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Blitzwing never would’ve thought that it would be this easy.
The little Prime, practically caged between their arms. Finials pointed upward, not dissimilar to those fuzzy earth creatures, and his faceplate flushed a redder shade than Blitzwing had ever seen on a mech. They were fortunate to have run into him while he was on his way back from — presumably — some important meeting with the Autobot’s high command. Most likely regarding the “peace treaty.”
What told Blitzwing that Optimus wasn’t really scared — or at least more flustered than scared — was his lack of hostility. Normally when the little Autobot was frightened, he’d have his axe out and have it aimed at whatever was threatening him, perhaps with his teeth clenched in a cute little scowl as well.
But here, he’s completely silent, save for the little clicks his finials make when they twitch minusculely. His lips are pressed firmly together in a surprised little frown, his arms pressed to his sides while he looks up at Blitzwing with wide eyes.
Who knew all it took to get Optimus’ attention was a little boldness. Just a little invasion of his space. They should’ve done this ages ago, instead of Blitz’s idea of showing their interest through combat prowess.
“Optimus,” They coo, enunciating each syllable with purpose. Optimus’ flush deepens, which makes Zing giggle. “You’re very cute.”
They can feel the moment his fans click on, even though they’re quiet enough to go unheard for now. It’s nice to know their attraction is reciprocated. Wings and Blitz both want to take the little Autobot back to their habsuite, but Zing wants to play with their food a little first. Why make a mess of the little Prime just yet, when he’s already so adorable like this? All nervous and flustered.
Their optics fall to his waist. It’s so slim, holding pretty silver thighs that reflect any light that falls on them. It practically begs Blitzwing to look. They wonder…
He brings his servos to Optimus’ waist, ignoring the jolt the mech gives when Blitzwing’s own plating brushes against his. He watches with awe as his servos perfectly encircle the entirety of Optimus’ waist, even overlapping with their own digits.
“You’re so small,” They say, partially in awe. This is the same mechanism who felled Megatron and has beat them numerous times over. This tiny, flustered thing right here. So strong, so feisty, so…
“Pretty,” Zing purrs. Their optics rise to Optimus’ face, focusing on his lips. So plump and handsome. They wonder if he’ll let them kiss him?
Impulsively — like most things Zing does — they dart out their tongue and flick it up the side of Optimus’ helm. It’s barely enough for a taste, more of a tease. But Optimus reacts so expressively, his finials stiffening and his whole body tensing as his blush gets impossibly more intense, shocked by their sheer audacity. Would it be possible for a mech to self implode out of sheer embarrassment? If it was, Blitzwing was fairly certain Optimus would do so right now, here in the hallway, pinned by Blitzwing’s body.
“Optimus~” They call for him, drawing his attention out from his mind and back to them. He blinks, inclining his head to show Zing he’s listening. How polite! “We want to kiss you.”
Optimus opens his mouth, then closes it. His optics drops to the floor, and Zing decides to take that as permission as any before Wings or Blitz can stop him.
They lean down and press their lips to Optimus’. It’s not the explosion of warmth and happiness so many romantic mechs have made it out to be (Lugnut) but it feels wonderful. Optimus jerks, but he falls into them rather than away. He braces a servo on their neck, leading Zing to purr and shove their glossa into his mouth.
Instead of pulling away, Optimus once again accepts them, loosening his jaw with a little sigh to let them in deeper. They wrap their glossa around his own, squeezing the soft metal with their worm-like appendage. Optimus’ grip on their neck tightens, and he pulls their helm closer to him.
It’s then, Blitzwing realizes, that they could do almost anything to Optimus Prime. And he would enjoy it very much.
Optimus braces a servo on the top of the berth, using his other to grasp onto its side. His array is suspended in the air and his legs thrown over Blitzwing’s shoulders, the triple changer’s face buried in his valve.
“Blitzwing—!” Their already fervent pace gains new life as their name leaves his mouth, their nose pressing against his anterior node like they’re trying to hide their face in Optimus’ valve. Optimus sighs and lets his head hit the back of the berth, seeing steam rise to the ceiling from Blitzwing’s cannon barrels.
