Chapter Text
Orion – no, Optimus' – inheritance of the Primacy had been a blur since the start. Not only because his processor was still struggling with the physical upgrade he'd been subjected to when first exposed to the Matrix, but because there were so many things happening. The Senate was pulling him this way and that way for official events to celebrate his ascension. The biggest event was the one held in Iacon, which had had events every day for nearly a quartex, but once that was done, he had to go through similar events in a handful of picked city states. His previous desire to travel and see more of Cybertron was quickly replaced with a deep exhaustion and a desire to return to the Palace and hope things calmed down. Even with his boost in stamina, he felt worn thin. Any moment he wasn't actively taking part in a ceremony or ritual, he was preparing for a ceremony or ritual. When they had finally boarded the transport back toward Iacon after their last stop, he'd deluded himself into thinking he'd have a moment of rest, only to be accosted by one of the Council members who'd accompanied him on the tour.
“Ah, my Prime!” The Councilor, Copperplate said enthusiastically, a datapad in hand, “I was hoping we could use the return to Iacon to discuss your new sparkmates! As you know, we have been picking them up along the way -”
“We what?”
“We've been picking up your new consorts along the way-”
Optimus internally sighed at another thing the Council conveniently forgot to actually tell him. Either they were much more disorganized than he thought, or they were actively not telling him things. He didn't know why they would hide things from him, but as time went on it had gone on to spark a hint of concern in him. “I was not made aware of that.”
“Oh, well, perhaps it was missed in all the chaos.” Copperplate took a seat next to him and opened up his datapad, flicking through image after image of bots, rattling off names and cities of origins without pause. Optimus could barely keep up with him, and he suspected that if he were not trained as an archivist, he would not have been able to. “Did you have a favorite?”
Picking a favorite from his sparkmates seemed wrong. The Council had assured him that the sparkmates were all chosen based on the resonance of their spark relative to the Matrix' and his own. Allegedly they were fated by Primus to be together – the Creator had foresight to know which city-states were of importance to the ruling of Cybertron, and sparked into each of the chosen ones a perfect mate for the Prime that would rule in their time. Allegedly, Optimus was set to have the largest group of sparkmates in recent history. Whether that was a good or bad sign was yet to be seen. He couldn't recall anything about his predecessor's consorts other than their names and origins. They'd been a private group, with only one or two of them ever making public appearances, and those very sparingly. He hoped his consorts will be willing to accompany him to ceremonies and rituals, at least as a moral support. One of the worst parts of all the events was the complete lack of familiar bots outside of the Councillors, who while friendly, were not friends.
“I could not make such a distinction with so little information.” He said. Copperplate hummed a bit and flicked again through the images. He stopped at some of the images, admiring them. Though Optimus found it statistically unlikely, all of his sparkmates came from an important background of some kind. What constituted 'important' differed from city-state to city-state, but it remained true. Some were born as noblemechs, high caste from the time of their emergence. Others had gained acclaim and recognition through their skills and actions. None could be considered an average bot by any means.
“Well, we can always establish such things later.” Copperplate said. The hierarchy of Consorts, most likely. Not all Primes had kept the same one, but it was always present. Different titles given for different reasons, privileges granted to one consort over another. He'd read a few articles on how Sentinel Prime would promote or demote his consorts based on how their home states were co-operating with Iacon, and how some city states would become upset if they felt the rank given to their representative consort was too lowly. “One will have to be established as First Consort, just for the start. Tradition demands it for the Ceremony of Bonding, but you can always change who it is later. If you currently have no feelings, we could assign it based on the size of the tribute given by each city.”
“That seems fair.” Optimus agreed. A recognition of early devotion. The Council had been harping about that since the start of his tour. The time spent in the cities thought to not be devoted enough had been miserable, mostly because of his entourage's attitude. “Which consort would that be then?”
“The one from Praxus, I believe.” Copperplate said. He swiped to said mech's image and held it up to Optimus again. “Designation is Prowl. Let's see... he was an enforcer of some renown, especially for his age. Creators are from the city's noble caste – his carrier is the current High Commissioner.”
