Transformers Ficlets
Jul. 10th, 2013 10:41 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: So I've been doing a bunch of mini-fills for the tf-rare-pairing July comment-fic challenge. Rather than flood you guys with a bunch of single postings, I've gathered the four I've done so far into one neat and easy posting. These are all self-beta'ed. Enjoy!
Title: Speechless
Enticements: G1, Rated T with no warnings
For the prompt Jazz/Bluestreak, tonguetied
Title: Eyes On Me
Enticements: G1, Rated T and no warnings
For the prompt Sunstreaker/Prowl, "wipe that smirk off your face"
Title: Indivisible, Part One
Enticements: Bayverse, Rating T, canon-typical violence, implied background twincest
For the prompt Bayverse, Optimus/Sideswipe, before the forge
Title: Indivisible – Part Two
Enticements: Bayverse, Rated M, pnp/tactile/sparkplay, angst
Prompt: Bayverse, Optimus/Sideswipe, before the forge
a/n: I may end up writing more. I'll post them here when I do. Hope you enjoyed!
Title: Speechless
Enticements: G1, Rated T with no warnings
For the prompt Jazz/Bluestreak, tonguetied
When Jazz dragged himself to his quarters, put in his code, disabled his special security, and slunked into the room, he did not expect anything but dark silence to greet him.
Instead, there was a Bluestreak on his berth and Jazz honestly had no idea how the gunner got there. Though he was far from complaining.
It was like a 'facing fantasy come to life.
“Bluestreak?” he spluttered, startled enough that he stumbled back, aft hitting the door. “What are you – how did you – I mean--”
Words. He needed them and he didn't have them, much like an explanation.
Bluestreak grinned, doorwings doing an energetic flutter that no other Praxian on base would be caught using. It was too adorable. “Well, Sideswipe told me that Smokescreen told him that Tracks said that Blaster knew a certain someone had an interest in me.”
He rose from the berth, all big blue optics and coy grin and inviting field that tingled enticingly against Jazz's own. “Apparently, that mech is you, though what I can't figure out is why I had to find out from the gossip chain. Could have said something you know.”
Jazz's mouth worked but no sounds emerged. At least, no intelligent ones. He was still stuck on the fact that Bluestreak was here. “You... I... Prowl...” He made a helpless gesture that explained everything and nothing all at once.
Bluestreak arched an orbital ridge. “How do you think I got in here? Luck?” He slid closer to Jazz, each step filled with predatory intent. “Who else could hack your lock? I guess you could say he gave you his blessing. Or me. Take your pick.” He shrugged.
Jazz's processor flat-lined. Prowl had helped Bluestreak sneak into Jazz's quarters for the sake of a midnight rendezvous? The very same mech who had lectured Jazz just last week for his inability to take the Autobot Code as anything but a guideline?
Bluestreak chuckled, his humor infectious. “Did I break you?”
Jazz's vents stuttered to life, vocals spitting static.
Doorwings lifted, purposefully enticing, as the overhead lights caught the sheen of plating that had been polished to perfection. “Or do you want me to go?”
“No!”
Jazz lurched forward and his faceplate burned, his denial coming out with too much force.
“I mean,” Jazz said, trying to find his charm from wherever he'd suddenly misplaced it. “You're more'n welcome to stay.”
Bluestreak grinned. “For a minute there, I thought you'd glitched. Then I would have to call Ratchet and he would have thrown something and blamed it on Prowl and none of us would get what we want.”
“Well, maybe ya just have that effect on me,” Jazz purred and closed the distance between them, grabbing Bluestreak's hand and pulling it toward his lips. “So how about that offer?”
The rolling desire in Bluestreak's field was all the answer Jazz needed.
He definitely owed Prowl big time.
And, apparently, Sideswipe, Smokescreen, Tracks and Blaster.
Instead, there was a Bluestreak on his berth and Jazz honestly had no idea how the gunner got there. Though he was far from complaining.
It was like a 'facing fantasy come to life.
“Bluestreak?” he spluttered, startled enough that he stumbled back, aft hitting the door. “What are you – how did you – I mean--”
Words. He needed them and he didn't have them, much like an explanation.
Bluestreak grinned, doorwings doing an energetic flutter that no other Praxian on base would be caught using. It was too adorable. “Well, Sideswipe told me that Smokescreen told him that Tracks said that Blaster knew a certain someone had an interest in me.”
