Chapter Text
The palace was quiet, as it always was when the stars shimmered above the Crystal Spires. The hum of energy from the Matrix flickered softly in the background, its sacred glow pulsing like a heartbeat. It was the time of the Ascentioning, when Optimus Prime’s cycle of purity began—an age-old ritual that the priests called a divine trial of restraint. They swore that his spark was the key to all Cybertron’s salvation, a vessel untouched, unbroken.
But the air in his private sanctum was thick with something more than just incense and the whispers of the faithful.
The priests had commanded the Prime to remain untouched, to keep his body—and his desires—pure.
But the truth was a quiet, forbidden thing: he had already chosen.
The soft rustle of wire-silk broke the silence. Optimus Prime stood alone by the window, framed by the pale moonlight, his optics dimmed in concentration, but not in peace. His body ached, and the heat that surged through him wasn’t just from the rites of his people—it was the slow, impossible burn of desire.
The priests believed his chastity would ensure the balance of the universe.
They didn’t know he was already bound.
His frame pulsed as EM field drew near. A soft click of the door echoed in the stillness, and a figure stepped inside—a dark, imposing silhouette that filled the space with his presence alone.
Megatron.
His frame loomed in the doorway, regal, powerful, his crimson optics glowing with an intensity that had always unsettled the peace of this place. He was the Lord High Protector, the one who shouldn’t be here. The one the priests feared most in terms of his chasity.
But none of that mattered when it was just the two of them.
“I told you it’s forbidden,” Optimus whispered, though his voice cracked with the heat of something deeper, something he couldn’t control.
“And yet here I am,” Megatron replied smoothly, his tone low, drenched in dark promise. He stepped forward, the smooth, polished plates of his armor reflecting the light like the surface of a distant star. "You’ve never needed my permission before."
Optimus couldn’t speak. He was too aware of the way his body reacted to the proximity of Megatron. Too aware of how every nerve in him longed for the touch of the one mech who made him feel alive in ways the priests could never understand.
The silence between them stretched, taut and thick, until Megatron moved closer, one step, then two—until the heat between them became something tangible, heavy, almost suffocating.
“You’re burning,” Megatron murmured, his voice hushed as he stood close enough to feel the pulse of Optimus’s energy. Two arms snaked around to bring the Prime back into his Lord’s chest, his own arms coming up to grasp at them.
Red optics flicked down to the Prime’s chest, where the Matrix glowed faintly, its power always present but never more intoxicating than now.
Optimus’s breath hitched, though he didn’t move besides the up and down of his chest, his fans working to cool as much as they could. Not yet. The priests would say this was wrong—that the touch of Megatron would stain him, mar his sacred essence. They believed in his purity, his unyielding, cold righteousness.
But the truth was far simpler: he was already lost.
Memories of before their ascension bled into his mind and the shiver that encompassed Optimus made his support struts weak. Arms tightened to hold him and they did not help whatsoever.
“Only for you,” Optimus whispered. The words came out raw, a confession he’d been holding back for too long.
Megatron’s hand, long fingers adorned with the weight of the throne, slowly reached for him, moving with the precision of a mech who had mastered restraint. But there was nothing restrained in his touch as it cupped Optimus’s jaw, tilting his face back and upward.
Optimus’s optics fluttered closed, his frame trembling with the effort of holding still, of not succumbing. Megatron’s claws did the same.
“Tell me you want this,” Megatron whispered, his voice low and coaxing, as though he were calling to the most vulnerable part of Optimus’s spark. “Tell me you don’t want them to control you anymore.”
Optimus opened his optics, locking with Megatron’s gaze. His breath caught, shallow, the heat in his body rising faster than his circuits could register. “I... I need you. I want you.”
Megatron’s other servo slid down, cresting the curve of his waist to his panel which laid hot with need, fingers digging gently into the sensitive cables in his hip. It was a movement that spoke of dominance, of ownership—and it made Optimus’s entire frame hum.
“Yet I cannot have you.”
“You belong to me,” Megatron said, his voice smooth as energon. “Not to them. Not to their rules.”
“Of course… My protector.”
“They will know.”
The claws on his jaw tapped and tapped, and plush dermals brushed against his own in a whisper.
“They will only know if allowed, my spark.”
There was no space between them now. No room for words. Only the quiet, suffocating pull of their bodies, the scent of Megatron’s energon, mingling with the intoxicating aroma of incense and desire.
Optimus’s frame trembled. He couldn’t resist. He didn’t want to.
The hand that had been at his neck slowly slid down, tracing the outline of his plating. The contact was slow, deliberate, a teasing promise of what was to come. But the touch burned like fire, sending currents of heat through Optimus’s body, and he couldn't stifle the moan that slipped from his vocal processors.
“You think they can save you?” Megatron asked, his voice barely a whisper against Optimus’s audials. “They can’t. No one can.”
The words were like an echo of a truth Optimus had always known. He wasn’t meant to be a statue. He wasn’t meant to remain pure and untouched forever. Not that he was anyway.
His spark was bound to Megatron's in a way that defied the priests, defied logic, defied everything they had ever believed.
And when Megatron leaned in with a behind his fin, his breath brushing the side of Optimus’s audial, the space between them closed completely.
“You are mine, Optimus,” Megatron breathed.
And that was enough.
The rising dawn began with the priests funneling into the sanctum, morning prayer already at hand at multiple incenses burned in pink light. Optimus, with not a bit of wire silk rumpled or out of place, stood in the center. His panels shifted slightly and the ache within burned pleasantly.
He looked forward to Cybertron’s moons decorating the night sky.