The mech was handsome, but with a serious countenance. Copperplate only held the datapad up for a moment before taking it back. “He's very pretty already, which is good, but we should of course discuss any modifications you want done before the ceremony.” He opened up a catalogue, swatch after swatch of paint colours listed after each other. “Colour first...”
Optimus' processor finally caught up to his optics and audials. “Modifications? For my consort?”
Copperplate stared at him like he'd just said something completely unreasonable. “Yes?” He said, “It's traditional for consorts to undergo minor modifications to better suit the desires and needs of their Prime.”
Something inside of Optimus shifted uncomfortably at the thought of modifying someone else to suit his needs. Those were the actions of the corrupt mechs who ran the red-light districts, forcing their workers to accommodate their desires. He found it represensible. Regardless of what caste someone was born in, regardless of their frametype, they should never have to alter themselves to suit what someone else thought was more appealing. Increasing regulations in those sorts of quarters was something he wanted to do, now that he was a Prime. And all of that was without mentioning the fact that most modifications were an expensive and at least mildly unpleasant process. Generally something most tried to avoid, in his experience.
“Not doing any modification will give the impression that you do not care for your consorts.” Copperplate chided. “The idea is to show unity. And all of your consorts have agreed to necessary modifications, as part of their bonding with you. Truly, it's nothing so terrible – we're not brutes.”
Optimus' brow furrowed as he thought. He still didn't like the thought of it, but perhaps it really was just his lower-class upbringing making him blind to how things were meant to be done in the upper castes. Ease of access to body workshops might mean that it really wasn't such a big deal amongst the wealthy. He'd never had any reason to know about the intricate social workings of high society before. The closest he'd gotten before had been sorting through and categorizing works written by and for the higher castes, rarely allowed to read them himself. Still, if his consorts were consenting, there was no reason to kick up a fuss. “I still am unsure as to what I could request...”
“I can suggest some modifications that are considered standard?”
“Please, do.”
“Most basic, of course, is modifying the paint.” Copperplate said, “I'm sure this one shouldn't be so terrible to do – we both know that repainting is a painless process, and if they express a displeasure to you, it shouldn't take more than a few joors to get it returned to whatever they had before.” The last part he spoke with a chuckle in his voice, as though he found it ridiculous to even consider the possibility.
“Regardless, I would prefer something minor.” He looked over the picture of Prowl, noting how the mech's paint was nearly devoid of colour. He forced himself to think of an altercation to it that wouldn't make the mech look like a different person. “Hmm, maybe just some highlights? Nothing too intensive.” Some small highlights would be immediately noticeable, and quickly reversible.
“Red or blue? Both?” Copperplate spoke as though it was a bygone decision that the paint would match Optimus' own colours. Unity. He reminded himself. The idea was to show unity, and shared paint colour was an easy visual cue. That was the whole reason they were discussing this in the first place.
“Uh, red.”
“Such a passionate colour.” He said fondly, though Optimus felt a wave of discomfort at his tone. “It's also quite typical to request armour modifications, in terms of more minor changes.”
No part of Orion – Optimus – found the idea of any sort of armour modification minor. He reminded himself that it was different among the higher classes. Perhaps to them, surgery to add or remove fins, chevrons or other such things was considered minor. “Do you mean the adding of small kibble?”
“If you desire. This consort has quite a nice chevron, though it could stand to be bigger... But rather I meant the changing of types of armour.” Copperplate said. “Prime Consorts are their own caste that is quite unique, but not expected to partake in anything of manual labour or combat, therefore reformatting their armour to lighter, more delicate styles tends to be done, for comfort if nothing else.”
“I would prefer any such changes to be the consorts' choice, not mine.” Optimus said with a frown. Armour overhauls were arduous things to get done, with long periods of adaptation before they truly settled and felt real. Everyone he'd ever met who'd had partial re-modellings had heavily warned against getting the procedure done unless absolutely medically necessary. He could only imagine it was even worse to be wholly remade. "So long as they are comfortable with their armour, it is not any of my concern."
