#opsent

Oh my primus, YES.

Post-matrix Optimus is an absolute unit.

I'm imagining Sentinel being teased and called pocket-sized. So if Optimus slides both servos around Sentinel’s waist, thumbs almost meeting in the back, and lift him clean off the ground without even trying. And Sentinel? He’d be furious about it. Absolutely livid. How dare this young, cocky archivist-turned-Prime manhandle him like he weighs nothing.

But the moment he’s up in the air, legs dangling, pressed against that massive chassis… his cooling fans would hitch. His face would cycle through about twelve different expressions in three seconds: outrage , embarrassment , reluctant arousal, trying to glare but failing because his optics are already starting to flicker. Optimus would feel that instant tension in Sentinel’s frame, the way he goes stiff at first and then slowly melts against him, and it would take every ounce of Prime willpower not to burst out laughing or just coo at how adorable he is when he’s flustered.

And don’t even get me started on cogless!Sentinel. Tiny, proud, sharp-tongued Sentinel finally letting himself be overwhelmed by someone so much bigger, stronger, younger, and actually caring? that stubborn defiance would crack so beautifully. He’d still try to save face, muttering things like “This is undignified” or “You’re enjoying this far too much,” even as his voice glitches and his legs start trembling.

But once Optimus actually starts moving? It’s over. Sentinel would turn into the most gorgeous mess: optics blown wide, cheeks flushed, coolant tears streaking down his face, mouth open on silent gasps or broken little moans he can’t hold back. Clinging to Optimus’s shoulders like they’re the only solid thing in the universe. And Optimus would be so gentle and reverent about it, murmuring praise against his audio receptors, telling him how perfect he is, how good he feels, how proud he is that Sentinel trusts him like this.

I definitely need to write this one day.

The size difference making it all so intense, so overwhelming, but also so safe in a way Sentinel never thought he’d get to feel again.

The world needs to see tiny, blissed-out, crying-in-overwhelmed-pleasure Sentinel absolutely ruined (in the best way) by gentle giant Optimus.

…Please draw it. (No pressure though if you don't feel like it)

Here's a short passage for the late reply (sadly only mild kissing):

Optimus doesn’t even have to try. One moment Sentinel is standing there, arms crossed, radiating that familiar haughty glare, and the next, two massive servos slide around his waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Thumbs nearly touching at the spine, fingers splayed wide across sleek gold-blue plating. Optimus lifts.

Sentinel’s pedes leave the ground without ceremony. He goes rigid instantly, wings flaring, optics snapping wide in pure indignation.

“Put. Me. Down,” he hisses through clenched denta, voice pitched sharp enough to cut steel.

Optimus only hums, low and amused, pulling him closer until Sentinel’s chest plates bump against the broad red-and-blue expanse of the Prime’s torso. The height difference is absurd like this—Sentinel’s face is barely level with Optimus’s chassis, close enough to see the faint glow of the Matrix through the seams. Close enough that every vent cycle from the larger mech washes warm over his helm.

Sentinel’s cooling fans stutter. He tries to summon another scathing remark, but all that comes out is a glitchy little static burst when Optimus’s grip tightens—just enough to remind him how easily those servos encircle him. How little effort it takes to hold him suspended, helpless, utterly powerless.

His face cycles through a spectacular range of emotions: fury, mortification, and then, traitorously, a flush of heat that has nothing to do with anger. His optics flicker, dimming for a fraction of a second as his processor lags on the realization that he fits perfectly in those hands. That he’s being held like something precious and breakable and wanted.

Optimus notices, of course. The corner of his mouth twitches, fond and helpless. “You’re making the face again,” he murmurs, voice warm with affection.

“I am not making a face,” Sentinel snaps, but it comes out breathless, weakened by the way his servos have involuntarily curled against Optimus’s chest plating for balance.

“The one where you’re trying to look angry but mostly look like you want to be kissed until you forget your own name.”

Sentinel’s wings twitch violently. His glare would be terrifying if his cheeks weren’t glowing faintly and his legs weren’t dangling uselessly in the air.

Optimus leans in, slow enough to give him every chance to protest, and presses their forehelms together. “May I?”

Sentinel’s answer is a strangled noise that’s half snarl, half whimper. He tries to say something cutting, but Optimus is already closing the distance, mouth plates brushing his in a kiss that starts gentle and turns deep and thorough far too quickly.

By the time Optimus pulls back, Sentinel’s optics are half-lidded and unfocused, coolant tears pricking at the corners from sheer overwhelmed sensation. His frame is limp in Optimus’s hold, fans whirring loud and unsteady.

“There it is,” Optimus whispers, voice rough with adoration as he thumbs away a tear track. “My favorite face.”

Sentinel makes a weak, embarrassed sound and buries his burning face against the Prime’s neck cabling.

He’ll deny it later, of course. Vehemently.