#sharkticon

• Hurrying your bath when you’d love to just soak in the warm water, you reluctantly climb out and two of them hurry over to dry you, a third draping a loose, trailing robe over your shoulders and you’re striding out into the humidity of the jungle, head lifting when you spot the familiar figure at the end of the lines of waiting Sharkticons, spears in hand. And as you walk, the ends of the spears thump rhythmically into the dirt. Trying to keep your expression blank and dignified, you almost lose it when one of them belts out “baaaaay beee shaaaaah rek” and the rest take up the song even though they have no clue what the words mean.

• And at the end of the line waiting, Lockdown looks like he’s in physical pain as you approach and look up at the big mech. ‘You have a hoard of fanatical, violent beings at your beck and call and this is what you do with that power,’ he murmurs softly even though you know your Sharkticons can’t understand him any better than they can you without your translator. “You’re the one who brought me that alien liquor, so that’s on you,” you counter, turning away as your guards part to let you lead the way through their ranks. “You didn’t happen to bring more of that stuff, did you?”

• Rushing to grab a frond from a sapling, Gnaw growls at the hunter as his little carrier settles in their favorite padded chair. Kneeling by your knee, he rumbles at the other mech and only relaxes when you touch his head with soft hands. Hates not understanding your soft words, but you’d chosen to not wear the little collar that translates for them. A gift from the hunter and his optics narrow suspiciously, because that one isn’t a Sharkticon. Isn’t to be trusted and you’re far too trusting. Rising slowly, he fans you as another Sharkticon hurries over with a tray and Gnaw snarls an outraged warning when the hunter reaches for the tray. Only allowed to eat after you do and several of his brothers growl a warning at the outsider.

• Reaching for a bit of thinly shaved, raw fish, you lean back in your chair. From your best guess, their previous leader had grabbed their favorites and went on a permanent run down the street for milk. Not that you blame them, because these guys are overwhelming most of the time. Desperate for attention and praise. ‘I’m surprised I’m not hearing the patter of little claws, yet,’ Lockdown mutters, reaching for an energon goodie off the tray as every Sharkticon rumbles softly and one of your Sharkticons rushes over with a glass for you. “What?” Choking slightly on your drink, you stare at him. And he’s laughing at you. ‘What do you think carrier means, your highness?’ He asks as you scowl. Sure, your Sharkticons aren’t exactly geniuses, but they can’t possibly think that’s going to work. Right? Glad you didn’t bother with your translator, you shake your head. “Well, that’s not happening.” But if that’s the only reason they pretty much worship you? You might be back on the menu once they figure out your species isn’t compatible that way with theirs. ‘You’re going to have to choose at some point. A consort?’ He adds when you blanch and sink down in your chair. ‘Or several if you’re into orgies.’