paladinofthepits

[paladinofthepits]

-> To anyone I have a thread with, I just want to take this time to say a few things:

If you EVER lose interest in a thread/feel like it has nowhere to go, please don't feel guilty about telling me as much. I want our threads to be mutually enjoyable, and sometimes we lose interest or things just taper off. That's okay, and I will never be upset over that.

Likewise, if I ever feel that way, please rest assured that I will reach out. I would rather be honest than leave someone hanging, and it isn't as though we can't think up something new and fun.

If you don't see a reply from me for a while, it's likely that I have you in my drafts, and I'm just waiting for the time/inspiration. But you can absolutely message me to ask if you think I may have lost a response somewhere in the depths of my tumblr notifications. That is also a possibility.

At the moment, these are the responses I believe I owe, so if you DON'T see your name on there, shoot me a msg... Everyone else should have a response if the thread is active.

@honor-cxde X2 - Naja and Cliff

@viciousbite - Naja

@dollofiacon X2 - KO and Jackie

I'll try to get to these within the next couple of days before I leave for vacation!! I'll still be lurking, just not sure how much time I'll get while I'm on my trip. 😘

[paladinofthepits]

He'd expected a fight, so when the powerful seeker wrenched himself free and maneuvered to face him, Megatron was ready. Bracing, the silver mech awaited his vehement denial in the form of fists and venemous words. He had not, however, been prepared for the force of Dreadwing's admittance.

A burning mouth claimed his in a kiss that could only be described as punishing, denta wicked as his own adding to the patchwork of scars that decorated his lips. There was so much anger in the pressure of those derma, though whether it was anger at himself or Megatron, the ex gladiator couldn't decide.

Still... anger or not, it was the approval he'd been waiting for.

Recovering from the initial shock, his servos reached out, gripping, pulling him closer, as though trying to meld their frames together. Victory tasted like energon shared between the seeking press of their glossa, both battling for dominance.

He rattled out a low growl, a desire long dormant stoked by the pain, and further ignited by the stimulating visual Dreadwing presented. To see one so stoic in such a state of disarray stirred his spike further, plating now uncomfortably snug.

But not yet... no. Megatron wanted him moaning, pleading.

Dreadwing can't help the wince as his captor slams his fist into the wall with intense force. Before he can yell at him to stop doing damage to his ship, Megatron already has his jaw and has jerked his head to the side. Pain lights up along his neck at the extreme twist; the Seeker grits his bared teeth and glares at the warlord from the corner of one blazing red optic.

"Do not speak to me of honour. You know nothing of the word," Dreadwing snarls, his voice deep in his own throat. "I--"

They're damn near eye-to-eye. Despite having no visible pupils, it's very clear that the former commander is glowering fiercely. The entire ventral surface of Megatron's frame is pressed against his back, pressing, suffocating -- -- alluring.

Claws bracing on the wall, Dreadwing pushes to give himself just a little space to work with. With a tuck of both wings, folding them down so that the trailing edges overlap, he shoves and turns in one motion, grunting as his back now clanks against the vessel wall. Does he deny it?

Lunging forward, there's a clatter of hard armor plates crashing against one another as he seizes the gladiator's mouth with his own. There is no softness in the kiss; there is none left in him for the mech in his presence. Instead, he kisses with teeth, driven, determined to make the warmonger bleed.

[paladinofthepits]

Courtesans were marked in a variety of ways throughout their lives, the brands serving as indictators for a number of things:

//SENIORITY//

Unmarked courtesans were newly forged, and had yet to gain mastery of any skillset. Some clients preferred them, as they were considered 'purer'.

At one millenia, courtesans gain a mark to the inside of their optics, signifying their experience and longevity. Sadly, a long-lived courtesan was not overly common. Most never make it to their third millenia.

//SKILL MASTERY//

Courtesans who were trained in vocal skillsets only gain their mark when they achieve a mastery of their craft. They are not permitted to be used for oral servicing.

Likewise, courtesans who were trained in instrumental skillsets only gain their mark once they have perfected the art of playing one or more instruments.

Courtesans trained as dancers can select from a variety of genres, many of which are required to receive contortionist modifications. All contortionists are dancers, but not all dancers are contortionists.

//MODIFICATIONS//

The chin mark specifies that a courtesan has received interface array modifications. Standard equipment consists of a spike and valve, to be used independently or simultaneously. Those with modifications will have two of the same - two valves or two spikes.

A mark on the lower lip specifies there have been modifications done to either intake or glossa, or both. Multiple glossa and lengthened glossa are the most common.

