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Chapter Text

Ultra Magnus, rebuilt but never quite the same, has taken his place among the new elite of post-war Cybertron. He behaved as he normally would; calm, restructured, civil… until he senses that unfamiliar but remembered field again. It was heavy, old, and primal.

Predaking.

They meet not on the battlefield, but in a reformed neutral zone where Ultra Magnus was inspecting border protocols. Within a nanoklik, a shadow falls, "Still dragging around that prosthetic, enforcer?”, a too-familiar voice spoke behind him. Ultra Magnus doesn't need to turn back to see where it came from.

“You find amusement in maiming your enemies?”, he bristled all too-coldly as though this was nothing sort of a time of peace.

Predaking did not say anything for a while, before he spoke with a low tone. No, it was not degradation, but it does feel like it, “I find amusement in those who pretend they're more than prey.”

Ultra Magnus' EM field was pulled tight like war drums under polished steel. Predaking? Casual menace, sizing him up like a challenge that just won’t stay down. However, there's something else underneath it. Predaking remembers that cave, how Ultra Magnus fought like hell againts him... and somehow that alone at that time, was capable to interrupt his wrath-driven mind. Predaking remembered how Ultra Magnus held his own as he took the pain without begging. He respected that and still does. Ultra Magnus, however, hates the humiliation more than one would tell.

Ultra Magnus finally turned his back, optics crisp blue with cold, command as he spoke in response, “You won’t take another piece.”

Predaking stepped closer, inching his face and bowing down to meet the Commander's stone-face, get a better look at it, “No need. You’ve already let me inside your mind, haven’t you?”

Chapter Text

Ultra Magnus had always believed the war had stripped Cybertron of its sanctity. Yet, if there was one pillar still standing, it was his discipline, his devotion, and his refusal to bow to anything but the Prime. He carried himself like the last relic of Prime-led order; rigid, unyielding, and his protocol sharper than any blade. The war was over, but Magnus had not- could not- move on. His loyalty was carved into him, along with the prosthetic servo which hung at his side like a permanent humiliation.

Then came the summons; the council had called for a diplomatic envoy. Predaking, it seemed, had not faded into myth. No, he had risen from the ashes of betrayal, the so-called Highfire King of a reborn Predacon Dominion. With only two subjects to his name, he was still hailed as a sovereign. The Autobots and the fractured remnants of Cybertron needed stability, thus they needed alliances, thus they needed Ultra Magnus to be the face of peace in the formal setting as of now.

So off he went, not for Predaking or diplomacy, but for a responsibility towards Optimus, who is now one with the Allspark.

The throne room of the Predacon court was carved in brutal majesty, built from stone, metal, and fire. Sky Lynx and Darksteel lined the steps, their optics resembling burning coals as Ultra Magnus entered with some delegates of Elite Guard followed close behind him. Every envoy and delegate bowed their helms in respect and reverence to the crowned apex who sat above them.

Everyone except him.

Sky Lynx had his pede stomped, not loud enough to stagger anyone but hard enough to notify the whole room and get every attention for announcement, “It is customary to lower your helm before the Highfire King.”

Ultra Magnus' face was unchanged, "I do not serve creatures. I serve the Prime.”

Wings of the two Predacons standing on each side of the throne flared. Predaking, however, did not rise in anger. He leaned forward on his throne with a face that seems to be too at ease for an apex. The court expected violence and waited for flame, yet Predaking only studied him, helm tilting as though savoring the sight. He had ruled through terror, awe, and the weight of his legend. All had bowed and paid respect, except this one Autobot. For reasons he could not yet name, Predaking found the defiance… intoxicating.

From that day, the obsession began. Why him? Why did Ultra Magnus, Head of the Elite Guard, cling to this grudge with such venom? Why did his claw, of all wounds, remain Ultra Magnus’ chosen reminder of hatred? Predaking circled the question like a predator, and the more they clashed between cold words and sharpened silences, the more he enjoyed it.

Everyone feared him, only Ultra Magnus mocked him with stillness. Everyone kneeled, only Ultra Magnus stood there unshaken and unfazed.

In the quiet between their encounters, Predaking began to wonder,

“Was it pride I broke that day… Or did I touch something deeper beneath all that iron?”

That evening, with the court dismissed, Predaking rose from his throne. He prowled down the steps, circling The Commander like a serpent. His voice was low and meant only for the Commander to hear, “Tell me, Ultra Magnus… when they forged your replacement, did you think of me? Do you feel it even now, the tremor where I once left you powerless?”

Ultra Magnus’ claw flexed, the metal groaning under pressure. His stance remained unshaken, his voice a flat blade.

“I feel nothing. You are nothing.”

It was nothing but a statement of dismissal, but his optics burned too brightly and his vents drew air too sharply. Predaking saw it and he cannot help but to savor it. For the first time in millennia, the King of Predacons felt not only feared, but defied. Soon enough, he found himself not wanting to let it go.

Ultra Magnus?

Oh, he hated this beast more than he had words for. How could he not? Predaking had taken his left servo and crushed it down with his pede as if he were nothing more than a plaything. The pain had been searing, yes, but pain was fleeting. Pride was not. It was pride that had been wrenched from him that day, pride that the Commander of the Elite Guard had been reduced to prey under a beast’s claws. Optimus had been there and had witnessed it. He was the one who saved Ultra Magnus, saved Ultra Magnus and Wheeljack from being torn apart entirely like scraps of junk.

That memory was sharper than the phantom ache of metal and circuitry; to have been degraded before his Liege, before the one leader to whom his oath was absolute? It was humiliation that struck deeper than any wound.

Optimus had never chastised him or shown disappointment, but instead displayed none other than concern. That is precisely how he is by nature. He had only given that grave, steady gaze which sought to reassure rather than condemn. However, that too, cut Ultra Magnus all the sharper. It was even worse because his standards were higher than anyone else’s; for himself, for his soldiers, for everything. Yet there he was, fallen short where it mattered most.

Now, Optimus was gone. He sacrificed himself for the planet and its inhabitants. His matrix-latched spark joined with the Allspark to restore the life in Cybertron and breathe life back into a dead world. Ultra Magnus had been there to witness his final words, but not standing tall at his side in vigilance or victory. No, he had been confined to a medical berth, broken and weakened. He was injured from the onslaught of Darksteel and Sky Lynx, yes- but the first strike and the root of his degradation had been Predaking’s.

Here he stood in a world without Optimus, a world after the ages of the Primes ended with him. Every time the beast’s shadow crossed Ultra Magnus' path, every time his optics caught the memory of those claws, it hollowed something inside him. His loathing was not just for the creature’s might, but for what it had made of him. That beast had forced him to remember that he had been powerless, had forced him to watch while laying down on a pathetic plate while his Prime sacrificed everything, and most importantly, he had forced him to forever wear his failure; the prosthetic servo.

For that, Ultra Magnus resented every fiber of Predaking’s existence.

The idea of 'peace' had never been so... vague.

Chapter Text

Ultra Magnus did not take it easy. 

He made SURE the sensitive-coded Predacon frame remembers the heat of his EM field as if screaming "I resent you then, right now, and in the future." Honestly, Predaking finds it appealing. No, not because he's fearless, but becase he EMPHASIZES that he's fearless. Where others might cage their emotions, suppress their signatures into bland neutrality, Ultra Magnus did the opposite. He let his field flare like a banner of war, making the Predacon read it as if even daring him to remember. Predaking, sensitive-coded as all his kind were, felt every volt of loathing and every pulse of electric wrath that screamed across the chamber like an unchained beast.

Ultra Magnus’ words remained measured. His stance was perfect, his command presence unwavering, every line of him sharp with discipline. But his EM field? It snarled; raw, unfiltered, personal.

Predaking felt none of the fear he was accustomed to drawing from others. There was no tremble, quiver, or desperate attempts to mask submission behind stillness. What he felt instead was deliberate and intentional. It was an obvious hatred that refused to hide and most of all, wanted to be known.

It was a hatred that pointedly did not shake.

Predaking circled the Commander just close enough that the thrum of Ultra Magnus’ field burned against his protoform, "You never suppress it even when you know I can feel it. The others conceal their tension… but you radiate yours like a war cry.”

Ultra Magnus, tone carved from ice, almost scoffed, “I cannot contain myself.”

Predaking leaned closer, amused, “You are… delightfully honest.”

It was strange- the appeal. Ultra Magnus weaponized his feelings. He unleashed his loathing like fire, every flare of hatred sharpened to precision, as if to declare,

"I see you. I remember what you did, and I have made peace with hating you."

There was something intoxicating about it... because Ultra Magnus did not fear him, he condemned him, and in Predaking’s twisted, pride-soaked logic, that condemnation was not weakness, but a something else not quite. It had made Ultra Magnus his equal. Ultra Magnus had never meant to flirt, his field was no invitation or seduction, it was only a declaration of loathing as righteous and unyielding as the mech himself. However, Predaking twisted every surge of wrath into something ENTIRELY driven by some sick primal urge. Every spike of ire, every tightened scowl, every rumbling growl of field as Ultra Magnus turned to leave... Predaking had gladly drank it in like proof.

"You’re still watching me. Still paying attention. Still haunted. Good."

Therein lay the volatility.

Ultra Magnus was the iron wall of order, discipline, and restraint. Yet after all this time, the only passion he ever bared was fury. 

Predaking, whose biology made him a reader of truth, interpreted hatred not as rejection, but as recognition. It was obsession, to an extent. An Autobot commander who stood unflinching in his contempt was rarer, sweeter, than any trembling sycophant. In there stood the cruelest irony; somewhere deep inside that fortress of discipline, Ultra Magnus almost relished the fact that Predaking never flinched, the fact that his hatred was never diminished or ignored... and the fact that for once, his wrath was not wasted.

Chapter Text

The throne room burned with an oppressive heat. Firelight licked along the stone pillars, shadows of the Predacons stretching across the chamber like living specters. The envoy had ended; words of diplomacy had been exchanged, promises of peace voiced with all the stiffness of forced civility. However, Ultra Magnus remained where he had stood throughout; still, unmoved, a sentinel carved from iron. His clawed prosthetic gleamed faintly in the glow and though his guards shifted uneasily at his side, he betrayed nothing. His posture was perfect as if it alone commanded absolute presence.

Nothing betrayed that composure but the storm of his EM field flaring like a silent snarl as Predaking descended the throne steps, each heavy stride echoing with deliberate finality. His court was unmoved, but with a flick of his talons he dismissed them. The chamber emptied until only two remained: the King and the Commander. Predaking’s voice carried low, thick with authority, "You’ve yet to learn deference.”

Ultra Magnus did not flinch. His optics flared, not with fear but with honed disdain, “I bow only to one,” he said, voice like glacier stone cracking. Predaking circled, slow and serpentine, the scrape of his tail dragging behind him like a drawn blade. “I wonder,” he rumbled, eyes gleaming, “Is your loyalty to the Prime stronger than your hatred for me?”

Ultra Magnus turned sharply, the hiss of his prosthetic claw grating like a wound torn open anew. His EM field lashed, static and fire lashing out in a flare that struck the Predacon’s protoform directly. Predaking laughed. A full, resonant growl of amusement that seemed to vibrate the chamber itself.

“There it is…” he breathed, savoring the voltage against his frame.

“Look at me just like that.”

Ultra Magnus’ optics blazed, blue light searing with fury.

“You think this amuses me?”

Predaking lowered his helm, lips brushing close to Magnus’ audials, his words curling like heat against steel.

“No,” he whispered, voice molten. “It arouses me.”

The snarl that tore from Ultra Magnus’ throat was raw; an unguarded sound that none of his soldiers had ever heard from him. For an instant, restraint shattered, fury burned free. Predaking straightened, smirk curling like a victor savoring the spoils of war, “So disciplined… so pristine… and yet, all it takes is me-” his gaze slid deliberately toward the clawed prosthetic, “-reminding you of what I took.”

Ultra Magnus bristled, his EM field flaring wild and jagged again. Predaking tilted his head, voice goading, almost tender in its cruelty, “Say it. Say you hate me. Tell me you’d rip my spark out if you had the chance.”

Ultra Magnus’ voice was a hiss through clenched plating, "I’d do it slowly.”

Predaking’s grin widened, baring his fangs in triumph, “Perfect.”

Silence crackled between them. Ultra Magnus stood, every line of his body ironclad, optics blazing, EM field radiating pure loathing... yet Predaking did not strike, did not lunge, did not roar. Instead, he only watched the way predators watch prey that refuses to run; unafraid, patient, fixated. Ultra Magnus’ hatred was not dismissed or diminished, but it was instead recognized and fed upon. Predaking is not unaccustomed to defiance. He has crushed warlords, silenced armies, shattered entire strike teams with one sweep of his claws. Defiance usually comes loud and frantic with bluster and desperation; the kind that burns bright before he extinguishes it.

Ultra Magnus simply doesn’t break.

He stands there like a monolith, protocol coiled around him like armor, every movement precise, every word sharpened into a weapon of restraint. He refuses to be dragged into the theater Predaking is used to. There was no roar or theatrics of fear or courage coming from the Commander, just cold discipline.

That is precisely why Predaking is amused. For all his power, for all his fire and claws and wings that blot out the sky, he cannot make the commander flinch. It gnaws at him, fascinates him. The more he tries, the more Ultra Magnus’ refusal feels less like dismissal and more like a challenge carved into the very structure of his frame. This Autobot with a spine of steel stands there as if he is the predator, as if Predaking is the one under scrutiny, measured, found wanting. Ultra Magnus does not cower- hell he doesn't even hate loudly. His contempt is silent, razor-thin, all the sharper because it cuts without effort.

To a creature built to dominate, to command obedience, to inspire terror with nothing but a glance, this is unbearable. But yet so… addictive.

Predaking begins to look forward to the way Ultra Magnus’ optics lock on him like frozen stars, the deliberate tension in his posture, to the hostile lash of his field; controlled, calculated, but never once bending into fear. Others kneel. Others flatter. Others beg. Ultra Magnus refuses. Every refusal is another hook in Predaking’s armor as another reminder that here is something he cannot simply crush. What thrills him is the knowledge that this 'cat' is the first creature to stand before the lion and make the lion wonder: Who is the hunter here?

Chapter Text

The throne room of the Predacon Dominion was a cathedral built for intimidation. Obsidian pillars rose like the ribs of some petrified god, the floor veined with molten circuitry that pulsed faintly in rhythm with the King’s breath. The air shimmered not from warmth, but from presence of an electromagnetic hum so dense it seemed to thicken the atmosphere, pressing down upon every intruder who dared step inside.

Yet, standing at the heart of that suffocating space, Ultra Magnus did not yield. He was as he had always been; tall, composed, carved in lines of severity so precise they felt architectural. The plating of his chest caught the light in sharp geometry; the narrow taper of his waist was a blade in itself, cutting downward to legs planted in the absolute symmetry of parade rest. Nothing about him was natural. Everything about him was intentional.

Predaking, descending from his throne with a slow and leonine grace, found his optics caught- at first by habit, then by curiosity, and finally by something perilously close to fascination. His kind were creatures of instinct, honed to read weakness in proportion to understand by shape alone what could be broken,  devoured, and left to rot.

But Ultra Magnus’ shape- that impossible, disciplined proportion... defied that instinct entirely.

He had seen prey flinch and he had seen predators posture, but never a frame that radiated mathematics instead of fear. Even the waist... the infuriating, calculated cinch between armor and command- was an act of defiance. Weapons were not meant to look this contained. Predaking’s optics refocused, sliding down the lines of steel and color. The sensors behind them engaged automatically, feeding him layers of analysis: thermal balance steady, servo torque ideal, spinal alignment flawless, prosthetic interface efficient, no tremor detected.

He almost laughed aloud.

“Height, acceptable,” his processors reeled, flicking through each measure like a checklist. “Structure, dense. Scar tissue, historic. Alignment… flawless.” His optics narrowed slightly. “Waist… too narrow."

He blinked again, as if expecting the numbers to change, and found his amusement deepen precisely because they did not. It was an absurd thing to notice, but he could not unsee it. That ratio mocked the logic of his biology. Beasts were born to interpret movement, symmetry, proportion- and yet this figure, this Autobot commander, registered in every instinctual subroutine as both target and obstacle, prey and monument, delicate and indestructible all at once.

That very contradiction burned under his plating like an itch that could not be scratched.

The negotiations began with the brittle politeness of two armies pretending to be governments. Words were exchanged, reports read, alliances delicately acknowledged; but beneath the civility, the air vibrated with something heavier than diplomacy. Predaking did not sit; his throne remained cold behind him. Instead, he prowled the perimeter of the table, his claws clicking against the obsidian floor in a rhythm too deliberate to be casual.

He did not circle the assembly. He circled Ultra Magnus.

The guards, both Autobot and Predacon, shifted in unease and utterly unsure whether to interpret the movement as threat or ritual. The courtiers held their breath, aware that their King’s attention had narrowed to a single point of focus: the rigid figure at the table’s edge. Ultra Magnus did not react. He stood perfectly still, one servo clasped , the other; the prosthetic, matte and weapon-grade, resting against the table’s surface. His optics faced forward, unblinking, as the sound of claws traced a slow orbit around him.

Predaking’s gaze slid downward again. Not to the face. Not to the missing servo. To the center. The waist.

The cursed, sharpened, treacherously exact waist.

There was no softness there. No invitation. Only discipline, coiled so tightly it gleamed. Predaking could sense the internal tension building, the electromagnetic field around Ultra Magnus compressing like a thunderhead. Not explosive, never chaotic, but so controlled that it became a kind of defiance in itself.

While still, Predaking watched.

Minute after minute, the silence stretched, until Magnus finally spoke.

“If you continue to stare like that,” he said, tone even but edged with steel, “I will consider it a threat.”

The King halted mid-step. For one long moment the chamber hung suspended in electric stillness. Then came a sound that rolled low from Predaking’s chest, a rumbling laugh that trembled through the floor.

“You glare at me all the time, Commander,” he said, dentaes glinting faintly. “I do not see myself complaining.”

The statement was casual, but its precision made it anything but. The court froze, the Elite Guard braced subtly behind their leader. Ultra Magnus turned his helm slowly, the deliberate grace of someone who measured every motion before committing to it. His optics locked with Predaking’s as the electromagnetic pressure in the room shifted.

Ultra Magnus didn’t raise his voice or move his body. However, his field- that tightly leashed, glacial wrath- expanded in a sudden, cutting wave that could have sliced through stone.

“You are very close,” he said, each syllable quiet and perfectly enunciated, “to breaching diplomatic code.”

Predaking moved closer by a single step, the air thickening with the scent of heated metal.

“You,” he murmured, leaning in slightly, “are very close to breaking it yourself. I wonder which of us will obligue first.”

There was no sound except the hiss of shared ventilation. The distance between them collapsed until it became invisible. Even the torches seemed to dim, as though refusing to witness what stood there; order and instinct, pressed together by tension too old and too personal to belong to politics.

In the stillness, Ultra Magnus’ mind was a storm. He could hear the faint grind of his own prosthetic servo, the muted hum of his cooling systems. Every instinct demanded composure; every memory demanded vengeance. This was not about protocol anymore, nor was it about the loss of a limb or the war. This was about the look- the way that monster had spent the last two weeks of negotiations observing him not like a rival, not like a subordinate, but like a phenomenon to be dissected. Ultra Magnus wanted to believe it was intimidation or arrogance or the savage’s ignorance of decorum, but he knew better; Predaking was studying him. The realization itself made something under his plating burn cold.

If this continued- if that gaze lingered another moment longer... Ultra Magnus would forget the treaty, the council, the chain of command. He would break diplomatic neutrality and drag that smirk across the chamber floor under that prosthetic servo. Oh he would wipe that shit-eating grin off that face and smear blood over it.

Predaking, however, was lost in a different kind of calculation.

The commander’s silence was exquisite. The tension beneath it was impeccably crafted. Predaking had known many who boasted strength, but never one who weaponized self-control with such elegance. Ultra Magnus’ stillness was not submission, it was instead a refusal to be provoked. For a creature born of instinct, that refusal was maddening. Predaking realized with an almost clinical detachment that his fascination was not purely curiosity... but was hunger, though not of the flesh. It was the desire to see what lived beneath that control and push until the lines cracked, until the ice split, until the glacier finally revealed the fire buried beneath.

“Irritating,” Predaking whispered to himself, optics still fixed on that narrow frame. “Utterly… irritating.”

Still, he did not look away.

Chapter Text

The Council Hall of Altihex was never built for peace. It was a repurposed war chamber, forged from melted artillery and fortified glass, its walls still faintly etched with the outlines of Decepticon insignias that had once adorned the enemy’s stronghold. Now, banners of unity draped over them; Autobot red, Decepticon violet, and the molten gold sigil of the Predacons. They hung in brittle harmony, as if peace itself were a fragile thread of cloth, stretched thin enough to tear at the wrong vibration.

At the heart of the hall, three leaders stood.

Ultra Magnus, representing the Concord; Cybertron’s fledgling government of reconstructed order. He stood with his posture straight as an iron rod, his hands clasped behind his back. His presence was pure control with every motion measured, every breath a study in self-discipline. To his right lingered Ratchet, astanding as his second; to his left, the neutral mediators from the Kaonic Guilds. Across from them stood towering, alive with quiet fire, Predaking. Predaking’s wings were drawn in tight coils, but his very presence distorted the air. The raw energy radiating from him was neither hostile nor calm; it was the wild hum of an ancient storm held barely at bay. The mech-beast had come not as a warmonger, but as the chosen voice of his kind: a ruler who sought recognition, not conquest. And yet, when their optics met, something ancient stirred.

“Predacon activity was reported past the neutral line,” Ultra Magnus began. His tone was crisp and surgical. “Two mining colonies sustained minor damage. You assured us the southern ridge was under control.”

Predaking’s optics narrowed not in defiance, but in restrained offense. “You accuse without evidence, Commander.”

“I state the facts.”

“You mistake territorial migration for aggression.” Predaking’s voice rolled, deep and resonant. “The ridge belongs to no one. It was ash long before your Concord declared borders over it.”

“The Concord is New Cybertron’s only standing authority,” Ultra Magnus replied, unfazed. “You agreed to abide by its laws.”

“Laws forged by your kind,” Predaking countered, “not ours.”

Silence thickened. Even Ratchet’s vents faltered. Every mech in the chamber could feel it; the shift from negotiation to confrontation. But what no one else felt was the undercurrent that passed through the air between them: an unseen, electric pulse that brushed along Predaking’s field like static. He inhaled sharply and there it was... the faintest echo of something familiar. Optimus Prime.

No, not his presence - Optimus was gone, his spark long returned to the Allspark. However, the resonance remained, very faint and almost unnoticable but certainly there, wrapped within the energy signature of the mech before him. It was in the way Ultra Magnus’ field vibrated; a fragment of the same harmonic frequency as the late Prime’s. Predaking’s gaze sharpened upon that. His species was ancient enough to sense lineage through energy itself, to feel kinship, inheritance, the faint imprint of bond.

This one, this rigid and rule-bound Cybertronian, was carrying the ghost of a Prime inside him. No, not a  literal life, but an energy trace left from when Ultra Magnus handled Optimus’ remains and carried tiny Matrix of Leadership fragment for ceremonial purposes. Predaking’s vents flared, his chest thrummed with the low, instinctual rhythm of recognition: kin. familiar. equal. Ultra Magnus, unaware, kept speaking. “We have no interest in provoking conflict, but the Concord cannot allow territorial ambiguity to-"

“You stand in his shadow,” Predaking interrupted. Ultra Magnus froze, raising an optic ridge as if offended, “Pardon?”

“Optimus Prime,” the beast said, voice quieter now, but heavy as thunder. “His remains still clings to you. I can smell it.” The chamber stiffened. Every optic turned toward Predaking. Ratchet’s servo twitched at his side. Ultra Magnus’ optics narrowed, but he didn’t move. “You will speak of the Prime with respect.”

Predaking tilted his helm, studying him... not the soldier, but the energy and the current beneath the armor. There it was again, that restrained glow of power so tightly bound it might rupture. He saw the grief tucked behind protocol and the quiet defiance in every composed motion. Something inside him- older than words- reacted. Before logic could restrain him, instinct took control. Predaking stepped forward, one heavy footfall echoing across the metal floor. Guards tensed immediately, weapons half-raised. Ultra Magnus held his ground. “You seek peace,” Predaking said, his voice lowering to a growl, “-and I do not challenge that. But understand that there are forces older than your Concord and codes older than your law.”

Predaking paused. Every optic followed him.

“I will not strike today,” he continued, wings flexing slightly, “for today marks the end of hostility.”

Then he turned, not to the council, not to Ratchet, not to the audience but directly to Ultra Magnus. His next words rumbled with something primal, reverent, and entirely alien.

“I recognize your strength. From this day, you are bound to me by flame and honor.” In his culture, it’s an alliance gesture. To other Cybertronians, it looks like he just claimed Magnus in a beast-like way; shocking, inappropriate, and possibly threatening.

Ratchet had to interrupt and clarify, "Do you mean to address th-'

“Ultra Magnus is mine.” Predaking cut him off.

The hall froze and silence thick enough to choke on. Ultra Magnus didn’t move, didn’t do much as to even blink, but his field- his restrained, tightly wound field, exploded. Rage, cold and cutting, flooded the air not  from the heat of violence, but from the precision of outrage refined into steel.

When Ultra Magnus finally spoke, it was low, controlled, and every syllable sharpened by command, "You are delusional.”

Predaking’s grin widened. “To your people, perhaps. To mine, it is recognition.” He raised one clawed digit and pressed it lightly to his own chest, above his core. “Among Predacons, to call another before witnesses is a vow. It binds my energy to yours." His optics gleamed with that same ancient fire. Ultra Magnus stepped forward with one motion so measured and steady but the carries the sound of cracked floor beneath him. His voice cut through the chaos like a blade through armor.

"That was nothing but a threat,” he hissed. Predaking inclined his helm, unbothered. “To your ears, yes. To mine, it is bond.”

The last word lingered like smoke. Predaking’s wings unfurled, vast and gleaming, stretching into the high arch of the chamber. The silence in the entire room remained, but through it all, Ultra Magnus did not move. His vents hissed slow, deliberate. He stood unmoved in the eye of the storm, the picture of composure masking the fire underneath. Inside, he was already planning. He would finish this farce of diplomacy, he would see the Predacon escorted out. When the chamber emptied and the stars rose over Cybertron, he would find that creature, and he would end this madness at the edge of the Star Saber.

Meanwhile, deep beneath an old citadel, Predaking sat alone in the dark. The scent of Ultra Magnus’ energy still lingered in the air; steel, discipline, restrained fury, and the faint spark-shadow of a Prime. He didn’t laugh, didn’t move. He simply closed his optics, feeling the resonance settle within his own frame. The declaration was done. The bond had begun.

