Work Text:
Optimus had needs. As selfless and mythical as he was portrayed for both religious and political reasons, he was still a living, hormonal mech.
Older and even more tired than ever. Work wore him down like a blunted sword on pock-marked stone.
And he ached.
His body responded badly to any fuel that wasn’t triple filtered. He had an ugly laugh and a weird pain in his right knee he couldn’t get rid of. He sometimes felt self conscious. He liked rust sticks, having his valve eaten and relaxation.
Not that he got much action. During the war it seemed wrong to ‘dip’ into the pool that were essentially his subordinates before they were his friends. There were a few flings but nothing serious. Nothing that filled the void or truly satisfied that spark deep need.
Becoming Optimus Prime was a honour. But that did not mean his tastes altered. As Orion Pax he’d favoured larger mechs. Big arms, powerful thighs and thick necks. This preference had not simply dissolved upon his ascension. However, since then it had particularly difficult to find eligible mechs bigger than him.
Ones that made him feel light, with strong servos that could throw him around.
Megatron was snoring on the sofa when he arrived back at the hab. Laid across it like a dying king.
Open mouthed, his frame too tall for the thing so his pedes stuck out over the edge. His helm propped up on a large arm tucked underneath.
Optimus automatically let his battle mask snap back, heading for a fresh glass of energon.
Megatron was a large mech. Large in many ways, and he didn’t let anyone forget. He was barely taller than Optimus but he seemed to make himself much bigger. His wide gait and the way he moved his arms openly, full of expression. His pedefall was heavy and he did not care about taking up the space of others.
Something that Optimus never particularly minded. A hangover from the close quarters of the mines, he always assumed.
Physicality never scared Megatron. Something he was glad for.
Especially since so many mechs feared getting to close to him, nervous of divine providence or scolding. As if Primus would strike them down for hitting on the last of his ordained sons.
Optimus crossed his arms, holding up the cube as he took root at the foot of the sofa. Optics rolling over Megatron’s sprawled out, sleep-addled frame.
He was a masterpiece. Every dent, scratch and jagged edge only adding something Optimus couldn’t quite place. The helmet, sadly, did something for him. Not to mention on the big nose and sharp, wide jaw.
In fact there wasn’t an inch of him Optimus wasn’t drawn to. Wether it was nostalgia at this point he didn’t know. He’d wanted Megatronus over him as a youth, and now as they entered their twilight years he could feel his frame heating at the thought.
Megatron moved in his slumber, making a grumbled noise and reaching to scratch grossly at his codpiece.
The true poster of a cybertronian sex icon.
From what Optimus could gather during the war and from intel his team had collected - Megatron was a’‘love it or hate it’ archetype. Dividing opinion even when it came to the berth.
Some, extending as far as his own Autobot ranks, were open about their less than professional views on the warlord. It was only natural, he supposed. So many Gladiators were marketed as sex symbols too. A way to sell more merchandise, to gain more fans.
Optimus sipped at his cube. He supposed he fell on the ‘love it’ side of the spectrum.
Megatron did not talk about his past lovers or triumphs. Curious for a mech with such vast ego. Even after drinks when Optimus had tried to pry and Megatron became loose lipped.
He was curious. Hoping Megatron’s words would offer a salve for the wound that was his own rather pathetic roster of previous interface partners. Or shattering him completely with tales of many sensual interface partners. Either was better than not knowing at all.
Megatron was on Optimus’ own rather somber list, of course.
It was impossible to know someone as long, as intensely as they did without* interfacing.
There were times it was more difficult not to just fall into each other. And Megatron often enjoyed the path of least resistance for his end goal.
They had always been quick. Rushed, desperate, rough. Sloppy. Without kissing and devoid of kindness. It was a thing they did to each other rather than shared together. Sometimes Megatron took him with force from behind. Others, during parts of the war Optimus did not wish to relive - Megatron would fake surrender in more ways than one.
