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Part One
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Iacon’s central palace had been built of bronze and copper and once it must have absolutely glowed even in its own streetlights and shone like the Allspark Itself in the sunlight. Centuries of neglect had faded its shine and covered everything in thick layers of oxidation in various shades of green. Though the original colors of the metal ー the yellows, golds, browns ー gleamed dully where the patina had been scraped away by repair or repeated use, or where they had cut into a wall or a floor to install something, Optimus had generally left the colors of age unchanged. Æ had forbidden the walls, the floors, and all the various other architectural structures from being polished. Nation building was more important than cleaning, and war would not give them the luxury of being a literal, as well as figurative, beacon. Besides, æ liked the dull backdrop to the colored curtains and other furnishings they had found, traded for, or made.
“Refugees from Sentinel’s Court seeking asylum,” the majordomo announced and Optimus Prime looked up from consultation with Ironhide and Smokescreen where their war-table had been set up to the side of the throne room. There were so many sheer curtains, hung to direct a visitor’s gaze and traffic to the throne itself that Optimus could hardly see the entrance. Æ did see the majordomo’s expression sour as ðey finished ðeir announcement, “Accompanied by Ambient.”
That was one of Jazz’s court-names.
Optimus waved for Smokescreen to take the maps away, and the much smaller mech switched off the holoprojector and folded it up before slipping it into a scroll-case to protect it.
Ironhide slithered out of the curtains and coiled up, folding ðeir arms to glare. Ðey didn’t mean anything by it, Optimus knew; aggressive caution was in ðeir nature. The majordomo, though, tended toward being intimidated by the Prime’s bodyguards and bowed hurriedly, drawing the curtain as ðey slithered aside to let the refugees in.
They slithered in, about fifty mechs, keeping their fore-bodies close to the ground in fear and supplication. There were stories about Optimus’ court in the other Primes’ courts, but these mechs would not know what was true and what was just fanciful imagining. Optimus hated seeing fear in ær subjects, but these were not yet ær subjects and so they had good reasons for their fear.
There was a white flash among the reds and yellows of Sentinel Prime’s children, an undulating form that was not Jazz. Optimus could see Jazz clearly. That white mech was slithering around the outskirts of the group, keeping them together and moving forward when their instincts were telling them to flee the musky taste-scent of a foreign Prime. The other white mech was slithering even lower to the ground, even allowing the others to slither over ðem, attempting to hide.
Optimus did not wait for the murmur of confusion that often came when visitors to ær throne room first noticed the throne itself was empty and slithered ær way through the curtain maze to reveal ærself. The throne might have been necessary, but whenever possible, Optimus spoke mech-to-mech with ær subjects and avoided, as much as æ could, speaking Prime-to-mech. Sometimes it was unavoidable, like now, but that didn’t mean æ needed to use the throne.
The group drew away from ær with a collective hiss. Jazz whirled, slithering into a tight circle so that ðey was facing Optimus. “Hey boss,” ðey drawled casually. “So… Sentinel’s court got leveled by Decepticons, can confirm. Killed anyone who fought back, took all the eggs and hatchlings… These are all that’s left.”
No lamentations for the fallen Prime ærself, of course. Jazz mourned the death of no Prime. Optimus hoped to be worthy of Jazz’s mourning, if æ passed before Jazz did, but if so it would be Orion who ðey mourned, not Optimus Prime, and æ could think of no better shield to be gifted with to protect ær on ær journey through the Underworld and to the Allspark than Jazz’s mourning.
“Be welcome in my court,” Optimus rumbled as gently as æ could. Even if æ didn’t already habitually take in refugees from other Primes’ courts, it would not be good tactical sense to turn these mechs away. Megatron had grown powerful enough to attack a Prime’s stronghold and succeed, and the Decepticons would grow more powerful still off of a whole court’s stolen young. Optimus’ court would need the extra fighters. Even if they did not take up swords or guns themselves, expanding the labor pool would let some of Optimus’ distressingly too-eager children fight instead.
Æ turned ær attention to the majordomo. “See that they are fed and show them to burrows where they can recharge while they integrate into my court.”
“Yes, my Prime.”
The refugees said nothing, obediently slithering out without a word. Optimus hoped to speak with them someday soon, but æ knew that while they could not help but cower from a foreign Prime was not the time.
The colorful shield slithering away, Optimus got ær first clear look at the white mech who had slithered in with them.
“Orion,” Jazz said seriously, and when Optimus looked upon ær friend, æ saw stubbornness and defiance in ðeir expression. Jazz held no weapon, but Optimus did not let that fool ær; Jazz was always more dangerous the more harmless ðey appeared. “This is Prowl,” the white mech stated evenly.
Optimus did not understand why this refugee would provoke a stronger reaction from Jazz than the others. Æ didn’t know why Jazz was worried. They were both eikōns, but that was not particularly rare among Nova’s offspring…
“My Prime. Jazz said,” Optimus looked back to the other white mech, stretched out before ær and cowering on the floor, “that you would take in all of Sentinel’s children, even the eggs, rather than let them fall into Decepticon hands.”
Jazz hissed angrily and slithered presumptuously around Optimus’ fore-body and over ær long-body so that ðey could circle around, where ðey slithered protectively over Prowl, shielding ðeir cowering form with ðeir own. Ðey drew up ðeir fore-body to glare into Optimus’ optics. “I said,” Jazz hissed at Optimus, “that you took in the children of any Prime, that you would rescue all of the eggs if you could. I said you would not kill ðem.”
“Please,” Prowl begged, fore-body pressed to the floor and head bowed to the throne. “Forgive ðem. I know ðey does not speak for you, my Prime. A… a stay of execution is all I ask. Let me lay, let me add my last clutch to your forces against the Decepticons, and then do with me what you will.”
Jazz hissed, aggressively bearing ðeir rear-fangs at Optimus.
It was telling of just how long Jazz had been ær friend that Ironhide, ær most devoted mate and bodyguard, did not even blink at this display.
“Forgive ðem, please, my Prime.” The white mech continued to beg on Jazz’s behalf, far, far less used to how Optimus allowed Jazz to behave in ær presence than Ironhide was.
And yes, now that Optimus looked at the cowering mech, even half-hidden under Jazz’s long-body, æ could see the signs that Prowl was gravid. Very gravid. Ðeir entire long-body was engorged, tapering sharply at ðeir tail where the eggs stopped within ðem. Ðeir snow-white scales were stretched on ðeir frame, clearly showing the myomer structure beneath. White scales that were shiny and new-looking; Prowl had completed ðeir pre-lay shed, recently. It would be less than a decaorn. Ðey should be in a warm laybox, or heated nest of damp sand, resting while ðeir body completed the very last preparations for ovipositing. Not slithering the vast distance between Sentinel and Optimus’ courts, not begging on the cold floor of a Prime’s throne room.
On one scale, Optimus was hurt that Jazz could ever believe ær so sparkless as to have a mech summarily executed, but on the other æ understood Prowl’s abject terror of coming before another Prime. It was one thing to take the orphaned children of a Prime into one’s court. New mechs meant new mates who weren’t already ær own children. Maintaining genetic variability in one’s court was important. Optimus did not want the refugees as mates, but æ knew most Primes looked at their courts, all of their subjects, and saw nothing else.
