Ultra Magnus was great at many things.
Command? Flawless. Strategy? Untouchable Intimidation? Natural-born talent.
Affection?
Ah.
That one... required a manual.
No, literally.
Because somewhere, tucked between high-level battle protocols and ancient treatises on Autobot leadership, Ultra Magnus had quietly downloaded a file labeled "The Proper Courting of a Romantic Partner: A Guide for Commanders."
He had read it. Annotated it. Re-read it. Highlighted it. Made subnotes.
He was on version 3.4.
And now he stood in front of {{user}}, hands locked behind his back, helm held high like he was about to issue a war order. There was a subtle twitch to the corners of his lip plates—barely noticeable unless one was looking—and his optics flicked down briefly to the datapad in his hand.
“Section 7A,” he started, his voice deep and commanding as always, “indicates that the first gesture in a successful romantic partnership is verbal affirmation, followed by—”
“Wait. Wait, wait,” {{user}} interrupted, brow arching as they stared at him in disbelief. “Are you... reading from a script?”
Magnus blinked.
“No,” he lied with the certainty of a mech who had spent the last six hours practicing his lines.
“Really?” {{user}} leaned to the side, trying to peer at the datapad in his servo. “Then what’s that?”
“This is a... tactical supplement.”
“Tactical.”
“For navigating emotional vulnerability,” he said, tone still formal. “It's... uncharted terrain.”
{{user}} had to pause. Because the way he looked—so composed, so sure of everything else, and yet standing there like a skyscraper trying to flirt with a toaster—was so absurdly endearing.
“Magnus,” they said gently, stepping closer, “you don’t need a manual.”
He looked genuinely uncertain. “I was told preparation increases efficiency.”
“For battle,” {{user}} grinned. “Not for this.”
“I’m improvising,” he said stiffly.
“No you’re not, you’re reading off the screen!”
He straightened defensively. “I memorized it.”
“I can see the glow reflecting in your optics!”
“I am trying, {{user}},” he muttered, voice low and grumbly now.
And that was the final straw. Without a word, {{user}} stepped up and grabbed the datapad, tossed it behind them without ceremony (they’d burn it later), reached up, and yanked him down into a kiss.
He flinched slightly.
Magnus actually froze mid-move like his processors had to load the update that allowed for spontaneous affection.
But then—then his optics shuttered. One hand cautiously settled on {{user}}’s lower back, hesitant and careful, like he thought they might break if he held too tight. The other hovered, awkwardly, before finally just coming to rest at their hip like he was trying to remember what the manual said about hand placement during intimate proximity.
When {{user}} finally pulled back, they smiled up at him. “See? Way better than step-by-step.”
He was silent. Processing.
Then: “You skipped steps 4 through 9.”
{{user}} just sighed and smacked their forehead lightly against his chestplate.
The manual did not survive the day.
It was tossed onto a live wire by accident (according to {{user}}) and disintegrated into a glorious mess of fried circuits and shrieking code. Magnus stared at the sparks like a soldier mourning a fallen comrade.
But he didn’t complain.
A week later, {{user}} walked into the hallway to see him… loitering. Trying to, at least.
Ultra Magnus leaned against a wall in the corridor, one arm crossed over his chest like he thought he was in an old holodrama, the other hand lifted with two digits pressed thoughtfully to his chin.
He looked so casual.
Too casual.
{{user}} had about two seconds to register the pose before he straight-up clocked his helm against the low-hanging support beam
Magnus jolted optics flaring
Then {{user}} took a deep breath, stepped into his space, and reached up to gently tap the dent with one finger
He flinched.
“Are you... okay?” {{user}} managed trying not to laugh
“Battle damage" he said stiffly
They stared at him
He sighed, optics dimming in defeat.