Chapter Text
Optimus had not a shred of thought on the way up the stairs, escorted by Prowl. At least, not one that wasn't perverse.
A part of him wanted to tackle the silver warframe to the nearby wall and interrogate him until Luna One and Two dipped below the horizon and gave way to the scorching morning sun. For what exactly, he still didn’t know. Because Megatron feigned unconsciousness and therefore cheated in an impromptu match? Because of his audacity to speak to him like he didn’t just salaciously flirt while they were in that inappropriate position as if they were simply inebriated mechs who made their way into an unused berth? Or is it because…he secretly hoped, somewhere deep within the recesses of his processor, if Megatron would indeed do it. Actually bring him to berth and…
I wonder how much of a fight you’ll give, if I take you.
The words made Optimus shiver. After so many vorns of rejecting mechs as they were handed to him on a silver platter, he ended up choosing the one that presented himself on a molded plate of clay. The Matrix sent waves of warmth and bliss throughout his frame when Megaton pinned him, and Optimus had to focus everything he had to not let out a shuddering vent of pleasure. The feeling of acceptance, of a void he didn’t know he had, finally being filled with those words. Unfortunately, the feeling came with an extremely unwanted presence of heat in his long-neglected interface panels. Whether it was coming from the ancient Cybertronian artifact currently residing within his chassis pushing him to let Megatron take him, or actually being aroused by the handsome warframe – Optimus really hoped it wasn’t the latter – he wanted, no, needed it to stop.
As the crown prince he had to-
No. I’m not the Prime.
You are , a voice inside his processor said. You are the continuation of the Primacy. Your people need you. There will be no other.
“The thing is, I’m here because there was another!” he hissed to himself.
“What was that?” Prowl asked.
“Nothing.”
They will follow you. If they don’t, make them . The voice pressed. It is your duty to protect them. Your duty as a Prime.
This voice…it didn’t sound like one that frequently rampaged his thoughts. It had a tone of authority, experience, and yet managed to sound comforting and soft like a creator would to their sparkling. It felt like a part of him, a part forgotten and buried under millennia of civil duties and responsibilities of a prince. But it was so, so oddly familiar. It was like an old tune that was sung to you when you were young and hearing it once again. To Optimus, this voice was a melody, beckoning him to listen. Listen and obey.
It was not his voice.
Who are you? He asked in his head.
My identity remains to be revealed. For now, you are not to know.
How are you in my head?
I am a part of you, Optimus Prime. Always have been. It said simply, confidently.
What do you mean? The prince questioned.
The others await you to seek their knowledge. Seek within and seek true. Then you will know.
Just like that, the voice was gone, his processor filled with nothing but the whirring sounds of his mental circuits.
He wanted to chase after the mysterious voice, pulling up every line of thought coding in an attempt to find the route it had taken to get in and leave so easily. His search came up fruitless. The code hadn’t been tampered with, and he hadn’t consumed a drop of energon during the ball, so that ruled out any chance of him somehow consuming poison of some kind – Optimus didn’t even know if there was a poison capable of such a thing. He ran a quick safety scan on his motherboard and hard drives for abnormal code or charge that gives away the method of shadowplay, and found nothing. The voice didn't originate from an external source.
I am a part of you, Optimus Prime.
Was it true? If this voice–mech, spirit, whatever it was–-spoke the truth, then it literally originated from inside of him. A pulse he knew all too well surged through his lines. A sign; a sign he was close.
The Matrix.
The Matrix of Leadership: an ancient treasure believed to be created by Primus himself for one of the original 13 Primes. Scholars believe it to hold all the wisdom of its previous bearers – Optimus’s predecessors. Those who have borne it are one with the Matrix, or so it is said, though unreputable, reliable accounts of the bearer actually interacting with the Matrix – as in asking it for advice, guidance, etc. – are rare to come across. Optimus had only heard of one or two Primes who have managed to gain full access to the wisdom itself at the very core. At most, the Matrix sends signs through one's frame or processor to indicate or urge certain thoughts or feelings that are considered important; at least to its standards.
