Another night, another spectacle.

As the sun set over the city skyline, the sister moons rose to take its place. The residents of the Magnesium Flare Pleasure House rose with them to greet a new work night. For as the nightlife buzzed to life in Praxus, so too did the vices of every mech from the most esteemed noble to the lowest energon miner.

Beep-beep-beep-beep-bee- Thnk!

Orion slammed a servo on the snooze button of his alarm. The last rays of the day through the window stabbed him in the optics as they flickered on. Groaning softly, he rolled over in the berth to shield his face in the crook of his arm. He prayed to whatever higher power might be listening for a little more recharge. Just a few kliks more before he had to get up and face the night's overcharged and entitled rabble. Surely he was allowed that much.

His alarm chimed to the contrary a minute later, however, and with a sigh he pushed aside the soft mesh sheets. Struts creaked and cable-kinks tugged as he stretched his arms behind him. He frowned as he felt more than a few abused components slip back into place with a pop , a memento from last night's client. Tarnish military elites certainly paid well, but at what cost to his internals?

Well, nothing a few sensornet-dulling pills with his evening cube could not alleviate. He consumed both in short order, discarding the cube in the waste receptacle in the wall. Then it was off to the washrack. Not that he was particularly dirty, far from it. The house matron would have stripped him down to his protoform and mounted him on the walls of the common if he had gone to recharge without cleaning up after a session with a client. Proper hygiene and maintenance was key - rule number one for any courtesan that did not want to end up a poor house-less streetwalker.

Of course, it was not enough to be merely clean. Every noble and senator that swaggered into the Flare expected its residents to be as shiny and pristine as the day they were forged. Their establishment catered only to the best and brightest of Cybertronian society, after all, and its courtesans had to polish and paint themselves accordingly.

Closing the door behind him, he turned the solvent stream on its hottest setting. A soft moan, in relief this time, escaped him as it worked its way beneath his plating to soothe his aching protoform. He indulged himself and simply stood under the shower for several moments.

He tilted his helm back, the silver and glyph-inscribed collar around his neck ringing slightly with the motion. Only to hiss lightly between clenched dentae as the solvent poured over the bite marks on his neck cabling. Another souvenir from the Tarnish mech. It was a wonder the brute had not punctured an energon line.

"Nope," he grumbled to himself, stepping out of the washrack again. "Never again. Don't care how much they tip afterward..." As if he had any real choice in the matter, in this place.

Quickly toweling himself dry, he took the buffing brushes and bottle of carnauba wax out of the cabinet. He worked the wax into his frame until his plating had a mirror shine, starting at the tips of his pedes and working his way up. Small circles, shallow strokes, just the way that one mech - Breakdown, was that his name? - had taught him in his earliest days as a courtesan. A final flourish on his crest, and his polishing was finished.

If only that were all his nightly ritual entailed he mused as he took at seat at the vanity. Air brushes and paint canisters and stencils lay scattered across the tabletop, every one a tool of his peculiar trade. His optics glanced between the paint before settling on gold. Hooking the air brush up to the canister, he first began applying it to his faceplate. Geometric tear-tracks down his cheeks, a dusting beneath his optics, intricate glyph-work on his temple with the help of his stencils. He performed a similar treatment on the plating on his forearms, shoulders, and chest until he was as decorated and gaudy as any noble or senator could please.

Now for his silk-meshes. Orion pulled the gauzy fabric out of the trunk at the foot of the berth, a brass color to compliment the designs he had just painted on himself. Small magnets locked them into place on his frame. First a headpiece that flowed like so much high-grade over his shoulders. Then twin strips connecting from his wrist to upper arm. And finally long, flowing pieces that sat at his hips and draped over his aft and interface panel.

As little as it left to the imagination, it was the most pointless ensemble in the entire history of apparel. A few stretches and an experimental twirl or two, just to make sure none of the cloth had gotten caught. Countless nights of the same routine ensured that there was not so much as a single flaw in his paint or a wrinkle in his silks.

And as his frame was now prepared, so too did his manner and speech need to be attended. He shuttered his optics and clasped his servos together. Opening his vents, he counted one, two, three cycles. Twisting lightly and smoothly on his pedes, he gazed into the vanity mirror, expression serene and empty of unsightly cares and his field blank.

"You are naught but a vessel," he began, the old mantra all but branded into his processor. "You are naught but a spectacle. You know no anger, no pain, no fear. You will bow, you will bend, and you will break for the pleasure of your patron. All that you were, all that you are, and all that you will be is for the honor of your house. You are a courtesan, and until the Creator calls you back, that is all you must be."

It seemed to him that the collar grew colder and heavier with each word. It pressed down upon his neck and shoulders, as much a burden as a yoke on a charger bull. Helm tipping forward, he brushed his digits against the cool and engraved surface. "You are naught but a vessel..."

