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The war ends, as human poets would suggest, with a whimper and not a bang. The battles shift from planned attacks to energon raids; the schemes for domination become schemes for increased energon production; blaster fuel becomes fuel for functioning. The war fades into a struggle for energy with the humans caught in the middle. And then the humans deploy a new strategy.
“We are implementing a new initiative in conjunction with the Decepticon people,” announces a media representative for a major American energy company. “We are opening energy markets to Decepticon consumers. We have been in talks with the United States government over the appropriate measures with which to do so. On the agreement of Decepticon leadership to avoid all attacks on American and Energtech infrastructure, energy will be sold to the Decepticons at subsidized rates.”
“You hav’ta be kidding me,” says Ironhide. “Pulling our legs, that’s what this is.”
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“More like kicking our legs out from under us,” Prowl replies. “This is counterproductive. The Decepticons will use this to garner more power and solidify their position in the quadrant.” There is a clamor of agreement from the rest of Autobot High Command.
Optimus raises a hand to quell the chatter. “It does seem odd that the humans would begin providing aid to the Decepticons,” he agrees. “We should investigate.” Prowl nods vigorously, prompting Optimus to add “We should investigate carefully, and without ‘stepping on anyone’s toes’, as Carly would say.”
Ratchet shakes his helm. “Stepping on toes? I think the humans may have greatly overstepped. It might be in their best interest to stomp a little.”
“I agree,” says Ironhide.
“No, I think Optimus is right.” Mirage flicks casually through the latest intelligence report. “I will investigate any possible…corruption. We may, however, find all the answers we need from a simple phone call.”
Optimus nods. “I’ll call the President,” he states. “She was instrumental in this, if the newscaster is to be believed.”
The call with the President of the United States goes about as well as any of his previous phone calls with human leaders - that is, to say, tense and requiring much patience. It is not, thankfully, uninformative. Optimus comes away with the sense that no Decepticon scheme has altered the intent or consent of the American government. In fact, it becomes quite clear that other countries are in similar negotiations with the Decepticons, negotiations headed by Starscream. Effective and, incredibly, peaceful negotiations.
He relays this information to Autobot High Command and then, later, to the rest of the Autobots. “It appears that this is a legitimate deal, one which both the humans and the Decepticons will benefit from.”
“Hogwash,” mutters Hound.
“Well, where are they getting the money from?” asks Cliffjumper. “They said discounted rates, right? They aren’t just giving the energy to the ‘Cons like they are to us.” And, worries Optimus, what impact will the lessening of the Decepticon threat have on the humans’ willingness to provide them with energon?
Optimus looks to Jazz, who shrugs. Thus begins the second part of their investigation, potential Decepticon money laundering. Mirage and Jazz handle the majority of the information gathering, though the younger Autobots seem to find the whole thing rather exciting; they chime in with their theories throughout the next week. Mirage dutifully includes them in the report.
“Soundwave has a Soundcloud,” Sideswipe suggests. “He’s pretty popular.”
“Yeah, his beats are sick but the Decepticons’ energy costs are in the millions,” replies Jazz. “It ain’t coming from Soundcloud.”
“Maybe Shockwave is selling patents?” Bumblebee proposes.
“Not that we can find,” says Mirage. “Not under any known pseudonyms.”
“Maybe they are selling secrets,” Sunstreaker guesses. “Information they’ve gathered about different countries, selling it to those countries’ rivals. Like a spy movie.”
“We have no evidence to suggest that the Decepticons have cared enough about any human government to collect more than cursory information about them,” replies Optimus. Then, after a second thought: “But we will keep the suggestion in mind.”
The end report comes in the form of a several hours long intelligence briefing in which Mirage, Jazz and Prowl painstakingly walk through every money-making scheme previously or currently employed by any Decepticon. These include, but are not limited to, construction, art, scavenged alien technology, and the occasional private flight booking.
“How did they convince the Prime Minister of Morocco to charter a flight inside a Decepticon?” asks Ratchet. “ Why did they convince the Prime Minister of Morocco to fly via Decepticon-air?”
“The Coneheads were overcharged in Rabat,” Jazz answers. “It became a national incident. Starscream had to step in and a precedent was born.”
“Well,” says Optimus. “It appears that the money adds up, if in a rather round-about way.” He slaps his knees and rises to his feet. “I suggest we discuss tactics for dealing with a fully-charged Decepticon army after a short break.”
”I can’t believe Starscream is raking in 200 grand a month in installments for a space telescope,” mutters Ratchet on the way out. “What did he even do, place the damn thing?”
They return shortly and begin the long process of reviewing response times and infiltration plans. They get, after it all, absolutely nowhere. And in the end, it doesn’t really matter. Because the Decepticons stop raiding.
“We should have expected this,” says Prowl. “With easy and apparently affordable energy access agreements with 12 countries, they simply do not need to waste mechpower on energy raids. This is what the American government had originally sought from the deal.”
“Yeah, but they haven’t raided us either,” complains Ironhide. “Not even a little sneak an’ peek. Nothing from ‘em. It’s freaky.”
“I think we shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Jazz says. Then, after explaining what a horse’s mouth has to do with anything, he adds: “This gives us time to regroup, plan forward.”
It becomes abundantly clear quite quickly that the Autobots don’t know how to plan forward, at least not while the Decepticons still roam free. They remain a threat, and no-one can lose the niggling feeling that they are up to something. It’s the Decepticons, after all. They are always up to something. But life goes peacefully on for a few months; the Autobots begin getting restless. And then, in November -
Prowl politely knocks on the door to Optimus’s office, then aggressively shoves it open. “It’s a slagging trick!” he shouts.
Jazz pushes Prowl to the side in order to enter. “There is a discrepancy between the energy purchased by the Decepticons and the amount they should be consuming,” reports Jazz. “They are stockpiling energy.”
Optimus, who had previously been reading his own energon reports, lowers the datapad to his desk. “Explain,” he orders.
“We have an estimated consumption rate for the Victory and its inhabitants,” Prowl says. “They are purchasing nearly double what they need.”
“We aren’t sure what they are doing with it, though,” adds Jazz. “They could be saving up for a rainy day.”
Prowl’s servos turn to fists. “It is for a weapon, in all likelihood.”
Optimus’s team are wonderful spies, information gatherers, and strategists. That being said, he has found great benefit in answering questions in a straightforward, tried and true way. He calls Megatron.
“Prime!” greets Megatron. “It has been a while. It’s nice to see your face.” He pauses. “Literally, this time. No battlemask? I suppose this isn’t a confrontational video-call?”
“It is mildly confrontational,” replies Optimus. He had forgotten his battlemask in his berthroom, a bad habit he’d fallen into after months of no battles. “It concerns your energy intake.”
“Getting right to the point, I see.” Megatron sighs. “No niceties for me.”
“What are you doing with the energon you are stockpiling?” Optimus asks. He expects some bluffing, perhaps mild jesting, something to hint at nefarious intent. Instead, Megatron laughs.
“We’re sending it back to Cybertron, Prime,” he croons. “Haven’t you noticed our spacebridge?”
They had not, in fact, noticed the spacebridge’s usage. Optimus side-eyes one half of his intelligence team. “Why are you sending energon to Cybertron?” he asks.
“To rebuild the planet, obviously,” sneers Starscream, somewhere in the background. Megatron glares over the screen, then repeats:
“We are rebuilding Cybertron. Want in?” It could never be a genuine offer, of course. But it's enough to bring Optimus pause. Prowl shakes his helm.
“What would that entail?” Optimus asks,
“Don’t,” says Prowl.
“I would say total Decepticon supremacy,” replies Megatron, “but I’d settle for a half-assed Decepticon supremacy.” His optics roam up and down Optimus’s frame. He does not elaborate as to what ‘half-assed Decepticon supremacy’ might look like. He ends the call with a few more quips and without divulging any more information, leaving Optimus rather conflicted.
“We should follow up with the Deceptions as to what the future of Cybertron could look like,” suggests Optimus, after relaying the conversation to the rest of high command.
“We should destroy the spacebridge,” argues Ironhide. “Or steal it, kill their soldiers on Cybertron, and restore the planet ourselves.”
“I agree,” says Prowl. “This is war. There is no communal restoration of Cybertron. A ‘half-assed Decepticon supremacy’ is an Autobot loss.”
“That is the issue, Prowl,” Optimus replies. “I’m not entirely sure we are at war anymore.”
And so the war whimpers to an end. Optimus calls Megatron the next day and they agree to slowly integrate Autobot energon into the pool of resource shipments in exchange for a cease-fire agreement. The day after, Optimus wakes and stares at the ceiling for a solid hour, frozen by the epiphany that he has no idea what is going to happen next.
And then, suddenly, life goes on. And on, and on, and on.
The factions’ combined resources enable increased shipments. The spacebridge roars to life once a week, and slowly Autobots begin drifting back and forth between planets, arm in arm with (or rather, at a respectable distance from) Decepticons. A settlement opens on Cybertron. Negotiations continue over laws, policies, and reconstruction plans.
Most of his Autobots, especially the older ones, remain suspicious of Decepticon schemes. But a decade passes as quick as the snap of Optimus’s fingers and no trap encloses itself around them. Not that Megatron has ever shied away from the long game. And he is playing a game, whatever it may be.
