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The door to the Lost Light’s captain’s quarters slid open slowly, and for a long moment Optimus stood there without speaking, taking in the scene before him.
A hush had settled like dust. Dim light spread thinly across the metal surfaces.
And there—Megatron.
Once, his mere presence would have been enough to summon a battlefield.
The armor still bore edges honed like blades. The faceplate still held its cold contours and shadows, the red optics their familiar, restrained sheen. His frame, his silhouette, even the low register of his voice—all of it remained unchanged.
All but one thing.
The overwhelming pressure that had once surrounded Megatron, the murderous aura that had earned him the title of warlord, was gone. It had not vanished all at once, but eroded—like the remnants of an old war rusting away between seams of metal, weathered down by the faintest, most persistent wind.
And more than anything else, one detail held Optimus’s gaze.
A pair of thin metal-framed glasses resting on the bridge of Megatron’s nose.
Too delicate to be called a tool. Too functional to be mere decoration. The lenses and frame were finely constructed, almost incongruously so—an object that felt alien against what was commonly called a living-metal Cybertronian body.
Optimus stopped where he stood, quietly observing.
Among Cybertronians, the concept of vision correction hardly existed. If something failed, it was replaced, recalibrated, repaired. Miner, warrior, scholar—it didn’t matter. No one truly needed such an auxiliary device.
And yet, Megatron wore glasses.
Behind the lenses, the red optics seemed softer than before. Not the sharpened gaze of wartime, not the cold light once thrown like a blade—but something closer to a dim lamp left on to read an old text.
“It’s been a while, Optimus.”
Megatron spoke quietly. His voice was low and plain, yet threaded with the faintest tremor—an emotion that never quite surfaced, resonating hollowly beneath metal instead.
Optimus took a step closer.
Seen from nearby, Megatron felt even more unfamiliar. The metal of the frames was smoothly finished, the nose pads subtly adjusted to fit the sharp line of his nose. The thin rims, silver like Megatron’s own paintwork, caught the light softly.
For someone who had once smelled only of steel and war, Megatron now seemed to carry the faint scent of books.
“You wear glasses.”
Rare was not the word for it—it was nearly unthinkable. The sentence itself held no curiosity by nature, yet in Optimus’s voice there lingered something wary, something unsettled.
Megatron smiled, just slightly, as if embarrassed.
“I’ve been writing quite a bit,” he said. “There are moments when they become… necessary.”
Optimus’s optics narrowed. Blue light traced slowly over the glasses, over Megatron’s faceplate.
Something about it felt wrong—difficult to name. And yet Megatron was calm. Too calm. Too quiet. Almost gentle. As though he had finally found peace.
Perhaps it was the result of striving for peace.
Perhaps the weight of atonement.
But instinctively, Optimus sensed there was something else beneath it.
He steadied himself before speaking.
For a moment, silence. His gaze lingered again on the glasses perched on Megatron’s nose. The unspoken question was clear.
Why not simply replace them?
Megatron understood immediately. He drew in a small breath, then answered with a faint, crooked smile, brushing his fingers once along the frame.
“It seemed… indulgent, for me.”
He paused, choosing his words.
“Age has a way of catching up, I suppose. My optics aren’t what they used to be. As a miner. As a gladiator. During the war… I saw far too much. Things that should never have been seen.”
The end of the sentence trembled. In that tremor lay a quiet resignation, layered deep, rusted over by time.
Megatron continued slowly, as if speaking to some distant memory.
“And when I consider the weight of my sins… replacing my optics simply because their function has declined feels like a luxury I have no right to claim.”
Optimus fell silent.
His blue optics narrowed once more, something complicated passing through them—something without a name. Ever patient, as he had been for countless ages, Optimus gave a small nod.
Then, very quietly, he spoke.
“…They suit you.”
Megatron smiled faintly and inclined his helm.
“Thank you.”
That single sentence brought their conversation to a quiet close.
Later that evening, thinking it might be nice to speak with Megatron a little more—for once—Optimus found himself heading toward Megatron’s private quarters.
The door was slightly ajar. Light leaked through the narrow gap, flickering strangely. The atmosphere inside lay low, as if holding its breath. Mixed into it was something else—suppressed, muffled sounds. Wet friction. A restrained moan.