The line that runs from the side of the helm across the cheek horizontally indicates contortion modifications. These bots specialize in extreme poses and are more heavily reinforced than their counterparts, as they generally attract clientele who aim to be rough.

[paladinofthepits]

Since we're on the topic of asses...... had to do it.... She'll break your spark and crush your helm between these bad boys.

I inadvertently started the snatched waist shenanigans a lil while back, so hoping this will inpire some booty body positivity, and that the dash will be flooded with aft pics ♡

No need to make it a contest, because we all know Megatron has everyone beat. And besides... all afts are beautiful. Slender, shapely, big, and small! And I will hype up every single aft I see on my dash. So lemme see em!

[paladinofthepits]

-> Am alive (barely). I must clean my home after the disaster I made of it doing last minute sewing yesterday, but then I will do the replies and the starters and draw the things.....

[paladinofthepits]

Megatron recieves a ping with a set of coordinates. A single line of text accompanies it:

Request: Spar with me.

There existed within him a hunger he could not satiate. A beast that paced the confines of its enclosure, waiting to be released once more. The sudden, unanticipated message rattled the bars that kept it at bay. Stepping away from the console he'd been working at, Megatron did not hesitate to engage the spacebridge, turning as it flared to life at his back. Earth rattling steps carried him through to where his old friend awaited.

Soundwave appeared as always, silent... ready.

"You have impeccable timing. I was beginning to get... restless."

The walls erected to reign in the beast came clattering down, the bellicose monstrosity that was him - the very core of the seasoned gladiator - rearing its frightful helm at the chance to partake in battle once more.

And, given his opponent, he knew he would not have to hold back.

[paladinofthepits]

The flustered bot moved with surprising precision despite the less than ideal conditions. While their servos were efficient and confident, their expression was decidedly less so, shifting every couple of kliks. He wondered if they were aware of just how easily he could read them...

He hardly registers the pain as severed lines are clamped, welds administered. When they do finally give him the all clear, Megatron pries his stare away from their countenance, skimming optics over the considerably less messy expanse of his strut.

Testing their work, he give the limb an experimental flex, bending it backward before straightening again. It was still rather stiff, but it moved. Good. It would suffice for the time being.

Knowing he could not afford to wait around and risk being happened upon by another Autobot, he lurched forward, rising slow and deliberate, gradually settling his weight onto the newly mended limb. It held up to the test. Excellent.

"Well done. It seems you'll live to fight another day."

His involuntary savior was in rough shape. He could have easily left them there without another word... but he wasn't out of the woods just yet, and it did not sit well with him that he technically owed them a favor.

He turned to face the younger bot, still seated at his pedes, catching their optics through the jagged window of their broken visor. There was a long moment of silence before he bared shearing denta in a sneer.

"Can you stand?"

For a moment, Kitbasher stared at the wound on the warlord's leg, stunned at the predicament they were in. But quickly they snapped themselves free of their fear driven paralysis, their bright optics looking down as they opened the medical subspace that was built into their chassis. Almost like a portable cabinet.

They picked through what dwindling supplies they had and cautiously inched closer to their enemy. Despite their own pains, and injuries, they were forced to use what little they had.

Kitbasher really hoped that this wouldn't count against them later when they reported back to their team... If they reported back, that is. Helping Megatron of all mechs seemed like a pretty big deal... but they had no choice.

Ever so gently, Kitbasher got to work, wiping away excess fluids and grime, until they could see the damage. They grimaced slightly, the expression only seen through their optics. They weren’t used to having their expressions even slightly seen. Let alone their optics bare to the enemy. So Kitbasher’s bedside manner wasn’t the greatest when preventing their expressions from giving away their thoughts.

Despite their grimace, they continued, prodding around to position their nimble digits so they could begin superficial welds. They did the best with what little scrap they had, and clamped down any lines they couldn’t seal back up.

Kitbasher’s patch job would stop the Decepticon leader from bleeding out, and allow him to walk slow, but that was all they could do. Megatron needed a medical bay, and soon, or else rust would set in.

When they sat back from Megatron’s injured leg, they released a rattling vent, something within their frame was loose and preventing their fans to vent properly. That, combined with light energon loss from cuts all over their frame, Kitbasher was looking, and sounding, worse for wear.

“There… happy? You get to live long enough to watch me cough up…” They paused, wheezing out heavily, making the rattling noise again so they could guess what it was causing the sound.

“Sounds like a loose fan housing. Hah… ha ha…” They shook their helm.

[paladinofthepits]

Optic ridges slant upward, expression perfectly guileless (a dead giveaway).

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're referring to. The inquiry clearly states as much. Though I am flattered you thought of me. It would be a shame to leave such a generous offer unanswered... I accept."

