#gladiator megatron

• Those optics dip to your face and his battle paint looks like blood when it runs in red rivulets down his face. Making him seem even more dangerous and inhuman. There’s definitely something wrong with you for thinking he’s handsome. For fixating on the slide of his mouth against your body. He keeps doing that lately, usually while growling against you to make you squirm. That language barrier between you both stretching into an infuriating chasm. Because what’s he thinking when he does things like that? Flustered, you watch his face tip up toward the spray, his battle paint running. Do those markings mean something or are they just decoration? Nervously fidgeting with your hair in the pretense of making sure the soap is rinsed out, you suck in a sharp breath when his head lowers. Goosebumps and little shivers of heat running over you as he vents against your skin, those optics unwavering. And his lips are on your body again as he growls nonsense. Nosing and mouthing at you.

• If you carry his scent, you’re safer. It’s an excuse and he knows it. Lips skimming down over your chest and belly, you make a soft sound for him that has his spike stirring. Venting raggedly, your hips tilt slightly as your little fingers cling to him and it’s like you’re offering yourself to him. Lips brushing lower, your breath hitches when his glossa brushes your knee. Slides up between your thighs and you’re chirping urgently, voice breathless. But you’re not trying to push away. Don’t seem upset. So maybe he can have this. Rumbling as he presses his mouth more firmly against you, glossa curling and there you are. Your taste unexpected as you moan and the sound goes straight through him. He could mass shift. He’s heard about other mechs doing it to try and escape, but then he’d be vulnerable. You’d be vulnerable. Glossa stroking against you, your hips rock and he shudders, spike releasing to pressurize as he braces the arm he’s holding you with against the wall, letting his free hand slide down his frame.

• Head falling back as you cling to his servos and your hips buck, your thighs tremble at the feel of his mouth against you, his thick glossa teasing you until you’re aching hollowly. Moving against his mouth trying to find enough friction to reach that peak, your breathing loud in your own ears. He snarls against you and you shiver at the animalistic sound. Dimly aware that he’s moving, his frame rocking as he grunts and snarls, denta grazing you. Looking down, you stare at the hard length of his spike, his biolights limning his servos as he roughly pumps himself. And he’s growling at you as he fists himself, trying to tell you something even though you can’t understand him any more than he understands you. But neither of you need words right now. You understand this. Hips rolling and rocking as you feel his glossa sliding against you, rubbing, you hang onto him.

• Snarling as his frame tenses, those urgent noises you’re making having him on edge. Close. And danger or no, he knows he’s going to mass shift as soon as he’s back at his berth with you. Just like he knows it’ll cost him, that he doesn’t have the excess energon to burn for this, but he needs you. Groaning at the taste of you on his glossa, he imagines painting your naked skin to match his patterns he wears into the arena. After. You’re going to wear his markings after he claims you. Leaves his scent on you, in you. Pressing his mouth more firmly against you, he can feel you trembling in his grip as he pumps his spike, shuddering with his own overload as the tip of his glossa explores you, frustrated that you’re too small for what he wants. That he can’t press deep. And you’re trembling, chirping as you slump against his face. Lips brushing your body as he leans back, he has the obscene urge to slide the servos of his other hand between your thighs. To smear his release on you. Jaw working, he clears his vents and cleans up instead. Maybe he’ll paint you in his release instead and trace patterns on that soft skin with his own slick. Be the feral animal they all think he is.

• Plating ruffling slightly as he tips his face into the spray, he reaches for the soap, lathering up his free hand before offering it to you. Feeling your tiny hands on his as you scoop up handfuls of suds and it’s so cute he feels almost out of control. Jaw clenching, he steals a glance as you slide your hands down your body, over your chest, between your thighs as his plating heats. Venting raggedly, he grimaces at himself as you chirp and hum. Softly singing some hauntingly cheerful tune as you wash yourself and he watches your hands sliding over your soft skin. Has no idea when he’d started really noticing you. When you’d gone from some helpless alien creature, to something more. Knows it’s inappropriate, though. That you’re completely dependent on him, unable to understand him. So fantasizing about you? Wanting you? It feels blasphemous.

