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Ultra Magnus did not consider himself to be an interface-centric mech.
Did he enjoy it? Yes, very much so. But often times a little thing known as an eons long war stayed at the forefront of his thoughts, the likes of pleasure becoming a novelty of luxury.
Until he Conjunxed Wheeljack.
And now every time that Wrecker was within his line of vision, his thoughts became...
Impure.
Lovingly and absolutely adoringly so, but no less charged up, it would seem.
Those times when Wheeljack had to crouch down—faceplate to the ground with his aft in the air—as he grasped at something that had slipped under the desk. The moments when Wheeljack stretched high and tall with his servos clasped above his helm so the sunlight caught his plating just right.
His smile.
And yes, their heated arguments, too. Those ESPECIALLY. Fragging that discipline so deep down each others valves it that it was left leaking out of them for days.
Now that he and Wheeljack were officially together, they both had a welcomed outlet for such processor consuming activities. Especially once Wheeljack had moved into Magnus’s ship after the cons destroyed the Jack Hammer. And ah, what lovely activities they were.
It was a miracle they ever made into the privacy of their berths, grasping and kissing and clumsy as they tripped their way through the hanger bay away from prying optics. He doubted Wheeljack would have any qualms of simply rutting into each other in the middle of the hallway, but Magnus was a bit of a paranoid mech, at the best of times. And the last thing he wanted was for some human security system to record them mid-frag on their video feed, shipping it off to some kind of secret facility somewhere for future studies on alien biologies…
Rewatching it.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Dissecting each and every little thrust, dribble of lubricant, and begging for into some kind of twisted reproductive diagram of Cybertronian customs. It was something out of a nightmare! And the concept of that was definitely—definitely—not pleasantly heating up Magnus’s systems….
Nor his spike.
Or his valve.
Primus. Magnus’s processor truly was a rotting thing of bio waste, wasn’t it?
His recharging subconscious very much agreed.
Here, where outer thought and social obligation were lightyears away, blocked by the affections of cuddled frames and the perfect shield of fluffed quilts.
Dark.
Warm.
And safe…
Ultra Magnus hadn’t even realized he was grinding his valve cover against Wheeljack’s thigh until he woke up with a throaty groan.
Magnus’s optics fluttered online with a heated flush coloring his cheeks, his processor warm and pleasantly fuzzy, while the world burred at the edges of his vision with a heavenly glow about it. And at its center, haloed in the morning light, was Wheeljack. Still very much asleep. And still so, so very handsome while he did so.
His hips continued their aching rocking through the cloud of his processor as he drank in those lovely features.
Wheeljack’s optics remained shut above his scarred lips, mouth ever so slightly parted with soft, easy breaths breezing from his vents. Tickling against Magnus’s faceplate. Tender and calming as the slow rise and fall of Wheeljack’s chassis brushing against Magnus’s own with each invent.
Free of the world.
Of stress.
Of pain.
And kept perfectly tucked away within the calm of his dreams while both their vents softly steamed over eachothers metal. At some point in the night they’d become hopelessly entangled, Wheeljack’s arm draped across Magnus’s waist, with the curl of his fingertips grazing the small of his back. His thigh nudged up against Magnus’s valve cover, with Magnus’s knee pressed into Wheeljack’s codpeice.
Warm.
Oh so warm.
And oh so ever tantalizing.
Magnus’s modesty panel ran a little hotter.
He forced his hips to a standstill, but not without clamping his thighs shut around Wheeljack’s to keep it firmly, deliciously pressed there as he mouthed along Wheeljack’s throat—soft and wet—and followed its curve to the underside of his chin exactly in the way Magnus knew always left Wheeljack wanting. And sure enough, even while in recharge Wheeljack tilted back his helm with a growling sleepy rumble, mumbling something he doubted even the Wrecker himself knew the meaning of.
Magnus took that as encouragement.