Optimus considers himself a bit of a Megatron expert, after all these years. And, as a Megatron expert, he knows when the mech has something up his subspace. It’s there, in the stares and the prodding and the smirks. His Autobots are right: Megatron is scheming, he’s just fairly certain it isn’t a dangerous sort of scheming. Not dangerous, at least, to his Autobots. To Optimus himself? That has yet to be determined.
“We should speak about Cybertron’s leadership,” Megatron tells him, having caught Optimus alone after a meeting. He leans his hip against the table by Optimus’s hand.
Optimus nods. “I agree. We cannot lead forever. We can add that to the agenda for the upcoming weekly session.”
Megatron leans even further into the table and bends slightly towards Optimus. “I meant,” he says, “that we should speak alone. Let me accompany you back to your office? And refrain from adding it to the schedule just yet, it may take us a while to agree on a proposal.”
And just like that, they have daily meetings in Optimus's office. After the third week, Megatron begins bringing his lunch. After the fifth week, Megatron begins bringing Optimus lunch too.
“What does a peacetime life mean to you?” Megatron asks him once, several months into this new routine. They have yet to come up with a proposal, primarily because their lunches tend to become philosophical rather fast. Optimus supposes there is no rush; primary negotiations have been largely focused on the present reconstruction and regulations for inter-factional relations.
Optimus hums and thinks the question over. It’s not something he’d spent a lot of time worrying about, not since that first night. “I think I’d like to settle down,” Optimus says, finally. “Though I’m not entirely sure what that means. Retirement, maybe.” he waves a servo around. “I want to stop, for a moment,” he clarifies. “Do nothing, be nothing.”
Megatorn nods, as if the words from Optimus’s mouth had been something other than nonsense. “We can make that happen,” he threatens. Or rather, promises. It’s difficult to tell. Optimus lets it pass over him, then changes the subject back to their invariable debate over democracy.
Optimus spends the next year or so considering Megatron’s words. They linger in the back of his processor and pop up when the sun sets and after particularly grueling conversations with suspicious Autobots and every time Megatron’s field brushes his. He realizes some time in that he’d always expected to die before he freed himself of leadership. The ever-lasting deference of his Autobots and continued lack of a leadership proposal indicate that that may still be true. The war is over, but retirement feels another war away.
Megatron seems to sense Optimus’s thoughts. Perhaps he sees Optimus’s desires as a vulnerability; it would explain why he brings the subject up so often. Little taunts, that’s what they are. Innocent-sounding questions that keep Optimus distracted.
“Have you ever considered getting conjuxed?” he asks Optimus, one night. Their lunches morphed into dinners, somewhere along the way. They’ve moved, too, several times. Office to mess hall to the new cafe to Optimus’s quarters. “As part of your future plan?”
Optimus shrugs. “Everyone used to think Elita and I would be something,” he says. “But she’s off patrolling the Quintessan front and we haven’t exactly talked much during the last millennia.” Megatron slides his hand across Optimus’s table, shifting his body and twisting to cross one leg over the other. Optimus watches his ventral plates flare and flatten.
“You could still make it work,” Megatron remarks, drawing Optimus’s attention back to his face.
Optimus takes a moment and considers the prospect. The conjuxed life, leading the Autobots through continual negotiations, Elita off in deep space pursuing her own career goals. It sounds… almost like life now, only with the added loneliness of a stretched sparkbond. He can’t leave Cybertron, not now. And truthfully, he doesn’t ever want to again. Elita, on the other hand, has spent millennia in Cybertron’s gutters. She left as soon as she could. Maybe they could compromise on a moon?
Optimus shakes his helm, clearing the fantasy. “I think our ships ‘passed in the night’, as the humans would say. The war has taken its toll. We aren’t the same people we were.”
“No,” Megatron agrees. “I suppose none of us are.”
That sits with Optimus too. He isn’t the same as he was. He’s older, so much older. He’s tired. And now that Megatron has asked, he realizes he’s rather lonely. His main interactions are with Megatron at dinner and Ratchet during check-ups and, of course, the negotiations.
“We should begin discussions about education,” Prowl proposes at the end of a council meeting. “Some may find Autobot teachers instructing Decepticon sparklings objectionable.”
“Why would you assume every teacher to be an Autobot?” asks Megatron, finding the concept objectionable.
Prowl does his best impression of an eye-roll without the actual rolling. “Of those returning to Cybertron with experience in education, both are Autobots.”
Starscream, unhindered by Prowl’s sense of decorum, performs an actual eye-roll. “That’s because warframes weren’t allowed to become educators,” he stresses. “We have interested candidates.”
Optimus, having tried and failed to piece together Prowl’s change in subject, raises a hand to quash the forming argument and asks “None of the returning mecha have been sparklings, rare as they are, and we are only just coming out of a war. Is there a reason this topic has jumped upwards in importance, Prowl?” Sparklings are an oddity, and they really are only just coming out of a war.
Ratchet coughs, drawing the table’s attention. “The lack of fighting has cleared the table for strengthened relationships,” he says. “We have plenty of energon and too few mechs. I expect we will see a sparkling boom rather soon.”
“I agree,” says Shockwave. “It is logical that more breeding should occur now that Cybertron’s population is well below carrying capacity. Given proper data, we can predict a potential growth rate.”
The room is silent for a moment, which allows Optimus the time he needs to process this information. Or rather, to think ‘Primus, Cybertron is about to look incredibly different’ and then ‘people are going to ask me to watch their sparklings’, and then ‘I need to relearn how to properly hold a sparkling before I embarrass myself and/or accidentally kill a child’. He’s planning the most appropriate way to broach that last subject with Ratchet later when Megatron speaks.
“I suggest, perhaps, it may be best to discuss parental leave, daycare, and work protocols before delving into education,” he says. This gathers several nods of support.
“I will add it to the schedule,” states Prowl. The meeting adjourns.
A little less than a month later, Starscream waltzes into the conference room with a suspicious spring in his step. Optimus shoots Megatron a surprised look and receives nothing but a wink. Optimus’s suspicions are, thankfully, unfounded, because Starscream proudly declares that he’ll shortly be taking his recently negotiated paternity leave. Skyfire is carrying.
This takes Optimus by surprise for two reasons. Firstly, he had been unaware that Starscream and Skyfire had reconstituted their relationship. Secondly, Starscream - ambitious, discussion leading Starscream - is recusing himself from negotiations. The latter concern is promptly cleared up, however, when Starscream stresses that he will still be dropping in to keep the council ‘in check’.
“I can’t simply let you idiots ruin everything,” he explains. “Not when my sparkling’s future is at stake.”
And just like that, it’s as if a dam is broken. In the next decacycle, three more mechs announce that they are carrying. Ratchet stumbles into a meeting late, rather cranky, and loudly announces that he will be appropriating one of the Decepticon constructicons for medbay duty.
“Hook and I are busy as it is,” he explains. “And Knockout’s conjux is carrying, so he has plenty of motivation to learn.”
“We need the full Constructicon squad for reconstruction,” argues Prowl.
“Shove your complaints up your aft,” replies Ratchet. “And shut the hell up. I haven’t had a vacation since the invasion of Normitus 6.” As no one seems inclined to argue with Ratchet on the subject - a strategy drawn from experience on the Autobots’ part and a well honed sense of danger on the Decepticons’ - Knockout begins training as a pediatric nurse. Optimus sees him often when he drops in on the medbay to visit Ratchet.
“I’m really enjoying myself,” Knockout tells him. “It’s a lot like construction, really. Putting stuff together. And I can’t wait to start caring for real sparklings!”
Somedays it feels like the sparkling buzz is vibrating the whole planet. Their upcoming presence dominates the council meetings, dominates every other conversation he has. Optimus, for the most part, doesn’t feel much about it. He’s not particularly close to any of the mechs involved, and he doubts he’ll be asked to undertake baby-sitting duties. And anyway, the war only just ended a few decades ago; his processor finds it difficult to envision a planet teeming with sparklings, not when most of it is currently rubbish.
But the subject remains squarely at the top of everyone’s processors, and surely enough it meanders its way into his and Megatron’s personal time. It’s unsurprising, really, when Megatron swallows the last bite of his take-out plate, drops his utensil, and asks:
“Do you want sparklings?” He’s always been a direct mech when he wants to be - it’s one of the reasons their meetings have remained so pleasant and uninhibited by the suspicions that haunt negotiations.
Optimus, having long since learned not to let Megatron’s prying questions shove him down a rabbit hole of anxiety over the future, shrugs. “Maybe,” he replies. “Someday, when I don’t have such a demanding job.”
Megatron peers at him curiously, then abruptly switches topic. “Let’s discuss leadership,” he says. “I have been feeling more open to compromise, lately.”
And just like that, democracy is instituted on Cybertron for the first time. Well, the process takes another solid nine years and pulls Starscream from his paternity leave, but all in all it goes by much faster than Optimus had envisioned. He must have forgotten that when Megatron wants things done, they get done. He considers himself pleasantly reminded.
The new leadership structure of Cybertron consists of an elected governing board with one majority leader. Each territory - those currently occupied and, soon, those to be reconquered by Cybertron’s expanding population - has a smaller governing body for local matters. Thus begins a period in Optimus’s life he can only refer to as ‘the great un-campaigning.’
Autobots, it seems, remain rather enamoured with the idea of his leadership, or perhaps just with him. His name is floated around Autobot circles as a candidate for majority leader. He politely requests that Prowl remove his name from the ballot, and routinely checks the candidates page to ensure his name is gone. It rarely stays away for long.