Suddenly, Blitzwing’s worm-like glossa retreats as black switches to red, and they resume devouring Optimus’ valve like it’s fine energon.
It’s a pace Optimus is steadily getting used to. Each face seemed to have their own preference for how they ate his valve, and it felt like they were constantly fighting for who got to do it. It was almost flattering?
Optimus’ fans are desperately trying to cool him down, but it’s hard for him to give their efforts much mind when such fervent attention was being given to his valve. Optimus can see some of his lubricant run down Blitzwing’s chin, and the mech hasn’t stopped to take a breath, preferring to invent through the other vents on his body than pull away from Optimus’ valve for even a second.
It’s kind of embarrassing to be honest— not because Blitzwing’s doing anything wrong, but Optimus can’t handle the sight and feel of them bullying their glossa inside him, licking and sucking and moaning between Optimus’ legs like they’d found the allspark there. Combined with the sensation of their glossa, it’s just too much. Optimus knows he’s never been a vocal person in the berth, so this unashamed volume is… unexpected.
“Blitzwing…” Optimus repeats, because he knows they like it. Their wings flutter, and their already tight grip on his thighs gets more intense until the protoform dents. Their glossa plunges and reams out his valve, drinking from him like his fluids are energon. Optimus lets himself moan and smile when they press a sloppy kiss to his node. “Ah— that feels good.”
There’s a jump in his spark, and he doesn’t realize what it is before it comes. Optimus overloads with a groan, optics flaring and legs tightening around Blitzwing’s helm until it was tight enough to crush the average Autobot’s helm. Yet Blitzwing seems unaffected. Judging by the purr of his engine, he likes it.
Optimus’ gaze falls back to the ceiling as he tilts his helm back, offlining his optics and letting his vents slowly cool him down in combination with his fans.
Blitzwing doesn’t move, though. There’s a lewd squelching sound as he shifts, his face still buried in the undeniable mess and wetness of Optimus’ valve. Some of it from Blitzwing, but most of it, Optimus knows, is from himself. Optimus can’t help but laugh a little.
“Clinging?” He asks with a slight teasing tone, before realizing that’s exactly what Blitzwing is doing when the mech blushes. His face is still buried in Optimus’ array, resting his servos on Optimus’ thighs and keeping Optimus’ legs tossed over his shoulders. Optimus starts laughing before he can help himself, and Blitzwing’s affronted look only makes him laugh harder.
Their face is a mess from Optimus’ valve. His lubricants stain their face and chin, some of it still gliding down their neck. Some of their visor caught the mess as well, though they wipe it off with their servos and lick it off. Optimus’ spark stutters.
“What are you doing?” Optimus asks. Blitzwing lowers themselves onto their knees to take the strain from Optimus’ spinal struts, which he appreciates. He rests his servo on their helm in what is hopefully a comforting gesture.
Blitzwing flushes, a slight pout forming on their red face. Optimus wants to laugh again. Here’s Blitzwing, one of Megatron’s lieutenants, clinging to his thighs like they’re worried someone will pry them away from him.
“You feel soft here,” Blitzwing finally admits, their servos flexing around his thighs. Their thumb caresses one of the dents they’ve made. “Let us have our moment before you leave.”
Optimus falters. Not just at the words, but at the near-pleading tone they’re accompanied by. “Why would I leave?”
This time Blitzwing looks at him with confusion. “We did what you wanted us to. Are you not going to leave now?”
“No— I still should clean you off,” Optimus says, rising from his position on his berth. “And also see if there’s anything you want.”
Blitzwing looks surprised, their wings flicking upwards. Their face switches to cool blue, looking at him with a calculating optic. “How… generous.”
“Not really. Just being polite,” Optimus flexes a nervous hand around the berth. “… is there something you want?”
Blitzwing narrows his optic before deciding Optimus must be serious. His optic drifts to Optimus’ still exposed valve, a different sort of calculation entering his gaze. “We’d like to fill you again.”
Optimus flushes. “There’s— there’s other ways you could fill me up.”
Blitzwing’s optic widens, and then a smile breaks out over their face. Optimus’ spark stills at the sight, but he’s… fairly certain they’re not about to offline him, despite the fact that the smile makes it look like they want to eat him alive.
