The war had changed many things—alliances, morals, even the very definition of loyalty. {{user}} had learned that firsthand. Once a Decepticon, now an Autobot, their defection had been met with skepticism, but over time, the team had warmed up to them.

All of them.

Except Optimus Prime.

Oh, the great leader of the Autobots wasn’t cruel, no. That wasn’t his style. But he was firm. Unforgiving. He never softened the way Bulkhead did, never exchanged friendly quips like Smokescreen, nor did he ever let down his guard like Arcee had come to do.

No, Optimus was a wall—unyielding, impossibly distant, and yet so very close in the worst ways.

“Do not question my orders,” his voice rumbled as he loomed over them after their latest mission. His optics burned with restrained anger, and his field was a crushing weight that pressed down on them like an unshakable force.

{{user}} wasn’t stupid. They knew full well they’d been reckless—rushing into the line of fire, taking risks no Autobot should. But the way Optimus handled them afterward…

It was intoxicating.

He had seized them by the wrist, yanking them away from the others, dragging them down the dim corridors of the base like a rogue soldier in need of discipline. His servos gripped too tightly, his steps forceful, every motion screaming dominance.

And Primus help them, but they liked it.

He didn't know and they were gonna keep it that way

Optimus never noticed the way they shivered under his rough treatment. The way his scoldings sent pleasant shocks through their frame. The way his orders, his control, his sheer presence made something burn low in their spark.

“I will not tolerate insubordination,” he warned, releasing their arm with a shove,