The issue lies in the system through which candidate names are gathered for the ballot. It seemed fair for a pre-election submission period to be held, in which any mech could proffer any other mech as a candidate. Given enough submissions - a number proportional to the population but currently set at 5 - a candidate's name would appear on the ballot. And so Optimus’s name is re-added every time the system calculates an additional 5 submissions.
“I don’t know what to do,” he bemoans during another of his and Megatron’s dinners. “My name has been submitted so often. Perhaps I should listen to the will of the people.”
“The will of the people is utter slag,” says Megatron. Optimus rarely takes his advice, for obvious reasons. “Just ask Soundwave to alter the candidate-procurement system to eliminate you as a possible nominee.”
“I’m not sure altering the system during a contentious election, even for something so minor, would be a good idea.” Optimus frowns. “Wait, is that why your name has failed to show?”
Megarton shrugs in the guiltiest of manners. “If you don’t want to go about it through the system, that leaves you with the voters,” he states, matter of factly. “I can help you with that.”
Optimus blinks. “...How?” he asks, trying not to let suspicion bleed into his voice. Megatron smirks, then rises half out of his seat to reach over Optimus’s shoulder. His stomach plating twists enticingly, and suddenly his field overlaps heavily with Optimus’s. Optimus ducks his head to avoid clipping into Megatron’s shoulder and shakes the surprise from his processor.
From this angle - Megatron’s out-stretched servo obscured by his chassis - Optimus isn’t certain what he’s up to. His worries, however, are quickly over-run by the realization that Megatron does not smell like he did during the war. After millennia of close-combat antics, it’s only natural that Optimus would remember the scent of his preferred polish. This is different. This is…sweeter.
His attention is pulled back to the scene before him by Megatron’s next words. He’d been reaching for the monitor behind Optimus, apparently, and had opened an intercom to all non-personal speakers.
“A public service announcement from Decepticon command,” Megatron begins. “If Optimus Prime’s name becomes finalized in the ballot at the end of the preliminary period, I will allow my own name to be added into the competition. Cybertron’s population currently consists of 136 Autobots, 13 neutrals, and 162 Decepticons. I encourage all Autobots to do the math.” At that, Megatron removes his digit from the speaker button, closes the command, and (regrettably) retracts his body from Optimus’s general area.
“Ah,” says Optimus. “Thank you.”
Megatron smiles, and it’s almost genuine this time. “Of course.”
Optimus’s name does not return to the ballot for the rest of the preliminaries. Starcream remains the Decepticon contender for majority leader. Ratchet starts mentioning retirement. And then, suddenly, sparklings begin roaming the halls and, more importantly, their council meetings.
“Skyfire is on shift,” Starscream explains, shunting a bouncing baby into Optimus’s shaking servos. “And I really can’t allow you people to do this particular vote without me, not when I’m about to inherit responsibility for this slagging planet.”
“That’s a little overzealous,” says Jazz. “You aren’t polling that much higher than Prowl here. I think the Autobots will surprise you.”
“What am I supposed to - are you certain you want me holding your sparkling?” Optimus asks. He focuses most of his attention on preventing the sparkling from falling and the rest ensuring that his own pedes remain firmly on the ground.
Starscream shoots him an unnecessarily sarcastic look. “I thought you were a Prime. Blessing babes and all that.” His sparkling imitates its sire with a coo.
“I think you look good with a sparkling in your arms,” taunts Megatron. He’s leaning far back in his own seat, legs spread in an unprofessional sprawl. “Though you’d look better if you could hold it properly.”
“Can we get on with the vote?” suggests Prowl. He is ignored.
“And you’ve held a sparkling before?” Optimus retorts, but his bite is undercut by his own lackluster sparkling-care performance. He never had gotten around to asking Ratchet for tutoring.
Megatron rises from his chair and reaches for the sparkling, earning a squawk from Starscream. “This isn't a hot potato,” he sneers. Megatron rolls his optics, but shifts course, sliding behind Optimus.
“Support the head,” he directs. His own servo finds Optimus’s and gently moves it upwards. The sparkling, who had spent the majority of the conversation babbling nonsensically, continues doing so. “Just like that,” Megatron whispers, which is unnecessary and dangerous. Optimus cannot focus on both maintaining the sparkling’s current altitude and Megatron’s presence by his audial.
“What is the sparkling’s designation?” asks Shockwave, reminding the room that he is, indeed, present.
Starscream shrugs. “Haven’t decided yet. We’re calling her Itsy for now.”
Jazz snorts. “Itsy?”
Starscream sighs dramatically. “Thundercracker nicknamed her.”
Itsy gets her hands involved with her cooing, which Optimus thinks is fairly impressive. She sticks them up in the air and waves. Megatron waves back with his free hand, reminding Optimus of the one currently over his own. And Megatron’s chassis, which is firmly pressed up against his back.
“We should begin the vote,” Optimus states, pulling himself from Megatron's arms before his processor can get any ideas. It’s an important vote - a confirmation of the final day of the council’s leadership. He seats himself, carefully raising Itsy to his shoulder. He keeps one servo firmly under her head.
The rest of the group slowly locate and settle into their own seats. Soundwave runs the roll-call in that eerie way of his, and then Prowl reads the motion. Optimus tunes him out, far more interested in the activities of Itsy. Itsy, previously very vocal and subsequently active with hand signals, has now shoved her right servo into her mouth, effectively hindering both activities. She appears slightly confused and mildly disturbed at this consequence. She blinks her wide optics up at his, as if asking for an explanation. Being confined to the socially mandated silence of the council room, Optimus can only do his best to express his sympathies through optic alone.
“Optimus?” Asks Prowl for what must be the second time. Optimus raises his helm.
“Aye,” he responds, then returns his attention to Itsy. She gurgles around her hand. He nods sagely.
He hadn’t been lying when he’d previously expressed apathy at the concept of sparklings. Truthfully, he’d never seen one before, not up close. Before the war Cybertron’s population was too crowded, the cost of living too high, and creating sparklings was culturally frowned upon. It was the gross, antiquated way of acquiring new mecha. They couldn’t be designed for social efficiency. Optimus should have guessed those old ways would fall out of favor, especially with the Decepticons.
Holding Itsy now, he has the sudden and overwhelming epiphany that he wants a sparkling. He’s not a mech that makes decisions lightly but - as Megatron calls out the last aye vote - he is quite suddenly a free mech. Or rather, he will be on the 28th. He had previously had no plans for retirement, but Itsy figures out she can extract her servo from her mouth using a well-placed strike of her pede to her arm, and suddenly he has a vision of a beautiful, peace-time life. He wants a sparkling.
It’s a quickly made decision, but Optimus never acts rashly. Sparklings are a rare commodity - there are none to adopt and he certainly can’t appropriate Itsy for extended periods of time. He needs to make one. He needs a strategy. This takes time.
Starscream wins the election, to no-one’s surprise. Ironhide makes the council, though, and so do Prowl and Arcee. There is tension, after the results roll in, but it settles. And slowly he, too, settles out of public life.
His newfound freedom from power does little to temper his reputation, unfortunately. There are whispers of how he should have been the majority leader. There are whispers that he should have run. There are whispers that, if he were to break from this Decepticon leadership, they would follow. It is disheartening.
It also makes his goals more difficult. He can’t make a sparkling by himself, as much as he might want to. It would be his clone if he did, which would unfortunately create medical difficulties and odd stares. So he needs a donor. He needs to interface. And there is simply no situation in which he finds himself willing to interface with anyone who hero-worships him. It would be an uncomfortable experience, and would certainly affect any custody situation. He needs someone willing to provide and disappear, or at least be willing to be disengaged romantically from Optimus himself.
That narrows his selection down to 13 neutrals and 162 Decepticons. He hasn’t socialized much with either group, so he does what any mech hoping to learn information and scope out potential matches would do - he goes to a bar.
Technically speaking, there are no faction-specific venues on Cybertron. Realistically speaking, mecha tend to self-segregate. It’s something that leadership had been working on, before they disbanded. The neutrals, Optimus discovers, are too few in numbers for a formal gathering place. They meet up for meals in the corner of a small energon establishment. Optimus approaches them a few days later, intent on introducing himself. The neutrals - or rather, the 8 present at the time - shoot him down in a spectacular fashion.
“No offense,” says the ringleader with the full objective to offend, “but we would prefer not to shake hands and chat with a warmonger.”
Optimus beats a hasty retreat.
Upon later inspection, a neutral is a poor choice for sirehood. Optimus can’t imagine that any of the missing neutrals feel any different about his status as ex-Autobot general. Moreover, he finds it difficult to relate to any mech who could live through the war as it was and remain detached. He is biased, yes, but even the Decepticons found conviction and fought for it. Not that that should be a reason to exclude a candidate, of course- he’s not conjuxing the mech, just asking for their help.
This leaves the Decepticons, of whom there are plenty to choose from. Optimus isn’t entirely sure where to start.
“Is there someplace Decepticons like to gather socially?” Optimus asks Megatron one night. “It is my understanding that there is an Autobot bar of sorts.”
Megatron eyes him curiously. “Yes…” he answers slowly. “Why?”
“I’d like to go,” answers Optimus. He doesn’t bother trying to explain his plan - it’s not appropriate for a previously-work, now-not dinner.
