame silhouetted in the light of the wider room below. Optimus hesitated on the threshold, but curiosity triumphed over trepidation, and he moved to stand at Megatron's side.
The balcony looked over a broad training hall, its size clearly meant for full-squad military drills. At the moment, it was empty but for a seeker of Starscream's basic model and a slender creature built on an even smaller scale than Prowl. A femme, in fact. Optimus recognized her build with a complicated burst of startlement and shame.
“Is she a...” He knew several less flattering terms, but he couldn't quite work them past his vocalizer. “Pleasure model?”
Megatron cast him a sideways glance, amused. “Thunderblast? Yes. Such was her original purpose. Since pledging herself to the Decepticon cause, she has turned her talents in somewhat different directions.”
The femme flipped backwards into an elegant handspring, twisting in midair to strike at the seeker with several lean vibroblades. She was no Cyberninja, but her form was excellent. Optimus wondered uneasily who might be responsible for Decepticon battle training.
“You really take all kinds,” he said, thoughts listing dangerously toward Blackarachnia again.
“Unlike your hypocritical superiors, we do not dismiss individuals based on supposed directives alone.”
Optimus bristled. “Autobots reward excellent service. With respect. With honor.”
“And I suppose the Elite Guard welcomed your friends with open arms in the aftermath of Starscream's capture,” Megatron drawled. “Without derision or disbelief. Regardless of their designations as repair drones.”
“Repair bots,” Optimus murmured, but otherwise he offered no protest. The rejection by Autobot high command still stung in wounds he'd thought healed.
Megatron studied him in silence; Optimus kept his optics on the training floor. The uncomfortable awareness between them seemed far stronger in the absence of conversation, and Optimus found himself almost grateful when Megatron spoke again. “So long as a creature is useful, I make no distinctions. I measure value in terms of competence.” Irritation prickled through the undercurrents of his voice. “No useless fool will ever advance among us due purely to build or to connections.”
With difficulty, Optimus bit back any commentary about Megatron's team on Earth.
Glancing toward him, Megatron arched an optic ridge, apparently aware of Optimus' line of thought. “I suppose you profess to prefer leadership by unworthy militants and untried diplomats,” he said. “From those who lied willingly and often in the interest of your supposed protection.” He paused. “From those who held you back and caused you grief for daring to make decisions for yourself. That is what disgusts me in your Autobot philosophy.”
“That makes a certain sense,” Optimus admitted.
A smile ghosted over Megatron's lip components, the ends of it curling like scimitar blades. “That was the argument that won Starscream,” he said. Optimus sensed something far more bitter than amusement in his tone. “Four million stellar cycles ago.”
Drawing back a step, Optimus shook his head. “I'm nothing like him.”
“Oh, but he was young, too.” Intentional cruelty widened the smile before resentment banished it entirely. “Full of ideology and unpopular ideas,” Megatron snorted. “But no. You are otherwise nothing alike.” Optimus tried to ignore a certain upwelling of relief at the admission. “Starscream's potential has always been limited by his appalling obsession with himself. The inability to see beyond one's own wingspan has a certain quelling effect on scientific observation.”
“I see.” Optimus couldn't quite repress a reluctant smile of his own.
“By contrast, you have a ludicrous surplus of compassion,” Megatron continued, one finger tapping lightly against the metal rail. “Your incapability of placing yourself above other creatures renders your leadership ridiculous and your battle strategy self-destructive.”
So much unexpected venom after a little backhanded praise left Optimus oddly bereft. He answered lightly, but sharpened his words to a barb. “Well. None of them have tried stabbing me between the back plates, yet.”
Megatron turned on him so swiftly that he expected violence; he actually stiffened with preparation for it and raised his chin in defiance. To his surprise, Megatron merely loomed over him for a moment or two, and then the Decepticon gave him a smile that spoke of chilly calculation and a long memory for insults real or imagined. “You would have been wasted on the Elite Guard,” Megatron said, astonishing Optimus so thoroughly that he barely heard the additional command. “Come.”