Still, taking in another Prime’s mate, a mech who, should ðey choose or be sent into hibernation by weather, would continue to lay Sentinel’s eggs. Hatchlings, future members of ær court, who would not live in Optimus’ dreams or see ær vision of the future.
It should have been a difficult decision.
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Part Two
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Prowl noticed the new mech’s scent in the refrigerated rooms as soon as ðey woke from brumation. Sluggishly ðey stirred. Late, as always. As ðey had known it would be. Stretching slowly, ðey tested ðeir frame. In good repair, good health, as always. The Prime would allow nothing else from ær most prized broodstock.
Ðey heaved ðemself up out of the hibernal nest. Energon pumped slowly, cold in ðeir veins, and Prowl slithered out of the refrigerated room. An attendant already waited there. The waking bath already waited there too, and the attendant helped Prowl into the hot water.
Coiling in the bath, Prowl’s thinking cleared as all of ðeir fluids heated. Ðey flexed, feeling the differences in ðeir frame, the changes that had happened since ðey had gone into brumation. Ðey was already gravid. The shells of the Prime’s eggs were not yet developing, but the seed that had been planted in ðeir systems vorns ago had once again taken root.
The newcomer… Prowl raised ðeir head from the bath, tasting the air. “What is your name?” A snow-white mech slithered from the shadows at the edge of the waking room. Prowl looked ðem over, then let ðemself sink back into the warmth. Prowl tasted the air again. Despite the color, this was not one of Prowl’s offspring. Ðey tasted of Nova’s court. “My replacement.”
“Naw,” the mech said, coming closer. Ðey held out a towel and obediently Prowl lifted ðemself from the pool to let ðemself be dried. “Pretty to look at, but sterile as a rock.” Ðey rubbed at Prowl’s armor, making practiced, soothing circles with the towel that wicked away the moisture. “I’m Bop. I came with the latest tribute from Nova, yeah, but I think I’m supposed to be an insult. Sentinel was pissed at the diplomat. The housekeeper ー nice mech ー put me to work in here to get me out of sight.”
An eikōn, but an infertile one. Yes. Sentinel would have considered that a great insult. Æ was already quite angry with Nova that Prowl’s ー Nova’s ー color did not breed true. Of course it didn’t; it had taken generations in Nova’s line to produce pure white mechs, and then even more to breed a pure white Prime. Pure white coloration was the result of two, unrelated recessive traits, and of course Sentinel was heterozygous for neither. All of Prowl’s offspring bore Sentinel’s colors and not even a hint of ðeir own. All of Prowl’s offspring would be double het for both, but without a Prime with similar alleles, it would never breed true. “Nova’s and one of ær double-het mates?”
“Guessed it in one,” the mech confirmed. “Might’ve even been your carrier, about a hundred clutches after you.”
“I doubt it. Mine was axanthic and het amelanistic.” Ðey was also dead.
“Gotcha.” Bop finished drying Prowl’s tail and tossed the towel aside. The glittering clear jewels Sentinel insisted ðey wear were waiting, and Bop helped Prowl into the elaborate piece, wrapping it around ðeir abdomen, draping it over ðeir alae, and fastening it at ðeir neck. Prowl did not bother to check it in the mirror. “Fuel now? Or do you need an orn or so to finish waking up?”
Prowl was not hungry. “Now is fine.”
“Good, good. Got a spread all laid out for you in the library… the housekeeper said you liked the library.”
That was unexpectedly thoughtful. “Thank you.”
“I’ll come see if you need anything once I’m finished with the…” Bop waved ðeir hand to indicate the other hibernation nests and warming pools. Once ðey was finished helping Sentinel’s other mates.
“Go on,” Prowl said, releasing ðem. Ðey did not want to get the mech in trouble. More trouble. An infertile eikōn would always be in trouble in Sentinel’s court.
Æ probably planned on telling other envoys that Bop was one of Prowl’s get, that æ had gotten the coveted coloring to breed true, even if the result was infertile. Prowl could think of no other reason why Bop would have been left alive after the revelation that ðey could not be used as a mate.
Looking to avoid the Prime, Prowl circled the edge of the courtyard that served as Sentinel’s throne room. There was no way out of the brumation areas except through the throne room, but Prowl stuck to the colonnades and shadows at the edges of the room.
The Prime, several guards, and one shivering mech were there. Prowl winced. The mech was amelanistic, with bright white and yellow patterning in ðeir scales. Likely ðey was het axanthic as well, though there was no visual way to confirm that. Nova’s tribute to Sentinel.
Would the mech fight?
No. Ðey cowered while Sentinel circled ðem, but did not run or try to bite. The Prime did not call the guards to hold down ær new mate. Æ slithered over ðem, pushing the mech down onto the ground and then shoved, flipping ðeir lower body over and grabbing ðem on either side of ðeir cloaca with ær spurs before ðey could right ðemself. The spurs were something only Primes had, and Prowl remembered being held by them to be the only pleasurable part of being mated.
Prowl looked away when the hectocotyli emerged from Sentinel’s cloaca, braced ðemself for the mech’s scream.
Now the tribute-mech was fighting and Prowl’s breath quickened. Ðey didn’t need to watch to know what was happening. Several ー between five and ten, depending on how many hectocotyli the Prime had ready ー of the tentacles emerged and thrust into the mech’s cloaca, forcing it open and competing with each other to wiggle deeper into ðeir systems. The hectocotyli had thin, backwards facing needle-like structures on them, ensuring they couldn’t be pulled out. It was incredibly painful, and Prowl braced ðemself and continued without interfering despite the screaming.
It was over in a breem. Sentinel gave an orgasmic hiss and wrenched ærself free of ær new mate. The hectocotyli lodged in ðem came off cleanly, still wiggling and fighting for a place inside the mech’s reproductive tract. If Prowl looked up, ðey knew ðey would see the thick, sheared off ends of the reproductive tentacles all still sticking out of the mech’s cloaca, stretching and stuffing ðem.
Prowl slithered out before the guards could drag the new mech away to medical. Over the next orn, one of those needled appendages would lodge itself in the mech’s systems and attach. The others, failing, would stop wiggling and have to be removed by the medic while the other continued to twitch, spearing the reproductive tract with barbs and locking itself in place so it could grow connections, like a parasite, into its victim. A parasite with a lifetime’s supply of Sentinel’s seminal fluid that also blocked access to the reproductive tract for any other Prime. There would be no other mates. Every time ðey hibernated, ðey would bear a clutch of Sentinel’s eggs.
As Prowl and all of Sentinel’s mates did. Sentinel enjoyed the act of mating, so æ had many, many mates. Most of the court had one of Sentinel’s hectocotyli inside them, though only a couple hundred dedicated concubines were forced into the refrigerated containers to brumate every vorn. Some of Sentinel’s children managed to stay out of sight and avoid copulating, but… very few. Most were mated.
Ðey was not prepared to encounter Sentinel in the hall outside the throne room. Ðey thought æ would have moved on to other tasks quickly after copulating. Ðey tensed, but went when the huge Prime gestured ðem over.
