Optics half-shuttered, Optimus contemplated just... never moving. Staying here, remaining like this, enfolded and merged, twin sparks accordant. He had no glyphs to describe this, the way Megatron’s plating split for him and his for Megatron, the way the components of their bodies *fit* together, shifting by increments and fitting again, interfolded origami that never stayed quite the same. He’d not even understood that his body could be this, could do this.
Under him, his Protector was a cradle of light.
Conjoined sparklight spun small licking tendrils of energy between their bodies, dancing tongues that burned away the smeared paint of sacred glyphs, a constant warm unity of shared pleasure. The light itself was a tangible thing, prickling over his fingers, swirling around them. After a time, Optimus gradually unwound a cable from where it wrapped them both. He touched the glow with the tip of the silvered length, letting it dip into the spill of sparkaura between them, and shuddered anew.
That jolt of bliss roused him further, and Optimus unwound another cable, this time seeking out the irising ring of mechanisms that had taken the lengths of both him and Sentinel so pleasurably before. The delicate sockets had not quite spiraled closed, were still tender, bent.
Megatron stirred under him -- and then in a single powerful twist, reversed their positions, pressing Optimus’ back against the giving flex of the berth. Flexures whirred, armor plates shifted, disentangling the components of their bodies and the lapping tendrils of their sparks, and the Protector drew back, still straddling his Prime’s hips.
The withdrawal didn’t hurt, felt almost as good as coming together. His Protector’s spark, Optimus realized, now that the coronae were separate again, had taken on some of his coloring -- the blue heat was faintly haloed in gold. He wondered if his own spark had done the same, a trace of azure over auric. Megatron began to slide his plating closed, and there, just a flicker so quick the optic might have imagined it, was a bruised trace, a purple thread -- the smallest of fractures in the glowing halo of that spark. Worried, Optimus reached up for his brother.
Megatron’s talons closed around his wrist.
There was no fear. How could there be? Optimus didn’t struggle, let those talons encircle both wrists, push his arms away from their entanglement within his brother’s frame and pin them to the berth with an instinctive grace, a primal yielding. To be a Prime was to command--but it was more than that, deeper than that. Primes led, when leadership was required; they also gave of themselves when faced with a greater need.
//Brother,// he sent, joy and wonderment and concern all entwined in that naming, watching those scarlet optics watching him. He unwound another tendril, stroking it lightly along the delicate rims of the open sockets, over the heavy plates as they closed inward, hiding his Protector’s spark and that thin thread of injury away, dimming its glow. “I hurt you?” he murmured, his vocalizer crackling from the excess energy of their union. The tendril moved towards one of the small, overstrained rings of socket calipers, where his cable and Sentinel’s both had twined -- then hesitated, hovering over the armor that now almost entirely covered his brother’s spark, afraid to touch. “I--didn’t intend …”
Megatron leaned forward, into the touch of those tendrils, bemusement warring with disdain. “Hurt? You did.” He shifted, his grip on Optimus’ wrists hardening, his chassis shifting to cover his brother’s prone frame. “If you can call such a scratch a wound.” Silver faceplates gleamed with a feral kind of hunger, intent and devouring. “Should I return the favor? Press upon you the same attentions you have shown me, my Prime?”
Those words, that rapacious gaze, sent surges from spark to extremities, making the silvery tips of Optimus’ cables briefly crackle with pulsing energy. Sentinel, he knew, would disapprove. But this -- Megatron belonged to him... and he to Megatron. This was right, this give and take between them. Optimus very deliberately did not fold together the thick panels of his chest, kept them open, his spark's light refracting off the mirrored surfaces of his own serrulate armor. His cables stroked the clawed grasp at his wrists, but did not wrap or confine.
There were times to bind... and times to be bound.
"Do as you will, my Protector." A tremble tempered his commanding tone, vocalizer crackling with the build of energy. Would pain be pain's recompense? Even if it should be, he could not fear the jagged form above him -- not now that he knew the spark that warrior’s plating hid. A Prime’s purpose might be to command and contain, as Sentinel had said so often -- but also, Optimus now knew, to trust.
Megatron’s optics narrowed, and he tilted his helm a little, studying the exposed frame spread in offering beneath him. This... this was his, and Optimus’ recognition of that fundamental truth satisfied coding on a thousand interleaving levels. A deeply rumbling vibration communicated along the struts of his arms, the flexures of Optimus’ wrists. “My will, now, is it?” the warframe murmured, gracing those trapped wrists with a slow stroking flex of strong talons. He squeezed once, in warning. “Keep them there.”