So he leaned up, put his servo on Wheeljack’s helm fin, and ran his thumb over the ridges of it while he nibbled along its edge.
Wheeljack curled into him with a trembling groan, angling his codpeice and grinding it against Magnus’s knee as he buried his faceplate into his commanders shoulder.
Magnus gave a quiet huff of a laugh, low in his chest, and lovingly adoring as it spun about his spark like golden yarn. Cute and needy, Wheeljack was like this. It almost made Ultra Magnus forget what he was craving behind that codpeice.
Almost.
Ultra Magnus allowed a servo to sneak its way down to Wheeljack’s aft, kneading it in his palm as he sucked at the tip of Wheeljack’s helm fin, and the Wrecker sucked in a ventful of air as though he’d forgotten how to breath. Held it. Let it back out again with a shutter of his frame and a roll of his hips as he nuzzled into the crook of Magnus’s neck.
“Wheeljack.” Magnus murmured, low in his throat with a gentle purring of his engine.
A light bite at his helm fin, and Wheeljack’s hips jerked against Mangus’s knee, vents pouring baking air that lightly puffed out the sheets that laid atop their frames.
“My soldier.”
Another breath
Another shutter.
And there he was.
Those brilliant blue-green optics that he’d come to treasure so dearly, onlineing with a quiet flicker as welcoming as ocean waves upon the sunny tropical shore. Wheeljack peered up at him blurry-eyed and panting against Magnus’s shoulder, cheeks heated with a pleasant tint of blue as he mapped Magnus’s features like a captain through the fog surrounding his ship.
Then he took Magnus by the chin, tilted his helm, and kissed him.
The kiss was hard. Sloppy and slicked with a clumsy lap of his glossa as Wheeljack gave another experimental roll of his hips. Ultra Magnus ground his thigh up to meet him, reveling in the rugged groan that poured past Wheeljack’s lips and into his own mouth.
He tugged at Magnus’s frame, fingertips hooking roughly between those gaps of plating and yanking him chest to chest with him.
Touching.
And touching.
And touching.
Tracking Ultra Magnus’s build from the cinched curves of his waist down to the matching silver of his thighs. Wheeljack’s processor trying to collect pieces of a puzzle, clicking them back together one blurring shape at a time, until it formed a perfect picture in his helm with a grumbling groan buried deep in his vocalizer. Ultra Magnus gave an approving grunt in answer.
Wheeljack abruptly broke the kiss with an optic watering yawn and a sleepy nuzzle to the side of Magnus’s helm, still groggy but far too heated to care as he manhandled Magnus onto his back and hauled himself up to sit between his thighs.
“Mornin.”
A shiver fluffed and fluttered Magnus’s plating with a hiss of steam.
A lovely good morning indeed.
Oh how Magnus deeply enjoyed Wheeljack’s morning voice, to the point that it had become a sort of guilty pleasure of his. It felt like warm fingertips stroking down Magnus’s spinal strut, scratching at an itch that he hadn’t known needed relief. Deep, gruff, and edged with static as Wheeljack cracked his neck to the side and rubbed at the nape of it.
Ultra Magnus’s ‘good morning’ came in the form of him immediately snapping his valve panel open.
Wheeljack let out a loud laugh, boisterous enough to rattle his shoulder pauldrons.
“And good mornin to ya, too! I haven’t left ya waiting too long, have I?” He asked Magnus’s valve, making eye contact with his softly flickering exterior node as any sane mech would do. Wheeljack’s servo slipped between Magnus’s thighs, and he watched his soldier shutter as he drew a finger between the slick pleats of his commanding officer.
“Frag you’re already soaked.”
“My valve can not speak.” Magnus huffed matter of factly, spreading his legs all the wider so Wheeljack could comfortably slot himself between them. He tilted his hips up with a shaky ex-vent.
“But no, ‘we’ have not been waiting long.”