In this case. . . what is considered important to the relic residing just a few feet away from Optimus's spark chamber, is being in Megatron's presence right now – his panels radiating higher levels of heat at the mere remembered fragments of the warlord's imposing frame – and keeping his position as Prime. Could the voice have been one? An older Prime, greater than he ever could be? Reaching out to him ? Why not Sentinel when he was alive? Why him , of all mechs?
Optimus heard his berthroom door shut behind him.
He winced. He saw bright blue luminescent liquid trickling down his thighs and calves. It was partially dried, as bodily energon would not long after being exposed to Cybertron's air. Most likely from a wound he didn't notice, one particularly deeper than the others since he felt smaller pinches and stings across his legs, but no visible energon. Cuts and slashes were picked up by his optical sensors all over the dress, slicing through the fabric to expose his armor underneath as he shifted. Though the dress obscured most of his form, Megatron must have gotten a few lucky hits with his claws. His self-repair was already dealing with the worst of the damage, and it couldn't have been too bad since no warnings appeared on his HUD during or after the battle.
He slid out of the outfit and let it gather in a red and blue mess of silk and mesh around his pedes. Prowl hadn't turned on the lights before he left, so the only source of light was Optimus's optics, which illuminated the area around him and left the surroundings in a dark indigo hue. He walked over to the wash racks absentmindedly, fatigue catching up to his processor and clouding any further pondering thoughts.
He turned the tap and let the cool solvent run over his aching frame. Flakes of dried energon mixed with the running solvent and went into the drain. He heaved a vent of relief when a notification on his HUD informed him that his panels were returning to their normal temperature.
His processor was numb, his spark was numb. His-everything was numb.
Megatron's revelation swirled around the protoform of his helm. Sentinel hadn't just died. He was murdered, killed in cold blood by the members of his own Council. And they had covered it up, released an official declaration of the transfer of Primacy and held a royal send-off for the unfortunate loss of the crown prince, who had died heroically in battle protecting innocent civilians. Afterwards, the world moved on. Like Sentinel Prime was but a pebble in a continuously flowing stream of time. His own sire appeared to hold no pain or grief in his optics. Optimus expected Ultra Magnus to show some amount of bitterness towards him, resent him even. But the Magnus – and every other member of the Council – welcomed him with open arms. Optimus detected something off about their gaze: their smiles a little too wide, their expressions a little too forced, their servos trembling as they stay outstretched to an unknown mech now in the position of second-highest rank on the whims of a god whom no one knows truly exists.
His optics shuttered as he fought back a yawn. Tiredness fogged up his circuits once more, the events of the day regaining control of his frame. Recharge. He needed to recharge.
After drying off with a nearby cloth, he collapsed onto the berth, which made loud creaking noises under the sudden pressure, and let the current of recharge sweep him away.
—
Being a bodyguard to someone of such great importance was a constant strain on both one’s mental and physical capabilities. In Prowl’s case, however, he was essentially made for the role. A slick frame with an even slicker processor was undeniably why Ultra Magnus had chosen him. When the new crown prince was introduced, the Magnus had him swear fealty to the red and blue mech the very same day. He was under Optimus’s command at every moment, and ready to obey any order. Bumblebee would always mock him for it, calling him, ‘Optimus’s shadow’ because of his undying loyalty to the crown and duty.
After tonight though, Prowl remained unsure of how far he was willing to let his faith guide him. First with the dance; then the two outside together on the palace steps – faces centimetres away from touching; then the Prime commanding Prowl to leave him and the warframe alone in the ballroom, only to emerge with his dress ripped, producing abnormal amounts of heat and venting hard. The ninjabot instantly came up with several possible explanations for the mess the prince was in, most of which weren’t exactly favorable in any way.
During the walk to the prince’s berthroom, Prowl had to keep his emotions in check to prevent himself from berating the Prime with scornful words and questions. Internally, he was scolding himself for not stopping the Prime in the first place.
