Throne and fall #2
back <- PT2 (here) -> next
NOTE - alr, this is all romance scene and lil character introductions. We'll save the politics for next time, i swear | based on scenario: throne and fall
SUMMARY - afternoon tea party with Proteus and a 'Get to Know Session' with Megatron and his first move
PAIRING - megatron x reader, proteus x reader
·
·
Megatron was not a stranger to suffering
No, he was forged in it. Tempered by the ceaseless grind of subterranean existence, where every breath was taxed by soot, and every dawn emerged like a cruel joke in a world that refused to change. He had lived in places that were terrifying not for their brutality alone, but for their constancy—for how despair could settle in like dust, persistent and choking. A place where survival was not a triumph, merely a ritual
In the mines, the shriek of machinery was the heartbeat of life. The cries were less voices than sirens—warnings, forebodings. The scream of shattering steel was not uncommon, but it was always unwelcome. Death, there, wore no mask
But here here in your office—silence had a new shape. It was not empty. It was composed. Orchestrated. It was the kind of quiet that pressed against the audio sensors like a velvet blade – smooth, but no less deadly
It was, he thought grimly, the silence of killers dressed in etiquette and legislative privilege
Your private chamber was a sanctum of curated elegance. Every surface gleamed with intent. The air was perfumed with the elusive sting of high-grade lubricant—expensive, artificial, almost too pristine to belong in any real-world application. It mingled with something far less refined: the faint, iron taste of dust and sweat, clinging stubbornly to the form seated across from you
Megatron—rough-hewn, scarred, and radiating a presence that didn’t belong in any room with chandeliers—sat tensely on the chair provided. It was plush, too soft, deceptively kind in its accommodation. The kind of seat designed not for comfort but for disarmament
Your chair, of course, was slightly higher. A whisper of elevation. Just enough to tilt the game
“please have a drink, Megatron” you murmured, your voice a lazy purr as you tilted the delicate crystal in your fingers. “They say it eases tension. Evens out… inequalities—for the moment, at least”
He took the glass, not quite trusting it. Not quite trusting you. His fingers, thick and calloused, bore the map of a thousand indignities—burns from molten ore, scars etched by labor without rest. That same hand now held a vessel so fine it looked stolen from a museum. He felt, absurdly, that it might be shamed just from being in his grip
“I don’t speak like your kind” he said roughly, each word deliberately chiseled
“There are days,” he added, dry as oxidized iron “when I still trip over the word ‘constitution’"
It wasn’t fatigue in his voice. It was a wariness honed over a lifetime of being offered nothing
You nearly smiled. Nearly
There was something disarming about his bluntness, his refusal to wrap his thoughts in the honeyed euphemisms the Senate was so fond of. You were surrounded daily by those who could say nothing for ten minutes straight. Megatron, in contrast, cut to the bone
It was… refreshing. In the way venom was sometimes cleaner than disease
“You know” you said, letting your words unfold like silk draped across a dagger, “I used to think someone like you could never grasp the intricacies of governance. Legislation. Strategic vote blocks in the Central Court…”
You leaned in slightly, crystal catching the morning light. It danced in fractured colors between you—like something holy and broken
“But then I wondered—what if you could?”
“If you could… you’d be more dangerous than everyone in that hall combined”
He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to. The stillness of him, the calculation behind those scarlet optics, was answer enough. He understood perfectly what you were suggesting
And you knew it
Everything in this room had been chosen to remind him of what he’d never had. The wealth. The calm. The power. The quiet. And like a string pulled gently through a needle, you were threading it around him now
Even if he didn’t know the rules of the game, he could tell he was being asked to play
His grip on the glass tightened – subtly, unconsciously. He didn’t want to be a pawn in your theatre. Didn’t want to be cast in the narrative you were so elegantly scripting. But he also knew—painfully, unmistakably that without your hand on the reins, he would go nowhere
He was a force. But force without aim is just destruction
A weapon still searching for its wielder
“For now” you said with a smile that didn’t reach your eyes “don’t overthink it. Let’s call this a… social visit. A cordial acquaintance. Save your fire for later”
You laughed—low, amused, and unnervingly intimate. It wasn’t a sound of kindness. It was the sound of someone enjoying the arrangement of their pieces on the board
And Megatron?