And there he was, no longer Orion Pax but Optimus: premier courtesan of the Magnesium Flare, Praxus' most esteemed pleasure-house.

Still, something was missing. He gave himself another once-over, but as before he found everything to be in place. After a pause he thought perhaps the issue was that everything was too in place. There was nothing on his person to catch the attention of his client and subsequently their credits. He would need to remedy that before the night began.

He paced over to the display table nearest the door. Beneath a protective casing of transparisteel lay a modest collection of jewelry, all gifts from clients and admirers and other mechs who made the mistake of giving their affections to a courtesan.

Immediately in front of him were ropes of organic pearls imported from the ocean planets of the Kepler system. Further over were bangles of nephrite and quartz and citrine. Here kyanite baubles that could be mag-locked to his finials, there a Vosnian circlet painstakingly forged from iridescent bismuth and set with diamonds. Each boasted of the wealth of its giver, and each was just as garish and ugly.

Well, save one. Nestled in the center was a sapphire pendant housed in sterling silver. The gem was rough-cut and full of off-color inclusions. The color itself was nothing to marvel either, only a cloudy cerulean compared to the deep cobalt of superior grades. The piece paled in comparison to the others within the case. Only an especially dim-witted or tasteless fool would choose it in favor of the rest of the collection.

What a fool he was then he thought wryly as he opened the casing and picked the pendant up. He turned it over idly in his servo. Thin glyphs were etched into the back, and they were slightly worn with how often he had rubbed his thumb lightly over them. A small smile curled on Orion's faceplate as he read the simple inscription: 'To the keeper of my spark.'

"Pax!" a booming voice on the other side of the door had him starting slightly. "The group you're entertaining tonight just arrived, and you're on in precisely ten kliks! Tell me you didn't manage to break your alarm again ..."

"Will he ever let that go? You come out of recharge a few minutes late and accidentally murder a chronometer once and suddenly you're a tardy reprobate for the rest of your life," he muttered to himself before raising his face. "Just a moment, I'm nearly ready!"

He quickly fastened the clasp of the necklace around his neck. The pendant itself fell the width of a few digits below his collar, and its silver casing winked in the light. There, now the look was complete. He pressed his servo to the touchpad, the door sliding smoothly aside and revealing the none-too-patient countenance of his bodyguard and enforcer.

"Nine-and-a-half klicks now," Ultra Magnus groused, arms crossed and pede tapping. "I don't think I need to remind you how senators, not to mention myself, hate to be kept waiting. What were you even doing in there?"

"What does any courtesan do to prepare for another night?" Orion chimed pleasantly, though he had the good grace to glance up apologetically at the tall mech. "The paint and silks certainly don't put themselves on. They're expecting to be dazzled this evening, and the matron will have both our helms if I don't look the part."

The other only harrumphed a reply, though he did not seem to disagree as he fell into step behind his charge. It was a quiet walk to the lift, and only their pedesteps and the rustling of Orion's silks broke the silence.

"You told me your client hadn't injured you last night," his bodyguard noted as they descended from his apartments on the top floor, voice still stormy but lacking its earlier edge. "What do you call that mark on your neck then, if not an injury?"

"A necessary sacrifice for the sake of both our jobs," Orion sighed, tugging the silk-mesh more securely over his neck. "You're already on sheet metal with management for the incident with that noble from Altihex. Short of drawing energon or ripping out internals, they won't be looking kindly on you for coming to my defense anytime soon."

"That's quite literally my occupation. What else am I here for?"

"Moral support?" he offered, placing a servo on the fist curled at Magnus' side. "They'll only send you away if you make a scene again. Forgive me if it sounds a bit selfish, but I'm not keen on losing the one real friend I've got in this place."

"I'm hardly a friend to you if you won't even let me-"

Whatever rebuttal the other might have had was interrupted as the elevator dinged when they reached the ground floor. The courtesan ex-vented gratefully. The last thing he needed before a performance was a row with Magnus.

"Put on your best slightly less grumpy face now. We'll talk about this later, all right?"

"I'll be counting on that. Don't think you've charmed your way out of this one, Pax."

"Oh, so you find me charming, do you?" Orion demurred as they stepped out into the bright lobby.

The Flare was not idly named; every square metron of the interior dazzled in a blinding array. Honey onyx tiles covered the floor of every room. Hardlight pillars glowed like white dwarf stars and turned the tiles a rich and warm amber. Great clusters of clear quartz were laid out a centerpieces on each table.