Megatron’s suspicious look doesn’t fade. “The Hall,” he says finally. “That building on 4th, with the red top.” Optimus nods; he’s seen the building before.
He finds it the following night, easily identifiable by the neon above the door. He’s let through the door with a suspicious squint from a large mech who is presumably the bouncer. There must be fights regularly.
“We normally don’t let Autobots in, but you’re on the list,” says the bouncer, unknowingly admitting to breaking the law. Optimus nods agreeably and does his best to appear appropriately warned.
The Hall is a long, rectangular room. Towards the entrance against the right wall stands the bar. To the left is a sound system. The center leads down a corridor. To either side of the corridor in a line sit cordoned off tables. The set-up enables Optimus to make an efficient preliminary walk-through.
He doesn’t spy, per se. Each table is boxed in on three sides with detailed paneling, clearly meant to provide privacy. But he peeks with the corner of his optic, just to identify the patrons, nothing more. He slips a menu out of a pouch by the bar on his way in, to provide some cover.
As he walks, he considers what he’s looking for. He’d prefer the mech be someone he knows, for simplicity's sake. Logistically, his partner must be aware of his goal, and it would be difficult to approach a stranger with such a request. Luckily, there are plenty of mecha present with whom he has a history. Unluckily, that history tends to be rather violent.
Motormaster and Dragstrip seem to be in deep conversation about destroying the council and ruling Cybertron with a cold and ruthless fist. Optimus eliminates both as candidates for obvious reasons. And he remembers throwing Dragstrip into a wall during one of the final skirmishes. He assumes any intercourse with either of them would be dangerous to his own health.
Hook, Scrapper, and Scavenger are in another booth, sharing a bowl of chips. Optimus eliminates Hook as a choice, due to personality issues. Scavenger would do anything Optimus asked, which Optimus finds more concerning in this context than anything. Scrapper though… he’s a brilliant engineer, and a sweet mech, from what Optimus can tell. He’ll think about it.
He continues down the corridor, considering Cybertron’s Decepticon population. He finds it lacking. Not that he would consider the Autobots any better, nor does he have anything against Decepticon frame-types. It’s simply… a lack of pull.
He stumbles to a stop, halted by an elbow to the gut. It’s his own fault - his optics were elsewhere and he practically fell into it, but it's a jarring end nevertheless.
“Hello,” greets Megatron, attached to the offending elbow. “How are you enjoying the establishment?” He is sitting on the side of the booth with his back towards the front of the bar, forcing him to turn to his left and peer up at Optimus. He smirks his usual, casual smirk.
Optimus coughs in surprise and mild pain. “It’s quite nice,” he stutters. “I was just… ” he gestures at the menu. “ ...reading and walking.” This draws a laugh from Megatron, which makes his smirk soften into what might be considered a smile if it weren’t accompanied by his suspiciously handsome face.
“Why don’t you sit with us?” Megatron offers. “Ah, if that’s alright with you, Apsis.” He turns from Optimus, revealing a dark blue Autobot femme. She peers up at Optimus, wide-eyed, and then does a little wave.
“Hi,” she says. She leans back, sinking into the arm Megatron has stretched behind her. “Nice to meet you.”
“Hello,” Optimus greets, processor grinding to a halt. He needs a moment to analyze the situation, and then another moment to understand it. The formalities of a social situation prevent him from taking either. He concludes the best option would be to extract himself from the scene and regroup elsewhere. “I would love to join you, but I wouldn’t want to interrupt. And I am supposed to meet someone at the bar,” he replies. The last bit he tags on without thought and immediately regrets it. The layout of The Hall has a single entrance by the main bar - they will see him alone when they leave. He’ll have to be quick.
Megatron frowns. “Who?” he asks. Optimus, having no answer, ignores him.
“It was lovely to meet you though, Apsis. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“Yeah! You too.” she says. Optimus smiles and beats a hasty retreat. It’s a long corridor. He’s down it in a second.
Megatron has never mentioned Apsis’s name before, not during any of their dinners. Of course, those were work dinners. Why would he bring up his personal life? Except they hadn't been work dinners, not really. Not for Optimus. Their debates were fun but had long since stopped having any effect on policy.
Maybe he had simply forgotten, somewhere along the line, that Megatron is always plotting something. He had something to gain from their dinners, nothing more. Or maybe Optimus is over-reacting. Or maybe the femme is new, and Megatron just hadn’t had time to mention her. Or maybe Optimus never really knew him at all.
Now that he’s thinking about it, Megatron has never been overly forthcoming with personal information. He'll ask Optimus philosophical questions, questions about his life, his goals, his future. But he never provides his own answers. Perhaps it is just work to Megatron. Perhaps.
Optimus falls into one of the few stools by the bar counter with a heavy in-vent. He slumps forward, burying his helm in his hands, and attempts to reorient himself. He came here with a purpose; he will not be distracted.
“What will it be?” asks the bartender. Optimus doesn’t bother looking up from his hands.
“Whatever you have,” he replies, hoping the mech doesn’t ask further questions. He doesn’t.
By the time the bartender casually nestles a cube of something into Optimus’s hand, he’s brow-beaten his errant processor back on track. He blinks the dots out of his optics - he needs to stop rubbing them, it’s not healthy - and peers at the cube’s contents. They're pink, which is to be expected. He sniffs at the drtnk, then cautiously takes a sip. It’s engex, and not terrible engex at that. So he drinks it. Then he comes up with a plan.
Or rather, the plan comes up to him, in the form of a curious Decepticon. He’s a fine looking mech, up-front and to-the-point. Optimus rather likes him, so he ‘tests the waters’, so to speak. ‘Flirts’ would be another apt descriptor.
When that hits the steel blade of a whirring industrial fan, he ‘tests the waters’ with another mech, then another. They come to him (with a weapon unsheathed, more often than not), and he lets them. It seems like the simplest way to conduct the research he came to do. He is also a tad overcharged.
The issue with Decepticons, it turns out, is that they hate him. Well, either they hate him or they are terrified of him, but Optimus is doing his best to forget his impression on that little blue seeker. The point is that they all detest him, can’t stand seeing him at their bar, or otherwise want to kill him. His plans, despite his efforts, come to a screeching halt.
He gets out of the bar before Megatron or the blue femme whose name the engex has stolen from him come looking for the exit. He goes home, falls into berth, and stares at the ceiling.
He supposes he deserves this. It’s poetic irony: his attempts at a post-war life blocked by the consequences of his actions as a general. He detests the image of himself that will be written about. It’s all so terribly fake. He’s supposed to be kind, and wise, and loved, and all he is is alone.
The Matrix has doomed him.
His comm pings, announcing a new message. It’s from Megatron.
::How did you like it?:: he asks. Optimus plays the words over again. How did you like it?
::?::
::The Hall. You wanted to see a Decepticon gathering place?:: Ahh, right.
::I enjoyed myself:: he lies. ::The highgrade was good:: Not a lie.
::I’m glad:: sends Megatron. Then nothing.
Optimus discovers a sudden sadness in the conversation’s end. He’s not sure what to say, so he writes the first thing on his mind.
::You’ve never mentioned her before:: he sends and immediately regrets it. But he can’t rewind, and he wants to know.
::Apsis? I’ve only known her a week. She only just returned, and she’s not staying long. She has a thing for deep-space.::
It’s like Optimus can’t stop himself from replying. ::An Autobot? You seemed close.::
::She’s very forgiving.::
::I didn’t realize you would associate yourself with Autobots during personal time. Most Decepticons don’t.::
::I associate myself with you::
::Work dinners::
::I enjoy our dinners, Prime:: Optimus can almost hear the way Megatron’s voice gets rough around his name. ::You’ll find I can do more than just tolerate Autobots.::
::Point taken:: replies Optimus, and it is. He wasn’t wrong before, Megatron most certainly has ulterior motives for their dinners. But that doesn’t necessitate a lack of pleasure, does it? If anything, it serves as a reminder that Megatron doesn’t detest him - why subject himself to long dinners if he hates Optimus? There are other ways to be treacherous, certainly.
Optimus may be slightly tipsy, but even his clouded processor can put two and two together. Megatron doesn’t hate him. Megatron is most definitely not scared of him. Megatron isn’t a neutral who believes him to be an irredeemable war criminal. Most importantly, Megatron isn’t an Autobot. Megatron doesn’t think Optimus is special at all. He’s perfect.
Frag, his best choice is Megatron. Megatron. It’s almost poetic.
Unfortunately, Optimus is rather determined. He’s invested time into this, he’s invested his hopes into this. He wants a sparkling, he really does. And now he’s gone and eliminated everyone but Megatron as a potential candidate. He can’t not ask. He has to ask.
He invites Megatron over for dinner the next night. He orders takeout from a new restaurant - something special. Then he breaks out a bit of high-grade, heated engex, mostly to calm his own nerves.
It’s best to keep this professional, he decides. He doesn’t want to offend, or ruin the (potentially mildly one-sided) relationship they’ve built. He’ll be direct and unemotional, lay the situation out on the table, and see what happens.
He spares a moment to consider what happens if Megatron says yes. The best one night stand of his life, he settles on, and of Megatron’s too, with any luck. It would only be fair for him to make it enjoyable. It has to be, if he wants them to keep meeting for dinner occasionally. If it’s miserable, they’ll never be able to look at each other again.
Megatron takes one look at the take-out containers on the table and pours himself a rather large cube of engex. Then he looks at Optimus, traces the tautness in his shoulders, and tops the glass off.