He walked to his own chambers in complete silence, broken by his own venting and zapping internal charge. He tapped the passcode for his door and it slid open and shut behind him. His chamber wasn’t as decorated as the other rooms in the palace: having only a berth, a small washrack, a pantry and a few pieces of furniture dotted around – Bee and Elita had conspired together to sneak them into his room. He had given up most items of luxury in favor of a more utilitarian design: in place of a balcony, he had a one-sided window to prevent any snipers; in place of an entertainment system in the living room, was a large monitor divided into 15 smaller sections on the screen. All of them broadcasted live video feeds from cameras discreetly installed around the palace – his position of bodyguard also doubled as head of security – thanks to Wheeljack. Caches of weapons lay within the walls and floor, hidden by Prowl himself, and the position of each stash memorized to the wire – Prowl could retrieve all of them in his sleep.
“Hey, babe,” a voice suddenly said from behind him.
Prowl swiveled on his heels, dagger already in hand. He held it out in front of him, angled so it doesn’t kill, but injures, aimed straight for the upper visceral cavity of a regular mech. A servo emerged from the shadows and gripped his wrist joint, making the titanium blade hover just inches from the other’s faceplates. His optics landed on a familiar visor.
Jazz.
“Woah there. Chill out, m’mech. You’ve been pretty jumpy recently. What’s up?” the white and blue mech said.
Jazz was virtually his opposite in every way: cool, level-headed and flexible. He could adapt to any surroundings with the right tools and mindset. He could be dumped into the Pits unarmed and unguarded and come out carried on the shoulders of the toughest gladiators. His personality was what charmed so many mechs into practically pouring out information for him. And admittedly, including Prowl. Even the walls he built up specifically to withstand Jazz's charisma crumbled in the face of the mech himself when they talked. He was just so vibrant and lively; things the head of security wasn't.
It took him a while to confess – Prowl of Praxis wasn't the romantic type of mech. Jazz told him his feelings hadn’t gone unreciprocated and the bodyguard physically melted into the other’s arms. They agreed to court each other on one condition: no interfacing unless needed or strongly desired on both sides.
The bodyguard lowered his blade and slid it back into its place on his armor: tucked between the thick plating of his right thigh. “Don’t scare me like that, Jazz,” he sighed. “How did you get in here, anyway?”
“I followed you here. To be honest, I was surprised you didn’t notice me. You must be in some deep thinking for that to happen.”
Jazz knew him, as he always did. Prowl wasn’t the type of mech to let his guard down. He hardly let anyone slip by unseen, even if it was someone as skilled as Jazz; he’d caught the other ninjabot trying to sneak up on him more times than he actually succeeded. His instincts have not let him down – another reason he was entrusted with the position of royal bodyguard. Except this time. No matter what, the prince’s safety came first. He had to bring honor to his fellow Praxians, to the Primacy, to the ninjabots. He couldn’t-
His thoughts stopped short when something hit his dermas. It was soft, cold and sent shivers down his back strut.
Jazz’s lips. On his.
His processor short-circuited. The entire ball he was continuously tortured with the slightest of touches from Jazz, teasing and burning with promise of something more. For a breem, he relished in the warmth and care transferred through such a simple yet effective action. The want and longing for that warmth bubbled up inside him. When was the last time he felt like this? Not since-
Jazz pulled away. The heat was replaced with cold. “Sorry, I probably should’ve asked if you were okay with that. I had like 2 shots of high-grade at the ball. Maybe some of it is still-”
He was cut off by his partner grabbing him by the shoulder plates and pulling, meeting his lips with fervor. Lust and love filled the red and gray mech’s field. Jazz was overwhelmed. He didn’t expect Prowl to react like that. Regardless, he was happy with this, and intended to make the most of it.
Prowl extended his glossa, navigating the mesh of Jazz’s intake and sliding it across his dentae. Jazz did the same, gently nipping his partner’s lower derma, earning a soft moan from the usually stoic mech. Their lips locked together as the Jazz worked his way into the seams of Prowl’s tightly knit plating using his slim digits, hitting delicate transforming seams. Prowl gasped slightly into their kiss. That gasp was all the motivation Jazz needed to keep going, digging deeper into his plating, nicking secondary energon lines and wires.