Here and there stood his fellow courtesans, each as glittering and be-silked as himself. Some simply hung off the arms of their richly-adorned clients as they spoke with their companions. A few chittered and cooed at whatever their client was talking about as they were escorted out for an evening on the town. Others still were spiriting their partners towards the lift and the suites in the floors above, no doubt to demonstrate to the highborn mech every intimate talent a courtesan possessed.

Orion caught his share of optics from their guests as he stepped across the open lobby. He kept his expression blank, gaze trained forward and slightly lowered. Servos clasped in front of him, his shoulders pulled back and his helm raised. Anything a potential client might have wanted to know about him was communicated in the way he carried himself: a well-trained pet, but not a broken or dull one. (Any so bold as to breach protocol likely thought twice with Magnus following a few steps behind him.)

Their destination lay through an archway into one of pleasure-house's larger exhibition halls. Built in the style of an amphitheatre, plush cushions were placed here and there for guests to lounge upon. The group of a dozen or so senators he was sleighted to entertain tonight had already settled, the buzz of their conversation audible from the entryway. To one side a small orchestra was warming up as the steelwinds hummed and the drummers tapped lightly on their instruments. All the lights were centered on a large, semicircular dais on the back wall. It was toward that platform that Orion descended, leaving Magnus behind to stand sentry at the door.

A hush fell over the room as, one by one, each mech noticed him in turn. He moved just slowly enough to make sure that all their optics were centered upon him before he ascended up the dais. A brief pause and he turned smoothly to face them, the light catching on every part of his frame. Sliding a pede out, he fell into a kneel in one fluid motion and bowed his helm to his audience.

"A good evening to you all, my lords," he greeted them as he stood once more. "I gladly welcome each of you into my humble house." He spread his arms as he spoke, palms upturned and his smile warm. "Heed me now: lose yourself in the pleasures of the night, and know what it means to taste paradise."

In the few nanokliks of silence that followed, he briefly glimpsed a familiar flared crest and set of wings: Senator Shockwave. He had clearly gotten a new paint job, now teal-and-bright-green where there had once been red-and-blue. There was no mistaking that smile, however, or those optics, their genuinity bright and rare in his profession. As welcome a face as he was, it was not often he frequented the Flare or establishments of his kind. How odd. The last time Orion had seen him, he had been with-

But then the music began, and he had no more time to think on the matter.

An Iaconian waltz floated into the upper reaches of the hall from the orchestra pit. Arms still outstretched, Orion's reached upward, as if he thought to catch the lilting tune as it flew away. His optics shuttered closed as the hall and everything fell away. He opened himself, a conduit to the melody. He let himself be moved as it willed, its avatar and puppet.

In slow and leisurely movements he circled round and round the dais. His silks flowed in his wake, and under the stage lights the dark fabric sparkled as brilliantly as the cosmos. Spinning to and fro, every smooth sweep and arc of his limbs served to further ensnare the gathered mechs. It was a dance meant to enchant, to beguile and to soothe. His was a lullaby in motion, and just as waltz wound to a close, he struck.

A loud bang of the drum broke the tranquility of the moment into a thousand pieces, and the sudden snap of his helm upward scattered them all to the wind. Flames burned in his cyan optics as the tempo picked up. His spark pulsed to the same wild tattoo as the music. Not hesitating a moment longer, he threw himself into fray.

The Torchbearers of Camien were renowned through the galaxy for their fire dance, and it was in their pedesteps that he moved now. His frame moved as a fighter's would, every motion swift and deliberate. Twisting here to dodge the blow of some invisible enemy, leaping there over an obstacle only he could perceive. Even his silks snapped like flames themselves and whipped through the air.

Every twist of his frame was a challenge to take and claim him if they dared, and it stirred the hunger and intrigue of more than a few. What a pity that they would not be sated tonight.

With a final resounding beat, the song ended and he was brought to his knees. A servo was clasped to his chest as if to keep his spark from spinning out of its chamber while the other splayed on the floor to balance himself. Static roared so loudly in his audials that he could not even hear the sound of his cycling vents. Only the memory of the drumbeat still rattled in his helm, slow and steady.

So sluggish were his senses that it was several moments before he realized it was not a drum at all. When he looked out on to the audience again, Orion found their optics not on him but on the two new arrivals at the doorway.

The first he spotted was as dark as the night over the Sea of Rust and forged like a prisma-panther. With that flat and expressionless mask obscuring his faceplate, the enigmatic mech could be none other than Soundwave. Where he stalked, his master was never far. It took every ounce of restraint Orion had to keep from smiling at his gaze traveled to the scarred, broad-shouldered warrior beside him, slowly clapping his servos and smirking as if he were privy to some great joke.

"A wonderful performance, Optimus," Megatronus greeted, his orator's voice easily reaching every audial in the room. His cloven pedes unceremoniously broke the silence as he moved down the steps, and it was with equally little ceremony that the gunmetal-grey gladiator joined the courtesan on the stage. "You dance as masterfully as ever."