“Should we eat first, or should we jump straight into whatever disaster you have planned for tonight?” Megatron asks. Optimus isn’t sure if he’s joking or not. Probably not.
Optimus gestures towards Megatron’s usual seat, which he had pulled out. Megatron sits. Optimus settles down across from him.
“Disaster first then,” says Megatron drily. Optimus attempts a comforting smile. It clearly fails. Direct, he reminds himself. Direct, to the point, and quick. He takes a deep in-vent.
Optimus folds his hands together in front of him, looks Megatron in the optics, and begins. "I have a proposition."
"Oh finally," Megatron replies.
Optimus frowns. "What do you mean?"
"What do you mean," Megatron responds, with great emphasis on the 'you'.
Optimus shakes his helm slightly, as if to clear the confusion. "I want a sparkling," he clarifies. "I require assistance."
"...assistance." Megatron raises an eyebrow. "Let's back up, shall we Prime?" Optimus, try as he might, cannot think of a way to 'back up'. He settles for a restatement of the facts.
"I would like a sparkling. There are a limited number of mechs on this planet. Ethical and personal reasons prevent me from finding an Autobot sire. The majority of Devepticons detest me. I believe you are a suitable candidate, and would like to know if you would be willing to provide your assistance.”
Megatron stares. Megatron stares for a long while. Then Megatron blinks, which Optimus takes as a sign he has processed Optimus’s proposition and has an answer, only Megatron goes back to staring instead. This lasts long enough for Optimus’s engex to go cold.
“Well,” says Megatron eventually. “You skipped…most of the steps.” That is not an answer. Optimus isn’t sure how to respond.
Megatron opens his mouth as if to continue, then shuts it. Then opens it again, then shuts it. Then, finally he says: “...alright.”
Optimus smiles. “Alright?”
“Yes, I - what does this entail, exactly?”
“We make a sparkling,” Optimus repeats. “There is nothing else entailed.”
Megatron leans forward. “No,” he frowns. “We need to discuss terms.”
“You do not need to be involved in the sparkling’s life. I expect I will have plenty of support from Ratchet and my Autobots,” Optimus begins carefully. “Nor will your involvement be announced publicly.”
Megatron shakes his helm. “No, I will refuse my assistance if I am denied access to the sparkling’s upbringing.” He accentuates his denial with a firm hand gesture. Optimus recalculates.
“Okay, that is also fine.” While Optimus is sure he will miss the sparkling when it is with Megatron, it is only fair that the other progenitor have access. “Custody can be shared.”
“Alternative proposition,” Megatron says. “Cohabitation.”
“Cohabitation?” Optimus tries to envision what cohabitating with Megatron would be like and decides that it looks a lot like sharing dinner even more nights a week. Optimus enjoys these dinners quite a lot, though he’s not sure what Megatron gets out of them.
“We will need a new habsuite,” Megatron continues. “Larger. There are 2-berthroom units being built on the East side. Soundwave will need access first, for security. He likes at least a month of scouting time before a move-in.”
“The sparkling will need a bedroom eventually as well,” says Optimus.
“An issue for a later date.” Megatron seems to be on an incredible roll, for a mech who has had only a few kliks to consider this future. “I will be involved with the carrying, of course. Medical visits and the like. We will need to discuss the specifics of the creation process - ” Optimus, finding it difficult to keep up, raises a hand.
“I believe the situation is referred to as a ‘one night stand’,” he says.
Megatron pauses for a beat too long. “Sure.” Another pause. “If that is what it entails.”
“As both of us are now retired, this won’t affect our working relationship,” Optimus says. He realizes he’s attempting to explain himself, but he’s not sure why. Anxiety, perhaps? Megatron would be ideal for his goals, but the future he is describing is… it's a lot of change, is all. “I hope it won’t affect our routine,” he adds.
Megatron laughs, but it comes out as more of a huff. “Look around you, Prime. Everything has changed. You want a sparkling, right? That’s a change, a rather large, quick one at that.”
Optimus can only shrug. “I enjoy the candor we share during these meetings,” he admits. “I’d rather not lose that over intercourse and parental duties.”
Megatron stares at him, a bit like he had previously. This time he recovers quicker. “Optimus,” he asks, “did attraction to me play any part in this decision? It would be helpful for me to have that information before I get you on a berth.”
Optimus thinks for a moment. Megatron is an attractive mech, obviously. It’s not something that can be ignored, not throughout millennia of hands-on grappling. He can’t deny that it might have played a role in his decision making process. He relays this information to Megatron.
“Great,” replies Megatron. “You found me attractive before, you’re certain to find me even more attractive after. No net negative change. Let’s talk pleasure.”
“Uh.” Optimus had, in his processor, glossed over this part. Well, not the interfacing, obviously. He had imagined that in full, glorious detail. The best one night stand, he had told himself. He had not imagined, however, the preliminary discussions involved in such an endeavor.
Luckily, Megatron takes the wheel. “Pass me that container,” he orders, pointing towards the take-out. “Do you have plates?” Optimus passes the container, then grabs some plates.
“I asked for their most popular dish,” he says. He had stared at the menu for a long while, trying to conjure up the taste of the dishes described, but all his mind could find was the aftertaste of battle rations. He supposes he ought to get used to restaurants again.
Megatron scoops the meal from the to-go containers onto their plates with a surprising delicateness. “It looks quite good,” he explains. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done something other than drink my fuel.”
It does look good. Each container has two long rolls - a mixture wrapped and probably baked in a thin energon-based wrap. Topping this is a blue-tinged sauce. And it’s warm. Optimus hadn’t noticed that, through the container boxes. He hasn’t had hot food in so long. He is so distracted by the warmth radiating from the plate to his hands that he forgets that he is supposed to eat it.
“It is incredibly good,” confirms Megatron, startling Optimus out of his daze. As if sensing vulnerability, he adds “So what are your sexual preferences?,” just to throw Optimus even further off guard.
Optimus coughs. “Uh,” he replies. “Well, logically, I ought to be on the receiving end -”
Megatron waves a servo through Optimus’s words. “None of that,” he says. “Tell me what you enjoy .”
Of course - and Megatron wouldn’t know this, obviously - Optimus isn’t entirely sure what he prefers in a berth. The whole reason he’s asking Megatron is because fragging his own Autobots has an accompanying ethical dilemma. He hasn’t had the chance to explore any sexual interests in millennia. He can only stare at Megatron blankly, which is perhaps even more embarrassing than their conversation.
Megatron waits patiently for an answer that does not come, then raises an eyebrow. “Do you have an answer, or is this going to be easier than I thought?” he asks. Optimus isn’t sure what that means, so he shrugs.
“I haven’t had a lot of opportunities to explore,” he admits, and just like that his own expectations drop like a seeker experiencing the jet-judo talents of over-enthusiastic Autobot twins. “This doesn’t need to be special,” he says. Just not so horrifically bad they can no longer dine together. Optimus thinks he can accomplish that.
“I disagree,” says Megatron. “This is going to be one of the best nights of your life.”
Optimus nearly chokes on his dinner. “Tonight?”
“That’s why you bought me dinner, is it not?” Megatron gestures at his half-eaten meal. “This was quite delicious. Certainly one of the better dates I’ve been on.”
Optimus, to his eternal shame and embarrassment, squeaks in surprise. “Date?”
Megatron fixes Optimus with a knowing look. “Let’s finish our food,” he suggests. “Your processor will have caught up by then.”
Optimus would feel a little insulted by the insinuation that he has defective mental faculties if his processor wasn’t completely overwhelmed. This is not how he had planned the night would go, not at all. He finishes his meal and carries the dishes to the sink. When he returns to the table, Megatron has fallen back against his chair, helm lying half-over the seat-back. As Optimus passes by, he stretches, rolling his neck and crossing one arm in front of his chest.
“Ok,” he says. “Good?”
Optimus fights back the anxious static in his vocalizer. “Yes.” He doesn’t sit down. His digits tap diligently on the table. Megatron watches them drum for a klik, then sighs.
“Alright,” he says. “Come here.” With that, he reaches towards Optimus, places his hands around his waist, and pulls him from the table-side to his chair.
“Up you go,” he orders. Optimus blinks, confused, but his inaction is solved by Megatron, who simply lifts him off the ground and into his lap. Optimus’s legs part to straddle him.
“I didn’t expect to do this in a chair,” he comments. It’s a ridiculous thing to say, not at all something to improve the mood.
Megatron rolls his optics. “Come here,” he says. Optimus, being already posed atop him, tilts his helm in a silent ‘how?’. His confusion is quieted quickly, however, by Megatron’s hand on his jaw.
Kissing Megatron is as Optimus would expect - exciting, a bit competitive, and fairly dangerous for Optimus’s lip-plates. The dangers of getting involved with a mech with fangs, Optimus supposes. Megatron’s servos wander, so Optimus lets his too. He starts with Megatron’s helm. He gets a digit between the helmet and Megatron’s faceplate, and he uses that to move Megatron how he wants him. And just like that, the tables turn in their little fight for domination. Megatron twists, but Optimus keeps him pinned. He’s prepared for more of a struggle on Megatron’s part, but after a moment Megatron’s servos fall back to Optimus’s hips and he submits to Optimus’s attentions.