“It’s good to see you awake, my most beautiful prize.” Sentinel never called ær concubines by ðeir names. “I set the hibernation period long this vorn, so you all would have bigger clutches.”
There was no correlation between length of hibernation and clutch size or health. It was one of Sentinel’s delusions. Prowl lowered ðeir alae structures in submissive gratitude. “Thank you, my Prime.”
“Going to finally make eikōns for me?” The Prime’s grip tightened.
It was impossible. Utterly impossible. It was not divine favor; Sentinel just didn’t have the correct alleles. “I will do my utmost to obey my Prime’s desire.”
“Good.” Æ petted ðem roughly.
Mating had put Sentinel in a good mood, it seemed, because æ didn’t even threaten ðem with dire consequences if there were no white hatchlings in ðeir clutch again this vorn. Of course æ did not need to. There would be punishment. There had been punishment every vorn that Prowl had failed to hatch out an eikōn of Primus.
Prowl endured the Prime’s “affection” in silence, and remained in the hall when the Prime went to get ær own meal. Once ðey was sure æ was gone, ðey continued to the library.
Safe as ðey could ever be, ðey collected up the promised tray and slithered among the cubby-shelves until ðey found something that appealed: a scroll of vapid poetry. Once, Prowl had preferred non-fiction. Economics and theory. Law enforcement techniques and forensics. Once, ðey had harbored a fantasy of being an advisor to ðeir Prime, not a… a… egg factory. So now, vapid poetry it was. A little escapism.
Ðey coiled up on a pillow under a sheer canopy and pulled down the scroll’s holographic reading surface so ðey could read as ðey ate.
Ðey was dozing ー and why not? Sentinel thought healthy carriers did nothing but sleep anyway ー when ðey heard another mech slither through the curtain and into the library. The mech was humming, but quieted as ðey approached Prowl. Ðey tasted the air and recognized Bop, the new attendant.
Bop cleaned up the still mostly full tray and neatened the scroll, saving Prowl’s line and turning it off to save power, then draped a heated blanket over ðeir coils and fussed with the sheer curtain, and did so all without disturbing Prowl at all. It was unexpectedly kind, much like placing Prowl’s meal in the library itself had been. Concubines could order servants around, but in absence of direct orders, they tended to treat them much as Sentinel did ー as egg-laying chattel ー and herded them from brumation to the harem tunnel to the laying nests while paying minimal attention to them. Then, instead of leaving to ðeir next task, Bop slithered through the diamond shaped shelf-cubbies much as Prowl had, browsing the titles written on the endcaps of the scrolls. Ðey picked one. Prowl could not see the title, but if the librarian had not rearranged the stacks while ðey had hibernated, that was an atlas. Civilian maps did not show garrisons, forts, or military encampments, but… why would one of Nova’s children be interested in maps of Sentinel’s territories?
“You’re a spy,” Prowl said, not moving from ðeir coiled resting spot.
The spy slithered in a tight circle to face ðem, and having been caught, did not hesitate to brandish a weapon. Prowl just looked at ðem evenly, offering no threat. If the spy decided to kill ðem now, then at least ðey wouldn’t have to oviposit again.
“And what if I am?” the mech demanded, stowing the laser knife with a flick of ðeir wrist. Ðey slithered closer, threatening even without the weapon visible. “What are you going to do about it?”
What would ðey do about it? Ðey had not thought before ðey spoke. Sentinel would… not reward ðem, Prowl decided. Oh, æ may make a show of bestowing favor, force ðem to share ær lectus at a banquet or two, but ðey would bear a clutch this vorn, and Sentinel would force ðem into hibernation again to bear another next vorn, and ðey would endure punishment for being unable to bear a eikōn during either… The only reward Prowl might want was a break, and Sentinel would not give it. “Nothing.”
They watched each other warily, then the spy huffed. “What’s your name?”
“Prowl.” Prowl thought about sitting up, then decided not. “What is yours?”
The spy hesitated. Then, “Jazz,” ðey said. “My name is Jazz.”
Prowl didn’t even care if it was true or not. “Are you really from Nova’s court?”
Jazz’s expression twisted in hatred and Prowl knew ðey had likely met Nova, at least. Ðey slithered over to Prowl, and Prowl pretended not to notice when ðey stowed the atlas away for later reading. “Naw. One of ær get, sure, but I’m from Optimus’ court.”
“Optimus.” The Best. “There are… stories…” Prowl trailed off, unsure of what ðey was even attempting to ask, much less how to word it.
“There are,” Jazz said, slithering under the sheer canopy to speak more intimately. One of ðeir coils accidentally curved too far and ended up pressed lightly against Prowl’s long-body through the heated blanket. Presumptuous. Ðey could not help but dim ðeir optics and lean into the touch. Instead of pulling away, the spy fully joined ðem on the pile of pillows, pressing more of their bodies together through the blanket. Ðey petted Prowl’s helm and it was nothing like Sentinel’s “affection”. “Would you like me to tell you a story, sweetspark? About Optimus Prime’s court?”
“About anything.” Ðey was a traitor to ðeir Prime. Ðey was going to die painfully at ðeir Prime’s hands for it, but ðey couldn’t bring ðemself to care any longer. Prowl relaxed into the spy’s embrace. “Whatever you like.”
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Part Three
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The mech who had volunteered to care for Prowl came running to Jazz whenever there was a problem. Ðey had gone running to Optimus only once, and Optimus had apparently told ðem to go to Jazz. Jazz had managed to successfully talk Prowl into not biting one of the nurses, so now the attendant made Jazz talk Prowl through every minor hiccup, veiled tantrum, nightmare, culture shock, cranky demand, and tired rebellion. Orion was not sympathetic about the disruption to Jazz’s sleep, social, or work schedules. So Jazz went, wondering grumpily what Prowl had come up with this time.
The attendant brought Jazz to Prowl’s laybox. Prowl had been confused by the laybox at first, slithering in circles as ðey looked for the sand nest ðey expected. Optimus’ layboxes were functional, but not decorated: warm and damp and large enough for the carrier to enter, but not large enough to be luxurious, especially after the eggs were laid. Wet acrylic pillows and blankets were more comfortable for the mech while laying, but would cause scale-rust and shell-rot in the long term. Optimus’ layboxes were not meant to be places where carriers brooded over the eggs. Which, based on the attendant’s description of what was going on… Jazz cautiously entered the laybox.
Prowl hissed.
Yeah. Kind of what Jazz had figured. That was equal parts broody and too exhausted to move. “Hey Prowler… They’re trying to take the eggs to incubation and they can’t do that with you in here. Let’s go get some fuel. Then you wanted to be painted a bit, after, right? We can go do that. Got the best artist in the court lined up for you. Ðey traveled from the Sonic Canyons outpost just for you…”
Prowl hissed.
Jazz chuckled. It was dumb but ðey slithered deeper. “Come on, sweetspark. This isn’t a nest. They gotta move the eggs or they’ll rot.”
Not to mention Ratchet wanted to see ðem now that Prowl was supposedly fit to do more than slither around a small room. Ratchet would be the final arbiter of that.