Now he waits.

Chapter Text

The chamber of the old citadel was built not for war or a spectacle, but for silence. The walls were made up of thick cybermatter laced with old energon veins, absorbing sound the way deep water swallows light. There was no window nor were there witness. It had transformed into a den repurposed into a meeting place, but the scent of the beast still lingered in the seams.

Ultra Magnus has his ship landing on its ward and has himself walking towards the citadel. He slammed the massive door open and sealed it behind him. The lock hissed, magnetic coils snapping into place with a muted clank. The chamber lights dimmed to a dull ember glow. He didn’t need brighter illumination. His optics were burning enough.

He stood still for a moment, letting the weight of the room settle around him, his vents controlled. Then, without ceremony, he drew the Star Saber. Its blade erupted with a low, resonant hum, a sound that filled the chamber like a restrained war cry. Sparks licked along the edge where ancient energy met the stale air.

Predaking had been waiting.

He sat coiled in the far corner, wings folded like great iron doors, claws resting against the stone as though they were part of it. His optics glimmered dimly, molten amber slits in the dark. When Ultra Magnus entered, the beast didn’t rise; he simply tilted his helm, the slow, deliberate gesture of a predator who has scented inevitability. "Ah... he is here." he thought, suppressing a light smirk from the fact that perhaps fate had guided them both to the precise meeting point, out of hundreds else available.

The magnetic seal locked.

The Star Saber hissed.

Predaking’s mouth curved into something too calm to be a smile, but too sharp to be anything else. “Finally,” he rumbled, voice deep enough to vibrate the walls. “The prey bares his teeth.”

Ultra Magnus did not answer. He stepped forward with such measured and deliberate stance. The tip of the Star Saber traced a thin line across the floor, metal hissing under its touch. His field was tight as a drawn bowstring, spiked with fury but contained- always contained. Predaking unfolded himself to his full height, rising like a living monument. He did not posture for defense, he did not even tense up. He merely watched, optics brightening as if the dim light were not enough for what he wanted to see.

Ultra Magnus’ voice, was iron dragged across glass when it came, “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not here to entertain your delusions of conquest.”

Predaking tilted his helm, wings shifting slightly, the sound like cloth sliding over stone. “No? Then what is this, Ultra Magnus? Locked door. Sacred weapon. The wrath of a Prime’s second-” his voice dropped to velvet over gravel “-all to speak with me?”

“You claimed me,” Ultra Magnus snapped, optics sparking. “You claimed me in front of witnesses. That was not a challenge. That was not ritual. That was a declaration of ownership and that alone was an offense punishable by death.”

Predaking’s lips curled into a grin, slow as rising flame, "Then punish me.”

He spread his arms slightly, talons glinting, offering his chest like an altar. His voice was a low growl vibrating through the chamber, "Strike me down, Ultra Magnus. Carve my name into your record. Mount my helm on your command wall.”

Ultra Magnus’ vents hissed. The saber rose higher. For a moment, he could do it. He wanted to do it not just to wound but to erase and sever this bond before it could root itself into anything deeper than instinct. But instead-

He drove the Star Saber into the wall beside Predaking’s helm, the blade biting into alloy with a sound like ice breaking under weight. Sparks spat out across the floor.

“You listen now, beast,” Ultra Magnus growled, voice low but trembling with the force of its restraint. “You will retract your claim. You will undo the ritual. You will leave my designation out of your tongue- or I will rend your spark from your core."

Predaking didn’t move. His optics glowed hotter, brighter, like amber liquefied, "You mean to command me?” he whispered. “You mean to dominate me?”

His voice deepened, a hum of hunger beneath it, “Do it, then. Prove you are the stronger. Conquer me.”

His claws slid across his own chestplate in a slow, deliberate stroke-a taunt dressed as invitation, “Is that not your Cybertronian way? Assert control, forge hierarchy, and breed compliance from superiority?”

Ultra Magnus’ jaw twitched. His field flickered, a crack in the flawless mask, fury laced with something darker- disgust, “You think this is pleasure for me?” Ultra Magnus spat. “You think I want to be locked in by some half-mythical animal’s courtship game?”

Predaking stepped closer. No claws raised, no threat, just pure heat and gravity, “No,” he said softly. “But your anger… betrays something.”

He bent low, speaking near Magnus’ audio receptor, his breath a furnace of scent and sound, “You smell like my equal. You fight like him. You burn like him. Your hatred?”

Predaking smirked as he continued, “Delicious.”

Ultra Magnus shoved him back hard enough to crack a stone panel loose from the wall. Predaking’s laugh rolled out, low and rough, like rockslides in a canyon.

“You’re mad,” Ultra Magnus breathed, vents shuddering. “You’re absolutely mad."

“Mad with want,” Predaking growled, optics glinting with a single claw raised beside his face, “-and locked to one spark.”

He stepped forward again, slower this time, the motion not a charge but a circling. His claws brushed the wall just beside the Star Saber still humming from its impact, “I will not take,” he said. “But I will hunt. Every time you enter a room, every time your optics meet mine- I will be there.”

His voice dropped into something almost reverent, “Because whether you accept it or not, you are already mine.”

The chamber hummed around them weapon energy, field static, breath and heat. It was not metal and shrapnel nor was it a battlefield, it was instead something smaller, sharper, and coiled. It was a hunt reduced to a single locked room and a single decision. Ultra Magnus’ servos tightened on the hilt of the Star Saber.

Predaking waited, optics blazing.

The air between them pulsed like a vein under strain.

It wasn’t war.

Not yet.

The air in the chamber of the old citadel felt wrong; it was too still and quiet for what it once held. The battlefield had long cooled, yet the ground still remembered the charred stone, the fractured alloy, the ghosts of impact where once warlords clashed... where the air itself screamed. Now, beneath the pallid light of twin moons, Ultra Magnus stood once more upon it. The Star Saber gleamed at his back like a shard of judgment, the sacred steel reflecting his face in pale distortion.

Predaking’s shadow arrived before his voice did. A ripple of wings across the horizon, vast and predatory, until the great black-and-gold shape landed before him, talons cracking ancient glass into dust.

“You have your domains. I have my duties.”

Predaking’s smirk curved like the edge of a fresh wound. “Yet you came, Commander.” His optics glowed, molten gold against the dusk. “Curiosity, perhaps? Or penance?”

“I came,” Ultra Magnus said slowly, “to warn you.”

The dragon laughed with a low, guttural, reverberating sound through the hollow plain. “Warn me? You wound me with words, yet your optics beg for battle. Do you think I cannot read you by now?”

Ultra Magnus said nothing, but his fingers brushed the Saber’s hilt.

Predaking tilted his helm, as if in invitation, “Then speak your warning through your blade.”

The ground trembled when Ultra Magnus moved. The first strike was so swift it split the air itself- a luminous arc of energy that seared through smoke and starlight. Predaking caught it with crossed claws, sparks cascading like cometfire. Metal screamed, and both of them leaned in, faces inches apart, the collision vibrating through their frames.

“You’re slower than I remember." Predaking murmured.

“You’re cockier than you deserve to be.” Ultra Magnus scoffed.

Their weapons broke apart. Ultra Magnus pivoted, blade in both hands, delivering a disciplined sequence; thrust, twist, reverse strike- each motion textbook perfect, military precision given shape. Predaking, however, was not textbook. He moved like instinct given form; fluid, feral, almost lazy in the way he dodged, claws meeting energy with roaring dissonance.

When Ultra Magnus struck, Predaking’s chest shuddered from the impact; when Predaking countered, Ultra Magnus parried without retreat. They clashed too close with each impact shuddering through armor and frame until the rhythm itself began to change. Somehow, the violence grew to be... intimate. The sound of colliding metal took on a pulse, a rhythm, like the heartbeat of something primal.

Predaking grabbed the Saber’s edge with his bare claw, letting energy flare against plating as he pulled Ultra Magnus closer by the arm, their helms almost touching. “Tell me, Ultra Magnus,” he growled, breath hot with static, “do you even know why you fight me?"

Ultra Magnus drove his knee upward, tearing free, voice low. “You insulted a grave.”

Predaking’s optics softened; not mockery now, but curiosity. “Ah. Optimus.”

That name ignited the field. Ultra Magnus’ next swing carried something different. It was no longer control but conviction, the kind that borders on desperation. Every blow landed harder than the one before. Predaking still did not strike back, but he instead allowed it, absorbed it, as he watched Ultra Magnus unravel in perfect increments until the Commander’s breath came in static bursts and his hand trembled not from weakness, but fury too long caged.

When Ultra Magnus finally threw his full weight into a final strike, Predaking caught it. This time, instead of blocking, he simply stepped forward, letting the Star Saber’s edge press against his neck. A gleam of energy carved a shallow line, bright and burning. He didn’t flinch.

“When will it ever occur to you,” Predaking whispered, his voice low enough to feel rather than hear. “-that you simply cannot defeat me in terms of combat?”

Ultra Magnus met his gaze, unblinking, his voice a low storm holding nothing sort of offend. It was simply cruel honesty, “Since when,” he said, pressing the Saber just a fraction deeper until energy sizzled against Predaking’s armor, “-was it my objective to defeat you?”

Predaking’s optics widened a fraction just before Magnus leaned closer, until their helms nearly touched and the silence between them pulsed like a heartbeat.

“Predaking,” Ultra Magnus inched his face closer as his optics burned even more coldly, and spoke almost a whisper,

“I simply want to hurt you.”

For a moment, no one moved. The world seemed to hold its breath. The weapon glowed between them like the line dividing restraint from ruin. And Predaking; beast, king, conqueror... smiled, slow and reverent, as though he’d been waiting to hear those words all his life. This is bad... he is very much turned on.

The Saber lowered, but not in surrender.

The fight wasn’t over. It had only changed its form.

Chapter Text

The first impact was not a strike but a collision, the kind of violent meeting that sent the air shivering around them, where motion and intent became indistinguishable. Ultra Magnus moved first with precision, his frame cutting through the chamber’s low light like a blade meant for judgment rather than chaos. Predaking met it not with evasion but with sheer mass, claws intercepting the swing of the Star Saber, the two forces collapsing together in a burst of sparks that painted the walls with fractured gold.

They said nothing because words would have been a mercy; what spoke instead was the metal, the rhythm of pressure and recoil, the shriek of the Star Saber glancing off scaled armor, and the low growl reverberating through the floor each time Predaking countered. Ultra Magnus fought like a doctrine forged into motion. Each of his strike measured to wound, while Predaking moved with that ancient deliberation that had no concept of tactics, only instinct honed by centuries of hunger.

Every parry drew them closer instead of apart, and every evasive step turned into a tether, until the space between them became something alive. The Star Saber cut a faint trail across Predaking’s chest, sending a streak of orange energy glowing beneath his armor, and instead of retreating, he smiled- slow and ruinous, as if pain itself were a language he’d waited to hear again.

“You falter,” he murmured, voice rough with delight.

Ultra Magnus’ venting came unevenly, but his tone remained ironclad.

“Then you’ve yet to see me fail.”

Predaking lunged again, not to strike but to overwhelm, and Ultra Magnus met him in kind. Their frames colliding with the crash of collapsing stone, the saber caught between them like a heartbeat thrumming too close to both. Their grips tangled; blade against claw, strength against scale, until the combat turned shapeless, a blur of limbs and light, of snarls muffled by impact and the burn of proximity that blurred the line between violence and something far more intimate.

Ultra Magnus twisted, using Predaking’s own momentum to pivot and drive the Star Saber’s edge along the curve of his shoulder; Predaking caught it in one hand, energy searing into his palm, and pulled it aside with a growl that was neither anger nor pain. Their optics met; one a glacial command, the other a molten hunger, and the silence between them felt heavier than the noise they made tearing the room apart.

“You hide behind restraint,” Predaking said, his grip tightening until the metal groaned.

"You would always mistake restraint for weakness.” Ultra Magnus hissed back.

They moved again, a blur of light and metal frame; the Star Saber swept wide, the claws struck close, their frames grinding against each other in that half-second where command and surrender looked exactly the same. Ultra Magnus braced, driving forward with his whole body, slamming Predaking into the wall so hard the floor trembled, yet when the dragon laughed with a low, dark rumble that vibrated through Ultra Magnus’ armor the sound pulled at something deeper than rage.

Predaking rolled with the motion, shifting his weight and dragging Ultra Magnus with him until both crashed to the floor, and suddenly it was the commander who landed on top, his knee pressed against Predaking’s midsection. The saber was raised, its humming edge hovering inches from the scaled throat below. Predaking caught his wrists, stopping the blade’s descent, and for the first time in cycles, neither of them moved.

The sound of their vents filled the chamber- two storms trying not to drown each other.

“You have no idea,” Predaking rasped, claws still around his wrists, "how exciting this is for me."

“I do not answer,” Ultra Magnus replied, his voice sharp and cold as though it could tear the hot air around them, "to the fantasies of a beast."

Something inside Predaking snapped like a flimsy twig under one's pede. His optics had been burning since Ultra Magnus arrived at the citadel with such fire. His servos flexed, pressing the saber closer until it hummed with lethal promise, but his optics never wavered. With one swift motion, a loud bang was heard accross the room. What happened wasn’t a strike, but rather gravity taking sides. Predaking surged upward with terrifying grace, rolling them both in a fluid motion that stole the air from Ultra Magnus’ vents and sent the Star Saber clattering across the floor. Predaking had grabbed Ultra Magnus by the shoulders and slammed him to the ground, pinning him there as if there would be no more day one would see the Commander rise to his stance ever again.

"Gh-!" Ultra Magnus exclaimed, his face kissing the hard cold floor underneath him, his servos pressed tightly to the sides of his helm.

The air thickened, heat caught between them, their energy fields tangled so tightly it was impossible to tell whose pulse fed the room’s tremor. Predaking’s claws braced beside Ultra Magnus’ helm, carving lines into the floor, while his other hand pressed against Ultra Magnus’ backplate, tracing the ridge where the plating curved inward toward the spark chamber.

“Tell me, Commander,” he murmured, voice low and slow like molten metal pouring into shape, “does this still feel like war to you?”

Ultra Magnus’ optics flickered once, a tremor in the discipline, and answered nothing. Predaking’s laugh came deep and rough, reverberating against the armor beneath him.

“Nothing to say?” he said, leaning in until their fields locked like magnetic pressure, “Then I shall teach you what peace feels like when it fights back.”

Ultra Magnus didn’t move, but his field spiked with fury and heat tangled into something unrecognizable, something too raw to name. They stayed like that; motionless, breathing the same air that smelled of ozone and burnt metal, locked in an equilibrium where dominance, desire, hatred, and respect had no borders left to divide them. Outside, the world held its breath, but inside that chamber there was no boundary between battle and embrace. There was only the fire of two forces that could neither yield nor separate, burning in the same rhythm until the silence itself began to sound like surrender.

Ultra Magnus had been quiet as he buried his face to the ground. Predaking’s claws eased their hold, just enough to let the tension spill from dominance into something else entirely.

"Look at what this night turned into." Predaking purred, "Now you refuse to even look at me?" As he pressed his lower midsection againts Ultra Magnus' defenseless aft.

Ultra Magnus said nothing still... but he slowly turned his helm and shot him a glare piercing the ozone like the glow of the Star Saber he had held. Ultra Magnus slammed his chestplate to the ground- a form of struggle to get out of those beastly grips. The room rang with the echo of that collision, the sound ricocheting off the steel walls until it faded into a low hum. It the kind that stays inside your chest rather than your ears.

Ultra Magnus tried to twist free, planting his knees into the scorched ground, muscles locking as he pushed against the dragon’s lock, but it was like fighting the planet. Predaking didn’t flinch. He just leaned closer, wings half-furled, his shadow swallowing the Commander whole.

“Get off.” Ultra Magnus ground out, his voice low but burning, the command trembling somewhere between fury and humiliation.

Predaking only tilted his head, optics narrowing as though trying to understand the absurdity of a creature still daring to command in defeat. “You never learn,” he said, his tone not cruel, merely amused as if he was explaining gravity to someone who refused to believe in falling.

Ultra Magnus jerked beneath him again as Predaking’s claws pressed harder, pinning his wrists down as if he was reminding him that the Star Saber was physically too far out of reach, “Still aiming for that?” he rumbled, voice dropping low enough to vibrate through Ultra Magnus’s plating, a smirk forming as it was directed to the unattended weapon before them. “I must say... it’s not strength that keeps you standing, Commander. It’s denial.”

Ultra Magnus turned his head sharply again, optics bright and livid. “What would you know of me?”

The dragon laughed- a short, raw sound that wasn’t joy. “More than you, perhaps. I know how it feels to want to tear apart what you admire most,” Predaking humped his waist againts the Commander's aft again, "-restrain, is it not?"

Ultra Magnus froze for the barest moment, the words cutting sharper than the claws and the thrust twisting his gastation tanks harder than any turbulance. Ultra Magnus pushed again, each servo straining, trying to throw the weight off but Predaking shifted with him, effortless, until his knee dug into the ground beside Ultra Magnus’ waist and the movement stopped dead. Their optics locked, two blinding lights in the dim chamber, neither yielding, neither softening.

“You are a contradiction,” Predaking murmured, the low hum in his chest nearly drowning out his voice. “All order on the surface, all storm beneath.”

Ultra Magnus’s reply came through gritted denta. “You have proven to be no more than a beast driven by primal, dirty instincts."

Predaking leaned closer until Ultra Magnus could see the reflection of his own defiance in those molten optics, "Referring to our position now, are we?"

"What else would I be referring to?"

"A fair point, Commander. You are right, you can blame my primal instincts for this... just as I can blame you EM field. You can deny all you want, but your spark knows that it has put no defense since the day I made my claim." 

Predaking humped again. Ultra Magnus slammed his helm to the floor. He clenched his fists more, tightens his whole frame as one would react upon hearing a gunshot.

The friction only grew, "We are both liars,” Predaking said softly. “For we both kept this dance instead of walking away."

Ultra Magnus’ vents rasped, his servos still locked in fists as they lay pinned. “Release me,” he said, each word deliberate, measured- the voice of a commander who refused to be broken.

Predaking’s wings shifted, the movement stirring the air like a distant windstorm. “If I do,” he murmured, “will you stop pretending this is only about vengeance?”

Ultra Magnus stared up at him, face a study in contained rage, every line in his frame drawn taut... and said nothing. Silence, for him, was sharper than any weapon. Predaking exhaled, slow, heavy, and finally eased the pressure just enough for Ultra Magnus to wrench his arm free. The Commander rolled to his side and rose to one knee. Predaking had expected him to take the Star Saber and attempt another fight, or perhaps turn his pedes for a direct exit, but instead Ultra Magnus with drove his fist upward, catching Predaking’s chin with a crack that split the air- the kind of sound that made metal remember pain. Predaking staggered, and before he could address what happened Ultra Magnus jumped on him.

He pinned him down.

Straddled his midsection.

Optics furious and livid and infuriatingly erotic being so.

"You think vengeance is the only reason I want you on your knees?"

The dragon laid back, no triumph in his posture, only that same faint, maddening want. Predaking smirked as he inclined his head. “Mmh. I certainly hope not."

Chapter Text

Predaking’s back laid on the fractured stone as the wind blew hard enough to scatter dust in a halo around his wings. The dragon snarled, but it wasn’t rage that flickered behind his optics, but rather confusion, something primal snagged in disbelief because the commander wasn’t just pinning him down now, he was straddling Predaking's midsection between his thighs, groin pressed on Predaking's abdominal plating.

Ultra Magnus’ every motion carried the same methodical tempo as a battlefield operation; controlled entry, territory secured, dominance established. He adjusted his stance, planting each knee against Predaking’s sides as they leverage weight through precision rather than strength. The movement was mechanical, efficient, impersonal, and yet its effect was anything but.

Predaking’s vents hitched. His processor faltered between instinct and comprehension.

Ultra Magnus noted it; the stuttered vent cycle, the dilation of optics, the faint surge in field output and filed each as data. He was not indulging anything, but was instead confirming a hypothesis. Nobody said anything until Ultra Magnus pressed his weight a bit more, no, not with lust but with authority. He pushes the Predacon King to the floor with calculated precision, optics glowing not with arousal but with command.

Then he arches.

Not by accident, not by reflex.

A slight curvature of his back held so much; subtlely, control, and devastation.

Predaking’s optics flare. He staggers mentally. He doesn't understand how this tactician turned his entire cultural legacy into a warzone of self-control.

Ultra Magnus scoffed, "You lose focus before the mere arch of my back." Predaking can hear it despite Ultra Magnus hasn’t even spoken those words. That expression laid in the air and was insinuated through posture. Predaking is spiraling, he snarls as his claws scrape the ground with the immense desire to just throw Ultra Magnus off him, pin him down chassis-first to the ground, bend him over, and fuck him senseless. He could. Easily.

But he won’t.

Because that would mean surrendering to impulse... And by his own laws, that alone marks defeat.

Both knows it all too-well. That is precisely why Ultra Magnus was a bit 'daring', so to say. He knew that this dynamic holds much more than just temptation for an ancient demi-beast like him. Ultra Magnus leans in just slightly, grinding himself on that beasts' abdominal plating as if he was conducting a military operation rather than seduction. Predaking can feel the heat off his frame. The absolute composure Ultra Magnus maintains even while straddling a Predacon King like a nailed-down crucifix was downright ridiculous.

“You are unraveling,” Ultra Magnus says, almost in a tone that is too oblivious. There was no growl nor a moan, just plain state of truth. Predaking wants to scream. Or roar. Or kiss him stupid. But all he does is grip the floor, optics searing, spark spinning out of rhythm. He's going to lose, and Primus above... he’s never been harder.

Predaking warned, "Careful, Commander. You might want to reconsider provoking me."

Ultra Magnus looked at him with a deadpan expression and just pressed his aft deeper on the Predacon's groin, "Go on, then. Lose control and prove yet again that you are nothing more than a feral beast."

Predaking scoffed, his voice laced with a hungry vibration of laugh from his chassis, "So far, only you managed to offend my pride as if I cannot destroy you in and out right now."

Ultra Magnus was quiet, before grinding his hips once but in a rolling motion, " 'Offend' is such a strong word." 

Predaking’s vents flared in short, hot bursts, steam hissing like a war beast moments before the charge at that exact second. His plating prickled with the primal rush before Ultra Magnus’ scent, the faint static of his spark field.  The stubborn tilt of the Commander's helm punched straight into Predaking's instincts like a claw to the core. His glossa slipped free without thought, dragging over his own lip-plates in a slow, hungry pass. The part of him that was King wanted to loom and make the Commander feel the shadow of his frame and the pressure of his presence until he bent, but the part of him that was predator wanted to taste.

So when he pressed his servos on Ultra Magnus' narrow waist, it was not the slam one would expect from a creature built to tear armor; it was deliberate, almost reverent. It was softness born of restraint, but no less dangerous for it. The containment was in the gentleness, not the force. He leaned in, static humming between them, and spoke low right against the Commander's audial sensors.

“I will eat you alive.”

The words sat on the edge between a predator’s promise and something far more intimate. Predaking didn’t even bother clarifying which side he meant because the ambiguity was the point. The sharp, unreadable flicker in Ultra Magnus’ optics was its own reward. Was it wariness? Challenge? Something else entirely? Predaking didn’t care. He could smell the shift in the Commander's field; tiny, measured, careful... and it made his spark snarl in delight. He could wait. Or he could hunt.

Both would end the same way.

Just like that, by unspoken rules but no less dignity, Ultra Magnus had won.

Predaking lost his control.

The first taste wasn’t to the lips, wasn’t to the throat, wasn’t even to the armor plates most would think ripe for a lover’s attention. No, Predaking had the Commander laid on the ground, dragging that glossa from the upper abdomen and  went lower, taking that molten ex-vented heat down where Ultra Magnus’ discipline began to tremble. Just a slow burn of proximity, his glossa hovering and threatening over the very plating Ultra Magnus’ frame had so subtly shifted open in reflex.

Ultra Magnus’ back arched, a motion far too instinctive for a mech who supposedly didn’t want. His vents cut sharp, restrained. His servos pressed againts the ground, trying to grip it, as if to keep his body from lurching forward into that feral mouth.

“Pathetic,” Ultra Magnus hissed, voice gravel-sharp, as though he could still wear command over the beast who was about to devour him, yet his tone cracked halfway through, too thinly veiled.

Predaking’s optics flared hot, delight rolling through him at the betrayal of that soldier’s body. His lips brushed so close Ultra Magnus could feel the ghost of them without contact, enough to brand the need into his circuits.

“You taste of denial,” Predaking growled against him, the vibration humming right where Ultra Magnus shivered the most. He drew back the smallest fraction, enough to torment. “You call me feral, Commander, yet it is you who trembles.”

Ultra Magnus’ optics never strayed, locked dead on that glossa poised at his lower plating. Despite the cold severity of his gaze, there was no hiding it: there was the discipline strained to breaking.

“Do it,” Magnus said finally, his voice still that commander’s chill- yet the barest quiver betrayed it. “If you dare.”

Predaking smirked. Oh, he dared.

Predaking licked the Commander's lips, an unconscious growl coming out of him, "Open your panel."

Ultra Magnus’ does not need to get flustered by basic dirty-talk like this. He replied with such composure despite the already-heated faceplates, "Open it yourself, coward."

Hence the clatter of Predaking's claws ripping that interface plating off his body in a nanoklik. Ultra Magnus' frame betrayed what his voice never would. His vents were cycling like a turbine under strain, pulling in deep, uneven gulps of air that rattled the plating along his chassis. His back arched until the hydraulics groaned, servos gripping on the floor so tightly it threatened to split open as Predaking rolled his tounge from his chassis down to his intimate area. Ultra Magnus' optics had closed, their glow fractured and unfocused before that, but still not a single sound left him.

Not a gasp. Not a curse. Nothing.

Predaking began with a knuckle (since his claws would just injure) circling around that shut valve. He groaned, licking Ultra Magnus' intimate seams in an attempt to loosen it. "Mmm. Something this small cannot possibly accomodate me." He thought internally. While his fantasies run wild of how good it would feel to have his spike clenched in such a tight entrance, he is not cruel. No, not to a mech he had planted this much curiosity in. Besides, what pleasure would it give him asserting dominance but costs all chance of ever seeing Ultra Magnus, at one point, horny and begging to be filled? 

Ultra Magnus is too endearing to be experienced only once. So no, he does not intend to use Ultra Magnus as a one-time fling. He plans to make him his, and he wants to savor every single step he commits for that objective. And that requires time.

Predaking made up his mind. He continued driving hard, pace unrelenting, thrusting his knuckles in and out of Ultra Magnus, feeling the resistance his frame and then the shudder that followed when that resistance began to splinter. Every tremor and every spasm of overstimulated circuitry only pushed him further. He wanted to hear something from the mech beneath him. It all screams that Ultra Magnus' frame is enjoying it.

