No matter how many times Megatronus had attended one of these… orgies, to put it plainly, he never quite gets used to it. You’d think a bunch of gladiators, half of them slaves, the other half on the edge of death, would have better things to do with their time.
They suck down the lies the establishment tells them, and consume the distractions as they come. Music and high grade, the kind that has no nutrient value whatsoever, so poorly graded that it is gritty and contains pockets of energon crystals still. They melt in your tanks and give you outrageous bursts of charge at intermittent bursts.
Yet, the cubes vanish from the bar faster than the server can keep them stocked. Dozens upon hundreds of gladiators and groupies consume, consume, consume, and then make their way to the dance floor where they gyrate like there is no tomorrow.
For many of them, post-match, there won’t be.
Right now, however, none of them care about that. They are too busy. Celebrating. Enjoying. Indulging. Whatever their vice might be.
Megatronus frowns and clutches his second cube of high grade all the harder. He’d sucked down the first one outrageously fast, if only to dull how much he detests being here. He should leave, but he feels as though he can’t.
Not with his gaze focused on the middle of the dance floor.
He wishes he were more surprised that Sunstreaker is out in the thick of it. But he’s not. If there’s one thing that Sunstreaker excels at it, it’s indulging in praise. In the middle of the dance floor, under the spiraling lights, he’s matching the beat with ease. Grabby hands can’t help but touch the gleaming gold armor and for once, Sunstreaker isn’t snarling at them or giving them a peek at the steel of his blade.
He’s inviting. He’s taunting. He’s welcoming.
Sunstreaker has a reputation for being easy. Picky, but easy. Seeing him out there, writhing with all the rest of the slop, Megatronus can see why.
It reeks in here, too. Like purge and high grade and spent energon and scorched circuits and heated metal and weldfire. It’s a cacophony of noise and scent. Megatronus’ processor pounds. He crunches down on another sliver of energon in his high grade and tips back the cube again.
He twists at the waist, snags another one, and promises himself that this one’s for show. He won’t drink it. His tanks are already performing backflips. There’s a heat in his frame, flushing to every extremity. His spark whirls, thumping to the same frantic beat of the music blasting through the speakers and thrumming through the floor.
He shouldn’t have let Sunstreaker talk him into coming this time. He should have spun on a heelstrut and walked away, the same way he did all the other times Sunstreaker invited him. One peek into the debauchery had always sent him scurrying for the solitude and quiet. He could only see this madness as a means to keep them chained.
If they are overcharged, pleasure high, and lost to the music, they aren’t thinking about their own misery.
“You’ll have more fun if ya get out here and dance,” Sunstreaker had said with a wink and a smirk. Three quickly gulped cubes of that slop had made him even more bold, and far more salacious.
His smirk made Megatronus’ tanks twist into a knot.
“No,” Megatronus had replied.
Sunstreaker glossa had flicked over his lips, his fans spinning so loud and fast that Megatronus could hear them even over the beat of the bass. “Suit yourself.”
He’d spun and twisted himself into the crowd, moving with the flow until he found himself in the center, grabbing a slightly taller mech in for a heated grind. He’d cast a look back at Megatronus as though to ensure Megatronus was watching before he’d twisted into the next beat.
Even now, Sunstreaker is within Megatronus’ line of sight. He’s in the middle of the crowd, surrounded by gladiator large and small, but Megatronus easily picks him out of the masses.
Sunstreaker flares his armor, giving tantalizing peeks at the cables and protoform beneath. It allows for better heat distribution, Megatronus acknowledges clinically, but also serves as tempting bait. One no few gladiators resist.
Megatronus grinds his denta, tasting sparks. His fingers tighten around his cube. His spark throbs.
It is a taunt. A tease. A reminder of what Megatronus could have if only he would plunge into that crowd and take what is his.
Sunstreaker’s hips swivel into reach of a smaller mech who takes the invitation eagerly. The mech smirks and pulls Sunstreaker toward him, one hand sliding up Sunstreaker’s side, long fingers slipping into the visible gaps. Sunstreaker says something that Megatronus can’t hear, and his dance partner laughs.