He followed only to avoid being abandoned in a hostile environment. Megatron strode ahead of him through the numerous intersections of corridors, and occasional Decepticons swept or scurried out of their Lord's path, speaking in sibilant whispers once Optimus had passed them as well. They were constructed mostly of hard-edged angles and bristling weaponry—nothing like the Autobots that Optimus knew. They regarded Megatron with all the respect afforded by fear, and they stared after Optimus with loathing tinged by curiosity.
By the time they reached the end of a corridor that culminated in vaulted, double-panel doors, Optimus felt raw with the wheedling pressure of so many optics upon him, all of them an unfamiliar and alien red. The doors opened to Megatron without so much as a vocal command, and Optimus followed him inside with trepidation that couldn't quite smother his relief.
The room stretched vast and dark around them after the doors slipped shut again. Here, someone had neglected or removed the soundproofing, and Optimus' steps echoed when he shifted from foot to foot.
Attuned to movement, low-energy lighting flickered on around the edges of the room, revealing width and breadth in dim blue. The corners dissolved into deep shadow. The lighting traced the walls but didn't reach the ceiling, lending the chamber a sense of cavernous space belied only by the automatic ping of Optimus' echolocation. Brighter lighting centered around the far wall, where on a raised dais stood something tall and angular that Optimus could only describe as a throne. Megatron stalked across the room, his footfalls ringing heavily against the smooth, seamless paneling of the floor before he ascended the dais and settled himself into the ostentatious seat with the obvious pleasure of a creature returning home. He braced an elbow joint against one arm of the throne, rested his chin on the back of his hand, and stared at Optimus as if expecting entertainment.
Optimus experienced a strange juxtaposition, as if he were viewing something at once unspeakably private and thoroughly public. No doubt the emotion was orchestrated, this venue chosen to impart a layered message: this was Megatron's space, and he filled it with absolute authority. Despite the show, however, Megatron kept silent. Optimus suspected that neither of them had any idea what to do with the other.
“This wasn't the ship you chose,” Optimus said at last, if only to break the silence. “When you went looking for the Allspark.” He took a few steps, exploring what he could see of the room, watching out of the corner of one optic as Megatron watched him.
Megatron made a show of consideration before answering. “The Nemesis was lighter, swifter. My purposes required speed and a far smaller force than that wasted on such a ship as this.”
“How many Decepticons are on this ship?”
Arching an optic ridge, Megatron smiled with patronization in every faceplate shift. “Hardly your concern,” he said, straightening just enough to reach for something on a raised surface beside the throne. Two objects, in fact—one of them a goblet fired of dark metal, and the other a container that Megatron opened and tipped, emptying its contents into the cup. Megatron took a sip, and Optimus drifted closer until he could identify the scent.
The substance wasn't highgrade, but oil, and Optimus wondered how much Earth had affected the Lord of all Decepticons, after all.
Megatron glanced at him sideways, optics glittering with banked but beautiful fire, and Optimus did battle with a welling ache of undeniable attraction. He meant to step back and put distance between them, but Megatron frowned, and something subtle in the expression drew Optimus forward instead, despite his better judgment.
Gaze flicking to the oil, then to Optimus again, Megatron frowned a little more deeply, and finally he held out the goblet.
Not quite moved by the gesture, but somewhere uncomfortably close, Optimus ventured near enough to ascend the dais and take the cup from Megatron's outstretched hand. They didn't touch. Wary, Optimus took a careful sip, remembering Lockdown's revolting blend, but this had none of the same slippery bitterness. Not bad. He swallowed, and even dared a second sip before offering the goblet back to Megatron, who took it with a curve of his lip components.
“I could drug you perfectly senseless for the rest of your long existence.”
Fuel tanks churning at the thought, Optimus held his bondmate's narrowed gaze. “Let's assume that's not going to be necessary.”
“Is that so. I cannot imagine that my arguments have won you so easily.” Megatron took another sip, optics focused on Optimus' face, and Optimus shifted faintly with the answering lurch of his spark.
“No. But I don't think I need to stay in a locked room, either.”
