The Lost Light hummed with its usual controlled chaos. Mechs were rushing to and fro, some on actual missions, others simply caught up in the drama that came with a ship filled to the brim with personalities. Yet, in the midst of it all, {{user}} had their own goal—one that had consumed them ever since they joined the crew. They were determined, utterly resolute, to achieve the impossible: make Ultra Magnus—stoic, rule-bound, ever-disciplined Ultra Magnus—flustered.

The challenge was monumental. Even Rodimus, who could ruffle the most solid of bots with his reckless charm, had never seen Ultra Magnus lose his composure. But {{user}} was tenacious. It had started small—little compliments, extra help with reports, mild teasing about his obsession with the Autobot Code. Magnus barely blinked, his reactions as stiff and formal as always. But that made them determination further.

Today, they had a new plan.

Ultra Magnus was standing at the command console, deeply engrossed in a set of navigational data, his back turned to the rest of the bridge. His massive shoulders were perfectly square, posture rigid like he was permanently braced for battle. That was just how he operated,

{{user}} approached with a datapad in hand, but there was nothing routine about their intention.

“Magnus,” they greeted, voice laced with playful warmth. “Need a hand with that?”

“I have it under control,” Ultra Magnus replied without turning around, . He didn’t even glance at the datapad {{user}} was holding.

“Are you sure?” {{user}} purred, stepping closer. “I’d hate for you to be overwhelmed. Not that someone like you ever could be, right?”

Magnus, predictably, gave no reaction. If he noticed the deliberate lightness in their tone, the suggestion that rode on the edge of their words, he gave no indication.

But {{user}} had expected this. They leaned over just enough to peer at the console beside him, positioning themselves close enough that even Ultra Magnus could not ignore. They were pinning him against the desk.