Another mech comes up behind Sunstreaker, larger than Megatronus even. He loops an arm around Sunstreaker’s waist and grinds against his back. His battle mask rubs the top of Sunstreaker’s helm before splitting down a central seam to reveal his lips.
Sunstreaker grins, one hand rising and clutching the head of the taller mech. He says something, and the smaller mech leans closer, probably with the intent to claim those tempting lips. But the larger mech is faster. His free hand cups Sunstreaker’s jaw and turns his helm so that he can steal Sunstreaker’s lips instead.
The cube in Megatronus’ hand crumples.
He drops it, letting it join the rest of the mess crunching beneath his feet, and shoves his way into the crowd. His processor spins, his spark flutters. Heat builds beneath his armor, threatening to erupt into view.
That slagger. Megatronus knows he’s being played, but he’s helpless to the envy and possessiveness that grips his spark.
Gladiators of all shapes and sizes close in around him. Megatronus bats away groping hands, twists out of the reach of a mech with more claws than sense, and makes his way through the crowd. He has to twist between two large mechs and shake off the clinging arms of a smaller one before he finally gets within arm’s reach of Sunstreaker.
“Megatronus!” Over-bright optics lock onto him as a sizzling energy field clashes against his own. “Finally grow some bearings and decide to join me?” Sunstreaker leans back onto his dance partner, arching his backstrut and highlighting the curve of his waist.
Megatronus works his intake. “No. I’m leaving.”
Sunstreaker’s glossa flicks over his lips. “One dance.” He shimmies free of his dance partner, who has the audacity to glare at Megatronus as though it’s his fault. Even though it is.
Mine, Megatronus wants to snarl. He only manages to bare his denta, presenting a challenge, but the mech opts to grab another shiny frame and dance away.
Sunstreaker wobbles a bit, clearly overcharged but no more so than usual, and all but throws himself at Megatronus. He’s heavier, less so than Megatronus, but is still a force to be reckoned with as he plasters himself against Megatronus’ front. His arms drape over Megatronus’ shoulders.
“I think you owe me that much,” Sunstreaker says, his frame burning hot and brimming with charge, tickling where it bites and snaps against Megatronus’ own armor.
“I don’t dance,” Megatronus retorts, yet his hands find their way to Sunstreaker’s waist, where rolling charge nips at his fingertips. Touching Sunstreaker is quickly becoming the easiest part.
Sunstreaker grinds against him, their armor sliding together. “One song,” he purrs and leans closer, lips caressing Megatronus’ audial. “Come on, Megatronus. Celebrate with me.”
His engine revs, the heat in his tanks building to an inferno. Sunstreaker smells of hot metal and weldfire and heat. His field clashes against Megatronus’, ripe with arousal and charge.
His will crumbles.
“This is a bad idea,” Megatronus says with a shiver, though there’s no chill left in his frame. It’s all consuming heat.
“Everything we are is a bad idea,” Sunstreaker murmurs and kisses him, his glossa plunging into Megatronus’ mouth as though laying claim. He grinds against Megatronus’ ventrum, hand pressed to the back of Megatronus’ helm.
He shivers, knowing he should pull away, but his processor spins. His entire frame is wrapped in heat and charge, and Sunstreaker’s frame against his is a fantasy come to life, a public claim no one can deny. The other dancers press in around them. Megatronus could force it, could pull away and never look back, with the taste of Sunstreaker lingering on his lips.
He doesn’t want to.
His hands tighten around Sunstreaker’s waist. Megatronus pulls his mentor against him, the clash of their armor inaudible over the music. He swears that the beat pulses through his frame, his lines, his spark.
Sunstreaker bites at his mouth, denta leaving stinging nips on his glossa, his lips. Sunstreaker is a creature of motion, rolling against Megatronus’ front. Charge skitters out from beneath his armor, surging over Megatronus and burrowing against his protoform.
He moans, stumbles backward, collides with another dancer. But the larger gladiator just shoves him back, no anger in the motion.
Sunstreaker chuckles. “Do I make your knees weak?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Megatronus retorts.