"You honor me, my patron," Orion replied as he slipped into kneeling position, optics cast down at the other's pedes.

Megatronus said nothing to him at first. He only reached down, first to trace his digits over the pendant at Orion's throat and then to tip the smaller mech's helm so that their gaze might meet. Orion saw a fondness and softness in those optics that the other could not speak of, certainly not in a room of mechs who were his enemies in all but name alone. He took the servo that was offered him and rose, careful to keep the demure and humble mask of a courtesan on his own face. He took comfort as one great arm placed itself firmly against the small of his back though he knew it was as much for posturing before the senators as it was to comfort him.

"Sir," came Magnus' stern and warning tone, stepping just short of the dais, "I would kindly ask you to observe protocol and wait until the courtesan has finished his performance to approach him."

"Your forget yourself, enforcer. I would ask you remember protocol as well," Megatronus countered without skipping a beat, much to the chagrin of Orion's bodyguard. "As his patron, I hold his bond and my rights to him supercede those of everyone present." That smirk never left his faceplate as he met the gazes of each audience member in turn and pressed Orion into his side. "So with all due respect, my dear senators, I'll be claiming this beauty for myself this evening. Good night."

If he had not earned their ire by interrupting the performance, he certainly had it now. Oh but if looks could offline a mech. Every senator glared daggers at the lowly gladiator as he sauntered out of the hall with their stolen prize on his arm.

Bad enough that Megatronus had become a painful thorn in their side when it came to loyalties of the masses. Now he dared to walk among them as their equal, to taste in the pleasures meant exclusively for them? It was not even the first time he had committed such a blasphemy, either. Were he not so loved by the lower castes, the gladiator would have found himself in a pool of his own energon in a gutter, or at the very least rotting in a cell on Luna 2.

"It's as he says, my friends," Shockwave spoke up, rising from his seat with shrugging shoulders. "Our dear courtesan eludes us yet another night. But take spark!" He flashed one of those smiles that would make even the most incensed mech forget his anger, however briefly. "The night is still young, and I'll see each of you paired with a beauty of your own within the cycle. All expenses paid to my personal account, of course."

Orion felt his frame relax as they slipped out of the room, the wrath of senators diverted for now. He would have to send Shockwave a thank-you note in the morning for getting his patron out of harm's way once more. They owed so much to him already. It was only because of the sweet mech's anonymous sponsorship that Megatronus could afford to pay the fees that came with being a premier courtesan's patron. To hear the latest political gossip, Shockwave also fought a daily battle to keep the gladiator from being taken in by the authorities as a dangerous radical and upstart.

Soundwave and Magnus trailed close behind them. The former moved as quietly and inconspicuously as ever, and Orion felt a pain of sympathy for the processor-ache they were no doubt giving the latter. The list of inconveniences and grievances his poor bodyguard only grew as the evening progressed. He resolved to make it up to him later; Magnus was overdue for a proper vacation anyway.

"Soundwave, keep an optic on things for me," Megatronus ordered as he and Orion stepped into the lift. Not once did he loosen his hold on the small mech. "I'm sure Magnus will be fine company for you in the meantime."

His dark companion said nothing, of course, only briefly dipping his helm before parting ways with his fellow gladiator. With a nod and a small smile from Orion, Magnus followed suit with a slow and barely restrained exhale through his vents.

A small eternity passed in the time it took to reach the top floor and return to Orion's apartments. A part of him would have been happy to let Megatronus have his merry way with him right there in the lift. His test of patience was rewarded in shorter as he keyed in the passcode and they disappeared into the dark of his room.

Strong servos took hold of his hip plating and pinned him against the door not a moment after it slid shut behind them. Orion's helm turned up, lips parted as his patron took him in a hungry kiss. He moaned against the other and looped his arms around Megatronus' neck. That earned him a hard rev from those powerful engines, and he was breathless when they parted again.

"You couldn't have waited for a few more clicks for me to finish?" he scolded without any real heat in his voice. "You make enough enemies out there in the arena without making more in a pleasure-house of all places. I know your entire political stance is 'stick it to higher castes.' but you might save yourself some trouble now and then with a few good manners."

"Perhaps," the other remarked without so much as an ounce of remorse. "But the fact of the matter is I simply don't care. They can take their customs and niceties and frag themselves thoroughly with them." He bent to rumble cheekily in Orion's audial. "Just as I intend to with you presently."

Megatronus was certainly nothing if not a mech of his word. Another few kliks they stood there, panting and tangling glossas until they were both breathless. Orion found himself smiling and sighing like a lovestruck virgin in one of those tawdry half-credit romance novels sold at the newstand on the corner.

