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“Has anyone ever touched your wings?”
Optimus onlines his optics, rousing from his state of half-recharge. His wings twitch as though they can hear Blitzwing’s words, the pretty red and white paint catching the Earth’s moon at just the right angle to shine.
“No,” Optimus says, face still resting against the palm of their servo, making no effort to move it or his helm. The two of them tangled themselves together post-interface, pedes locking around thrusters and chassis pressed to chassis. Sometimes, they think that Optimus clings as much to them as they do to him.
Why wouldn’t he? Wings thinks. He’s a warframe constantly surrounded by civilians. We are the only ones who can understand him.
“Why do you ask?” Optimus’ voice draws him from their thoughts.
“Your wings look stiff,” Wings says. Zing pushes his way to the front. “Aha! Our poor liebling, has no one been around to preen them for you?”
“I don’t see why anyone would,” Optimus averts his optics, shifting in that uncomfortable way he does when he’s reminded that he is a warframe surrounded by civilian Autobots. It’s painted in every action he takes, even with Blitzwing. So carefully, achingly gentle, constantly holding back the strength that lies just beneath his plating. He does it with them, too, no matter how much they request he be rough with them. He had a… pitiful fear of hurting anyone around him should he ventilate too hard next to them.
If only Autobots were as fragile as Optimus thinks they are! Then this war could’ve ended in our favor.
“May we?” Wings asks, retracting his servo and detangling themselves to sit up, beckoning for Optimus to join them.
“… I don’t see why not,” Optimus says after a moment’s hesitation. He needs us as much as we need him, Blitz thinks fiercely, and Wings is inclined to agree with him. They cannot imagine being surrounded by flightless, weaker beings, much less restraining themselves all the time for them. Only Optimus would, Blitzwing thinks.
Optimus sits down before them, between their legs. It’s like he was made to fit~! Quiet. We need to focus. Wings reaches out, brushing their servos between his wings. Optimus jolts, but quickly relaxes. They want to watch him come undone beneath their ministrations, perhaps panting and begging for us until he gets tired of our teasing and puts us in our place— but no. Not right now. Not when Optimus had chosen to trust them with something new and vulnerable.
“The purpose of preening,” Blitzwing begins to explain, mostly to fill the silence. “Is to keep the wings functioning. Since we can’t reach them ourselves, we need other warframes to look for any grime or kinks that might have found their way there. It can also be considered a form of bonding, for the softer sparked.” Blitzwing never thought of it as such. Perhaps for wishful thinking, but ultimately the act of preening was pragmatic. To maintain function in times of war.
But it doesn’t have to be that for Optimus, Wings muses. We should be the only ones to do it for him! How realistic is that? It would be if he’d join us!
“I could do it for you each night,” Blitz says, still careful with his servos. Out of all of them, he has the most refined motor control. “If you’d come with us.”
Optimus’ wings sag. “Blitzwing.”
That tone. That tone he gets each time they bring up him defecting. “I’m serious!” Blitzwing snaps, faceplate spinning to red. “The Autobot scum can’t take care of you like this. They wouldn’t. Mein schatz— we would cherish you in a way they never will. You’d never have to force yourself to be weaker than you are with us.”
“I’m not joining the Decepticons so I can throw things around without restraint,” Optimus scolds, almost sounding insulted. Still, he lets Blitzwing keep his servos on his wings. “I don’t mind being gentle.”
“But do you enjoy being forced to be gentle with mechs who would crumble if you weren’t?” Wings asks pointedly.
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Optimus doesn’t respond. He looks away from them.
“We would adore having you at our side, liebling,” Zing pushes, that one moment of hesitation from Optimus enough for them to try just a little more. “Your brilliance and strength would shine brighter than any star! Not many can face Megatron and live to tell the tale. He would not object to someone like you joining our ranks,” he adds, “We could recharge together each night on the same berth. We could fly together! I would never have to be away from your side.”
“I’m not abandoning the Autobots for such selfish reasons.”
“But why not be selfish?” Zing whines. “Why is it you who has to be better than everyone else?”
