Tryst

Jun. 10th, 2012 12:26 pm
anon_decepticon: Decepticon insignia w/a "?" (Default)
[personal profile] anon_decepticon

Title: Tryst
Continuity: G1, post season three.
Author: [personal profile] anon_decepticon
Rating: M
Pairing or Character(s): Ultra Magnus/???
Disclaimer: I don’t own Transformers.
Warning(s): Slash, PWP, robot!sex of the p&p variety.
Summary: Ultra Magnus meets a certain someone for a secret tête à tête.
Author's Note: Just a quick porny little ficbit inspired by watching [livejournal.com profile] primusatemyleg create one of his incredible 3D renders for [livejournal.com profile] spacehussy. Hope everyone enjoys it, but those two especially. References and quotes dialogue from the G1 cartoon episode “The Killing Jar”…which in retrospect probably makes it kind of obvious who the mystery mech is.



The shadows slant through the abandoned arcade where Ultra Magnus waits, shrouding him in darkness. Under the circumstances, he thinks, that’s probably a good thing.

It’s late. He’s late.

He leans back against the wall and props his foot against it, adopting a pose far too calculated to be casual – he’s posing and he knows it, feels embarrassed for doing it but does it anyway.

Any klik now.

A faint crunching sound makes him startle, a soft pedestep in the surrounding gravel. He looks up and is greeted by a flash of red optics in a faceplate both elegant and severe.

“You’re late,” Ultra Magnus informs him.

His only reply is an aggressive lunge that shoves him up against the wall, their chestplates meeting and grinding. Ultra Magnus’ backstrut connects with a dull clank, and for half an astrosecond he considers objecting, but then discards the notion. He really doesn’t mind.

It’s why they’re here, after all.

Their energy fields meet in a hot rush, drawing a low growl from his partner’s vocalizer. Rough hands grope greedily at his chassis, and Ultra Magnus responds in kind, his spark-pulse quickening. They haven’t been meeting like this for long. There are still many things for them to learn about each other’s frames, new territory to explore. The first time, the anticipation alone wound them up so much they overloaded the second their fields met.

They’ve settled down a little since then…but not by much.

The deep growl becomes a groan as Ultra Magnus’ fingers steal into the naked joints where his partner’s arms meet his frame, establishing twin connection points for their surging energy fields. In return a broad, rounded thigh is shoved between his own heavy square ones, creating a third. Sparks leap up between them, arcing over their frames and filling their olfactory sensors with the crackling scent of ozone.

His partner makes an unguarded sound, an impassioned cry somewhere between a grunt and a moan, and for a moment Magnus thinks he can almost make out his name in it. The effect is unspeakably erotic. He doesn’t allow himself to dwell on that thought for long.

But still, the damage is done – he’s sent crashing into overload, rocketing over the brink with a roar that he only half-manages to stifle at the last second. Good thing they agreed to meet in the middle of nowhere.

His partner jerks against him, gripping the gun mounts on Ultra Magnus’ shoulders as he shudders through his own silent overload. It’s funny, how they seem to swap roles at this point – neither one of them is particularly vocal, but while Magnus is usually silent right up until the end, he always overloads without a sound.

They’re not lovers. They’re certainly not friends. They’re just…alike, in so many ways. Soldiers. Warriors built to fight and die, loyal to their chosen cause. They understand one another.

“The next time we meet, it will be as enemies,” he’d said.

“Yes. As soldiers on opposing sides.”

“No more, no less.”

Famous last words.

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