[Bay] Just For Now - OptimusxSunstreaker
Apr. 26th, 2013 08:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Another prompt palooza fill, NSFW with a thrum of angst because I can. Self-beta'ed.
Title: Just For Now
Universe: Bayverse, pre-2007
Characters: OptimusxSunstreaker, mentions of OptimusxSideswipe
Rating: M
Warnings: sticky, angst/fluff
Description: Promises made and promises kept. A burden shared is a burden halved.
For fuzipenguin's palooza prompt of Optimus/Sunstreaker, I know what you need
It begins with battle and a promise. Orders are issued and Optimus watches as they dive into the fray, fearless and bold.
He doesn't waste a klik on concern. There are others who need it more, that reassurance of their commanding officer looking out for them. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker can take care of themselves as they have established time and time again.
They return, as always, one more beaten and mangled than the other, often in defense of each other. Rarely do they both fall. Rarer still do they return unscathed.
Fearless, they leap into battle.
It is the silence after that weighs heavy on their sparks. The burden of watching one half cling to existence on a medberth. Trusting in the talents of a medic who performs miracles as though he's the hand of Primus himself.
In the wake of fire and energon and paralyzing anxiety, Optimus keeps his promise.
Over the vorn, he had come to learn their various quirks and their diametric needs.
Sideswipe must be wooed and treasured, plied with energon and soft words of endearment. Only in the dark and quiet of his quarters, do his needs shift.
He demands and fights, forcing submission. He seeks pain and domination, screams his overload, and collapses in a heap, wrung out and empty.
It's as though he needs to exorcise some inner demon and this is the only way he knows how. The only method he's found that works.
Sideswipe reminds Optimus so much of Megatron sometimes that it aches.
But still he keeps his promise.
Statistically, Sunstreaker ends up the broken frame in the medbay more often than not. He manages to mangle himself in ways that never cease to baffle Ratchet.
The medic always curses, mutters aloud, wondering and demanding of Sunstreaker: “what are you trying to prove?”
Of course, there is never an answer. Sunstreaker is usually in stasis lock to some degree, spark light peeking through the chinks in his armor.
The times when it is Sideswipe, still and unconscious on the berth, are fewer. Optimus does not hesitate to meet Sunstreaker's needs, regardless of what rumors the Autobot fold have whispered into existence. Optimus knows the truth, always has, which is why he can trust either twin with his back.
They understand and for that, Optimus will always trust.
Sunstreaker is a different course than his brother. He is a caged predator, stalking the halls in the wake of conflict, battle protocols still running high. His finish is streaked by blasterfire and minor scuffs but he is otherwise unharmed and Sunstreaker seems to think that a failing on his part.
He lingers in the medbay, a glaring, baleful presence until Ratchet tosses him out. Offense coils inside of him and before the promise, foolish Autobots paid the price for crossing his path and offering an insult or a poorly worded comment.
What began on the battlefield continues in the training room. Optimus is the only one who dares enter the ring, his blades dripping ropey metal to the mat.
Sunstreaker grins without humor and raises his own energon sword, wheeled pedes rolling effortlessly around the ring. The grin is a challenge.
Optimus responds in kind by snapping his facemask closed.
They always gather an audience, one that used to wonder if they intended to kill each other. Neither Optimus nor Sunstreaker hold back, it would be an insult to their skills. Each strike is intended to draw energon, cause pain. Minor wounds splatter the mat in lurid shades of pink.
Sometimes, Ironhide watches, cannons restlessly cycling, Guardian protocols alarmed by the display.
Ratchet no longer screams at them about causing damage.
Prowl has given up advising logic long ago.
Only Jazz watches them with an inkling of understanding, his own battle protocols simmering beneath the surface. But Jazz's issues belong to another mech. Optimus has his hands full already.
Sunstreaker is good, one of the best, but the end result is always the same. He hits the mat hard, with a jarring thud, on his knees. Optimus' blade nudges against his throat cables, after cutting a searing path up the frontliner's chestplate. They are both ventilating, condensation slicking their frames.
Optimus waits.
And Sunstreaker's helm dips by a fraction, the blade drawing a thin line of energon.
Concession.
Their audience celebrates, always gleeful to see Sunstreaker taken down. Always eager to watch their Prime in action. None of them, save perhaps mechs like Ironhide and Jazz, have a notion of the underlying significance.
Optimus sheathes his blades and they leave to applause, one of Optimus' hands on Sunstreaker's shoulders. They go to Sunstreaker's quarters because it is as close as he can get to his twin right now, having been banned from the medbay.