“I’m only as vain as I need to be,” Sunstreaker purrs and shifts his weight. He lifts one leg and drapes it over Megatronus’ hip, the heat of his pelvic array pressing to Megatronus’.
His panel’s closed, but that doesn’t stop pearls of lubricant from seeping around it. Megatronus feels the wet heat of it against his plating, and the arousal in Sunstreaker’s field intensifies.
“That’s better,” Sunstreaker says and grinds against him, a shiver rustling across his plating. His fingers flex where they grip Megatronus’ shoulders and press against the back of his helm.
Megatronus’ ventilations hitch. “We’re in public!” he hisses, but his grip only tightens, one hand sliding down to Sunstreaker’s aft. He cups it, keeping Sunstreaker pinned against him. Arousal throbs through his lines, his spike swelling in its sheath, his valve twitching and lubricating.
It’s all he can do to keep his panels closed.
“This barely counts as public,” Sunstreaker teases.
The damp at Megatronus’ pelvis becomes more pronounced. He doesn’t have to look down to know Sunstreaker’s popped his panels. He can feel the hot press of Sunstreaker’s valve against his armor, and more than that, the length of Sunstreaker’s spike slides against his plating.
“Come on. Live a little,” Sunstreaker says, and steals Megatronus’ lips for another deep kiss, sucking Megatronus’ lower lip into his mouth and giving it a nip. “Stop thinking so much.”
Megatronus groans. It feels like a furnace has taken place of his frame, the heat swallowing him whole. He knows he’s in the middle of the crowd, can feel other mechs bumping against his back and aft, but somehow, there’s just he and Sunstreaker.
“This isn’t dancing,” Megatronus growls as he grips Sunstreaker’s aft and grinds harder against him. He’s sure to leave streaks of his paint behind. A shudder trips down his backstrut, arousal thundering in his lines at the thought.
Sunstreaker smirks. “How would you know? You don’t know how to dance.” He nips at Megatronus’ lips, his optics so bright with arousal they are nearly white. “If you’d rather walk away though, just say it. I’ll let you go. You can go back to the suite. I’m sure someone here is willing to show me a good time in your absence.”
How many times? How many times has he sat in the suite and waited for Sunstreaker to come back? How many times has Sunstreaker stumbled in, reeking of interface and high grade, with paint transfers Megatronus can’t recognize and Sunstreaker bitches about in the morning.
How many times has Megatronus cursed himself for not having the courage to demand exclusivity? How many times has he stroked himself to overload, thinking of his attractive mentor and craving that warm frame next to his in the berth?
“No,” Megatronus growls. His hands clamp down on Sunstreaker’s hip and thigh, as much a denial as his words. “Not this time. I’m staying.”
Sunstreaker stares at him before his lips curl, like a predator having caught his prey. “Then you’d better hold tight,” he says.
Megatronus has half a second to ponder what Sunstreaker means by that before Sunstreaker grips his shoulders and hauls himself up. His thighs clamp around Megatronus’ waist, the scorching damp of his valve pressing against his panel.
Megatronus shifts his grip to Sunstreaker’s thighs, holding the smaller mech in place. He plants his pedes, staggering back only a pace, but there’s little room to move. The crowd presses in around them, bracing as much as invading. Megatronus moans.
“Open up,” Sunstreaker demands, rocking incrementally, his spike leaving streaks of pre-fluid on Megatronus’ ventrum. “Open up or so help me–”
Megatronus cuts off his threat with a kiss, plunging his glossa into Sunstreaker’s mouth. The other mech shudders, a low moan of static in his vocalizer. Megatronus’ panel pops, his spike bumping up against Sunstreaker’s inner thighs and grazing his valve. Lubricant sizzles as it lands on his armor, and drips on Megatronus’ spike.
Sunstreaker’s valve rim twitches against the head of Megatronus’ spike, as demanding as its owner.
Sunstreaker’s arms tighten over Megatronus’ shoulders. His thighs quiver and then he rocks down, as Megatronus rocks up, his spike sliding into the clenching, dripping heat of Sunstreaker’s valve.