“Ah, but that’s where your wrong, Mags. Your valve talks plenty.” Wheeljack grinned as he dipped his helm down to press a kiss to Magnus’s belly, caressing over the shape of his hips and cupping the curves of them in his palms.
“It’s just in a language only old Jackie here can understand. Take a deep breath for me, alright sweetspark?”
Ultra Magnus did just in time for Wheeljack to easily slip two fingers into his valve.
“Heh.” The Wrecker wriggled his digits, pressing into a slick, textured patch of sensors in the mesh walls of his valve.
“Still stretched from last night. Nice.”
Wheeljack rolled his fingers this way and that, giving a few testing pumps, and all the while watching Magnus’s apparently very talkative valve that came in the form of the very obscene squelches dribbling out of it. Wheeljack scissored his didgets. Slowly sank them in out of him. Kept those fingers open wide while Magnus’s mesh walls spasmed around them. Magnus did his best not to rock onto him, but he couldn’t prevent the instinctual jerk his body gave as Wheeljack brushed the flat of his thumb over his node.
‘Excitement’ wasn’t something Ultra Magnus felt very often, and yet that was exactly the twinge his spark gave as Wheeljack’s codpeice snapped open.
Wheeljack’s spike was heavy, pressurizing with a long lingering bounce. A lazy flicker ran through the green biolights lining its silver underside, the head of it painted an optic catching shade of lime, with a stripe of that very same color racing down to its base. A fruit popsicle was the first thought to pop into Magnus’s processor. A silly, nonsensical comparison. The only thing even remotely in liking of the human treat was maybe the color.
That didn’t stop Ultra Magnus’s mouth from watering, though.
Wheeljack wrapped a servo around his spike and pumped it a few times—squeezed at it until his helm lolled back between his shoulder blades with a shutter—and Magnus began to feel the telltale sensation of his own lubricant leaking down the outer curve of his valve.
“Don’t worry,” Wheeljack’s vocalizer grew hazy with a groan, “My spikes waken up, too.”
Ultra Magnus’s lips parted with a soft ‘pop’, just in time for him to no longer care about the wet spot forming under his aft.
He needed that spike inside him.
Now.
“Wheeljack—“ He began testily. But whether it was from the power of mind reading or his partners own growing desperation, Magnus didn’t get to finish that train of thought.
Wheeljack lined up his spike and—in one sloppy shove—drove into Ultra Magnus’s valve and struck his ceiling node head on.
The sound that gargled out Magnus’s vocalizer was somewhere between a gasp, a whine, and a sputtering cough as he choked on his own spit. And—judging by Wheeljack’s scrap eating grin—that was exactly the reaction the Wrecker had wanted.
“See?” Wheeljack smirked,
“I told ya I could speak valve.”
That smugness immediately dropped into a brow-pinching groan as Magnus’s channel rippled starvingly around the intrusion of him.
Hungry.
Wanting.
And Wheeljack fed it by grinding his spike down its gullet.
“Frag.” Wheeljack cursed,
“D-do that again.”
Magnus’s valve was already in the process of swallowing Wheeljack’s spike, and answered the request with a strangling squeezethat tried to swallow him down into his forge.
Wheeljack groaned with a shoulder-rattling shiver as he sank down onto all fours, servos flat on either side of Magnus’s waist. The blankets shifted atop his frame to form a sort of tent above the two of them.
“Slag, Mags.” He took a nanoklick to guide Ultra Magnus’s hips into a better angle.
“I’m gonna frag the frag out of ya.”
That definitely wasn’t the smoothest of Wheeljack’s quips, but as the first loud CLANK of metal slamming against metal sounded, Ultra Magnus found that he didn’t really care.
The pace was that of a sleepily handled hammer, made up of Wheeljack’s slow, easy drags out of Magnus’s valve before slamming back in rough enough to force a gasp out of Magnus’s intake. All the while Wheeljack sloppily mouthed at whatever he could reach, his glossa lapping over pristine glass before slipping the tip of it between gaps of kibble.