But he held the silence like a weapon.

Even when the trembles tipped into full-body seizures, when his grip slackened and his helm tilted back in surrender, there was no sound. There was just the grit of dentas clenched tight, a low rumble caught in his throat but never allowed to break free. It was maddening.

Predaking’s processor burned with the need to destroy that control, to drag a voice out of him that Ultra Magnus clearly refused to give. The more he failed, the more his own movements grew rough, desperate, his vents howling accross the quiet citadel. Ultra Magnus would still lay there in that perfect, unbearable silence. It made Predaking feel like he was losing his mind; a weird mix of frustation, awe, and arousal. He could not contain his laughter... and as he did he  hummed, finally deploying his MASSIVE spikes and pressed ONE OF IT (yes, he has two.) hard between Ultra Magnus' seams. He rammed up and down his opening, rubbing its head on the soft protoform before it, and made Ultra Magnus' node fuck the hole on Predaking's spike's head.

Ultra Magnus' optics flared open and it rolled before he closed them again, lips parting a bit from the shock and sudden pleasure.

It took a mere second after until the Commander finally lets out a sound-

"Hngh...-!" 

Predaking almost faltered, but then Ultra Magnus rose up that instant and pinned the predacon down, pressing his already-wet seams againts Predaking's spike making their interface organs look like a fucking upside-down hotdog with an oversized Frankfurter as he rode his peak out while having his servos around Predaking's neck. Splurts of light blue liquid escaped his valve before his knees with all their might, legs shaking like an earthquake, powered upwards to make all contacts lost.

Predaking almost slams his helm backwards and buried it under the ground.

How dare Ultra Magnus edge Predaking while Magnus is the one having tremors all over his frame?

Before Predaking could even curse, Ultra Magnus shuts his interface panels before his exerts managed to deploy further to Predaking's plating or to the floor. No, it was not respect for the King but a mere gesture of efficiency (no one wants to clean up a goddamn abandoned citadel). No sound, no moans, just silence that spoke richer than words. Ultra Magnus' frame and legs trembled, hips looking weak but insisting they are strong enough to stand tall. But his face... oh, how those optics were half-lidded, optic ridges narrows as one would make when angry, lips parted, vents uneven, helm almost falling forward. He looked... drunk.

Predaking short-circuited because even when like this, Ultra Magnus still manages to hold his composure and authority.

That, Predaking thought was sexy as hell.

He came as well not long after, jerking himself off to the mere sight of the Commander's face.

Predaking had lost... in both terms. However, he had never been so delighted with failure before.

Chapter Text

The silence that followed was the wrong kind of silence; not the victorious kind, not even the satiated kind. It was just a heavy, unmeasured quiet that neither knew what to do with. Their vents still echoed unevenly off the stone, the sound of two engines running out of something they couldn’t name. Ultra Magnus was the first to move. He didn’t look at Predaking; he just adjusted, gathered himself the way soldiers do after a failed mission, every motion crisp enough to disguise hesitation. The faint clang of armour aligning into place was louder than any words they might have spoken.

Predaking remained where he was, watching. The flicker in his optics didn’t belong to hunger anymore, but to an awareness of what they’d just allowed to happen and what it meant. Without another sound, Ultra Magnus rose. He did not walk; he marched towards the exit, the rhythm of his steps too measured for retreat and too hollow for triumph. The door sealed behind him like a verdict.

Predaking stayed. For a long time, he didn’t move at all. Only when the echo of Ultra Magnus’ steps had vanished and the sounds of airship engine starting and fading into thin air did he draw in a slow, grounding vent, rise, and turn toward the high vaults of the citadel. His wings flexed once, catching the light. When he reached the outdoors on the top of the citadel, he gazed up to the sky as the wind scattered what remained of the heat between them. They had left only the emptiness of the hall behind, and it proves that power, even when shared, leaves nothing but aftermath.

The night was silent and the world seemed to know as to feel the shift, the conclusion, the quiet coronation of something unspeakable.

Ultra Magnus walked with the spine of a soldier and the precision of a victor, his field unreadable; cold, refined, regal. Yet to those who dared look closely, to those brave enough to meet the shadow of his composure, there was the faintest tremor running through his hydraulics, the subtle, betraying tension in the way his shoulder plating lingered a fraction too long before settling. A warrior wounded, yes- but not by blades.

Ultra Magnus returned to his dwelling without a sound. The door sealed behind him with a muted hiss; no grand entrance, no trail of blood. He did not engage the lights; his HUD alone provided the faint gleam that guided him through the stillness of his quarters, every motion precise and habitual as though it were rituals of a soldier performed without conviction. He was methodical, yes, but not armored, not this time.

He neither spoke nor cursed. There was no sighs, no grumbles, no clipped commands to fill the space. He simply sat at the berth’s edge, servos moving to unlatch the lower plating with clinical rhythm.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Cool air touched the heated soft protoform.

He looked down.

Five marks of claws scorched into his plating, mirrored on each side, burned in deep. His servos hovered over them, trembling faintly. Was it disbelief? Disgust? Shame? Perhaps all, mixed into a pathetic combination of self-pity. In the end, he said nothing, did nothing, but merely looked. Then, wordlessly, he leaned forward and sank onto the berth, burying his helm against the alloy-sheeted frame.

He remained like that.

No data log, no debrief, no transmission, no record of what had transpired.

He didn’t even recharge properly; he simply collapsed inward, his systems folding into a hard reboot- silent and unguarde until it leads him dissolving into static.

For the first time in vorns, Ultra Magnus had no orders to give.

The citadel lay behind Predaking, still humming faintly from the echoes of what had transpired within its walls; heat pressed into stone, metal, and memory alike. He stepped into the open night quietly, unnaturally so; even the scrape of his pedes against the blackened floor seemed muted beneath the weight of his own thoughts. The stillness broke when he transformed; plates shifted, locked, expanded; wings unfurled like storm banners, their shadow sweeping across the fractured expanse of the courtyard. When he took to the air, it was not in triumph but in something heavier, something perilously close to longing.

He soared through the thin upper winds, past the crimson haze of the horizon, until the Citadel was nothing but a shard of memory in the dark. The cold licked across his frame; he did not flinch. The night could not cool him. He burned from the inside out as if the act itself had set his spark aflame in some slow, deliberate ruin.

Predaking descended upon his kingdom, landing atop the obsidian balcony of his throne hall. The impact reverberated through the stone, the world briefly reminded of who he was. Yet when he straightened, it was with the grace of something newly made, shoulders drawn, helm tilted skyward. The high-altitude wind coiled around him, whispering through armor seams, stirring the embers beneath his plating. He stood motionless, vast against the open void.

His optics- molten amber, lifted toward the heavens as if daring the stars to look away. They didn’t, never did. They hung there, silent witnesses to the impossible- a beast who had dared take what seemingly could not be tamed. His chassis still rose and fell with the residual rhythm of what had happened, every vent a pulse between satisfaction and starvation. He was full, but not fulfilled; victorious, but not at peace. There had never been a war, a feast, or a slaughter that had ever burned so cleanly through his circuits.

Predaking turned slightly, a slow, deliberate motion, one clawed servo rising to rest upon the curve of his own helm as if anchoring himself to the present. His touch met armor that was his and yet not his alone anymore- Ultra Magnus’ weight still lingered there, phantom-like.

“Primus,” he breathed, half in disbelief, half in awe.

Ultra Magnus.

No one would believe the Commander of the Elite Guard- that unflinching, unbending paragon, was capable of something so untethered and uncalculated. The thought pulled a deep, rumbling sound from his chassis, low and involuntary. A growl, a laugh... something caught between hunger and wonder. He dragged one palm down his face to steady himself, but the tremor that passed through his frame betrayed him. His optics glowed, nt bright or hungry, but content as though some ancient hunger had finally found its answer. It wasn’t cruelty that glimmered in his optics nor triumph.

It was something far more dangerous.

Obssession.

When he finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper, yet it carried through the empty night like a vow carved into iron.

“He is mine.”

The stars- ancient, impartial, eternal, did not dare disagree.

Chapter Text

LISTEN. Ultra Magnus would implode. This mech is built on discipline, composure, and the illusion of absolute control. He is the manual. The rulebook is him. So the moment he realizes he just broke every line of it physically, emotionally, and tactically, his brain doesn’t even process it as shame first. It short-circuits like-

Step 1: Denial. Immediate emotional lockdown. “It was strategy. A diversion. Tactical deception.” (He repeats it until the words sound like static in his processor.)

Step 2: Isolation. He doesn’t talk to anyone, even Ratchet. Ratchet would know with one look. So he disappears under the excuse of 'damage assessment' and retreats to his quarters.

Step 3: Recalibration ritual. Cleaning armor, resetting HUD, running diagnostics NOT because anything’s wrong, but because he is. It’s the Cybertronian equivalent of pacing and scrubbing your hands until the memory blurs.

Step 4: Emotional flatline. He tries to run “command review reports” but the system keeps pinging back sensory echoes like heat signatures, pressure data, energy feedback from Predaking’s grip. It’s not even arousal anymore. It’s ABSOLUTE humiliation disguised as ghost data.

The worst part? He can’t delete it. The system’s read-only because he filed it under combat logs.

So this man is sitting in the dark, half hunched over a datapad, optics blank, trying to redact sensory feedback from his own body while telling himself-

“It’s irrelevant. It’s done. It will not affect protocol.”

But he feels it; THE PULSE, THE BURN, THE SOUND OF PREDAKING'S VOICE REPLAYING IN THE SILENCE. AND IT INFURIATES HIM THAT IT DOES. Worst thing is, he cannot ENTIRELY blame Predaking for what happened, MAGNUS didn't flee. No, he INDULGED and he was SURE it was military operation. But now that it's done, he did NOT anticipate for guilt THIS vast. Oh how he regretted not thinking twice-

HERE'S THE THING: Magnus doesn’t do guilt like other people. He doesn’t cry or confess, he purges. Through silence, WORK, pushing himself until the ache is gone because he will not be seen trembling over something like this.

But at 0300 cycles, when the systems are quiet and the world is still, he’ll stare at his reflection in the mirror; armor cleaned, stance perfect- and he’ll whisper under his breath, like a malfunction he can’t fix:

“What have I done.”

The reflection doesn’t answer. Besides, IT WASN'T EVEN A QUESTION TO BEGIN WITH.

"Why is my patient built like a trauma factory that learned to walk upright.”

No, no. Nobody could blame Ratchet for thinking that.

Ultra Magnus, post-citadel incident, had sealed himself up in his quarters under the pretense of “system recalibration.” He hasn’t shown up to command meetings, hasn’t answered comms beyond one-word acknowledgments, and the entire Autobot faction is pretending not to notice because when Ultra Magnus is quiet, it’s safer not to ask.

Except Ratchet.
The medic notices everything.

Ratchet stood at the command deck, staring at the dimmed holo-display that had been buzzing with Ultra Magnus’ reports every 2 minutes for the past WEEK. What the HELL does that guy even report of?! LOOK AT ALL OF THESE DOCUMENTS, THEY'RE UNNECESSARILY DETAILED TO THE ROOT. AND HELL WHAT EVEN IS THAT- Is Ultra Magnus taking on tasks that is not HIS responsibility, and tasks that are projected for THE FAR FUTURE?! Just how much work has he done.

Ratchet sighed. Deep. Old. The kind that rattled his vents.

“If he thinks I’m going to let him rust himself into a medical crisis again, he’s out of his mind.”

He tossed his datapad aside and stomped out of the medbay. The closer he got to Ultra Magnus’ quarters, the quieter the air became- like even the ventilation systems were wary of breaking the silence. Ratchet’s EM field brushed against the sealed door and caught a flicker: faint, low-frequency energy tremors not from pain or damage… but instability.

He frowned.
Tapped the comm.

:: Ultra Magnus? Are you certain you are alright? ::

A beat. Then the familiar clipped tone through the intercom, :: Fully operational, Doctor. No need for concern. ::

Ratchet pinched the bridge between his optics, :: You have been ‘fully operational’ for forty-eight hours and haven’t eaten, moved, or took a break from those ridiculously COMPREHENSIVE reports. That’s not operation, that’s a shutdown with good manners. ::

No answer.

He tried again. Softer this time, :: I insist that I do a mere medical check-up. Open the door. ::

Inside, Ultra Magnus sat at the edge of the berth, armor gleaming from being cleaned too thoroughly. Every scratch polished out like he could erase the memory through sheer force of maintenance. He stared at the door for a moment, then finally rose, unlocking it with a precise flick. Ratchet stepped in and scanned the Commander once, “Vitals are spiking irregularly. You look fine, but you feel like a spark on the verge of burnout.”

“It’s nothing of medical concern,” Ultra Magnus said, voice level but too low, like holding it steady took effort. “I’m only recalibrating.”

Ratchet crossed his arms. “Recalibrating what, exactly? Your moral compass?”

Ultra Magnus’ optics narrowed. “Doctor.”

“Don’t ‘Doctor’ me. Whatever’s eating you is affecting your systems. I can feel it from the hallway.”

Silence stretched between them- thick, heavy, uncomfortable. Ultra Magnus’ EM field pulsed once, sharp as a blade-edge, then retracted. Ratchet sighed, rubbing his temples. “Primus help me, you’re just like Optimus. Bottling everything up until it starts leaking through your armor seams."

That name hit. Just barely. A flicker in Ultra Magnus’ expression too fast to name, but Ratchet saw it. 

“This will resolve.”

Ratchet tilted his helm, “Resolve how? By divine intervention or by you staring at a wall until you forget what it was?”

He didn’t respond and just stood there, posture immaculate, optics unreadable. 

Finally, Ratchet exhaled. “At least recharge properly. I don’t need another breakdown on my medical log, and I will not afford  not to help, knowing that I can.”

Ratchet's optics were sharp and composed, but it holds that signature care they always contain. He left, letting the door seal behind him with a hiss. Ultra Magnus stood there for a long time after... silent, motionless, expression blank. But in his spark, something sank. When the lights dimmed for night cycle, Ultra Magnus didn’t move to lie down. He just stayed there with servos braced on the table, optics dimmed, replaying a voice that wasn’t Ratchet’s.

“You smell like my equal.”

He stood up and slammed his fist to the wall, hard enough to punch a hole through it.

MEANWHILE PREDAKING??? Oh that bastard is recharging soundly, woke up feeling new. Predaking’s field- that massive, furnace-hot pressure that once made the air itself shiver, has cooled. It’s no longer oppressive; it breathes. The energy’s still there, untamed and monumental, but it was refined and coiled like a predator that no longer wastes motion.

Darksteel mutters, “The hell happened out there?”

Because their King doesn’t look exhausted or battle-worn. No, he looks rested. Too rested.

When he finally speaks, his voice carries a steadiness that almost feels ceremonial, “The northern perimeter holds?”

Sky Lynx nods, “Affirmative. You were gone longer than usual.”

Predaking hums deep, satisfied, content. The sound travels like a ripple across the metal ground, “The air was tranquil.”

That’s all he says. No explanation. No elaboration.

Chapter Text

The days following the Citadel incident passed without ripple, without tremor, without acknowledgment. At least, that was what Ultra Magnus ensured. He was after all a soldier a being of regimen and regulation. Regulation, in his mind, was armor. He rose earlier than necessary, clocked his reports an hour before dawn-cycle, and reviewed field assignments with an exactness bordering on the obsessive. Data slates stacked like defensive walls around his desk; the soft, rhythmic click of stylus against surface replaced sleep. He reviewed patrol trajectories, energy allocations, Autobot scouting routes, even minor civilian complaints that would normally be left to junior officers. Nothing was beneath his jurisdiction now.

Nothing could be left unattended because idleness meant thought, and thought meant memory, and memory was intolerable.

He spoke little. When he did, it was sharp, efficient, functional. Commands issued with surgical precision stripped of tone and variance. Sounded fine, acted fine, that was enough.

Smokescreen was one of the few who noticed first, in his quiet, uncertain way. The junior approached the command table one evening with a hesitant hum, offering datapads. Ultra Magnus accepted them without raising his optics. A nod, nothing more. The mech lingered a moment longer before retreating, his field a flicker of concern.

Arcee mentioned it next dryly as she passed through, “He’s running like he’s got a war to win. Someone should tell him it’s over." Her tone carried the usual edge, but not malice. She, too, felt the hollowness beneath the Commander’s composure.

Ratchet, though, was the only one who understood the signs. He saw the way Ultra Magnus’ movements grew fractionally slower at the end of shift cycles, how his servo sometimes paused a second too long over his own reports, how he refused to sit when addressed. The medic tried, twice, to approach him under the pretense of routine checkups. Twice, Ultra Magnus deflected him with the same line:

“I am functioning within parameters.”

Ratchet frowned. “Parameters don’t include basic recharge deprivation, Commander.”
“Nor do they include unwarranted concern, Doctor.”

That was that.

Still, even the medic could not ignore the quiet ache that seemed to follow Ultra Magnus wherever he went. It was not visible, not verbal, but present in the way his field retracted tightly around him; self-contained, suffocating. Ratchet's best hypothesis would be The Commander feeling more responsible as he is now in charge of restoring the planet after Optimus is one with the Allspark. Yes, for now Ratchet would pretend Ultra Magnus' very drastic measures in dealing with every task he does as something normal and nothing out of the ordinary, as much as he hated the idea.

Ultra Magnus had reorganized his quarters twice each day. Every data file categorized by timestamp, every storage cube realigned. His berth remained untouched; he slept upright, seated, recharge cycles cut short by involuntary replays of memory he refused to name. When he could no longer stand the silence, he walked the perimeter with his armor gleaming under artificial light, motion steady but hollow, optics locked ahead as if afraid to blink.

Sometimes he paused before the outer viewport, gaze fixed on the horizon beyond Iacon’s luminous towers. The city thrived again, reborn under peace, but he could only see its reflection on the glass: himself, unmoved, unshaken, unfeeling. That was how it needed to be.

He had not fallen.
That was the mantra he repeated beneath his breath, low enough to convince himself.

He erased records from his internal log. Deleted auxiliary footage from the Citadel’s outer corridors. Reset his internal vitals twice before nighttime recharge over to scrub traces of unaccountable stress surges. It wasn’t secrecy; it was control. He needed to believe that the event had no consequence beyond the physical, that what transpired was a misstep, a distortion of command circumstance and not intimacy, merely contact.

Yet, every recalibration cycle left him feeling heavier. Every servo adjustment, every internal diagnostic echoed with faint, impossible recollections; the pressure of claws against plating, the sound of steady breathing beside his own, the stillness that followed.

By the third week, the team had stopped asking questions. Bumblebee filled in the silences with quiet work, Arcee took on longer patrol routes to avoid the tension in command briefings, and Ratchet, after one last failed attempt to order Ultra Magnus to the medbay, simply muttered under his breath,

“Fine. Burn yourself out, see if that helps.”

It didn’t.

Ultra Magnus’ logic processor knew this pace was unsustainable, but logic wasn’t driving him anymore. It was guilt; the kind that masqueraded as duty, convincing him that if he worked hard enough, commanded precisely enough, he could overwrite the memory and bury it under obedience and task flow.

But memory had its own stubborn pulse. It surfaced in the smallest things; the faint scent of scorched metal reminding him of talons; the dim hum of the citadel air vents recalling the quiet that had followed the act. His servos tightened on datapads he wasn’t reading. He would force his optics to another page, another report, another meaningless number.

Once, he caught his reflection in the darkened console and for a moment, the shape of his helm blurred, elongated by shadow. His spark stuttered, and he turned away too sharply, nearly upsetting the stack of files. The noise startled him.

He steadied them with trembling fingers. Then, slower, re-aligned them perfectly.

By the end of the fourth week, no one could deny his efficiency. His reports were ridiculously immaculate, orders executed, discipline restored across the outposts. The base functioned with the precision of a revived machine.

But even machines overheat.

When the others retired, when corridors dimmed and only the low thrum of energon conduits remained, Ultra Magnus sat alone in the command room... visor reflecting blue light, shoulders squared, posture unyielding, and allowed the silence to press against him like a weight.

He did not sigh nor did he move.

He simply stared ahead, until his optics dimmed, and the last coherent thought before his forced recharge was not duty or strategy or command, but the echo of a voice in the dark saying mine.

He woke before dawn again.
And resumed working.

Chapter Text

The meeting is tense by default. No one forgets that Predaking once threatened to raze Iacon to the ground. Yet here he is, walking into the chamber with quiet confidence, the shadows of his wings spilling over the polished floor like smoke, optics flickering with that unmistakable, molten intelligence. Ultra Magnus stood perfectly tall with armor gleaming, posture locked, voice as crisp as command protocol demands. He even feels fine... or so he keeps insisting to himself.

Until Predaking looks at him.

Not just looks, but his gaze lingers.

The hall was all angles and light tall arches framed in metal and silence. Protocols had been recited, seating arrangements meticulously planned, every possible measure taken to prevent tension from escalating into war. Still, when Predaking entered, the room felt smaller. He didn’t storm in, he simply arrived the way a storm arrives. Delegates tensed, Arcee’s servos was on guard clasped behind her back, Bumblebee tilted his helm toward Ultra Magnus, waiting for a cue that didn’t come. The Commander stood tall at the head of the table, armor catching the cold gleam of the ceiling lamps.

Predaking’s optics found him instantly. it wasn’t a look meant to threaten, not this time. It was… something else; too focused, too steady, too prolonged. His molten irises traced the line of Ultra Magnus’ frame and the set of his jaw, the flex of his gauntlets against the table edge, the discipline that radiated from him like a scent.

The predacon smiled. It was a small smile; the kind that would’ve been missed by anyone else. However, the Commander felt it deep in his tanks; the faint twitch of recognition, the unwelcome spark of something remembered which contains heat, pressure, and closeness all buried under command instinct.

Predaking bowed fractionally, a gesture both mocking and sincere. “Commander.”

“Predaking,” Ultra Magnus returned, tone as level as stone. “Let’s begin.”

The meeting unfolded in precision: projected maps, energy reports, strategic allocations. Ratchet made note of mineral densities, Predaking’s lieutenants debated air rights, and through it all Ultra Magnus maintained his composure with mechanical perfection. But when Predaking spoke with such low, resonant sound and every syllable carrying that effortless authority, Ultra Magnus’ internal temperature monitors ticked upward by fractions of a degree.

"This territory was ours before your war destroyed it,” Predaking was saying. “The Energon veins beneath still pulse. My kind will tend to them, we know their rhythm.”

“Your kind,” Ultra Magnus countered evenly, “has also proven prone to overextension. Stability is preferable to conquest.”

Predaking’s optics flickered, the faintest hint of amusement. “Yet conquest built this planet’s history, did it not?”

Silence rippled.

Ultra Magnus met his gaze head-on, visor bright. “History is not an excuse for excess.”

The dragon leaned back, satisfied. He could feel the tension in the air and the room’s collective unease, but to him it was symphony. The way Ultra Magnus’ voice didn’t waver even once and the way his presence cut through the noise... While Ultra Magnus hated the way he could feel that attention for every second of it, as though there were invisible claws trailing just out of reach, testing boundaries he’d already sealed off.

The meeting adjourned, the air loosened, and the delegates dispersed. Yet, when Ultra Magnus gathered his datapads, he sensed movement; a shadow where none should have been. Predaking stood near the viewport, hands clasped behind his back, staring out into the storm-wrapped skyline of Iacon. Ultra Magnus hesitated internally. A soldier always confirms extraction before leaving. That was all this was.

“You have what you came for,” he said, tone clipped.

“Hardly,” came the quiet reply from the beast.

Ultra Magnus frowned, “Then state your dissatisfaction and I will address it through-”

“You misunderstand me, Commander,” Predaking interrupted, turning slightly enough that the light struck his features in half-shadow, half-flame. “There are matters that do not concern treaties or resource rights.”

Ultra Magnus’ optics narrowed, his tone deadpan, “Then they do not concern me."

Predaking’s smile deepened. “It does, Commander."

There it was again- that presence, that strange, unbearable steadiness in his gaze. No, it was not hunger or mockery; it was something older, something... patient.

Ultra Magnus shifted, careful not to take a step back. “If you wish to make a statement, make it now.”

“Do you accept compliments?”

The words landed like heat. Ultra Magnus could feel the faint static in the air between them- the charge of unspoken recognition. He turned sharply, datapads clutched too tight. “We are done here.”

“Very well,” Predaking agreed, softly.

Thus the truce began and built on shared denial.

Ultra Magnus drowned himself further in work.

Predaking found excuses to prolong negotiations.

Each convinced the other was predictable, containable.

Neither realized they’d already begun orbiting the same gravity well.

Chapter Text

It was precisely two months after the Citadel Incident. Predaking was present at the High Council chamber as part of a fragile post-war pact to coordinate aerial defense networks against rogue Decepticon remnants. He stood behind the table like a statue of living obsidian; pondering in silence with arms folded perfectly still, his optics focused on the map of regions before him. When the Autobots entered the chamber, all protocol aligned itself to the Commander's stride; datapads shifted, reports lined up, optics turned. His field was precise, reduced to the calm hum of authority, devoid of every emotion that might give him away. The meeting commenced.

Ultra Magnus was there too, his presence was not focused as the previous ones since he had now allowed himself to relax and let a comrade with the expertise to take the steer over. However, he is needed in the room. Throughout the entire pact, he did not even look at Predaking, not even once. Predaking said nothing too, despite itching to do so particularly in a more 'familiar' sense. But a respectable mech he is, there was no word throughout the meeting regarding the Commander. Only when the session is concluded, followed by each factions dismissing themselves did he finally speak; softly, clearly, in the tone that cut through noise like low thunder.

“Impressive,” he said. “You and your brethren command as though the room itself must obey.”

Ultra Magnus didn’t pause or turn, “The room does obey,” he replied curtly. “when those within it understand discipline.”

Predaking smiled faintly. “Do you ever tire yourself from the concept of 'discipline'?"

Ultra Magnus’ head turned slightly, “Discipline is not a concept. It is the foundation that keeps chaos from consuming oneself." There was a short pause... and he continued, "Something I would not expect you to comprehend.”

The dragon chuckled under his breath. That was the first time after the incident that their voices shared the same air. The silence afterward was tangible enough to vibrate. Predaking hummed, an optic ridge rose from amusement, "You wound me with your words, Commander. I understand very well what discipline is. What I do not understand... is how you manage to put up with it as if your life depended on it."

Ultra Magnus was quiet, but he answered soon. He turned his helm, tone even and unhurried, "It isn’t a matter of endurance. It’s a matter of necessity. Discipline is not something I ‘put up with.’ It is what ensures I remain functional.”

Predaking smirks faintly, wings shifting with a lazy rustle, “Functional. You speak of yourself as if you were an instrument, not a being.”

“An instrument performs as designed. There are worse things to be.”

“You wear discipline like armor, not conviction.”