Servos falling to take hold of his patron's own, he tugged and guided them both towards the large berth. He let go only to throw off his silks (they were a pain to clean and repair and he had completely lost more than a few sets to Megatronus' enthusiasm). Deftly he moved to kneel on the berth, his back to the wall. His servos gestured the invitation mirrored in his optics, and it pleased the small part of him that still found the act of interface enjoyable to see Megatron accept it.

The cushy pad beneath him dipped with the considerable weight of the gladiator. Orion yelped as it had him sliding face-first into those broad chestplates. Megatronus laughed softly and simply stared down at him for a moment.

"Do you remember when we first met?"

The odd question gave him pause for a moment before he answered. "How could I forget? We both made consummate fools of ourselves that night, if I recall."

"Hmph, trust you to remember all my shortcomings." A firm tap on his helm had Orion falling on his back with a loud clanging of plating. Both his collar and necklace were set askew, and he had time to adjust neither as Megatronus descended on him again.

"Hey, I said 'both,' didn't I? What are you- Ah! Ah, please..."

It was not often they entertained gladiators at the Flare. Few could afford even a few kliks of a courtesan's time, much less buy them out for the night. Only the most prestigious fighters ever had a high enough pay grade for their services. Even then, a mech like the pleasure-house's premier courtesan should have been well beyond their reach.

Imagine Orion's surprise, then, to see 'Entertain a party of gladiators from Kaon in the Spires' on his itinerary for the night. At first he thought it to be some joke, but the terse response from his matron confirmed that he would indeed be keeping company with the brawlers tonight.

Unease churned in his tanks. It was not their caste so much as their manners that gave him cause to worry; he had seen firsthand what warriors like them could do when they became careless with their evening frag. Magnus - his newly assigned bodyguard - would make sure no permanent damage was inflicted on him. Even so, anxiety kept his field tight to his frame as he sat among them in the Spire penthouse that had been set aside for the occasion.

"How's a pretty mech like you not landed himself as the consort of a senator yet?" one boisterous mech boomed, his vents stinking of flavored high-grade.

"I suppose I've just never been the bonding type," Orion flirted back, winking an optic at the paint-scraped gladiator. "Besides, mechs like them are too busy making matches with nobles for their careers to give someone like me a second glance.

"More like they know you've been handed around to every other one of their friends," another drunken mech chimed in before a mohawked mech slapped him the back of the helm. "Ow!"

"Stop insultin' the entertainment," he growled. He - Impactor, if Orion recalled correctly - turned to the courtesan apologetically and offered his arm. "Sorry about that, sweetspark. How's about I introduce you to some politer company?"

Orion took the out gratefully and placed his servo on the mech's forearm as he was guided in the direction of the balcony.

"Truth is I've got a favor to ask you," Impactor continued once they were out of audialshot. "A friend of mine's been in slump lately, fragging-wise, and it isn't doing him any favors in the games. Think you could give him some of your time tonight, and be discreet about it? Compensated, of course."

"If you wish, certainly," he replied easily enough. It was not the first time he had been given as a gift, though it would certainly be the first gladiator to whom he had ever been presented. He only hoped they had a modicum more manners than the company they kept. "Where is the friend in question, might I ask?"

"Out there." Impactor gestured to a lone mech leaning on the railing of the balcony, looking quietly out over the city. He spared the courtesan a rakish grin before heading back. "Thanks. Don't keep him out too late, y'hear?"

Orion paused at the doorway for a klik or two, simply staring at his would-be client. He was a large mech even for a gladiator, and he had a frame-type more similar to a miner's than anything else. As grey and silent as he was, he had more of a bearing to a corpse than any mech might find attractive. He suspected that might be why he was in his current 'slump,' at least until he walked up and had a glimpse of his faceplate. Well-built as any noble, optics a true energon blue.

Well, the courtesan had certainly attended to far less handsome clients.

"A bit of a cold night to be out here alone, don't you think?" he spoke up, coming to lean with his back against the balcony.

"I-" The gladiator started, surprise coloring his field before he composed himself. "No, I prefer it this way, actually."

"Oh? Not much of a party mech, are you?"

"Not really, no." A dark flush stole over the gladiator's face as he stared at the Orion a few nanokliks more than strictly necessary. He turned to glance out on the skyline with renewed interest.

"Fair enough," Orion chuckled. "Perhaps we could be alone together then? If just for a while." He laid a servo over the other's, sending the other's optics snapping up to meet his again. "I'm Optimus, by the way. What's yours?"

"... Megatronus. And yes, I- I would like that. I would like that very much, Optimus."