And everything was captured within this perfect slice of the gift giving All Spark.
The heady grunt of Wheeljack.
Magnus’s feather soft pantings.
The occasional pop and crack of joints as their bodies come to life within the waking world.
But it wasn’t until Wheeljack dipped a servo between Magnus’s thighs, teasing and squeezing at his soft mesh pleats, that Ultra Magnus began to get noisy. Dampened lips spreading wide with a pinch of his brows as Wheeljack’s knuckles found his—
“Ultra Magnus? Wheeljack? Are you awake?”
Wheeljack slapped a hand over Magnus’s mouth and they both stopped dead beneath the covers.
The reach had his frame stretching far across Magnus’s frame, pinned belly to belly with him, and so tightly pressed that Magnus could feel the intoxicating fluttering of Wheeljack’s panting stomach plating.
“Wheeljack? Ultra Magnus?” They called again.
Optimus Prime’s voice came muffling from the other side of the still—thankfully—sealed hatch to the ship. Magnus could just make out the metallic scrape of his frame grazing against it, barely notable, but now deafeningly loud in all its horrible quietness.
Wheeljack glanced over his shoulder.
“Ya.” He said far too calmly, “What’s up?”
A sigh of relief came from the other side of the door.
“There you are. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Nope.” Wheeljack popped the ‘p’ on his lips with a pointed smirk, “I was uh…workin on a little assignment Mag’s gave me.”
Ultra Magnus felt about two nanoklicks away from a spark attack.
“Ah, good.” Optimus said, blissfully unaware of his soldiers plight, “This is not an emergency of any kind. I simply came to ask if you, and Ultra Magnus of course, would be willing to take Bumblebee and Arcee’s place on patrol in an hour or so. You see, the two of them are needed for—“
Optimus Prime continued onward about whatever it was that the rest of the team had planned for the afternoon, and Magnus was ashamed to admit that he was no longer listening. There was just something about the little, itsy bitsy inconsequential fact that—oh he didn’t know—THAT HIS COMMANDING OFFICER WAS RIGHT OUTSIDE THE DOOR WHILE THEY WERE ACTIVELY FRAGGING.
Ultra Magnus’s valve gave a nervous ripple around the hard spike still very much hilt-deep inside of him.
He wanted to die.
Unfortunately for him, Wheeljack was in absolutely no rush to end the conversation. The Wrecker titled his helm and nodded along with their invisible visitor, offering questions here or there as he went.
In fact, Magnus might even say that this was the most interested that he’d ever seen Wheeljack about the prospects of patrol.
Usually he just saw it as an excuse to ‘burn some rubber’ or ‘knock the cons helms about’, no need for any extras ifs or buts about it. Yet here he was, chatting away, as if he didn’t have his Conjunx currently speared underneath him on his throbbing by spike. Wheeljack’s servo was still kept on Magnus’s valve, absently playing with his pleats. Squeezed them. Slid his slowly curling fingers between the slick mess of him—
And sprinted his knuckles down Magnus’s exterior node.
Ultra Magnus arched off the berth with a muffled cry whining out from between Wheeljack’s fingers. His pedes scraped for purchase and tangled in the sheets, ripping them clean off of Wheeljack’s shoulders to leave him bear in all his smug, unbearable glory.
He changed his mind. He wanted to live purely so he could throttle Wheeljack’s pretty little neck.
“Are you alright?” Optimus asked, concern lacing his vocalizer.
“Yup.”
Wheeljack met Ultra Magnus’s glare with an innocent smile.
“Just slipped.”
Those little ‘accidents’ continued as Wheeljack circled his knuckle into his node, constant and brutal in the shockwaves it sent jolting through Magnus’s frame.
Good.
Oh so good.
And…perhaps a bit enlightening.