Ðey picked up Prowl’s hand, ran ðeir fingers over the filed-down claws. It was useless to hate a dead mech, but Jazz hated Sentinel so very much on Prowl’s behalf. Ðey hadn’t even been allowed to keep ðeir claws. “Come on, sweetspark.”
Beaten down by vorns as Sentinel’s mate and now trauma bonded to Jazz, Prowl silently let ðemself be coaxed from the laybox. As soon as ðeir tail was free, attendants rushed into the room to pick up the laybox and carry it away. Prowl watched. “What happens to them?”
Jazz hummed, but ðey saw no harm in letting ðem see. “Want to watch them get put into incubation?”
Instead of answering, Prowl started to slither after the laybox. Jazz could have stopped ðem, likely just by keeping hold of ðeir hand and refusing to move, but ðey followed the other white mech gamely. If what Prowl needed was assurance for ðeir clutch…
In the caves beneath Optimus’ palace, more attendants ー Optimus’ guards, doing double duty, though Prowl wouldn’t know that ー waited with dampened perlite and plastic boxes.
Prowl watched how the laybox was opened and the eggs removed. Then each egg was carefully pried from the gluey pile before the fixative finished setting. The top of each egg was marked and then they were tucked into a box of perlite. The process took about a joor, and the guards all handled Prowl’s eggs like they were precious. Jazz wondered if these mechs even knew which mech had laid them. Probably not, but even Jazz would not be able to tell if they did by how they handled the eggs. Orion had fifty ー fifty-ish ー mates, which was very few, compared to Primes like Sentinel who kept hundreds of concubines and still mated with as many of their subjects as they could. They were spread out all over Iacon. They came here, to the palace, where Iacon was the most livable, to hibernate in the refrigerated brumation chambers, but returned to their homes and jobs to carry and lay the eggs. Optimus sent the layboxes with them, ready to be carried back to the palace for incubation. The layboxes were anonymous, and even if a guard knew who had laid the eggs in one, they were very good about continuing to act as though the box was still anonymous.
“Why the… rocks?”
“Perlite. A chemically treated volcanic rock,” Jazz answered, squeezing Prowl’s hand in reassurance. “It doesn’t need as much water to stay damp as sand does, and because there’s no puddles, there’s less shell-rot than in sand nests. The incubator maintains an optimal temperature without brooding,” ðey continued before Prowl asked. “Optimus doesn’t keep concubines; all ær mates have jobs to get back to. And there’s a higher hatching success in the incubator than burying,” and ignoring, “the eggs.”
Jazz did not say that Orion had so few mates, and that kindness towards ær subjects required æ take the absolute utmost care to hatch every viable egg just to keep the court’s population growing. Growth that they needed to finish settling Iacon and prepare it for war. Æ also liked hatchlings, but playing with the hatchlings hadn’t been why æ had abandoned nests completely instead of just offering the incubator as an alternative to mechs who did not want to brood their eggs.
“I don’t have a job to get back to,” Prowl pointed out. “My eggs didn’t need to take up space here.”
“Did you want to brood them?” Jazz asked, knowing the answer. They’d had this discussion while explaining what the laybox was and what it was for. Then, ðey’d only gotten as far as explaining that someone else would take care of the eggs, not how incubation worked, before Prowl had fallen asleep, but in those few breems Prowl had been adamant that ðey didn’t want to brood the eggs if there was another option.
“No. Butー”
“You will have a job,” Jazz assured. Even if Optimus was willing to tolerate repeated clutches of Sentinel’s hatchlings among ær brood and in ær court ー and æ was ー Jazz doubted Prowl would ever willingly go back into brumation. Which meant ðey was no longer a concubine, even if Optimus had maintained a concubine caste in ær court ー which æ didn’t. “You never have to oviposit again.”
Prowl didn’t answer, but ðey trembled with the fear of an unknown future, and edged closer to Jazz until they were touching along the entire lengths of their long-bodies. Ðey had been certain that leaving Sentinel’s court was a death sentence, and ðey hadn’t exactly been wrong because there was no place in a Prime’s court for a mech mated by another Prime. Such mechs were killed, and letting Prowl live had been a mercy Jazz had hoped, had wanted Optimus to be capable of, but there had been a possibility… Now ðey was faced with a future where ðey wasn’t Sentinel’s mate ー wasn’t even a concubine ー and it was what ðey had wanted, but it was also a future ðey couldn't predict and so couldn’t be safe. Jazz was ðeir only constant, so ðey clung to ðem.
Trauma bonded; Jazz didn’t pretend otherwise. Jazz had shown ðem the only kindness ðey had known since before ðey had been given as tribute to Sentinel. Jazz hadn’t been altruistic in giving that kindness. Prowl had given ðem deeper access to parts of Sentinel’s court than a servant could have reached on ðeir own. Ðey hadn't made information or access a condition of continuing the relationship explicitly, but Prowl had figured it out quickly and fetched ðem anything ðey had expressed any interest in for little more than the chance to be read to, or sung to during the bath. Or a private cuddle. So Jazz had practically lavished the affection-starved concubine with attention and praise. Even pleasure. Attachment was natural. Optimus did not approve, but æ understood that spying could require… morally ambiguous actions. Ær only stipulation was, now that both Jazz and Prowl were safe in Iacon, Jazz’s trauma bonded companion was ðeir responsibility.
Eventually the box was placed into the huge incubator with all of Optimus’ eggs, and the door sealed.
“There,” Jazz said lightly, “now no one will even be able to tell the difference between your hatchlings and all of Optimus’.”
“Except the Prime,” Prowl stated with finality.
“Yeah.” There really was nothing Jazz could say to contradict that. Optimus would be able to tell that the hatchlings weren’t sharing ær dreams. Optimus wouldn’t mind, though. Optimus’ children were still outnumbered by refugees in Iacon. Prowl’s were just a few more. “They’re safe, though. Now you need to eat.” Desperately. Prowl hadn’t eaten for most of the trek to Iacon, and had continued to refuse fuel after. Jazz had tried not to worry, since refusing fuel during the last few orns before ovipositing wasn’t unusual, and Prowl had begun the trek in very good physical health, but now Prowl looked almost deflated without the eggs inside ðem. Ðey needed a meal.
Preferably at Ratchet’s.
Guards stared at them as they passed. Jazz was a familiarish face, and ðey had already gotten painted, adding accents of black, red, and blue to ðeir snow-white plating, which made ðem look less like some sort of myth-made-real, but Prowl was still pure white. An eikōn of Primus. And also exhausted and thin in a way that, common as it had been in Sentinel’s court, just wasn’t normal in Optimus’, despite their mines not yet being as productive. Ðey slithered slowly, like every undulation forward was a monumental effort.
Prowl balked when ðey saw the medical suite.
Jazz tried sweet-talking ðem again, but Prowl just refused to slither forward. Ðey could have dragged ðem, but…
“Prime,” Jazz said firmly, inwardly cringing as invoking Optimus’ authority over the court made Prowl draw inwards and cower, “wanted you to get checked over as soon as you finished laying. Come on.”
“Yes, sir,” Prowl whispered, relenting and slithering into the medical suite.