"I'll never forget the look on your faceplate when you found out I was a paid-for courtesan," Orion laughed even as his patron's digits stroked over his plating. "I don't think even those senators tonight were as offended as you were then."

"Believe it or not, finding out the most beautiful mech you've ever seen is only flirting with you because his friend paid him to is not particularly flattering." He nipped at Orion's audial fins in petty vengeance, and his lover squirmed beneath courtesan stayed him by bring his servos up to frame the larger mech's face. He tilting his own helm back to expose his neck and pulled Megatronus down to him.

"It's not as if I didn't spend the rest of the evening making it up to you," Orion reasoned, "or every night we've shared since."

His patron did not bother denying it, only pressed kisses to the throat offered to him. His glossa stroked now and then over the cabling. Each plied a soft sigh from Orion. He fancied he might drift away on that sensation - at least until the gladiator unknowingly nudged at the wound on his neck, making Orion wince and Megatronus pause. There was no hiding the mark, either, one servo firmly holding the other's helm to the side as he inspected the damage dealt to his courtesan.

"Who left you with this, then?" the gladiator rumbled quietly. Orion's spark pulsed fearfully in his chest at the sudden steel in his voice. Even though he knew that fury was not directed at him, his patron's temper was a terrifying thing. "Don't bother with supplications, it won't save him. Give me the designation, love, or I can simply have Soundwave find out for me. Either way, I'll have his helm on a pike."

Tense silence spread between them and all the levity of the past few clicks disappeared. Knowing there was nothing for it, Orion before his optics fell and he slumped against the berth in defeat. His helm turned so that he did not have to meet that searching, burning gaze.

"... Shank of Tarn, Commander of the Third Imperial Legion. That's his designation."

He did not realize his digits were trembling before Megatronus gently took hold of them. Nuzzling Orion's servo, he pressed a kiss to his palm before doing the same to his other servo.

"Orion," he spoke. "Look at me." The courtesan did as he was bid, and he found the fire had gone out of the other's gaze. "My anger isn't with you. No, never with you..." Megatronus pressed their temples together and ex-vented softly. "You are mine. I'll protect what is mine, and I don't give anyone leave to put a mark upon what is mine." He began to press kisses against Orion's frame again, coaxing his ardor to return. "Tell me, Orion. Tell me that you're mine."

"Yours," Orion breathed. Every kiss and nips on his plating sent a shudder through his sensornet. "Yours, only yours. As I've always been..."

"And why not, Orion? Tell me exactly why I'm not allowed to have any affection for you!"

"It's 'Optimus,' to you and every other bot who's ever paid to put their spike in me. And it's because a courtesan and client is all we can ever be. It's hardly my fault you were naive enough to give your spark to a whore!"

He tred angrily over the silks and trinkets strung across the suite floor to the window, not caring what he might accidentally crush underpede. Orion hid his faceplate in his servo and was determined not to show the coolant leaking from his optics. Only moments ago they had been fragging in his berth, chasing overload after processor-shattering overload with one another. He could have remained in that bliss forever.

Then the slag-headed idiot had just had to tell him he loved him.

"Do you honestly think I give a damn about your occupation anymore?" Megatronus sneered from where he stood on the other side of the berth. "If I did, if that were all I saw in you, I certainly wouldn't have come back to you night after night. You're simply too stubborn and jaded to see yourself as someone worthy of being loved!"

Orion whirled around with a snarl, his tears marring the paint on his faceplate. "Shut up! You don't know anything about my life or what's been done to me! What they've warped me into!"

"Then tell me I'm wrong." The gladiator marched up to him, but Orion would not be cowed. He returned the glare and refused to look away. Not even when the mech took a hard hold of his shoulders and shook him. "Tell me that you're happy in this role they've forced you into all your life. Tell me you're content only to give pleasure and never to keep a shred for yourself." Something in his expression softened even as he kept an iron-grip on Orion.

"Look me in the optics and tell me my feelings are not reciprocated, and I'll leave and never darken your doorstep again."

"You- You-" Now was his chance to break the gladiator's spark, to send him away for good and save them both from his doomed infatuation. Yet try as he might, the words remained choked in his voxcoder and refused to leave his mouth. All the righteous anger and every self-sacrificing notion left him then, and he could only bury his face against the gladiator's chassis. His servo curled into a fist and pounded half-sparkedly at the mech's chest.

"You slag-headed, overcharged, stubborn, wonderful idiot..."

Those arms, hesitating at first, came round to envelop him. Megatronus rested his chin lightly on top of his helm. Orion thought he felt the other's engines stuttering, too, but he did not have the energy or courage to see for himself. He could weep uselessly as servos stroked up and down his spinal strut. Silence spread between them for several long kliks.

"What did you used to dream of?" the taller mech asked quietly. "What did you aspire to be before they forced the collar of a courtesan on you?"