As a spy, gathering information was key in his job, and for the past few mega-cycles that was exactly what he did: keeping a close eye on his partner to pinpoint the locations of the more sensitive wiring tucked away in his armor. This wasn't his first rodeo, after all.
As the blue-white mech proceeded with his light tugging and caressing, he didn't notice his partner shifting his faceplates down to his throat, lightly biting the cables there. Jazz had to stifle a groan. Prowl smiled into the cable he was nipping. His partner wasn't the only one with experience in espionage.
He gently slid one his digits into a gap in Jazz’s plating, just below his waist: a design flaw that came with his alt-mode. It led straight into the outermost shell of the protoform within. He rubbed circles into it and watched the spy shiver and melt into the touch. By now they were gasping for air, their vents rattling with every breath. It was amazing.
Prowl glanced at his berth. It was fairly simple, just big enough for two Iaconian mechs, with a single light gray coverlet and 2 pillows.
He paused for a moment. Should he really do this? Maybe Jazz simply wanted a kiss and he had taken it too far, overcome with desire. He wasn’t about to drag his courtmate into an interfacing session he didn’t want. He would harm his courtmate and bring dishonor to both himself and his line.
“If you’re thinking ‘bout placing me on that berth and fragging me ‘till my lights go out, then I say you’re more than welcome to do so,” Jazz gasped. “After all, we have reached a mutual agreement.”
A mutual agreement. He wanted it too. The bodyguard silently thanked Primus.
He removed his finger from the gap and wrapped his arms around his partner, pulling him in for another passionate kiss. He brought Jazz over to the berth and laid him on it, still trapped in a tangle of glossas and dentae. It took them a few breem to get into positions comfortable enough for satisfactory interfacing. Jazz had his helm on the headboard and Prowl situated himself directly between his thighs, sitting in a prayer-like position.
“Are you certain you wish to partake in interfacing with me?” Prowl asked.
Jazz tilted his helm and flashed a smile. Prowl, always the cautious one. “Of course, babe. I wouldn’t be here now if I didn't want to. And no fancy talk in the berth. Takes me out of the mood.”
A bright blue flush spread across Prowl’s features. “Of course, my dear.”
The ex-spy breathed a vent. “So, are we gonna do this?”
“Why shouldn’t we, my beloved ?”
Jazz’s engines purred at the sound of those last words. His beloved. Prowl’s beloved. His voice had a low lilting tenor from his Praxian origins combined with his solar-cycles in Iacon. He had been called many names by lovers before, but this was different. New. And the fact that so simple a term could be so otherworldly to Jazz only sucked him in further into the relationship.
This, this mech reached somewhere no other has gone. And it feels so right.
Prowl had traced his digits along the edges of Jazz’s plating, leaving soft kisses in the smooth metal. He could feel the heat emitting from beneath his partner’s modesty panel; his internals already climbing to critical levels along with it. The time for teasing is over.
He got down on his abdomen, face close to the hot panels. With a lick, he made clear what he had his spark on.
The metal plates slid back in an instant, exposing Prowl to a waft of hot air and the musk of warm lubricant. Jazz’s spike pressurized as it slid out of its housing with a hiss. His valve was dripping with blue lubricant which stained the coverlet.
Prowl sighed internally. Hopefully he won’t have to deal with prying servants the next day.
He inserted a digit into the fluttering valve. Jazz arched into the touch, trying to press it deeper. Prowl hooked another in, searching for a node. He made sure to slide along the trembling wet walls deliberately to trigger any sensitive sensors that were scattered around. To his satisfaction, he must have struck home, as his partner began to wriggle and writhe.
"Would you just get inside already?" Jazz grumbled beneath the pillow he smothered his face in.
Prowl grinned. He let his own panels transform back, watching the first drops of transfluid fall from the tip of his quickly pressurizing spike. He had never done this before – his sensei told him to abstain from any and all matters pertaining to sexual needs and desires in the face of true strength. Seeing his courtmate however, shivering and twitching under his touch, was enthralling. It may not be true strength, but it was equivalent to it.
Without wasting any more time, Prowl took his digits out and wiped them on the coverlet.