His treacherous valve clenched around Wheeljack’s spike, and Wheeljack gave a harsh thrust in retaliation, striking Magnus’s ceiling node head on. Hard enough for the start of a shout to startle out of Magnus before he chewed it down into a long, painless whine.
Ultra Magnus wondered if he could overload like this. Straining and writhing under Wheeljack’s games. Sounds strangled in the building ache of his intake while that scalding spring coiled unbearably tighter in his belly.
Desperate.
Burning.
But Wheeljack brought it simmering to a low, wriggling boil by slowing his knuckles down to a tantalizing bump bump bump over his engorged exterior node. It had gone so bright that Magnus could just barely catch the gleam of it off the slick of his inner thighs.
Wheeljack was feeling it, too.
Ultra Magnus could see it in his expression. The tightening draw of his brows. The twitch of his lips. The way he had to look away from Magnus and lock his gaze on the door of the ship with a shaky, steadying breath that poured steam out of his vents.
Could he make Wheeljack overload first, he wondered? An experimental squeeze of his valve around the hard throb of Wheeljack’s spike gave him a hopeful ‘maybe’, because the entire Wrecker shuttered from the rattling of his shoulder pads down to the shivering points of his knees.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh this was dangerous
Yet Magnus would be lying if he said he wasn’t far more into it this than he ever could have imagined.
Wheeljack began a near self-soothing and oh so subtle rocking of his hips. Barely moving. The thick head of his spike nudging at his ceiling node, while the base of it rubbed at a patch of sensors just past Magnus’s first ring of calipers. A spot that was textured and hot and zapping with charge beneath the heaving weight of Wheeljack’s spike.
A delicate wisp of a whine left Wheeljack’s lips. Magnus gasped helplessly beneath his touch.
If Optimus was aware of what part he was playing in his soldiers games, he did a damn good job at hiding it. The only hint that he might be onto them was in the way his pedes shifted awkwardly behind the door.
“Ah. Well…will you be able to make the patrol then?”
“Ya, that’s fine.” Wheeljack heaved out. Ultra Magnus’s writhing quaking thighs were clamped around his partner’s waist like a bear trap. Or perhaps a very aggressive fleshlight.
“Give us a bit and we’ll meet you out there. I…I just need time to get Magnus up and going, you know? Maybe uh…ten minutes? Fifteen?”
Wheeljack gave in with a couple rough pumps of his spike in Magnus’s tight, soaking valve, and the sound was obscene. A quick glance down showed that Ultra Magnus was making an absolute mess out of both of them. Bright, neon pink lubricant coated his pelvic plating and most definitely his lap, even if Ultra Magnus couldn’t see it. The wet slippery slide of his aft atop Wheeljack’s thighs was plenty enough to prove it.
Ultra Magnus squeezed his optics shut and swallowed down the starts of another cry, letting it drown into a miserable whimper while Wheeljack let out the most stressed sounding laugh he’d ever heard in his life.
Primus. Either Optimus was an absolute saint, had the audials of a broken headset, or was far kinkier a mech than Magnus had ever given him credit for.
“A-Actually, make that thirty.” Wheeljack gritted out.
“Either way we’ll—slag.We’ll be out within the hour.”
“Thank you.” Optimus said,
“I’m aware it is an inconvenience.”
“Nah.” Wheeljack…lied? Teased? Honestly Ultra Magnus wasn’t sure if even Wheeljack knew at this point.
“It ain’t.”
Whatever the truth may be for all involved parties, the calm baritone farewell of Optimus’s voice resonated—question free—with the thump thump of his pedesteps retreating down the hanger bay.
Wheeljack was still rocking.
Ultra Magnus tilting his hips. The concept of humiliation now a thin, fraying line at the edges of his helm.
Wanting.
Needing.
And the commander’s self-preservation snapped.
Magnus opened his mouth, made a sound like the desperate beggings of a dog, a lapped at Wheeljack’s metallic palm.
Textured in scratches and scars of old battles.
Tasting of lazy morning.