Copperplate gave him a strange look, then nodded, “Of course, of course,” He said, “We can put it up to the consorts, of course, no problem with that. We'll leave things as they are for now.” He put down the datapad. “Say, what preferences would you have in a partner though, if you had the choice? Not to force anything - just speculation! I'm sure a good-looking mech like you has had plenty of berth partners before. Just wondering what they were like..."
--
Optimus' first glimpse of any of his consorts was at the Ceremony of Bonding. Even though they'd been living in the Palace's Harem wing, he'd been strictly forbidden from interacting from any of them while they spent a quartex in seclusion to assure their purity, a rite he felt ridiculous but ultimately harmless. The Ceremony, like most others, was being held in Iacon's Grand Temple. The whole place was packed wall to wall with mechs clamouring to catch a glimpse of their Prime and his consorts. Most of his soon-to-be mates were kneeling, covered entirely by semi-translucent silk veils, to the side of one standing consort, also veiled, who stood before a priest.
After all the pre-amble and chanting and reciting oaths, his consort's voice quiet but steady beneath the veil, Optimus was finally allowed to lift the veil off of his First Consort and see him face to face. He'd seen him in pictures, of course, but he was just relieved to finally be able to make optic-contact with one of his sparkmates. He let go of the silk and it fluttered delicately to the ground, leaving Optimus to marvel at his Praxian consort, Prowl. He had a handsome, noble face with a seriousness to his expression that seemed almost too much for a bonding ceremony. His paint was still mostly black and white, like his pictures, but red highlights followed several of his seams, and the chevron on his head was red as well. A second chevron, one on his pelvis, was also red, and Optimus tried to remember if he'd had that before the repainting or not. His armour, for the matter, was also very slim and delicate looking for someone from an enforcer family – he must have requested to have it altered for his new caste – and his doorwings were held low and close to his body, opposite to what Optimus knew to be the typical position from the few Praxians he'd met.
Prowl didn't say anything, holding his gaze for only a moment before looking away. His chest plating transformed away, exposing his sparkchamber, with little hesitation or preamble. Optimus opened his own chest, the bright light from the Matrix illuminating around him, despite the discomfort of doing it in front of so many mechs. Prowl was unlikely to be any more at ease in the situation than he was, but kept any discomfort well under wraps. Optimus knelt so they could be spark to spark, no longer slightly looming over Prowl. When they connected, Optimus shivered at the new sensation, but Prowl stumbled, optics flickering. Optimus steadied him in his arms, then gently maneuvered so the two of them were sitting, Prowl securely in his lap. Some of the crowded swooned at the motion, letting out oohs and awwws at the gentle moment. He'd never felt a more tense mech before, and worried the Matrix might be too much for Prowl to handle. Through their nascent bond he felt a mess of different emotions, too jumbled up for him to make any sense of.
The Priests kept doing their chants and continuing the ceremony around them, small drops of ceremonial high grade falling on them every few kliks. Prowl's tension turned to shivering, and eventually he slumped against Optimus' chest, their bond quieting. It was then that the priests called for them to stand, so Optimus did, though Prowl was incapable of standing on his own, filling Optimus with more concern for his consort, even if the crowd and priests seemed completely unbothered. One by one, the other consorts came and bowed before them before moving on, filing out of the temple. Still helping Prowl to walk, Optimus followed them out. From there it was another long procession back to the Palace, even larger crowds eagerly waiting to see them. However strange it was to ride in the back of another convoy, one whose trailer was windowed so he could see out and people could see in, he appreciated it now. Prowl was clearly in no state to be transforming into his alt mode and travelling.
“Are you feeling alright?” He asked once he was confident they were in relative privacy.
Prowl nodded, and his mouth opened as if to speak, but his body seized up before he could. Optimus was barely quick enough to catch him as he seized, then went still, optics going dim. Their bond didn't flicker, which meant he wasn't dead, but if Optimus didn't have that internal confirmation he wouldn't have been certain. After a moment, Prowl slowly woke back up, groggy at first then looking as though he was staring down a firing squad.