Then he released his Prime’s wrists, watched as Optimus shuddered, twisted -- but did not move his hands. Oh yes. Megatron’s rumble deepened. //Very good, my Brother,// he said, breathing the words across their bond, fragile with its newness and yet resonating as if they had always been this way... had always been one. And now his own hands were free, and Megatron could explore as he pleased, with none to stop him. His talons stroked over the edge of plating, ghosting along the rim of the wantonly open sparkchamber, dipping between armored segments to touch -- so lightly! -- the wiring and sensors beneath. Optimus cried out, gasped, tried to press himself up, tried to take more....
And Megatron rose up over his Prime, relishing those shuddering, wanting cries. He was hard-pressed to stifle his own vocalizer as he disentangled their merged abdominal components, mechanisms resettling, plating folding and smoothing under his exploring hands. Except... just here. A ridge under thinner armor, midway down Optimus’ glossy plated thorax. The corner of Megatron’s mouthparts turned up as his talons toyed with the transformation seam, teasing at the two sections of plating. “Tell me, my Prime. Have you put your cables here, yet? Have you pressed them inside yourself?”
A subtle tremor was his reply, Optimus’ ventilations stuttering for a moment, apprehension and a new wash of desire flaring through their entwined fields like a solar flare. “I … didn’t know if I was--” Another slow stroke by those silver talon-tips, delicate and dangerous, and he shuddered. “--a-allowed to touch …”
Megatron leaned forward, a talon touching deeper, prying delicately at the tiny plates that shielded the small socket. Not forcing it, not yet--but an insistent pressure, an unspoken demand. “Allowed?” he said, almost growling the word. “You are mine, brother, and you are Prime. You are *allowed* whatever we wish to take.” He rested his forehelm against Optimus’ own, sinking into his brother’s cerulean optics, wide and trusting. “Open for me.”
Those optics sparked, flaring with a sudden heat, trepidation vanishing under a wash of understanding. “Always, brother,” Optimus breathed, blunted fingers flexing, as if he wished to reach upwards--and below, close to where their frames met, that last, thinnest bit of armor spiralled open, baring the shining protometal of a socket to Megatron’s talons.
"Interesting," Megatron purred, a single talon dipping in, stroking the delicate silver, swimming with tiny sensor-cilia, deep inside. It seemed to connect directly to the spark itself, if the way the sparkaura pulsing and flaring in time with his Prime's cries was any indication. "Very interesting. Even you have one of these. Perhaps only until you ascend?" he pondered.
Megatron's keen processors unlocked the files he sought even as he continued to caress and inflame, alternating gentle strokes with more forceful, delving touches. Yes, most mecha had one, those of priestly classes several more, but only Protectors bore all thirteen of the sacred ports that gave their Primes direct access to the sparks they ruled. Deeper strokes had Optimus thrashing in field and frame, optics blazing into those above his with incoherent need. A talon was not the right connector, could not reach nearly deep enough, could only tease the cilia and soft metal within.
Megatron abruptly withdrew his claw and frame, leaving his brother arching with a groan of protest, vents working furiously to cool the torrid heat within him. He relished the way his Prime's field washed outward, seeking him, needing him. "Show me. Penetrate yourself as you did me, my Prime," he said, watching as the mechanisms of the port widened and contracted in rhythm with the desperate, throbbing field.
“I... p-lease...” Optimus gasped, vocalizer cutting out, conflicting washes of current over his body shattering the sound, leaving it broken. His blunt-fingered hands twisted, scrabbled at the surface of the berth -- not moving, not disobeying... not yet. The tips of three silvery cables, dimpled surfaces crackling with charge, snaked across the Prime’s open torso, down his ridged abdomen to his center, and the little opening there. The first of the cables just brushed the rim of the port -- and withdrew, jerked back. Metal arced on metal, a rendering jolt of feedback -- too intense for pleasure and too sweet for pain.
Imploringly, the tip of another cable wrapped Megatron’s wrist, stilling his Protector’s lightly exploratory touching. So much, too much, and it was all Optimus could do to keep from thrashing....