Sunstreaker likes the light, likes to be led. He is silent and acquiescent as Optimus presses him down to the berth, blanketing his smaller frame. Optimus pins Sunstreaker's wrists to the berth and there they stay as Optimus smooths his hands down the length of the frontliner's arms, slow and steady, a burr of metal on metal.
Sunstreaker shivers, optics gone dim, freely surrendering to sensation. In this, he is most beautiful.
Optimus captures his mouth, glossa entangling. Sunstreaker flexes beneath him in a needful undulation of his frame. His engine rumbles greedily.
He hears a snick as his knee nudges between Sunstreaker's thighs. He doesn't have to look to know that Sunstreaker is slick and ready for him. Optimus' hand slides down anyway, fingers brushing over Sunstreaker's recessed spike before plunging into the depths of Sunstreaker's valve.
Heat envelops his fingers as a low moan fills the room. Sunstreaker clenches, calipers eagerly cycling down, lubricant washing over Optimus' fingers.
Shifting his weight to one elbow, Optimus settles fully between Sunstreaker's thighs, interface panel rubbing hotly against Sunstreaker's unshuttered valve. His lips travel down, exploring powerful neck cables, tasting the charge that licks across them.
Sunstreaker gasps, a shudder wracking his frame. His fingers twitch as he though he wants to touch, but he doesn't, only settling more comfortably on the berth, willing to offer himself to Optimus for pleasure.
“It's a burden, isn't it?” Optimus murmurs, fingers tracing Sunstreaker's lateral armor, dipping between armor plates to tease the cables beneath. “One very few will ever understand.”
Another shiver wracks Sunstreaker's frame. “You do.”
“Mmm.” His mouth travels lower, tracing the nigh invisible seam on Sunstreaker's chestplate, glossa lingering over the score from their earlier bout, tasting the bitterness of scorched armor. “It is a heavy weight,” he agrees. “To love another like we do.”
Sunstreaker arches up toward him, begging without words, charge crackling over his chassis and dancing on Optimus' glossa.
He obliges the frontliner, shifting his weight, cupping Sunstreaker's hip with his free hand. His panel snaps aside, spike emerging to sink into Sunstreaker's valve, until he is fully ensheathed, the sensor-laden tip bumping Sunstreaker's innermost node.
Sunstreaker groans, thighs bracketing Optimus' hips as if to guide him deeper, valve calipers fluttering madly.
Optimus' hand loosens its grasp, sliding up to Sunstreaker's face, fingers teasing helm vents before holding Sunstreaker's helm in place. His mouth seeks out Sunstreaker's, nipping at the frontliner's lips, glossa stroking and teasing, gentle here if nowhere else.
Sunstreaker's existence, like Sideswipe's, is a thing of violence. From sparking to now, they have been forged and cast in turbulence and hostility.
Sideswipe has learned to embrace it, not bow, but bend with the onslaught.
Sunstreaker batters against it, helm-first, and craves peace in the aftermath. He does what he must because there is no other way.
In that, he is too much like Optimus, who in these moments is Orion Pax once again, spark-brother of Megatron.
Optimus' rhythm is unhurried, a steady slide in and out of Sunstreaker's valve, drawing the charge slowly. Sunstreaker moves with him, a familiar dance, a shift of his frame. Charge crackles and lights up his plating. Lubricant slicks the berth beneath them.
And then, Sunstreaker's hands are on his back, fingers curving against plating, holding on. His ventilations are louder, clipped. Heat pours from his frame in waves and Optimus can feel the throb of Sunstreaker's spark, even through the armor that separates them.
Optimus releases Sunstreaker's helm, dragging his fingers down, bracing a palm on Sunstreaker's chestplate. He can feel the thrum of the powerful spark beneath, the shifting of chamber mechanisms. But even in the slow crawl to ecstasy, Sunstreaker doesn't lose himself and allow the seam to split.
He is, however, getting close. Optimus can feel the charge gathering, the eager clutching of Sunstreaker's valve on his spike. His frame has become a thing of motion, vocalizer spilling moans between them. He's sucking in air through his mouth, hands gripping hard enough to dent.
Sunstreaker tosses his helm back, hips canted for Optimus' deepest thrust, and Optimus obliges. Overload sweeps through the frontliner, a low moan pulled from the depths of his chassis. His valve cycles down, impossibly tight, and Optimus groans, his own overload rippling across his frame. He spills into the clutching valve, panting a ventilation against Sunstreaker's mouth.