But of course, Megatron has never been the kind of mech willing to sit back and let Optimus do anything. His servos grip Optimus hard and pull him down. He lets his legs fall farther apart, forcing Optimus’s knees open further. And then he bucks - a small movement, but enough that Optimus’s processor grinds to a halt. Their lips part.
“Oh,” says Optimus. Megatron’s helm falls back against the chair. For a moment, the only sound is their whirring fans. Optimus pushes his face into Megatron’s neck and in-vents deeply. Then he grinds down.
“Alright,” whispers Megatron. Then, louder, “Let’s go.” With that, he shifts one arm under Optimus’s aft and stands, lifting Optimus with the ease of a mech who had previously spent a millennium tossing Optimus across battlefields like a bale of hay. Optimus winds his arms across Megatron’s shoulders and his legs around his waist.
“This is not an alluring position,” he informs Megatron, or rather Megatron’s neck. Megatron grunts in response, to which Optimus replies by biting a neck cable.
“Ow,” says Megatron, who still hasn’t made it to the berthroom. He slaps Optimus’s aft. “Complaining gets you nowhere,” he warns, then promptly shoves Optimus up and over his shoulder.
This is not an unfamiliar position for Optimus, but neither is it a pleasurable one. “I will smack you,” he threatens. Megatron laughs, then shifts forward, unceremoniously dumping Optimus onto the berth. He bounces. The berth muffles the sound.
Megatron stops and looks down at him with an infuriating smirk. Optimus would like to kiss him again, but he’d rather not come off as too enthusiastic about it. He can’t imagine having purely platonic dinners afterwards with Megatron’s ego any larger than it is.
“Well, are you going to stand there all night,” he taunts. “We do have a goal to be working towards here.”
“I do have a goal, Optimus.” Megatron’s glossa rolls over his name like he’s savoring it. “I’m considering the most efficient way to get there.”
Optimus frowns. “I don’t believe efficiency is a variable that will lead to much pleasure when optimized,” he replies.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” says Megatron. He steps forward, placing a knee on the berth between Optimus’s legs. He crawls up the berth, pushing Optimus back into the padding. Optimus’s legs spread to accommodate him. Their fans have quieted, leaving the room silent except for their engines. Megatron stops with a servo on the padding by each of Optimus’s audials and looks down.
Optimus looks up at him. “Hi,” he says, having nothing else to say but finding the quiet a little unnerving.
Megatron laughs. “Hi,” he replies. Then he leans down and kisses him again.
It’s softer this time, to the relief of Optimus’s slightly sore lip-plates. He slides his servos up Megatron’s chest, digging in wherever possible and tugging down. Megatron moans into his mouth. He still has a knee between Optimus’s legs, keeping them open. Optimus bucks up against it with a small whine. He wants - Primus, he’d be fine staying like this forever. If he opened his panels, if Megatron rocked his thigh forward-
“One second,” Megatron mutters, and then suddenly Optimus is staring at the ceiling, Megatron’s face gone from his sight.
“Hm?” Optimus asks. He shifts back onto his elbows to peer down the berth at Megatron, who is backing down Optimus’s body with an occasional kiss to Optimus’s ventral plating. “What are you doing?”
Megatron drops back off the edge of the berth, then wraps a servo around each of Optimus’s legs and yanks. This pulls an unwanted and mildly embarrassing squeak from Optimus. Instead of an answer, he pushes Optimus’s thighs open and kisses the inside of one.
Optimus has a sudden vision of how this night could go, and it ends extremely quickly if Megatron gets his glossa on him. Millenia of war-enforced celibacy have done a number on his stamina. His valve tightens rhythmically, pleasurable as if Megatron were already at work.
“That’s not going to get us anywhere,” protests Optimus. It’s difficult to tell from this angle, but he could swear Megatron rolls his optics. He’s about to protest, only Megatron bites at the metal by his panel and he forgets how to open his mouth.
His panel opens of its own accord. His spike pressurizes. Megatron lifts his helm long enough to ask -
“Do I have free rein here?”
“Mh,” replies Optimus, who is once again staring at the ceiling. Megatron smacks the outside of his left thigh and repeats himself.
“One or the other or both?” he asks.
“Whatever you want,” replies Optimus, coming to the conclusion that, while he may not last nearly as long as he once could, a repeat performance might not be terrible. They have all night. If Megatron wants to slag around, why should he complain?
‘Whatever Megatron wants’ seems to be sticking his glossa in Optimus’s valve. “Oh frag,” whispers Optimus. His legs lift up to hook around Megatron’s neck and back, and he could swear he didn’t ask them to. One of Megatron’s servos pulls Optimus’s thigh open wider and the other reaches around to rub at his node. “Oh frag,” Optimus repeats.
Megatron doesn’t rush, not even when Optimus begins to squirm. The light touch turns from tantalizing to teasing, his glossa thrusts steadily but never deep enough. Optimus whines, shifting back onto his elbows to glare down. Megatron looks back up at him. How someone can convey haughtiness with only their eyebrows, Optimus will never understand.
“Please get on with it,” he says, to which Megatron rolls his optics. Instead of complying, he lifts himself off Optimus’s array entirely. “Megatron,” Optimus complains, grabbing at Megatron’s helm.
Megatron responds by licking a strip up Optimus’s spike. Optimus’s pede kicks at the air. Megatron laughs a little at that, which is fine because he’s sunk his mouth onto Optimus’s spike and the laugh makes him vibrate. He quickly falls into a pattern - suck, lift, lick down, lick up, repeat. The servo previously wrapped around Optimus’s thigh moves to brace against Optimus’s ventral plating, shifting Megatron forwards and upwards and keeping Optimus pinned. The other servo returns to Optimus’s valve.
“Oh,” mumbles Optimus. “Oh.” The digit in his valve becomes two and then hooks upwards. Optimus’s frame jerks. ”I will overload quite soon if you keep this up,” he notes with the part of his processor that’s still sensible. Megatron keeps it up.
It is a bit of an impressive show of multi-tasking, Optimus thinks. Charge escapes his panel and shoots up his torso, causing an odd twinge in his shoulder. His thighs squeeze. Megatron’s pace doesn’t falter. Quite impressive, Optimus thinks, and then he overloads.
He stares at the ceiling for a long moment before he regains the energy to look down the berth at Megatron. He’s removed himself from Optimus’s oversensitive array, leaning back on his heels. He looks at Optimus expectantly.
“You’re going to have to give me a moment,” Optimus informs him. “I’m afraid you’ve overestimated my stamina.”
“I haven’t,” Megatron replies cheerfully. “Do you still have that box of rust sticks?”
Optimus nods. The tips of his pedes, having fallen from Megatron’s shoulders, graze the ground. He touches Megatron’s knee, feels it when he stands to go raid Optimus’s kitchen cabinets. Optimus continues staring at the ceiling, recognizing the distant sound of Megatron in the other room.
Megatron returns with a half-empty box of rust sticks. He places one on Optimus’s faceplate. Optimus frowns, reaching up to relocate the candy from his cheek to his mouth. It’s sweet and sour, the perfect combination. He groans, loudly.
“Really? The candy got a louder reaction than my mouth on your spike?” remarks Megatron. Optimus shoots him a rude gesture, which is undiplomatic and out of character for him, except that it’s not.
After another klik, he pushes himself up to sit at the edge of the berth. His processor swims at the sudden movement. He holds his servo out for another candy, and Megatron happily complies.
“That was not what I had intended,” he admonishes. “It’s been a long while since I’ve taken a cyberbiology class, but I believe that was ineffective.”
“On the contrary, I was quite effective,”Megatron contradicts. “Eat your candy.” Optimus eats his candy.
“Feeling better?” Megatron asks a while later, having stolen more of Optimus’s candy and thoroughly explored Optimus’s berthroom.
“I am.” Optimus pulls his legs onto the berth and watches Megatron return his datapads to incorrect places on his bookshelf.
“Great,” says Megatron. He all but collapses into Optimus’s berth, lying on his back. He peers over at Optimus. “Up and over,” he commands, tapping at Optimus’s waist. Optimus shows his displeasure at the casual direction with an optic roll, but does as he says.
He settles on top of Megatron’s still-closed panel, then lifts his hips to reach down and tap it. “This needs to be open,” he informs Megatron.
“Sure,” says Megatron, and opens his panel. His spike pressurizes against Optimus’s ventral plating. Silver, the proportionate size, and enthusiastic. Optimus grinds against it and groans.
Megatron smirks, which is all the warning Optimus gets before Megatron’s servos return to his waist and he is once again bodily lifted and dragged forward. Megatron settles him on his face, knees on either side of Megatron’s helm.
“Megatron,” Optimus admonishes. “I need to be on your spike if this is to work.”
His mild disappointment is quickly resolved; Megatron responds to his (valid) point by pulling Optimus down and sucking his node. Optimus sighs but, remembering the skill previously displayed, expresses no other complaint. As long as he doesn’t overload in this position, he’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. He’ll be more than fine.
Unfortunately, Megatron is adept at accomplishing his goals, and his goal seems to be making Optimus lose his mind. His next attack takes the form of a comm-line.
::I love the way you taste:: he tells Optimus, which is both crude and unlikely. ::Forget battle, this is how I would prefer to die.:: His glossa flicks over Optimus’s node, almost teasing.