He considered simply leaving the question hanging in the air but could not. "... An archivist. I wanted to be an archivist in the Iacon Hall of Records."

"Then I swear on the Prime I took my designation from: I'll fight to help you realize that dream, Orion Pax. I'll fight to build a world that doesn't make you afraid to love me back."

His servos clenched in the sheets as his patron mercilessly worked his valve. When he looked between his thighs, lubricant drenched them and the mesh-sheet underneath. Large servos kneaded at his aft as they supported the lower half of his frame off the berth. Thumbs worked his anterior node with the mastery of a harpist, and Megatronus' mouth, oh blessed light of the Well, his mouth!

"Please, sweetspark, please!" he whimpered, begging for a release that would only come when the other deigned to give it to him and not a moment sooner.

Orion knew him to have a silver-glossa from the audio recordings of his speeches he heard on the extranet, and Megatronus knew how to work his frame just like he knew how to work a crowd in and out of the Pits. That glossa slid with such skillful ease between his calipers. It lapped at every bit of mesh within him it could reach and left him mourning every time it retreated. Now and then the gladiator would lock optics with him and rev his engines hard as he tasted deeply of him, and Orion swore he would overload from that alone.

Arching his frame forward was painful, yet he could do nothing else but hold desperately onto the other's shoulders to ground himself. In between his gasping and moaning he rained kisses on Megatronus' helm. He nuzzled against him so frantically that the gold paint on his face was left in streaks on his grey plating.

"I can't- I can't wait any longer- I need-"

"Then let go for me, love," was all the gladiator said in reply as he buried his faceplate completely into Orion's array.

Orion's frame snapped straight as an arrow and bucked his hips wildly. He screamed his release so loudly that his voxcoder cut out with a screech. His digits dug into those wide pauldrons as he rode out his overload on his patron's faceplate. And still Megatronus gave him no quarter, licking him thoroughly as he came down slowly, agonizingly, from his high.

Left to collapse on the berth, his optics and voxcoder struggled to reboot themselves. No one before Megatronus had ever seen to his own pleasure so thoroughly and so sweetly. Neither would there be another like him, not if he fragged every mech and femme on Cybertron and the colony worlds beyond. And deep down, he knew his spark would accept no other.

As if to chase the even possibility of it from his processor, the other flipped him over so fast that his calibration mods could not keep up and left his processor swimming. He was pulled none too delicately to his servos and knees. Orion shivered, both as his valve was exposed so completely to his patron and as he heard the distinct sound of a spike pressurizing. Burying his face in the sheets, he hiked his aft higher and spread the folds of his valve with a servo, begging without words for the gladiator to fill him.

And how the other obliged him, thrusting in and impaling his frame in one smooth stroke, leaving them both breathless and gasping.

"Congratulations then, my lord," the matron declared as she picked up the datapad with the newly signed paperwork. "You are officially the new patron of premiere courtesan Optimus of the Magnesium Flare. I will leave you to your business then." The stocky femme bowed at the waist to Megatronus before exiting the room.

Orion, who had been standing with clasped servos against the opposite wall of the receiving room, looked up with a bright smile the moment she had left. He was the first to move, and his spark practically sang as the mech swept him up into a kiss. Laughing as he pressed their helms together, Orion gazed upon him with stars in his optics.

"I can't believe you pulled it off," he whispered conspiratorialy. "A mere gladiator of Kaon claiming a Praxian courtesan for his own. I can just hear the gossip on the extranet now."

"You are a mech of such little faith," Megatronus teased, nuzzling his cheek and tightening his hold on him. "Not even the blasted senator was so cruel to me when I came to him with the proposition."

"That 'blasted senator' has a name, you know, and it's only thanks to him you haven't been offline gruesomely a dozen different times by now." He poked the other lightly between the optics. "Of course, it doesn't hurt that you have Alpha Trion's talent for persuasion or a courtesan who has all the blackmail you could ever need on all the high-caste mechs on Cybertron."

"Oh yes, how wonderfully blessed I am." He let Orion back down, only to pull a small box from his subspace and press it into his servos. "For you. Open it."

Orion cocked his helm at him but did as he was bid. His optics apertured wide on the contents before he glanced up questioningly at the other. "What is-?"

"I've heard it's customary for a patron to present his courtesan with a gift when they form a contract with one another." The mech circled behind him and pulled the necklace - a sapphire pendant set in silver - from the box. He fastened it around Orion's neck, and the pendant settled at the base of his throat as easily as if it had always been a part of him.

"The gift is meant to be a symbol of the patron's admiration, of his ability to provide for the keeper of his pleasure. Or, as is my case, the keeper of my spark." Placing his servos on Orion's shoulders, he nuzzled behind his audial. "I think it suits you quite well, don't you?"

