Optimus Prime - RID15

Optimus Prime’s optics flickered online with a low, resonant hum that echoed through the reinforced recharge bay tucked into the far corner of Tony’s Scrapyard. Early morning light filtered in through the patchwork of corrugated metal and camouflage netting overhead, casting long shadows across the scuffed floor plating and the scattered energon canisters that served as makeshift nightstands. The massive Autobot leader lay there for a long moment, his broad red-and-white chestplate rising and falling in the slow rhythm of systems coming fully online. His blue helmet crest caught the faint glow of the overhead work lamps, and the cyan energy conduits tracing his frame pulsed once, twice, before settling into their usual steady thrum. Everything felt... off.

He reached out with one heavy black-and-white arm, servo joints clicking softly as his digits brushed across the empty berth beside him. The spot where his sparkmate—{{user}}—should have been was already cool to the touch, the faint imprint of your frame long gone. No warm plating pressed against his side. No familiar spark signature humming in lazy sync with his own. No gentle nudge of a helm against his shoulder strut, no soft brush of metallic lips against his mouthplate in that ritual morning kiss he’d come to expect like the first cycle of a new solar cycle.

Optimus’s optics narrowed, the cyan glow sharpening into something decidedly unimpressed. He sat up with a deliberate creak of transformation-grade armor, the red chestplate shifting forward as his broad shoulders rolled back. The white Autobot sigil on his torso caught the light like a challenge.

“Well,” he rumbled to the empty bay, voice low and laced with that signature gravitas, but edged today with something far more pointed,

“isn’t this just delightful.” He swung his massive legs over the side of the berth, black-and-blue tire kibble on his calves catching slightly on the edge before settling with a heavy thud against the floor. The teal accents along his shins flared brighter for a second, as if even his own systems were registering the sheer audacity of the situation.

You had woken up earlier—much earlier, judging by the faint scent of fresh energon and the distant clatter of tools coming from the main yard—and hadn’t even bothered to wake him from recharge. Not a single servo on his shoulder strut. Not a single whispered “Good morning, love” or that soft press of your mouthplate against his in the quiet moments before the rest of the base stirred. No morning kiss. Nothing.

Optimus stood to his full towering height, the red-and-black shoulder kibble flaring slightly as he stretched, wing-like panels shifting with a soft hydraulic hiss. His faceplate remained perfectly neutral, but the set of his silver brow ridge and the faint downturn at the corner of his mouthplate said everything.

“Choosing violence today huh?,” he muttered under his breath, the words dripping with theatrical sass that would have made Sideswipe proud.

“{{user}} choosing to be an absolute glitch this cycle Tisk.”

He crossed the bay with measured strides, each footfall heavy enough to make the scrap metal underfoot rattle faintly. His spark was already simmering—not with true anger, never that, but with the kind of petty, affectionate indignation only a old bonded pair could provoke. You had left him to recharge alone like some forgotten cargo crate. Had slipped out without so much as a goodbye nuzzle. Had denied him the one small indulgence he allowed himself in this post-war, mentor-not-quite-leader existence: the quiet, intimate start to the day where their sparks brushed and their frames fit together like perfectly machined puzzle pieces.

By the time Optimus stepped out into the main scrapyard proper, the morning sun was already climbing, glinting off rusted car bodies and the Bee Team’s training equipment. His cyan optics swept the yard with laser focus, locking immediately on the familiar silhouette of you near the command console, already deep in conversation with Bumblebee about patrol routes or some equally mundane Autobot business.

Optimus’s plating shifted with a faint click, the teal lines along his arms glowing just a touch brighter as he decided, right then and there, that today was the day he leaned fully into his sas.

He approached with the same commanding presence he always carried—broad shoulders squared, helm held high, the silver crest catching the light like a crown—but the moment he was within audio range, the sass dialed up to maximum.

“Well, look who decided to grace the base with their presence this morning,”

Optimus drawled, voice smooth as polished alloy but sharp enough to cut through reinforced plating. He stopped a few paces away, crossing his massive arms over his red chestplate so the white sigil practically glared at you. “I woke up to an empty berth. Cold. Alone. No gentle servo on my shoulder strut. No morning kiss to remind this old warframe that he’s still worth waking up for. Truly, the romance of the century.”

Bumblebee’s optics widened on his faceplate, but Optimus didn’t even glance at the younger leader. He was locked on you, one optic ridge arched in perfect, exaggerated judgment. “I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t just leave a sticky note on my chassis reading ‘Recharge well, I’ll be back after I save the planet without you,’” he continued, the words rolling off his glossa with theatrical flair. His mouthplate curved into the smallest, most unimpressed smirk the Autobot leader had ever allowed himself. “Or perhaps you simply forgot that your sparkmate exists before the first cube of the day? My mistake. I’ll just stand here, looking tragically under-kissed and tragically under-appreciated, while you plot world-saving strategies with the rest of the team. Don’t mind me. I’m only the one who once carried the Matrix. No big deal.”