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak
But deep within him, something did
—
“I have awaited your presence for quite some time now”
Proteus said, his voice smooth, almost melodic—like the finest silk slipping across polished marble “You know... encounters with those who are both razor-sharp in their strategic acumen and their choice of words are as rare as a diamond in the dirt, particularly in an age where certain senators still manage to mispronounce their own names out loud with unabashed pride”
His voice was a symphony of calm, refined and oh so carefully honed, but within it lay the subtlety of a hidden blade—a weapon concealed beneath the sheer elegance of his tone. His smile—a smile that any lesser bot might have mistaken for a gesture of honor—was nothing more than the practiced curve of lips that had seen far too many masks, far too many faces. To you, it was as transparent as glass, an act played out on the same stage time and time again
He was playing your game—on your field
A game that you knew better than he ever could
The golden saucer beneath your energon cup gleamed softly in the dim light of the room as you placed it down, a slight clink that barely pierced the silence, but enough to let him know you had heard every carefully calculated word of his
“What a delightfully sweet welcome” you replied, your voice dripping with honeyed sarcasm
“You speak so earnestly, I almost forgot we were in a place where words are chosen to cut, not caress. A place where words, unlike blades, do not require blood to stain their edges”
The laugh that escaped his lips was soft, but it carried the sharpness of a knife edge slicing through the still air—smooth, deceptive, and far more dangerous than any obvious weapon
“And I trust you see” he purred “that my words are not meant to wound... but to build bridges”
“Bridges?” you echoed, the word rolling off your tongue like a question that was far more loaded than it appeared. You leaned back in your seat with deliberate laziness, eyes never leaving him
“Ah yes, bridges—so solid, so gleaming, built of gold, no less. One end leading to me, the other to you. But of course, your bridges always have a trap at the far end. If not, I suppose I wouldn’t be seeing senators falling like leaves in the autumn winds. The ground would have been far too sturdy for such... accidental deaths
Proteus’s smile did not falter, not even a twitch. It was as if he wore it like a second skin, a mask too well-crafted to slip
“You have always understood me with such exquisite precision” he remarked, the words almost a caress in the air between you “It is almost as if you have been watching my every move, every step... from the very beginning”
“I have a fondness for both beauty and danger” you replied, your words carrying the weight of unspoken truth “You are just happen to be both”
“And what of you?”
He leaned in, just enough to make the air between you thicken with an almost unbearable tension
“A senator both audacious and decisive, whose smile could make even the most loyal companion question their allegiances. I’m still uncertain—are you a true ally, or are you simply waiting for the right moment to plunge the dagger into my back once the ground beneath us shakes?”
You smiled—oh, you smiled with such vicious sweetness that even the finest mirror might hesitate to reflect it
“Uncertainty” you replied “is the charm of my position. As for certainty, well, I fear you have spent it too freely... as one spends a coin at a market where the price is never truly clear”
The room fell into silence, a silence that felt thick and heavy, as if the air itself was holding its breath in anticipation of what would come next — Finally, Proteus spoke again, but this time his words were slower, deliberate—almost as if he were testing the waters of an unspoken challenge
“I find myself... genuinely curious” he mused “what would happen if the two of us worked together, without masks? Without the games, the veils of courtesy, the webs of deceit?”