The frontliner drags him down for a kiss, glossa sloppily tangling together. Despite the sticky mess between them, Sunstreaker seems to be in no hurry to release his hold on Optimus. The kiss lingers, as does the heat from their activities, turning soft and sweet.
Optimus waits, letting Sunstreaker make the call, allowing him to take all he needs and anything more.
“It never gets easier,” Sunstreaker finally says, tension visibly draining from his frame.
“No,” Optimus agrees. “Be grateful that you are not forced to fight him. It would be much worse.”
“That would make it more difficult, I imagine.”
“Mmm.” Optimus' fingers stroke a delicate line down the seam on Sunstreaker's chestplate, calling up memories of the spark he has tasted once before, a heady gift from one of his most loyal soldiers. “Such is the course Primus has set for us.”
Sunstreaker's engine rumbles and Optimus can read the disdain in the grind of gears.
“To the washracks then?” Optimus asks, if only to forestall the inevitable mutter against their god.
“It can wait.” Sunstreaker's hand loosens its hold on Optimus' back plating, fingers dragging an arousing path down his backstrut. His intent is clear.
“Another?”
Blue optics darken as they meet his. “I'm not the only one who needs it,” Sunstreaker replies, with more perception than others would believe of him.
A smile tugs at Optimus' lips and he dips his helm, nuzzling against a helm vent. “For how long?”
“Until morning comes.”
Amusement trickles through Optimus. “Morning?” Cybertron hasn't had a solar cycle in vorns.
Sunstreaker smirks, looking more like his usual arrogant self. “I thought that would satisfy your sense of poetry.”
Optimus laughs. “Alright then.” He shifts his hips, nearly-pressurized spike sliding against the nodes in Sunstreaker's valve, provoking a telltale shudder.
Until morning it is.
Promises made and promises kept, Optimus thinks. Sunstreaker would probably say that would satisfy his sense of poetry, too.
****
a/n: I think the Bayverse movies are crap in so many ways, but they have so much fanfiction potential that I can't hate them completely. One thing that I loved about them was the implied relationship between Optimus and Megatron. I love exploring that angst potential. *grins*
Feedback is welcome and appreciated. More prompt fills to come, slowly but surely. I'm dividing my time between like four projects which is why my postings are so few and far between. Apologies for that.
Title: Just For Now
Universe: Bayverse, pre-2007
Characters: OptimusxSunstreaker, mentions of OptimusxSideswipe
Rating: M
Warnings: sticky, angst/fluff
Description: Promises made and promises kept. A burden shared is a burden halved.
For fuzipenguin's palooza prompt of Optimus/Sunstreaker, I know what you need
It begins with battle and a promise. Orders are issued and Optimus watches as they dive into the fray, fearless and bold.
He doesn't waste a klik on concern. There are others who need it more, that reassurance of their commanding officer looking out for them. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker can take care of themselves as they have established time and time again.
They return, as always, one more beaten and mangled than the other, often in defense of each other. Rarely do they both fall. Rarer still do they return unscathed.
Fearless, they leap into battle.
It is the silence after that weighs heavy on their sparks. The burden of watching one half cling to existence on a medberth. Trusting in the talents of a medic who performs miracles as though he's the hand of Primus himself.
In the wake of fire and energon and paralyzing anxiety, Optimus keeps his promise.
Over the vorn, he had come to learn their various quirks and their diametric needs.
Sideswipe must be wooed and treasured, plied with energon and soft words of endearment. Only in the dark and quiet of his quarters, do his needs shift.
He demands and fights, forcing submission. He seeks pain and domination, screams his overload, and collapses in a heap, wrung out and empty.
It's as though he needs to exorcise some inner demon and this is the only way he knows how. The only method he's found that works.
Sideswipe reminds Optimus so much of Megatron sometimes that it aches.
But still he keeps his promise.
Statistically, Sunstreaker ends up the broken frame in the medbay more often than not. He manages to mangle himself in ways that never cease to baffle Ratchet.
The medic always curses, mutters aloud, wondering and demanding of Sunstreaker: “what are you trying to prove?”
Of course, there is never an answer. Sunstreaker is usually in stasis lock to some degree, spark light peeking through the chinks in his armor.
The times when it is Sideswipe, still and unconscious on the berth, are fewer. Optimus does not hesitate to meet Sunstreaker's needs, regardless of what rumors the Autobot fold have whispered into existence. Optimus knows the truth, always has, which is why he can trust either twin with his back.
