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A Bird in the Hand (?)

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Ultra Magnus settled into his seat, calling up the latest emendations to the Autobot Code. It was now a comforting, deliciously thick 10,472 pages.  This latest databurst was the best thing to have come from Chief Justice Tyrest in ages. 

He’d  gotten it just before the Lost Light had launched and he’d been saving it up for a night when he really needed to wallow in the pleasures of the elegant and intricate syntax of legalese. And tonight was that night.

Oh, it’s not that he doubted Rodimus’s leadership. He’d doubted that all along. That had been half the reason he’d volunteered for this so-called quest. So that was hardly a new stressor. No it had been the buildup of a chain of events, mostly homesickness for the Law.  And Order. And anything but the chaos of daily life among the rabble of miscreants and delinquents Rodimus called a crew.

He was ready. He wanted this. He needed this. 

Ultra Magnus settled the datareader in a brace on the arm of his chair, leaning back, stretching his massive frame along the reclining chair. He adjusted his shoulders, minute and precise, feeling the tension releasing from the actuators, even as another tautness gripped him: desire and anticipation.

He flicked to the first page of the new codicil. Trade negotiations with the P’xtan system. His left hand crept down his armor, over his abdominal plating, fingers splaying when they reached the bulge of his interface hatch.  He could already feel the heat building under the blue metal, his white fingers spreading over it, feeling the sleek enamel glossing under his fingertips. 

Right.  He lifted his optics, turning them to the datareader, giving a shuddering sigh of relief, as the words began reeling off the reader. Sentence by sentence, clause by clause, subparagraph by subparagraph, he devoured the text, his hand  rubbing at his closed hatch until he finished the first section. He lay still a moment, wallowing in the plush intricacies of the Law. It felt decadent. It felt exquisite.

His fingers found the hatch release, baring his interface components, carefully tucked behind their covers, to the open air.  It was decision time, now, as his fingers skimmed in figure-8s over the covers.

Well. Perhaps not quite yet. He cycled his secondary cooling systems online, letting his fingers trace their maddening circuit over his components, turning back into the latest codicil, flipping with his other hand to the footnote detailing the failed mission to Varga-5 and its bearing on the export of nefertanium diodes.

A moan escaped his lips.  Footnotes, where the most delicious intricacies, the densest knots of policy and legality, lurked. His hand stroked faster, a little more urgently, over the delicate metal of his equipment covers. His spike tingled, eager, like a racehorse at the gate, his valve gave a little cycle of the calipers. Both wanting more.

Footnotes did that to him.

The covers clicked aside, finally, tormented by the combination of feathering touches and the firm pressure of the Law.  He paused, letting anticipation build, feeling a little seep of fluid from his valve, a prickle of charge from his spike, as though vying for his attention. But his attention was focused on the datareader, the syllables of the footnote like sensuous music.

But all things ended, and the footnote did after two thousand words. He felt the static jump from his finger to the datapad as he scrolled it back to the main text. He let his other hand creep down between his thighs, stopping to skim over his chassis, the little pools of excess charge in his armor seams, in the headlamps. There was a time when the best decision was not to decide, so one hand wrapped itself over his spike, white fingers curling over the silver and red plates of the turgid spike, while the other crept lower, one finger teasing at the inner lining of the valve. He sighed, a deep vent of cool air, that gusted out hot and tangy with ozone a moment later.  He shifted, spreading his white thighs, giving his hands more room. 

He stroked the spike, squeezing along its length, slowly. There were dozens of pages to go—there was no rush. He could just take his time, running his thumb along the spike’s underside, then over the head, while his other hand probed a finger, then another, into his slick valve.

His optics moved to the subparagraph detailing the restrictions of class ii trygex converters correlated with a society’s place on the Vols-Bunnpar spectrum of technological ethics. He could feel his systems heat, charge building, almost crackling, over his armor, in blue shimmers in the seams of his armor.  His fingers pumped harder into the valve, slippery with lubricant, scraping over the sensormesh, while his other began working his spike in earnest. 

Ultra Magnus’s mouth moved, shaping the syllables of the clause he was reading into a moan, rising and swirling with lust, until his hips bucked, his valve clamping down upon his fingers like a well-maintained set of wrist clamps. His spike throbbed, kliks away from its own release, nearly vibrating with tension. The overload raced through him like wildfire, chasing through his sensorlines, tangling with the driving rhythm of Chief Justice Tyrest’s powerful prose.

“You know, I always actually figured it was something like this.” Rodimus’s voice, carrying the laugh he was doing a terrible job of stifling. 

Ultra Magnus’s head whipped to the door, the charge seeming to squelch from his body. “It was locked.” He knew. He’d checked it. Twice. 

“Psssh. Overrides,” Rodimus said, leaning in the doorway, arms folded across his chassis. “Squeezing in a little light reading, I see?” His optics flicked pointedly to Ultra Magnus’s white hands. “Must be a really exciting text.”

“It is the latest codicil to the Autobot Code,” Ultra Magnus said, stiffly. His spike was howling at him, wanting release, his valve still clutching his fingers, not in overload but in some combination of mortification and terror he didn’t really want to analyze.

Rodimus elbowed off the doorframe, stepping into the room, his hips swaying, almost tauntingly.

“What are you doing here?” He didn’t know whether to release his equipment, or…or what? He had no idea. This is why you needed locks. Order. Security.