Come and tell my Muse off for something they've done//

"Being the universe's biggest spike tease."

From: anonymous (definitely not Megatron)

He is about to get offended, but falters; no, this is the face of someone who has had a better idea.

Dreadwing types back.

"This is untrue. I am never just a tease, I always give gratification..."

@paladinofthepits

[paladinofthepits]

Steady gate faltering, he steps back to observe an... unusual sight. Not unpleasant, no, just unexpected. Sleek curvature moves this way and that, dark frame capturing and holding his hellish gaze.

Without realizing it, he's approaching, unspeaking - not wanting to interrupt. Once within reaching distance, a broad, clawed servo draws upward, hovering midair next to the slim waist as it shimmies ever closer.

Shaking its aft. Surely somemech out there wants to man handle it and give it pretty praises...

[paladinofthepits]

-> Going to be making up some open starters for mutuals since I've noticed a boost in followers lately. Interaction *encouraged* 😊

[paladinofthepits]

Regret... isn't something he experiences often. Most of his choices - even the hardest of them - he can justify.

Yet there are a scant few that revisit him from time to time, bearing down like a physical force. Red optics glance down as one such memory surfaces, bloody gaze tracing the sharp lines of his servos. Recalling what they had done.

Exventing, he drops the appendages to his sides. As a leader, he bore the responsibility of all. Mistakes, those he made and those made by his subordinates, were his burden. He could not take them back. He could only move forward, knowing the weight of those mistakes would forever be dogging his heels.

[paladinofthepits]

The fire in his lines was turned momentarily to ice at the claim, optics flaring with fury. The servo now clasped in Dreadwing's claws ceased its exploration entirely. The other - still braced against the wall - lifted, withdrawing only long enough to curl it into a fist and slam with rattling force against the ship's hull.

"Who, precisely, are you speaking to? Fooling myself? When did you denounce your honour and become such a filthy liar? Or is it that you value your moral high-ground so very much you're unwilling to admit the truth to yourself?!"

He unclenched his fist, reaching out to snag the seeker by the jaw and jerk his head to the side, forcing their gazes to meet.

"You might not be of this universe, but I have seen the similarities. Dreadwing, in this or any plane of existence, is no coward. You may hate me, but you want this. To claim this is nothing more than some involuntary, inescapable response is insulting to the both of us."

He drew closer, curled forward until their mouths nearly touched, so close the red glow from their optics was reflected against the slopes of both their faces. "Do you deny it?"

He can't help the shuddering squirm that wracks his body as Megatron's claws continue their damned exploration. Barely, the Seeker manages to keep mostly still when those digits find their way into his ventral seam, just barely brushing the keen sensors beneath before moving down over his fauld. Dreadwing's very skin should be crawling in disgust -- it's there, boiling in his mind, but not in his physicality. No, he's trapped in the clawing cage of his treacherous frame, which only yearns for the touch he has not had in too long. Id's snarling teeth have driven ego and superego into the background despite their struggles.

Growling, the former commander grabs at Megatron's wandering hand with his own, talons snatching to try and make him stop touching him.

"You behave as though you are proud that you can use the automatic processes of a biomechanical frame to support your ego," he seethes between clenched teeth. He can already feel heat pooling behind his interface panel. "Do not fool yourself."

[paladinofthepits]

They did a convincing job of making themselves invaluable, the warlord mused. At least for the time being. His mercy would be entirely dependent on how well they could perform their duties.

Now free of the other's weight, he was able to maneuver himself into a seated position, hydraulic fluids and energon forming a small puddle beneath him. A groan of discomfort was withheld. So very stiff.

A faint snarl pulled at scarred derma when they correctly supposed the severity of his injury, reminding them that - while he was wounded - he was not one to be taken lightly. If their wavering field and nervous expression were anything to go by, he surmised he'd made his point.

One brow ridge came dangerously close to arching when they suggested he might try to siphon the energon from their body after dispatching them. He had done many desperate things to survive, though cannibalism was not one of them. He wondered where they might have conceived such a notion. Though, he'd heard some of the stories Autobots told one a other about him. About the depth of his wickedness and debauchery. Megatron had never bothered to correct fabrications... let them build him up into some fantastical monster. It benefitted him in the end, after all.

Grunting in acknowledgment, he rumbled, "Well then, medic, best get to it. Lest I change my mind."

He turned minutely, exposing the lesion at the back of his leg. The weight of it made moving difficult, so he gripped the damnable appendage with one claw and dragged it painfully upright until the pede rested flat against the floor, knee bent.

"Do try to refrain from accosting my person again," he drawled. This time, when they met optics with him, he did lift a brow.