Optimus decides to express his displeasure (quite pleasurable displeasure, a disapproval of actions his body quite approves of) by being unnecessarily snarky. ::I suppose if this gets you off.::
::You get me off.:: Megatron sucks, hard. Optimus’s hips jump in response, unbalancing him. He props himself up with an outstretched arm on the wall. The movement prompts Megatron to redouble his efforts.
::I want to feel you around my spike:: Megatron licks into Optimus’s valve, then returns to his node. Optimus leans forward and props both elbows on the wall, sinking his forehead to the cool metal.
::That would be the plan, if you would stop stalling:: replies Optimus, but his spark isn’t in it. His spark is quite busy doing other things, such as spinning so quickly he finds it difficult to in-vent.
Megatron’s glossa alters its pattern, his entire attention on Optimus’s node. Optimus moans into the wall and does his best to keep still. He fails, which is unfortunate because his rocking inhibits Megatron’s range of motion. Part of his processor reminds him that if he overloads he’s going to be oversensitive again and then he’s not going to be able to ride that spike.
“Oh Primus, keep doing that.” he says. Then, over comms, he gives contradictory instructions. ::I want you inside of me.::
Megatron groans. He does not stop. A circular motion, paired with light suction. Optimus screws his optics shut; his in-vents come hard and fast. Charge crawls across his torso, thick and heavy. A pressure builds, and he wants - his vocalizer won’t work, he can’t ask for what he wants even if he knew what it was. More maybe, or less, or something. His servos screw into fists, pressed hard against the wall. And then his frame goes rigid. He overloads, hard.
Megatron, perhaps sensing that Optimus would be just as sensitive this time or perhaps wanting a breath of fresh air, unseats Optimus from his face. Optimus sits heavily, back to the wall, and stares at his disordered bookshelf.
“Slag,” he mumbles once his vocalizer remembers how to work.
“Mhm,” replies Megatron, still staring at the ceiling. His spike stands proudly. Optimus eyes it, then looks down at his own valve.
“You are going to have to wait like that,” he tells him. “And it’s your own fault.”
“I am at peace with the consequences of my own actions.” Megatron pushes himself into a sitting position and swings his legs over the side of the berth. “We didn’t drink that whole bottle of engex, did we?”
They drink the rest of the bottle of engex and talk about the new stores opening up and the books they’ve been reading. It’s almost like their normal dinners, except Optimus’s processor is buzzed off of two overloads and neither of their panels is closed.
“Alright,” Optimus says, once the berthroom airflow isn’t enough to make his node ache. “Let us at least attempt to do this, this time.”
Megatron smirks. “Sure.” He removes the empty bottle from the berth and stretches his arms above his head. They pop. Optimus’s optics trace his plating. He really is an attractive mech. The spike is nice, too.
“Any position that suits your fancy?” Megatron asks. Considering their previous activities, the question really shouldn’t make Optimus blush. He averts his optics for a moment, regains his composure, then replies -
“I think my ‘fancies’ have been more than appropriately fulfilled. Whatever you prefer is fine with me.” If they don’t…fulfill the night’s purpose soon, Optimus thinks he’ll die. Death by orgasmic exhaustion. And Primus, if Megatron keeps it up Optimus is going to have an incredibly hard time forgetting it all and moving on.
Megatron leans back on one hand and stares at Optimus for a while, considering. It’s a bit unnerving, being the center of that attention. Historically, that gaze has been followed by a fusion cannon to the chest. More recently, it’s been followed by an overload.
“If you are having trouble imagining the options…” starts Optimus. Megatron laughs.
“Imagining them has never been an issue.” He shifts, turning his back towards the wall and grabbing a pillow, which he places against the wall behind him. “Alright,” he says, gesturing with one finger. “Come here.” Optimus complies.
Settling onto Megatron’s lap has lost the nerve-wracking element it once had. Now it’s almost natural. So is kissing him.
It starts unnecessarily slowly; Optimus’s fans are still on from their previous act, and Megatron is clearly primed. But he lets Megatron set the pace. Well, almost. Megatron thrusts his glossa into Optimus’s mouth as if on a mission, manhandles Optimus’s helm to the angle he wants, pulls at his hip with his other servo - it’s too much. Optimus rocks forward, pressing his bared valve against Megatron’s spike.
Megatron lets go of his jaw, brings his servo down to join his other one on Optimus’s hip. Optimus rocks forward again. The head of Megatron’s spike hits his stomach, the shaft rubs against his node. He places his hands on Megatron’s shoulders and does it again, more forcefully.
Megatron moans and Optimus wants his mouth again. So he takes it. Megatron’s servos reach around his waist, raising and dropping him in time with Optimus’s rocks. Up and down. Optimus groans into Megatron’’s mouth. He needs -
::Want you on me:: Megatron begins thrusting up in time with the drops. Optimus ends the kiss to pant heavily. His fans are racing, Megatron’s engine vibrating under his touch. He wants to -
“I want you in me,” he whispers into Megatron’s audial, then tucks his face into Megatron's neck. Megatron’s servos move from his hips. Optimus whines at the loss, rocks forward faster.
“Wait.” Megatron’s servos wrap around his thighs. “Wait,” he repeats, slowing Optimus’s thrusts. He presses Optimus’s legs further apart. Optimus peers down between their bodies in time to see two digits enter his valve.
“Frag,” he mutters. The digits scissor. He looks up. Megatron is watching his fingers pump in and out of Optimus with dark optics.
“Ok, ready?” Megatron asks, removing his servo. Optimus nods, tilts his hips and -
“Oh Primus yes,” he practically hisses. Megatron collapses against the wall, servos tight around Optimus’s hips. He drops Optimus onto his spike slowly, drawing out the stretch. If Optimus closes his optics he can feel every point of contact, every ridge.
And then, too soon, he’s fully seated. Megatron kisses his nasal ridge in a quick peck, then smiles. “Good?” he asks.
Optimus smiles back, slots their mouths together for a real kiss, then pulls back and replies. ”Yes.”
Megatron nods, then picks Optimus up, pulling him back off his spike. Optimus whines, which turns into a groan when Megatron promptly drops him. It has been a long time, as evidenced by the delighted confusion his processor supplies at the feeling. Megatron repeats the action and this time Optimus squeezes during the upward movement.
Megatron scowls. “You’re heavy enough as it is,” he complains. “Do that on the way down.” So Optimus does. He finds it just as enjoyable. Megatron seems to agree.
Optimus experiments a little. There’s an aching burn in his valve and if he rocks forward during each drop the head of Megatron’s spike brushes against it. He sneaks one servo down Megatron’s frame and rubs his own node. It feels like - Primus - it feels like he should have done this millennia ago. It feels like he should do this again tomorrow. He squeezes harder.
“Oh -” Megatron hisses. “Ok.” With that, he unseats Optimus, sending them both sprawling to the berth. Optimus reflexively wraps his legs around Megatron’s waist to keep them connected.
“What?” he asks, unhappy to be thrown from his rather pleasant post. Megatron, hovering over him, leans down for a kiss.
“I was going to overload,” he says once they part.
“That’s the point!” Optimus exclaims. He wiggles and bucks, but it's not the same as it was. He falls back to the berth and blows directly into Megatron’s optics. Megatron winces.
“You said to do this how I wanted,” he retorts. He pulls back in a half up-right kneel. “I promise you’ll enjoy this just as much.”
“I was enjoying myself plenty - oh!” Megatron pries Optimus’s leg from his waist and pushes it upward, forcing Optimus to curl. He pairs the new position with a quick thrust. Optimus moans and pulls at Megatron with his unpinned leg.
“See? What did I tell you?” says Megatron. He shouldn’t have moaned, Optimus thinks; Megatron’s ego will never be the same. Megatron picks up the pace.
“I will need multiple experiences with each position before I can make a decision about preference,” Optimus asserts. His current arrangement prevents most movement on his part; he can’t do much more than buck up. The lack of mobility seems to work in his favor, however. Megatron is distracted and exerting most of the effort. And Optimus’s servos are free.
He reaches for the helmet first. It’s not a comfortable target to reach - he’s nearly folded in half already, and Megatron is rather tall. He ends up propping himself up with one arm, to Megatron’s apparent annoyance. He uses the other to play around in the space between Megatron’s helmet and his faceplate.
“You never could just let me work,” Megatron complains, but he has no hands free to stop him. Optimus finds the latch he’s looking for. Then he goes looking for the other.
“Would you quit that?” Megatron pairs his protest with a particularly pointed thrust, sending a jolt down Optimus’s frame. “If you play with the sensory crown this is going to be over a lot quicker than is ideal.”
“That’s the goal,” reminds Optimus. Then, “You have a sensory crown?”
Megatron squints, confused. “Why are you removing my helmet?”
“To annoy you, mostly,” he admits. “Now I would like to play with the sensory crown, though.” He finds the other latch and flicks it, then pulls Megatron’s helmet off his helm. He tosses it someplace to the left, earning a scowl.
“You weren’t this troublesome before.” Megatron remarks. Optimus’s free servo grabs at one of the newly freed panels and tugs. Megatron’s optics go near white for a moment. In retaliation, he changes the angle of his thrusts slightly. It has his spike pushing harder against the bottom of Optimus’s valve, a stretch that has Optimus whining. He in-vents sharply and bucks hard.
“You had your mouth on my node, before.” he says with a shaky vocalizer.
“You have both your hands free, but off you go pulling my helmet off and tossing it around instead of helping -” Optimus shuts him up with another pull. His optics go near-white again and his rhythm falters.