Optimus halted instinctively.
The sound was unmistakable. Wetness. Metal meeting metal. And the intermittent sounds slipping through were Megatron’s.
…What is this?
He had thought Megatron was getting along well with the crew. Had he misread everything? A quiet unease rippled deep within his spark.
The gap in the door was narrow, but what was happening inside was unmistakably clear.
Rodimus sat casually perched at the edge of the writing table.
Between his legs, kneeling on the floor, was Megatron.
His frame—larger than Rodimus’s—was bent forward, his entire body drawn inward with careful, deliberate movement. His helm was buried between Rodimus’s thighs. The situation required no explanation.
The sound of metal slick with oral lubricant. Megatron’s breathing, strained as he tried to suppress it. And Rodimus’s laughter—pleasure-laced, amused, watching it all unfold.
“Megs, am I really your first blowjob?”
Rodimus laughed playfully as he tugged Megatron’s helm deeper between his legs. A strained moan slipped free, but Megatron did not resist Rodimus’s guiding hand.
“For a first time, you’re awfully skilled,” Rodimus continued lightly.
“Or did I just teach you that well?”
The innocence in his tone made it worse. Like a child throwing stones at a frog—careless, curious, cruel without intending to be.
Megatron’s shoulders trembled faintly. His breathing grew heavier, then faltered as Rodimus moved. The servos and digits braced against the floor were locked tight with tension, carving scratches into the metal beneath him.
It made his position painfully clear.
Then Rodimus’s grip turned rough. He pulled Megatron’s helm back and dragged the tip of his spike across Megatron’s lips—slick with fluid and oral lubricant, shining wetly.
“Ah—wait… Rodimus…”
Megatron’s voice glitched as he spoke his name. He lifted a servo toward his face, as if to remove his glasses.
Rodimus watched him for a moment, then spoke in a voice full of mischief.
“You’re taking those off? Let’s keep them on tonight.”
The lenses were already splattered and smeared with fluid. Beneath them, Megatron’s expression was subtly warped. Rodimus cupped his face and slowly dragged his servo down, gentler now than before. Fingers rubbing insistently over lips ruined with fluids.
It wasn’t warmth.
It was control.
At some point, the servo stroking Megatron’s faceplate disappeared, replaced by a slick, damp spike sliding beneath the glasses frame. Under the nose bridge, the spike moved slowly, each motion brushing against Megatron’s thin, trembling breaths.
When the tip dragged against his lip plate, Megatron responded instinctively—his glossa extending to let the spike brush past.
Each movement Rodimus made left another sticky trace across Megatron’s faceplate.
Rodimus’s pace quickened.
As friction built heat and soft sounds against Megatron’s faceplate, the laughter finally vanished from Rodimus’s voice. A low moan slipped from between his lips, followed by a spray of warm, viscous pink fluid across Megatron’s glasses and face.
Megatron flinched, optics squeezing shut reflexively.
Rodimus caught his chin and forced his face up.
Then—calm again, smiling like a child—he spoke.
“Meeegs—open your eyes.”
The drawn-out tone was playful.
“You promised, didn’t you? You forgot already? You’ve got a surprisingly cute side, you know.”
Beneath the lightness of his voice lay an order that could not be refused.
Megatron hesitated—then slowly, forcibly, lifted his tightly shut optics.
Warm, sticky fluid slid down over his faceplate and glasses, seeping into his optics. A burning pain spread, his vision wavering violently.
Still, Megatron did not close optics.
Not until Rodimus, satisfied, finally said, “That’s enough.”
Pain twisted his expression. His breathing was uneven.
Rodimus looked at him with something like fondness. Then, as if pleased, he picked up a soft cloth from the table.
“Alright. Look this way.”
His touch was careful, gentle—wiping Megatron’s cheeks, lips, optics.
But what the cloth erased wasn’t the mess.
It was Megatron’s dignity.
As Rodimus carefully removed the glasses to clean them, he smiled.
“Megs, you really do look great in glasses. Even after you replace your optics someday, you should keep wearing them. Okay?”
The tone was bright, almost excited.
Inside it was a sweet, unmistakable control that left no room for choice.
Megatron drew in a slow breath.
Then, quietly—meekly—he answered.
“…Alright.”
It wasn’t an opinion.
It was submission.