Prowl juggled both an armload of datapads and a cube of spiced mid-grade as he angled his elbow at the access panel to his hab. He had already formed an apology, though by now one wasn’t necessary. He still intended to offer one.
The door opened, Prowl still juggling, as he stepped inside. He cleared his vocalizer, only for the apology to die on his glossa as his optics took in what waited for him.
“Um.” His datapads hit the floor. One of them cracked, he didn’t care which.
“It is not too much, I hope,” Optimus Prime rumbled, long silver fingers smoothing down the glittery ruffle that was a fringe across the top of his thighs.
Stretched across his windshield was something equally pale and lacy as it framed his chassis. The bright colors of his paint were clearly visible beneath, but somehow, in the shadow of the lace, they were more attractive than usual.
Prowl’s mouth went dry.
His gaze fell again to that fringe of lace as it rose ever so slightly up Optimus’ thigh.
His hands tightened around the cube, glad he hadn’t made a mess.
“It is perfect.” Prowl blindly set the cube aside, his fingers aching to touch. “Though I do not understand why.”
Optimus chuckled, his fingers trailing over the lace draped across his windshield. “Neither do I. But it does invite touch, does it not?”
Prowl’s hips bumped the edge of the berth. He didn’t remember crossing the floor.
“May I?” he asked, vents caught.
Blue optics glowed at him. “Please. I insist.” Optimus licked his lips, the sweep of his glossa somehow one of the most erotic things Prowl had ever seen.
He worked his intake. His fingertips brushed Optimus’ armor just below the shadow of the lingerie. His ventilations hitched.
He did not know what brought this on, but he suspected he would be glad for it.