“Are you – is there -” Optimus wasn't sure what to ask. Clearly Prowl wasn't alright by any means.
“I'm fine, my Prime.” Prowl said, extracting himself from Optimus' hold and avoiding his gaze. “I was born with an unfortunate glitch in my processor, that is exacerbated by my tactical unit. It – it tends to flare up during emotionally taxing situations, causing crashes. No fault of yours, of course.”
“Are you certain you do not need me to call for a medic?”
“Yes, I've been dealing with this condition since my youth.” Prowl said. “Please, forget this has happened. I will try to be more careful in the future.”
“If that is what you wish, I will respect your decision.” Optimus frowned, wondering how exactly Prowl intended to be more careful about a medical condition.
“It won't interfere with my ability to perform my duties.” There was a strange twinge to Prowl's voice, a hint of – desperation, maybe? Being chosen as a consort to the Prime was no doubt stressful enough, being First Consort even more so. If Praxus had put on Prowl even a tenth of the amount of expectations that Iacon had placed on Optimus, it would make sense for Prowl to be concerned, perhaps overly so, about succeeding in his new caste and position.
“If you are unwell, all things can wait.” Optimus said. After a moment's hesitation, he continued, “I myself have been overwhelmed by everything as of late. If you need some time, you can have it.”
“No!- No.” Prowl said. “The priests will be expecting the consummation by the end of the cycle. I will be fit to complete my duties.”
“Yes, yes, I know what the priests are expecting.” Optimus said, some of his exasperation with them entering into his voice. “I am certain one of the other consorts would be more than sufficient for the priests' purposes.”
That was not the correct thing to say. Prowl's face twisted into a sort of panic and he grabbed Optimus with desperate servos. “I can do my duties, my Prime, I assure you, whatever is required of me -”
The convoy slowed to a stop and the door opened. It was only a short walk to the palace doors, but there was no shortage of onlookers. Prowl stared out at them with wide optics and let go of Optimus. This time he was able to stand on his own, albeit shakily, as they walked all the way to Optimus' chambers. The other consorts were all waiting outside, as were several priests. Having all the consorts wait outside the door felt... wrong, but it was what was expected. The priests and the senators had insisted so, and had made several documents available to him chronicling the experiences of previous Primes and consorts at this point. He'd read through only a handful of the consorts' entries before having to stop, feeling too much like he was reading personal diaries instead of historical documents.
He had made the chambers his own in the past cycles, his one private space away from everyone else. Not so private anymore, it seemed. He could see the varied religious objects the priests had placed around the room in his absence, no doubt for good luck or to summon the presence of Primus or some such. Beside him, Prowl looked around the room with a neutral expression, optics lingering on Optimus' bookshelves before moving toward the berth. The Praxian moved toward it slowly, approaching it as though it was trapped. Optimus watched, curious, but also wanting to let his new consort make himself comfortable before initiating anything and hoping that perhaps he would initiate some conversation. Prowl rested on its edge for a moment, glancing over at Optimus continually as he first sat there, then moved to sit in the centre of the berth, then laid down on it, propped up slightly by the copious pillows. Then, with a brief flit of – was that annoyance? - on his face, Prowl spread his legs and slid open his modesty panelling.
Optimus' processor stuttered for a moment. He had not expected Prowl to be so – so forward after everything. And he had severely overestimated how much his own limited experience would prepare him for interface with a very handsome virtual stranger. As he stared, Prowl reached between his legs and worked his fingers into his valve, starting to produce lubricant. Well. That answered Optimus' question on whether he preferred his valve or spike. He approached his new consort, climbing onto the berth with him and opening his own modesty panelling. His spike was slowly pressurizing and he was privately glad that Ariel had enjoyed both taking and receiving, so he knew, in theory, what should feel good. He reached out to take over prepping Prowl's valve, keeping a keen optic on Prowl's state, worried he might crash again.
