dracoqueen22 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dracoqueen22) wrote2021-04-08 07:52 am
dracoqueen22) wrote2021-04-08 07:52 am
Entry tags:
[IDW] Shameless
Title: Shameless
Universe: IDW, MTMTE/LL
Characters: Megatron/Rodimus
Rated: T
Description: Somehow, Megatron had managed to look past every single one of Rodimus’ character flaws and found a mech he wanted in his berth.
For yamiquietshadowflo, who gave me the prompt.
Megatron often wondered what it felt like to have so little shame. True, one could argue that he himself was hardly the best example of humility, but taking pride in one’s actions, or taking responsibility for them, was not the same as Rodimus’ complete and utter lack of propriety.
In short, Rodimus had no shame.
Now, this wasn’t news to Megatron.
It had been quite obvious from the moment he set foot on the Lost Light, and joined Rodimus in leadership of the crew that his co-captain had no shame. He was loud. He was impetuous. He stated what he wanted, when he wanted it, and he often held little regard for rules or regulations or pure common sense.
Somehow, Megatron had managed to look past every single one of those character flaws and find a mech he wanted in his berth.
He still wasn’t sure how it happened. He’s trying not to look too closely at the reasons behind his relationship with the Autobot -- who just so happened to best resemble an amalgam of two of the greatest snags in Megatron’s gears.
The whys and hows were beside the point.
The point being Rodimus’ lack of shame, and the fact he couldn’t be bothered to scrub the paint streaks from his armor before he arrived for his shift. That he strolled through the halls of the Lost Light, had likely popped his head into Swerve’s, and strutted out onto the bridge wearing long scrapes of Megatron’s paint like they were badges of armor.
He’d made the most cursory effort to wipe the transfluid from his thighs, but his efforts had been haphazard at best.
Megatron could see at least two dried spots he’d missed, and Megatron was standing on the other side of the bridge. Megatron was, in fact, standing in the doorway, having come to the bridge with the intention of asking Rodimus an innocuous question, and for the spark of him, unable to remember what it was anymore.
Primus.
Megatron’s vents stuttered in his chassis.
There was a dent. He’d left a dent on Rodimus’ right hip, and it would only take someone with a keen optic to match the grey paint marring Rodimus’ flame-colored armor, to the size of the handprint on Rodimus’ hip. The two clues added up to a single perpetrator.
Weren’t they trying to be discreet?
Rodimus spotted him then, in the middle of doing whatever prancing dance he tended to effect when he was on the bridge, and a smile broke wide across his face. “Megatron!” he said, with a mischievous delight that might as well have screamed “I got interfaced silly last night and here comes the mech responsible now!”
“It’s not time for your shift yet,” Rodimus added.
“No, it’s not,” Megatron said. He couldn’t seem to make his feet move any further into the bridge, and now the other Autobots were staring, spinning around in their chairs to watch the interplay between their two co-captains, who were usually at each other’s intakes.
Rodimus strutted toward him, hips swaying, grinning from audial to audial, spoiler twitching up and down. “Is there a problem?”
“No,” Megatron said. His gaze kept dropping to the streaks of paint on Rodimus’ thighs, the dent on his hip, the missed splashes of dried lubricant and transfluid.
He and Rodimus were constantly at odds. Until last night, that had been an undeniable truth Megatron thought would never change.
Now, he’d seen Rodimus in the grips of ecstasy. Now, he’d felt the other mech beneath him and over him, had spilled inside Rodimus, and been pleasured by Rodimus in return. They’d spent the evening in the same berth, Rodimus radiating heat against the everlasting chill of Megatron’s aging armor.
He wanted to be inside Rodimus again.
“Then you just came to visit?” Rodimus asked, hip cocked, one hand resting on it.
Megatron scowled, searching for an element of control and fearing he’d left it swirling down the washrack drain. “Of course not.”
He poked at his useless processor, trying to find the legitimate reason he’d come to the bridge, but it was lost somewhere between the long scrape on Rodimus’ left thigh, and the other paint transfer curving around toward Rodimus’ aft.
Rodimus arched an orbital ridge at him. “Well?”
“I…” Megatron couldn’t, for the spark of him, remember. “Try and behave like a professional when you’re on shift,” he spat and then he did the only thing he could.