The move-in had changed that. The end of the war.
Optimus found himself thinking about thick silver spike while in meetings. His valve lubricating at the thought of choking on it, of black servos pushing at his helm. He craved it. The comforting familiarity of his commanding touch. Their squabbles that followed them to the berth. A battle for dominance he would happily loose just to see the grin across grey faceplates.
Post-war, the slight softening of Megatons character that would have been missed by anyone who did not know him so well. Quiet nights after drinks of engex they had come together naturally. Always in Optimus’ berth. However in the mornings he found the room devoid of life other than his own.
They never mentioned it. Only the following week Megatron would be a little more touchy on certain evenings. Optimus would watch as he bit his lip, fighting back an argument that would fling them into an almighty debate. He’d bring back energon treats. Compliment Optimus’ armour that hadn’t be polished since he last saw it. His naturally overbearing nature not helping in his lack of subtlety.
Optimus found himself looking forward to those nights. Mutual understanding with little need for any spoken word. Megatron rotating him, slotting between his thighs. Pinning down blue arms above his helm and staring, optics blown wide while he delivered each forceful, calculated thrust. His mouth hanging open as Optimus clenched around him, pedes digging into his back. The overload was always shattering, causing vocaliser static Optimus wasn’t previously aware he could produce. Megatron was good with his spike when he wasn’t selfish.
Optimus moved around the sofa and kicked him in the side.
It was a light kick. Didn’t even jolt his frame, and yet the most successful performer Cybertron had ever produced made a drama nonetheless.
“Prime!” He grumbled, servo flying to his side. The paint not even scratched. The pain non-existent.
“You’re recharging before it’s even dark.” Optimus sipped at his cube.
“It is dark in here. I closed the blinds.”
“That doesn’t count.”
Megatron muttered something unintelligible and sat up, old joints creaking as he stretched. It wasn’t his fault that the sofa was so comfortable, he was so tired and Optimus was so late back from work. All these things aligned to force him into a peaceful slumber.
It also was not his fault that Optimus couldn’t grasp that very simple fact. And was now glaring down at him. That sort of half disappointed, half sad, part tired and angry glower that only Optimus had perfected the history of time.
Megatron laid back on the sofa, letting his plating seams widen with a loud exvent. Preparing for the scolding that usually followed such a look. Optimus liked to remind him of his internal clock, health and how lazy he was becoming.
Megatron was already brewing snide retorts.
But the Prime’s words never came.
Megatron peaked an optic open. Optimus was simply stood, legs apart and staring intensely. Drink shaking in his left servo.
Megatron had seen this one before. Internal conflict. Best to let it play out. Say nothing to gain the upper hand without having to utter a word. He let his thighs lull apart, helm pressed back against the cushion. Neck cabling exposed and relaxed. It would pass.
A heavy weight settled atop his lap. Drink discarded elsewhere. Servos were on his chasis, pressing firmly against the warming metal. Optimus was a pleasant heaviness. Resting easily across his thighs, canted forward into him. His frame was hot and fans already set on a low whirr.
Megatron idly ran digits along his sides, wondering if he’d spent all day pent up like this. Needy and ready. Waiting to come home to him. To their tattered little hab suite. To their sofa and his over familiar touch.
Optimus breathed against his neck, rolling his hips forward so their panels brushed. Trying for friction with little success. The soft click of his modesty panel unlocking and transforming apart filled the room. Quiet desperation lighting a fire in Megatron’s tanks. His holy Prime so eager, so wanting to remove the irks of the day through a good overload.
Megatron could feel wet heat over his concealed spike. The charge hardening him as a soft groan escaped his scarred lips, not yet freeing his equipment.
It was uncomfortable. But there was little point releasing it so soon. Optimus was not often so needy, so heated without suitable prompting.
Only a fool would not savour this.
