Prompt #2
Title: Strange Berthfellows
Continuity: G1 Cartoon
Characters/Pairings:: Cyclonus/Ultra Magnus
Rating: T
Content Notes: Intoxication, short-term memory loss, tactile interface while under the influence
Prompt: "Let me guess. I got drunk, you were drunk, I fucked you, and now you want to kill me, right?" Took about an hour and a half, with some edits.
Ultra Magnus' systems booted up slowly and reluctantly, as if each microchip needed to be persuaded, individually, to turn on.
This was not usual, he realized, as soon as enough of him was online to realize it. He was better trained than this. Many, many times during the Great War, lives had been saved by his alertness and quick reaction time, rare (or they had been, before the war) in mechs his size.
He hadn't felt like this since--he reached back fuzzily into his memory banks. No, if he'd ever felt like this before, the memory was long lost.
Finally, pressure sensors in his plating came on.
He was in a berth, and he had company. Intimate company, from the way said company was pressed against his chest, one of Magnus' legs and one of his arms wrapped protectively around his partner.
It was rather nice, and the strange, unsoldierly reluctance lurking in Magnus' systems urged him to give into it, to enjoy his berthmate's closeness and fall back into recharge.
But enough of Magnus was online now to find that absolutely unacceptable. He didn't even know who it was! Something was badly wrong with his processor. By a force of will, he activated his optics, moved both limbs off the body in front of him, and sat up, ready to attack or defend, as necessary.
It was Cyclonus.
Clearly whatever had gone wrong with Magnus' processor, it had gone wronger than he'd thought. He scanned his memories of the previous cycle, trying to figure out how--why--(and what they had done).
And now, Cyclonus was stirring as well. Magnus booted up his battle systems as fast as he could, ready for anything--though not, quite, for a Cyclonus who looked nearly as perturbed as he did, if not quite so badly afflicted by whatever it was that had brought them here.
"We got overcharged," Cyclonus said, answering the question Magnus hadn't asked. "And now," he half-smiled, "I suppose we part as enemies."
Memories flashed back to Magnus--landing on a planet with very large energon deposits and an extremely insistent tradition of hospitality, a wary and awkward feast that got less wary and awkward as it progressed and everyone became increasingly inebriated.
And--Cyclonus--he--"You kissed me." That, Magnus could remember clearly, now. Rather too clearly.
"Yes," said Cyclonus, and slowly, making no sudden movements--whether from battle training or residual overcharge, Magnus didn't know--sat up and moved forward, placing his hands carefully on the sides of Magnus' helm, not quite on the antennae.
And he kissed him. Again.
Magnus was more experienced with kissing than he was with overindulgence, but not, really, by very much. The other night he hadn't even thought about what he was doing, and it had been--he would cringe to remember, if his mouth weren't busy--good. Now--he leaned into the kiss, parting his lips--surely Cyclonus would know what he was doing?--and there was a rather awkward exchange of teeth and tongues and Cyclonus' hands slipping up just a little farther than would have been decent, if there had been anything decent about this situation at all.
Cyclonus' mouth, like Magnus', tasted of energon, and he seemed dedicated to systematically mapping out Magnus' entire oral structure, finding the places that got the best reaction and lingering there. It was almost comforting, in its misplaced logic, and Magnus found himself taking up the method, his hands settling on the sides of Cyclonus' own helm (but no higher than was decent, surely!) as their mouths explored.
No wonder the energon shortage caused the war, Magnus thought, idly, randomly; if too much of it feels like this, than no wonder Paradron was pacifist. Peace--peace would be good--and neither set of hands, he noted, were now in a decent location.
He found he didn't care very much. He kept kissing. He had an idea how to do it, now, if not why, and the low sounds Cyclonus was making--were some of them his own?--were quite enticing.
They fell back to the bed, once more, lying side by side, hands in all sorts of indecent places (on Cyclonus' wing, his plating, his antennae, and how had Cyclonus managed to get under his armor, like that, yes that!), lips moving away from each other to explore neck cables and antennae.
Magnus moaned, coherence and technique slipping away from him once more (still overcharged, he noted, but it made no impression on the rest of him) as he clung, and licked, and eventually bit, his toothmarks digging into the antenna, overlapping several layers of others (they couldn't possibly have been drunk long enough for all that!) but he didn't think any more of it, because Cyclonus was crying out his name and exploding into overload, energy field washing over him hard and fast and painful and intoxicating and he only had time to think that this was his hardest overload ever before his systems crashed and he was once again blissfully unconscious.
*****
When next Magnus woke, he was sober, and Cyclonus was scrambling over him to get out of the berth.
When Magnus stirred, he turned back--just his helm--for a second. "Do you know where Galvatron is?"
"No," Magnus said, flinging himself off the bed in turn. "Do you know where the Autobots are?!"
Cyclonus turned back again, for a moment. "No. You look that way, I'll look this way."
And he was gone.
A half-astrosecond later, Magnus was gone too. Like Cyclonus, he had his duty.