“Hi there,” Rodimus bent down, ignoring the question to plant a quick sucking kiss on the tip of Ultra Magnus’s spike. “Remember me, little guy?”

It did, with an almost painful throb, and Ultra Magnus would rather it did not, with the way it surged into the contact. “That was a long time ago,” he said, stiffly, moving to try to stow his spike. This had gone far enough. If not too far.

He would have to ask for Chief Justice Tyrest to add another codicil about privacy and chain of command and, erm, indelicate topics.

“It was.”  Rodimus leaned his hip on the arm of the chair, reaching over to pick up the datareader. He grimaced as he read. “Wow. This is…wow.” He looked up, the grimace turning into that taunting smile. “Gripping stuff, apparently.” He laughed at his own joke before Ultra Magnus even realized it was supposed to be a joke.

Rodimus leaned forward, tossing the datareader onto a table. “You could have come to me, you know,” he said. “Not like I haven’t taken care of you before, right?”

Ultra Magnus choked. “The last time you ‘took care’ of me,” he said, fighting outrage, “you waited until I had fallen into recharge and stole my ship.”

Rodimus gave an ‘oh yeah, that’ shrug. “Hey, but come on. I do give some pretty fraggin’ mind-blowing spike jobs.”  He reached back, tweaking the spike’s head.  A traitorous bead of transfluid appeared.  And Ultra Magnus found himself fighting the memory: Rodimus—Hot Rod’s—mouth on his spike, optics dimming, murmuring with some pleasure, hands kneading Ultra Magnus’s thighs.

Rodimus purred. “Mmmm. Got it nice and warm, too.”

“The, erm, the warmth of my interface equipment is irrelevant. Why did you come in here?”

“Hey. I’m in charge here,” Rodimus said, feigning affront, “and I say that the warmth, and, you know, the functional status, of your spike is highly relevant.” He winked. “At least to me.” He moved, abruptly, throwing one thigh over the chair, straddling Ultra Magnus’s thighs, just below the spike.  He wiggled forward, prying Ultra Magnus’s white fingers off the spike, and pressing it against his pelvic armor. It jutted, nearly to his belly. Ultra Magnus twitched at the contact—Rodimus’s hands, the warmth of the other’s bright armor, the weight on his thighs.

“Rodimus!”  He meant it to come out stern, authoritative, but instead it came out as a raw sort of squeak.

Rodimus rocked up, flicking his interface hatch open with a negligent, swift gesture, tilting his hips forward to show his already exposed valve. “Tell me you don’t want to.” His other hand squeezed the  large spike, fingers massaging the head. 

It was maddening. It was an outrage. It was violations of so many sections of the Autobot Code that it made Ultra Magnus’s head spin.  “Rodimus,” he repeated, but it didn’t sound any better.

His hands clutched over the flame colored thighs, sticky with his own fluids, and before he could process what he was doing, he was pulling Rodimus up, closer, and sinking him onto his spike.

Rodimus’s grin was slightly interrupted by his optics rolling back, as his valve struggled to take the spike, calipers flaring wide, until Ultra Magnus’s spike seated inside him, the lining mech taut and sensitive. Some of the cockiness got lost, somewhere, Rodimus breathing, only, ‘Oh frag’ over and over like a chant.

Ultra Magnus preferred the Autobot Code, but at this point, his spike was beyond caring. He tugged on the hips, hinting, and Rodimus complied, rocking his hips, hands bracing on Ultra Magnus’s abdominal plating. Ultra Magnus groaned, as the valve squeezed, warm and alive and somehow better than his hand, along his spike, coaxing charge from the ridged plates, building and building.

And Ultra Magnus had no reading to distract him, only Rodimus’s body, the flames on his chassis surging toward him, again and again, the pale orange hands clinging to his plating, the smirk entirely gone from his face, replaced by an almost blind, lip-parted expression of want.

“Rodimus. I…”  Ultra Magnus was larger than other mechs. It affected more things than just scale. Uh. Fluid volume as well.

“I remember,” Rodimus said, quickly.  “Believe me. I remember.”

And Ultra Magnus remembered, too, back on Earth, when the overload had flooded Hot Rod’s mouth, faster than he could swallow, silver transfluid leaking from the corners of his mouth.

Oh.

The world seemed to go white, as he bucked his  hips up, taking Rodimus’s weight with him easily, his spike bursting into overload, jetting transfluid.

When the world resolved itself into sound and image again, Rodimus was still arched up, impaled on his spike, body quivering with aftershocks. Both their thighs were slick with fluids, Ultra Magnus’s hands nearly denting the other mech’s thigh plates.

He waited. Wordless. There was no protocol for this and he desperately, desperately needed one. But he’d die of mortification before asking Chief Justice Tyrest or the Galactic Council to weigh in on the proper procedure for post coitus with one’s superior officer.

It probably involved arresting himself.

“….wow.” Rodimus said, suddenly, head snapping down to meet Ultra Magnus’s gaze. “Whoof.”  The valve squeezed his spike, almost gingerly.

“Whoof.” What did that even mean? 

“Whoof,” Rodimus echoed, solemnly.  He rocked forward, lying belly to belly for a klik, easing his valve from the spike, letting it slide from him with one last quivery clutch.  He lay on the broad blue chassis for a long moment, resting, exhausted and sated, before looking up. This time the cheeky wink was already in place, and Ultra Magnus found himself almost grateful for it. That, at least, was normal. “I could always use a good bedtime story every now and again. Since, you know, you like reading so much.”