Tasting of Wheeljack.
Tasting of himself as spittle threatened to spill over the corners of Magnus’s lips. And oh, the look Wheeljack gave him. One made of aqua magma, blooming bright from the wide stretch of his optics, and liquified with a desperately frustrated groan of Wheeljack’s own.
Ultra Magnus shoved himself down onto Wheeljack’s spike with a whine.
“Frag me.” He breathed into his servo, signing it with a cursive flick of his glossa and a wet graze of his lips.
“Frag me.”
Wheeljack’s cheeks flushed with a hitch of his engine before revving so hard it shook the berth, along with Ultra Magnus, for that matter. The vibrations went straight through his valve, backstrut arching with a pitching gasp just in time for Wheeljack to yank back his servo and shove two fingers into Magnus’s mouth. And the thrill thatsent through Magnus’s frame nearly tripped him into overload.
Ultra Magnus gagged, his entire body curling with the reflex. His valve clamped down onto Wheeljack’s spike—hard
And tight.
And hot.
And just so, so good that it forced lubricant squirting free of his channel and splattering onto Wheeljack’s stomach plating. Wheeljack panted through gritted teeth, servo gripping Magnus’s hip hard enough to dent. Waiting. Waiting. Before easing with a relived sigh as Ultra Magnus’s valve loosened around him. Overload so, so close, yet just out of reach.
Apparently Ultra Magnus wasn’t the only one nearing overload.
When Wheeljack finally composed himself enough to look down, the press of his fingertips turned aching as he stared at the pretty pink lubricant on his belly. Tracked its dribbling trail down, down, down before a drop slipped onto the base of Wheeljack’s spike and just…stayed there. A perfect pink little bubble of lubricant, uncaring of those fat glowing pleats spread wide open around the spike speared into Ultra Magnus’s valve.
That very valve was suckling at Wheeljack’s length and twitching with each of his commanders invents.
“Oh.” Wheeljack breathed.
“Oh frag. When…when was the last time I got ya to squirt like that, Mags? Frag—to the pits Mags.” He could feel the trembling of Wheeljack's frame. Followed the bob of the Wrecker’s throat and the wet pop of his lips.
“Can…can ya do it again? Do it again and I’ll frag ya so hard you won’t even remember your own name.”
Ha. As if Magnus had any control over it.
Wheeljack found that magic button again just past Magnus’s lips, pushing that soft pliable glossa of his and pinning it as far back as it could go within his watering mouth. Ultra Magnus’s entire body jerked with a gag and a spluttering whimper that spittled out past Wheeljack’s fingers. His legs scrambling. Pedes tangling in the blankets—
And Ultra Magnus’s valve gave exactly what Wheeljack demanded.
It reminded him of holding his thumb over the blasting end of a hose.
Magnus’s valve clamped on that hard throbbing spike swallowed down his channel, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing and sending that pink, glittering lubricant blasting out from around the base of Wheeljack’s spike. It splashed onto his belly. His lap. The insides of his thighs while it drowned sheets beneath them into a soaked, sticky bubble gum pink mess. A smudge of it even landed just beneath Wheeljack’s optic.
The heat of humiliation was a distant thing, tucked behind the curtains deep in the recesses of Ultra Magnus’s helm. Spit leaked from the corners of lips, his denta grazeing Wheeljack’s fingers in some foggy play at chewing them.
Yet still, there was no overload.
The rest of Magnus was far too alive to stay still.
Kicking.
Clawing.
Howling through the exhausted, agonizing haze of ’frag me’ because if Ultra Magnus had been desperate before, now he was down right ANIMALISTIC. Writhing and panting and begging with blubbering words he hadn't the processor left to decipher as anything other then ‘Take me use me FRAG ME—!’