Megatron grinned snidely, two black digits traced their way down Optimus’ front and settled over his anterior node. He readied his goading remark as he ghosted over the pulsing blue biolight.
A servo clamped over his open mouth. The metal digits hitting his teeth and making him recoil.
‘Dont’ Optimus told him without words. Red optics dimmed to a smouldering colour and Megatron nodded in understanding.
The grey mech let his spike free. Giving in to the Prime’s whims. Optimus watched, rapt, as it stiffened and filled with energon.
They moved together. Blue servos falling to broad grey shoulders. Hips taken in hand by black ones. Megatron helping him rise as Optimus steadied himself. Megatron’s smell was masculine and intoxicating. Iron, smoke and rich oil.
He sank down slow. Easing Megatron’s length inside, taking sharp breaths as each rounded nodule popped through his tight outer rim. Keening, producing light moans he did not bother to stipend. Megatron rubbed soothing circles into the Prime’s hips with his thumbs. Letting him take what he needed.
Optimus began to melt atop him. His tons of armour and practiced posture losing its composition as he reached the hilt, their metal coming together with a small clank. Megatron placed servos under his arms, balencing him out as Optimus began to roll his hips listlessly. The thrum of Megatron’s powerful engine reverberated through his frame.
Moans entangled. Optimus allowed his helm to fall back, mouth open as Megatron began to thrust upwards in tandem. Small movements, savouring the rake of his spike inside tight, hot valve. Callipers still finding their correct setting against such a large intrusion. While the Prime was large himself, Megatron’s length still proved a struggle and the stretch was delicious.
Optimus was surprisingly vocal in berth. Digits beginning to form dents in Megatron’s strengthened armour. It was long, drawn out. Optimus cried openly, moans falling from him as tears began to prick at his optics. The stress fleeing his stiff frame with every node cluster lit up. Megatron’s edging thrusts began building into a crescendo, letting natural rhythm lead him rather than the maintained effort of pistoning.
Megatron’s optics never strayed from Optimus’ faceplates. Watching as his overload formed, hot and certain his his tanks. The intrigue as it played out on the Prime’s usually stoic features. Ecstasy filling him from the core as Megatron increased his pace unthinkingly, causing Optimus’ valve to squeeze and ripple around his spike.
Optimus was a beautiful rider. Hips rolling forward in perfect timing, chest puffed and neck cabling taut. Megatron reached to grope at his ample aft, feeling his own overload teetering on the edge. He did not feel the need to hold it or drive harder. This softness was for them, this time for them. He leant forward to capture the Prime’s lips in a kiss. Hot and open mouthed, moans mingling between them.
Optimus let his overload rack through his frame first. Gasping into Megatron’s mouth as his movement became wrought and jagged before seating himself fully. Gyrating his hips downwards. Feeling Megatron’s spike tip press against his ceiling node, threatening to breach through to his forge.
Optics shuttered as fluid rushed from his valve, coating their thighs from where they joined. Megatron grunted, drawing back and thrusting up. Optimus held fast as he took his fill. Thick streams of transfluid painted his internals, filling him with a satisfying warmth. He declined the HUD ping to open his forge without thinking.
Megatron shuddered below him, heavy frame pinging with heat.
The grey mech groaned, glancing down to the mess between their laps. Optimus would start complaining they needed to clean up before it ruined the sofa at any moment.
“That was different.” He breathed, petting the back of Prime’s helm which had fallen listlessly forward into the crook between his neck and shoulder armour. He was dead weight atop him now, and utterly soft.
“I needed you.” He muttered, the sound muffled by grey plating.
Knowing him well enough not to push, Megatron gathered the mech in his arms and lifted him free from softening spike. Carrying him to the shared washracks that were barely big enough to fit one of them.
Optimus braced himself upright as the warm solvent began to pour. Megatron disappeared back into the hab. Likely to drink and clean.
Optimus sighed, forehelm clicking against tile as it hit the shower wall.
They really needed to talk about this soon.