They understand and for that, Optimus will always trust.
Sunstreaker is a different course than his brother. He is a caged predator, stalking the halls in the wake of conflict, battle protocols still running high. His finish is streaked by blasterfire and minor scuffs but he is otherwise unharmed and Sunstreaker seems to think that a failing on his part.
He lingers in the medbay, a glaring, baleful presence until Ratchet tosses him out. Offense coils inside of him and before the promise, foolish Autobots paid the price for crossing his path and offering an insult or a poorly worded comment.
What began on the battlefield continues in the training room. Optimus is the only one who dares enter the ring, his blades dripping ropey metal to the mat.
Sunstreaker grins without humor and raises his own energon sword, wheeled pedes rolling effortlessly around the ring. The grin is a challenge.
Optimus responds in kind by snapping his facemask closed.
They always gather an audience, one that used to wonder if they intended to kill each other. Neither Optimus nor Sunstreaker hold back, it would be an insult to their skills. Each strike is intended to draw energon, cause pain. Minor wounds splatter the mat in lurid shades of pink.
Sometimes, Ironhide watches, cannons restlessly cycling, Guardian protocols alarmed by the display.
Ratchet no longer screams at them about causing damage.
Prowl has given up advising logic long ago.
Only Jazz watches them with an inkling of understanding, his own battle protocols simmering beneath the surface. But Jazz's issues belong to another mech. Optimus has his hands full already.
Sunstreaker is good, one of the best, but the end result is always the same. He hits the mat hard, with a jarring thud, on his knees. Optimus' blade nudges against his throat cables, after cutting a searing path up the frontliner's chestplate. They are both ventilating, condensation slicking their frames.
Optimus waits.
And Sunstreaker's helm dips by a fraction, the blade drawing a thin line of energon.
Concession.
Their audience celebrates, always gleeful to see Sunstreaker taken down. Always eager to watch their Prime in action. None of them, save perhaps mechs like Ironhide and Jazz, have a notion of the underlying significance.
Optimus sheathes his blades and they leave to applause, one of Optimus' hands on Sunstreaker's shoulders. They go to Sunstreaker's quarters because it is as close as he can get to his twin right now, having been banned from the medbay.
Sunstreaker likes the light, likes to be led. He is silent and acquiescent as Optimus presses him down to the berth, blanketing his smaller frame. Optimus pins Sunstreaker's wrists to the berth and there they stay as Optimus smooths his hands down the length of the frontliner's arms, slow and steady, a burr of metal on metal.
Sunstreaker shivers, optics gone dim, freely surrendering to sensation. In this, he is most beautiful.
Optimus captures his mouth, glossa entangling. Sunstreaker flexes beneath him in a needful undulation of his frame. His engine rumbles greedily.
He hears a snick as his knee nudges between Sunstreaker's thighs. He doesn't have to look to know that Sunstreaker is slick and ready for him. Optimus' hand slides down anyway, fingers brushing over Sunstreaker's recessed spike before plunging into the depths of Sunstreaker's valve.
Heat envelops his fingers as a low moan fills the room. Sunstreaker clenches, calipers eagerly cycling down, lubricant washing over Optimus' fingers.
Shifting his weight to one elbow, Optimus settles fully between Sunstreaker's thighs, interface panel rubbing hotly against Sunstreaker's unshuttered valve. His lips travel down, exploring powerful neck cables, tasting the charge that licks across them.
Sunstreaker gasps, a shudder wracking his frame. His fingers twitch as he though he wants to touch, but he doesn't, only settling more comfortably on the berth, willing to offer himself to Optimus for pleasure.
“It's a burden, isn't it?” Optimus murmurs, fingers tracing Sunstreaker's lateral armor, dipping between armor plates to tease the cables beneath. “One very few will ever understand.”
Another shiver wracks Sunstreaker's frame. “You do.”
“Mmm.” His mouth travels lower, tracing the nigh invisible seam on Sunstreaker's chestplate, glossa lingering over the score from their earlier bout, tasting the bitterness of scorched armor. “It is a heavy weight,” he agrees. “To love another like we do.”
Sunstreaker arches up toward him, begging without words, charge crackling over his chassis and dancing on Optimus' glossa.
He obliges the frontliner, shifting his weight, cupping Sunstreaker's hip with his free hand. His panel snaps aside, spike emerging to sink into Sunstreaker's valve, until he is fully ensheathed, the sensor-laden tip bumping Sunstreaker's innermost node.