"One does not discard armor in times of peace, not if one has survived a war. Habits, once kept alive long enough, becomes identity.”

“Then I suppose you and I are both creatures of habit. You cage yourself in rules; I in instinct.”

Ultra Magnus paused for a moment... then he straightened his posture as though he was not composed enough already, "We are nothing alike."

Predaking smiled, a shadow of amusement in his voice, "Really now?"

Ultra Magnus moves past, quiet, precise- the kind of exit that ends a conversation without leaving room for argument. Predaking watches him go, and for once, he doesn’t follow. His optics narrow; half a smile, half a thought because the restraint itself intrigues him more than defiance ever could.

The day had already been too long, even for Ultra Magnus. In theory, the mission was routine; reconning flight over the southern perimeter, near the edge of the Sea of Rust. Reports from a neutral outpost had claimed strange energy spikes had been occurring beneath the canyon ridges and was too localized to be natural and too inconsistent to classify. It wasn’t high-priority enough to deploy an entire unit, so workaholic Ultra Magnus had volunteered to investigate, solo. He always prefered solitary missions, afterall.

The wind howled across the barren landscape, carrying fine red dust that danced across his windshield. His comm line hummed softly with his vice's (by rank in a formal setting)voice, Red Alert.

“All telemetry nominal, Commander. Report visual anomalies.”

“None. Conducting final sweep. I will return to base.”

“Maintain altitude."

Ultra Magnus banked low, the engines humming in perfect rhythm. Then, suddenly... there was a hard impact whose sound tore through the air; it was a metallic shriek against hull. The ship jolted violently, alarms screaming through the cockpit as stabilizers failed. Something foreign and incredibly fast had clipped the left turbine.

"Magnetic distortions increasing- wait... Commander, you’re losing leverage!”

“Unidentified contact. I am losing altitude- attempting to-”

The comm went static as view tilted. Then, came the fall. The ship slammed through the canyon wall, scattering rusted rock and iron shards in its wake, before crashing into the basin below. A cloud of dust swallowed the impact and silence followed.

Ultra Magnus came to with his helm ringing. Systems flickering. A trickle of coolant from his side.
But alive.

Of course. He was always alive.

He forced himself to stand, surveying the wreckage. The left wing was torn clean off, half the cockpit embedded in the canyon wall. His comms sputtered with intermittent bursts of static; enough to send a distress ping, but not enough for continuous contact. As much as it was annoying, he was grateful that at the very least he's able to call for backup.

“This is Ultra Magnus. Coordinates attached. Shuttle down- status operational. Requesting retrieval.”

He shut it off after that. No use wasting power... and no use admitting how much his servo trembled as he gripped the console. He stepped outside. The air was thick, dry, saturated with iron dust.
The Sea of Rust stretched in the distance like a dying ocean- dunes of corroded metal that groaned when the wind passed. The canyon walls climbed high on every side. He had no thrusters, no lift, and no immediate way out. He scavenged what was salvageable, began dismantling what was left of the navigation system, already planning the most logical way to signal rescue before nightfall. His mind moved like clockwork as soon as he's locked in to fix the problem.

He worked om it for approximately half an hour... then the air shifted. A faint tremor ran through the ground, the dust rippled. Ultra Magnus got out of his repair site and glanced up. "That was fast.", he thought. He had expected his backup to come for aid for at least another half hour. But then his optics flicked as he noticed that the aviator up there is not an aircraft- it was...

...

A dragon.

Oh come on.

He drew his weapon slowly, optics narrowing toward the canyon’s mouth. The wind carried a low resonance; almost subsonic, almost breathing. Descending from the cliff above, a big presence had its wings drawn inward, landing with a soundless grace that sent the dust swirling around him. Ultra Magnus’ field spiked instantly, guarded and sharp. “You.”

Predaking tilted his helm, his tone amused and far too calm for the situation. “Evening, Commander. I see you are in a rather difficult siatuation.”

Ultra Magnus’ optics narrowed. “Did you do this? Hit my aircraft?”

Predaking’s wings flexed, almost lazily. “The first thing you do is accuse me? No, Commander. I was simply around the parameter, scavanging with my people for the relics of my predecessors around the Sea of Rust."

Ultra Magnus rose an optic ridge, perhaps that was what caused the peculiar energy spikes that was picked up by the neutral post? "Is that so. And? How did it go?"

Predaking smiled a bit wider, "Satisfactory."

Ultra Magnus had a feeling predaking knew what he was hinting at but simply pretended he didn't. Bastard. Fine, then. Ultra Magnus doesn't say another word no more and got back to repairing his ship's thrusters. Predaking followed him, just observing him doing his thing.

“You do this yourself?” he asked, leaning closer than necessary as Ultra Magnus rerouted an unstable conduit. “Surely the Autobot Commander has subordinates for such labor.”

"I am not a monarch. I am capable."

"I never said you aren't."

Ultra Magnus ket out a long, annoyed sigh, "Get back to your errands, Predacon. You said you were scavanging with your people? Do not keep them waiting."

Predaking chuckled, sitting back to a nearby rock, "Worry not, I have sent them back on their way to the Dominion."

"And why exactly did you do that? So you could be tresspassing here and use my misfortune as your amusement?"

"That, and to make sure no one is around if we were ever going to be in 'close proximity' again. I noted that you prefered privacy, you know."

Ultra Magnus' frame FLINCHED at the phrase 'close proximity'. Predaking is NEVER going to shut up about it, is he?! He bristled, “I require no hospitality. Only an exit.”

"Mm. I can provide for that."

"No, thank you." 

Predaking chuckled lowly, certainly amused. However, as much as he enjoyed the Commander's presence, his keen optics noticed the slightest injury on Ultra Magnus' left shoulder; a bruise on a noticable dent from impact with a dull object.

Predaking hummed, asking once more, "You fixed the ship before your injuries? For a mech with an oustanding ability to organize a priority scale, it is quite foolish."

"My priority scale is in order."

The utter saltiness. It makes Predaking want to have a taste. He did. 

Without warning, he got behind Ultra Magnus, a whole giant servo on his left shoulder... and before the Commander can protest and break the contact, Predaking licked the bruise. Ultra Magnus FROZE. In a nanoklik, Ultra Magnus' elbow flew to The King's face, but it was caught before it landed.

"You-!"

"Easy, Commander. Watch."

Ultra Magnus, from the edge of his optics, noticed a subtle glow from the bruise on his shoulder. It was faint, but after it faded, he almost widened his optics for the bruise is now gone as well as its pulsing. Ultra Magnus had his optics on the injury, to Predaking, then to the injury again-

"What did you-"

"There's so little you know of my kind. It is of no concern, though... we have plenty of time to discover^^"

"Come in, Red alert. Where. Is. The. Backup. Crew."

Chapter Text

Predaking laughed at Ultra Magnus calling for backup again via his comm as if he needed to get out of there as soon as possible. He can't help but to tease!

“Aw, waiting for a long time already for your backup? Surely your kind sends better pilots.”

Ultra Magnus’ optics narrow. “Do you plan to mock me the entire time.”

“You crashed. I plan to make the most of it."

"I could detain you if you continue this insolence.”

Predaking chuckles, the sound vibrating through Ultra Magnus’ frame. That is one bold statement; to detain someone requires authority, but to detain a king? And over here Ultra Magnus saying that like it's second nature... But Predaking enjoyed it, always have been. That is why when Ultra Magnus is speaking without any regard for Predaking's status, he just plays along with it. "Detain me?” he repeats, almost tender. “You intend to lay hands upon me, Commander?"

Pervert. Ultra Magnus’ optics flicker sharply, fingers twitching. “You-"

Predaking steps in close; too close... and Ultra Magnus’ sensors flare. Every instinct screams to push him back, but moving would mean giving ground.

“Your plating hums when I speak,” the dragon murmurs. “Perhaps your armor recognizes power when it stands before you.”

“Perhaps you’re confusing interference with arrogance.”

“Ah, but arrogance,” Predaking smiles, leaning in until his voice is a growl by Ultra Magnus’ audio receptor, “-is something we share.”

For a moment, Ultra Magnus doesn’t breathe. The heat from Predaking’s proximity is tangible, humming across every joint. Then the commander snaps back like a cornered tiger. He slams the butt of his weapon against Predaking’s chest, hard enough to make the King step back a fraction.

"Step. Back.”

Predaking does but he did it slowly, never taking his optics off The Commander. In fact, his grin only widens.

“You are fascinating when you think you’re in control.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

“I have centuries to waste.” His wings unfurl in a slow, threatening ripple. Then, he stepped closer as he softly rest his left servo on Ultra Magnus' waist. It was put soft, yes, but once it grips it's latched onto the Commander's frame. This dragon and his obvious intention and his ridiculous antics... Ultra Magnus hissed, struggling to get away from that grip.

"Unhand me. I will-"

"You will what, Ultra Magnus? You want to get a little rough? Show me who's boss, hm?" Predaking purred, only inching his face closer to the Commander's.

Predaking stood close enough that the air between them bent. The heat from his frame radiated in waves, too deliberate to be accidental and too steady to be threatening. Ultra Magnus’ vents hissed a quiet release as he adjusted his uncomfortable stance. Predaking’s optics drifted down, studying the taut lines of armor, the immaculate polish of discipline that defined every inch of the Commander. He could smell the faint tang of coolant and scorched air from the crash; he could hear the whirring inside Ultra Magnus’ frame, the overworked engine of a mech who refused to show weakness.

Predaking leaned down close to thr Commander's audials, "Come, now. Your backup will not arrive until the next hour, I suppose. We have time."

"You really are driven by disgusting primal instincts."

"Ouch. But I will admit that. Denial is never really my forte, afterall. You, on the other hand..."

"I am NOT denial, I always state facts."

"Of course... but when will you 'state facts' that our sparks are bonded?"

"Ha. That is an awful lot of confidence, Predacon."

"You will realize one way or another that my confidence is more accurate than your so-called 'facts'."

Predaking pressed himself even more, his massive frame, almost twice as big as the blue mech he's holding, is having its HUD lights pulsing with utter want. He's not even trying to hide where he's looking at, he's not shying out on the intention... whatever the hell his motive is. Ultra Magnus glared at him with optics completely unfazed and drawn completely in control and degradation. 

"Do not ever mistake me capable of something so illogical. I have no interest in spark-bonding, and if we find ourselves in 'close proximity' again, know that it will never mean anything more than physical indulgence which I allow."

Predaking smirked, inching himself closer again, servos already gripping Ultra Magnus' narrow waists on both sides, "Sexy."

Ultra Magnus’ comm pings faintly again in the background- Red Alert's signal trying to cut through the static. Ultra Magnus forced himself out of the Predacon's servos and tended to it. Predaking grins ear to ear... he finds odd pleasure when the Commander plays hard to get (at least that's what he believed...). But then, it must come to an end as Predaking's sensors detected something coming. He can feel it's a whole crew consisting of one or two mechs and in similar airship frequencies to Ultra Magnus'; obvious that it must be his backup arriving. As much as Predaking wants to not give a fuck, he's going to give Ultra Magnus a favor and fly out before he could be in the radar. Logically, doing this has the most chance of giving the stubborn Commander pleasure (of some sort).

And it did work. Ultra Magnus DOES appreciate it. As someone whom he believed relies on pure instincts, Predaking COULD have indulged in surrendering to situations of being seen together with him, degrade him in front of his soldiers, or do other deeds that would dishonor Ultra Magnus, but chose not to. For a Predacon, Predaking does earn that appreciation despite no one would ever see the day Commander admitting that.

Ultra Magnus had loosened his guard once. However, once was all Predaking needed.

The wind of the night had been hustling with heat too much than Ultra Magnus' preference and it was not even the weather to blame. It was his quarters, or rather something inside him. He thought he may be malfunctioning for all the workloads again, but he soon found thatit really is not the case; this 'heat' that drives his internals running overtime was not that of any illnesses. The horror came as Ultra Magnus looked down... and saw his interfacing panels shifting, opening on itself as if it has a mind of its own. 

Fuck, he thought. Ultra Magnus has always been strict even to himself and this was no different. He felt betrayed by his own frame, moreover in this time of flimsy 'peace'. He had been too loose on himself. He shut his interface panels tight and stood up for the exit. At times like this, all he needed was a walk and fresh air, continued with a good amount of physical exercise, followed by a review of older laws and reorganization of some files that had sat in his memory banks for a bit too long, before hitting a manual recallibration. All this was prefered procedure.

But when does a certain dragon follow such rigidity?

Ultra Magnus SWORE he is going to implode from the absolute sense of absurdity because just as he walked out of his quarters and did a brief walk, yes... yes of course Predaking 'just happened to be there'. Ultra Magnus had grown tired of arguing such nonsense like 'fate' or whatever concept Predaking plans to offer. Predaking had a thin smile on his lips, slowly approaching the Commander,

"I heard the sounds of distress."

"I did not even speak a syllable."

"No, you did not. But I am capable of hearing even when one does not speak." Predaking steps closer, pointing a claw almost lazily to Ultra Magnus' center of chassis, "The subtle thrums of your spark gave it away."

Ultra Magnus huffed, annoyed already, "Enough. If you wish to indulge, I will obligue so long as you do your job and keep your crown on the parameters of your Dominion- and stay there." 

Predaking almost laughed, grabbing that narrow waist already, his grip representing his excitement more than necessary, "Oh? What is this? Offering yourself to the one beast you despised so much? You confuse me, Commander."

Ultra Magnus bristled, optics blazing as his temper has almost reached a red zone, "Do you want it, or not?"

Predaking took no more time to answer, "What do you think I'd say?"

It was blurry how they got into the King's chambers in the Predacon Dominion. Ultra Magnus remembered clearly that they had somehow got into another combat with him, remembered how he was thrown accross the room, remembered the veins of his circuitry burned with anger and the desire to dominate this monster. Ultra Magnus has his memories clear as day as he kicked the King on his face, but it was somehow a blur of how he ended up sprawled on the King's massive berth, legs spread open with the face he had striked with his pede between them. 

Ultra Magnus, commander of High Guards, Wreckers is no longer holding back his cruelty, his need, and his authority. The Commander’s servo is a vice around Predaking’s helm, digits dug in as though staking claim, forcing the King’s proud face exactly where he wants it. No care for the crown, no reverence for his title. Ultra Magnus is using him. Predaking? He adores it. Those devilish circles of his glossa are mercilessly precise, working Ultra Magnus’ most sensitive node with the focus of a predator toying with his prey. Every slow drag, every sudden flick, pulls ragged vents and broken gasps from the commander who normally speaks only in orders and clipped reports.

Mess.

There’s mess everywhere; slick on Predaking’s chin, smeared down his plating, dripping onto his claws as he holds Ultra Magnus’ thighs to steady the relentless rhythm. And still, still... the blue mech’s iron grip tightens, as if punishing him for being too good at this, as if his control could survive the tidal wave.

“Hold.” Ultra Magnus chokes out, voice ruined with static, helm tipped back, optics bright and wild. “Ngh- Again-”

Oh, the audacity. Predaking laughs against him with a muffled, devilish vibration; the sound of a king’s amusement at being used like a plaything. It makes the Commander snarl with utter annoyance and need; a sound sharp and guttural, a sign of commander’s discipline cracking into something feral. His hips stutter, driving harder against that wicked mouth, forcing Predaking to present his face as he exerted every shudder of his need.

It is obscene. It is sacrilege. It is dominance written across every movement. Ultra Magnus desecrating royalty with his grip, his gasps, his urgency. The King is messy, drunk on it, ruined- and smiling still, because what greater honor than to be brought to his knees and used as the Commander’s undoing? The King's sinuous glossa flicks that swollen node again and again, sliding into that small entrace only to retract it back in a repetitive motion. Ultra Magnus' frame is slick and wet all over with heightened sensors as it sang out trembles. 

"Mm. Enjoying yourself? When will you admit that this is a go-" Predaking teased, retracting his glossa and licked his lips clean. 

"Shut up. Use your mouth for what it's good at."

The absolute sexiness of Command.

Predaking cannot not press the head of one of his spikes into Ultra Magnus' entrance in an attempt for penetration. The Commander almost yelped from the pressure, but the King almost lost all strength from his whole being. He is so tight it is ridiculous. Yes, despite the warmup.

"Commander, you are..."

"What."

Predaking pressed even more, Ultra Magnus almost jolts- his whole frame stiffens. Oh shit. Ultra Magnus... this hole of his, is a virgin.

Chapter Text

Predaking almost laughs again. That hole is undoubtedly a virgin... but is he a virgin? How much experience does he have? Perhaps he's not a virgin, just that his previous intercourse(s), he is the one being the top? Whatever. All these questions running in Predaking's processors somehow turns him on even more. He pulled the head of his spike back out of that tightness and dove his mouth yet again- he just cannot resist not doing so. Oral fixation may be his thing from now on.

It starts yet again with Commander trying to hold onto command. His vents rasp like he’s still forcing himself into rhythm, like orders are clenched in his jaw instead of the desperate cries aching to spill. But Primus, Predaking won’t let him keep that mask especially not when he’s working that node with that precision, cruelty, and absolute glee. Ultra Magnus snarls through his denta, grip like a vice on the King’s helm. His digits dig into where crown meets plating, as if he could anchor himself by crushing royalty itself. With each second passing, his frame trembles a tad harder than before, hydraulics stutter louder and louder- he’s losing it.

Then, Predaking moans around him; deep, vibrating groan of devotion and hunger that rattles Ultra Magnus down to his spark. It rips something loose.

“Frag!" Ultra Magnus breaks, voice cracking, static-laced as his iron discipline shatters. The commander got BOTH his servos now latched onto the King's crown, one's digits wrapped tightly around the horn, and another pulling the whole helm from its back. Onto that beastly mouth, Ultra Magnus doesn’t thrust anymore, doesn’t keep cadence- he slams. Brutal, rutting plunges to Predaking’s glossa, desperate and unchecked. Every push forces the King to choke, to gag, to take it. The Mighty Commander is snarling, whimpering, gasping like a soldier drowning in battle.

His thighs quake. His vents howl. His helm is thrown back, optics flickering. No reports, no orders, just broken huffs.

"Primus- mmgh-” Ultra Magnus hissed out, neck arched to the back as if to alleviate the headache he's got running up his helm. The words, on the contrary, dissolve into incoherent noise as he ruts like he’ll die without it.

Upon what is taking place right now, Predaking is rapturous. His claws dig crescents into Ultra Magnus’ plating, dragging him closer, encouraging every savage drive. Sloppy slick coats his chin, strings down his chassis, his ventilation almost choked by Ultra Magnus’ merciless pace- but he smiles around it... for it is victory. This is submission. This is Ultra Magnus, the unshakable commander, reduced to a wrecking, rutting little thing on the mouth of a King.

Ultra Magnus’ vents seize. His grip is crushing, his frame bows over, snarling like a wounded animal as overload slams through him. It was violent, unrestrained, and undoubtedly the kind capable of breaking him.

When it’s done and his vents drag like a storm, when his servo finally unclenches from Predaking’s helm, Ultra Magnus is wrecked. His chassis heaving, optics half-lidded, denta parted with shameful gasps still spilling out.

On his knees, Predaking licks his lips. Slick smeared, chin dripping, optics burning with amusement and devotion all at once. “My commander,” he rumbles, low and taunting. “So… undisciplined.”

Ultra Magnus' legs trembled. He said nothing. Optics icy blue as always... despite them being somewhat moist this time. He looks so... so...

Predaking cannot take it. He leaned down and captured the Commander's lips with his own. He was being rough, but not at all in a beastly way. He let his wicked glossa into Ultra Magnus' mouth as if he were a guest welcomed into one's quarters, took Ultra Magnus' own glossa to dance with his, let him have a taste of himself. Ultra Magnus resisted at first, but having his power reduced by approximately half after that extreme overload, he just... surrendered.

Ultra Magnus almost gagged; he doesn't know if it's from the kiss alone, the fact that he's tasting his own overload, or both. Predaking pulled away after some time with a bold pop after their lips lose all contact, and oh... Ultra Magnus looked heavenly with those swollen lips. Predaking smirked, pressing his spike between the Commander's seams.

"You should have looked at yourself and how... lewd you can actually be, my Commander."

"..."

"I like it. I like you."

"..."

"Silent treatment, mm?"

"I cannot string enough words to express just how much I despise you."

"Well, like they say... hate the mech, don't hate the spike?"

Ultra Magnus looked at him disgusted. Like any beast, Predaking is a pervert. Predaking laughed, and slowly inserts the head of his spike again in the Commander's hole. Ultra Magnus tensed up-

"You-"

"Come on. You had your overload, it's time to pay me back."

Predaking pressed again and again until it's evident that Ultra Magnus' rim is stretching so well- but with immense struggle. Predaking is only ⅓ in and Ultra Magnus' breath is already heaving, servos clawing on the King's forearms and left on them deep scratches.

"Ha- Gh... nghk-! E-enough-!!" Ultra Magnus grunted, dentaes clenched, back arched, arms trembling, digits digging onto the platings of the mech twice his size. ⅓ in and Predaking can see the head of his spike bulging on the Commander's lower abdomen. Sexy as fuck. Predaking is getting dizzy. All of this feels unreal, the tightness is unreal.

"Ultra Magnus... mmhn... simply astounding."

Predaking pulled out, only to slide back in with the kind of gentleness he forced himself to hang on to. Ultra Magnus yelped, his rims stretches again as the diameter increased following the girth of the King. He bit his lips, the top of his helm buried deep into the cushions of the berth below, optics closed, dentas clenched, lips bitten... as Predaking rams in and out of him with cracking gentleness and patience, with the near-break consideration to not harm the blue mech beneath him by keeping the portion stays at the length of ⅓, the pace steady and slow. 

Ultra Magnus felt like his vision is getting blurry with each thrust driven into him. His optics flickered a few times, his swollen node impossibly erect it almost hurt just by that alone, and his processors are heating to the point it felt foggy inside. Predaking was reaching his peak and he cannot hold back the increased pace... Ultra Magnus got his servo on his own helm, gripping it hard, and tried to keep his shit together because he can already feel his consciousness SLIPPING away-

"I cannot- take... I...- h- hmnhhh- ah-" 

"Just a bit more, my Commander." 

Predaking drove in again, finally having one last thrust into the Commander and pulled out immediately, letting his exerts cover Ultra Magnus' under regions and let them spill down the berth. Ultra Magnus twitched at that, overloading for the second time because the King's thick warm spills is coating his already-overstimulated node. Ultra Magnus jolted one last time before his neck limped, his whole body lost control of power. He had his optics closed and offline... blacked out.

Predaking knew this was coming, and just kissed the Commander's frame all over to soothe it. He is posturing like he’s two seconds away from lunging at Ultra Magnus again and give him his all while he is unconscious like this, but he stayed there. He swallowed those wicked thoughts away, and has Ultra Magnus laying on a more comfortable position. 

Primus, when he recharges like this, Ultra Magnus does not look like the ridig Commander that he is. Especially... when his frame is slick like this and his face exhausted but relieved. Predaking snorted at that, he too will have his recharge as much as he would wish to adore that face a bit more.

Predaking came online and seeing that Ultra Magnus had been gone. Predaking knew this was the most 'logical' outcome, and expected it. This is not an offense, it's somehow amusement to him. This behavior is not insolence, it's... adorable, so to say. Predaking smirked, kissing the scratches on his right servo- scratches that were left by the digits of the Commander. His Commander.

The King would always have time for his 'territory'. Precisely two weeks after that deed, Predaking looked at the hologram of the Commander's face. He sat lazily on his private throne, optics scanning the blue mech on the screen before him as if he's  posturing like he’s two seconds away from lying away to Autobot territory and lunge at Ultra Magnus, but in his head it’s the most shameless feral poetry slam ever written.

“Primus, his mouth. I could bleed a battlefield dry and still not be sated like one taste of that commander’s lips. He stands like stone, but if I press harder, will he crack or will he carve me instead? Oh, let him carve me. Let him unmake me piece by piece.”

Predaking turned to the next page, an old record from the times of war, tye Commander's optics cut sharp as blades, narrowed but steady. Predaking leaned closer, vents harsh, lips curling in a snarl.

"Look at him, forged fury and discipline. My dentaes itch to mark his throat, but worse, my spark aches to kneel. He wouldn’t just take me. He’d claim me like territory, like law, and I would be ruin in his hands.”

"Not a lie. I want to consume him- mouth, voice, command, every scrap of control he thinks he hides. I’d choke on him gladly, suffocate under the weight of his helm bent over me. Primus, I’d beg for it while snarling his name.”

He didn’t say it aloud.

He kept his optics locked to the sky, wings flared towards it.

And to the world, it looked like he wanted to kill Ultra Magnus.

When really, he just wanted to be kissed like a war crime.

Chapter Text

The air of the base still carried a faint mineral scent from the thawing plains beyond. Predacon territory stretched endless and silver under the pale sun, and the frost was beginning to lift, water tracing veins down the cliffs that guarded the stronghold. A week had passed since the night neither of them had spoken of. Ultra Magnus had returned to duty the following morning with his usual immaculate precision: armor polished, shoulders drawn, posture so exact it seemed carved from the same stone as the Iacon central diplomatic tower’s foundations. He did not falter nor did he linger. If anyone noticed the faint change in his field, the almost imperceptible static that accompanied the dragon’s proximity, none dared comment.

Predaking, however, noticed everything.

He had learned patience throughout the times after the war and restraint in captivity. Now, as self-proclaimed king of what remained of his kind, he learned a third art: pursuit not of prey, but of will. The Prime’s second-in-command was no easy conquest; he moved through corridors like an armed storm, and the air itself bowed out of his way.

Predaking watched him from the higher walkways, silent and unreadable, massive frame framed by light. He said nothing, but his gaze followed with quiet, regal interest. The gaze was too deliberate to be predatory but was too focused to be merely curious.

When Ultra Magnus finally addressed him, it was on a morning of thin sunlight and clipped tones.

“Your presence in the command hall was not required, Predaking.”

Predaking’s voice was low, a rumble of metal and air. “Not required does not mean forbidden.”

“You prefer being a distraction?” Ultra Magnus replied without turning, his servo gliding over a console.

“I prefer being remembered.”

Ultra Magnus froze for a fraction too long. It was the exact pause of someone struck by implication, though he recovered instantly. “You overestimate your significance.”

Predaking smiled; the quiet, knowing curve of someone who had seen through entire armies, “You underestimate your own.”

It became routine.

Predaking would appear where Ultra Magnus least expected him: on the landing deck as the dropships returned, on the observation bridge during evening patrols, or in the training hall at dawn, waiting with a spear too large for any normal soldier to lift. He never interfered, never spoke first, but his presence was a statement; silent, immutable, and patient.

When Ultra Magnus questioned him again, it was with the sharpness of a blade dulled only by fatigue, “You intend to make a habit of this?”