• Skin prickling as he vents against you, it’s getting harder and harder to pretend you’re okay. That you’re not on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Scared all the time in this strange, hostile place. The only thing you’re sure of at all is him. That he’ll protect you, but even then, he’s forced into the arena regularly. Forced to leave you and every time you’re so scared that he won’t come back. Heart racing as you try to fight down the rising panic attack, you’re singing to yourself. Trying to distract yourself from the fear and anxiety. And he somehow knows. Lifting you higher as he growls softly, his deep voice thrumming and clicking over alien syllables that you know you’ll never be able to mimic.

• Feeling your field start to prickle him with fear, his head lowers and his mouth brushes against your soft body. Trying to ignore the hunger that never quite goes away when he’s touching you now. Though you’ve never responded to his field, to his need. Feels you tremble against him, a tiny hand smoothing over his cheek as you chirp. Holding onto him instead of trying to push him away, but then he’s all you have like you’re all he has. Venting against your warmth, he gives in to the urge to nuzzle against you. Murmuring softly that he has you as your field settles. Maybe he’s too alien, too other, for you to ever want him. Maybe he’ll never be anything more than your protector. Tells himself he’s okay with that, but he knows it’s a lie.

• Shivering as he mouths at your body, clearing his vents to wash you in heated air, you’re flustered when his head lifts. Unable to look away from those red optics as you wonder what he’s thinking because when he does things like that, you’re left so confused. Your body warm and thoroughly flustered. Listening to him growling nonsense at you, he’s reaching for the soap again. Running a hand over his massive frame as his other hand cups you against his chassis. Sometimes the way he looks at you is almost too intense. His stare hungry and expectant to make you squirm. Eyes dropping as he keeps growling, you wish you had a clue what he’s saying as he offers you more of his soap and you awkwardly reach to gather some of the suds to wash your hair. Aware of his optics running over your body, but then, you’re as alien to him as he is to you. It’s only curiosity. Meeting his optics, your face heats and you look away first.

• Perking up when the blue mech hands over the box to your alien, you lean as he reaches to take it. And you’re distracted by the stuff in the container as you look inside. Because, yeah, that’s your underwear. Your clothes. There are also grocery store bags of stuff in there, too and it slowly cones back to you. That you’d been driving home from the store at night. Remember being tired, fingers gripping the wheel, but everything else past that moment is a haze. Something had happened. You’d been taken. Ended up here as a prize. Slumping against his hand, you try to remember what had happened in between, but it’s like there’s a mental wall there that you can’t get past.

• “I’m no one,” he mutters, frowning down at you as you chirp and reach into the container to pick up a strange looking cloth object. ‘You dare to stand up and defy the senate.’ The other mech studies him, optics glinting and it’s an effort to keep his plating from aggressively flaring. ‘Toward Peace?’ The mech adds, smiling wickedly and he stiffens. ‘I’ve read your work and it’s absolutely treasonous. It’s like you’re trying to incite an uprising.’ Hand protectively cradling you to his chassis, the servos of his free hand curl into a fist as he appraises them both, meeting the visored optics of the other mech. Weighing if he could take them both down unarmed and injured. “Only a fool would speak out against the senate,” he mutters softly, the words angry.

• Even not understanding their alien nonsense, you can tell that your protector isn’t happy without whatever’s being said. He’s frowning severely as his servos stroke your back like he’s soothing himself with you. Aware of the blue one with the visor staring at you, you’re pointedly pulling your shirt on over your head before leaning to snag your underwear. And now all three aliens are curiously watching you trying to squirm into your underwear in your mech’s hand. Should be mortified, but after every other indignity you’ve suffered, this is nothing. Chin lifting defiantly as you stare down the strangers, you rest your cheek against your mech’s chassis.

• “Are you aware that there’s growing unrest? That the working classes are beginning to ask questions? It’s like something has galvanized them,” the mech adds and he clears his vents. ‘Who are you?’ He demands and the mech smiles. “An opportunist. Unlike those old fools in power, I can see the future coming and I don’t intend to get left behind by it.” Rumbling, he looks down at you and you’re watching him, cheek against his chassis. “I want us to be friends. Just think about my offer. You’d have access to all my connections, my resources. Together, we could reshape this world to make it better.”