His physical upgrades had left him almost too large for his own liking, and he felt it more now than ever, looming over his much smaller consort, fingers clumsily trying to figure out how to pleasure the valve of a mech a size class smaller than him. He felt like a virgin, like his frame upgrades had robbed him of his experience with interfacing. Prowl was avoiding optic-contact, helm turned and staring off at the bookshelves, only occasionally pulling faces at Optimus' attempts at preparing him without damaging him. Obviously, whatever he was trying wasn't working, and he sat back with a bit of a sigh, prepared to talk it out. This was not the correct choice, it seemed, because Prowl shot up and all but fell in his lap as he grabbed his servo and brought it back to his valve with a sort of fervent intensity that his previous state had been antithetical to. Optimus let out a startled groan when Prowl grabbed his half-pressurized spike and squeezed it, the feeling somewhere between pain and pleasure. He let himself be guided by his consort's actions almost passively then, until Prowl properly climbed into his lap and began lowering himself onto his spike. His hips bucked instinctively at the feeling of a warm, wet valve around his spike, a primal sort of reaction he'd never had before, and also one that was not the best idea. Despite his attempt at working open Prowl's valve, he had only been somewhat successful, and certainly not successful enough to make up for their size difference. Prowl hissed in pain as his valve was entered more forcefully than he'd clearly intended it to be. Optimus went fully still and started to pull out.
“I apologize -” Optimus began to speak, then stopped when he felt Prowl force himself down until his spike was fully inside his valve. It felt wonderful to be fully sheathed inside him, but he was almost certain he'd felt something rip inside Prowl in the handful of seconds that had just passed.
“Am I not pleasing enough to you, my Prime?” Prowl nearly demanded, voice quivering.
“Certainly not - Prowl, I just worry that perhaps you are not ready.” There was something that was wrong with the whole situation, with Prowl's insistence, but why? Why was the Praxian so contradictory in words and body language?
“I assure you that I am ready to perform all of my duties.” To enunciate his point, Prowl began slowly moving his hips, providing sinful stimulation to Optimus' spike. He was unable to prevent himself from letting out a grown of pleasure. It felt more powerful than what he'd ever experienced before. Was Prowl just more skilled than his past partners, or was this another quirk of his frame upgrades? “It is the foremost duties of a consort to provide sparklings to the Prime of mixed heritage to ensure the loyalty of their home state.”
Prowl was continuing the rocking of his hips as he spoke, even with the pinched look on his face. Despite the pleasure, the movements felt mechanical and Optimus was fighting a difficult battle between what his reproductive protocols were screaming at him to do and what his rational mind was telling him. “There is plenty of time to conceive heirs, there is no need to continue with this tonight.” At that, Prowl let out a small growl of frustration and rather than reply, leaned his helm on Optimus' chest and continued what he had been doing, hands keeping him steady. Realizing a lost argument when he heard one, Optimus decided that there would be no convincing Prowl to act otherwise, at least not tonight. Figuring out exactly why the Praxian was so desperate to try to conceive immediately was going to be a task for the future. He put his hands on the smaller mech's waist and began moving in time with him. As far as interface went, it was incredibly basic and banal. Nothing more than thrusting his spike until he found a speed that seemed to please them both well enough, and exposing his spark when Prowl's own sparkchamber opened up. It was just enough to reach sexual gratification, the type of interface that was more to fulfill some duty than to fulfill an urge. It was what it was. They overloaded simultaneously when their sparks connected, Prowl's valve clenching weakly around Optimus' spike for a short moment before stilling again. Even his most rushed and generally utilitarian interfaces with Ariel had held more passion.