Megatronus whines against Sunstreaker’s lips. Pleasure peppers him from all directions. His spark throbs to the same beat of his spike, pulsing as Sunstreaker’s rippling calipers draw him deeper. Charge immediately exchanges between their nodes, a frantic, rapid pace. Static leaps between their frames, nipping at Megatronus’ protoform.
Sunstreaker’s heelstruts kick at the back of his thighs. He breaks away from the kiss and buries his face in Megatronus’ intake, his sharpened denta nicking at Megatronus’ cables. He shivers, grinding his denta to keep from moaning aloud. No one can hear him over the music, but that’s not the point.
His knees wobble. Sunstreaker rolls his hips, rocking down against him, until Megatronus’ so deep he’s grinding against Sunstreaker’s ceiling node. His mentor pants against his intake, denta grazing, leaving dents behind and drawing energon. His talons prick where they grip the back of Megatronus’ neck and his shoulders. Each sting of pain only serves to ground Megatronus, to remind him where he is, what he’s doing, and who his dance partner is.
Sunstreaker who’s riding him like they aren’t in the middle of the dance floor. Who’s spike throbs between their frames, leaving Megatronus’ belly a mess of pre-fluid. Who’s valve grips Megatronus in a rippling vise, pulling him toward an embarrassingly quick overload.
Megatronus can do nothing but hold on and struggle to ventilate. Especially when Sunstreaker’s mouth returns to his, biting and sucking at his lips.
The music throbs through them. Their armor vibrates.
Pleasure pulses through Megatronus’ lines. His lines sing with it. His spark throbs to the beat, swelling in his chassis. He groans, ventilations quickening, cooling fans running at maximum. He’s swallowed by the moment, by the pleasure, and the tide swamps over him, dragging him under.
He pulls Sunstreaker down, grinds against his mentor’s ceiling node, and overloads. His knees shake, his legs tremble, he staggers, but the crowd keeps him upright. It’s dizzying, the pleasure that eclipses all else, and only Sunstreaker’s talons against his cables keeps him away from the pull of reset.
“We’re not done yet,” Sunstreaker hisses and grinds harder against him. He presses their forehelms together, their lips inches apart, oral ventilations exchanging. “I want another.”
Megatronus groans. “You’re going to offline me.”
“You’ll live,” Sunstreaker retorts and clamps his thighs tighter around Megatronus’ waist. “Tonight, you’re mine. Understand?”
Always. Always yours.
He swallows down the promise.
He can only say yes. He can only hold on as Sunstreaker grinds and gyrates against him, panting through one overload after another, transfluid splattering Megatronus’ belly and lubricant staining his thighs. What else can he do but moan as Sunstreaker works another overload out of him?
He feels he should be embarrassed. Ashamed. But it’s a blur. He doesn’t notice the crowd, only tangentially notices the music. His focus is Sunstreaker, his gold armor, the clamp of Sunstreaker’s valve, and the throb of Sunstreaker’s spike against his belly.
He’s as claimed now as he was the moment Sunstreaker volunteered as his mentor, bringing the newbie gladiator into his sphere of protection.
With the music in his spark, the beat in his lines, the charge under his armor, the pleasure eclipsing his thoughts – Megatronus can’t imagine anything else he’d rather be.
Alarms force Megatronus out of a sound recharge. He has seconds to dislodge the heavy, hot weight from his frame and throw himself off the berth, before his tanks ripple. His thoughts spin, his processor struggles to function.
He purges, half-processed high grade splattering to the floor in front of him. It is a sickly green sludge, bits of unprocessed raw ore floating in the mess.
The dark chuckle of his mentor slithers into the dim of their suite behind him. “Lightweight,” Sunstreaker teases.
Megatronus throws a dirty rag over the purge and falls back on his aft. He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, the other hand pressing against his helm. He aches, helm to pede.
He feels the weight of Sunstreaker’s gaze on him, even as he looks down and sees the mess of his lower half. Dried transfluid and lubricant along with paint transfers make for a lurid mess.
So. It hadn’t been a dream. He really had interfaced with Sunstreaker in front of all and sundry.
“How are you fine? You outdrank me,” Megatronus says, alarmed by the static in his vocals. There’s a reason he drinks so little of that sludge they call engex.