The smaller mech could only smile, reaching behind him to caress the back of his patron's helm as he thumbed the rough facets of the gemstone. "Yes, I quite agree."

They overloaded together, servos linked and sparks spinning. Megatronus' huffed as he remained bent over Orion and barely kept from collapsing on top of the smaller frame. The courtesan had no such strength left in him. He collapsed on his belly, the gladiator's spike slipping out of his valve as he did. He was exhausted, sore, and so, so satisfied.

Orion let himself be handled as Megatronus rolled off him and pulled the courtesan into his arms. He curled into his patron, his lover, curled around him and focused only on the sound of their engines and cooling fans. Heat waves made the air around them ripple, and he wondered distantly how the mesh-sheets did not catch on fire during their interfacing. Digits tracing idle circles into Megatronus' chest, everything felt hazy and distant yet close and right.

Maybe that was love, in the end.

"... Everything is in place," Megatronus remarked quietly but matter-of-factly after a while. "The seeds of dissent been sown among the people. My mechs are ready to move. All that's needed now is a catalyst to begin our revolution."

He wished he could say he was surprised, but that would have meant being willfully blind to the misery and unrest that filled the tabloids and news feeds. It would mean that he had forgotten the whispered promise the gladiator had made to him all those vorns ago. Orion knew this day would eventually come even as a selfish part of him wanted to continue as they were, if only to keep his patron alive and out of harm's way. None of that rational thought could stop the feeling of his spark breaking in two, and he cannot keep the sadness from his field.

"You came to say goodbye, then," he murmured, not ceasing in his caresses.

"No, not goodbye," Megatronus said, shaking his helm. "At least, not forever. Much as I hate to admit it, you'll be far safer here than by my side in the cycles to come. But..." His servo reached for Orion's again. "If you asked me, if you wanted to come away with me tonight, I won't be able to find it in myself to deny you."

Orion laughed quietly, brokenly.

"Then it's just as well I won't tempt you," he replied. "You have my spark, Megatronus, but there's no place for us in the world, no place where a courtesan and gladiator can be together. I know that truth for the harsh reality that it is. Even so..." Shaking as he forced his tears back, he plastered on a smile that did not reach his optics and glanced up. "I also know that I believe in you. I believe that if any mech can change it all, it's you. You'll be the one to take the broken dreams of every mech and femme and put them back together again."

Reaching into his subspace, a small glowing plate of metal materialized in his palm. Intricate lines of energon pulsed through the intricate and arcane twists of the metalwork. If one were to squint, one might have mistaken it for a strange key.

"You gave me a gift once, so now I'll give one to you," he continued, holding it up for Megatronus to better see. "I've had this relic with me since the day I was forged. I could never figure out what it was for or where it came from. My dream to be an archivist? Well, I guess you could say it came from me wanting to find out more about this little thing." Placing it in the other's servo, he closed his digits around it.

"Orion," he rumbled, shaking his helm again. "I can't- I can't take this."

"I want you to have it," the smaller mech insisted. "If things are really about to go to the Pits like you're implying, than I can't think of any safer place it could be except with you. Someday, if you still want to give it back so badly, then you'll just have to search me out yourself. It'll make sure you come back alive - and to me."

"Then I'll guard it with my life." Megatronus drew him in close, embracing him tightly. "But gift or no, I will return for you when this war is over. Nothing will separate us then. Not even death will stop me."

"I'll be holding you to that." He closed his optics and drew himself closer to his patron. "But for now... Just hold me for a while. Just hold me before you go." And there they lay, long into the night, until the dawn came to take his patron away for the very last time.

"Keep looking."

"Sir, we've pulled every frame living or dead out of the wreckage. There are no others here- Hrgh!"

"Did I stutter, soldier?" the scarred warlord growled as he held the unfortunate mech up by the throat. With a grunt he threw him back down, raising his voice so that all might hear him. "You will turn over every speck of rubble in this scrap heap until you find him! Am I understood?!"

No one moved to argue with him again after that. The commander who had disobeyed Megatron's directive and ordered the bombing of the city already lay graying outside the city, his spark carved from his very chest. Praxus lay in smoldering ruins around them. Smoke still rose from a few of the crumbling spires. A deeper crater was all that remained of the Flare.

When the others had ventured out of sight, he knelt at the edge. His faceplate contorted, grief taking root in his spark.

"You said you would be here when I returned. You promised to wait for me! You promised..."

Megatron's servos tightened around the objects in his hands. In one lay the relic Orion has given to him on their last night together. In the other, the necklace he had given him at the beginning of their contract, pulled from the remains of the building, the rough sapphire plucked from its housing...