“Shall I aid you, my brother?” the warframe murmured in the young Prime’s audials. Then he turned his hand, and with implacable strength, curled his talons around one of the desperately flexing cables, a handspan back from the end. And drew it closer, the tip jerking as if it sought both to pull away and to caress again the rim of that delicate socket.
“N- wh-- Megatron!” Optimus shuddered hard, his cable held helplessly tight in his Protector’s grasp. Megatron watched, optics blazing crimson. *He* had done this, reduced his Prime to this … and yet somehow Optimus seemed all the more glorious in his submission than Sentinel had ever been in his dominance. How?
“You seem conflicted, my Prime,” he growled, inexorably moving that writhing cable ever closer to the waiting socket. “Allow me to … elevate your thinking.” And then, slowly, Megatron pressed the charge-loaded nodes of the tip to Optimus' own socket. Metal arced, crackled as he toyed with the cable, letting it touch, brush... then pushed it into the waiting calipers of Optimus’ port. This penetration was achingly slow, inevitable, blinding in its intensity -- and Optimus felt every inch of it, every slow push of his own cable into him, hitching when his internal calipers clamped down, his own thickness spreading the untouched socket. His tiny internal sensory cilia flexed against his impaling length as Megatron shifted his grip -- and then began forcing another handspan inside, pressing inside in hitching little thrusts, as Optimus twisted and cried out under him. So impossibly deep....
The connection burned into a feedback loop of purest sensation, and Optimus gasped again, his frame arching upwards convulsively, the charged energies of his still-bared spark dancing across his plating, flaring and reflecting against Megatron’s own. The sensitive head of the cable found his core, protometal flexing, molding around it, and Megatron held it there, prevented it from moving as he shuddered under the backwash of his Prime’s pleasure.
“Yes … just like that …” he growled avidly, talons stroking, drawing his prerogative upon the thrashing form beneath him. For this was *his*, and before they were done all of Cybertron would know his claim!
Optimus gave a savage cry, and Megatron's spark surged at the sounds he drew from the writhing form. Hands suddenly flew in disobedience to his collar struts, gripping the thick armor with fierce strength, a dozen cables whipping out to snake around him. Optimus arched his back to bring his flaring spark closer to its match, delirious, inarticulate need lashing across their bond. His Prime was an incomplete circuit, desperate to open and balance the loop.
Megatron roared at the challenge, as pleased by the fight as he had been by the submission before. To have driven his Prime beyond any semblance of self control was victory in itself, and further proof of his claim. Letting go of the cable, he tore his Prime's hands away from from his armor, wresting them to either side of the blue helm with his iron grip. His chest armor parted just a crack, sparklight spilling forth as Prime's flared again with need. "You want my spark again?" he snarled with pleasure. "Then you will be still."
“N--” another incomprehensible crackle, wanton and needing. Those winding, coiling cables stroked over the closed rings of Megatron’s own sockets, mutely begging, pleading for entry. And as they flexed, so too did the one inside, drawing more incoherent cries from blued-steel throat, Optiumus’ very awareness reduced to this furnace, to flames. He struggled, trying to twist his wrists from that titanium grasp, to seize and pull that twin spark close -- and got nowhere, implacably pinned, caged by the union of their interfolded hips, this impossible and consuming pleasure, and the sheer strength of his Protector.
Was it possible to extinguish with blue-fire bliss? Or to go mad?
And then that jagged mouth descended to the young Prime’s throat, cruel dentae scraping so lightly over wiring and flexures, bringing that teasing, narrow strip of sparkflare closer, letting the aurae intertwine. “Be still for me,” Magatron rumbled once more, tasting for himself the overcharged crackle across Optimus’ vocalizer, the desperation in that electrical pulse.
It took everything Optimus had to obey, and even still he trembled -- every time his own length within him crackled with charge or flexed. And then, just when he thought he could not bear this aching isolation, this unbearable feedback for one more moment, he felt Megatron’s sockets begin to spiral open for him.
His relief was incandescent, a white-hot release into the ever-building ecstasy. Without conscious thought, Optimus’ cables stroked upward, wreathing into a fine net of eager anticipation, curling around those sockets, brushing the fine molten-silver of their rims over and over, coaxing, seducing those closed plates into flowering fully open … and then pushed eagerly inside as that armor retreated. It was perfect. It was extraordinary, molten heat and electric charge and spark-deep completion …
Optimus let his helm fall backwards, letting his Protector hold him, even as he held Megatron in turn, feeling as if his very spark was trembling with the rightness of this connection. He moved, experimentally nudging the cables even deeper, twisting them slightly, and cried out at the ecstatic charge that tight-sheathed connection raised. Charge... and more.