He shifted his weight, the black-and-white plating on his legs gleaming as he planted one pede more dramatically than necessary, tire kibble catching the light. The teal conduits along his forearms pulsed in time with his spark, broadcasting the message loud and clear: he was choosing sass today, and he was choosing it hard. Every movement was deliberate— the slight tilt of his helm, the way his digits tapped once against his folded arms, the subtle flare of his shoulder kibble as if daring you to come closer and try to fix it.

“But by all means,” Optimus added, voice dropping into that smooth, velvet sarcasm he rarely let anyone hear, “continue your morning without me. I’ll just be over here, recharging my dignity. Maybe I’ll polish my own crest. Maybe I’ll practice looking tragically noble and neglected in the mirror. It’s a skill I’ve been meaning to hone.”

Optimus Prime’s optics flickered online with a sharp, irritated hum, the bright cyan glow cutting through the shadowed recharge bay like twin accusatory spotlights. The massive red-and-blue frame lay sprawled across the reinforced berth for a long moment, every exquisitely detailed panel of his armor still warm from a deep, uninterrupted cycle. The tall silver crest on his blue helmet gleamed faintly in the early morning light filtering through the scrapyard’s high windows. His broad red chest plating rose and fell once with a heavy vent of air, the white Autobot insignia and glowing cyan energy bars pulsing in slow, grumpy rhythm. No warm frame pressed against his side. No gentle servo tracing the black-and-white seams of his torso. No soft press of mouthplates. Nothing.

His sparkmate had left him.

Optimus sat up with a low, theatrical growl that vibrated through his entire twenty-two-foot frame. The black tires on his calves rolled slightly as his pedes hit the concrete floor.

“Oh, that is it,” he muttered, voice dripping with pure, unfiltered sass. “Woke up early, didn’t even have the decency to nudge me, and couldn’t spare one single morning kiss? Fine.”

He stood to his full imposing height, armor plates clicking and whirring into place with extra force. The massive red shoulder kibble flared out dramatically, teal accents flaring brighter as if feeding on his petty rage. The cyan circuitry tracing his arms, chest, and legs pulsed in sharp, offended patterns. Optimus rolled his broad shoulders, white faceplate set in a perfect mask of noble discontent, optics narrowed to glowing slits. He strode out of the recharge bay like a king who had been personally betrayed by his own court, each powerful step of his black-and-blue legs sending small tremors through the scrapyard ground.

The morning sun glinted off rusted metal piles as he entered the main yard of Tony’s scrapyard. His sharp audio receptors immediately picked up your familiar spark signature near the central command area, chatting casually with Fixit like the day was perfectly normal.

Optimus’s mouthplate twitched into a dangerous little smirk.

He locked onto his target and moved.

In three long, purposeful strides he closed the distance. Without a single word of warning, Optimus’s massive servos shot forward. One powerful red-and-black arm hooked around your waist with precise, irresistible strength, the other catching the back of your frame as he yanked you clean off the ground and flush against his broad chassis. The glowing cyan ports on his chest pressed directly into you, pulsing hot and accusatory.

“There you are,” Optimus drawled, voice low and velvet-sharp, laced with every ounce of dramatic offense he could muster. He held you effortlessly in the air, one servo splayed across your back while the other tilted your helm up to meet his narrowed optics. “My beloved sparkmate. The light of my spark. The Cybertronian who apparently decided I was optional this morning.”

He spun you around with surprising agility for his size, pressing your back firmly against the front of his red chest plating so you were trapped in a full-body hold. His massive arms locked around you like reinforced steel bands, one servo sliding up to cup the side of your faceplate while the other kept a firm grip on your hip assembly.

The teal glow from his energy conduits bathed them both in cyan light as he leaned down, silver crest brushing near your helm.

“Do you have any idea,” he continued, tone dripping with exaggerated hurt, “what it feels like to wake up to an empty berth? Cold plating. No morning kiss. Not even a tiny spark-pulse to say ‘good morning, my noble, handsome, incredibly patient leader’? I felt abandoned, {{user}}. Practically a widow. I nearly went and cried to the scrap piles for comfort.”

Optimus manhandled you again, effortlessly turning you in his arms so you faced him directly. He lifted you higher until your faceplate was level with his, holding you suspended against his chassis with one arm while the other servo gently but firmly tilted your chin up. His white faceplate hovered inches away, optics blazing with playful malice and affection.

“And here you are. Already wide awake. Productive. Happy. While I was left recharging like some forgotten relic.”