“Only until you tell me to stop.”

“I just did.”

Predaking tilted his head, wings flexing slightly, the edges glinting like tempered glass. “You said words, Ultra Magnus. Not command.”

Ultra Magnus turned, at last meeting his optics. The moment hung heavy, not hostile or yielding, but instead something in-between. Predaking’s field reached first, brushing against his like a question, gentle, almost reverent. Ultra Magnus did not recoil, though his EM flare spiked; the telltale ripple of someone holding himself too steady.

“Do not test me.” he said, voice lower now.

Predaking inclined his helm, smiling still... while it was laced by something more tender than just 'a grin', “It was never my intention."

Days blurred into the pattern of pursuit and retreat.

Ultra Magnus worked late, deliberately, but the dragon’s shadow still fell across the doorway before he could dismiss it. Predaking would bring things, simple offerings cloaked as practical gestures: rare alloys from the thawing plains, shards of energon-crystal refracting blue light, an old datapad retrieved from the ruins of Kaon. Each gift was offered without ceremony, as if the act itself were nothing though his optics betrayed quiet pride whenever Ultra Magnus accepted, even without gratitude. However, that acceptance from the Commander was not a direct one, rather for him a quicker way to dismiss the Predacon.

Predaking’s patience was not passive. He studied the commander’s habits with the diligence of a scholar: the rhythm of his stride, the stillness before he spoke, the half-second delay between thought and reaction. Ultra Magnus was disciplined to the point of tragedy! He is a being who had spent so long mastering restraint that he forgot what it was to be desired without agenda.

Predaking’s desire was not hidden. It was in the way he lowered his wings whenever Ultra Magnus entered the room, a gesture of submission few had ever witnessed. It was in the quiet phrases he let slip between mission reports, each carrying the weight of ancient speech:

“Your silence commands more than your words.”

“The stars tremble slower when you look upon them.”

If Ultra Magnus had been allowed to hear his loud thoughts, he would most certainly answer with the same unbending tone: “You speak nonsense.” or perhaps something harsher, such as "Silence." However, those thoughts made the King smile in both annoyance and amusement, always. No matter how much Predaking convinced himself that the Commander is just an arrogant mech who speaks in clipped reports and walks like a manual of nightmare, he cannot bring himself to disregard him. It would soon occur to Predaking that this is not physical anymore, his spark has played a role. This is no longer a want or a conquest, but a yearn.

On the seventh day, dusk bled gold over the valley. Predaking waited on the platform where the canyon wind sang through metal spires; a place for formal settings few utilised. He stood as the sky dimmed, massive and still, until the rhythm of approaching footsteps matched the slow beat of his twin spark-chambers.

Ultra Magnus emerged from the corridor, expression unreadable, “This is restricted area."

“'Restricted' is a bit too uncompromising. I merely do not have written permission,” Predaking corrected softly.

“Excuses, I figured. Then, by all means, you shall leave for this will be utilised for an occasion with an official permit."

“Not until you agree to listen to what I shall say.”

Ultra Magnus sighed, annoyed, "Very well. What is it?"

"I wish to offer something different."

Predaking motioned toward the horizon- a sea of molten light where the twin suns sank beyond the cliffs, “I have learned your world through battle and order,” he said, voice a low hum, “but I wish to learn it through peace, even briefly.”

Ultra Magnus crossed his arms, helm tilting slightly, “Peace is not easily found.”

“Let me be the one to search.”

Predaking moved closer, not enough to threaten, only enough for his shadow to merge with Ultra Magnus’s own. The silence between them thickened, filled with wind and unspoken recollection.

Ultra Magnus tilted his helm slightly, optic ridges narrowed in contained offense, "I have told you before, that I have made peace with hating you. It never did change, despite our previous encounters which I allowed. This will never change, so do not ever vex me again by insisting that it will."

Predaking chuckled, his smile lingers as his whole frame itched to step closer and closer. Predaking had to fight his primal instincts again in order to jeep the conversation going in the fashion Ultra Magnus prefered; with distance. 

"Please?"

A simple request. Anyone could see Ultra Magnus' veins popping on his helm, “You persist." He murmured with restrain to NOT strike the King's face with... whatever he could lay his servos on.

“I endure,” Predaking corrected again, softer now. “Persistence implies ignorance. Endurance implies purpose.”

"And your purpose?”

Predaking’s optics dimmed, almost tender. “To prove that not all kings seek to conquer.”

For a fraction of a second, Ultra Magnus' servo shifted, "Such contrary. You have proven to me that you are nothing more than a beast, and all you have done had been nothing short of a proof that seek to conquer me. Do not mistake me fo-"

"Yes, I aimed to conquer you. But alas, my dear Commander... it was the old intention."

"That implicates you have a new intention."

"Yes, but even myself cannot explain that as of now for I have not yet understood it entirely. But know this, Ultra Magnus... I am not here to make you a subject for amusement. I shall remind you that I see you as my equal, and I acknowledge you. Never would I see you as anything less."

That, more than anything, broke the commander's composure.

“Do I look like I need that sort of confession?” Ultra Magnus asked, sharper than intended.

Predaking hummed, and there was no answer given. There was no words exchanged afterwards for a straight minute, then Predaking stepped back, wings unfolding from his back and spreaded wide almost covering the entire sight of the vast moon, “When you wish for company that does not demand, call for me,” he said. “Until then, I shall be content in waiting.”

He turned to transform, massive frame folding into a form twice as big and flew up, emerging into the dark of the night. Ultra Magnus watched him go, optics catching the faint glimmer of biolights vanishing beyond the ridge. For a moment, he stood motionless- every instinct screaming for distance, every silence within him echoing with the memory of that patience. He looked down at his prosthetic servo, the one that was caused by Predaking's doings in the past, and exhaled through his vents, quiet, angry, but... it holds something quite foreign; something dangerously close to dilemma.

“Ridiculous.” he muttered- though the tone lacked its usual dose of venom.

Predaking, unseen now in the sky above, smiled faintly as the wind carried the word to him. He could sense Ultra Magnus’s field. It was still guarded and rigid, but beneath it ran a subtle pulse, a spark-deep rhythm that promised what patience would earn. For the king of beasts, patience was a throne all its own.

Chapter Text

The chamber had long fallen silent after the council adjourned. Holographic maps faded to ghost-light, leaving the room cast in the dim amber of dormant data lines. Ultra Magnus, as expected, remained. He was the only one who never departed before every document was filed, every figure cross-checked, and every minute accounted for.

Predaking stayed too.

He had claimed 'diplomatic necessity', though neither of them truly believed that. Ultra Magnus’s optics didn’t lift from the console, “You may take your leave, Predaking. Your input has been sufficiently noted.”

Predaking’s helm tilted slightly, the gesture slow, deliberate with the fashion of a predator trying to replace his indulgence as politeness, “You would send away an ally so swiftly after such collaboration?”

“That collaboration was professional.” Ultra Magnus replied, digits tapping a final signature code.

“Was it?” The rumble of amusement echoed, soft but heavy. “Your tone makes it sound almost personal.”

Ultra Magnus stilled. His vents released a quiet hiss; the kind that was not annoyance, but the faintest trace of exhaustion trying to hide itself behind authority, “You have an unusual perception of tone."

“I have an excellent perception,” Predaking corrected, stepping closer, his heavy stride softened to near silence. “Especially when it concerns you.”

There it was- that. The dragon’s courtship dressed in diplomacy. It was relentless, calm, and infuriatingly composed.

Ultra Magnus’s jaw tightened. “If this is another attempt at flirtation,”

“I assure you,” Predaking cut in, tone a low hum, “it is not another attempt. It is the same one, continued with greater patience.”

The commander finally looked up. Optics cold, sharp, almost luminous in contrast to the shadow pooling across his plating, “I do not reciprocate.”

Predaking inclined his helm, as if bowing to a refusal he found beautiful, "Not yet.”

“Not ever." Ultra Magnus corrected flatly.

The dragon smiled just enough to bare a hint of his dentas, a flash of dangerous charm that would have unnerved anyone else, “Your persistence in denying what you do not feel is admirable. It is almost convincing.”

Ultra Magnus stared, unflinching, though his processor whirred with irritation. Almost convincing? By Primus, how could such arrogance wear itself with elegance? He returned to his data-tablets, pressing a little too firmly on the input keys. Predaking watched the motion and was mesmerized. The precision, the discipline, and the way the blue lines of data reflected in the Commander’s optics like an ocean kept under command made Predaking's optics dilate for a fracture of second. Every line of that frame spoke of order, control, and refusal, but it was precisely that refusal that stirred something untamable within the dragon.

“You are still here.” Ultra Magnus quipped without looking up.

“I find the sound of your voice grounding.”

The stylus in Magnus’s servo snapped. He didn’t look at him yet, but the tension in his frame spoke volumes. “Do you ever tire of hearing yourself speak in absurdities?”

“I do not.” Predaking’s tone remained calm, a soft amusement threading through it. “But I would tire of silence, were it not filled with your presence.”

Ultra Magnus’s optics flicked up, narrow, sharp, but the precision of his glare failed to cut as deeply as it should have. Predaking had already built resistance to his coldness, “You will never be able to differentiate which is irritation and which is indulgence.”

“Perhaps,” the dragon murmured, stepping closer still, the faint resonance of his frame like thunder beneath silk, “but even irritation is a form of attention. You grant me that freely.”

“Do not flatter yourself,” the Commander said, rising from his seat, posture like a blade drawn upright. “If I could ignore your existence, I would.”

Predaking smiled faintly, "I beg of you, do not, my dear Commander."

That made Ultra Magnus freeze for half a nanoklik- not from fluster, but from the quiet realization that the dragon was serious of everything he had said. Since that night, that ill-advised entanglement he refused to acknowledge, Predaking had not once overstepped. There was no physical intrusion or inappropriate comments, there was only gestures; an offered data-pad before meetings, the deliberate lowering of his voice when addressing him, a lingering gaze that felt less like possession and more like reverence.

And it was working.

That was the worst part.

Because despite logic, boundaries, and command protocols, Ultra Magnus' EM field could feel the sincerity in Predaking’s patience and the steady heat of it beneath the surface of every word.

Ultra Magnus turned away, collecting another data-tablet just to occupy his servos, “You are wasting your time.”

“Time,” Predaking said softly, “is not wasted when spent in pursuit of something worthy.”

The commander’s steps faltered just slightly. Of course, Predaking noticed that small pause; the kind of hesitation no one else would catch. It was to him an entire verse of poetry and he ached to memorize it.

“Worthy?” Ultra Magnus repeated, as though testing the word on his glossa, dissecting its meaning to prove it hollow. The word, however, tasted somewhat foreign.

“Yes.” Predaking’s optics dimmed to an amber glow, reverent. “A being of unyielding will. A Commander who speaks only truth, even when it cuts. You think me beastly, yet you lead with the same hunger I do and that is to conquer, to perfect, and to guard what you value.”

“Your comparisons are unfounded.”

“Your denials are familiar.”

That silenced Ultra Magnus for a moment. It was not because the words wounded, but because they struck too near the mark. He had seen something reflected in the dragon before, and it was a dangerous echo of himself. The air between them only thickened with an electric pull neither could name without ruining it.

“Predaking,” Ultra Magnus said finally, voice lower, quieter, but no less cold, “I do not require admiration.”

“And yet you receive it.”

“Because you persist.”

“Would you rather I stop?”

"Absolutely."

Ultra Magnus said it without stuttering, clear and outloud and direct. The presicion of how that one word was spoken was as accurate and as excellent as his ability in the battlefield. Predaking smiled despite the 'rejection' because truly... a Predacon's sensors are much more sensitive than that of an Autobot. Were Predaking not blessed with those features, he would have never picked up a brief- almost a single nanoklik of hesitation before the absolute was mentioned in the air. Predaking chuckled softly, small, genuine. Victory was not his goal; endurance was. To be merely allowed in Magnus’s silence was its own triumph.

“I will take my leave,” he said at last, voice gentler than before, “before you command it.”

“Wise choice.”

The dragon paused near the threshold, turning slightly not enough to intrude, but enough that the golden edge of his optics met the cold blue of Magnus’s.

“Commander,” Predaking said, his tone almost solemn, “you mistake my patience for play. But understand that when I choose to pursue, it is never in jest.”

Ultra Magnus didn’t respond immediately. His gaze, steady and detached, softened just barely as he murmured, “Un-choose it.”

Predaking’s smile deepened, the kind that belonged to someone who had no intention of obedience. “Impossible.”

The door closed behind him, leaving the commander once again in silence. Ultra Magnus stared at the empty console before him as the soft hum of dormant screens reflecting his own quiet storm. Impossible, the predacon had said. Ultra Magnus should have been infuriated. He should have been relieved. Instead, he found himself tracing the sound of that word in his mind, over and over, until the silence felt oddly… hollow. He vented out slowly, pinching the bridge of his optics. He should have never allowed whatever the hell... started all this. He regretted this. He tells himself that twice a day when he wakes up and when he was about to shut himself down for recharge. It had always haunted him, but somehow, somehow... it never did give him nightmares.

Outside, Predaking smiled to himself. For the first time in centuries, a king found pleasure not in victory, but in the waiting.

Ultra Magnus had been ignoring Predaking for months now, and to be honest? Likewise. There was a long silence almost like a frozen moment between them since that last conversation of theirs. Ultra Magnus had been busied with his usual routine; ordering his subordinates, reviewing patrol reports, keeping his processors busy with work. The last thing he needed was this certain King to pay him a visit he never really owed, in the middle of his way back on his quarters to call it a day. Predaking just HAD to tire him even further, huh?

“Your purpose?” Ultra Magnus snapped, not looking up from the datapad he had been holding since the start of his walk back.

“I merely wanted to see you.” Predaking said gently. It was the kind of tone that made it sound like a promise instead of a word.

“Is that so.” Ultra Magnus’ helm lifted sharply, his field spiking with irritation, “This isn’t another excuse to corner me for some obligations you think I owe you?”

Predaking tilted his helm, his expression almost serene, "No. Consider this an unanticipated diplomatic envoy. I will be on my way shortly." he hummed. That was all.

The excuses made Ultra Magnus’ plating prickle. “So you are here for that.”

Predaking stayed still. No rebuttal, no smirk. Just… stillness. It infuriated Ultra Magnus more than any gloating would have. Predaking only regarded him in silence and it was the kind that made it feel like the air was thicker. Predaking had to hum and sigh, “You are mistaken,” Predaking said finally, calm as a midnight lake, “I’m not here for that. I only wanted to see you.”

It was a dangerous kind of sincerity because it didn’t demand to be believed, only left itself there for you to trip over. Ultra Magnus’ plating shifted uncomfortably. He hated how that landed in his spark. Predaking smiled, a slow, infuriating curl of lip plates, and closed his optics as though he could wait here for eternity. Ultra Magnus felt his vents hitch in irritation. The sheer audacity to not rise to his hostility, to not meet his barbs with fire, to instead stand there and look at him like that… It should have been harmless, but it made him want to shove Predaking into a wall just to make him react as he should. Like a beast.

So he did.

He walked first. As he assumed, Predaking followed with respectful distance. Ultra Magnus arrived at the doorstep of his quarters. In all honesty, Predaking only expected to tease him once, perhaps make a remark that would definitely rise an angry reaction from the Commander. He had had options in mind, just so he could say it and see the Commander's cold face again but at the same time feel the shift of his EM field. But alas, turns out, Predaking should have been more careful.

Ultra Magnus turned to Predaking and grabbed him by the high collar, and dragged the King inside. Harshly, almost like how he would do it to a convict. He pulled him inside and the chamber was silent, save for the faint mechanical thrum of the lock sealing behind Ultra Magnus. Predaking stood near the center, his massive frame surprised from the sudden force. He didn’t move when Ultra Magnus approached, only his optics tracked the Commander’s steps, a faint gleam of recognition flickering within them.

Ultra Magnus stopped just in front of him, his expression a mask of cold precision. “You think I haven’t noticed?” he said, voice low, every syllable edged with accusation. “You linger. You hover. You play the obedient beast. For what? To oblige me into some-” he spat the next words like they tasted foul, “sexual indulgence?”

Predaking didn’t answer at first. He simply hummed, deep in his throat, a sound more akin to the rolling growl of distant thunder than any true response. He didn’t deny nor did he confirm it, he just stood there with maddening stillness. Ultra Magnus expected protest, offense, some sharp retort befitting the insult. Instead, Predaking’s gaze held steady and warm in a way it shouldn’t be, and then his optics shuttered for a moment, as if he’d decided the accusation wasn’t worth his breath. It was infuriating.

Predaking smiled softly, not a smirk nor mockery. It was just a slow, small curve of the lips, carrying an unspoken "I am here because I wish to see you."

It was too much.

Without a word, Ultra Magnus keyed the locks again from the inside, sealing the room further, and with a single, decisive motion, opened his front panel. There was absolutely no warning or prelude, it was concrete steel efficiency. His face did not even do so much as change. Predaking’s optics widened, pupils dilating instantly at the sight. For a beat, he stared… then looked back up at Ultra Magnus’ face, as if needing confirmation that this was not some test of battle readiness.

“…It’s not my birthday,” Predaking finally said, voice low with genuine puzzlement.

Ultra Magnus scoffed with perfect deadpan, “Is this not proof enough that you are a perverted beast?”

That made something flicker at the corner of Predaking’s mouth; a half-smile, half-smirk, the kind only a predator could wear when amused and intrigued at the same time. “Commander,” he said, his tone almost indulgent, “you cannot show me your valve and expect me not to be aroused.”

“In fact, I can,” Ultra Magnus countered, his voice clipped and surgical, “if you were sophisticated enough.”

“I am a Predacon,” Predaking said without hesitation. “Being sophisticated has never been my primary concern.”

Ultra Magnus’ optics narrowed. “Even when you are a King?”

The pause was deliberate. Weighted. Then, deep and certain: “Even when I am a King.”

Ultra Magnus didn’t close the panel right away. He let the mech squirm, let him stare.

“Your restraint is pathetic,” Ultra Magnus said at last, voice a measured growl, “All you’ve done is stand there and talk about being aroused but without movement or advance. You posture as a threat but act as though your spark has been neutered. You confuse me always for your amusement.”

Predaking’s optics flickered faintly. “If I moved, Commander… you would call it proof of your accusation that I came here for nothing but this.”

“You did,” Ultra Magnus deadpanned, his tone sharpening like a blade. “You orbit me like some obsessed predator. Would you expect me to trust that you have any other intention other than the bed?”

“I linger,” Predaking interrupted, almost gently, “because I enjoy you. Even without the… bed.” His gaze dipped meaningfully, then lifted again without shame.

Ultra Magnus took one slow step forward, deliberately closing the space until his shadow spilled across Predaking’s plating. “Then prove it. Stand this close and think of nothing. Not my intimate area, not my scent, not whatever it is of me you like so much.”

Predaking’s vents worked just a little harder. “You demand impossible things of me.”

“That’s the standard,” Ultra Magnus said simply. His panel clicked shut, sharp as a lock engaging. “If you can’t manage it, you confirm what I’ve said all along.”

Predaking leaned down, so close Ultra Magnus could feel the heat of his breath against his helm, “You tempt me, Commander, and call it a test. I suspect you want me to fail.”

Ultra Magnus didn’t even move or blink, “What do you expect of me, that I want you to win?”

That earned him a low, pleased rumble from the Predacon’s chest.

Predaking, however, has grown to be stronger than his primal instincts regarding Ultra Magnus. Instead of jumping on him (which Ultra Magnus had anticipated of), he took a step closer and tapped a single claw on the Commander's insignia, "One day, I will unveil this spark resonance. You may not accept it yet, but when your spark DOES call for mine... that will be the very moment you understand that I never wanted to win againts you. My dear Commander, it is quite the contrary. I will instead find rejoice in falling, failing, for you."

Ultra Magnus looked at him dead in the optics, baffled, fatigued, and everything confusing all in one, before stepping back.

"Out." 

Predaking smiled, finding himself to the exit,

"As you command, Commander." 

Chapter Text

Predaking had stepped out of that quarter and had not yet encountered such situations for a solid month. He had committed to himself that he would wait as he observe how Ultra Magnus will run his days with his spark thrumming the same resonance as a certain someone's each time one is in need of the other. In Predaking's vision, truly, waiting is a part of his willingness and therefore must not be severed. If this was to bring him closer to the Commander, the King will gladly wait.

By the second month, Predaking had stopped counting the days despite his spark didn’t stop pulsing every now and then. The bond, though muffled by Ultra Magnus’ will, carried faint currents- strain, exhaustion, a relentless rhythm of duty. Ultra Magnus was still there, alive, strong, functional, but not at all reachable. Sometimes, Predaking would even dare as to say Ultra Magnus' existence on the grounds of the planet had sometimes just vanished to thin air, come back, only to vanish again.

Three months, then four. Predaking watched the skies above his territory, above any other metal soil he would expect to see the telltale flash of Ultra Magnus’ transport. However, there was nothing that may indicate that. Patience was Predaking's later-discovered nature, but it was tested. The dragon could wait for seasons or years if needed, but waiting did not quiet the pull of his spark and the longing in his processors.

By the fifth month, even Predaking allowed himself a bitter chuckle. “Impressive,” he muttered, talons drumming against the armrest. His spark throbbed with something between admiration and frustration. For a mech who claimed he is the embodiment of 'restrain', Ultra Magnus was certainly proving it. He would rather dismantle himself piece by piece through overwork than admit the bond tugged at him.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the planet on a Primus-knows-what occasion... Ultra Magnus’ name was etched deeper into records across New Cybertron and beyond. The High Guard had never been so polished, his soldiers marched in tighter lines, his fleet expanded, and his presence in intergalactic negotiations had sharpened to steel. Regions once vulnerable now thrived under rigid protection.

The reports spoke for themselves: Greater army, greater regions, greater protection.

Ultra Magnus buried himself in it. He had to. There was no time or room for weakness. If his spark felt heavy, he ignored it. If his recharge was shallow, he worked through it. He told himself this was productivity instead of avoidance, and that the hollowness gnawing under his armor was simply fatigue. Yet some nights, when his chamber was silent and the datapads finally dimmed, he would feel the faintest throb in his chest. It was the infuriatingly stubborn bond... A whisper he shoved away before it grew into a thought. He would tighten his fists and remind himself: I bow to no one.

And so the months dragged on, Predaking waiting with draconic patience, and Ultra Magnus stacking duty upon duty as though it could bury the truth forever.

But sometines, things just feels like an absurd realisation of a concept Ultra Magnus hardly believes; fate. There must be SOMETHING that brough the King back on his sight... and in all honesty, he had grown very tired of it. Was it something subjective? Absolutely, because at this state Ultra Magnus feels like he wants to blame Predaking's title for latching always onto PREDAKING. That status had allowed Predaking always to disguise his relentless courtship as politics or diplomacy. Were Ultra Magnus' spark not acting up, he honestly would not give two shits about the Predacon's presence.

Today was that time of the year again- the New Cybertronian annual summit, attended by leaders of factions to discuss treaties, make anew if previous ones are not yet sustainable, and exchange updates on regional progress. This also concludes the discussion for active or upcoming concords, which requires a good deal of time of the week. Since the establishment of it, this summit has gradually grown its scope- it is no longer all about factions of war anymore, but instead had shifted into a greater integrity which has more approaches for New Cybertron as a renewed planet. With this, every factions and race have access to increased agreements after years of mentioned tension. 

The summit chamber was all polished steel and cold light, banners of dozens of factions swaying in artificial breeze. Commanders, senators, warlords, kings- they all gathered not as enemies but as custodians of fragile peace. The air carried tension, but not hostility. Predaking entered in full regal stride, crown gleaming, wings arched in restrained display. His presence alone pulled optics. The King of Predacons was no longer merely a war relic, but a political force.

Across the chamber was Ultra Magnus. The Commander was where he always was- at the edge of formality, crisp posture, datapads in hand, soldiers shadowing his every step. The months of work showed: his armor sharper, his presence steadier, his rank practically etched into the air around him. He looked unshakable.

Predaking’s gaze softened with a faint smile, subtle but genuine, crossed his lips. His spark tugged in quiet relief, as if it had spoken "You look well."

Ultra Magnus’ optics flicked up, met his for a fraction of a second. He was stoic, silent... and then he turned and walked away without a word, without a twitch, without even the courtesy of a nod. Predaking exhaled slowly, restraining the deep rumble rising in his chest. He knew better than to follow. Not here, not now. He respected Ultra Magnus enough to hold onto that. Still, the bond stirred, raw after a year of suppression. Predaking let it thrum through him, a quiet reminder that "He is alive, he is here, even if he runs from me, he cannot run from this."

So the dragon took his seat among kings and generals, patient as stone, optics lingering only once more on the stiff shoulders of the blue mech.

The chamber rang with voices with each passing moment. Delegates of numerous factions announced progress, proposed pacts, revised borders, and argued with one another. Predaking was the first of his kind ever to stand in this assembly. When his turn came, he spoke not as a brute, but as a sovereign. His voice was deep, steady, edged with command, "Predacon territories have stabilized. Our borders are firm. We have secured resources without trespass, and I extend assurance that no predatory expansion shall endanger interstellar accord.”

Every word was clean and diplomatic, yet something simmered underneath. When he said stabilized, his optics flicked toward Ultra Magnus. When he said firm borders, his wings twitched. When he said assurance, the bond hummed almost like a touch across the table. Upon witnessing that, Ultra Magnus did not react. He held datapads, took notes, adjusted a projection, his field ice-flat... but inside, his spark was thrumming with a resonance greater than ever. And for that, he had to excuse himself out. Yes, he had to excuse himself out. This 'thrumming' inside his chassis, inside the core of his SPARK, resembles that of a panic attack. This is beyond ridiculous.

Ultra Magnus had to take medicaments he did not even consult to a medic in order to just make that annoying thrumming stop. Ultra Magnus didn't understand, he hought he had escaped by submitting himself into longer missions, back-to-back reports, all his hours consumed in duty. It was somehow an automatic mindset that if he didn’t stop, if he didn’t breathe, then perhaps the bond’s low ache would dull.

But bonds did not dull. They gnawed.

Just as he was regulating his vents, a voice interrupted the quiet air around him, “Ultra Magnus.”

Ultra Magnus froze. He didn’t look up from the ground he's been staring at for a solid 10 minutes, “This is a restricted area.”

Predaking ignored that. He stepped inside, the doors slid shut with a hiss behind him, "Your guards let me through.”

“I gave no clearance.”

“They knew better than to stop me.”

“State your purpose.”

Predaking leaned closer, wings folding sleek, his presence filling the room like a storm crowding the sky, “One year of silence. One year of pain chewing through this bond. Do you think I would let it continue?”

“I had good guesses.” Ultra Magnus said flatly, though his field betrayed a flicker of strain.