The golden optics that stared so fearfully, dared to look down, to investigate what the Decepticon leader needed repaired. Kitbasher couldn't quite see the extent of the damage to the other, due to the hydraulic fuel leak, but she supposed in that very moment, it didn't quite matter. If she were to survive this, going along was pertinent and convincing the other of her worth was paramount. Despite her posture betraying her fear by freezing her relatively in place, she flinched away from the searing heat that the powered up plasma cannon exuded as it inched closer to her faceplate.

"I-I'm a field medic. I am equipped to mend wounds to ensure survival until the patient can reach a medical bay." She slowly raised her servos, sense finally reaching her as she slowly stood from her humiliating position, sat atop the warlord. She clumsily stumbled and fell back onto her aft and scraped her pedes along the dirt floor of the cave, wincing as she attempted to push herself back upright. She herself was suffering from multiple minor wounds, and could feel her own energon reserves waning. Kitbasher could feel exhaustion setting in to her joints. But she refused to allow her frame to relax in the presence of the other.

"I-I don't know what your wound is, but I can tell that you are experiencing energon loss. As am I. Using your canon on me would be a waste of precious fuel and you would likely fall into stasis lock if you weren't able to walk out of here. Judging by how easily I was able to knock over a mech of your size... you won't be able to." She chanced a look up to Megatron's face plate after her pitch for her life. She had never seen the infamous Megatron this close, always set closer to the back lines, furthest from where the ex-gladiator preferred to get his servos dirty.

Seeing him in such detail and clarity sent a shiver through her frame, like the icy breath of death ghosted over the nape of her neck cabling. She continued, her tone turning grim.

"And I wouldn't have enough energon in my frame to sustain you, if you do decide to burn through what is left in your tanks with that weapon of yours."

[paladinofthepits]

->Happy June 1st, fellow 2SLGBTQIA+ robot-lovers!

Remember: our existence IS RESISTANCE!!

I promise not to bombard with my drag sh*t (since this is not the platform I focus that part of my life into usually), though I did want to make at least one post. May you all be blessed this pride month and beyond <3

Half dragged, driving to the venue...

(Part of) my drag family! My beautiful Glamazon drag mother in the pink💖 Me in the denim fit 🩵💙

[paladinofthepits]

"Let me still that lying glossa." @honor-cxde

The promised filth, just in time for Thirsty Thursday. My first attempt at Transformers NSFW art... 🫣

Inspired by a shared thread with @honor-cxde 💙💛🩶💜

[paladinofthepits]

Being perceptive was one of the many strengths Megatron utilized to keep him ahead, first in the gladiatorial arena, and now as the ruler of the Decepticon faction. Yet it had other uses. The initial twitch when his digits first grazed, the hasty retreat from seeking claws, and now the slight tremor of frame.

He was quick to pursue, chasing that sensitive seam. Pressed back against him, there was no escaping the seeking touch this time, and he traced the broad side of his thumb along it to the top before reversing direction, the tip of a claw slanting inward to gently tease what lay hidden beneath. He followed it down to the plating over the seeker's interface array, skirting to one spiked edge before dipping into the gap above thigh armor.

No challenge? The implication is likely lost on Dreadwing, given his flustered state. Brow tipping up, he taunts, "Oh? You've no opposition, then? Is this... something you want?"

The last sentence was spoken as his wandering servo made its way back to that delicious seam, plucking, drawing more telling responses. How conflicted he must be, his field a dizzying combination of emotion. Servos that could spear into and bisect him completely were gently tapping and tracing, seeking only to draw him further into the snare.

Broad frame ablaze, the strength of his desire seeped forth - palpable as the steam that rolled from his vents. He drew his chin against the back of the blue mech's neck, fanged grin nipping as he awaited a response to his jibe.

It would not be so easy, he knew. There was a great deal of distrust and uncertainty that Dreadwing harbored for him. Perhaps even hate... but there was something else too, that hadn't gone unnoticed. He was unsure what the nature of his relationship with his Megatron had been, but at times the faintest motes of something promising coloured his EM field.

@paladinofthepits

He can almost feel Megatron's voice more than he can hear it. The Seeker has stilled, still pressed hard against the side of the cargo bay by his captor's bulk. It is true ... if the Decepticon king had wanted him dead, he would have already been a corpse discarded on the floor of the Sky Claw II. But he isn't.

Dreadwing's field streaks with a harsh, cold emotion when the realization of what Megatron wants finally dawns on him.

He doesn't want to take his life.

He wants to take his body.

The warlord's free hand is dancing along his front, long silvery talons swirling mindlessly over blue and yellow armor. Close. Too close. Only getting closer to --

-- ah --

There.

