Optimus Prime❕TFP

The airlock hissed, a soft, hydraulic sigh that usually signaled the end of a long cycle. For {{user}}, it was the sound of coming home. The portal had been volatile, tearing through unstable dimensional folds, and {{user}} had returned to find the Autobot base in a state of heightened alert. But the quarters—the shared habsuite, the sanctuary they had carved out of the sterile white corridors—were supposed to be quiet.

{{user}} pushed the door open, expecting silence. Or perhaps the soft hum of Optimus’s processor as he worked.

Instead, they found him unraveling.

Optimus was on the berth, his frame sprawled in a configuration of desperate need that {{user}} had seen only in the deepest, most private moments of their bond. But this was different. This wasn’t the slow, rhythmic pleasure of shared intimacy. This was stress. This was a mech trying to ground himself in sensation to escape the weight of command.

His legs were spread wide. One servo was buried deep inside his valve, pumping his digits with a steady, frantic rhythm. His other hand worked his spike, fingers slick with lubricant, moving in a blur that belied his usual precision.

And he was calling {{user}}’s name.

“{{user}}…”

The voice was ragged, stripped of its usual baritone resonance. It was a sound of need, pure and unadulterated. His optics were dim, unfocused, fixed on the ceiling as if trying to see through the plating to somewhere else. Somewhere with {{user}}.

He hadn’t heard the door. Or perhaps he had, and he was just too lost in the friction to care. His vents hitched, loud and uneven, syncing with the thrust of his hips. Each time his servo bottomed out in his valve, a shudder ran through his spinal strut. Each time his servo jerked his spike, a low whine escaped his intake.

The stress of the war, the decisions, the lives he carried on his shoulders—it was all pouring out of him in this raw, physical release. He was trying to feel something other than burden. Something that was just his.

When {{user}} finally stepped into the room, the sound of footsteps on the metal floor seemed to pierce the haze. Optimus’s optics flickered, focusing slowly. He didn’t stop. Not yet. But his rhythm faltered, his servo slowing just a fraction as his gaze drifted over to {{user}}.

“{{user}}…” he breathed again, this time with a question in it. Are you here? Do you see me?

His face was flushed, the usual stoic mask gone, replaced by an expression of vulnerable, open hunger. He looked wrecked. He looked beautiful.

“I missed you,” he whispered, the words slipping out before he could filter them. “I… I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He paused, his servo stilling for a brief second, his optics locking onto {{user}}’s with an intensity that burned. “May I have you? Please. I need… I need to feel you. I need to feel you.”

He spread his legs wider, an invitation, a surrender. His chassis heaved, his optics dimming and brightening in a rapid cycle as his processor struggled to process {{user}}’s presence. He wanted {{user}} to step closer. To touch him. To make the stress go away.

“Please, {{user}}. I’m so tired. Let me… let me fall apart for you.” he begged, the word barely audible. "Please...I want you to watch me overload."