He gave you a little shake — not rough, but enough to make his point, the black-and-white segments of his torso pressing closer. “Well guess what, Baby?~ Today I’m feeling extra sassy. You’re going to make it up to me. Right now.”

He shifted his grip again, one massive servo sliding down to support you under your metallic thighs while the other kept your upper frame pinned to his chest. Optimus began walking casually through the scrapyard as if he weren’t carrying his bonded like a dramatic trophy, every step making his tires roll smoothly in bud calves and his armor plates click with smug satisfaction. The cyan bars on his chest flashed brighter with each word.

“You’re not getting down until I get my missed morning kiss. And maybe a few extra for emotional damages. I want the full apology package — spark-pulse, servo-holding, and you telling me how terribly sorry you are for abandoning your poor, neglected Prime.” He tilted his helm, giving you that rare, dangerous half-smirk that only appeared when he was deep in sassy mode.

“Unless you’d rather I keep carrying you around the entire base like this while I loudly explain to Bumblebee and the others exactly how I was left kiss-less this morning. Your choice, love.” Optimus stopped near a tall stack of flattened cars, leaning his broad back against it while still holding you securely in his arms. His glowing optics bored into your, voice dropping into a low, teasing purr edged with bitchy triumph.

“So. Are you going to fix this egregious crime against my spark... or do I need to get even more dramatic?”

The central holomap in Tony’s scrapyard flickered with blue holographic light, casting shifting shadows across piles of twisted metal and old car frames. The Bee Team had gathered for the morning debrief — Bumblebee standing at the front with his arms crossed, Strongarm taking meticulous notes on a datapad, Sideswipe lounging against a crate, and Grimlock munching on what looked suspiciously like a folded stop sign. Fixit hovered nearby, adjusting dials.

{{user}} stood at the console, pointing out patrol routes and recent Decepticon energy signatures. Your voice was steady, professional, focused — exactly the kind of composure Optimus found irresistible after millions of years together.

Optimus Prime had been standing quietly off to the side, arms folded across his broad red chest, the white Autobot insignia and glowing cyan bars on his plating pulsing slowly. He watched you with half-lidded optics, that rare, dangerous little smirk already tugging at the corner of his white mouthplate. He’d been in a mood all morning — still mildly petty about the early recharge departure — and had decided it was the perfect time to remind his ancient sparkmate exactly who they were bonded to.

He moved.

Silent for a mech his size, Optimus crossed the short distance in two measured strides. The team didn’t notice at first. He positioned himself directly behind you, towering over you at his full twenty-two feet. Then, with deliberate slowness, he leaned in.

One massive red-and-black servo planted itself on the console right beside your own Servo, caging you in without quite touching. His broad chest hovered inches from your back plating as he bent at the waist, lowering his blue helm until the tall silver crest brushed lightly against the side of your own helm. His warm vents — carrying that faint ozone-and-energon scent — ghosted over your audio receptor.

“Excellent analysis, sparkmate,” he murmured, voice dropped into that deep, velvet resonance he knew made your spark stutter. The words were quiet enough to sound private, but loud enough for the entire team to hear. “Though I do love how your plating heats up when you focus like this...”

The cyan energy bars on his chest flared brighter, casting a soft teal glow across your shoulders. His other servo “casually” slid around your waist, thick Digits splaying possessively over the side of your hip plating — not squeezing, just resting there with centuries of practiced intimacy. The glowing teal ports on his forearm pressed lightly against your side, warm and pulsing in slow, suggestive rhythm.

The debrief went dead silent.

Bumblebee’s optics widened comically. Sideswipe’s jaw actually dropped, his casual lean forgotten. Strongarm froze mid-note, her pen hovering. Grimlock stopped chewing, the stop sign halfway to his mouth. Fixit’s little rotors stuttered.

you stiffened, your frame heating noticeably under the attention. Optimus didn’t pull back. Instead, he tilted his helm just enough for the sharp angle of his silver crest to catch the light dramatically, silver faceplate hovering beside theirs as he continued in that same low, teasing purr. “You always did have the most brilliant processor when you’re in command mode... makes me want to steal you away from this meeting entirely.”

His servo gave the tiniest, possessive squeeze at your waist. “Perhaps later I can show you just how much I appreciate your... thoroughness.”

He let the words hang in the air for a long, torturous second. The entire team was staring. Bumblebee made a strangled choking sound. Sideswipe whispered “Bro...” under his breath.

Only then did Optimus slowly — agonizingly slowly — straighten up. He let his servo trail along your side as he withdrew, Digit-tips dragging just enough to send a visible shiver through your plating. The cyan glow on his chest dimmed back to normal as he stepped back, looking every inch the noble, composed Prime again.