“W-what are you…” Jazz mumbled.
Prowl took one of his clean digits and traced his partner’s derma. “Hush now, my dear. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
He took the moment to gently insert his spike into the waiting valve. It was sleek and in his colors: covered in cadmium red and white biolights. He pushed in deep and quick, not wanting to waste anymore fluids. Jazz moaned and arched his back while Prowl stifled a whimper. The ex-spy was so hot and wet and he could feel the calipers tighten and relax around the intruding spike. He twisted his hips, pulling out just enough so the tip still stayed in the lips of the valve, and remembered where all the nodes and sensor clusters were. More determined to achieve his goal, Prowl thrusted back in, stronger and watched the mech in his berth cry out in pleasure, his own cry following. Had he known they would be so loud, he would have made sure to soundproof the walls before they interfaced.
Crackles of charge danced between the nodes as pleasure coding required the mechs to redirect more fluids to ease the process. Both of them proceeded to do so, letting excess transfluid and lubricant spill onto the sheets. Prowl set an easy pace at first, unsure whether his partner would object.
“You said I wouldn’t be disappointed, Prowl,” Jazz said, tone mocking despite his optics fading in and out, an obvious sign he was enjoying it.
“You won’t.”
Prowl gradually increased his speed, calculating how fast he could go before they both overloaded. During an inward thrust, he hoisted himself up until he was at Jazz’s level and kissed him mercilessly: biting his derma until the metal dented, forcing his glossa down his throat to taste every inch. Jazz tasted of high grade – bitter with a hint of citrus – and smoke, probably settled in from all his vent hiding. He let Jazz taste him as well, feeling the slimy metal enter his mouth and make its way down his intake.
While licking at the base of Jazz’s glossa, he realized that he had left his partner’s spike unattended. He glanced down. The spike was still pressurized and glowing with light blue biolights that ran down the sides. His valve suddenly ached with the need to have that beautiful spike in him .
At this point, the room was a mix of moaning and groaning and other indiscernible noises of pleasure.
They eventually separated, venting hard and swallowing air. The whirring of cooling fans on high drowned out most of their panting. The berth was a mess of tossed and stained sheets and strewn pillows.
“Ready…to…give in?” Prowl asked between pants.
“Not…until you do. Besides, I've lasted…ngh…longer.” Jazz replied breathlessly.
That was a challenge if Prowl had ever heard one. He was going to make his partner overload until his tanks meant for holding pleasure fluids ran dry.
He controlled his thrusts, inserting sharp and quick and retracting slowly to maximize friction. Thanks to his ninjabot processor, he had clear and precise memory of where each node and hyper-sensitive sensor clusters were. He angled and bucked his hips in certain directions to touch on every single one of them.
Jazz started to howl his name. He had succeeded.
“Prowl! Primus, save me.” his partner exclaimed, gasping and scrambling at Prowl’s shoulder plates.
The charge was building too high. He needed to release. Now.
He pushed in as deep as the wet mesh would allow him to go, making the ex-spy emit another loud groan. The pleasure charges were begging to flow free of their container, like the receding tides leading up to a tsunami. With a final grunt, he broke open the barrier and unleashed the flood of charge on his system. His vision whited out as he heard Jazz screaming from under him. Transfluid poured from the tip of Prowl’s spike like a mineral waterfall. He could feel – Primus, even smell – the lubricant seeping from Jazz’s walls, drenching his spike. They convulsed as they simultaneously overloaded, causing bright blue fluids to dribble down their legs and onto the berth.
Prowl wasn’t in control of his movements anymore. His processor was more or less completely fried. His arms gave out from beneath him, his frame collapsing on the berth, and by extent, Jazz. The last he could recall before his systems forced him into recharge was an engine rumbling into his audials. Prowl relaxed at the vibrations on his plating. It sounded similar to the purring of a cyber cat. A servo cupped his waist.
Not too long afterwards, the chamber was filled with the snoring and the purring of engines of two mechs like cyber cats perfectly content following a meal of pet energon. If neither of them knew what comfort was before, they certainly knew it now.