Continuity: G1 Cartoon
Characters/Pairings:: Cyclonus/Ultra Magnus
Rating: T
Content Notes: Intoxication, short-term memory loss, tactile interface while under the influence
Prompt: "Let me guess. I got drunk, you were drunk, I fucked you, and now you want to kill me, right?" Took about an hour and a half, with some edits.
Ultra Magnus' systems booted up slowly and reluctantly, as if each microchip needed to be persuaded, individually, to turn on.
This was not usual, he realized, as soon as enough of him was online to realize it. He was better trained than this. Many, many times during the Great War, lives had been saved by his alertness and quick reaction time, rare (or they had been, before the war) in mechs his size.
He hadn't felt like this since--he reached back fuzzily into his memory banks. No, if he'd ever felt like this before, the memory was long lost.
Finally, pressure sensors in his plating came on.
He was in a berth, and he had company. Intimate company, from the way said company was pressed against his chest, one of Magnus' legs and one of his arms wrapped protectively around his partner.
It was rather nice, and the strange, unsoldierly reluctance lurking in Magnus' systems urged him to give into it, to enjoy his berthmate's closeness and fall back into recharge.
But enough of Magnus was online now to find that absolutely unacceptable. He didn't even know who it was! Something was badly wrong with his processor. By a force of will, he activated his optics, moved both limbs off the body in front of him, and sat up, ready to attack or defend, as necessary.
It was Cyclonus.
Clearly whatever had gone wrong with Magnus' processor, it had gone wronger than he'd thought. He scanned his memories of the previous cycle, trying to figure out how--why--(and what they had done).
And now, Cyclonus was stirring as well. Magnus booted up his battle systems as fast as he could, ready for anything--though not, quite, for a Cyclonus who looked nearly as perturbed as he did, if not quite so badly afflicted by whatever it was that had brought them here.
"We got overcharged," Cyclonus said, answering the question Magnus hadn't asked. "And now," he half-smiled, "I suppose we part as enemies."
Memories flashed back to Magnus--landing on a planet with very large energon deposits and an extremely insistent tradition of hospitality, a wary and awkward feast that got less wary and awkward as it progressed and everyone became increasingly inebriated.
And--Cyclonus--he--"You kissed me." That, Magnus could remember clearly, now. Rather too clearly.
"Yes," said Cyclonus, and slowly, making no sudden movements--whether from battle training or residual overcharge, Magnus didn't know--sat up and moved forward, placing his hands carefully on the sides of Magnus' helm, not quite on the antennae.
And he kissed him. Again.
Magnus was more experienced with kissing than he was with overindulgence, but not, really, by very much. The other night he hadn't even thought about what he was doing, and it had been--he would cringe to remember, if his mouth weren't busy--good. Now--he leaned into the kiss, parting his lips--surely Cyclonus would know what he was doing?--and there was a rather awkward exchange of teeth and tongues and Cyclonus' hands slipping up just a little farther than would have been decent, if there had been anything decent about this situation at all.
Cyclonus' mouth, like Magnus', tasted of energon, and he seemed dedicated to systematically mapping out Magnus' entire oral structure, finding the places that got the best reaction and lingering there. It was almost comforting, in its misplaced logic, and Magnus found himself taking up the method, his hands settling on the sides of Cyclonus' own helm (but no higher than was decent, surely!) as their mouths explored.
No wonder the energon shortage caused the war, Magnus thought, idly, randomly; if too much of it feels like this, than no wonder Paradron was pacifist. Peace--peace would be good--and neither set of hands, he noted, were now in a decent location.
He found he didn't care very much. He kept kissing. He had an idea how to do it, now, if not why, and the low sounds Cyclonus was making--were some of them his own?--were quite enticing.
They fell back to the bed, once more, lying side by side, hands in all sorts of indecent places (on Cyclonus' wing, his plating, his antennae, and how had Cyclonus managed to get under his armor, like that, yes that!), lips moving away from each other to explore neck cables and antennae.
Magnus moaned, coherence and technique slipping away from him once more (still overcharged, he noted, but it made no impression on the rest of him) as he clung, and licked, and eventually bit, his toothmarks digging into the antenna, overlapping several layers of others (they couldn't possibly have been drunk long enough for all that!) but he didn't think any more of it, because Cyclonus was crying out his name and exploding into overload, energy field washing over him hard and fast and painful and intoxicating and he only had time to think that this was his hardest overload ever before his systems crashed and he was once again blissfully unconscious.
*****
When next Magnus woke, he was sober, and Cyclonus was scrambling over him to get out of the berth.
When Magnus stirred, he turned back--just his helm--for a second. "Do you know where Galvatron is?"
"No," Magnus said, flinging himself off the bed in turn. "Do you know where the Autobots are?!"
Cyclonus turned back again, for a moment. "No. You look that way, I'll look this way."
And he was gone.
A half-astrosecond later, Magnus was gone too. Like Cyclonus, he had his duty.