No Remedy for this Poison
by SMYGO4EVA
There were still times when Optimus could see the beast in Elita. There were times when her optics went dark, pupils dilating until there was only the thinnest ring of color left. There were times when her voice got rough, when her servos curled, akin to claws.
There were times when his sparkmate was more monster than femme, forgetting herself as the beast took over her.
Optimus loved Elita; he had learned to appreciate her for the femme she was. He loved her with his entire spark, and she loved him in return. He knew that she could take care of her in a fight, and she would leave her instincts on the battlefield, as she should. Nevertheless, in those fleeting moments when that side of her reappeared, in spirit, if not in body, whenever they were alone together, Optimus was mesmerized.
He was a Prime, always in charge and taking command, and while it was rewarding, it soon exhausted him. He had to be in control all the time. He had to speak, his voice had to be heard, and he had to be in control in any situation that required a Prime. When Elita showered him with chaste kisses, it still was aware that he had to push forward and take her servo with his. He loved being in control when they were in private, as he would taste her, claim her in ways unimaginable; she would gasp and moan for him so sweetly, it was music to his audio receptors.
But that was not enough for him.
When Elita dominated him, straddled him in their shared berth, pupils dilated, a flush already creeping on her faceplates, trailing her tongue on his face and chassis, he was beside himself. At times, there was a sense of playfulness to her. This time, it flared brighter in her optics, her smile turning predatory. Optimus found himself freezing in place, in anticipation.
He was able to let go.
It was cathartic, in a sense, that he was able to relax and let Elita be in control of him, in the most intimate and primal way possible.
It wasn't how things usually were between mechs and femmes. He knew that much. However, when Elita had him pressed to the wall, her tongue at his throat, her servos trailing down his chassis and towards his pelvis, Optimus always found himself gasping, his form tingling with heat, ready to surrender to Elita, like prey to the eager viper.
There was no remedy for this poison. He could care less, as long as it was with her.