He rose from the berth, all big blue optics and coy grin and inviting field that tingled enticingly against Jazz's own. “Apparently, that mech is you, though what I can't figure out is why I had to find out from the gossip chain. Could have said something you know.”
Jazz's mouth worked but no sounds emerged. At least, no intelligent ones. He was still stuck on the fact that Bluestreak was here. “You... I... Prowl...” He made a helpless gesture that explained everything and nothing all at once.
Bluestreak arched an orbital ridge. “How do you think I got in here? Luck?” He slid closer to Jazz, each step filled with predatory intent. “Who else could hack your lock? I guess you could say he gave you his blessing. Or me. Take your pick.” He shrugged.
Jazz's processor flat-lined. Prowl had helped Bluestreak sneak into Jazz's quarters for the sake of a midnight rendezvous? The very same mech who had lectured Jazz just last week for his inability to take the Autobot Code as anything but a guideline?
Bluestreak chuckled, his humor infectious. “Did I break you?”
Jazz's vents stuttered to life, vocals spitting static.
Doorwings lifted, purposefully enticing, as the overhead lights caught the sheen of plating that had been polished to perfection. “Or do you want me to go?”
“No!”
Jazz lurched forward and his faceplate burned, his denial coming out with too much force.
“I mean,” Jazz said, trying to find his charm from wherever he'd suddenly misplaced it. “You're more'n welcome to stay.”
Bluestreak grinned. “For a minute there, I thought you'd glitched. Then I would have to call Ratchet and he would have thrown something and blamed it on Prowl and none of us would get what we want.”
“Well, maybe ya just have that effect on me,” Jazz purred and closed the distance between them, grabbing Bluestreak's hand and pulling it toward his lips. “So how about that offer?”
The rolling desire in Bluestreak's field was all the answer Jazz needed.
He definitely owed Prowl big time.
And, apparently, Sideswipe, Smokescreen, Tracks and Blaster.
Title: Eyes On Me
Enticements: G1, Rated T and no warnings
For the prompt Sunstreaker/Prowl, "wipe that smirk off your face"
Take a break, Jazz said. Stretch out your cables. Get your energon pumping.
Go to the training room.
Prowl should have known by the thinly veiled mischief that Jazz was plotting. Then again, Jazz was always plotting.
Usually, last thing last shift, the training room was deserted. Very few Autobots stirred before the dawn unless it was required of them, and even then grudgingly. There were a few notable exceptions, but said bots weren't the sort to be found in the training room in the first place.
This morning was different and Prowl couldn't take his optics off the sight.
He circled around the ring, whisper-quiet with all the stealth he had learned and in turn, taught to Jazz. And Prowl watched, drinking in the view.
Gleaming armor was polished to perfection, catching the overhead lights with each shift of plating. Elegant movements declared martial forms with fluid skill, shifting from one stance into the next with not a wasted effort. The soft hiss of hydraulics and the scrape of pedes against matting filled the air. And the blue glow of optics, deep in concentration, shone from a faceplate devoid of the usual scowl.
Sunstreaker was beautiful.
Of course, the fragged glitch knew that but it was no less true. Whomever had designed his frame had been an artist.
He had to know Prowl was watching. Sunstreaker had a keen situational awareness, nearly on par with Red Alert. But he gave no sign that he knew Prowl was there, which meant he could watch to his spark's content. For all his vanity, Sunstreaker was surprisingly private about certain things. His training routines were one of these things.
On and off the battlefield, Sunstreaker was a vicious warrior with a short temper and a sharper glossa. He gave the impression of a mech who could not be tamed.
There were only a select few who knew any different. Prowl considered himself lucky to be one of these few.
Sunstreaker twisted and spun across the ring, arms whipping through the air, vents audibly cycling. His expression was one of deep focus and it was the closest to calm Prowl had ever seen him except for the one rare, unguarded moment of wistful thinking.
It was a moment never to be repeated, occurring when Sunstreaker had come across something in Teletraan-1's archives. Prowl never did find out what it was. He was waiting for Sunstreaker to tell him.
Sunstreaker on the battlefield was a terrifyingly gorgeous sight to behold, but Prowl rarely got to pay him that much undivided attention. There were other tasks to occupy his processor.
But here, he could watch. Here, Sunstreaker could be focused and the sight of it sent Prowl's own fans to spinning. There was something about seeing a notoriously violent mech tiptoeing toward peace that sent arousal singing through his circuits. Try as he might, Prowl could not keep his vents quiet.