For beyond the incendiary bliss, Optimus began to fathom the full scope of this fundamental union, this connection which bypassed protocols and guardian systems to delve without barrier into the realm of the spark itself. It was staggering, to be trusted with such access. The warframe’s great spark, still partly hidden, was his to command... and his to treasure. To merge fully, connected thus in ecstatic communion, was to obtain a measure of control otherwise impossible.
Optimus nearly pulled back uncertainly, moved to withdraw his cables. But above him, Megatron roared, spark flare blinding, rearing then caving downward as if to push the cables even deeper into himself, the lengths bottoming out, charge a white fire across all those tiny sensory cilia deep inside. It was a fiercely given submission, granted by his own will, and all Optimus could do was allow himself to be drawn in deeper, even as he arched his chest, begging, not commanding, that one final union.
Megatron's sockets spiraled tight, locking them together even as his plating across abdomen and chest fully parted and interlocked with the frame below him in an ever-shifting fractal geometry. "Mine," the Protector growled, as two sparks became one.
“Y-yes!” Optimus gasped, the only possible reply to that affirmation, an instant of perfect clarity -- and then the bliss swept him under. Too much, too good, as close a union as any two frames could achieve. There was no escape from this, locked together, bound in spark and body. It was easier this time, sweeter -- if that were possible -- every circuit and wiring singing concordance. The world was nothing but this white rapture.
It could have lasted an aeon, or a moment. The palace of Iacon could have crumbled around this thing they had become, a being finally made whole, and they would never have noticed.
Self-preservation protocols were an unwelcome intrusion. But the insistent dual pinging roused them, stirred the new conjoined dyad to action. Reluctantly, a few at a time, the transformational units of their bodies began to separate, clicking softly as they folded back, flattening, returning to their proper places, separating them once again into two frames: one brightly-colored, one the dusky-white of unadorned trithyllium.
Gradually, Optimus became aware of the discomfort of empty tanks. He lifted a newly-freed hand, and traced finely-trembling, blunted fingers quietly over the flared crests of Megatron’s helm, the radiate panels borne by Protector alone. “Yours,” he whispered again, as their bodies slowly separated, shuddering hard as Megatron gripped his cable, buried deep in the Prime’s own socket, and began to ease it out. Utterly drained, Optimus still shivered with a faint crackle of charge when Megatron passed his thumb-talon over the tip, and laid the sensor-studded cable carefully upon the berth beside him.
"Yes," Megatron purred, his clawed hands, forged for war, stroking the seam above his Prime's spark now with tender possessiveness. "Mine to protect, mine to fight for, mine to return to when our enemies are vanquished."
Blue optics locked upon red, acknowledgment of the unspoken reality looming before them echoing through their infant bond. Too soon... the ruling dyad was meant to have vorns to forge and temper their connection before ascending to their power. Yet, Megatron would be departing Cybertron in less than two orns time to take command of the war.
Every historical module Optimus had been given attested to the wrongness of such premature separation. //This is not right, my brother.//
Megatron growled low. "Do not coddle me, my Prime. I am ready. See to it that you are as well. Sentinel will not be judged fit to rule much longer, unbalanced as he is."
Optimus did not flinch from that growl, but his expression was troubled. “Sentinel has done his best for us,” he said quietly. “He did not ask for this any more than we … he acts for the good of Cybertron.” Being Prime, he was beginning to realize, was a heavy weight. To make decisions that no other could, to bear their future consequences … it was what he had been made for, what they both had been made for. But that did not make it any easier.
“Does he?” Megatron said cynically. Before, he’d had little reason to question Sentinel’s commands, or the training he had been given. Now--now everything was different. Now he had a Prime to defend, a world to protect. “Or does he do it to preserve his own authority?”
Optimus traced the fine plating of his Protector’s helm, learning it, burning every line of that powerful frame indelibly into memory. “You must leave, and fight your battles--and I must stay, and do the same,” he finally replied quietly, firmly. “But when this war is over, we will be together, as we should have been from the beginning.”
Megatron’s talons tightened, optics flaring at his Prime’s command. Then he bowed his helm, resting it upon Optimus’ own. “Yes,” he agreed. “Together.” And together, nothing would stand in their way.