(They look strangely cute like this.)
“That there is,” Blitzwing agrees, grabbing Optimus’ hips and sliding onto the berth with him. Their servos perfectly fit into the dents they made, like handles.
“Wait,” Optimus holds a servo up and Blitzwing freezes. Optimus points to their neck, still wet with Optimus’ fluids, and settles a servo on it. “Don’t you want me to clean this?”
Strangely, Blitzwing shudders but makes no move to remove Optimus’ servo. “That won’t be necessary,” He says before snapping back his modest plating to expose his spike. It presses against the slick folds of Optimus’ valve, making him shudder when Blitzwing grinds up against it. Their spike was mostly blue with red biolights and a black tip, but Optimus couldn’t help but notice the resting barbs near the tip of their spike, resting against the smooth metal. Blitzwing seems to sense his apprehension.
“They won’t hurt,” Blitzwing promises, though they sound disappointed by that fact. Absently, Optimus nods, his optics focusing on the slow drag back and forth from Blitzwing’s spike, the way his spines catch onto the protoform of his valve before coming free and continuing the slow, sensual grind. Each time their tip kisses the end of his node, a constant tease.
Impatient, Optimus hooks his legs around Blitzwing’s waist and pulls them in. The sudden strength and proximity makes them jolt while Optimus levels them with an annoyed look. “Blitzwing.”
Blue switches to black, and Optimus is treated with a giggle. “Awh, what’s wrong Liebling? You seem upset~”
Charge steadily beginning to build up to unbearable levels, Optimus puts both of his servos on Blitzwing’s neck and pulls him in, squirming a little into his lap. “Don’t make me beg,” Optimus says, more pleading than he’d like to be.
Something about Optimus’ servos on their neck makes Blitzwing freeze, their faces switching for several moments before landing back on black.
“But that sounds like so much fun,” They say hoarsely, as if Optimus’ shamelessness had knocked the breath out of them. Their servos wander his body before settling on his torso, and Blitzwing spears into him with a single thrust.
Optimus’ body flinches, but despite the pain (or perhaps because of it?) his frame still burns with arousal for the beautiful mech on top of him. The beautiful mech that was now panting, wings quivering as Optimus clenches around the thick intrusion, somehow wetter than before. The spines brush against the inside of his valve, not uncomfortable but still present.
Carefully, Optimus reaches for their face and cups their helm in his servos. They’re neither warm nor cold at this moment, but still he can feel the buzz beneath their frame. Suddenly overcome with a strange sort of affection for them, Optimus brings their helm down and kisses them.
Blitzwing pauses in surprise, before they kiss back with all the ferocity one would expect from a battle and begin thrusting into him with that same intensity. They force their glossa past his lips and down his throat, brushing against the walls of his intake while their spike explores his valve.
Optimus chokes, and it only seems to further excite Blitzwing. Their hips meet his array with such force Optimus knows he’s going to have to check for any paint marks and buff out all the dents. The loud clanks coming from their rendezvous echo throughout the room, and Optimus prays that no one plans on passing by Blitzwing’s habsuite anytime soon.
Blitzwing’s tongue retreats as his face clicks and switches, falling on an icy blue.
“Look at us,” He demands, clearly noticing Optimus’ trailing thoughts. His rapidly cooling spike does a good job of that, making Optimus groan as it continues moving in and out his valve with no mind towards the sudden shift. It was as if someone was thrusting into him with a spike made of ice.
Blitzwing kisses him again, their mouth as cold as the rest of their body. Their pace then slows considerably— still fast and a little rough, but more measured. They pull out slowly, letting their tip hover inside Optimus to feel his valve desperately clench around it, then thrust back inside with a swift push. Optimus is embarrassed by the amount of lubricant his valve is producing, but fortunately is able to distract himself from that by instead focusing on Blitzwing. The way their body creaks and the mechanisms beneath their plating hum, the way their wings flutter whenever Optimus makes a sound.
Optimus blushes. He really tries not to be a vocal person during interface, but the way Blitzwing fucks him and how desperately they seem to react to his noises…
Optimus breaks the kiss to moan. To his audials, it feels unnatural coming from him. But he can feel Blitzwing’s pace stutter before resuming with twice the intensity, so he allows his ironclad control over his vocalizer to relax a bit, sighing and groaning whenever Blitzwing hits a new node inside of him that makes pleasure surge through his systems.