He clasped his arms behind his back to hide their trembling urge to stroke Sunstreaker's armor, entertaining heated thoughts of taking advantage of their semi-privacy. Only Teletraan was watching, and perhaps Red Alert, but neither would mind.
Sunstreaker finished the last routine with a flourish, his field bursting out, filling the room with a smug triumph. His plating rippled, rising and falling like a bird ruffling its feathers, before he turned to face Prowl. He tried to act surprised but like his twin, could never contain his ego.
“Why, Prowl. I didn't see you there.” He leaned on the ring's enclosure, all angles and lazy grace, his weight causing the thin metal chains to creak alarmingly. “Taking a break?”
Prowl performed a systems check, not that it helped. The heat was still there, flushing desire through his lines. “By some definition of the terms, yes.”
Sunstreaker smirked. “Can I help you?” He flicked a hand over his right shoulder, brushing away an imaginary piece of dust that was in truth a calculated move to draw attention to his immaculate frame. “You look a little charged.”
Prowl inclined his helm. “You know very well that I am. So get down here and do something about it.”
“I have a better idea,” Sunstreaker retorted, arching an orbital ridge at him. “Why don't you come up here and make me?” The request came out as a purr.
It also sounded like a challenge.
Prowl debated for 3.27 seconds. Jazz had told him to have some fun. This would count, wouldn't it?
“If you insist.”
He climbed into the ring, vaulting over the barrier with ease. Sunstreaker backed up a few strides to give him room.
The warrior’s smirk widened. “Don't pretend you're not aching for me right now,” Sunstreaker said, vocals full of an arrogance that was just shy of obnoxious.
Prowl's field flexed. “I would never resort to lying.”
Sunstreaker shifted into a defensive stance, one hand lifting in a come-hither gesture. “And Sideswipe says you have no charm. I do believe that was a compliment.”
Prowl slipped into his own stance, though his was a bit more offensive. He would wipe that smirk off Sunstreaker's face and then have the warrior screaming his name.
Sunstreaker always did get more vocal after a work-out.
Go to the training room.
Prowl should have known by the thinly veiled mischief that Jazz was plotting. Then again, Jazz was always plotting.
Usually, last thing last shift, the training room was deserted. Very few Autobots stirred before the dawn unless it was required of them, and even then grudgingly. There were a few notable exceptions, but said bots weren't the sort to be found in the training room in the first place.
This morning was different and Prowl couldn't take his optics off the sight.
He circled around the ring, whisper-quiet with all the stealth he had learned and in turn, taught to Jazz. And Prowl watched, drinking in the view.
Gleaming armor was polished to perfection, catching the overhead lights with each shift of plating. Elegant movements declared martial forms with fluid skill, shifting from one stance into the next with not a wasted effort. The soft hiss of hydraulics and the scrape of pedes against matting filled the air. And the blue glow of optics, deep in concentration, shone from a faceplate devoid of the usual scowl.
Sunstreaker was beautiful.
Of course, the fragged glitch knew that but it was no less true. Whomever had designed his frame had been an artist.
He had to know Prowl was watching. Sunstreaker had a keen situational awareness, nearly on par with Red Alert. But he gave no sign that he knew Prowl was there, which meant he could watch to his spark's content. For all his vanity, Sunstreaker was surprisingly private about certain things. His training routines were one of these things.
On and off the battlefield, Sunstreaker was a vicious warrior with a short temper and a sharper glossa. He gave the impression of a mech who could not be tamed.
There were only a select few who knew any different. Prowl considered himself lucky to be one of these few.
Sunstreaker twisted and spun across the ring, arms whipping through the air, vents audibly cycling. His expression was one of deep focus and it was the closest to calm Prowl had ever seen him except for the one rare, unguarded moment of wistful thinking.
It was a moment never to be repeated, occurring when Sunstreaker had come across something in Teletraan-1's archives. Prowl never did find out what it was. He was waiting for Sunstreaker to tell him.
Sunstreaker on the battlefield was a terrifyingly gorgeous sight to behold, but Prowl rarely got to pay him that much undivided attention. There were other tasks to occupy his processor.
But here, he could watch. Here, Sunstreaker could be focused and the sight of it sent Prowl's own fans to spinning. There was something about seeing a notoriously violent mech tiptoeing toward peace that sent arousal singing through his circuits. Try as he might, Prowl could not keep his vents quiet.