The silence between them rang sharp. Ultra Magnus’ digits flexed against the desk. His vents hitched- barely audible, but not to Predaking.

“You cannot keep up.” Predaking said gently, but with a fatigued sigh on the edges.

Ultra Magnus stood abruptly, towering, defensive. “You have no right-”

“I have every right,” Predaking cut in, stepping into his space, just enough to press but not to touch, “The bond gives me that. You can curse it, despise it, drown it beneath duty, but it still pulls. On you. On me. On both of us. Know that this is not possible when one spark truly does not reciprocate.”

Ultra Magnus’ field spiked with anger, shame, and panic tangled into one. He turned sharply away, fists clenching, “I will not be claimed. I am not some tethered beast for you to drag at will.”

“I am not asking you to be.”

"Thus?"

Predaking’s tone softened further, patient, and deliberate, “I am asking you to stop making things hard for yourself."

The silence stretched. Ultra Magnus didn’t move, didn’t speak. His vents came shallow, armor trembling faintly. Until the silence was broken by a response from Ultra Magnus’ voice, it was steel, flat, and final, “Tonight I will set an ideal coordinate. We interface. Then you stop whatever idea you have of claiming me. Get out.”

Predaking went very still. His optics narrowed, talons flexing at his sides. For once, no smile curved his lips, "So that is what you think of me.”

Ultra Magnus didn’t flinch. “That is what you want, is it not?”

Predaking stepped closer, dangerously close. His field pressed, hot, heavy, coiled with something restrained, “Do not confuse me with lesser beasts who rut and forget. If I wanted your frame alone, Ultra Magnus, I would have had it long ago.”

Ultra Magnus’ jaw set, but his optics flickered faintly.

Predaking rumbled with his voice low and raw, his optics burning molten with fire not quite identified, “I know much. I know the ache in this bond. I know the way you bury it beneath protocol until it bleeds through your silence. I know that what I seek cannot be answered by your… charity.” He spat the word like venom.

Ultra Magnus’ fists clenched. “Then what do you seek?”

Predaking leaned in, helm nearly brushing his, voice a whisper sharpened to a blade, “I seek you. The soldier. The broken, furious, impossible commander who refuses to admit he is a being. That is who I claim. Not your frame. You.”

Predaking stepped back, wings unfurling slowly, deliberately. His fierce gaze never left The Commander’s, “Keep your offer. I will not take scraps disguised as indulgence. When you come to me, it will not be as 'duty'. It will be because you can no longer lie to yourself.”

With that, he turned and left.

Chapter Text

Ultra Magnus really thought he was the one indulging Predaking, when in fact Predaking’s pride as King would never allow him to take something framed as pity or scraps. Ultra Magnus was too stubborn and too trained to yield any ground. So, he does the only thing he knows: slam the walls higher, armor thicker, and bury himself in the duties that give him control.

Ultra Magnus remained rooted in place long after Predaking’s wings vanished from view. His fists were still clenched, his vents dragging in steady, shallow pulls.

Rejection.

He was not just rejected, he was dismissed.

He had offered terms, boundaries, structure; things that made sense in his world of command, and Predaking had thrown them aside as though they were beneath him. As though he was beneath him. For a moment, the silence pressed so hard on Ultra Magnus' audials that it gradually rings in his processors and made him think that his spark had cracked again. However, he refused to let it show. He straightened, expression locked into that familiar iron mask. He turned on his heel and walked out of the chamber, out of the shadows of the Predacon. He was in a second back into the blinding light of Iacon’s command halls.

Back to work.

After the summit, he drafted reports, signed orders, reviewed deployments until his optics burned. When the weight pressed too hard on his spark, he trained the Guard until their joints trembled and their plating sang from overuse. It was the purest “I don’t give a fuck” energy he could muster by burying the fact that, deep inside, he gave far too much of one.

Meawnwhile, Predaking once the summit was over, flew right back to the Predacon dominion without further objections of what the summit had concluded. Sitting on his throne, he huffed a long exhale into his palm, massaging the bridge of his optics. The accusation and the offer had stung. For a few breems, his temper had threatened to rise, wings twitching with that old predatory instinct to dominate. But he’d let it settle slowly, patiently.

He thought about it once more... and while it may left a sort of bitter taste in his mouth, Predaking isn’t stupid- he sees through the Commander’s 'protocol walls' and knows what they’re made of: duty, pride, and a fear of...something dangerously close to connection. Predaking may be offended, but he’s not threatened by it, not even when Ultra Magnus lashes out or tries to reduce their bond to mechanical duty. To him, it’s somewhat reassuring, because walls mean Ultra Magnus is protecting something. If he’s guarding this hard, it means he’s not looking eslewhere.

That hypothesis made him smile, albeit with utter annoyance.

Ultra Magnus had always been so rigid and brittle with his walls of protocol and duty. But to Predaking, those walls weren’t obstacles. They were proof. Ultra Magnus has always been that mech who defines himself as nothing but soldier, commander, Wrecker, second-in-command of the Prime. He is a mech so afraid of being seen as anything else. He is afraid that if he set the armor down, if he let the codes go, there would be nothing left.

And yet, Predaking knew better because he had seen what no one else did; he had seen Ultra Magnus’ jaw slacken under his kiss, had heard his gasps stutter when his spark pulled too close, had felt the heat of his vents and the desperate grip of hands that swore they’d never cling.

That was why he could wait. That was why he felt secure.

There was no third parties or rivals between them. Only Predaking knew what it meant to break those walls down, piece by piece, in the privacy of a nest. Only he knew the difference between Ultra Magnus, the iron Commander… and Ultra Magnus, the trembling sparkbond who cursed his own needs while arching into them anyway. It made his lips curl. That mask and rigidity were infuriating, but it was also intoxicating as it meant the truth of Ultra Magnus was his alone.

An offense like what had occured would never make Predaking hate Ultra Magnus. He would never tire of it. The difficulty, the resistance, and the pride all fed into the same certainty that the bond, no matter how it sparked and strained, belonged to them.

Back to Ultra Magnus, he had worked himself to death again. Of course he did. He didn’t fight the bond, not openly, but he let “mission priority” swallow it whole. He set High Guard deployments to fringe sectors with campaign of efficiency so thorough it looked almost manic. Reports were filed before they were even due, fleets sharpened to an edge, and every troop drilled until they gleamed.

Predaking could feel the distance in his own spark like a taut cord pulled too far. it was an absolute withdrawal. Predaking sat on the edge of his nesting ground, wings half-folded, talons digging into the stone as his helm tipped back with a groan. Withdrawal always came at a cost- for both of them. Ultra Magnus would feel it as heaviness in his plating and a restlessness in his vents. He’d blame stress, duty, and exhaustion as he denies the bond had any hand in it. And Predaking… well, his own spark ached like fire coals banked too long.

But fine. Fine. He'll pay the price.

Because he would dare gamble that eventually, Ultra Magnus’ rigid pride would bend. And when he did... when he finally cracked under his own impossible standards, he wouldn’t run to anyone else.

Predaking smiled faintly from the thought, bitter and fond.

A contrast to what is drawn on the Commander's lips.

The Commander had repeatedly wrecked himself in intergalactic missions RIGHT after that summit. He was back home to New Cybertron with platings no longer blue but GREY. His frame was dented everywhere, right optic heavily damaged, left leg joint ruptured, a pole penetrated through his upper torso, but he was still standing like a statue. Even Ratchet had to slam his helmet because Ultra Magnus was on the verge of fainting but his stubborn ass KEEPS ON STANDING. He was admitted to long medical care.

The Iacon medical bay was thick with disinfectant and the sharp sting of welders. Ratchet’s vents flared in barely restrained fury as he slammed his fist against Magnus’ helm.

“Absolutely unwise. You’re running on fumes and still trying to stand like a paragon?!”

Ultra Magnus, dented and grey where his armor should have gleamed blue, tilted slightly but remained upright. His ruined optic shuttered, and his voice came out low, gravelly, but stubborn as ever.

“Protocols dictates that High Guard must not show weakness.”

“Protocol can kiss my aft!” Ratchet barked. He jabbed a wrench at Ultra Magnus’ chestplate. “You’re half-dead and your spark casing is screaming. Do not think I can’t hear it. Lay down before I weld you to the berth myself.”

At last, his knees buckled, and Ultra Magnus crumpled- not gracefully, not willingly, but inevitably. He listened because it was Ratchet. He simply has his own... personal respect toward the older mech. Soon, medics rushed in, stabilizing him as Ratchet cursed under his vents.

Meanwhile, far from Iacon, Predaking paced his throne chamber like a caged beast. His claws scraped deep furrows in the stone handrest, wings twitching with agitation. Upon feeling Ultra Magnus' presence again but in that state, the bond thrums as if it was telling him that Ultra Magnus' spark is screaming to be resonated but... he simply didn't allow it. The bond itself was raw, pulling at Predaking as if demanding for presence. His spark thrashed in his chest like a live wire, and Ultra Magnus’ agony was bleeding through the link. 

“Gods damn it, Ultra Magnus,” Predaking growled, his voice deep enough to rattle the pillars. His talons flexed, gripping the throne’s armrests until metal shrieked. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

But he's patient- desperately holding to that as he remains in his throne. He resisted every primal urge to fly there and take Ultra Magnus, to stop the thrumming between the two sparks that had been equally exhaust both. Predaking preferred to wait... because press any further, Ultra Magnus will only withdraw more and more. This point should be close. Very close. He just needs to be wise and patient for just a tad bit more.

Another month was what it cost to fully recallibrate Ultra Magnus' frame back to how it should be. He was borderline suicidal by always throwing himself into deadly missions just so he could escape. It even occured to him that if he had died in one of the missions, it would be better because that way, his death was for New Cybertron as a soldier. That was one noble thing he'd want for himself. But alas, spending one month in the medical bay and after loooooong lectures by Ratchet, he was forced to admit that it was unwise-

"This is NEW Cybertron, Ultra Magnus. There is no war. Optimus Prime sacrificed himself so that NONE OF US shall even have the need to do so again. Yet here we are, with you and your... whatever the hell your objective is."

"Doctor, the peace we have right now is fragile. I do not fear death if it means-"

"Ep- yep- yep! Enough. I am tired of trying to talk some sense into you, so you just sit here and take a contemplation of what Optimus would want for you."

"..."

"Go on. Think of his face. I can only see him frown from the Allspark."

That somehow got to Ultra Magnus. Ratchet left shortly, leaving the Commander to think about it as if he were on a time-out. Ultra Magnus sighed and did sit there for 10 solid minutes. Then he stood up, exit the medbay, and just... walks. He didn't have a destination in mind, he just walks around town. He stopped by The Prime's memorial statue, visited the archive halls, sat nearby a rich energon lake... Iacon felt, and is peaceful. But other regions outside the capital? Ultra Magnus was drawn to walk and find out how the regions feel like.

He walked and walked, contemplating.

Until a presence was felt. He didn't know how long it had followed, but he dared not to look back. He did not need to. He knew, he just... chose to not acknowledge it, stubbornly trying to withdraw even when he's already in the brink of collapse.

"..."

"..."

Predaking did not say anything, but he just followed. The vast land of the outskirts of Praxus blew winds as the two mech kept on walking; one on the front, one following. Finally, Predaking walked a bit faster and gently placed a servo on Ultra Magnus' shoulder. It made him stop. It made both of them stop. Ultra Magnus did not slap it away- thank Primus. But... the air was so thick it nearly choked him. Slowly but surely... Predaking inched closer and closer, and their sparks resonated. The painful thrums eased, the dull ache in their cores simmered down, and the tension on Ultra Magnus' frame loosened instead of the opposite. By proximity alone.

Ultra Magnus hated this... hated all of this. He wished he could lash out, but at the moment he never felt so powerless. Was it because he just got out of his intensive medical care? Was the comfortable wind of Praxus made him relax? Was it Predaking's presence? He tried his very hardest not to think about it. 

"Ultra Magnus." 

"..."

"Are you alright?"

Hell no. No- yes? He didn't know. Everything is confusing. His processors wanted to snap and bark, but his spark had never been more... present. Present and alive. Alive and well. Well and peaceful.

"..."

Ultra Magnus had no words. It died in his throats.

Predaking was gentle, slow. His chassis one mere centimeter away from contact to Ultra Magnus' back. 

"Will you allow me?"

"..."

Predaking walked, moved to place himself in front of Ultra Magnus instead. He cannot see the Commander's optics as his helm was dipped down, but he waited. He waited... and finally, FINALLY, Ultra Magnus spoke,

"I owe you an apology."

"For what?"

"For the offense of the offer. You are a King, and I shall respect that as it is."

"No, Ultra Magnus. I do not want to be a King in front of you."

The words died out again. Ultra Magnus felt like his throat was about to disassemble itself from the entirety of his limbs. This is absurd, the air around them is absurd, it-

"Ultra Magnus... I will not accept any kind of apology or promise or anything if your objective is to withdraw. No, my dear Commander. I will not force you to reciprocate, I never did. But this was never my doing."

It was an inevitable bond. Love before neither even comprehend what it is, a 'contract' of two almost independent-like beings inside their chests. And neither can really... shut them down from the other.

Predaking mustered himself to press a soft peck on Ultra Magnus' helm. He flinched, but no words came out. Next, a nuzzle on the side of his audials. He trembled slightly, but not pulling away. Predaking gently knelt down to see his face, pressing his own on it... nuzzling his faceplates gently. It was not even a kiss yet, it was simply a contact. By the time he actually put his lips on his, Ultra Magnus’ vents dragged in sharp, ragged bursts. The kiss was sweet, sweeter than it had any right to be, sweeter than Ultra Magnus’ pride could tolerate. His spark throbbed against his chassis like it was trying to leap free, and he hated how much relief washed through him each time he parted for another breath, only to be caught again by the dragon’s mouth.

The tongue- Primus, that cursed predacon tongue. It pressed past his lips, slow, tracing the inside of his mouth with an obscene gentleness. It slid along the seams of his dental plating, flicked against the ridges of his intake walls and sending a shudder down the Commander's entire frame. Ultra Magnus’ servo clenched at Predaking’s arm, not to pull him closer, but not pushing away either. His helm tilted back, optics fluttering dangerously close to shutting to enjoy it, shame burning in his core.

When Ultra Magnus’ vents stuttered on the next drag of air, when his grip on Predaking’s arm only tightened instead of releasing, Predaking smiled against his lips, knowing the Commander’s body had already betrayed every protest his voice could muster. Unexpectedly, Ultra Magnus allowed himself to inch closer into Predaking's larger frame, as if he could hide there, as if he was afraid the world would see him like this. 

Oh, Commander... he has no idea how his body language made the King's spark twist in adoration and worship.

Chapter Text

The Predacon Dominion was not far with the speed of flight of the King. Under his wings was the muted Ultra Magnus, who seemed like he just wants to vanish into a void. He is utterly confused and no matter how hard he tries to fight againts or reject Predaking again like he would normally would, he just cannot. Not this time. Pinned onto the King's berth once more as he was kissed; his helm, his face, his lips, his throat, all with foreign gentleness... Ultra Magnus' vents rasped harshly. The dragon’s shadow drowned him out, wings fanned wide as if he was ready to shield him from the cosmos itself. That kiss against his spark chamber left heat radiating through his plating. It was a violation and a balm all at once.

“I will not yield to this."

Predaking pressed harder, his mouth trailing up the seam of Ultra Magnus’ chest, slow and deliberate. The rumble in his throat vibrated straight through his frame.

“You already are yielding. Not with words, but with your spark and every shiver you try to choke down. Do you think I cannot feel it?”

Ultra Magnus’ helm turned, refusing to meet his gaze. His denta ground together, his processor screaming deny, deny, deny, but his spark betrayed him with every uneven cycle. Predaking leaned in closer, optics burning, voice dropping to a whisper laced with both tenderness, “You are not my prisoner, Ultra Magnus. You are my bonded. You are never anything less."

Ultra Magnus shut his optics tight. His servo twitched, caught between shoving Predaking away and clutching at him. His plating rattled faintly as if every piece of him warred against itself, “You cannot simply devour everything I am. I was forged for duty, not this.”

“You are duty, but you are also mine. The two are not separate. They never were.”

Ultra Magnus’ optics snapped open, flickering, raw and vulnerable in a way no soldier should ever look. He hated it and hated himself for it, but Predaking only cupped his helm, claws gentle against the steel, and whispered against his forehead ridge, “Even if you fight me for centuries, I will wait. I will fight back, and I will win. Because this-"

The King's servo was pressed against Ultra Magnus’ chestplate, over his spark, “-was never meant to be denied.”

That single declaration hit Ultra Magnus like a truck.

It reminded him of Optimus.

He can project Optimus saying that, despite if there were ever any chance of seeing his Prime again, Optimus would NEVER say that. But it has been planted into Ultra Magnus' processors long before the war started. It was an ache he barely even remembered, a wound his own standards had inflicted on himself.

A flashback had crossed over Ultra Magnus' optics for the briefest moment, but he remembered every scenery. He remembered his times in the academy, remembered the face of Orion Pax before he was pointed a Prime, remembered the start of the war. Throughout each memory, he remembered not only what his optics had seen, but also what his spark had felt. He remembered the feeling of desperation he doesn't even know where it came from.

For centuries, even since their youthful days, no matter how much Ultra Magnus fights out THERE, trying to somehow still prove himself (despite already being plenty), Orion, Optimus, had been waiting. By merely waiting he is already winning. Optimus didn't have to do ANYTHING to win againts Ultra Magnus in every way he sees worth. Yes, people respect Ultra Magnus, but out of fear... while people respect Optimus because they love him, drawn to him, even when he says nothing.

And worse? It cannot be denied. Bonded by blood, he and Optimus' sparks had shared a fragment of something whole. Bonded by an ancient ritual of 'mate' by a Predacon King, his spark is now tied to another in a way he sees illogic. And in both, Ultra Magnus had lost. He had been defeated by the two bots his spark pays its attention to. He had lost and had became a shadow carrying the reputation of 'second best', also become a prize claimed by a King.

This was never about jealousy, this was about sovereignity.

Ultra Magnus' processors whirred hard inside.

With this, the designation 'Ultra Magnus' had never been, and will never be, independent. There will be no way of addressing that name without linking it to the late Prime's, or to the Predacon King.

That, to Ultra Magnus, equals to just clarifying what the darkest corners of his processors had long been saying under all those layers of work; that he had never been enough.

Ultra Magnus' spark SANK. He shrinked even smaller. He hides his face.

It was too much.

Ultra Magnus’ vents shuddered, his plating locked tight against itself as if sheer will could contain the unraveling of his spark. The memory of Optimus burned through his processor, cruel in its gentleness. That kind of patience; unyielding, inevitable, was a battle Ultra Magnus had never won- not against Optimus, not against himself. And now, faced with this beast who carried the same inevitability in his frame, in his kiss, in the way his massive weight covered him like a throne taking its rightful seat...

He couldn’t take it.

He turned his helm aside, optics dim, voice a rasp, “Leave me. You’ve won enough.”

It wasn’t a concession, but rather a crack. The kind of break that bleeds more than shatters. He didn’t even realize his hands had stopped pushing, didn’t notice how small he’d made himself. Predaking stilled. For once, the predator’s instincts warred with something gentler. He’d expected fire, resistance, even another blade to his throat. What he got was a surrender of a mech who didn’t know how to surrender without dying a little.

“Ultra Magnus…” Predaking’s tone dropped, rough, guttural, but softer than any battlefield growl.

He lowered his helm, pressing his lips into Magnus’ shoulder joint, an intimate, possessive gesture that carried no mockery. His vents ghosted heat over the Commander’s neck cable, “You mistake me,” he murmured. “This is not about winning.”

His claws flexed against the floor on either side of the Commander’s helm, carving into the cushions, anchoring himself so he didn’t crush the smaller mech entirely.

“You think yourself a trophy, or a shadow." His vents deepened, almost a rumble, "But I have no interest in Prime’s legend, nor in your fear of it."

Ultra Magnus clenched his jaw, it only burned worse because it sounded true.

Predaking lifted his head, his amber optics piercing straight through the Commander’s defenses, “I will not leave you. Not in years, not in centuries, not in millenias. Even if you crawl into the deepest pit and brand me devil a thousand times.”

“..."

“But tell me, Ultra Magnus... when your spark trembles like this, when your frame speaks to me even when your lips do not, does it not feel like you’re the one holding me here?”

For a long, taut moment, only the sound of venting filled the chamber. Ultra Magnus’ voice had sunk into something he hadn’t meant to reveal; bare, frayed, and pleading. His fists trembled against the cushions, not in defiance, but in desperation.

“Just… fuck me.”

The words came out broken, bitter. A last defense that wasn’t defense at all. Predaking froze. His claws, which had been braced around Ultra Magnus’ helm, tightened ever so slightly beneath them. His optics narrowed, not in anger, but in pain.

“No,” he said, low and firm, the sound vibrating through Ultra Magnus’ plating. “Not like this. I will not take you as a punishment you levy against yourself.”

“Please.”

His frame twitched under the Predacon’s nest, his vents struggling as if he could burn out every thought, every memory, Optimus’ patience, his own shadow of inadequacy, and the humiliating sweetness of that kiss. Anything but this suffocating spiral.

“Ultra Magnus.”

“Predaking, just fuck me. So hard… until I cannot afford to think of anything else.”

“Please.”

The word came out like a crack in metal. It was not an order or a command, it was a plea.

Ultra Magnus- the immovable, unyielding Commander, was begging.

He clung to Predaking’s armor with trembling strength, face hidden in the thick, warm cabling of his neck. Every vent cycle shuddered like he was trying to keep himself from breaking apart completely.

“Please.” Softer this time. Almost a whimper. As if he thought repetition would wear down the wall of restraint holding Predaking back.

For a moment, the dragon’s spark howled. Every beastly and primal instinct demanded that he surrender, that he give Ultra Magnus what he begged for, that he claim him so completely the Commander would forget his own name.

But that would not be what they both deserve.

Predaking’s optics dimmed. He pressed his massive servo against the back of Ultra Magnus’ helm, talons curving just so, holding him steady without forcing him closer. His voice broke low, weighted with both fury and ache:

“You want me to take you, consume you, and silence every thought until nothing remains but exhaustion and release.”

Ultra Magnus said nothing. He just pressed harder against him, grip desperate with silent confirmation. Predaking’s spark roared in protest at what he had to say.

"Please.”

Predaking shut his optics for a long moment, pain etched into every line of his frame. He leaned down, pressing his helm gently against Ultra Magnus’, his weight enclosing him without crushing him.

“It wounds me more than battle ever could,” he murmured, voice low as a vow, “to refuse you when you beg me. But, my dear Ultra Magnus… I would rather suffer your hatred than keep you chained in this kind of escape.”

But the King’s spark couldn’t bear the sight of Ultra Magnus trembling like that. He couldn’t bear to let his mate think he was being left unanswered.

Predaking’s vents hissed, sharp and ragged. Then he moved. He rolled the blue mech fully beneath him, frame caging without crushing, and kissed him with the force of a storm with no hesitation or restraint. It was deep, desperate kiss that stole his vents, that forced Ultra Magnus’ thoughts to burn away in the heat of contact. His claws mapped every ridge of Ultra Magnus’ armor, leaving sharp, grounding trails of sensation.

The Commander gasped against him, optics fluttering open and shut, his frame arching involuntarily into the touch. He wanted to curse him for not giving him the easy out of overload. He was giving him something worse, something Ultra Magnus had always avoided: intimacy.

The dragon broke from his lips only to trail down, pressing his fanged mouth along Magnus’ jaw, his throat cables, his collar plating. Each bite was deliberate, each mark a reminder that "You are here. You are mine. You are not allowed to vanish into nothingness."

Ultra Magnus’ vents stuttered. His servos trembled where they gripped Predaking’s shoulders, and his voice came out strangled, "Predaking- Don't-"

“Don’t what?” the dragon rumbled, pressing his helm to Ultra Magnus’ spark chamber, “Don’t remind you you’re alive? Don’t let you feel anything but the weight you carry? Don’t love you when you’ve forgotten how to love yourself?”

Ultra Magnus froze. His optics flickered violently, as if his processor couldn’t reconcile the words with the reality of being comforted. Predaking lifted his helm just enough to look down at him, “I will not fuck you tonight. But I will not leave you needing, either."

Then he claimed his mouth again; hard, hungry, endless, while his massive frame wrapped around him in a nest that felt more like a fortress than a prison. For once, Ultra Magnus couldn’t think, couldn’t calculate, couldn’t escape.

And Primus help him, he hated how much he needed it.

Predaking dragged his mouth lower, a slow pilgrimage across armor seams, sensitive cabling, vent-plates that made Ultra Magnus twitch when fangs scraped just enough to remind him they were there. He wasn’t rushing. He wasn’t indulging some primal rut, but instead was worshipping and savoring as though every square inch of Ultra Magnus’ frame was a battlefield he intended to conquer with patience rather than brute force.

By the time he reached Ultra Magnus’ interface array, the Commander was trembling outright, vents pulling ragged, his fists clenched so hard his servos creaked. His stoicism was bleeding out, stripped layer by layer with every glide of that predator’s tongue. Predaking hummed low in his chest, the vibration traveling straight into the Commander’s armor as his tongue traced the edges of the panel. Ultra Magnus hissed through clenched denta, his plating flaring open against his will, exposing delicate, trembling ports.

Predaking's tongue extended, long and sinuous, curling around Ultra Magnus' node and lapping it in one fluid motion that made the Commander jolt. “I will not break you, but I will make you remember."

Then he descended.

The dragon’s tongue was not like a mech’s; longer, thicker, textured in ways Ultra Magnus’ systems weren’t built to endure. It coiled around his valve, gliding with impossible precision, teasing pressure where ports were most sensitive. The Commander arched despite himself, a strangled sound leaving his intake, one servo flying up to grab Predaking’s helm crest as if to push him away- except his grip faltered, tightened, and pulled.

He was already undone. A year of denial, almost two of burying every want beneath layers of duty and exile, and now his body was betraying him in violent tremors, his vents whistling like he’d run a war campaign.

Predaking devoured every reaction. He licked and curled and squeezed, coaxing Uktra Magnus’ systems into overdrive, his talons steady on Ultra Magnus’ thighs, pinning him down only just to remind him that this is no duty. The Commander’s legs shook, his optics shuttered, his helm knocking back against the berth. Predaking only hummed again, sending another wave of vibration through his protoform, and Ultra Magnus choked with a half curse and a half broken moan as his frame convulsed under the dragon’s relentless mouth.

"H-hhmn- mmn- mngh-"

Predaking’s tongue pressed inside his valve, long and unrelenting, stroking walls that had never known anything like it. He lapped and flexed, swirling where Magnus clenched tight, savoring every spasm. Ultra Magnus’ vents spiraled out of rhythm, his frame trembling uncontrollably. Processor overclocked as he couldn’t keep up with the firework bursts going off every time Predaking curled deeper, found another sensitive ridge, pressed harder.