You rose from your chair with a grace that would have made statues jealous, your movements slow, deliberate, the shadow of your form casting a dark silhouette against the gilded vase behind you
“That” you said, voice colder than ice
“depends entirely on who stops smiling first”
You didn’t wait for him to respond, simply turning and making your way toward the balcony, where the council plaza stretched below you like a canvas of power and deceit. Below, the staff moved in synchronized order, like ants scurrying through a gilded nest. The distant hum of engines in the far-off city sounded like a tired sigh—a sigh of a place that had long grown weary of its own grandeur
Proteus followed you silently, coming to stand beside you, his presence almost tangible in the air between you
And then, as though the moment were too fragile to let go, he spoke again, his voice low, almost a whisper to the win
“I imagine you enjoy this view” he said, his words carrying the weight of a question left unasked “You enjoy seeing the grand scheme of things, understanding how every piece—every token—moves across the board”
You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye
“And you?” you asked, voice a mere murmur, laced with a challenge “Do you prefer to be the player... or the one who shapes the game itself?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gave you that smile—the smile that was both gentle and mocking, sweet and venomous, all at once. A smile that dared you to look deeper, to see what lay behind it
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t take a step back. Even with the distance between you so narrow, the tips of your fingers could have brushed against each other if either one of you acted a little too quickly
Proteus stood there, his smile still adorning his face—so maddening, yet meticulously crafted. As if every particle of his being had been forged to show that the obsession with governance could indeed be embodied in a single person
“If no one has the advantage in this game..” you began, speaking slowly as if savoring the taste of your own words, “–then I suppose we can proceed without any pretense, yes?”
“And how do you intend to proceed?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, drawing just close enough that his words seemed to melt into your ears like a whispered secret
“A direct assault isn’t… quite my style” you smiled, responding with a voice no quieter than before “I’m more skilled in letting my opponent ‘believe’ they’re the ones in control”
“Ah… so, am I the one in control right now?”
He suppressed his smile, his gaze fixed on you without a single shift. His breath, warm and almost imperceptible, brushed against you, and for a fleeting moment, you could feel the temperature around you rising, like a fire that had been stoked just enough to make it uncomfortable
“If you have to ask” you responded softly, lifting your hand to casually sweep away nonexistent dust from his chest “then you’re still hundreds of kilometers away from victory”
He seized your wrist immediately—not with force, but with enough pressure to remind you of his intent
“But I’m not one to wait for the game to end without setting new conditions” he said, his voice smooth, like velvet over stone
You met his gaze, chuckling softly, unafraid
“New conditions, huh? Be careful, Proteus… I might just sign the contract without reading it, and it could turn out to be more fun than you think”
He moved closer still, his presence enveloping you, so close you could almost hear the frantic hum of your respective processors
“What if my new condition is this—The loser must offer their ‘loyalty’ to the winner?”
“Intriguing…” you mused, before leaning in, eyes glinting “But are you sure you’ll win?”
“No” he replied without hesitation, never breaking eye contact “But I enjoy risks with rewards that are worth the stakes”
Your hand lingered against his chest, unmoving. The smile that crept up then was no longer just mocking—it was a challenge, sweet but menacing
“And what if I am the prize?”
Proteus smiled—a genuine smile this time—one that seemed to stretch the boundaries of time, as though the entire universe momentarily yielded to him in that fraction of a second
“Then I suppose I’ll have to take matters into my own hands to win”
And oh, you don't want his loyalty, all you want is him begin fall apart in your hands
.
.
At every gathering upon that extravagantly wasteful estate—gilded with gold and glinting ornaments of no discernible necessity—for afternoon tea and the ritualistic exchange of venom wrapped in silk and served with a dulcet tone, you found the entire affair absurdly amusing. Entirely unnecessary
But then, he had far too much time on his hands – As did all of you in the Senate
And really, what better way to pass an idle quarter than a social congregation of bots equally indulgent, curated precisely to the whims of Proteus himself?