He clasped his arms behind his back to hide their trembling urge to stroke Sunstreaker's armor, entertaining heated thoughts of taking advantage of their semi-privacy. Only Teletraan was watching, and perhaps Red Alert, but neither would mind.
Sunstreaker finished the last routine with a flourish, his field bursting out, filling the room with a smug triumph. His plating rippled, rising and falling like a bird ruffling its feathers, before he turned to face Prowl. He tried to act surprised but like his twin, could never contain his ego.
“Why, Prowl. I didn't see you there.” He leaned on the ring's enclosure, all angles and lazy grace, his weight causing the thin metal chains to creak alarmingly. “Taking a break?”
Prowl performed a systems check, not that it helped. The heat was still there, flushing desire through his lines. “By some definition of the terms, yes.”
Sunstreaker smirked. “Can I help you?” He flicked a hand over his right shoulder, brushing away an imaginary piece of dust that was in truth a calculated move to draw attention to his immaculate frame. “You look a little charged.”
Prowl inclined his helm. “You know very well that I am. So get down here and do something about it.”
“I have a better idea,” Sunstreaker retorted, arching an orbital ridge at him. “Why don't you come up here and make me?” The request came out as a purr.
It also sounded like a challenge.
Prowl debated for 3.27 seconds. Jazz had told him to have some fun. This would count, wouldn't it?
“If you insist.”
He climbed into the ring, vaulting over the barrier with ease. Sunstreaker backed up a few strides to give him room.
The warrior’s smirk widened. “Don't pretend you're not aching for me right now,” Sunstreaker said, vocals full of an arrogance that was just shy of obnoxious.
Prowl's field flexed. “I would never resort to lying.”
Sunstreaker shifted into a defensive stance, one hand lifting in a come-hither gesture. “And Sideswipe says you have no charm. I do believe that was a compliment.”
Prowl slipped into his own stance, though his was a bit more offensive. He would wipe that smirk off Sunstreaker's face and then have the warrior screaming his name.
Sunstreaker always did get more vocal after a work-out.
Title: Indivisible, Part One
Enticements: Bayverse, Rating T, canon-typical violence, implied background twincest
For the prompt Bayverse, Optimus/Sideswipe, before the forge
Once upon a time, Sideswipe had been a twin. He had shared his spark and functioning with another mech. He was never alone.
He loved his twin inasmuch as he understood love. Though sometimes he hated his other half, too.
Love, Sideswipe discovered, did not preclude hate.
Once upon a time, Optimus Prime had a brother, a twin in everything but station. A mech with half his spark with whom he shared rulership and all else that mattered.
Love, Optimus had also learned, did not presume loyalty.
There they were, two abandoned mechs on the edge of a rusty battlefield, staring across hordes of fallen frames, littered over an energon-soaked expanse. Ash and spent ions clung in a dense cloud to the sparse atmosphere.
Sideswipe had energon on taloned hands, dripping down his chestplate, coating the streaks of gold glaringly obvious on the once-glittering silver of his paint.
Optimus' hands were clean, at least of visible stains. His optics tracked the retreating backplate of a warmonger. His frame remembered the fierce beating he had absorbed until a retreat was called or victory assumed.
No one, in truth, had won here.
Again, Optimus realized. Time and again he would face the consequences of his own weakness. He would suffer for the spark he could not bear to take.
Cybertron would suffer. Her people would suffer.
Because until now Optimus had not understood the cost of love. He hadn't understood how it could cut so deep, pollute from the inside out, and disturb the natural state.
Sideswipe did.
Optimus turned his gaze on the silver warrior, energon dripping the last spare drops from his hands, limp at his sides.
Sideswipe had the courage to do what he must. He had looked into the optics of his other half and hadn't faltered. He had not let his weakness rule him.
Optimus must learn from his example. He would not be able to win this war if he could not. Cybertron must be protected, and her people, too.
The unbreakable bonds must be shattered, no matter the cost.
The scientist within him was of no use here and must be cast aside. Optimus Prime as he knew himself would be abandoned as well. He must become the warrior Cybertron needed. And he must prepare himself for the next confrontation.
The outcome must not be allowed to repeat itself.
“Never again,” Optimus said, his soft proclamation too loud in the after-battle silence.
Sideswipe looked up at him as Optimus lay a hand on his shoulder, over a deep gash in thick armor, metal scorched and jagged. The final, desperate blow of a mech whose spark was guttering.