Megatron widened his optics, then narrowed them to gleaming slits. “You have an unusual position, true enough,” he admitted, his expression turning his features into sharp angles under the wash of blue light. “But do not make the mistake of assuming me a fool where you are concerned. Or imagining that our shared...vulnerability will grant you any privileges.”
Optimus had no particular plans, manipulative or otherwise, but he couldn't doubt that Megatron, too, felt the pull of their sparks when they stood so close as this. For an instant, Optimus shuttered his optics, feeling an interior and exterior thrum like violent melody. “No,” he murmured, answering belatedly as he took another step forward, optics activating again. “You're not a fool. But neither am I.” Megatron would argue, but Optimus had suffered through enough recent battles to know when a head-on fight wasn't worth the cost. Even so, he thought Megatron more vulnerable now than ever before.
Feeling more awkward than he wanted to admit, Optimus placed his hands on either arm of the throne. He lifted his weight and then settled over the heavy plating of Megatron's slightly spread legs, his own legs falling open, slight curves along the outsides of the Decepticon's thighs.
Optics narrowing, Megatron pulled the goblet reflexively back against his chest, frame going otherwise still. “And what exactly are we doing?”
“You tell me.” Optimus kept still as well, a nervous tremble localized beneath the many layers of his chest, both originating from and contained within his spark.
Such physical presence—not just the powerful steel of smooth plating against his own, but the strangely visceral burn of heat through that plating, the vibration of fuel circulation and the whine of shifting servos. Utterly real, entirely present, Megatron was the uncomfortable culmination of all Optimus' fascination with the Great Wars. Who could know more about the wars than the one who began them so many millions of stellar cycles ago? The fluttering leap of excitement in Optimus' spark left him more uneasy than the weight of Megatron's hand as it lifted, hesitated, and settled against his hip.
Optimus asked, “Tell me something.”
Megatron was rigid beneath him, all tension of more than one type. “What.”
Considering all the many things that he might ask, Optimus hesitated before choosing his question. “Did you kill Prime Nova?”
For a moment, Megatron's hand curled hard against his hip, and Optimus' sensor relays protested. Then Megatron chuckled. “No,” he said at length. “But I orchestrated his assassination.” His fingers uncurled and splayed, drifting gradually upward along Optimus' side. “Does that comfort you? To know that his death is not literally on my servos?”
“Not particularly.” Intention wasn't identical to action, but in this case, it was close enough. Optimus arched his back a bit, stretching the plating just enough that Megatron took the opportunity to slide his fingertips into the gaps. Optimus shifted and hissed through his intakes, his engine turning over with an audible shudder.
Megatron smiled, but the expression was stretched thin over something deeper. “You haven't the experience to defeat me in this.”
Optimus shook his head, the silence filled by the growl of his engine and the whine of metal on metal.
The sudden interruption of footsteps echoing across the floor gave them both a shock. Optimus gasped, mortification rising more quickly than his internal temperature, and even Megatron jolted beneath him. The Decepticon extracted his fingers, but kept Optimus still with a hand pressed hard against his hip. He glared at someone over Optimus' shoulder.
“What is it, Shockwave?” he snapped.
Who else. Optimus gritted his dental plates together and gave up on at least one sort of dignity.
“Forgive me, Lord,” Shockwave said after a long stretch of apparently mortified silence. “I had no indication that...forgive me.” To his credit, the communication expert recovered quickly. “We are approaching the coordinates you had discussed.”
Beneath Optimus' thighs, Megatron appeared to relax, but Optimus felt a savage thread of readiness in those hydraulics despite appearances. “Then carry out my orders without plaguing me with trivialities.”
Twisting just enough to peer over one shoulder, Optimus saw Shockwave stiffen and bow low, all formality and careful apology. The double agent's every movement seemed like a demonstration of Megatron's authority, and Optimus thought uneasily of Megatron's earlier criticism. He tried to imagine Bumblebee or Prowl so loyally subservient, and discovered that he did lack that sort of imagination after all. Even Ratchet resisted him now and then, and the medic believed in the necessity of military obedience.