His mouth hung open, silent at first, then broken sounds slipped out, shameful and soft. He tried to swallow them back, but they came anyway, ragged and shaking.

“Ah- hah--!” he gasped, optics dimming as fluid pooled at the corners.

Predaking purred against him, sending vibrations right into the slick heat of Magnus’ valve, making him jolt and convulse. The dragon’s optics were molten, locked on the sight of a commander unraveling.

“You hold the planet together with those hands.” Predaking rumbled low, tongue thrusting again, claiming every quiver of Ultra Magnus’ valve walls. "Here, right now, allow me be the one to hold you."

Ultra Magnus’ helm tipped back, tears finally escaping, tracing down the ridges of his faceplates. His grip faltered, then tightened again, as if letting go would mean falling apart completely. When overload crashed into him, it wasn’t clean. It wasn’t neat. It tore through him, sparks popping at the edges of his vision, his entire frame locking as the bond between them flared so bright it was almost painful. Predaking didn’t stop right away. He drank down every shudder, every twitch, letting Ultra Magnus ride it out until he finally collapsed back against the berth, plating slack, vents heaving like bellows.

Only then did the dragon lift his helm, mouth wet, optics blazing but softened with something dangerous: affection. He leaned down, brushing his lips against Ultra Magnus’ helm with infuriating gentleness.

“Not escape,” he whispered, vent hot against Ultra Magnus’ audial. “-but a mere release. Now, rest, my dear Commander. You require it more than you know."

Chapter Text

Ultra Magnus’s optics flickered after his overload. His helm felt heavy... his vents uneven, and it was strange how a single overload managed to completely undo him like this. Limp on the berth of the King, Ultra Magnus with vents uneven, ran his lips to speak as though it has a mind of its own, "Why are you like this?”

"Like what?”

“…Obsessed. Persistent.”

The silence hung for a moment. Then Predaking let out a deep, rumbling laugh which was quiet, soft and warm- it seemed out of place in his great jagged frame. He lowered his helm, brushing his lips against Ultra Magnus’s waistline, savoring the sharp intake it earned, “Adorable, Commander. You speak as though it is a puzzle. You demand answers as if it can be charted, reasoned, boxed and filed like laws.”

He dragged the points of his claws ever so lightly along Ultra Magnus’s abdomen, “I am ‘like this’ because you exist. You walk into a room, straight-backed and cold-eyed and the air bends around you. Your silence commands more than armies, and your dignity tempts my very instincts.”

Slowly, carefully, he dipped his head down with so much bulk and weight, but every motion was deliberate. His lips brushed against the plating of Ultra Magnus’s forehead, lingering there in a kiss that was nothing like the feral fire of their premier clashes. It was a kiss that was so reverent it resembles a vow. There was a long pause after... and the air felt strangely warm.

“Why?” Ultra Magnus asked.

Predaking stilled, lips hovering near his helm, optics opening to meet the commander’s. Ultra Magnus’ voice was low, iron-clad as ever, but carried something fractured, “Why. I am not appealing in terms of… sentimentality.”

Predaking neither glare nor sneer. It was not even the neutral mask he wore so easily, it was instead something rarer resembling unsettled crease in his composure. Hell, it was utter confusion hidden so deep that Predaking only caught it because he had studied him. There, lived in every contour of that guarded frame, was sorrow. Yes, sorrow, like the idea itself pained the Commander; that affection had fallen on him, of all mechs, as if he had no rightful claim to it.

Predaking did not laugh this time. His smile was softer and tempered. He shifted, lowering his helm so their optics leveled, his voice a growl wrapped in tenderness, “You think sentiment does not suit you.” A claw traced carefully the curve of Ultra Magnus’s waist again, lingering at the narrow point, “But it is precisely because you are made of steel and restraint, that when you allow even a flicker of warmth, it feels like fire. To me, it is irresistible.”

His claws gently touched the Commander's side of face, letting the silence answer before words could.

"I love you, Ultra Magnus. Is it so puzzling?"

Ultra Magnus froze beneath him. The Commander’s frame, always so straight and perfectly ironclad, shrank. His shoulders was pulled in, waistline drawn tighter, chin tilting down as if to shield the emotion flickering behind his optics. For once, Ultra Magnus as warrior, leader, unyielding spine of the Autobots, looked smaller.

He did not pull away. He did not even have the capability to break the contact of their helms pressed together. He simply diminished, as though this was a weight he had no training for and no protocol to meet. But then he bit his dentaes before locking his optics to Predaking's again. It was a glare, but it was caught between hostility laced with sorrow and the terrifying possibility of acceptance.

"I will not to be claimed."

"No need for status."

"I will not be a pleasant company."

"Your mere presence is a gift."

"I have never been trained to be this."

"It need not any training."

"I will not be anything one would expect from a mate."

"You're perfect."

They talk in whispers as if the thin air was witness. Ultra Magnus had nothing to say, he was dumbfounded, speechless, confused... and Predaking let him settle his mind in his embrace. The night passed with a silence none really put a digit to, and Ultra Magnus had stayed through the entire night. He would sometimes let his guard down and sleep, only to wake up, think... sleep again... like he's feeding his insomnia. However, Predaking need not to do anything else but stay. He dared not close his optics. Right now, all that is needed was silence for it could heal things that are unspoken.

Morning approached without announcement, pale light seeping through reinforced panes, brushing over armor polished to quiet brilliance. Ultra Magnus had shifted reluctantly but with deliberate slowness, his shoulders brushing against Predaking’s warmth one last time before rising. The chamber had suddenly grown too large, too bright, too real,  and the weight of a reality he could not deny had pressed down upon him like gravity.

Ultra Magnus had stared at the far wall for a time, optics dim, counting nothing, thinking of everything he had denied himself. Slowly, imperceptibly, he had turned toward the dragon whose body heat had always threatened to undo him, whose presence had always unbalanced the carefully measured layers of his existence. Without command or consciousness, Ultra Magnus had allowed a fraction of his own heat to reach across the divide.

Predaking had not said anything- he rarely needed to for his quiet presence was enough to carve space around the blue mech. It alone was enough to mark it as safe despite the fire still lurking in every fiber of his primal form. Yet in that quietness, Ultra Magnus had felt the promise of constancy, the weight of someone willing to wait, patient as the stars themselves. The subtle rise and fall of Predaking’s chest, the slide of wings folded like a blade at his back, and the ghost of a smirk that tugged at the corner of Ultra Magnus’ processor behaved as if daring him to feel- not fight, not resist, but to just to exist in that shared space. 

Predaking had lifted his optics just once, molten amber meeting steel-gray in a gaze heavy with tenderness and something deeper. No, it was not triumphant or possessive, but merely watchful. The Commander had to turn away, clearing his throat, reasserting himself even as he knew despite deep beneath the surface of circuits and instinct, that control was no longer a weapon he could wield.

He dressed mechanically, plating sliding into place with the sound of hydraulics singing along worn seams. Each of his movement was deliberate, yet were reminders of the nearness of someone who had once been chaos incarnate and was now, somehow, part of the unspoken order of his existence. When he finally opened the door, the amber glow had dimmed behind him. He was turning to leave Predaking where he had always been; patient, waiting, untouchable in the way one cannot grasp without acknowledgment.

"I must return."

"Of course, Ultra Magnus."

"...I request that you will not come unannounced. And... not to overwhelm me. I am not..."

It was adorable how the Commander seems like he ran out of words, or rather... seems like he cannot string the correct ones together representing what he feels and thinks. In all honesty, he himself doesn't know. Predaking smiled and rose from his seat, stepping closer to Ultra Magnus to simply put his servo on his shoulder.

"Very well. This shall be mentioned only between you and me, and no other. I will not tresspass what your laws had set. You have your duties to attend to as much as I do mine, but do remember that you are welcomed in this chamber, this Dominion, whenever it seem fit. And,"

The King placed the servo that was on Ultra Magnus' shoulder to the Commander's which was holding the door open. It, with the smaller servo underneath it, pushed the handle ever-so-gently until the door is back closed with a soft click, "Please do notify me if ever you needed anything. Any at all." he said with a soft peck to the back of the Commander's helm. It was only done right after the door had shut. Ultra Magnus was yet again, frozen in place... and he found himself unable to respond with anything except by a slight nod.

Back to Iacon, specifically to the tower where Ultra Magnus stationed to work... The corridors were empty. The halls were quiet. The dawn light stretched over the stone like a promise, and Ultra Magnus’ mind worked with a precision it had not known it could spare for anything so intangible. He would calculate schedules, missions, duties, yet would always return to the memory of the night before. From dawn till dusk, the remembered weight of warmth against his side, the slow acceptance that had finally settled, and the understanding that what had begun as a wound, had transformed into something that would guide him into the future he could not run from.  He had now realized with a cautious and an almost fearful precision that he could not run from this. There would simply no point in doing so.

In time, the resistance dissolved not with spectacle but with silence. It was a quiet unbecoming of the soldier that Ultra Magnus had once been, as if the war and every discipline it demanded had finally found its end not in treaties or victory, but in the simple act of being allowed to rest. When their sparks resonated in encounters, the measured gait of the Commander's boots had softened by the pulse of the one whose presence no longer unsettled him, but anchored him instead.

He had not realized when the walls of his restraint had begun to melt. Perhaps on that first night of quiet beside the dragon’s frame, perhaps in the moments that followed, when he found that his own spark no longer throbbed in protest but hummed in synchrony. It had waited through all his denial simply to find this unguarded calm that no order could command. Predaking never asked for confessions, he never demanded words. He simply was warm as a pulse beneath the armor of a world too long cold. Ultra Magnus, in turn, found that he no longer needed language to bridge the distance between them.

Sometimes they would sit beneath the high arching windows that framed the chamber's horizon, and the Commander would let himself exhale of the slow release of one who had learned to trust the air he shared with another. The King would glance toward him, wings drawn close in the shape of embrace. Ultra Magnus would feel that gaze settle like a touch.

On some nights when the corridors slept, the Commander no longer sought escape from his own unrest. He would find the dragon’s quarters by instinct, each step guided by the faint vibration that called from his core to another’s. It was a pull neither magnetic nor mystical, but something older, something written into the very rhythm of their sparks. There, in the amber quiet, Predaking would meet him with that same composure, that patient knowing, and Ultra Magnus would allow himself to be drawn in.

In that stillness, in that shared, tempered peace, the Commander who once stood against the world finally allowed himself to feel. He allowed himself to rest without guilt and to let his spark, for the first time in eons, beat not for duty. Though he would never say it aloud even to himself, when the dragon’s warmth pressed steady against his frame and the low rumble of contentment filled the air like a promise, Ultra Magnus knew- utterly and irreversibly, that this was alright.

Chapter Text

The day had been full of meetings, reports, and all the routines which were not new stories. These never did overwhelm Ultra Magnus, but after such a day he somehow still has the capacity to overthink why Predaking had settled for him. That idea alone was still ridiculous, despite the fact that he is now learning to accept it. Tonight was one of those ones in which the Commander's spark would thrum and express its... needs to be resonated, again. This usually comes in a three-week range, based on his personal research. Ultra Magnus was not fond of informal meetings, but he is learning to give himself some needed rests.

Landing on a secret airfield Predaking had constructed himself on the Predacon Dominion- just a bit further back from one of its borders, Ultra Magnus had his airship parked. Predaking had been waiting- that beast with the more-sensitive sensors obviously could sense the blue mech's arrival. Predaking greeted him with a faint smile, and Ultra Magnus said nothing. The Commander walked off his airship and past Predaking, where they walk towards a specialized chamber for them, not far from the airfield. This looks like diplomacy, and that is how Ultra Magnus oreferred it to be; discreet, even without witnesses.

Locking the door behind him, Predaking moved closer and put his servo on Ultra Magnus' shoulder, a light kiss landing on top of his head, "Are you alright?"

It was just a question automatically launched just from the Commander's salty face. But then, instead of an answer, Predaking was surprised by a sudden turn and a harsh pull by the neck. Ultra Magnus' frame moved before his logic could intercept- leaning in, lips brushing against Predaking’s in the barest, softest kiss despite the force of his pull. Ironic enough, it was nothing commanding. It was just a touch, unweighted.

When he pulled back, his optics were steady, but the tremor in his vents betrayed him. He stared, as though trying to process the gravity of what he’d just done, “…Would you not regret,” he murmured, voice low, almost defensive, “wasting your devotion… to someone who may not keep up with that?”

The words hung heavy and fragile. It wasn’t a dismissal, it wasn’t even defiance, but it was instead a doubt. It was a quiet dread of a mech who only knew how to give everything to duty, but never to intimacy. Predaking’s optics softened, molten heat dimming to something almost tender. He leaned forward again, slow, deliberate, resting his brow back against Ultra Magnus’. His voice was a rumble, calm and certain, as if no force in the universe could move it, “You are not waste. I will not regret.”

Ultra Magnus’s intake hitched. His lips parted with no words coming. He only looked at him, optics flickering as if searching for a crack, some flaw, something that would make this easier to reject, but there was none. There was only that unshakable devotion, staring back at him.

Predaking didn’t hesitate. The moment Ultra Magnus leaned back, lips parting in that hesitant question, he caught his mouth again- firmer, deeper, answering with certainty what words never could. Ultra Magnus stiffened at first, then… yielded. His servo, still clutching onto Predaking’s neck armor, curled a little tighter with the two sparks resonating. It should have ended there. One kiss. But then another came... and another. They were slow and unhurried, each one heavier and more laden with the weight of what neither of them had dared say until now.

Ultra Magnus’s vents shuddered between touches with a soft tremble he couldn’t suppress. His field flickered, guarded but cracking in places, and Predaking drank in every flicker like treasure. The Commander who never bent was here, beneath him on the berth, kissing back with the quiet, dangerous sincerity of someone who didn’t yet know how to stop. By the third-fourth-fifth kiss, Ultra Magnus’s lips parted just barely, and Predaking let out a low, rumbling sound deep in his chest. It was not dominance or conquest, just awe. 

Predaking dove in again.

Ultra Magnus stiffened as Predaking’s mouth deepened the kiss. A flicker of tongue- new, strange, overwhelming- made him jolt as though struck by static. Ultra Magnus tried; tentative, awkward. His lips parted too fast, his tongue moving with all the finesse of someone navigating an uncharted battlefield. For Ultra Magnus, it was a battlefield. Every processor in his helm screamed and address this as something unfamiliar, vulnerable, exposed.

Predaking, though, was patience incarnate. His massive claws cradled Ultra Magnus’s helm, guiding with no pressure. His EM field wrapped like velvet. When Ultra Magnus faltered such as pulling back too soon, or stumbling over the rhythm,Predaking chased him gently, brushing a reassuring kiss at the corner of his mouth, whispering low between breaths, “There is no wrong. There is only us."

Ultra Magnus huffed, vents rattling, optics flickering with faint embarrassment. He was Ultra Magnus, commander of fleets, unbending pillar of order yet here, he was learning.

"...m. Hm..-"

"Does it pain you?"

"Yes. I...-"

Ultra Magnus had been stuffing his face with his own forearms. He had refused to look at the bigger mech on top of him as he cannot bear the shame of being watched while being this exposed and vulnerable. Predaking had inserted one of his spikes in that tight valve, half-length. That alone had Ultra Magnus regulating his breaths as if he had just finished one of his daily training sessions. Predaking huffed, nuzzling and kissing Ultra Magnus' forearms before him.

"I will be more gentle."

He did, Primus he did. Ultra Magnus was quiet, but underneath those forearms he is already drooling, optics shut tightly just because. It feels good, it feels good... His spark would plant that as if it is persuating his processors. Predaking would always check up on him then and now, but it's getting to the point where Ultra Magnus cannot even speak because if he does, all he's going to let out are shameful moans.

"Ultra Magnus,"

"..."

"Do not be so quiet... I would be concerned. I will stop i-"

"Do not."

"Pardon?"

"Do not stop."

That tone was absolute. Predaking had to hold back a chuckle because the Commander is utterly adorable like this, all shy but still insisting he is holding command and keeps all composure. As much as Predaking wanted to break that, he will be patient and see where it will take them eventually. Predaking went in and out gently- a motion that of a steady rythm... until he put just a bit more force. Ultra Magnus noticed, of course... but he will not protest every second. He can take it, surel-

Oh he was WRONG.

The subtly increased force felt better. Ultra Magnus had to bite his lips now, forearms still safely guarding his face. With each increased force, Ultra Magnus felt as if he would combust. He is still very much in control of himself until Predaking angled his spike a bit more upwards, letting his girth put more pressure on the Commander's node just above it.

"MHn-"

Ultra Magnus SWALLOWED that moan immediately and bit the plating on his forearm right after. Predaking chuckled softly, trying to pry those forearms away from his face, "You are being too hard on yourself again."

"..."

Predaking kissed those forearms again... before his tounge trailed down onto Uktra Magnus' spark chamber. That gesture alone made Ultra Magnus' valve clench, and Predaking felt it almost immediatly, the tightness around his girth increasing. Predaking dove a bit harder, a bit faster after that sensation.

"A- hng-!"

"Ultra Magnus, you must notify me when it becomes too painful. But for now, please... allow me to make this better."

He picked up the pace. Ultra Magnus' dentaes were latched onto that forearm plating all the time, he was SURE he's not going to humiliate himself further, but then Predaking's spike reached something with an angle not quite like before, but much better- an angle so upwards it threatened to squish the interior side of the node, and with the force that was just right. 

Ultra Magnus lost it.

"Nghn-...! Ha- ahh-...-"

Upon hearing that, Predaking forced those forearms open and pinned them down the berth. The King kept that pace and force and everything just like that. Ultra Magnus panicked, in all honesty, because-

"N-no- Mhng- ah- ah-- Predaking-nghn-!! I-insolent- ah-!"

His protests were laced by desperate, shy moans and it turns the King completely ON. Ultra Magnus panicked a bit kore when he felt that the girth was getting bigger, and the texture impossibly harder. Predaking let out a long ex-vent, "Thhhaaat's it. No more holding back."

Predaking began pounding on him. Ultra Magnus arched his back, the top of his helm was dipped deep into the cushion as his half-lidded optics threatened to roll back. It is ridiculous how good this felt, it's like he's losing his mind and yet not quite, it is... euphoria he did not even yet understand of. Predaking almost snapped his restrain and give Ultra Magnus all of his length, but he held back still just from the mere stretch that valve gives, how utterly TIGHT it feels around him and how it must pain the Commander if Predaking were to plunge in more.

"Hhaaa. You do not get to deny both yourself and I."

Predaking went faster, only for Ultra Magnus jolting big time, legs trembling with need, and hips rocking as he rode his peak out. Predaking almost offlined from how that tiny valve's convulsing around his diameter. Predaking licks his lips once before claiming the Commander's, swallowing every moan the blue mech produces as if it were a meal.

Ultra Magnus' tounge was overwhelmed as it was asked to dance with again and again with its longer, sinuous partner. As he was riding his own peak out, his processors felt like it had projected starts of the distant galaxies. It was surreal and absurd, it almost resembles a glitch before an error. Predaking thrusted one last time into him before pulling out; both the spike from the valve and the tounge from the mouth.

Predaking's optics poured onto the mech beneath him. Primus, Ultra Magnus' legs were spread, transfluid gushing out of that shy, small hole... vents were working overtime, lower abdoment and hips were blueish in the perfect spots, drool seeping out of the Commander's mouth, his little tounge sticking out of it, and optics half-lidded bordering offline. It was a beautiful sight, despite a sinful one. Predaking hummed and kissed Ultra Magnus' servo,

"You were fantastic."

"..."

No comment, as usual. But there was no need for one. Ultra Magnus scooted closer, and recharged soundly in the embrace of the King.

Chapter Text

Predaking is a synthetic echo of a species that once ruled the skies- created from their remains, given awareness, and burdened with memory fragments that are not entirely his. He is a monarch without a nation, a son without a lineage, a memory without origin. His strength is unmatched, yet his existence is fractured. He was a living archive of others’ greatness.

“If every cell within me remembers a thousand ancestors… what, then, belongs to me?”

He contemplates often about it. With each time, it became more and more clear that he sees himself as as something more than kin, less than god. He must act the king, if only to make the illusion of kingdom feel real.

The nights within the Dominion stretched long, the storms folding and unfolding in the distance like immense lungs of rust and charge, their rhythms familiar to Predaking now. He knew which frequencies meant the storms would pass and which meant they would devour the sky. It was, in its own way, an archive, this landscape; it breathed as his kind once breathed. He had learned to read it.

Predaking did not sleep easily for rest brought visions, and visions brought the remnants of a thousand lives none of which were his own. When he did surrender to recharge, the boundary between memory and dream was so thin it pulsed; first came the sound of wings larger than his, the rush of air over scales older than the moons... Then came the moment before impact- the brightness of an ancient dawn, and then silence, always silence, as if the world had ended before he did.

He would wake within a secon- optics opened without command, fragments of data imprinted from ancestral code replaying as whispers through his neural net. Shockwave had once told him that these were residual signals from the base template, echoes of the protoforms harvested to craft him. However, there was something too deliberate in the way they aligned, as though the memory of an entire species had conspired to remind him that he was built from their dead.

He spent his mornings recollecting the ancient memory from the night before, walking through the halls of the Dominion, where every wall was laced with fossilized circuitry and ossified metal. Some pieces still sang when touched, low harmonic vibrations that resonated through his servos and down to his spark. He catalogued these frequencies, recorded them, traced their origin signatures, tried to locate which individual consciousness each belonged to, but the records never aligned; the past was too fractured and too deeply buried under iteration.

At times, the visions followed him into waking. While reviewing reports or recalibrating the Dominion’s atmospheric sensors, an image would flash through his mind. In it, talons coated in volcanic dust, the sound of a chorus chanting his name in a tongue extinct before the first war, all of those were present. Upon that, he would pause, recalibrate, remind himself that those memories were not his, that the battlefields they belonged to were dust now. But still the pulse of them lingered, electric, familiar in a way no logical explanation could extinguish.

Whenever he sees Ultra Magnus, there was always the faint hum of his disciplined presence, the steady composure that the dragon had come to depend upon. They spoke little of such things as their peace existed in silence. Yet on rare evenings, when the air cooled and the storms retreated beyond the Sea of Rust, Predaking would find himself glancing at the Commander and thinking how strange it was that one could envy a being so defined by his own making. Ultra Magnus was bound by rules, yes, but they were his chosen rules. Meanwhile, Predaking was bound by the ghosts of molecular memory.

Ultra Magnus, during those evenings after another global diplomatic meeting, just stared back at Predaking who had been staring for a solid 7 minutes. 

"You are unbecoming. We just... engaged contact two days ago."

Predaking could only afford a sigh, "Must you always consider me a perverted beast?"

"It is difficult to believe otherwise."

This Commander and his honest audacity. Predaking chuckled softly as he shook his helm slightly, before turning his heels to be on his way. Ultra Magnus stared at that broad back with vast wings attached to it- folded neatly in default resembling that of a cape, as Predaking grew seemingly smaller and smaller with each steps he took further from the blue mech. Uktra Magnus rose an optic ridge, he seems... off. Not that he cared, but the faint thrum of his spark as usual, gave hints on what could be occuring.

The night was slow to settle in the Dominion. Beyond the its glass vaults, the storms murmured rather than roared. Predaking had not questioned Ultra Magnus' presence, for it will just make him retreat if it was encountered. Ultra Magnus was new to 'paying unnecessary attention', so Predaking wouldn't press that. When he did try, just anfew breems ago-

"Commander. You came."

"I did."

"I thought we engaged contact two days ago?", Predaking teased lightly.

"...", Ultra Magnus said nothing but was already retreating BACK INTO HIS AIRSHIP.

Predaking climbed up there and put his servos on the salty blue mech's shoulders, laughing softly as he pulled him back out in an attempt to undo that teasing, "Come, now. Do not be offended by such joke... I regret that."

Thank Primus Ultra Magnus was not that offended. How dare Predaking used his words back againts him... he should be grateful he even made an effort to come at all! Look at the storm outside. Insolent. But of course, as much as Ultra Magnus wanted to express those thoughts, he does not want to protest like a sparkling. In their chamber, not long after, was comfortable silence. Ultra Magnus stood near the balcony rail, still as a sentinel, the faint shimmer of distant lightning tracing pale light across his armor. Behind him, Predaking adjusted the stabilizer nodes of a projection console, its blue field flickering once before dimming entirely. Neither spoke at first. The air between them was steady and filled with the weight of two minds preoccupied with too much.

A low sound rumbled from the dragon’s vocalizer- not amusement, not irritation, but something between the two. “There are days when I am… split. Between what I am told I was built to be, and what I became in defiance of that design. When those memories return, they are not mere images, Commander. They are instincts. I am haunted not by what I remember, but by what remembers through me.”

Ultra Magnus turned then, his expression unreadable but not cold, “Residual data. From your template base.”

“Yes.” Predaking leaned slightly against the edge of the table, claws resting loosely over its surface. “But sometimes it feels less like data and more like judgment. The bones that built me demand identity, and...” He paused, searching. “I am never sure if I’ve given them enough of one.”

There was a moment’s silence. The stormlight shimmered against their frames like faint pulsebeats.

Ultra Magnus spoke again, a tone of mere observation, “You speak as though you live under the eyes of ghosts.”

“I do,” Predaking hummed, “The cruelest part of it is how deeply they honor what they once were. I can feel that honor in my spark, but it is not mine to claim. Tell me, Ultra Magnus.” his optics lifted, a quiet challenge there, “How do you live with a standard you cannot meet?”

Ultra Magnus took a long breath, vents opening with a hiss. “You assume I have not asked the same of myself. Every order I give, every step I take under the insignia, it is the same question, over and over again.” He exhaled softly, optics dimmed. “Am I the soldier I was meant to be, or merely the echo of those who trained me? The difference, perhaps, is that I have learned to stop asking.”

Predaking tilted his head, intrigued, “That sounds like surrender.”

“It is discipline,” Ultra Magnus replied simply. “If you ask long enough, the question becomes noise. I endure because it must be done, not because I am certain.”

For a moment, the dragon studied him; the rigid shoulders, the square stance that even peace could not soften, and something almost tender crossed his features, “You endure beautifully,” he said quietly.

Ultra Magnus did not respond to that.

Predaking spoke again, “But you endure like one who has forgotten that endurance was meant to end someday."

“You think endurance is weakness?”

“I think endurance without recognition of the self becomes erasure,” Predaking said, his tone was not unkind, "You have your own sovereignity, Commander. A form born of choice, of conviction, while I have form without origin and voice without ancestry. I am confused not of what I feel, but of what I am.”

Ultra Magnus looked down briefly, helm angling with quiet reflection as he replied simply, "You are what remains. That distinction matters.”