“I will not falter again,” Optimus clarified. “I will bring him down. I will end this.”
It was a promise. To himself and to Cybertron and to the Autobots who gathered under his banner.
Sideswipe's helm dipped in understanding, field barely lit at the edges with approval.
“It won't be easy,” he murmured, one hand rising to touch the score across his chestplate, flecks of gold interspersed.
Optimus cycled a ventilation, his optics shifting back to the battlefield. “Few things are.”
He loved his twin inasmuch as he understood love. Though sometimes he hated his other half, too.
Love, Sideswipe discovered, did not preclude hate.
Once upon a time, Optimus Prime had a brother, a twin in everything but station. A mech with half his spark with whom he shared rulership and all else that mattered.
Love, Optimus had also learned, did not presume loyalty.
There they were, two abandoned mechs on the edge of a rusty battlefield, staring across hordes of fallen frames, littered over an energon-soaked expanse. Ash and spent ions clung in a dense cloud to the sparse atmosphere.
Sideswipe had energon on taloned hands, dripping down his chestplate, coating the streaks of gold glaringly obvious on the once-glittering silver of his paint.
Optimus' hands were clean, at least of visible stains. His optics tracked the retreating backplate of a warmonger. His frame remembered the fierce beating he had absorbed until a retreat was called or victory assumed.
No one, in truth, had won here.
Again, Optimus realized. Time and again he would face the consequences of his own weakness. He would suffer for the spark he could not bear to take.
Cybertron would suffer. Her people would suffer.
Because until now Optimus had not understood the cost of love. He hadn't understood how it could cut so deep, pollute from the inside out, and disturb the natural state.
Sideswipe did.
Optimus turned his gaze on the silver warrior, energon dripping the last spare drops from his hands, limp at his sides.
Sideswipe had the courage to do what he must. He had looked into the optics of his other half and hadn't faltered. He had not let his weakness rule him.
Optimus must learn from his example. He would not be able to win this war if he could not. Cybertron must be protected, and her people, too.
The unbreakable bonds must be shattered, no matter the cost.
The scientist within him was of no use here and must be cast aside. Optimus Prime as he knew himself would be abandoned as well. He must become the warrior Cybertron needed. And he must prepare himself for the next confrontation.
The outcome must not be allowed to repeat itself.
“Never again,” Optimus said, his soft proclamation too loud in the after-battle silence.
Sideswipe looked up at him as Optimus lay a hand on his shoulder, over a deep gash in thick armor, metal scorched and jagged. The final, desperate blow of a mech whose spark was guttering.
“I will not falter again,” Optimus clarified. “I will bring him down. I will end this.”
It was a promise. To himself and to Cybertron and to the Autobots who gathered under his banner.
Sideswipe's helm dipped in understanding, field barely lit at the edges with approval.
“It won't be easy,” he murmured, one hand rising to touch the score across his chestplate, flecks of gold interspersed.
Optimus cycled a ventilation, his optics shifting back to the battlefield. “Few things are.”
Title: Indivisible – Part Two
Enticements: Bayverse, Rated M, pnp/tactile/sparkplay, angst
Prompt: Bayverse, Optimus/Sideswipe, before the forge
In the wake of fire and agony and spark-searing grief, the broken warrior became a surprising source of solace.
Optimus would seek him out, bitter and exhausted, and Sideswipe would welcome him with open arms and ports, never asking why because he already understood.
Consolation was found in the crackling surges of overload, the comforting warmth of another frame held close to his, the exploration of curious fingers smaller than his own, the searing heat of pleasure that blanked out everything else.
The taste of Sideswipe's spark was as achingly familiar as it was foreign. Optimus drew strength from it and a certain measure of relief. All was not lost. He was not lost. At least, not yet.
That he could offer Sideswipe the same measure of comfort eased the ache in his spark. Because Sideswipe also suffered. What Optimus had considered an act of strength, Sideswipe berated himself for what he called a weakness.
Self-preservation, he claimed. Hurting his twin before the pain could consume him.
Guilt tore ragged holes in what was left of Sideswipe's spark. He didn't recharge so much as shut down all but emergency systems for a short time. He was still a fierce warrior on the battlefield, but in the downtime between one clash and the next, he faltered.
They were both of them broken beyond what a medic could fix. Though Primus knew that Ratchet tried.