They stayed connected long enough for their sparks to still and Prowl's gestation chamber to close, a half-suppressed whine making its way out of the Praxian as Optimus pulled out. Optimus stood to go collect a cloth and some cleaning solvent, and to give Prowl (and himself) a moment's privacy after the entire ordeal. He didn't have the time to reach the ensuite before the main doors opened with fanfare and chanting. He startled, feeling as yet untested battle protocols initiate, calming when he saw that it was only priests. Mollified that there was no threat, but angered at this intrusion, he stepped to intercept their approach of the berth with a steely look. Had they been listening at the door to hear them moving around, waiting? The priests were nosy enough that he wouldn't put it entirely passed them.
“Excuse us, but we are in the middle of a private matter.” He told the priests, mustering his 'primely' voice that his varied advisors had drilled into him.
“My Prime, we are simply here to verify the consummation of your union with the First Consort, and ensure proper celebrations will take place.” The head of the group of priests simpered. “This is a momentous occasion that deserves to be shared.”
“I am certain we can celebrate this when both myself and my consort are ready for it.” Optimus insisted. It was one thing for him to be pushed about for meetings and events, and another for priests to barge in on him and his mate immediately post interface. Prowl was silent on the berth, optics flitting from Optimus to the priests, mouth pressed into a thin line.
“But, my Prime, there are traditions!” The priest insisted. “As soon as the consummation is finished, the consort must be purified and prayed over to ensure a sparkling of primal quality is conceived as swiftly as possible.”
“I do not understand the rush for offspring. Seeing as neither myself nor Prowl are likely to die soon, it is unnecessary.” Optimus said. “And in any circumstance, my ascendance to the Primacy is proof enough that ensuring a Matrix-worthy sparkling is born to the Prime household is less pressing than ever.”
For countless generations, the Prime had been chosen from among their predecessor's offspring. While it wasn't guaranteed, it was much more likely for sparks capable of sustaining the power of the Matrix to come from the Matrix-bearer. And there was the obvious fact that bots raised in the household of a Prime were more educated for the role by nature of their birth. There had been three of his predecessor's creations identified as capable of bearing the Matrix, and Optimus had fought hard for the ability to attend their selection ceremony, when the Matrix would pick its next bearer. He was lucky that Alpha Trion had agreed to bring him along despite his relatively low rank and poorer birth-caste. Though perhaps luck was not a play but some higher power. When the priests had brought out the Matrix, having carefully been extracted from his predecessor's chest, it had started to glow and had shot toward him. His chassis had opened without his consent and the Matrix had settled inside, burning hot and blindingly bright.
The next thing he remembered after that was waking in the berth of the Prime with a new frame and the weight of Cybertron on his shoulders. Everything that had been personal to the previous household had been removed, and the previous Prime's consorts and creations had all disappeared. With his ascension, they had lost their caste and position. His advisors had all been unbothered at turning out the Primal household at such a moments notice, and seemed confused that Optimus had asked after them at all, assuring him that they had been well taken care of. He guessed they had returned to their families in their home states, but after thousands of vorns in the palace, he imagined it was not an easy move. He particularly pitied the youngest of the sparklings, whom he doubted understood what was happening. He couldn't imagine the trauma of losing your sire and the only home you knew so suddenly at such a young age.
With all of that, it had been proven that anyone could become the Prime, if the Matrix chose them. Optimus didn't have any particular attachment to having his own creation inheriting the Primacy, and certainly saw no reason to rush to have newsparks. Especially given that he barely knew all of his potential co-creators.
“Your word is law, my Prime.” The priest finally conceded. “We will content ourselves with the knowledge that the consummation has happened.”
“I appreciate your consideration.” Optimus said, watching them leave. When the door clicked shut, he turned back to Prowl. “I apologize for that.”
“Have I done something to displease you?” Prowl asked. “Why are you so against the traditional ceremonies?”
“I understand their importance,” Optimus said, “but I dislike the ones that interfere so closely with my private life, and with so little consideration.”
Prowl didn't respond, face neutral. He climbed under the covers of the berth, despite not having cleaned himself up much, and settled in. Optimus decided to join him but kept his distance within the bed. Prowl was still, so still that it didn't look like rest at all. Optimus himself struggled to find recharge, wondering what exactly was happening in his First Consort's mind to make him so... strange.