Megatronus grunts at him. He rubs at his helm harder. Memories trickle in around the fog. He’d thought it a dream – the dancing, the kissing, the facing. There in the middle of the dance floor no less. He can’t remember a time he’d been so shameless. Probably because he never has.
His face heats. He prays to Primus no one had recorded them.
The berth creaks. Megatronus’ berth. They’d interfaced on the dance floor, stumbled back to their suite, wriggled their way into Megatronus’ berth, and interfaced more, Megatronus remembers.
That explains the sweet ache in his valve. He distinctly remembers Sunstreaker smirking down at him, a sheen of condensation glinting on gold armor, the prick of Sunstreaker’s talons on his cables.
He looks up. Sunstreaker has worked himself upright and now sits on the edge of the berth. He, too, is a mess of dried fluids and paint transfers, though Megatronus’ familiar grey and red aren’t the only colors present.
A shock of envy squeezes Megatronus’ spark. He bats it away.
“So,” Sunstreaker says, and trails off. His gaze skitters away and a light color enters his face.
Is Sunstreaker blushing?
“So that happened,” Sunstreaker finally finishes. His fingers flex on the edge of the berth.
“Yeah,” Megatronus replies. He drops his hands, lets his arms drape over his knees. “Now what?”
Sunstreaker’s optics cycle. “Now nothing,” he says with a roll of his neck and a shrug. “Unless what you’re wanting is an apology.”
“No, that’s not what I meant.” Megatronus cycles a ventilation. “I want you.”
Sunstreaker spreads his hands. “You have me.” His lips curl in a smirk, and one hand drifts to his groin. “As I recall, you had me many times.”
Megatron’s optics narrow. “I also know I’m not the only one.”
“Ah.” Sunstreaker works his jaw before he hops off the berth, dropping seamlessly into a crouch near Megatronus. His gaze is unreadable, as it so often is, and his field is quietly contained. “I’m not one to settle.”
Megatronus stares at the floor, trying to ignore the stench of his own purge. “Then I guess I’ve answered my own question.”
It doesn’t hurt. He knew this would happen. He can’t blame the throbbing in his processor. He knew what he was doing. He’d do it again. At least, now he knows.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Sunstreaker loudly cycles a ventilation and scrubs a hand down his face. “I don’t settle, but then, I don’t go hauling newbie gladiators with me wherever I go either. Time was, I would’ve dropped you and never looked back.”
He doesn’t dare tug on that thread of hope.
“And now?” Megatronus asks as he untangles his limbs and pushes himself to his pedes. Sunstreaker rises to fully stand as well.
Sunstreaker’s lips twitch, though Megatronus’ not sure he can call it a smile. “Now, I guess, you’’re stuck with me. And everyone else is just going to have to settle for a grope in the ring. Sound fair?”
“It won’t bother you?” He can’t hide the suspicion in his tone. Sunstreaker loves his freedom, and sees any restriction on it as a chain he can’t abide.
Sunstreaker shrugs. “Not as much as you’d think it does.” He cups Megatronus’ jaw in something oddly gentle. “You’ve never asked me for anything. I suppose I can keep myself to one berth in return.”
Megatronus can’t help but lean into Sunstreaker’s palm, to the warmth of his hand. “It won’t upset me if you can’t.”
“Liar,” Sunstreaker says. He rises up on his pedes and presses a quick kiss to the corner of Megatronus’ mouth before he draws back. “Now come on. I’m a mess. You’re a mess. And I’ve still got some overcharge to burn.”
Megatronus, however, hesitates. “There were a lot of mechs at the celebration last night,” he says, and his face heats. He thinks of the show they put on, how shameless they both had been.
Sunstreaker snickers. “What happens on the dance floor, stays on the dance floor. Trust me, by the end of the night, we weren’t the only ones. No one was paying you that much attention.”
Megatronus scrubs a hand down his face. “You’re corrupting me.”
“Only in the best ways.” Sunstreaker’s smirk broadens. “Now let’s go.”
And like he’s done from the moment he first met Sunstreaker, what else can Megatronus do but follow? His spark won’t settle for anything less.