“We're going to lose Tyger Pax,” Optimus said one grim cycle, slumped as he looked out over Iacon, the last bastion against the Decepticon advance. “And Megatron will claim the Allspark.”
His hands clenched on the railing, defeat curdling inside of him like a festering case of cosmic rust. The necessary change in himself had been effected, but it was still not enough. The Decepticons, outnumbering the Autobots nearly two to one, had rampaged across Cybertron and the Autobots were barely able to slow their advance.
The shadows beside him shifted, armor catching a glint of street lighting. “Would that be such a bad thing?”
Optimus' plating rose and fell, clinging tight to his substructure, reflecting the inner turmoil. “I fear what he will do with such unbridled energy. The Allspark, like Cybertron, is a neutral entity.”
“And hiding it is of no use.”
His helm dipped. “He would tear what remains of Cybertron apart to find it, caring little for who or what might stand in his way.”
Hands landed on his hips, sliding around slowly, palms flatting on Optimus' abdominal plating. A frame pressed tight against his backplate, thrumming with a familiar pulse, energy field reaching and coiling with Optimus' own.
“Destroying it isn't an option either,” Sideswipe murmured, and it wasn't a question.
Optimus was silent. Neither he nor his cadre of tacticians had an answer. The fact remained, with the Allspark in hand, Megatron would win the war.
Fingers teased over his thoracic ports, a second hand rising to trace the seam of his chestplate. The leisurely exploration and the comfortably familiar touches sought to ease his tension. Optimus wanted to be enveloped in that comfort but his processor would not rest, cycling over and over the problem at large.
“There was an unspoken rule in the Pit,” Sideswipe said, and his words were halting, as though pulled from somewhere deeply buried. “If you had something valuable you couldn't protect and couldn't destroy, then you sent it away.”
The embrace tightened with a creak of metal on metal, and a long ventilation escaped the warrior's vents. His field rippled, ringed on the edges with age-old grief.
“It was the only way to be sure,” Sideswipe added, rebooting his vocalizer to clear the creeping static. “No matter how much it hurt.”
Optimus lowered his helm. “That would be the end of Cybertron.”
“We're already at the end. With or without the Allspark.”
Silence fell, growing between them.
Optimus knew that Sideswipe was right. If he could not defend it, could not destroy it, and could not hide it, what other option did he have but to cast it away?
He turned away from Iacon, shifting in the embrace until he faced Sideswipe, one hand lifting to cup the warrior's helm. “If I asked, would you tell me what it was you sent away?”
Sideswipe's gaze dropped, optics cycling dim. It was an answer without words.
“Do you regret it?”
“Every orn that passes.” Sideswipe fingers traced the line of Optimus' backstrut and he lifted his helm. “But I would make the same choice over and over again.”
To any other mech, such a statement lacked sense. But Optimus understood it.
“It's late,” he said, thumb sweeping over Sideswipe's cheek arch. “Come to berth.”
Sideswipe needed no further encouragement. He'd been trying to urge Optimus to recharge and rest all along.
They tumbled into the plush berth, Optimus' only nod to his station. Sideswipe's ports were already open, welcoming, spitting charge and Optimus' cables surged free, clicking home with a snap-crackle of pressing need.
Sideswipe moaned, hands grasping, hooking in thick plates of armor no Prime before Optimus had ever carried. Sideswipe became a frame of motion, rising and falling to the pulse of their connection, need and lust surging in strong bursts through the link.
Pleasure, Optimus reckoned, was simple, easy. He could give and Sideswipe would accept and complications were abandoned in the sweet ebb and flow of charge.
Desire could not be feigned and it rose in Sideswipe's field, blanketing Optimus in unfettered lust. Optimus swallowed the first pleasured cry with a kiss, but his mouth wandered further down, lips tracing Sideswipe's chestplate, following the fine corrugated seams. His glossa nudged the narrowest line down the center, the armor plate humming with warmth beneath his mouth.
Sideswipe shivered from helm to pede, plating rippling, arching up toward Optimus' mouth. Acceptance and permission swirled into one as his chestplate cracked a fraction, pale sparklight seeping through, spilling onto Optimus' face. The heat of it tingled the tactile sensors on his glossa, but his olfactory sensors worked just fine, and he could taste the sheer, undiluted energy, light and heavy all at once, hopelessly addictive.
Optimus cradled the smaller mech with his hands, fingers dipping into broader seams at joints. Their cables grew hot, the scent of heated metal filling the room. Optimus' own chestplates rattled but he didn't dare release them. No matter how much his spark yearned for the touch of another, he couldn't risk it.
