#smokeop

Optimus knows he shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be watching. The proper thing, if he was a stronger mech, would be to never do this again.

But Optimus, despite everything, is not infallible.

And so, like clockwork, he returns; continues this song and dance of theirs.

He stands outside the dark warehouse window, making sure to stay within the shadows as he gazes in. Smokescreen lay inside, spread across the makeshift altar that has been constructed within. The warehouse, objectively, is nothing compared to the grandeur of the Primal Temples that once graced Cybertron, but Optimus can't say he doesn't prefer this one.

Perhaps it's the mech that makes regular use of it that changes his opinion.

Even with his, or rather because of his... unorthodox form of worship.

He watches with hungry optics as Smokescreen stretches, one arm propping himself up as his legs fall open, a servo draped upon his thigh. It ghosts up and down, skipping over his panels to touch his chest, massaging at his transformation seams.

Optimus wishes it was his own servos tracing along Smokescreen's body right now. That it was Optimus' hands that brought the shivers of pleasure Smokescreen now feels.

He mimics Smokescreen's movements upon his own seams, teasing at wires as his charge begins to simmer. He feels a small flash of guilt— what kind of Prime is he, violating a mech who relies on him like this? Breaching his privacy in such a way?

He cannot find it in himself to stop, especially when Smokescreen finally opens his panels.

Smokescreen dances his servos down, as if making a show of it, before gripping his spike and stroking. Optimus feels a spike of panic at that— he couldn't have known Optimus was watching— it was just Smokescreen being his dramatic self, his processor rationalizes.

He hates how his spike aches at the thought of being caught.

He watches as Smokescreen continues to pump his spike, head tossed back in pleasure. If he strains his audials, he can barely hear the low moans that escape the other's vocalizer. He looks so beautiful, splayed open upon the altar, writhing with pleasure. He's a delectable offering, and Optimus selfishly wishes it was for him.

Optimus unlocks his own panel, too charged to resist temptation anymore, and begins to pump his own spike. Copious amounts of pre-fluid leak from his spike head, already so greatly affected by the sight before him.

Smokescreen moves down to his valve, and Optimus has to bite his glossa to prevent a moan from escaping.

Smokescreen— he was— Optimus furiously strokes his spike as he braces himself against the wall.

Smokescreen continues to obscenely pull his folds open, letting it gape and wink and strain, before letting go, oblivious to how he's affecting his Prime with this lewd act of worship.

And, Primus, he's started to finger himself. Optimus can see how his lubricant is pooling on the metal below him, painting the altar with his ecstacy.

It will be cleaned up after. No one the wiser about the debauchery when they come in tomorrow to give their prayers. But Optimus will know. He will know how the pink lubricant gleamed, an offering for their God and no one else. He longs to taste it, surely to be sweet upon his glossa.

Bitterness fills him at how it will never happen— then guilt at feeling bitter in the first place.

Under his gaze, Smokescreen shudders, electricity crackling over this plating, a sure sign of his impending overload.

He writhes, thrusting into the air, chasing both his fingers and overload.

Optimus chases his own right behind him.

Smokescreen arches, hitting his peak, head snapping up as he looks, piercingly, pleadingly, at him.

Even if he didn't hear the loud wails of his own name, Optimus could read Smokescreen's lips, repeating his name over and over like a prayer.

He knows.

This entire time. It was for him. Not Primus, him. Optimus.

His overload hits him like a meteor— hard, fast, and explodingly loud.

He couldn't have stopped himself from moaning Smokescreen's name, even if he wanted too.