Ratchet had been treating refugees since Optimus and fifty of Zeta’s concubines and unmated children had escaped to then-abandoned Iacon centuries ago. Ðey knew how to slither and speak softly, how to be non-threateningー
“Scrapping finally,” Ratchet groused, slithering from the depths of the suite and looking them both over like a pair of hunting hounds ðey was considering purchasing. “Get the scrap up onto the lectus.”
ーRatchet just thought that “non-threatening” was useless.
Prowl had frozen with a terrified hiss at Ratchet’s appearance, and ðey trembled fearfully as ðey obeyed and heaved ðemself up onto the medical lectus.
Ratchet ran one hand on either side of Prowl’s spinal struts. “Well you’re so skinny we don’t have to worry you got an egg stuck, at least.”
“Sorry.”
“Apologize by eating this.” While Prowl was occupied with the condensed fuel bar, Ratchet glared at Jazz. “And just what the scrap are you still doing here?”
Knowing how much Ratchet did not like observers or guards in ðeir medical suite? “Leaving. You’re going to be okay,” ðey slithered over to the lectus to assure Prowl, who was not suddenly panicking, given that ðey had slithered into medical already very afraid, but who now looked like ðey might try to escape, or bite, out of sheer terror. Ratchet could handle both just fine without Jazz. Prowl needed to start learning that Jazz wasn’t the only mech in existence who wouldn’t hurt ðem, and Ratchet was a good one to start with. Despite ðeir abrasiveness, ðey had a proven record of being able to deal with refugees from all sorts of situations. “You’re going to be okay,” ðey said again. “I have work,” working with Blaster to decipher the latest crop of intercepted Decepticon messages, “and Ratchet won’t hurt you.”
Prowl shivered, but didn’t say anything.
Feeling that that would have to do for now, Jazz stroked Prowl’s long-body until ðey was no longer so tense, then left the medical suite.
Prowl’s volunteer attendant was lurking outside. “When Ratchet’s done,” Jazz told ðem, “give ðem a choice of going back to the guest burrow to rest or going to Sunstreaker’s burrow to get painted. Or facilitate ðem doing whatever ðey says ðey wants. Ðey likes the library. Or…” Jazz sighed, “come get me if there’s a problem.” As always.
“Yes, sir.”
Ratchet was a scrapping miracle worker, because Jazz actually managed to get a full orn of work in, go out to dinner with a friend, and then fall asleep in ðeir own burrow before ðey had to deal with Prowl again.
“Jazz?” Ðey slithered past the curtain into ðeir burrow cautiously but without stopping politely to wait before ðey was acknowledged, just as ðey had done when seeking ðem out in the servants’ quarters in Sentinel’s palace. Jazz sighed. “Talon said…”
“I’m here,” Jazz said. Ðeir responsibility. Ðey was looking forward to Prowl becoming more independent, looking forward to getting to know ðem when ðey wasn’t beaten down, terrified and attention starved, but it wouldn’t happen overnight.
With the confirmation that ðey had the right burrow, Prowl hurried in and slithered right to Jazz’s pile of resting pillows. Ðey looked good. The attendant or Ratchet or some combination of the two had apparently convinced ðem to go see Sunstreaker without Jazz’s accompaniment, because ðey no longer looked like an eikōn. Ðey had patches of black on ðeir chest and alae, which became thick stripes along the dorsal scales of ðeir long-body, and small red accents, most notably on the sharp crest above ðeir optics.
Now ðey hesitated. “I don’t have anythingー?”
“Come on over here.” Jazz shifted to make room, let them coil their long-bodies together and held Prowl’s fore-body against ðeirs. “Don’t need to trade anything for a cuddle anymore.” A steady stream of stories and light touches had stolen Prowl’s loyalty very thoroughly, and Jazz could have left it there, with assurance that ðeir secret was safe backed up by that devotion. Prowl, though, had wanted more, and Jazz had given ðem more for a price. Even in Sentinel's court, a concubine had more access to people, conversations, and private spaces than a servant did. Quid pro quo, and undoubtedly the reason Prowl was worried now about not having anything Jazz could want. “Just want to cuddle or…”
Prowl’s whole body shuddered in relief at the offer. “I… would not be averse if you… helped me relax?”
Aww…
If Prowl were one of Jazz’s social lovers, ðey would engage in more foreplay, more back-and-forth pleasure-giving, but this… this was still an extension of their relationship at the palace. Jazz wasn’t allowed to abandon ðem, and Prowl wasn’t ready to leave, so… Holding Prowl against ðeir chest with one hand, ðey used the other to pet ðeir alae, savoring how they almost vibrated.
Prowl moaned lightly, and, encouraged that ðey was still responding favorably to ðeir ministrations, Jazz shifted their coils. Sliding their scales against each other wasn’t any more pleasurable than simple touch, but Prowl was as starved of that as ðey was of more intimate pleasures. And moving their coils allowed Jazz to line up the scutes on either side of their cloacas without flipping either of them on their backs.
Prowl quivered in anticipation, clinging to Jazz with all ðeir strength. Jazz slowly extended ðeir femoral spurs from the pockets on either side of ðeir cloaca. Ðeir spurs were vestigial, unlike the large spurs Primes sported. Ðey couldn’t truly clasp or grab, but the little retractable nubs of metal still fit against a mech’s pleasure-spots, could still wiggle around to vary the stimulation of those spots.
Jazz felt the fluttering, irregular stimulation of Prowl’s spurs near ðeir own pleasure-spots as ðey shook with ecstasy in ðeir arms. Prowl had no conscious control over ðeir spurs. Prowl hadn’t known about the vestigial spurs at all when they had met. Jazz still wasn’t sure why Sentinel had kept that knowledge from ær concubines. In Zeta’s court, it had been because the Prime had conditioned ær concubines to come to ær for pleasure-grasping, even after mating. Æ hid the existence of vestigial spurs from ær concubines so that they thought no one else could pleasure them like that, as a form of solidifying loyalty. Zeta was too abusive in other ways for it to be wholly effective, but Jazz could admit that it took more than a joor or two of gentle affection from a servant to steal ær concubines’ loyalty so there was that. Sentinel, though, ignored ær concubines as anything other than egg-producers after copulation. Before Jazz, Prowl had only ever been pleasure-grasped by ðeir Prime during ðeir very un-pleasurable mating.
Jazz was careful to keep ðeir pattern of grasping and releasing from becoming overwhelming or painful. In a more mutual encounter, ðeir partner would use the pauses to grasp ðem in return, but… that was for whichever lucky mech or mechs Prowl fell for after ðey learned how to consciously flex ðeir spurs. Right now it was only Jazz providing the stimulation, and the pauses just drove Prowl’s pleasure.
With no hectocotyli to separate, and no reason to let go, there was no climax, no end, except when Prowl was trembling with exhaustion and Jazz decided that was enough. It wasn’t long; Prowl was drained by the trek, by ovipositing, by ðeir entire life up to this point. Jazz rearranged their coils again and settled ðeir weight on top of Prowl in a way ðeir previous encounters informed ðem Prowl found comforting in the post-coital stage.