Another full-frame shudder struck Sideswipe, whose helm pushed back against the berth, baring the thick cables shielding his intake. He sucked air through his vents, optics dim and unfocused. “Optimus, please.”
Need was a molten stream from Sideswipe to Optimus and back again. His circuits hummed with charge and static lit the room, especially inspiring as it reflected off silver armor. Sideswipe's spark flared, fingers gripping tight.
Optimus mouthed the edges of Sideswipe's chestplate, glossa dipping into the narrow split, touching the intangible. He tasted energy and grief and the distinct, sharpness of ozone.
Sideswipe's backstrut arched, frame crackling with electricity, his overload pouring across the link. Pleasure bombarded Optimus, cresting at the first palpable flare of a damaged spark.
Optimus pressed his helm to Sideswipe's chestplate, optics offlining as he shuddered through his own overload. He could feel the warrior thrumming against the platelets of his helm, the heat of Sideswipe's frame a satisfying balm to his inner turmoil.
And still the connection remained hot and hungry between them, one overload never enough to chase away the dark. Sideswipe's eager hands proved his willingness to continue, his systems audibly cycling back up toward blinding ecstasy.
It was several joors yet before Optimus was expected anywhere. He planned to take full advantage of it.
He dragged his mouth up toward Sideswipe's, capturing the warrior's lips for a fierce kiss, moaning as his panels clicked open and Sideswipe's cables sank into his ports immediately thereafter, completing the loop.
This, Optimus decided, was a far more worthwhile venture than recharge.
Optimus would seek him out, bitter and exhausted, and Sideswipe would welcome him with open arms and ports, never asking why because he already understood.
Consolation was found in the crackling surges of overload, the comforting warmth of another frame held close to his, the exploration of curious fingers smaller than his own, the searing heat of pleasure that blanked out everything else.
The taste of Sideswipe's spark was as achingly familiar as it was foreign. Optimus drew strength from it and a certain measure of relief. All was not lost. He was not lost. At least, not yet.
That he could offer Sideswipe the same measure of comfort eased the ache in his spark. Because Sideswipe also suffered. What Optimus had considered an act of strength, Sideswipe berated himself for what he called a weakness.
Self-preservation, he claimed. Hurting his twin before the pain could consume him.
Guilt tore ragged holes in what was left of Sideswipe's spark. He didn't recharge so much as shut down all but emergency systems for a short time. He was still a fierce warrior on the battlefield, but in the downtime between one clash and the next, he faltered.
They were both of them broken beyond what a medic could fix. Though Primus knew that Ratchet tried.
“We're going to lose Tyger Pax,” Optimus said one grim cycle, slumped as he looked out over Iacon, the last bastion against the Decepticon advance. “And Megatron will claim the Allspark.”
His hands clenched on the railing, defeat curdling inside of him like a festering case of cosmic rust. The necessary change in himself had been effected, but it was still not enough. The Decepticons, outnumbering the Autobots nearly two to one, had rampaged across Cybertron and the Autobots were barely able to slow their advance.
The shadows beside him shifted, armor catching a glint of street lighting. “Would that be such a bad thing?”
Optimus' plating rose and fell, clinging tight to his substructure, reflecting the inner turmoil. “I fear what he will do with such unbridled energy. The Allspark, like Cybertron, is a neutral entity.”
“And hiding it is of no use.”
His helm dipped. “He would tear what remains of Cybertron apart to find it, caring little for who or what might stand in his way.”
Hands landed on his hips, sliding around slowly, palms flatting on Optimus' abdominal plating. A frame pressed tight against his backplate, thrumming with a familiar pulse, energy field reaching and coiling with Optimus' own.
“Destroying it isn't an option either,” Sideswipe murmured, and it wasn't a question.
Optimus was silent. Neither he nor his cadre of tacticians had an answer. The fact remained, with the Allspark in hand, Megatron would win the war.
Fingers teased over his thoracic ports, a second hand rising to trace the seam of his chestplate. The leisurely exploration and the comfortably familiar touches sought to ease his tension. Optimus wanted to be enveloped in that comfort but his processor would not rest, cycling over and over the problem at large.
“There was an unspoken rule in the Pit,” Sideswipe said, and his words were halting, as though pulled from somewhere deeply buried. “If you had something valuable you couldn't protect and couldn't destroy, then you sent it away.”
