Ultra Magnus (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
primebyproxy) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
robothell2015-08-03 11:44 am
primebyproxy) wrote in robothell2015-08-03 11:44 am
Entry tags:
a long drag becomes a slow dance and a halo of embers
WHO: Ultra Magnus and Wing
WHERE: Whichever building Magnus felt was okay for him to adopt for himself
WHEN: Sometime vaguely early-ish in the sex pollen event
WHAT: The usual sex pollen shenanigans, really
WARNINGS: Smut
He isn't sure how it happened exactly, but Ultra Magnus is painfully aware that the odd flowers – there weren't such things on his Cybertron, only elaborate and delicate crystal growths that crumbled too soon after erupting – he'd been so curious about must have something to do with his current state. It's a burning ache in his every joint and seam that makes the trek back to his 'home' long and exhausting, and it's a worryingly familiar pressure in his lines, electricity running through his circuits. How the flowers did this to him, he also isn't sure of that. He is certain he can't take this to a medic; it's hardly a critical ailment. It's also much too embarrassing.
No, he can simply take some time privately to solve the issue, he thinks, and meanwhile thinks nothing of the sight he makes as he rushes through the streets with a harried, slightly sick look on his face until he transforms and drives instead for the added, critical speed. Buildings and streets go by in a blur, and if he passes anyone, he doesn't even realise it; he's too much focused inward trying to hold himself together until he's no longer in the public eye. Especially if that eye happens to fall on him disapprovingly – a worrisome thought that pushes him faster still.
Even worse than being like this is being seen like this, he decides, and gusts out a sigh of relief as he turns a corner and his door is in sight. Safety.
Magnus barely even registers unfolding himself and taking the last few steps before he's indoors and out of view, and then the door is shut behind him and he hurries deeper into the plain, austere little apartment he's claimed for himself. It's dark and quiet and lonely but instantly he feels more at ease; he settles, shivering now, onto the large pallet that serves as his bed with his arms wrapped round his elbows. He's much too warm, he knows; the heat makes his armour ping softly as temperatures shift and metal swells with the rising temperature. But maybe he can just… wait it out.
Already, he's forgotten about the front door that he didn't lock.
WHERE: Whichever building Magnus felt was okay for him to adopt for himself
WHEN: Sometime vaguely early-ish in the sex pollen event
WHAT: The usual sex pollen shenanigans, really
WARNINGS: Smut
He isn't sure how it happened exactly, but Ultra Magnus is painfully aware that the odd flowers – there weren't such things on his Cybertron, only elaborate and delicate crystal growths that crumbled too soon after erupting – he'd been so curious about must have something to do with his current state. It's a burning ache in his every joint and seam that makes the trek back to his 'home' long and exhausting, and it's a worryingly familiar pressure in his lines, electricity running through his circuits. How the flowers did this to him, he also isn't sure of that. He is certain he can't take this to a medic; it's hardly a critical ailment. It's also much too embarrassing.
No, he can simply take some time privately to solve the issue, he thinks, and meanwhile thinks nothing of the sight he makes as he rushes through the streets with a harried, slightly sick look on his face until he transforms and drives instead for the added, critical speed. Buildings and streets go by in a blur, and if he passes anyone, he doesn't even realise it; he's too much focused inward trying to hold himself together until he's no longer in the public eye. Especially if that eye happens to fall on him disapprovingly – a worrisome thought that pushes him faster still.
Even worse than being like this is being seen like this, he decides, and gusts out a sigh of relief as he turns a corner and his door is in sight. Safety.
Magnus barely even registers unfolding himself and taking the last few steps before he's indoors and out of view, and then the door is shut behind him and he hurries deeper into the plain, austere little apartment he's claimed for himself. It's dark and quiet and lonely but instantly he feels more at ease; he settles, shivering now, onto the large pallet that serves as his bed with his arms wrapped round his elbows. He's much too warm, he knows; the heat makes his armour ping softly as temperatures shift and metal swells with the rising temperature. But maybe he can just… wait it out.
Already, he's forgotten about the front door that he didn't lock.
no subject
Words can sting. This… doesn't.
So he asks with the cautious tug of his lips, kissing each corner of Wing's mouth, pausing on his lower lip to lean in. Heat seeps through him from his core outward, leaving him a little light-headed, air blowing from his vents and hardly doing a thing to alleviate the pressure or the static in his arrays, the static that seems to trail behind Wing's fingers everywhere he touches. It feels good. Magnus sucks in a breath, shivers; it feels wonderful.
no subject
He can't help a ragged little moan as Magnus' mouth shifts to brush his cheek, his head falling back to bare the long line of his throat, delicate cabling exposed, vulnerable and unselfconscious. He gasps for air through heaving vents, almost dizzy, his whole body responding to Magnus as he trembles against the need flooding him, trying not to let it sweep him under.
"You feel so good," Wing gasps, then bites his lower lip and shutters his optics, shivering fiercely. "This is, oh. I like this. Just this. Your hands..."