kinkfest | Tuesday Afternoon [Transformers, Optimus Prime/Silverbolt, T+] (Reply)

Title: Tuesday Afternoon
Author: akisawana
Rating: Light R/hard T
Warnings: Pederasty and a touch of incest, if you think that matters to giant robots.
Word count: 1050
Summary: Transformers, Optimus Prime/Silverbolt - guilt and other dark emotions - He ought not to be thinking these thoughts.
A/N: This space for rent

It was Tuesday afternoon, almost five, and that meant Silverbolt was finishing his weekly report. Which, since the Decepticons hadn’t surfaced in the past seven days, was basically, “lost Fireflight, found Fireflight, found Blades’ rotary assembly in Fireflight’s quarters, made him change his code.”
“I heard you gave those responsible for the theft to Hot Spot,” Prime said.
“It seemed the right thing to do,” Silverbolt said. “He will overreact, but I can’t shield them forever.”
“You could, but you don’t.” Prime smiled behind his mask. “I’m proud of you.”
Silverbolt stood up a little straighter at the praise. “Thank you, sir.”
The chronometer on his desk flipped to seventeen hundred hours. “Stay for a drink?” Optimus asked. Three years, and he still had to ask. He set his battle mask on his desk and rose. If he didn’t ask, Silverbolt would wait, blue optics dimming as the seconds ticked by, but refusing to relinquish hope. He tried, once, to see how long Silverbolt would stand there, but could only endure the silent gaze for so long. Optimus told himself it was simply subconscious routines designed to keep one from neglecting one’s creation. He most certainly did not enjoy Tuesday afternoons; they weren’t the high point of his week.
Optimus Prime was very good at thinking up lies to tell himself, but somewhat worse at believing them.
He went to the cabinet behind his door and took out two cubes of energon. Nominally high grade, it wasn’t near strong enough to overcharge anyone but the smallest of minibots. It had to be processed in small amounts, constantly supervised, to give it the refinement of high-grade without a morning of regret the next day, and Optimus made it himself, only for Tuesday afternoons. “Sit, please,” he said, handing one cube to Silverbolt. This, too, was part of the ritual.
Optimus sat in the other chair in front of his desk, rather than behind it, and it gave the illusion of them being equals. Here, at least, he could pretend he wasn’t Prime, and he felt a momentary, familiar tinge of guilt for using Silverbolt in this matter. “So how did the Seahawks do last night?” He sipped at his energon as Silverbolt recounted last night’s football game. Optimus himself much preferred playing sports to watching them, but football was one of the few pleasures Silverbolt had that he didn’t have to share with a little brother tagging along. As the Concorde described the clever offense that won the game, Optimus watched the graceful movements of his free hand to illustrate the more exciting points.
The ritual required both cubes to be empty before the conversation could be over, but as long as Silverbolt kept talking, Optimus was allowed to slide the edge of his foot against Silverbolt’s, to inch his chair closer until their knees brushed. He lost track of the game as he watched the desire build in Silverbolt’s eyes, but unspoken rules kept the touches purely accidental as they pretended the drink and the conversation were the true reason Silverbolt always stayed after his report was done.
It wasn’t right, Optimus thought, as he leaned forward and gently wiped the last drop of energon from Silverbolt’s full lip before covering the Aerialbot’s mouth with his own. No, Silverbolt was too young for this. Too young to bear the burden of leadership, too young to walk the battlefield, too young to have a blue hand running down the seam where his arm went in alt-mode.
But Silverbolt was an old soul, a better leader than many ten times his age, a steadier shot than half the army, and his fingers knew just where the little wires that controlled the wipers on Optimus’ chest were, and just how to tweak them. Optimus slid his arms around to trace where glass met metal and encourage Silverbolt to stand with him. Silverbolt was one of the very few Autobots of a height with him, but he didn’t have near the weight, and Optimus pushed him, gently but inexorably, back towards the desk. Silverbolt tripped and caught himself on the edge; Optimus wished it was from excitement, anticipation, but it was probably just from the thumb that had somehow found itself under the hip-plate.
Any other day, the Prime’s desk might be covered in paperwork and datapads, but on Tuesday afternoons it was always clear for Silverbolt to be spread across, his pretty wings covering the desk from edge to edge and more, his hands above his head to find the familiar grooves his fingers had pressed long ago. There was no helping it, once Optimus put his hands on Silverbolt’s wings, the jet couldn’t stay on his feet for love or money. He was getting better with age, though; the first time Optimus had touched an aileron, Silverbolt had overloaded on the spot. He wouldn’t be embarrassed like that in front of any other lovers.
The thought didn’t really make Optimus feel any better.
Still, was there really all that much harm in running his hands over the small winglets at Silverbolt’s shoulders when he gasped and twisted into the caress like that? Was he really such a monster for leaning in and kissing Silverbolt again with the mouth so few even saw? Optimus nuzzled under Silverbolt’s jaw, so little room there but he made it work, and when Silverbolt arched his head back to moan it just gave him better access.
The first sweep across Silverbolt’s wings made his legs come up, and the second made his ankles lock behind Optimus’ back. Optimus chuckled, low in his chest, but didn’t say anything. That was perhaps the most important part of the ritual. Three more passes, and Silverbolt was teetering on the edge, and Optimus was holding him there with clever fingers of one hand, the other fumbling clumsily at the cover of an access port, and he couldn’t stop the low sounds, not loud enough to be called moans, out of his own vocalizer. He cursed as his thumb slipped, automatic dockworker reflex.
“Prime, please!” Silverbolt begged.
The illusion shattered.
Prime stood over his subordinate, his creation, and wondered if there was a Pit deep enough for he who had convinced the innocent mech under him that the young one wanted it.