“You didn’t tell me I would be mated again,” Prowl whispered when the aftershocks of pleasure faded from ðeir frame. When Jazz didn’t answer, ðey continued, “The… medic said ðey could remove the hectocotylus…”
Now Jazz wished ðey’d stuck around the medical suite despite Ratchet’s protests. “‘Can’ remove it is different than ‘will’, and neither means Optimus’ll replace it.” Æ’d better not.
“I wouldn’t have been so afraid if you’d said the new Prime would take me, and I would lay eggs for ær,” Prowl continued as if ðey hadn’t heard. “I would have come.”
“I didn’t tell you because I knew this is what you’d think,” Jazz hissed. Ðey felt bad when Prowl cowered into the pillows beneath them but ðey didn’t back off the intensity. “Yeah, Ratchet can remove the plug.” It was a procedure that hadn’t existed before Optimus had escaped Zeta’s court with thirty of Zetas unmated mechs and twenty mated ones, each desperate enough to get rid of the hectocotylus that they didn’t care how mutilated they were in the process. By the time ðey had gotten to the last one, Ratchet was even able to leave the reproductive tract intact and capable of mating again. “But do it because you want the slag gone, not because you think it's what Optimus wants.”
“I do want it gone!” And Jazz was so proud of the hint of heated stubbornness in Prowl’s voice. Ðey only wished ðeir voice didn’t quaver in fear immediately on the next statement. “I want to be accepted by my new Prime. That means…” ðey trailed off with a hiss of fear.
Jazz slithered sideways just enough to take ðeir weight off of Prowl. “You’re looking for a shortcut, something familiar, even if it’s not what you want.” Risk aversion. “But it’s not happening.” Because if Orion accepted this scared little waif as ær mate, Jazz was going to kill ær ðemself. “You’re not a concubine anymore, and you never will be.”
Prowl keened softly. “How do you know? You’re infertile. Your Prime won’t ever force you to mate because you can’t lay!”
“I’m not infertile,” Jazz hissed, frustrated. There were times ðey certainly wished ðey was, that ðey had been able to go to Ratchet earlier and had ðeir reproductive systems savaged by the medic’s still-imperfect skills at removing the hectocotyli, but instead ðey had been nearly the last of Optimus’ refugees to get the plug out. Ðeir systems were intact. The claim of infertility was a lie, backed up by an implanted microchip that forced genetic readers to confirm the result and a false plug, so that the Primes ðey spied on wouldn’t bother to rape ðem. Ðey rolled onto ðeir dorsal scales, exposing ðeir scutes to the sky. “I was Zeta’s mate, and even after twenty sheds you can still see the scar where that scrote’s plug was taken out of me, and if Optimus had ever tried replacing that thing with ær own… none of us would be here now because I would have killed ær!”
Prowl froze, hiccuping to silence. Jazz waited.
A breem later, ðey felt Prowl’s hand tracing the scar, from just above the cloaca to where the reproductive tract ended. Ðeir first shed after the surgery had almost completely erased the mark. After twenty sheds, the line was just a bare unevenness in how the scutes grew over the long-healed suture line, too straight to be the result of natural flaws in scute growth.
“You’re not a concubine,” Jazz whispered when it seemed Prowl was done. “Getting that thing removed doesn’t mean you’ll be mated again. It just means the last bit of Sentinel Prime’s metal will be dead.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Prowl said, coiled tightly on the pillows.
Yeah, Jazz had figured that out. It must have been both terrifying and a relief to think that ðey would just be made into the concubine of an apparently nicer Prime. Figuring out who you were was scary, especially after the way Prowl had been treated. Prowl was here in Jazz’s room and in ðeir arms because ðey wasn’t ready to face the scariness of being Prowl, taking shelter in remaining Sentinel’s traitorous concubine for a while longer.
“You’ll figure it out.” Jazz petted Prowl’s coils.
“Will youー?”
It both was and wasn’t a subject change. “Whatever you need, yes.” Prowl was ðeir responsibility. Whether Prowl needed to be pleasured again or a warm bath orー
“Could you read to me?”
ーthat. “Yeah, sweetspark.”
Jazz dug around ðeir pillows until ðey found a scroll ðey had left there earlier: an old recounting of how Primus had created the world by taking the colors from Its scales and using them to make all the various things, turning Itself white. Ðey activated the scroll to read. “The god Primus, source of all Light and Life, hatched from a star, breaking through an eggshell made of fire that had been laid in the vast nothing of the universe…”
Most of it was rather sing-song, fairytale quality, with Primus going on one adventure or another, running into a problem, and then solving them by shedding some of Its scales and using their color to make something that solved Its problem, sometimes making a new problem in the process. Like the tale where Primus, hungry, used some silver and brown scales to make petro-rabbits to eat and released the extras, but then took a nap and when It woke, found Its shiny new world completely buried in a truly comical number of petro-rabbits. Alarmed, Primus peeled off some orange and brown scales and shaped them into something that would prey on petro-rabbits more often than It would: turbo-foxes.
Ðey would skip the part where Its first child Prima mated with It and It oviposited the eggs of the next eleven gods, if Prowl was still awake when ðey got to it, and read the war against Chaos instead. It was different than the version accepted and enforced in most Primes’ courts, where Primus was a Prime, Solus the first egg-layer, and Prima an Immature Prime born from that union. Here, Primus had definitely created Prima first, and then copulated. The implication in this older translation was that Primus had been eager to experience copulation with the Prime It had created, and that had been very helpful to Orion while æ had been coming to terms with ærself as a Prime. Jazz would definitely skip all that right now though. The explicit descriptive detail the original writer and the modern translator had both thought necessary might have helped Orion, but was not something a traumatized concubine needed to hear.
Later, after they both should have fallen asleep, Prowl stirred, slithering quietly out of Jazz’s arms. Jazz watched ðem go with a dimly lit optic band, wondering if this was progress or not.
The next time the attendant summoned Jazz because ðeir charge was being difficult, Prowl was bedridden until ðeir next shed. Ðey wasn’t allowed to slither on the scutes that had been cut open for the surgery.
.
.
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Part Four
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“I already said no,” Optimus said.
“I am grateful that was your answer then,” Prowl stated evenly, because it was true. Ðey had been terrified of being in a foreign Prime’s court. Primes generally killed those mated by other Primes. The revelation that Ratchet could remove Sentinel’s hectocotylus had made everything so clear: it would be gone and Prowl could be mated again and Optimus would take ðem as a concubine and… Prowl’s reasoning had ended there. Or maybe continued with “and ðey would have Jazz”, though of course in that scenario the spy would have had no reason to stay with ðem. Ðey would have been a concubine, laying ðeir new Prime’s eggs every vorn, and it might have been terrible again, but it would have been a familiar kind of terrible ー and ðey would have been alive.
Only, once ðey had recovered from the surgery, Optimus Prime had refused to copulate with ðem. More, while ðey was still reeling from that refusal, spiralling down into terror… Optimus had gently pushed ðem into something else. Running errands for the drone manager and then the fuel records keeper and then… By the time the shock had faded enough to start feeling dread, ðey had been well-occupied and well on ðeir way to having an actual job.
“I am very,” ðey amended, “grateful for your answer then, but circumstances have changed.”
“Not the most salient circumstances. I don’t take unwilling mates.”