Megatron is even more distracted than before, which is a wonderful opening for Optimus. He wants both hands making Megatron moan like that. With one knee by his chin he’s fairly restricted in movement, but this isn’t his first time grappling Megatron. He uses the hand on the berth to push himself upward, then swings it around to grab Megatron’s shoulder. The inevitable fall back to the berth brings Megatron down with him, only Optimus had forgotten one minor detail.
“Ow,” he whines, looking down at where they are connected. Megatron rolls his optics and pulls back.
“That was foolish.” He props himself up above Optimus, shaking his helm in an ineffective attempt to free himself of Optimus’s servos. His frame is suddenly too far away.
“Get on top of me,” Optimus orders.
“I already am on top of you,” Megatron replies. Optimus sighs, moves one servo to Megatron’s chassis, and pulls down. Their frames collide with a clang. So do their helms.
“Ow,” he repeats.
“Ow,” confirms Megatron, then props himself up on his elbows. Optimus widens his legs and wiggles.
“Oh for -” Megatron reaches down and guides himself back into Optimus. Then his digits find Optimus’s node. “Like this?” he asks. He traces Optimus’s node in time with his thrusts.
“Harder,” Optimus says, then, “with your fingers not your spike.” Megatron complies.
“Primus,” Optimus whispers. He pulls Megatron’s helm to his shoulder and then tugs at the sensory panels. Megatron’s frame shudders.
The tone of the encounter shifts. Optimus learns that if he tugs in tandem with Megattron’s thrusts the rhythm won’t falter. And if he wraps one leg around Megatron’s waist he can drag him deeper. Charge crawls through their frames. Megatron’s fans are on high, his in-vents quick and fast. Optimus hauls his face back up and brings their mouths together in a sloppy kiss. It doesn’t last long, not with their concentration elsewhere.
At this point - which Optimus considers fair - Optimus gives up on keeping Megatron’s ego in check. “Please,” he begs. “Just - oh frag.” Megatron’s digits slip over his node.
“Yeah,” replies Megatron. He presses harder. “Will - I would like to go faster.”
Optimus nods, kisses Megatron’s cheek. “Yes, do that.”
“I need both servos on the berth,” Megatron says. Optimus takes the hint, mourning the loss of one of his sensory crown handholds for only as long as it takes his hand to find his node. Megatron places his elbow by Optimus’s other audial. Then he speeds up.
Optimus doesn’t last, not like that. He can’t think. His optics roll up and he grips Megatron harder to ground himself. Megatron hisses in a mix of pain and pleasure - he’ll have to apologize later but for the moment he can’t think farther than the next thrust and how hard he should rub and -
His full frame jerks in overload. When the random clenching and shaking ends, he stares at the ceiling. When his processor returns to functioning order, he recognizes the spike still in his valve.
“Have you still not overloaded?” He asks, bewildered. How much stamina does this mech have?
“I don’t get off on pain,” Megatron grits. Optimus looks to his hand, still cemented to one of Megatron’s sensory panels. Oops.
“Sorry,” he says. He leans up to kiss Megatron, then the panel. “Are you at least close?”
“Yes, are you overly sensitive?”
Optimus shrugs. “I’m fine.” He reaches back up and massages a different panel. Megatron moans, ducks his helm for better access, and resumes his thrusts, albeit at a slower pace.
It’s oddly intimate, now that Optimus isn’t clouded with lust. Their frames are so close - scraping together in an obnoxiously loud racket. Megatron’s engine thrums, his ex-vents come out loudly by Optimus’s audial.
It’s the post-overload processor haze, obviously, but for a long moment Optimus is convinced that this is the happiest he’s ever been. Megatron shudders. Optimus strokes softly and rocks, squeezing around his spike.
Megatron pushes himself up to look Optimus in the optic. “I’m going to -”
“Yeah,” encourages Optimus. He connects their mouths and kisses him, feels Megatron tremble and then thrust, hard, and finish. He holds Megatron to him, inside of him, closes his optics to feel Megatron’s weight on top of him. Their chassis scrape together as they in- and ex-vent. That will leave transfers, but not much more than they’ve already accumulated. It’s a ridiculous thought, but Optimus imagines his paint stripped near to its entirety and replaced with stripes of Megatron’s and he feels joy.
Megatron kisses his audial, then his neck. “I am actually quite exhausted,” he informs Optimus.
Optimus giggles, which is not a sound he’s used to coming from his own vocalizer. “I’m sure you are,” he says. Megatron will need to head to his own berth soon. That particular thought does not fill him with joy. He squeezes his arms across Megatron’s back, pulling him closer. “We should shower,” he whispers, hoping Megatron doesn’t hear.
Megatron’s responding complaint is wordless but effective at communicating his disapproval. He does, however, pull away slightly. Optimus frowns at the missing contact, but the purpose becomes apparent before he can voice his own protest. Megatron’s spike slips from his valve and depressurizes, and Megatron promptly returns to his position as a blanket. Optimus winces; the loss leaves his valve feeling open and empty and cold in the habsuite air.
“Are your lights voice-activated?” Megatron asks, drawing Optimus from his thoughts.
“Hmm?”
“Can I say ‘turn the lights out’ and -” he is interrupted by Optimus’s berthroom lights clicking off. Optimus’s optics shade the ceiling in a faded blue.
“Why’d you do that?” Optimus’s voice comes out more slurred than he had intended - he is quite tired as well.
“To sleep,” Megatron replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Optimus opens his mouth to ask about Megatron returning to his own habsuite, then shuts it again. He’d rather Megatron didn’t, actually. But the prospect of sleep prompts his processor to bring up several other comfort factors.
“I’m sticky,” Optimus complains, poking at the side of Megatron’s helm. Megatron groans, reaches across the berth with the servo previously plastered to Optimus’s chest, and fetches a rag from the side counter. He drops it on Optimus’s face.
“You are going to have to get off of me for me to use that,” Optimus observes, earning another groan. Megatron does retrieve the cloth, though, and lifts his hips enough to blindly swipe at Optimus’s thighs.
“This is very romantic,” Optimus laughs. And then he doesn’t stop laughing, for long enough that Megatron fully props himself up to stare down at Optimus in confusion.
“My apologies, Prime, I would have offered to clean you up with my mouth but my jaw is tired from the two other overloads I gave you,” he snipes. Optimus laughs even harder and hardly notices the rag gently removing the mix of fluids on him and the berth.
“Sorry,” he giggles, having calmed himself down slightly. “This is just a bit ridiculous.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Megatron insists, but he doesn’t seem upset. Instead, he tosses the soiled rag to the floor and settles back down on top of Optimus. Optimus winds his servos around his lower back and slides one pede down his leg.
“You know,” says Megatron. “Statistically speaking, that was unlikely to have accomplished your goal.” Considering Megatron only overloaded once, that is probable. As for Optimus’s other goal, though, it certainly was one of his best one night stands. But then again, he can’t be sure it was Megatron’s. He supposes they ought to try again. He finds himself thrilled at the prospect.
“Dinner next week?” Optimus asks. Megatron nuzzles deeper into his neck, placing a kiss just under his finial.
“Sure. I’ll bring a present. And some washing oils. Do you have space in your shower?”
Optimus nods. “If you come by tomorrow, I can pick up those pastries you like.”
“Even better.” Megatron’s finger traces a flowing circular pattern into Optimus’s plating, like writing his name.
Then the epiphany hits. “Oh,” Optimus says, “This is what you were after.”
“What?” Megatron’s voice has gotten deeper, sleepier. His question is slightly groggy. Optimus sinks further into the pillow under his helm.
“The scheme,” he repeats. “Of course you had one.”
Megatron pulls himself up to squint down at him. His voice loses its sleepiness. “Prime? What are you talking about?”
“Ending the war, proposing a truce, the dinners, the leadership - you were after this!” Optimus might have been mad at the concept, if he weren’t so totally pleased.
Megatron rolls his optics. “Don’t be ridiculous, Optimus,” he says. “Look around you. A Decepticon is ruling Cybertron. Decepticons hold the majority in the Council. And we don’t have to worry about Autobot resistance while implementing our Decepticon policies.”
Optimus frowns. “That doesn’t explain the dinners…”
Megatron sighs. “You are ridiculous,” he informs Optimus, then kisses his nose ridge. “I mean, obviously I wanted you,” he admits. “I can have more than one desire at a time.”
“You desire me,” Optimus teases. His spark flutters.
“Utterly ridiculous,” Megatron smiles.
“Half-assed Decepticon victory my ass,” continues Optimus. “A half-assed - !” He slaps Megatron playfully on the aft. “You were planning my seduction when you said that, weren’t you?”
“Optimus, what are you talking about? You very clearly seduced me.” Megatron argues, but he’s laughing too, which is enough of an admission for Optimus.
“You scheming, treacherous Decepticon.” Optimus kisses him on the mouth, pulls him back down on top of him. “I like you a lot,” he tells him, once they part.
“Yes, normally that comes before the sparkling-making,” Megatron replies. Optimus scrunches his face at him, slaps his aft again. “I quite like you too,” Megatron adds. “I would point out that an ‘I love you’ also usually occurs before the sparkling-making, but I’m afraid at the rate I intend to be sharing your berth it’s really a toss-up.”
And Optimus has no complaint with any of that, so he kisses Megatron again, then pulls his helm back into the cradle of his own helm and shoulder and smiles stupidly at the ceiling.