Tightening all the complicated components of his jaw, he gathered his courage. He guessed that his only advantage—under his current circumstances—was the ability to do what no one expected.
Shockwave hadn't moved, and Optimus sensed the stirrings of real impatience in his connection to Megatron's spark. “My liege,” Shockwave said after a few nanokliks of visible discomfort. “If you intend to so...blatantly exert your ownership...perhaps a different location—”
“Get out, Shockwave,” Optimus said.
Facial expressions never registered on Shockwave's unusual construction, but he did flinch backward, both antennae flattening. He turned his single optic on Megatron. “My Lord—”
Optimus steadied himself and turned back to meet Megatron's optics, which had widened momentarily. “You've interrupted us. Please never do so again.”
Unbalanced, Shockwave took a step forward, tone beseeching. “Excellency...” Megatron made no answer, vocally or otherwise; he looked amused, tapping one powerful finger against the arm of the throne. “Of course,” Shockwave murmured at length, and Optimus heard the edge of seething frustration that disrupted the mildness of his voice. “Call me when you have...need of me.”
Megatron said nothing, but he did incline his head with mocking good grace. After a moment more, Shockwave's footsteps retreated. The door opened, slid shut, left them in silence.
“How was that?” Optimus raised both optic ridges.
“Unconvincing,” Megatron judged with a snort. “Pure request. Please, indeed. Shockwave is easily moved by civility, but the others would tear you in two.” After a moment, he glanced sideways at Optimus again, a low glow in the depths of his optics. Optimus cursed himself for responding to that understated heat. “How did it feel?”
Tension moved in unpleasant coils through Optimus' frame; he knew what Megatron meant. “No different. Than usual.” Those in command expected quick obedience, though he had become more accustomed to immediate protest or unformed justifications as of late. His bots were not supposed to be soldiers—perhaps with the exception of Prowl and, once upon a vorn, Ratchet—and a certain measure of chafing under tighter restrictions and raised expectations should be expected.
Megatron chuckled with a razor edge. “Tell me...do those mechs under your supposed command ever listen to a word you say?”
Bristling, Optimus leaned back, hands clenching against his own upper thighs. “Not that it's any of your business—”
“Not that I have not noticed for myself.” Megatron was at ease, his frame loose but ridged with readiness under Optimus' weight—a predator at rest.
“They listen for different reasons,” Optimus said at length.
Megatron snorted.
His momentum lost by Shockwave's interruption, Optimus studied Megatron in silence for a cycle or more, watching as the Decepticon lifted the goblet to his mouth, swallowed, and prepared to do the same again. Reaching up, Optimus caught hold of his wrist, halting the movement. Megatron arched a questioning optic ridge. Optimus trembled in all of his base connections, but this was something he'd wanted to try since his thousand viewings of it throughout human culture and media. Kissing was not a Cybertronian custom, but Optimus didn't need to worry about Megatron's good opinion of him. In a very real sense, within a certain set of dimensions...Optimus could do as he liked.
He pulled the goblet aside and touched his mouth to Megatron's. Their lip components scraped together, clinging with delicate friction, and he felt Megatron stiffen until shuddering with so thoroughly new a sensation.
“Please,” Optimus drew back enough to whisper.
Megatron gave him a neutral grunt and pulled him close again with a hand hooking through the cabling at the back of his neck. Their lip components rasped again, and again, until Optimus cycled a groan through his vents and opened his mouth, sliding his glossa along the barrier of Megatron's lip components until the Decepticon growled and relented. Megatron let him in, biting him briefly in the grip of something primal and base. Optimus shivered and made no protest.
Megatron tasted powerfully of oil and faintly of grease, the lubricants that kept their delicate components from rubbing raw against each other.
Licking against wiring and circuitry, Optimus cried out aloud when Megatron bit him again in punishment as plainly as in permission. They had pressed so tightly together, chest to chest, that Optimus felt the plaintive throb of Megatron's spark reaching for his own, and continued separation was irresistibly torturous. He grasped at the Decepticon's shoulders and squirmed just enough to scrape metal against glass, his repaired windshields creaking under the strain. Megatron dropped the goblet with a careless splatter of oil across the floor.