In many human-made jets, most of the radar and sensory equipment are located in the forward portion of the plane. Dreadwing's alternate mode, while being relatively covered in sensitive equipment, is really no different. Upon his transformation, the nosecone of his F-35B Lightning II slots down into the Seeker's pelvis. Beneath a stripe of golden armor lies a massive knot of extremely keen sensors and wiring.

Megatron has just found it. Silver claw tips part the plating just a bit, and Dreadwing arches his back out away from the sensation, pressing his spine against the warmonger's front.

"There is no challenge to turn away from," he growls, shuddering despite himself. "My dispute was with your treacherous second. Not you."

[paladinofthepits]

Respect? The accusation almost roused a chuckle from him. Dreadwing was alive, was he not? What greater act of respect could there be from one such as he? Had Megatron not felt the seeker was worthy of his respect, there would be a blade lodged deep in his back. But perhaps he didn't see it that way?

The questions that followed proved as much. He operated under the assumption that Megatron was here for something entirely different. A plausible supposition to make, but an incorrect one all the same. He would have to remedy that.

"A loose end?" he mused aloud. "In a way, yes. I intend at the very least to clarify one glaring misconception... this notion you have that I've come for your life."

A pause followed, the other mech's struggles momentarily stilled as he absorbed the admission.

"I do not intent to repeat that mistake again," the silvery warrior rumbled, the words hardly above a whisper.

While his relations with the Dreadwing from this universe had never graduated beyond the role of master and subordinate, he had trusted the blue flyer, respected his prowess in battle and valued his loyalty. Right up until the very end. There were days he still felt the sting of that choice.

This was not his Dreadwing. Despite being indistinguishable apart from the damage inflicted upon his frame, there was something distinctly different about him as a whole, and Megatron's responses were proof enough that he viewed them as two separate beings. While he could recognize and admit he'd always found the mech's visage attractive, he'd never desired him. The same could not be said for this iteration.

Lingering claws slipped idly along the seams at his captive's midsection, prodding... taunting.

Edging around a topic was not something he did. So it was without an ounce of hesitation or shame that he admitted, "You have snared my attentions, and I am not one to shy away from a challenge."

@paladinofthepits

Bracing his pedes against the deck, it took all of Megatron's weight to oppose the blue mech's attempts to shake him off. Meanwhile, servos and mouth ghosted against his frame almost irrelevantly, a strange juxtaposition to his handling otherwise. The warlord chose to ignore the indignant demand to remove himself, instead focusing on the initial inquiry. "Lamenting. What was, what is. And perusing what might be." He'd been considering the seeker for some time, tracking his movements when he could. It was an entirely selfish endeavor, but he would not deny himself. Mere curiosity and shock upon their initial meeting had morphed into something far more indulgent. And now, having spied the spacecraft so open and inviting... there had been no hesitation. One servo slid from its perch upon a thrashing hip, moving to splay against the wall next to Dreadwing's own. Megatron pulled himself to full height again, chin tucking into the gap between his captive's neck and shoulder armor. "You're getting rather lax, wouldn't you say? Or perhaps you were hoping for some company?"

The mech's presence is suffocating despite their size-difference being rather minimal. Dreadwing is heavy and powerful, but Megatron is moreso of both -- he is a flier, not a Seeker, built to take punishment and dole it out tenfold. The F-35 is no wilting winged flower, defying the norm of lithe, speedy jets, but he still cannot help but fail against the silver warlord's heavier might.

Dreadwing's mind races, and it occurs to him that ... he has no idea which Megatron this is. Is it his? Wheeljack's? Is it the newly benevolent king who rules beside the Vosnian Emperor Starscream --? No, not that one. That one has blue optics. So which one is it?

He cannot tell them apart. None of them have markings that distinguish one from the other. Primus, he can't tell them apart and therefore he has nothing to go on. All he knows is that Soleil is asleep on the dining table upstairs in the living quarters of the ship. The Seeker can defend himself, but the cybercat can't; it's best if Megatron never discovers he has a pet he loves so dearly.

The feeling of that mouth so close to the fat fluid lines in his neck feels hauntingly familiar. He has been here before, though a different time, and a different place.

"This is my home," he hisses between clenched sharp teeth. "I expect a certain level of respect to be offered -- I may support the Decepticon Cause no longer, but I also do not thwart it."

Still. Dreadwing knows he can still be seen as a grave enemy. He handed over the Forge of Solus Prime, after all ... and in his travels, he has learned that such an act produced grave consequences.

"Or are you here to finish what you started?" Burning red optics turn to look over his shoulder, glaring at Megatron. "Tie up a loose end?"