Prowl hissed quietly in frustration. “If I am offering without fear then I am not unwilling. You need a sign of Primus’ favor. If there are eikōns among your offspringー”
“I’m definitely not mating with you because you’re an eikōn, Prowl.” Optimus slithered in a tight, nervous circle that looked decidedly strange from a mech as large as æ was. “Besides. It doesn’t breed true. You know that better than I do.”
“It wasn’t going to breed true with Sentinel,” Prowl snapped. “But you have a high number of amelanistic and axanthic offspring, especially among those eggs laid by Falcon and Ironhideー”
“My hatchlings are anonymous,” Optimus scolded lightly.
“Yes, sir.” Generally that was true, and it had taken a lot of investigation over two vorns for Prowl to confirm ðeir suspicions. Last vorn Prowl had visited the incubator to observe the hatching while ðey thought on ðeir offer (contrary to what Optimus seemed to think, the offer to copulate wasn’t one Prowl was making in haste!). While the carrier of each clutch was anonymous, the clutches were still incubated in separate boxes because they needed to be quarantined from each other in case of problems, like contagious shell-rot. That had made it easy to see the high number of amels in one clutch, and the high number of axanthics is another one hatching the same orn ー almost exactly half, in each clutch, had been the rarer phenotype. The others had Optimus’ colors, not their carriers’. That observation had motivated Prowl to track down which of Optimus’ mates had laid those clutches. The anonymity rule meant that it had taken tracking the layboxes this vorn and observing the hatchings a second time to be sure ðey had matched the observations ðey had made to the correct carriers: Ironhide was axanthic and almost exactly half of ðeir hatchlings turned out axanthic as well, while Falcon was amelanistic and, again, almost exactly half of ðeir offspring were amel as well.
Prowl had wracked ðeir process or as to how Optimus had come by both alleles, since neither seemed common among Zeta’s court, and æ hadn’t come from a carrier with a lineage tracing back to Nova’s ー random chance was possible, of course, but the odds of both randomly appearing in the same immature-Prime at once were… literally astronomical ー but it was clear æ was heterozygous for both. Eventually, mating with ðeir own offspring would bring all the proper alleles together, but if Optimus bred with someone who was homozygous for both ー an eikōn ー then the pattern should continue: half amels and half axanthics… but with a higher probability of overlap than copulating with ær own heterozygous children would. It would take some luck, because passing alleles always had a component of chance, but… Eikōn offspring in a single generation. Eikōn offspring potentially next hatching season. In time to make a difference to the negotiations.
It was not divine favor, but the Primes Optimus were attempting to rally to ðeir banner in the wake of both Zeta and Nova’s destruction by Decepticons would believe it was. The fact that Optimus’ egg-attendants wouldn’t be able to say for sure that Prowl was the carrier would only make the sudden appearance of eikōns among ær offspring seem more miraculous.
If ðey could convince Optimus Prime to breed with ðem!
“My Primeー”
“Prowl. I’m not going to copulate for a political advantage.” Æ reached out, then hesitated and waited for Prowl to close the distance between them before bringing ðem into an embrace of their fore-bodies.
“You mate with refugees who,” will suffer through it, “want to demonstrate loyalty,” Prowl eventually pointed out.
“Prowlー”
“I will serve no Prime but you,” Prowl insisted, and empty reproductive tract or no, when Optimus was eventually overthrown, Prowl would not serve ær successor. Whether ðey died for that loyalty or not, it would happen with or without a hectocotylus inside ðem. “And I think that, right here and right now, that includes ovipositing. You are worthy of that loyalty.”
“I am honored you feel that way, butー”
“You let other refugees demonstrate their loyalty like this! I’m a refugee and I am asking to demonstrate my loyalty!”
“Prowl.” Optimus slowly released the embrace so that they could look at each other. “From the moment you hatched, you have been used savagely by Primes who want nothing from you but for your color to breed true. Is it so unbelievable that I would not want to emulate them?”
Prowl scowled. “I am your chief tactical officer and I am informing you of a tactical option and stating that I am willing ー that I want to do this. My color is mine and you are the Prime I want to give it to.”
Ðey almost vibrated with the frustration of trying to convince the stubborn, thick-scaled idiot to do this! Æ needed a sign of divine favor and Prowl knew how to arrange one if Optimus would just do what ðey wanted ær to doー
“Oh, Prowl.” Optimus slithered around to press a large coil against ðeir long-body. Optimus was a very affectionate Prime. “I would hope we could find pleasure in a mating as well as reclaiming what æ took from you.”
Prowl knew mating with a Prime would hurt, even if that Prime was as good-sparked and gentle as Optimus. Ær other mates had described pain while the hectocotyli inserted and settled and that matched with Prowl’s experience with Sentinel. Ðey was willing to endure it. But yes, there could be pleasure before the penetration. “I do know how to return a pleasure-grasp.” Jazz had taught ðem. “We should begin.”
Before Optimus came up with another objection.
The Prime scooted side to side on the most forward of ær scutes, an unbecomingly nervous gesture. “My tunnel then? Or would you prefer yours? Where would you be most comfortable?”
Prowl’s tunnel had Jazz in it. Though the assassin had (eventually, after much yelling) conceded that it was Prowl’s right to do this, between ðeir reluctance and Prowl’s own pride… ðey did not want ðeir lover to see ðem screaming… “Yours,” Prowl said firmly. Optimus’ gaze was too-knowing, so Prowl tried to turn it into a joke, “You have bigger pillows.”
“That I do.”
Optimus’ tunnels could have been the most elaborate in the palace. There were habitation tunnels under the throne room of the ancient citadel that still served as Optimus’ palace and Iacon’s government buildings, and those long-dead Primes seemed to have tended towards hedonism, just as the present ones did. The tunnel system had baths and kitchens, and many rooms for entertaining. There were offshoot tunnels for dedicated servants to live in, and harem rooms for favored concubines and lovers. Jazz said it had taken some convincing to get Optimus to move into those tunnels, but it was practical. They had also been some of the best preserved tunnels in the whole palace. All of those first refugees had lived there for a while, trickling out into their own tunnels as they had been cleaned and repaired.
They should have been the most elaborate tunnels in the entire palace. If they had been restored to a fraction of their hedonistic glory, even Sentinel would have considered them fit for habitation. Optimus had claimed one of the harem rooms for ær own and divided it evenly between space to sleep and space to work, restored just one of the baths, set up a servant’s room for Ironhide to use as ær guard, and was using the rest for storage. The bronze walls, like the rest of Iacon, were still the shades of copper patina, except where the green oxidation had been worn away by repair or frequent touching. Optimus Prime's tunnels were hardly any different from any other part of the palace, save that the overall size of the private burrows was larger.
Prowl slithered over to the wall of scrolls. Ðey still loved libraries. Ðey was allowed in the main palace library whenever ðey liked, Iacon had a system of public library scroll boxes throughout its cities, outposts, and bases, and a larger public library had been established sometime after ðey had arrived, but ðey was curious about what Optimus kept for ærself.
The Prime slithered anxiously while Prowl reached up and took down a random scroll so ðey could read the title on the end.
Gallant and the Forbidden City of the Clouds.