The embrace tightened with a creak of metal on metal, and a long ventilation escaped the warrior's vents. His field rippled, ringed on the edges with age-old grief.
“It was the only way to be sure,” Sideswipe added, rebooting his vocalizer to clear the creeping static. “No matter how much it hurt.”
Optimus lowered his helm. “That would be the end of Cybertron.”
“We're already at the end. With or without the Allspark.”
Silence fell, growing between them.
Optimus knew that Sideswipe was right. If he could not defend it, could not destroy it, and could not hide it, what other option did he have but to cast it away?
He turned away from Iacon, shifting in the embrace until he faced Sideswipe, one hand lifting to cup the warrior's helm. “If I asked, would you tell me what it was you sent away?”
Sideswipe's gaze dropped, optics cycling dim. It was an answer without words.
“Do you regret it?”
“Every orn that passes.” Sideswipe fingers traced the line of Optimus' backstrut and he lifted his helm. “But I would make the same choice over and over again.”
To any other mech, such a statement lacked sense. But Optimus understood it.
“It's late,” he said, thumb sweeping over Sideswipe's cheek arch. “Come to berth.”
Sideswipe needed no further encouragement. He'd been trying to urge Optimus to recharge and rest all along.
They tumbled into the plush berth, Optimus' only nod to his station. Sideswipe's ports were already open, welcoming, spitting charge and Optimus' cables surged free, clicking home with a snap-crackle of pressing need.
Sideswipe moaned, hands grasping, hooking in thick plates of armor no Prime before Optimus had ever carried. Sideswipe became a frame of motion, rising and falling to the pulse of their connection, need and lust surging in strong bursts through the link.
Pleasure, Optimus reckoned, was simple, easy. He could give and Sideswipe would accept and complications were abandoned in the sweet ebb and flow of charge.
Desire could not be feigned and it rose in Sideswipe's field, blanketing Optimus in unfettered lust. Optimus swallowed the first pleasured cry with a kiss, but his mouth wandered further down, lips tracing Sideswipe's chestplate, following the fine corrugated seams. His glossa nudged the narrowest line down the center, the armor plate humming with warmth beneath his mouth.
Sideswipe shivered from helm to pede, plating rippling, arching up toward Optimus' mouth. Acceptance and permission swirled into one as his chestplate cracked a fraction, pale sparklight seeping through, spilling onto Optimus' face. The heat of it tingled the tactile sensors on his glossa, but his olfactory sensors worked just fine, and he could taste the sheer, undiluted energy, light and heavy all at once, hopelessly addictive.
Optimus cradled the smaller mech with his hands, fingers dipping into broader seams at joints. Their cables grew hot, the scent of heated metal filling the room. Optimus' own chestplates rattled but he didn't dare release them. No matter how much his spark yearned for the touch of another, he couldn't risk it.
Another full-frame shudder struck Sideswipe, whose helm pushed back against the berth, baring the thick cables shielding his intake. He sucked air through his vents, optics dim and unfocused. “Optimus, please.”
Need was a molten stream from Sideswipe to Optimus and back again. His circuits hummed with charge and static lit the room, especially inspiring as it reflected off silver armor. Sideswipe's spark flared, fingers gripping tight.
Optimus mouthed the edges of Sideswipe's chestplate, glossa dipping into the narrow split, touching the intangible. He tasted energy and grief and the distinct, sharpness of ozone.
Sideswipe's backstrut arched, frame crackling with electricity, his overload pouring across the link. Pleasure bombarded Optimus, cresting at the first palpable flare of a damaged spark.
Optimus pressed his helm to Sideswipe's chestplate, optics offlining as he shuddered through his own overload. He could feel the warrior thrumming against the platelets of his helm, the heat of Sideswipe's frame a satisfying balm to his inner turmoil.
And still the connection remained hot and hungry between them, one overload never enough to chase away the dark. Sideswipe's eager hands proved his willingness to continue, his systems audibly cycling back up toward blinding ecstasy.
It was several joors yet before Optimus was expected anywhere. He planned to take full advantage of it.
He dragged his mouth up toward Sideswipe's, capturing the warrior's lips for a fierce kiss, moaning as his panels clicked open and Sideswipe's cables sank into his ports immediately thereafter, completing the loop.
This, Optimus decided, was a far more worthwhile venture than recharge.
a/n: I may end up writing more. I'll post them here when I do. Hope you enjoyed!