Sunstreaker groans, thighs bracketing Optimus' hips as if to guide him deeper, valve calipers fluttering madly.
Optimus' hand loosens its grasp, sliding up to Sunstreaker's face, fingers teasing helm vents before holding Sunstreaker's helm in place. His mouth seeks out Sunstreaker's, nipping at the frontliner's lips, glossa stroking and teasing, gentle here if nowhere else.
Sunstreaker's existence, like Sideswipe's, is a thing of violence. From sparking to now, they have been forged and cast in turbulence and hostility.
Sideswipe has learned to embrace it, not bow, but bend with the onslaught.
Sunstreaker batters against it, helm-first, and craves peace in the aftermath. He does what he must because there is no other way.
In that, he is too much like Optimus, who in these moments is Orion Pax once again, spark-brother of Megatron.
Optimus' rhythm is unhurried, a steady slide in and out of Sunstreaker's valve, drawing the charge slowly. Sunstreaker moves with him, a familiar dance, a shift of his frame. Charge crackles and lights up his plating. Lubricant slicks the berth beneath them.
And then, Sunstreaker's hands are on his back, fingers curving against plating, holding on. His ventilations are louder, clipped. Heat pours from his frame in waves and Optimus can feel the throb of Sunstreaker's spark, even through the armor that separates them.
Optimus releases Sunstreaker's helm, dragging his fingers down, bracing a palm on Sunstreaker's chestplate. He can feel the thrum of the powerful spark beneath, the shifting of chamber mechanisms. But even in the slow crawl to ecstasy, Sunstreaker doesn't lose himself and allow the seam to split.
He is, however, getting close. Optimus can feel the charge gathering, the eager clutching of Sunstreaker's valve on his spike. His frame has become a thing of motion, vocalizer spilling moans between them. He's sucking in air through his mouth, hands gripping hard enough to dent.
Sunstreaker tosses his helm back, hips canted for Optimus' deepest thrust, and Optimus obliges. Overload sweeps through the frontliner, a low moan pulled from the depths of his chassis. His valve cycles down, impossibly tight, and Optimus groans, his own overload rippling across his frame. He spills into the clutching valve, panting a ventilation against Sunstreaker's mouth.
The frontliner drags him down for a kiss, glossa sloppily tangling together. Despite the sticky mess between them, Sunstreaker seems to be in no hurry to release his hold on Optimus. The kiss lingers, as does the heat from their activities, turning soft and sweet.
Optimus waits, letting Sunstreaker make the call, allowing him to take all he needs and anything more.
“It never gets easier,” Sunstreaker finally says, tension visibly draining from his frame.
“No,” Optimus agrees. “Be grateful that you are not forced to fight him. It would be much worse.”
“That would make it more difficult, I imagine.”
“Mmm.” Optimus' fingers stroke a delicate line down the seam on Sunstreaker's chestplate, calling up memories of the spark he has tasted once before, a heady gift from one of his most loyal soldiers. “Such is the course Primus has set for us.”
Sunstreaker's engine rumbles and Optimus can read the disdain in the grind of gears.
“To the washracks then?” Optimus asks, if only to forestall the inevitable mutter against their god.
“It can wait.” Sunstreaker's hand loosens its hold on Optimus' back plating, fingers dragging an arousing path down his backstrut. His intent is clear.
“Another?”
Blue optics darken as they meet his. “I'm not the only one who needs it,” Sunstreaker replies, with more perception than others would believe of him.
A smile tugs at Optimus' lips and he dips his helm, nuzzling against a helm vent. “For how long?”
“Until morning comes.”
Amusement trickles through Optimus. “Morning?” Cybertron hasn't had a solar cycle in vorns.
Sunstreaker smirks, looking more like his usual arrogant self. “I thought that would satisfy your sense of poetry.”
Optimus laughs. “Alright then.” He shifts his hips, nearly-pressurized spike sliding against the nodes in Sunstreaker's valve, provoking a telltale shudder.
Until morning it is.
Promises made and promises kept, Optimus thinks. Sunstreaker would probably say that would satisfy his sense of poetry, too.
a/n: I think the Bayverse movies are crap in so many ways, but they have so much fanfiction potential that I can't hate them completely. One thing that I loved about them was the implied relationship between Optimus and Megatron. I love exploring that angst potential. *grins*
Feedback is welcome and appreciated. More prompt fills to come, slowly but surely. I'm dividing my time between like four projects which is why my postings are so few and far between. Apologies for that.