Then Wheeljack flipped Ultra Magnus onto his side, crooked Magnus’s a leg, and brought it over the top of his shoulder. Ultra Magnus’s other leg was used as a seat beneath the Wrecker’s aft. Condensation had gathered on Wheeljack’s brows. Optics hot. Grip crippling. With a one-thought goal of determination scalded into the grit of his denta as Wheeljack slammed full force back into Ultra Magnus’s valve.
“YES!” Ultra Magnus wailed, “YES—!”
Wheeljack pounded into his soaking valve, hard and fast and desperately brutal. Spearing Ultra Magnus onto his spike over and over and over again and oh so much deeper then before as the thick head of it mercilessly slammed into his ceiling node.
Ultra Magnus was inconsolable.
He heard the sheets tear in the twisting claws of his fists. The CLANG CLANG CLANG of metal meeting metal with the only thing keeping Magnus in place being the arm Wheeljack had chained around his leg.
Forcing him to stay put.
Forcing him to be used.
And Ultra Magnus loved it.
“Take it.” Wheeljack snarled. He drove his spike down Magnus’s valve. Ridges catching over nodes. The head of it threatening the start of his gestation tank.
“TAKE IT!”
Ultra Magnus threw his helm back with a sob, pitching higher and higher with every punch or Wheeljack’s spike in his sopping valve.
“Take me!” He wailed his command.
“Take me take me take me take me take me—ah. Ah. AH~!”
Wheeljack sank his denta into the inside of his thigh hard enough to sting, and Ultra Magnus’s overload punched through his systems with a screech of white noise from his vocalizer.
A messy.
Messy.
Overload.
Ultra Magnus felt his own lubricant—hot and sticky as warm maple syrup—squirt out the tight squeeze of his valve with a horribly wet squelch. The growing rivets running down his thigh quickly grew thick swirling spots of blue as Wheeljack’s transfluid poured down his valve and filled up what little space it had left to give…or take for that matter.
Magnus’s mesh walls spasmed around the throbbing spike in his channel. Tried to suck it down impossibly deeper. Milked it for every last drop it could give him. And in the process He made poor Wheeljack whine like a dying animal. The Wrecker’s arms roped around Magnus’s leg and squeezed it to his chest, optics squeezed shut with his faceplate buried against Magnus’s thigh, while he humped and shuttered and whimpered his was through his overload.
Shaking.
Trembling within the snaps of scalding white hot pleasure.
Before collapsing together into a pile of smoldering metal.
It was a long, long time before either of them were able to open their optics again, or before Magnus could feel his limbs again for that matter.
Wheeljack had collapsed atop of his frame, panting open mouthed and fogging up Ultra Magnus’s windshields, while those pretty aqua optics glitched with leftover snow. Ultra Magnus’s legs were slumped on his either side, crooked with leftover shivers zipping through his plating. He could just make out the cracked imprint of Wheeljack’s denta on his inner thigh, trickling a tiny trail of energon into the absolute drenched state of his array. The insides of his legs painted in bubblegum pink lubricant, and falling in thick, syrupy drips down his aft onto the berth. Splatters of Wheeljack’s sky-blue transfluid decorated it like swirls from a paint brush or splashes upon a tie-dye art project.
Ultra Magnus reached up and pet the back of Wheeljack’s helm.
“Are you….” He took a deep breath in, a shaky vent out. “Are you well?”
Wheeljack huffed out a staticked laugh, bouncing a little atop of Magnus’s chassis.
“Ya.” He said,
“Frag ya.”
“Hm. Good.”
“What’a bout you?”
“Sore.” Magnus admitted, “And the farthest thing from being ready for patrol, but I am in tact.”
Ultra Magnus glanced at his thigh, tilting his leg to the side to get a better look at his new mark.
“You bit me.”
Wheeljack blinked.
“I did?”
“Yes.” Magnus said, not harsh nor reprimanding, “You did.”
Wheeljack turned his helm and rested his chin on Magnus’s chest. Frowning. His optics squinted as he searched through his memory banks. It was cute.