“It’s not something I’d expect you to understand,” Optimus says, sounding tired. It would be bearable if he sounded angry, if he wanted to hurt them and finally let himself loose. But he just sounds so endlessly patient. “I want to be more than a weapon. I have to be.”
“But you’re a beautiful weapon!”
“I want to be a person.”
Wings switches to the front, seeing that they’re getting nowhere with this. “I see,” He says, effectively putting the conversation to an end. Blitz and Zing complain, but Optimus exvents in barely audible relief.
They resume their task of preening Optimus’ wings, their servos never having once left them. His wings were in surprisingly good shape for never having preened them. He sighs and relaxes at their touches, even when there’s nothing more to clean or fix, so they continue to touch him. Their faceplate spins to red, but instead of anger or action they bring a wing up to their mouth and kiss it.
Optimus startles, looking over his shoulder at him. “Blitzwing?”
“You’re beautiful,” Blitz says, tone fierce and brooking no room for disagreement. His hand flexes around the expanse of Optimus’ wing, running his thumb over its expanse. We could break them, the thought comes almost intrusively. Snap metal plating and thrusters so he can’t leave. If he’s too shy to claim us, we can just claim him~!
No. Wings leaves no room for argument and doesn’t elaborate further.
Blitzwing shakes their head, relaxing their sudden iron-clad grip. Hesitation enters their system like a virus, and Blitz buries his head in Optimus’ neck to dispel it.
“Oh! Are you done?” Optimus asks as their arms wrap around his chassis. At their nod, a tiny smile creeps across his face. “… Thank you. That felt really nice.” His servo comes up to rest against their helm, dermas pressing to their forehead. Their wings flutter.
They could tell Optimus about the language of wings, how each of his emotions are on perfect display for any flier with a functioning processor, but they don’t. They’re simply not good enough of a mech to do that. They like knowing his emotions. They like knowing him. Their overly sappy gentle giant who should just break them already.
You two are intolerable, Wings grumbles. Don’t tell us you haven’t thought about it yourself! He needs to stop being so gentle with us! We can take it! Zing fires back. …Perhaps. But pushing it won’t help right now.
They run their servos over the generous expanse of Optimus’ chassis. He’s weak to it, they know it. They can feel his vents flutter and his body relax as their palms trace worshipful movements over every curve and groove along his body. For all they complain about his gentleness, they can understand it to an extent— if it’s him.
They want him at their side, in their berth, their sparks melted together so they can never be apart. But for once, they can wait. They’ll take however long is needed to convince him. He’s a warframe, after all— it is in their nature to fight and conquer. Sooner or later he’ll get tired of living among Autobots who treat him as scum not worthy of walking beside them, when really they should spend every moment grateful that Optimus does not pop their heads off for how they talk to him.
Blitzwing loves him enough to wait for him.
“Someone’s in a mood,” Optimus teases as their servos dip down to his thighs, tracing the seams of his plating.
Their faceplate switches, accompanied by giggling. “Oh, but can you blame us? You’re just too irresistible! It’s a miracle we can ever control ourselves around you.”
“You flatter me too much,” Optimus says, but he’s still smiling, a pretty blue blush tinting his faceplate. “What do you want?”
“Hmmmmm,” Zing makes a show of thinking, tapping their fingers against Optimus’ blue plating. “I want to fill your valve with my glossa,” they say, charge already beginning to build. They laugh. “Ooh! Blitz wants to spike you until you can’t walk!” They cackle harder at the embarrassment and rage they feel from him, trying to bully his way to the front.
Optimus shifts, embarrassment tinting his movements. Still, a grin is on his face. “I’m amenable to that,” he says. His wings flutter, every part of his usual stoic and serious demeanor melted away and replaced by frag me-touch me-kiss me.
He’s theirs. Maybe he doesn’t fully understand yet, but he is. Blitzwing is the only one they get like this for, the only one who gets to experience his violence and his affection in equal measures.
He’s ours. Blitzwing thinks. He’s perfect, and he’s ours.