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    Summary

    And, Primus bless him, but Elita really needs to remember that Optimus doesn’t always do so well with sarcasm or teasing. Optimus’s optics widen, and he pulls off a bit. “Oh—do you not? Was I not clear enough? Ah, sorry—”

    Elita can’t have that. She tugs him back down, kissing him firmly, swiping her glossa over the seam of his derma. Her engine rumbles when his lips part, allowing her to deepen the kiss.

    When she pulls back, both of their vents are whirring loudly.

    “I’ll make it easy on you,” she says, gently squeezing the back of his neck. “I’d like to interface. Do you?”

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