Then Wheeljack’s optics stretched wide as saucers before he shot up and took Magnus’s thigh between his servos.
“Scrap. Scrap I did. Frag. Slag me to the pits—“ Wheeljack delicately grazed his fingertips over the bite mark, flinching at the damage, and immediately his faceplate crumpled into a guilt ridden building the edges of collapse.
“I’m sorry, Mags. I…I’m sorry. I-I think we’ve got some bandages tucked away somewhere—“
“I never said I didn’t enjoy it.”
Wheeljack froze to the spot, the flat of his thumb lightly pressing into the bite mark. Instead wincing from the sting of it, Magnus leaned his thigh more heavily into his touch, enjoying the gradual shift from the Wreckers blank staring to the beginning of gears clicking into place.
Wheeljack swallowed.
“Ya sure?”
Magnus allowed his helm to fall to the side, settling more comfortably atop his pillow as Wheeljack’s thumb began rubbing in small, soothing circles atop the injury. It stung a little, but it was the good kind of ache. It helped his frame slowly drift and creep back into reality again.
“Would I lie to you?”
“Guess not.”
Despite the answer, Wheeljack still ungracefully flopped to the side and fumbled for the nightstand drawer, tugging it open with the crook of his knuckle. The items housed inside of it noisily clacked about while he dug around for—presumably—the before mentioned medical supplies, or perhaps a cleaning cloth. Primus knew they were both in need of a serious wash up.
Ultra Magnus watched him for a time. Thinking. The air thick with the scent of each other, of ozone and release and heated metals still steaming with leftover condensation…
“I also enjoyed the outside element.”
Wheeljack’s helm popped up like a jack-in-the-box.
“What?”
“The outside element.” Magnus repeated,
“I enjoyed it. And I would like to do it again sometime.”
The silence was tangible. Thick as a fog. Chocking as a chassis full of smoke. And Magnus, in the face of it, tried his best to keep up a level of professionalism about it. He laced his servos together and laid them atop his abdomen, staring up at the ceiling while he viscerally tried to ignore the blush claiming his cheeks.
It failed miserably.
“I have a suggestion.” He said, and he had to clear his vocalizer twice as he felt Wheeljack slowly crawling his way back atop his frame.
“There is a hallway. One that I highly suspect has been ‘upgraded’ with live feed security cameras by the humans. And I…may or may not know the exact angles and placements of them all.”
“Ya?”
Ultra Magnus glanced down at Wheeljack. He was on all fours above Magnus’s chassis, inching ever closer with that curling, unbearably smug grin of his.
“We could give them a biomechanical example of Cybertronian mating behaviors.” Ultra Magnus sprinted onward, “It could greatly benefit their scientific understanding of other life forms outside the boundaries of their planet and helps them to better communicate with the likes of—”
Wheeljack interrupted him by grabbing Magnus by the jaw and kissing him.
It was a bruising kind of kiss, one decorated with nips at Magnus’s lower lip and a possessive growl of Wheeljack’s engine, and laced with something Magnus immediately understood with a strike of electricity through his spark:
Excitement.
Wheeljack’s touch turned tender with a final, petal-soft kiss. He pulled back but a breaths away, lovingly cradling Magnus’s cheeks in his servos and pressing their temples together with a light thunk.
“That might just be the second hottest thing I’ve ever heard come out’ya mouth.”
Magnus frowned in the shape of something dangerously close to a pout.
“What was the first?”
“You beggin my name.”
Ultra Magnus huffed and pointedly offlined his optics, but he couldn’t fight the smile starting on his lips as Wheeljack laughed loud enough to rattle the berth. Both of them warm. Both of them happy. And both of them perhaps just a little bit excited at the prospects of a certain hallway.
But that didn’t stop Magnus from feeling Wheeljack’s spark drop dead in his chest at one easy little question from his commander.
“Wheeljack?”
“Ya, Mags?”
“How obvious is the bite mark?”