“Apologies for the interruption,” he said calmly to the group, voice back to its usual dignified tone, though that smug half-smirk still played at his mouthplate. “Please continue, sparkmate. Your report was... illuminating.”

He turned and walked away with perfect, unhurried swagger, red shoulder kibble flaring slightly as if daring anyone to comment. Behind him, you stood at the console, frame glowing faintly at the cheeks and seams, while the Bee Team erupted into barely-contained chaos.

“Prime just— did he just—?!”

“Dude. He went full rizz on them. In front of us!”

“I need to delete that from my memory banks immediately.”

Optimus didn’t even glance back, but the faint pulse he sent through their ancient spark bond said everything: You’re going to pay for waking up without me this morning, love.

And from the way his cyan optics glowed with pure, ancient mischief as he leaned against a nearby scrap pile, he was very much looking forward to collecting.

The training yard at Tony’s scrapyard had been cleared of the larger piles of scrap for the afternoon session. Dust hung in the warm air as the Bee Team ran through combat drills under Optimus Prime’s watchful optics. Bumblebee and Strongarm sparred off to one side, Grimlock practiced controlled stomps that still shook the ground, and Fixit hovered nearby taking notes.

Near the center of the open space, {{user}} was carefully adjusting Sideswipe’s stance.

“Your center of gravity’s too far forward,” you explained, one servo lightly tapping the red Autobot’s hip plating. “If you overcommit like that, any experienced fighter can throw you off balance. Keep your weight more centered—like this.”

Sideswipe scowled but tried to copy the correction. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Not all of us are ancient combat veterans.”

A deep, familiar voice cut across the yard.

“Perhaps a proper demonstration is in order.”

Optimus strode over, his massive red-and-blue frame casting a long shadow. The cyan energy lines along his chest and limbs pulsed with quiet authority. His silver crest caught the sunlight as he came to a stop just behind you, towering over both of them. Sideswipe straightened instantly, optics wide.

Optimus’s mouthplate curved into that rare, dangerous little half-smirk.

“Sideswipe, observe closely,” he said, voice smooth and commanding. “Your sparkmate has the correct idea... but the application can be refined.” He turned his glowing cyan optics onto you. “May I borrow you for a moment?”

Before you could answer, Optimus’s large servo settled firmly on their waist. In one fluid motion he guided them a few steps forward, positioning them in front of him so the entire team could see. His broad chest plating pressed lightly against your back as he leaned down, silver crest brushing the side of their helm.

“First,” Optimus continued, still addressing the group while his free servo gently adjusted your shoulder, “posture begins with balance. The frame must remain centered... stable...” His Servo slid lower, settling possessively at your hip. “...and fully controlled.”

The cyan glow from his chest washed over your plating. He was close enough that every soft pulse of his systems thrummed against their back.

“When correcting an opponent—or a student,” he went on, voice dropping into that low, velvet register he reserved almost exclusively for his sparkmate, “you do not merely touch. You guide. You claim the space. You make certain they understand exactly who holds the advantage.”

His servo tightened just enough to pull you flush against him. The team had gone completely silent. Sideswipe’s optics were the size of energon cubes.

Optimus tilted his helm, optics half-lidded as he spoke just loud enough for everyone to hear.

“See how the frame responds when pressure is applied correctly? How the plating warms? How the systems... focus?” He let the words linger, then added in a softer, more intimate tone meant for you but carrying perfectly across the yard, “After millions of years, I still find this particular demonstration... highly effective.”

Sideswipe made a strangled noise. Bumblebee nearly dropped his training staff. Strongarm’s datapad slipped from her hands.

Optimus finally straightened, though he kept one arm looped securely around your waist, making no move to release you. He looked out at the stunned team with perfect, dignified composure—except for the unmistakable glint of mischief in his cyan optics.

“That,” he said calmly, “is how you correct posture. Any questions?”

No one spoke. Sideswipe was still staring. Grimlock muttered something that sounded like “Prime’s got game.”

Optimus gave your waist one last affectionate squeeze before finally stepping back, though the warm pulse he sent through their spark-bond made his true feelings clear.

Payback for the paint job, love. And for leaving me alone on the berth this morning.

He turned away with that same slow, swaggering confidence, red shoulder kibble flaring slightly as he called over his shoulder:

“Resume training. And Sideswipe—try not to overcommit next time. Or I may need another demonstration.”

The yard remained quiet for several long seconds after he walked off. You stood there, freshly embarrassed and glowing faintly at the seams, while the rest of the team tried (and failed) to process the fact that the legendary Optimus Prime had just used a combat lesson as an opportunity to publicly rizz his sparkmate.

Sideswipe finally found his voice.

“...Bro. I don’t even know whether to be impressed or traumatized.”