“Do you like adventure novels?” Optimus skittered sideways on ær forward scutes again. “Jazz said afterー when you first came, that you liked being read to.”
Prowl had been traumatized and stupid with it when ðey had first come here. Hatchlings liked being read to. Affection-starved concubines liked being read to. “Not as much, anymore,” ðey said honestly, “but, yes, sometimes we, ðey…” Why was Prime asking this?
“Would you like me to read to you?” Optimus made yet another nervous gesture, swishing ær tail in such a way that the undulation did not carry ær forward. “To help you… relax?”
Ah. “No, thank you.” Unsure ðey could reach the proper storage cubby, Prowl placed the scroll onto a small table full of other materials that looked like they were waiting to be reshelved. Ðey wasn’t going to be able to relax, and ðey preferred not to draw this out. Ðey slithered over to the mound of resting pillows and laid down on them.
Already the experience was comparatively better than copulating with Sentinel. Optimus was giving ðem the dignity of a lover, rather than forcing ðem on the throne room floor while guards held ðem down then hauled ðem away.
“It’ll hurt,” Optimus said quietly. “I try to be gentle, but the structure of the… the barbs and such… there’s no way to do it that won’t hurt a little.”
“I know what I am getting into.” Prowl braced ðemself to be smothered into the pillows by the Prime’s bulk.
“I know,” æ whispered very quietly, so much so that it was more a vibration on ðeir alae than a sound carried through the ground.
A klik passed, then Optimus slithered onto the bedding next to ðem. Grateful not to be squished, Prowl rolled ðeir long-body over to let ðeir Prime grab ðem with ær spurs. Optimus, though, took the time to twine their long-bodies together, like lovers, instead of just grabbing ðem around the cloaca.
“Ready?” ae asked, sliding their scales against each other in affection.
“Yes,” Prowl said.
Only then, with permission and readiness ascertained, did Optimus grasp ðem with aer spurs.
Prowl gasped. It had been so long since ðeir copulation with Sentinel, so much time and so much pleasure with Jazz and other lovers, that ðey thought ðey had imagined the pleasure of being grasped by a Prime. Jazz could stimulate the pleasure-spots skillfully, but vestigial spurs couldn’t grab and hold.
Ðey couldn’t brace for the invasion, just lay there and tremble while Optimus gathered ðeir fore-body into an embrace, gave a pleased hiss at how easily Prowl was turned to clay by a little pleasure-grasping.
Then Optimus released ðem, without pushing any hectocotyli into ðem. Ðey blinked up at ðeir Prime’s optics, made a mewling sound.
Optimus laughed softly. Æ ran ær fingers down ær face. “Oh my. Prowl, you are beautiful.”
Prowl blinked stupidly. Ðey was supposed to…
Another laugh, and ær spurs extended again.
Eventually during one of those pauses Prowl managed to remember how to extend ðeir own spurs long enough to try and stimulate Optimus in return. Ðey didn’t even know if Primes had pleasure-spots, and if æ did, Prowl was sure ðey couldn’t reach them, being unable to reach the lateral edges of Optimus’ scutes with ðeir insignificantly sized spurs.
“That feels very nice,” Optimus rumbled, making a pleased hiss, so ðey must be doing something right, hooking the nubs into the groove where one of ær scutes met the next.
After some time, while æ continued to grasp ðem tightly so that ðey was almost too busy writhing in pleasure to notice, Optimus aligned their cloacas and extended a hectocotylus into ðem. It took Prowl a klik to realize and by the time ðey did, it was too late to stop; it was already far enough inside ðem that the barbs would rip ðem apart if Optimus pulled it out. Prowl froze, braced for pain, ready to scream.
“Shh…” Optimus soothed, pausing so that instead of pushing deeper, the hectocotylus just wiggled gently in place. Æ stroked ðeir scales with ær dextrous spurs, then grasped ðem in ðeir pleasure-spots again. Prowl, keyed up by their previous pleasure-grasping, moaned. Ðeir body seemed to forget it was in the process of being invaded, and Optimus took the opportunity to push almost painlessly deeper.
Optimus’ climax came when æ twisted ær long-body and wrenched ærself free of the hectocotylus, leaving the sheared-off end sticking out of Prowl’s cloaca.
Prowl looked down at the ventral side of ðeir long-body. One. Just one hectocotylus. During ðeir first copulation, Sentinel had forced seven, maybe eight, of the tentacles into ðeir cloaca. Now there was just one, and ðey could feel it inside of ðem, wiggling around, the barbs turning the random movement into forward momentum by digging into the walls of ðeir reproductive tract, but… it was an ache. An itch. A cramp. Not the remembered agony of being torn apart from the inside by ðeir Prime’s reproductive tentacles.
“Are you alright, Prowl?”
Prowl watched the squirming end of Optimus’ hectocotylus disappear inside ðem with something like amazement. Ðey could feel the small stings that, yes, were probably what Optimus and ær other mates said were painful, but Prowl… ðey was still utterly amazed how much difference having just one inside ðem made. Enough difference that pleasure had actually managed to drown out the pain while it was being inserted. “I am.”
“Sometimes it helps if I continue to pleasure-grasp while it settles, but if you want to,” flee, “leave, I won’t stop you.”
“No. Please… continue,” ðey said.
When setting ðeir schedule for the orn, ðey hadn’t accounted for pleasure-grasping with the Prime, before or after copulation, or for napping in ðeir Prime’s coils, or for Optimus reading that silly adventure tale to ðem while they both lay together in a pleased, exhausted heap, or for even more pleasure-grasping. It was, unexpectedly, very late by the time ðey returned to the burrow ðey shared with Jazz. The hectocotylus had already stopped wiggling. Prowl could still feel it, not quite fully integrated into ðeir systems, throbbing a little still with that foreignness but the sting fading as the connections built. Ðey slithered slowly, savoring the feeling of not being at the medic.
Jazz scooted aside as Prowl joined ðem. Prowl felt ðem touch ðeir scarred scutes, over where Optimus’ hectocotylus now sat inside ðem. Ðey didn’t think Jazz could feel it under ðeir scales and other structures ー there was only one ー but ðey both knew it was there. Jazz did not approve. Ðey thought that agreeing to oviposit again was accepting that non-Primes (and especially those with rare phenotypes) served their Primes primarily through egg laying. It had taken love and care and a purpose, but Prowl knew ðey served Optimus chiefly and solely as ær tactician. This had been a tactic ðey had considered, had implemented, not ðeir purpose. Jazz would never serve Optimus through egg laying, and that was ðeir choice, but this was Prowl’s choice.
“Did it go like you hoped?”
Prowl’s frame still buzzed with pleasure. Ðeir spark felt like it was glowing brighter than normal. It felt like triumph. The last of Sentinel Prime’s metal had died vorns ago, and now it felt like Prowl had killed ær memory as well. Sentinel’s legacy had very literally been replaced by that of a Prime worthy of it. Now all ðey needed to do was bear a clutch, and hope the two relevant alleles overlapped in at least one of the hatchlings.
“Better.” Prowl pushed Jazz’s hand away so that ðey could intertwine their coils with ðeir favorite lover. Ðey was still worn out. “Better than I’d hoped.”
.
.
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End