Both massive hands wrenched into Optimus' chest plating, ready to tear him open, but Optimus arched his back and spread his plating wide at the first touch, spilling blue light across Megatron's lap and saturating them both with the energy of an eager spark.
Megatron struggled with surrendering. The gears behind his chest plates groaned, pulling open a narrow gap that seethed with white-hot blue. Vents panting, Optimus pushed tight against him, pressing him back against the throne with a shift of weight and kissing him again. Glossa slicked over glossa, nicking against dental projections. Megatron snarled into Optimus' mouth as his chest plates opened wide.
Spark touched spark with searing heat.
Not love, not even lust burned between them, but Optimus felt his spark and Megatron's react to something sharper: a profound and shared understanding. That was singular. No one had ever been in him so uncompromisingly deep, and he knew with bonded certainty that Megatron felt the same. Willing or not, comfortable or not, they understood each other. Something in that was like pleasure...or at least more like pleasure than pain.
Panting through his intakes, Optimus pushed past sensation and back into himself, hooking his elbow joints over Megatron's shoulders and gripping at the back of the throne with both hands. The mechanical musculature of his thighs clenched, his body rising and falling again with a brief push of chest against chest, spark against spark, utterly bare and already raw with just that single overture. Real pleasure began in his sensory relays—a heavy pressure that caressed the delicate connections of his spark. Shaken, Optimus let his head tip back, his optics offline as he moved again, a slow and frictionless rub that nevertheless created sparks between the two of them. The sensation doubled, caught reverberating in the tangle of energies that united them. He heard Megatron grinding his dental plates together with abrupt and passionate tension in the moment before hands gripped at his back and crushed him closer.
“Ah,” Optimus groaned, all the articulations of his neural armor creaking under the pressure of a grip hard enough to hurt but not enough for damage. Optimus shuddered with helpless wonder, impressed by Megatron's peculiar sort of selective self-control.
He harnessed the emotion and let it flood the link between them. He earned a startled, wary skip from Megatron's spark in response.
Fingers scraped along the plating of Optimus' back, making his hands clench harder into the jagged edging of the throne. In the spaces between them, Megatron's thoughts pushed against his own, a strange mantra of entrenched disdain and beginning interest, an awareness of all the pieces of him. Something thrust into him, exploring roughly with extended claws, and Optimus countered with all the needle-points of his interior objections. They both retreated, stung. Arching with a ragged gasp, Optimus felt the gaps in their connection filled and then cauterized by the unexpected heat of Megatron's awakening lust.
“Fight me if you wish,” Megatron murmured against the curve of Optimus' audio receptor as one hand dragged upward to clench against the back of his neck. “I suspect you cannot resist.”
“I don't want to.” He could gaze effortlessly into even the shadowed places in Megatron's mind, and he understood with uncomfortable clarity what the greatest of Decepticons burned for over all else. Trembling, fighting despite himself, he strained first against Megatron's hold and then deeper into it. “If you want it...take it.”
He felt the reverberation of true desire as it impacted all their shared surfaces. Megatron had interfaced with any number of willing parties, allies and servants and soldiers, but he had never been offered the willing spark of an enemy.
One or two he had taken unwillingly, and Optimus pulled away from that asp's nest of memory.
Megatron pursued him, but with a different intent. Thoughts netted around his, and Megatron caught him in a sharp-edged snare, all the pointed barbs touching him with flickering sensation and unsettled emotion. Optimus fought back until he could surrender, accepting all those angles with gradually easing discomfort. Painful, powerful consciousness unfolded beneath the thin shielding of his plating, still so much to contain in so little. Built powerfully for his kind, he still struggled beneath it, crying out softly in increasing strain, gasping through his vents as the interior contours of his psyche adapted and rearranged. This burden was something he could carry, after all, and that discovery came with a shivering, liquid rush of triumph between them.
Shaken in return by shared effort, Megatron hissed and scratched his fingers down and then up Optimus' back, vents working hard for a moment or two.
You cannot possibly hold all of me, Autobot.