He spun on his heelstrut and stalked out of the bridge.
He swore Rodimus’ smirk followed him out.
***
Universe: IDW, MTMTE/LL
Characters: Megatron/Rodimus
Rated: T
Description: Somehow, Megatron had managed to look past every single one of Rodimus’ character flaws and found a mech he wanted in his berth.
For yamiquietshadowflo, who gave me the prompt.
Megatron often wondered what it felt like to have so little shame. True, one could argue that he himself was hardly the best example of humility, but taking pride in one’s actions, or taking responsibility for them, was not the same as Rodimus’ complete and utter lack of propriety.
In short, Rodimus had no shame.
Now, this wasn’t news to Megatron.
It had been quite obvious from the moment he set foot on the Lost Light, and joined Rodimus in leadership of the crew that his co-captain had no shame. He was loud. He was impetuous. He stated what he wanted, when he wanted it, and he often held little regard for rules or regulations or pure common sense.
Somehow, Megatron had managed to look past every single one of those character flaws and find a mech he wanted in his berth.
He still wasn’t sure how it happened. He’s trying not to look too closely at the reasons behind his relationship with the Autobot -- who just so happened to best resemble an amalgam of two of the greatest snags in Megatron’s gears.
The whys and hows were beside the point.
The point being Rodimus’ lack of shame, and the fact he couldn’t be bothered to scrub the paint streaks from his armor before he arrived for his shift. That he strolled through the halls of the Lost Light, had likely popped his head into Swerve’s, and strutted out onto the bridge wearing long scrapes of Megatron’s paint like they were badges of armor.
He’d made the most cursory effort to wipe the transfluid from his thighs, but his efforts had been haphazard at best.
Megatron could see at least two dried spots he’d missed, and Megatron was standing on the other side of the bridge. Megatron was, in fact, standing in the doorway, having come to the bridge with the intention of asking Rodimus an innocuous question, and for the spark of him, unable to remember what it was anymore.
Primus.
Megatron’s vents stuttered in his chassis.
There was a dent. He’d left a dent on Rodimus’ right hip, and it would only take someone with a keen optic to match the grey paint marring Rodimus’ flame-colored armor, to the size of the handprint on Rodimus’ hip. The two clues added up to a single perpetrator.
Weren’t they trying to be discreet?
Rodimus spotted him then, in the middle of doing whatever prancing dance he tended to effect when he was on the bridge, and a smile broke wide across his face. “Megatron!” he said, with a mischievous delight that might as well have screamed “I got interfaced silly last night and here comes the mech responsible now!”
“It’s not time for your shift yet,” Rodimus added.
“No, it’s not,” Megatron said. He couldn’t seem to make his feet move any further into the bridge, and now the other Autobots were staring, spinning around in their chairs to watch the interplay between their two co-captains, who were usually at each other’s intakes.
Rodimus strutted toward him, hips swaying, grinning from audial to audial, spoiler twitching up and down. “Is there a problem?”
“No,” Megatron said. His gaze kept dropping to the streaks of paint on Rodimus’ thighs, the dent on his hip, the missed splashes of dried lubricant and transfluid.
He and Rodimus were constantly at odds. Until last night, that had been an undeniable truth Megatron thought would never change.
Now, he’d seen Rodimus in the grips of ecstasy. Now, he’d felt the other mech beneath him and over him, had spilled inside Rodimus, and been pleasured by Rodimus in return. They’d spent the evening in the same berth, Rodimus radiating heat against the everlasting chill of Megatron’s aging armor.
He wanted to be inside Rodimus again.
“Then you just came to visit?” Rodimus asked, hip cocked, one hand resting on it.
Megatron scowled, searching for an element of control and fearing he’d left it swirling down the washrack drain. “Of course not.”
He poked at his useless processor, trying to find the legitimate reason he’d come to the bridge, but it was lost somewhere between the long scrape on Rodimus’ left thigh, and the other paint transfer curving around toward Rodimus’ aft.
Rodimus arched an orbital ridge at him. “Well?”
“I…” Megatron couldn’t, for the spark of him, remember. “Try and behave like a professional when you’re on shift,” he spat and then he did the only thing he could.
He spun on his heelstrut and stalked out of the bridge.
He swore Rodimus’ smirk followed him out.