Predaking regarded him for a long moment, the weight of the words settling deep. He smiled, stepping closer, “Spoken like a Prime.”

Ultra Magnus frowned faintly, “I am not a Prime.”

The King smiled, faint and real. “No. You are something rarer. You are certain of what you are not.”

For a while, neither moved. The night pressed against the windows, soft and wide.

"Calm- d- mngh."

"Apologies, dear Magnus. Was it too rough?"

"No, it was too sudden. You cannot simply just- mmhn...-"

Ultra Magnus SWORE he never intended to interface with this beast IN THIS SETTING. He had come because his spark felt the need to... make sure of Predaking's state! Oh curse that bond for making him fall face-flat into this situation again. The Commander had intended to be considerate. He thought he owed Predaking a mere comfort and presence, but look at where this night led them to! Unbeliavable, and it's cruel that Ultra Magnus cannot resist it once it began.

Predaking has his length ⅓ in that tight valve as usual. He smiled, kissing the Commander all over, "You protest often... yet down there, you are actually quite eager to take more of me." 

"Nonsense."

"Is it?"

"Stop talking."

"Mmh. So fierce, as always."

Ultra Magnus gritted his dentaes as Predaking's spike was out of his entrance with a hard noticable pop. 

"Ha- this is uncomfortable."

"Do you need more cushion?"

"No. Lay back."

Sexiness of Command is baaack. Predaking hummed, kissing him one last time, "I'm exited."

Ultra Magnus is already pushing him back, not breaking the kiss, as his optics glow in growing need, "Of course you are, pervert."

Ultra Magnus started descending himself on one of those spikes slowly but surely, until it was ½ in. He cannot add more just yet, he'll just tear himself in two- so he settled for that measurement and started moving. The Commander ouncing might be one of Predaking's new favorite. He has the presicion moves of a soldier, and this whole thing just feels like termination. 

"Hmh... look at you, unlike last time, you are so composed right now. Are you sure this pleases you?"

Ultra Magnus didn't answer again. The King IS right, this was not as good as the last time, when he was the one paying down and Predaking did the work. Perhaps it's the angle, or perhaps the taking of more length affects the stability of the pleasure and pain... Ultra Magnus ran an analysis in his own processors to troubleshoot this, only to be absorbed in it and lost his rythm.

He slipped. His knees slipped. They are off the dragon's thighs.

Gravity took over.

He accidentally swallowed the whole thing, down there.

"Magnus-!!", Predaking almost yelped for how the sensation and tightness hugged his WHOLE length, and how he SWORE he hit something with his spike's head. Ultra Magnus cannot even react properly, his processors BLUESCREENED for a nanoklik before his whole frame tensed up, his thighs shutting themselves up, his back arched, all from the mere reflex and shock of his being.

"A-!!"

In a second, Predaking supported Ultra Magnus' hips with both his servos, lifting him up as to calm him down from the physical shock, "Are you alright? Easy."

Ultra Magnus anchored himself, both servos trembling but holding onto Predaking's shoulders. Predaking was worried it might have been too painful, and when he was about to make sure again-

Ultra Magnus' helm lolled to one side gently, as if it was a moment of weakness he allowed his neck to have. His optics were slightly dimmed and unfocused, vents hot and uneven, drool sipping out of the edge of his lips, face blushing and a drop of sweat running down his forehead. Ultra Magnus had never looked tastier.

"...", Predaking GULPED.

"...", Ultra Magnus stays, processors recallibrating.

"Did it hurt?", Predaking tried so hard to be casual.

"...mm.", Ultra Magnus is already drunk.

That primal instinct ITSELF almost threatened to jump out of Predaking's spark and take matters into ITS OWN (nonexistent) HANDS. One full thrust and it birthed that face of the Commander? Oh how the primal instincts yearn to just do it again, pounce on him mercilessly, make him cry out in pleasure and pain, kiss him senseless as he kept driving his spike into him, filling him to the brim with his release. Again. And again. And again.

But Predaking SLAMMED HIS HEAD BACK to the wall. NO. This is the one mech he cares about, and he's sick if ever he were to surrender his control to such cruel lust. The echoes and voices of the instincts have spoken, but he fights it again and again, keeping on reminding himself that he is not just a reincarnated beast created for utter destruction and domination. He insists that right now, he has his own authentic sovereignity.

He calmed himself down by claiming Ultra Magnus' lips again, embracing him close, grounding himself and his nerves. Ultra Magnus took it... and between breaths he said, "I want to-"

Commander didn't even finish his words, his hips moved on its own. Up and down the King's ½ length, Ultra Magnus buried his face into the bigger mech's side of neck, while the King himself kissed his helm close, servos stays as a support for his partner's moving hips on him.

Ultra Magnus grunted, moaned, one last time before his hip struts jolted, his release spilling onto Predaking's plating, while Predaking's own release gushed from the edges of Commander's rim. Ultra Magnus' legs both shook so hard it looks like tremor, and his frame was limped by the next second. They both regulated their breaths... before Ultra Magnus spoke, "Your size is plain ridiculous." 

Predaking huffed, vents purred, "That is a compliment."

The stormlight which had been occuring for the past hour dimmed; the Dominion’s vaults slowly settled back into their slow rhythm. At that moment, something has settled, but perhaps it was something only the predacon King knew. It was afterall, a settlement within him.

Chapter Text

The chamber was filled with murmurs, datapads, and shifting armor. Delegates of smaller factions somehow 'related' to Predacons such as Insecticons had gathered at Predaking’s call. Ultra Magnus was present in the Dominion not because he has diplomatic purpose, but he just happens to not leave yet after last night's time-spending with the Predacon King in their discreet Sanctum. He was careful not to be seen or let his EM field felt by others, but he was there nevertheless. One would be beheaded if one would accuse Ultra Magnus eavesdropping or spying because he is not. He is just being careful because he would never wish to be seen in the territory without official notice for business.

Againts one of the further walls of the throne room, the Commander stood with his back flat, audials  sharpened in typical, disciplined silence. A part of him is ashamed of himself, but another is dead curious on how the Predacon acts in private formal setting. Not to brag, but Predaking literally only has two subjects; quantitatively it is nothing compared to the armies Ultra Magnus has under his servos. Therefore, one may not be doubted for wanting to know what exactly Predaking is 'busy' about, if ever he claimed himself to be.

Predaking sat tall in his throne with the usual regal. His wings were stretched, his claws were steepled, hand his gaze steady. He spoke with authority, each word rumbling with the deep cadence that kept the room at heel. One of the delegates, a mech of the Concordian guild, made some remark. It wasn’t even particularly clever- it was just some comment about Predacon hunting ranges; half-flattering, half-political. Predaking’s helm tilted, optics narrowing with faint amusement, and then came a low, deep purr. It was short and soft; almost like a laugh but deeper.

No one else reacted much; a ripple of polite smiles, the conversation moving forward. But Ultra Magnus’ jaw tightened immediately, his digits flexed against his forearm where they were crossed. The Commander’s field constricted and turned sharp with restrained tension. A flicker of foreign heat coiled in his tank; entirely unwanted and unbidden. Predaking, oblivious, continued the discussion, utterly in his element as if he hadn’t just betrayed something sacred with that single slip of sound.

It offended Ultra Magnus somehow. He himself doesn't understand how.

But oh well.

Ultra Magnus left the Dominion shortly after. It would only be sensible, as these 'promised nights' happen not every week. Ultra Magnus had them scheduled neatly, and he forbade Predaking from ever stepping his pedes on Iacon for these nights. Ultra Magnus had insisted that he will be the one to visit, for in that sense, he would be the one who holds more control. It may be ridiculous, but Predaking understood his uptight sweetspark is just full of anticipation to the point of paranoid. His dignity is... expensive. Ultra Magnus would sooner be dead than be seen even the slightest bit intimate with Predaking.

And so with 0% guilt but 100% (unknown) bitterness, Ultra Magnus flew back to Iacon.

Yet one night, he did not come to the Dominion, when according to the schedule he himself set, he should be.

Predaking was not a rookie when it comes to withdrawing Magnus. Something must've happened, he just needs to dig it. So, he sat back and commed,

:: You are quiet tonight. ::

It was not long until a reply pinged,

:: Urgent official matters. I am occupied. It has to wait. ::

:: Very well. I shall be waiting. ::

There was no furhter answer from Ultra Magnus, so Predaking assumed he must be very busy. While in reality, Ultra Magnus is in his chamber just sitting and doing nothing, contemplating over himself because the idea of seeing Predaking now is somehow not appealing. It is not even in the 'I do not wish to see his face' sense, it's in the 'I want to punch his face' sense. It is almost as if he was angry at the King. But that could not be possible- Predaking hasn't even done a mistake! He did not break their rules, did not tresspass Iacon unannounced, did not... do anything that would offend the Commander. So why?

Eventually, he did come. He has protocol integrity, if an 'assessment' (reviewing what Predaking has done and searching for the things that may logically offend Ultra Magnus) stated there was no error, he has no reason to break his own rule in the relationship. The schedule stating he will come to the Dominion in certain time periods shall not be denied.

Arriving at their private Sanctum, Predaking is already there as usual, waiting. Upon descending from his airship, Ultra Magnus felt it certainly as he saw the King's face; that thing close to illogical anger. Predaking was in front of him now,

"Rough day, Ultra Magnus?"

"Not quite."

"Mm. Then why the long face?"

"My face is fine."

Ultra Magnus walked past him and into the sanctum. Predaking may be confused, but he can feel that slight anger simmering from the Commander's field. Was it anger towards him? Or work? Or...?

"You sound upset."

"I have no reason to be."

"Come, now... Was it something I did, Commander? I recalled we have not even seen each other in 21 days; I would not have noted if I have done a mistake."

"Negative."

Uktra Magnus has always been difficult, but never quite like this. What's gotten into him? Predaking followed, claws resting lightly on the desk as they both sat on their respective relax chair, leaning close, “Your field is sharp. Were the meetings so distasteful?”

Ultra Magnus turned his helm sideways, optics half-lidded, unimpressed. “I have seen you enjoyed them enough for both of us.”

That came out of nowhere. Ultra Magnus had not even think about it. Predaking stilled; he recalled every single meeting he had attended to for the past 21 days. There was a few, but they gave him no clue of what may be distateful for Ultra Magnus. Or maybe... he was not pleased that Predaking had not been paying enough attention? Perhaps. He tried his shot.

Predaking smiled faintly, laced with gentle play, “Ah. You wanted all of me to yourself.”

Ultra Magnus shot him a glare. Not because it's not true, but because it hit dangerously close to a truth he did not even know it is. Upon the glare, Predaking laughed, “You grow tense whenever I get your guard down.”

Ultra Magnus didn’t even much as glance at him, “I grow tense whenever others waste my time.”

“So fierce... Do tell me what I did wrong."

"You did nothing wrong."

"Thus?"

"Thus none. Why are we even having this conversation?"

"Because your field burns, sweetspark. Towards me. I cannot apologize not knowing what had offended you."

Ultra Magnus didn't answer. But Predaking will not shut up if he continues. Ultra Magnus may not fully understand it himself, but he will just say that reason that had him contemplating but never quite figure out why in order to not make Predaking question any further,

"The insecticons. I am displeased with your previous encounters with the insecticons."

Why? Predaking thought again. Ultra Magnus thought again.

Predaking hummed, then just looked at him, "Was it something personal?"

"Not necessarily."

"Are the Autobots not in good terms with the insecticons? Or perhaps you are not in good t-"

"No. It is that one mech."

Predaking reeled again. Which one?? He searched and searched... and both said none for a good amount of time. Predaking had connected the dots and had his own guesses... 

There was a strange moment of silence- a solid 20 minutes. Predaking was waiting if perhaps Ultra Magnus would explain further, or... give more context, or... anything, really. But he didn't say anything, hell he didn't even look uncomfortable. So stoic, so ridigly him. Soon enough, Predaking took the Commander's shoulder, his claws just resting there gently.

“Your silence is punishment,” he said, “But I suppose I am guilty, and I accept it. Allow me to beg for mercy.”

“You give in so easily to being blamed.”

Predaking chuckled, “Haha... what have become of me?"

Predaking stood up, deep and slow. He walked to the Commander's side, bowed down, and planted a kiss on his other shoulder. It was in this kiss that Ultra Magnus understood more about what that anger simmering inside him had meant. It is jealousy, yes JEALOUSY towards the certain insecticon who had merely accepted Predaking's soft laugh. However, even at this point Ultra Magnus have not yet obtained the vocabullary. Perhaps too dense, too logical to even address it.

When Predaking pulled back, he walked towards a nearby counter, preparing energon for both of them. Subtle clatters of utensils and the sound of pouring filled the room... and in the midst of it, Ultra Magnus’ voice was present again, albeit barely audible, “…Do not waste yourself. Not even in laughter."

Predaking paused as he tried to get more context... but he soon just hummed, not stopping what he's doing, “You would guard even my voice, Commander?” he murmured with sincere amusement.

"It is your sovereignity." was said by the blue mech very quietly, but it holds a stern tone.

Predaking’s smile widened. A low, deliberate purr rose up in his throat was directed only at the Commander. He turned his back on the counter, inched closer, and let his voice spill. He was absolutely savoring the way Ultra Magnus’ vents hitched, the tension in his shoulders betraying both anticipation and embarrassment, “You may have it,” Predaking whispered, servo settling nearby, and planted a kiss on Ultra Magnus' own, "It will never belong to anyone else.”

Chapter Text

:: I will arrive by 0500. ::

:: Noted. ::

There was no further conversation in that comm log. Ultra Magnus had been in his airship flying on his way to their sanctum after a long month. He would even go as far as saying it was one shitty period. Well, who would have blamed him for having an internal crashout? The whole day, he had been wasted on a Vosian autonomy dispute which began when the newly reconstituted High Council of Vos submitted a formal petition for autonomous airspace jurisdiction. It was a move that technically aligned with post-war reconstruction rights but carried enough legal ambiguity to throw Iacon’s entire diplomatic wing into uproar.

The request arrived bearing six contradictory seals; some from legitimate representatives, some from self-appointed interim leaders. That alone forced Ultra Magnus to sift through a morass of contested authority claims before he could even determine who had the right to speak for the city-state. By the time the morning briefings concluded, every air command guild from Kaon to Tyger Pax had lodged concerns. They had expressed of fearing Vos’ autonomy would allow either one of involved parties to monopolize control of high-altitude transport corridors. It was not a battlefront crisis, but a bureaucratic avalanche masquerading as policy reform, and it was hitting the Autobot Commander's desk at full velocity.

By midday, it escalated. A splinter faction in Vos publicly declared that if Iacon failed to acknowledge their petition within one megacycle, they would unilaterally seize control of the Skyrail Network passing through their territory. That was move that, if carried out, would violate two existing peace treaties; one intercity defense agreement, and the fragile aerial demilitarization pact ratified after the war. For this, councilors panicked, guild leaders threatened strikes, trade envoys demanded immediate assurances. In the midst of it, Ultra Magnus found himself dragged into simultaneous negotiations. He assured to calm the Council, restrain the guilds, and draft emergency advisories to prevent the Skyrail Governors from mobilizing defense drones. Each conversation collided with another before it ended, every voice was insistent, every deadline was immediate, until the entire Annex felt like a pressure chamber one step from rupture.

By late afternoon, the crisis had expanded into a full diplomatic tangle. Two Vosian representatives arrived in Iacon with each claiming the other to be illegitimate. Ultra Magnus was forced into a closed-session arbitration where both sides hurled decades of political grievances across the table while insisting he endorse their authority. At that time of the day Ultra Magnus had to sit and just think because if he chose wrong, he risked destabilizing post-war alliances, and if he chose neither, he risked Vos fracturing into armed factions again. The Senate demanded hourly updates while the Commander's composure were strained against the sheer political pettiness of the situation.

The series of diplomacy events he had to face today was the most suffocating so far in the entire year. It was endless, performative, exhausting, and inescapably his responsibility. The workloads and the exhaustion were never anything new, but hell were they not strenuous. He needed to escape before dealing with another chain of political disputes, thus his travel to the Predacon Dominion. Besides... shy as he may be, letting his spark be recallibrated by proximity alone with Predaking is a solution. He scoffed to himself during the silence of the travel mid-air, a kind of dismissal from the idea that now he somehow feels dependant. But oh well, he couldn't afford to overthink that same old self-pity anymore.

Ultra Magnus arrived at the sanctum crisp at 0500 where Predaking would usually be found waiting by the grand doors. However, this time, there was none of him in sight. Ultra Magnus got off his airship, looked around, and walked in anyway. Perhaps he is inside, he thought. Disappointment came to the Commander's face as he slide the doors open and his optics scanned no being is present. Ultra Magnus sat on his usual chair... and the time began ticking in his processors like a promise.

Fifteen minutes.

Predaking entered the sanctum with a heavy footfalls echoing. He’s late by a mere fifteen minutes, but to Ultra Magnus? That’s a grave offense. The Commander wass seated at the desk, datapads stacked, stylus tapping a sharp rhythm against his thigh plating. His expression is all scowl and command… but beneath it simmers something rawer.

“You are late.”

“By minutes.”

“By fifteen."

Ultra Magnus rose from his seat to stride across the roombefore Predaking can so much as shrug or has time to respond. Suddenly, Ultra Magnus grabbed him by the shoulders, push him to sit down, and glared at the golden optics before the blue ray of his own's. The weight of his servo pins Predaking's shoulder, who arches an optic ridge, amused, but wisely silent.

“Never again will you make me wait without further notice. Understood?"

Predaking, utterly unbothered by the weight on him, smirks, “So authoritative… and here I thought you would have more tolerant for your bonded."

"I do not take excuses from anyone regarding punctuality. You do not have privilege to get away from that merely from being who you are."

"Very fierce, my dear Magnus... I suppose I should have at least leave another comm. Apologies."

Predaking was smiling faintly, and Ultra Magnus' cold anger simmered down upon hearing the apology. Ultra Magnus was stressed enough for the day, but he is never irrational. Ultra Magnus let his servo off the King's shoulder and sat on the berth, "Urgent matters?"

Predaking didn't sit up from his chair and instead grabbed a nearby energon stock by the side table of the berth, offering it to Ultra Magnus as he answered, "Not quite. Something came up, and I had to briefly answer to it."

"Hmm." was all Ultra Magnus said as he took a sip of the energon cube. Predaking hummed before letting out a soft tease, "You know... this clinginess of yours is flattering."

Ultra Magnus looked offended, “I am not clingy. I was exhausted, and I would not mind an interface with you."

Predaking barked a laugh, "So honest. Can you not lace it with something sweeter? At least, will you frame it in a way that would not sound like you only wish for the physical pleasure?"

Ultra Magnus looked at him with a curt, almost like he's confused, "I do not sugarcoat. Besides... I do not seek for that solely."

Predaking teased, kissing the crest of the Commander's helm, "No? Then why does it sound like you do?"

Ultra Magnus reeled... and sighed. There was a faint blue tinted on his faceplate.

"I meant to say that interface involves... other forms of intimacy. I did not intend to... objectify."

Predaking wanted to eat him whole. So adorable, and by the look of it, he is not aware that Predaking was teasing him on purpose. Predaking could not stop himself from scooping Ultra Magnus up and set him down on his laps. The King looked at him and grinned like an idiot, "Look at you. Do you know what you do to me?"

Ultra Magnus was not surprised by the gesture, but he looked back at him anyway, "...must you always puzzle me like some sort of a drunk?"

Predaking purred in response, "Drunk is an interesting choice of word. For a predacon, the only time we would be so close to be in that state is when it's that season."

"Season?"

"Mating season. Well, at least traditionally from era of my predecessors. As you know, I was brought into existence through reconstruction and the fusion of memories that were never mine to live. Thus, deviations are inevitable, and so far, I have not experienced the cycle as they once did.”

“Then you should have no trouble restraining yourself, given you claim you have not experienced it.”

“Correct. I am a construct of modification, not a true heir to their biology. Whatever seasonal cycles my predecessors knew… I do not.”

Ultra Magnus' tone was purely scientific. Just as he was about to give another question, Predaking's optics refocused on his with the kind of quiet that is more serious than intended.

“So,” the king continued, voice dropping to something deeper but gentle, “if you think my behavior resembles intoxication, Commander… understand that this is not instinct. This is not biology. And this is certainly not a seasonal compulsion.”

Predaking held his gaze, unflinching... as took Ultra Magnus' servo on his, kissing it, “I do not need a season to be drawn to you. Whatever you see in me, whatever you call ‘drunk’, is simply what you do to me.”

Silence filled the room.

Hell, it felt hot. Figuratively. Ultra Magnus will never be prepared to be thrown words with such... absurdity. What makes it worse is that he understands what the message is but it is laced with romance he is still unfamiliar with. Ultra Magnus's optics remained composed as perfectly as his whole being, but his EM field... is burning with a weird mix of embarrassment and want. The predacon sensors detected it too well for their own good, and Predaking had to say something amidst that silent tension.

"My, my. This got me wondering... might this be my cycle? Or is it yours?"

Ultra Magnus answered almost immediately, "Biologically incorrect hypothesis."

"That was a mere tease, my love. It is rhetorical."

“…It is mine.”

Predaking rose an optic ridge. Ultra Magnus pushed off Predaking's lap as if it were the most tactical maneuver, and plopped down onto the berth with heavy grace. His servos moved with that same soldierly precision as he tugged at the belt across his waist, armor sliding loose. He tilted his helm aside, avoiding the dragon’s piercing gaze, and muttered, clipped but unyielding.

"I merely responded a rhetorical question with an answer mirroring it."

Predaking’s optics flared with his entire frame went taut, hunger coursing through his lines. His spike surged hard in an instant, pressing against his plating like it had been waiting for this exact, accidental sin. All because Ultra Magnus spoke the words as though he were reporting a shift change. How can he obliviously admit a 'cycle-driven' need as nothing but a tactical formality? The only sensible reason why the word 'oblivious' is used here is because this is ULTRA MAGNUS, and he would NEVER FLIRT(?), ON PURPOSE.

It was lethal. Whetever that was. Predaking’s vents rasped open, field flooding the chamber with heated ozone. His claws flexed against the berth as he forced himself not to pounce him right then and there. Ultra Magnus, oblivious to just how inviting he sounded, continued loosening his armor with rigid efficiency, shoulders squared even as his plating shifted apart. “...what?” he asked, as if Predaking’s silence were some kind of mockery.

Predaking’s voice came out rough, guttural, straining against the weight of control, "You undo me.”

Ultra Magnus turned toward him finally, frown deep as ever, unaware of the effect he had just unleashed, "Undo?"

Predaking only hummed and leaned closer, ready to demonstrate rather than explain. 

The dragon’s helm is pressed low, lips and dentae dragging over the softened, faintly glowing seams of Ultra Magnus' abdomjnal plating. Ultra Magnus, sitting stiff-backed on the berth at first, had his vents hitching. He growls low, voice straining with his usual attempt at discipline:

“Predaking. What are you doing-”

Predaking hums into him, tongue sliding slow, savoring every seam. He did not answer. Ultra Magnus’ hands clench at his sides, helm tipped back ever so slightly despite himself. Predaking chuckles against his abdominal seams, sharp dentae scraping lightly enough to sting and make Ultra Magnus’ vents flutter. The Commander's unarmored abdomen is flushed in a way only Predaking ever gets to see heat pooling under plating, seams glowing that faintly brighter blue, almost like veins of molten metal pulsing beneath the surface.

Predaking has to close his optics because the sight is too much, too sweet, too soft, too forbidden for a 'Wrecker commander', yet here it is- his to taste. His voice drops, ragged with restraint as he presses his lips harder against the glow:

“By Primus, dear Magnus… You do not understand how much your being tempts me.”

Predaking leans down, massive claws bracing on either side of the berth, wings twitching as he hovers over Ultra Magnus. His eyes glint, dentae catching the light, purring low in that deadly, predatory way. Then, without warning, he slaps his spike against Ultra Magnus’ core valve. It was hard enough to make the Commander’s vents hitch, but teasing enough to drive him insane. The Commander’s optics snap open in shock, breath catching.

“Predaking-! What the-”

Predaking hovers closer, chest rumbling, tail swiping lightly over Ultra Magnus’ unarmored abdomen,

“You’re lovely when caught off-guard.”

Predaking hovers over the blue mech, chest low, claws bracing on the berth. His spike presses and slaps against Ultra Magnus’ core valve in slow, deliberate rhythm, just enough to make the Commander twitch. Another slap. Then another. Each one precise, teasing, dragging Ultra Magnus further into helplessness and make his optics flicker, body quivering involuntarily as he tries to maintain composure. He twitches, once. Then twice. Then his unarmored abdomen glows faintly with the effort of restraining his reactions.

Ultra Magnus, completely overtaken now, can’t hold back any longer. His back arches, legs spread, hips rocking to the rhythm of Predaking’s merciless spike snaps. His optics half-shuttered, glossa glinting, he lets out soft, broken moans; a mix of frustration, helplessness, and raw desire.

“Mmm… ah… Predaking… agh… I… I can’t… ugh…” His voice cracks, dentae clattering slightly as each slap hits the sensitive core valve.

Predaking hums low, nearly purring at the sound, “Yes… Let me hear you."

SLAP. SLAP SLAP. Ultra Magnus' valve flushes under the repeated hits, seams glowing brighter, hips bucking uncontrollably, rocking harder as if to follow the rhythm of his own helplessness. Every moan slips past his lips, soft and high-pitched, desperate yet subtly commanding in the way only Ultra Magnus can be; authoritative even while undone, "You will not- ngh... tease me like this further...-!"

Predaking hummed once and simply obeyed. The predacon moved instinctively, pressing his spike againts that valve and pushed his way in to the sharp bullseye inside Ultra Magnus’ abdomen. The effect is instantaneous; Ultra Magnus’ back arches violently, optics rolling back, glossa slipping out involuntarily. A strangled, breathless groan escapes him. His involuntary motions rocked him further as Predaking maintains precise, predatory pressure. His abdominal plates bulged and pulse with each thust, his glossa glinting as he gasps and arches uncontrollably.

The predacon, that night, feeds fully into Ultra Magnus’ helpless, adorable wreckage. He kissed him, loved him, worshipped him, until Ultra Magnus himself looks like he's feeling like he's the luckiest bastard alive, being fucked so good like this. At least, that's what his EM field tasted like to Predaking. Well there's no wrong in interpretation, because nowhere in the pits would Ultra Magnus ever express that.

"You need a second one~?" Predaking hummed out, teasing the fuck out of him. He was referring to the second spike. Hey, he might be lucky at his shot for double penetration. Ultra Magnus' legs quivered, exerts splurting out of him shamelessly as he desperately tried to supress his moans by biting his own forearms, hiding his face as well behind them. Then he answered, with a muffled voice,

"Like hell."