Blitzwing pauses in their motions and switches again, and suddenly Optimus is facing red. Almost instantaneously their spike goes from freezing cold to blazing hot. It makes Optimus shift uncomfortably, though he can’t deny the small ripple of pleasure that comes from his array.
“Optimus,” Blitzwing pants, as though he was the one getting fragged aggressively. “Say our name again.”
Optimus can’t help but let a small smile creep onto his face. His fans are still desperately trying to cool him off, condensation still collecting on his frame thanks to the heat Blitzwing gives off in this moment. Yet it doesn’t feel unbearable. Just warm.
“Blitzwing,” He says, watching their wings flutter. He tries to think of something else to say— surely there was more he could say to make them feel good? “You’re doing such a good job,” Optimus says, purposefully clenching his valve tighter around them.
Instead of kissing him, Blitzwing buries his face into Optimus’ neck. His servos wrap around Optimus’ shoulder and hip, pressing him into the berth with a sudden force. Optimus opens his mouth, only to have whatever words come out as a sharp moan when Blitzwing slams into him like he was trying to imprint himself onto Optimus.
Optimus’ head falls back against the berth, his vocalizer spitting static and his engine rumbling. Occasionally a moan or gasp would make its way through, each thrust stimulating his inner nodes and filling him so completely, as though it was natural for Blitzwing to be here. Optimus’ servos cling to Blitzwing’s back— just below his wings for some kind of stability while the mech slams his spike inside with each thrust, fast and rough while he mutters nonsense into Optimus’ audial.
“Optimus,” They pant. “Optimus, Optimus—“ Their thumb moves to press down on his node and Optimus represses the urge to shriek. “Beautiful— perfect—“
Optimus clenches his jaw, his overload approaching fast. His fingers dig into Blitzwing’s back, undoubtedly leaving dents there. Somewhat delirious from the intense cocktail of pleasure and pain, Optimus eyes Blitzwing’s neck, recalling their reaction whenever he touched it.
As overload crashes into him, Optimus leans forward and digs his teeth into the wires of Blitzwing’s throat, his valve clenching down and rippling around the mech’s spike. Blitzwing moans, overloading inside him in a matter of seconds. Distantly, Optimus feels the barbs on their spike flare out, hooking into the walls of his valve. He feels Blitzwing’s teeth nip against his finials, a growled “Mine” coming from their throat. All at once his body relaxes, that post-overload bliss working its way through his systems. His servos slide down Blitzwing’s back to their waist, his valve relaxing around them as well. He wants to slip into recharge right there and then, but he forces himself to stay awake. He shouldn’t rest until he makes sure Blitzwing is okay, cleans the both of them up, and…
Blitzwing wraps his arms around Optimus and flips the both of them over, bringing Optimus to rest on their chest. Though Optimus can’t see their eyes, the way their servos rest on his body, uncharacteristically gentle and warm, tells him that they enjoyed themselves as well. He tries to bring his hips up, only to feel a strange tug. Then he remembers the spines on Blitzwing’s spike.
“Ah,” Optimus realizes, feeling rather silly. “You really have me trapped, don’t you?” Blitzwing chuckles, the sound deep and making Optimus’ frame vibrate a little bit. It’s different from what Optimus is used to hearing their laughter sound like— more manic, more wild.
“You aren’t going anywhere,” Blitzwing says, somehow both smug and soothing. “It will go down eventually.”
Optimus frowns, feeling dissatisfied with just laying here. “I need to clean us both up,” He says, but knows better than to try and move now.
Their face switches to blue. “Who says it is you who must do everything? We are capable of washing ourselves.”
Optimus blinks. “It’s the right thing to do. You—“ Optimus feels a bit embarrassed, like he’s some sort of newspark. “You, uh, fragged me, so it’s only right I help you clean up.”
“And why shouldn’t we help you?”
Optimus regards them with skepticism. Why would they want to do something like that? Optimus can’t really understand why they liked him enough to frag him in the first place, but he could at least accept it.
