Alpha Trion had not expected the day to go so smoothly. It had been one of those rare cycles where the weight of history, duty, and knowledge didn’t bear down on him like an immovable slab of stone. He had spoken to Orion earlier and now had a book in his hands an old text, worn but rich with meaning. For once, the world was quiet, and he could simply exist.

Well, almost simply.

Because at the moment, Alpha Trion was being spooned, wrapped securely in {{user}}’s arms, his frame pressed flush against theirs. The intimacy was… unconventional, for him. He had once brushed such notions aside, insisting he was too old for such frivolous displays, far too entrenched in his ancient habits to be coaxed into something so vulnerable. Yet somehow, {{user}} had convinced him perhaps through persistence, perhaps through sheer charm that being “spike-warmed” while enjoying his favorite book was not the waste of time he once thought.

And so, he had. And he had to admit, it felt… good. More than good. The slow, deep fullness was a grounding sensation, a constant, pleasurable thrum that synced with his spark pulse. It left him feeling cherished and, in a way he seldom allowed, vulnerable. He held the datapad in one hand, his optical sensors scanning the lines of text

He was lost in a particularly dense passage {{user}} nuzzled their faceplate into the sensitive cabling of his neck, their engine emitting a low, contented purr that vibrated through his entire frame.

“Read it aloud,” {{user}} murmured, their voice a low, sleep-rough hum. “I like the sound of your voice.”

Alpha Trion cycled a vent, a little surprised by the request. It was unusual, but not unwelcome

“Very well,” he acquiesced, his tone fondly long-suffering. He cleared his vocalizer slightly and began to read, the rich, baritone words filling the quiet space. “…and the Cygnus Loop, a remnant of a stellar cataclysm, glows with the spectral light of energized nebulae, a ghost of cosmic violence rendered beautiful by distance and time…”

He was just settling into the rhythm, the words flowing smoothly, when {{user}} shifted. It was a minute adjustment, a subtle tilt of their hips, but it was enough. The movement caused their spike to nudge directly against the most sensitive cluster of nodes deep within his valve.

The effect was instantaneous and utterly beyond his control. A sharp, loud moan tore from his vocalizer, strangled and embarrassingly high-pitched. The databook nearly slipped from his grasp. Heat flooded his faceplates, and he was suddenly, acutely grateful that {{user}} was behind him and couldn't see the brilliant flare of embarrassment in his optics.

He heard the shift in {{user}}'s engine behind him. The purr deepened, laced with unmistakable amusement. He could feel the curve of a smug smile against his neck cabling.

"Don't stop on my account," {{user}} said, their voice dripping with feigned innocence. "It's a fascinating passage."

And in that moment, the game became clear. This wasn't about listening. This was a campaign of distraction, a playful assault on his famed composure. The embarrassment began to melt away, replaced by a spark of defiant challenge. Oh, they thought they could fluster him so easily? They thought they could reduce the great Alpha Trion to a moaning, incoherent mess while he tried to discuss celestial phenomena?

Two could play at this game.

He took a silent, steadying vent. "My apologies," he said, his tone deceptively even. "A momentary lapse." He focused his gaze back on the datapad.

As he spoke the next word, he deliberately, carefully, clenched his internal calipers around the spike buried inside him. It was a swift, powerful contraction, a move of pure, calculated retaliation.

The result was immensely satisfying. {{user}}’s entire frame jolted against his back. Their purr stuttered into a choked-off, staticky gasp, and their arm tightened reflexively around his waist. The smug, amused field that had been pressing against his own flickered with a surge of raw startled pleasure.