That was where you belonged
Seated upon a high-backed chair polished to a mirror sheen, sculpted with such ornate detail it defied understanding—was it art? Was it punishment?—you were reminded, not for the first time, that your caste granted you privilege but not immunity from the sheer ridiculousness of it all –It looked far too exquisite to be just a chair and that was without mentioning the rest of the room’s decor, where nearly every surface gleamed with gold—or perhaps, you sometimes mused, cleverly lacquered copper in the places no one would bother to check but that wasn’t the point
The mech with the smile that could buy out the world sat across from you, his posture that of a monarch, his expression borrowed from someone far cleverer
You knew exactly whose smile that was
This new senator—this prodigy of scandal—had ascended with such alarming finesse it defied belief. His intelligence was questionable only in its precision, his corruption so perfectly choreographed it made your systems itch with the urge to reboot. The charm he wielded, expertly crafted to bend the weak-spirited Senate into submission, was nothing short of weaponized and his talent for placing you in perilous positions.. Unforgivable
Everything about him made you want to tear him apart—just to see what was left underneath
And Proteus… well, he didn’t leave you with many options, did he?
Him,
or yourself
and you chose yourself
—
Warehouse District 17, a place designated under the “Public Safety Assembly Protocol for the Labor Development Zone”—a sterile zone, off-limits to media, anti-faction agitators, and unauthorized gatherings
And yet, there he stood
Megatron
On a makeshift wooden platform, lit only by the dying glow of a protest’s welding torch still smoldering behind him. In front of him—a crowd of workers, new and old. Hands still smeared with grease, joints stiff with fatigue. People who’d heard “Tomorrow will be better” more times than they’d recharged. People who just buried a colleague from the night shift—because the safety equipment is “still pending procurement”
There were no chants. No raised signs. No android effigies set ablaze like last time
Only silence. Taut. Waiting
A silence that could snap like the lock of a long-forgotten gate
Then Megatron spoke, voice low
“I know what they promised you—new factories, new opportunities, a transparent system and what did you get in return?”
No one answered—at first
Then a voice cracked out from the back. Gritty, wrecked from a lifetime of yelling over factory engines: “They fined me for filing too many complaints!”
That broke the silence. Laughter. The kind that wasn’t really laughter. A jagged sound of people realizing they weren’t alone in being screwed
Megatron’s eyes flared red
“I’m not going to promise to be a good leader. I don’t have the right words, or a speechwriter feeding me lines fit for polite company”
“What I do have is something they never will– evidence and someone willing to dig it up with me”
He dropped a datachip onto the steel table in front of him “This is a record of diverted funds from the Old Sector Restoration Initiative. A project in progress, allegedly. Not a single skilled worker ever hired, not one bolt actually restored”
“They used you as statistics to ask for more credits. Then left you to rot”
Someone cursed from the side. A metal cup hit the ground and was stomped into shards – Megatron stepped down from the platform. He didn’t reach out. Didn’t comfort. Just walked through them slowly, letting silence do the work
“There will be no riots without purpose. No bloodshed without strategy”
“But no one gets to silence us anymore”
He didn’t want applause
He wanted fear to end
.
.
Somewhere else, behind a thick privacy screen, you watched the speech
You weren’t smiling. Not intentionally
But a small, reluctant curve tugged at your lips anyway
You hadn’t coached him to speak like that. It wasn’t your language. It wasn’t even your tone. It was just... him. Megatron wasn’t made for speeches—but he spoke as if war itself had stitched rhetoric into his fuel lines. Each word hit with precision, like he’d been rehearsing for this uprising since his first shift in the mines
You’d laid the groundwork. Planted the seed. Handed him the files as a test
And he passed—with disturbing elegance
It was almost...too perfect
So you sat back, swirling high-grade energon in a crystal chalice likely funded by those same missing safety budgets. In a room bought and built on the backs of the workers Megatron was now rallying. You thought about Proteus, too—the charming bastard you’d parried words with earlier today
They were both ambitious, but in completely opposite directions
Fire and ice, gold and coal
And wasn’t that delightful?
To watch them like pieces on a board. One cloaked in silk, the other in smoke and iron. Both dangerous. Both fascinating. You weren’t immune to Proteus’ influence. You’d admit that. But neither were you ruled by it – Proteus was the king you'd eventually have to topple. And you’d make sure he was the last one—because that would taste sweeter than any victory before it
As for Megatron?
You didn’t expect him to last this long. But if he did?
If he truly rose?
Well... maybe you’d consider backing him—if he kept being this entertaining