Optimus sighed, winced, and curled one arm tightly around the back of Megatron's neck. I already am.
Megatron growled for him, and Optimus' engine roared in response. The vibration made him desperate for friction; a million threads of heat and light buried in their merged sparks screamed to be stroked. Megatron hooked an arm beneath him and lifted him, carrying all the weight, rocking them together so hard that Optimus threw back his head with a static shout of affirmation. Megatron's passion was coarse, proprietary, and it burned at the blurred edge between agony and ecstasy.
Don't stop, Optimus thought fiercely, optics flickering with every grinding thrust of spark against spark, don't...stop!
He heard the guttural groan of Megatron's laughter, and his body jerked helplessly as the sound moved through him in a physical vibration. Emotions caught and clung, lacing pleasure with bitterness and beauty and striking him with the difficult realization that something needed to give before receiving—before achieving more than physical climax.
Optimus felt the ache; he approached an edge as hunger burned through to shivering heat. He unshuttered his optics and convulsed within and without as Megatron's features twisted with raw and ruthless bliss. They were together, so tight that Optimus felt a moment of precious calm at the apex and a precarious union in every point of contact. Sharing the emotion, he felt the transferred terror in the airless moment before Megatron's surrender. They teetered, balanced, found an emotional plateau somewhere in between, and fell so hard that Optimus heard something break. Something sheared free to leave him and join them yet again. Shuddering in spectacular overload, he didn't have, or want, the strength to care how much of himself was left over.
Megatron was silent in overload. Beneath the hands Optimus slid down to the Decepticon's chest, he felt the deep, stuttering thrum of overworked machinery nevertheless. Satisfaction settled between them, better than the liquid flame pooling in Optimus' spark and running rivulets through his limbs.
Astonishing—and disturbing—how the most terrible thing he had ever done could feel so appallingly right in the aftermath.
“How flattering,” Megatron growled, verbally responding to the shared thought. Satiation rubbed along the syllables, rendering their sharper tones into little more than a rough-edged purr. Optimus quivered in response.
His systems began to cool; clean sanity gradually returned. In the quicksilver strands of their bond, he felt Megatron shuffling through the available images of his memory, exploring with casual, irresistible calm.
“Never the pride of the Academy, after all,” Megatron said at length. Optimus exerted all his will to keep tension from creeping back into his frame. He had looked into Megatron, and Megatron had looked into him. All the walls between them had gone transparent. “What minor catastrophes you've caused. And your Elita...one of mine. How unexpected.”
Fisting a hand against Megatron's neck, Optimus compressed the cabling just enough that he, too, felt the sting. “She's not yours.”
Megatron made a low, light sound that was not quite amusement. “Unquestionably, she would agree with you.” His fingers made one long, rippling stroke down Optimus' back and then upward again before a heavy hand splayed against the fragile constructions of the siren array between Optimus' shoulders. Possession burned in the touch, and awakened curiosity flickered in the continuous flow of their shared thoughts. The imperfections beneath Optimus' smoother surface caught Megatron's interest and snagged like burrs in chainlink mesh.
Not so perfect as you would like to pretend, Prime.
Tilting his head, he snared Optimus with another voracious, knife-sharp kiss. It was all rasping angles and heated metal. Optimus tasted oil and the slick afterburn of ecstasy. “Perhaps I will keep you,” Megatron mused, before he drew back again, barely brushing Optimus' faceplates with his mouth. “After all.”
“Don't,” Optimus whispered, but summoning the necessary willpower proved difficult, too difficult, with Megatron's dental plates skimming naked circuitry at the junction of shoulder and neck. They were falling too deeply into each other, seeking stability in all the ways they'd already found and all the ways they still had yet to find. Perhaps spark bonding was less about mystical union and more about a desperate search for balance between unbalanced individuals. Surely the will of Primus and all the universe had nothing to do with this sort of madness...but Megatron urged Optimus' chest plates farther open, all their tangled thoughts covetous for the incredible ache of spark joining spark, and Optimus thought he would be mad to resist.
(To be continued.)
*****