“Keep talking like that, and you’ll make me think you want to spend more time with me.” Optimus jokes.
Blitzwing regards him with quiet confusion, as though Optimus was a puzzle they couldn’t figure out. “You are strange,” They settle on.
Optimus chuckles. “I get that sometimes.” He tries to move just a little to inspect any paint that might’ve transferred during their interfacing, but Blitzwing stops him by holding him down against their chest.
“I need to see if our paint got damaged,” Optimus tries to reason with them.
Blitzwing hums. “There will be time for that later, I’m sure. It’s not like you can do much anyway while you’re stuck to us. So rest. It’s obvious to anyone with functioning optics that you need it.”
“I’d rather not think about anyone else seeing us right now,” Optimus mutters, before exventing. “Fine, you win. Just wake me up once your spike disengages.”
Optimus can hear the smile in their voice. “Oh, we will.”
Awareness slowly returns to Optimus as his systems come back online. He doesn’t immediately online his optics. He feels warm— and a bit smothered? There are some aches coming from his joints, his finials helpfully informing him of the presence of one other mech in the room.
Optimus onlines his optics to see Blitzwing, likely as deep in the throes of recharge as Optimus just was. Optimus shifts, constricted by the weight of two large arms wrapped around his entire body. Blitzwing was half laying on top of him— enough to keep him trapped and close without putting any of his weight onto Optimus.
Optimus looks down, noticing that Blitzwing’s spike was retracted and their panels disconnected. Though Optimus’ valve is still exposed, which he quickly rectifies. A few drops of transfluid had spilled out, so small it was barely noticeable.
“Blitzwing,” Optimus says, keeping his voice low. He feels guilty about waking them up when they seem so peaceful like this, but he does have to leave at some point this cycle. “Blitzwing, I need to go.”
Blitzwing grunts. It’s then Optimus realizes that they aren’t in recharge at all— simply resting next to Optimus and keeping him caged in their arms.
“Blitzwing.”
Blitzwing exvents a puff of steam, pulling Optimus closer. Optimus’ plating creaks ominously with the sudden pressure, but Blitzwing doesn’t budge.
Optimus tries to pry himself out of their grasp to no avail. “I need to go, Blitzwing.”
A swift click, and cheeky red optics are staring at Optimus with a wide grin. “Nope! Too late, Liebling. You had your chance to get rid of us earlier,” They giggle, clutching Optimus to them like he’s one of Sari’s plushies. “Now you’re ours.”
Optimus huffs, a slight blush staining his faceplate. “You can’t keep me here forever. At some point you’ll have to get up as well.”
“Oh, but we already have a pretty little prime! What more could we need?”
“Please, Blitzwing?”
Blitzwing thinks for a moment, then pouts. “Ffffine. But not yet! Just a little longer?” They give him pleading optics, and it shouldn’t look as adorable as it does on a war criminal. “You wouldn’t deprive us of our pretty firetruck so soon, would you? Could you imagine?! Us languishing here, no Optimus to cuddle!”
Optimus huffs out a slight chuckle, unable to help the fond smile that’s growing on his face. “I guess I can stay for a little longer,” Blitzwing’s elated look is enough to erase Optimus’ regret, they way they look at him as though he’s hung the stars in the sky. “Can I at least clean us up first, though?”
Blitzwing giggles. “Oh, you can clean us up alright! But cuddles first.”
“Alright, fine,” Optimus relaxes, his reluctance more performative this time. “But one last thing… could you get off of me, please? Not that I don’t enjoy being close to you, but you’re sort of crushing my plating.”
“Whoops!” Blitzwing finally lets him go, instead wrapping their arms around his waist and pressing their helm against his windows. Their engine purrs, and Optimus awkwardly places his servos on either side of their helm. They preen at the contact.
His face switches with a click, and the red one presses a small kiss to the center of Optimus’ torso. Optimus blushes, his fans threatening to click back on.
He starts running his servos down Blitzwing’s helm in a repetitive petting motion, unsure what else to do. It seems to please them, judging by how their visor lights up, their blush matching Optimus’.
Optimus was certain he’d have a crisis about this once he left and the afterglow bliss faded, but for now he was content to stay here until the end of time.