• Know you’re supposed to wear the coveralls, but you feel like you’re melting and you haven’t even started the session, yet. As alien as you are to each other, you doubt he cares about how much skin you’re showing anyway. Though, if the rumors are true, hand washing him is going to be seen as an intimacy. Something partners do for each other, so a declaration that you’re interested. Which isn’t untrue. “It was my way of reclaiming my autonomy,” he says and you shimmy out of your coveralls, straightening and feeling cooler dressed in your tank top and shorts. Surprised at his answer, you study that serious face. Because you understand that urge. Your first tattoo wasn’t because you had a wild hair or felt rebellious. It was because you needed to prove your body was no one else’s. Fingers finding the ink at the inside of your wrist, you blow out a breath. ‘Because it’s something you chose that can’t be taken away. Your way of proving it’s your body,’ you mutter and his optics narrow. “Yes,” he finally says, sounding surprised as he meets your eyes.

• Wasn’t expecting understanding and he rumbles softly. Studying the colorful markings on your skin as you tug your foot coverings back on, he reaches for the barrel of energon on your cart, prying the lid off with a servo. Has he ever had access to this much energon at once? Or even seen this much? So used to the constant, dull ache of hunger. Of never having enough. Tipping it up, he watches you mix up soap for him. Apparently set on washing him. Courting him like he’s a desirable mech worth having as a conjunx. Remembers Terminus’s smile and the way the other mech had cradled his human to his chassis as a different ache spreads through him. “Can you mass shift for me? It’s a lot easier to be one on one that way,” you say giving him a once over and his servos flex on the barrel as he drains it. But it’s not like anything as soft as you look could hurt him even if he did mass shift. Compared to him, you look disturbingly fragile.

• He’s rumbling softly, but he mass shifts for you anyway. And he’s still much bigger than you are as you grab his hand and he just stares at your hand on him. He’s not exactly what you expected you decide as you tug on his hand and he clears his vents, allowing you to tug him toward your cart. Watching him sit on the cart, his red optics are suspicious as you carry your bucket closer. Can’t help but want to know the story behind that comment of his even as you balk at the thought of having to share your own. Whoever made him feel like that, like a thing to be used, they’re why he looks so angry. You’re sure of that and you get it. Because that had been you for the longest time. Finding your soapy rag, you swing a leg across to straddle his lap and he freezes, growling. But he doesn’t immediately shove you off of him. Sliding the soapy rag over the mesh of his neck, you’re aware of him frowning down at you.

• What are you doing? Sitting in his lap and running soft, wet hands over him. Do you expect him to reciprocate? To touch you? “I’m not what you think I am,” he growls and you glance up at him before smiling faintly. ‘What do you think I think you are?’ You ask and he can scent you when he vents, alien but not unpleasant. No one’s ever touched him like this before. Gently. Doesn’t know what to do with gentle as his spike stirs behind his modesty plating. “I have nothing. No shanix. I can’t give you any of kind of social standing,” he says and you wrinkle your nose, hands sliding down his chassis. ‘Well, I have no idea what shanix is and I don’t really give a damn about social standing,’ you reply and he lays a hand on your hip, disconcerted by how warm you are, by the faint buzz of your unguarded field. Pressing his palm more firmly against you, it’s illicit to be able to feel your emotions washing into him. How can you trust him that much when you don’t even know him? Optics hooding as your hands keep stroking over him, he rumbles, aching to let his spike pressurize and embarrassed by that urge. One gentle touch and it feels like his control is unraveling. And on top of that, you’re alien. “What do you give a damn about?” He asks despite himself and you huff out a startled laugh, the sound sinking into him. ‘Living. Enjoying myself with good company,’ you say, eyes wicked as your hands slide lower and he grunts when you stroke along the seams of his modesty plating. ‘What about you?’ You ask, tone scandalously teasing like you know exactly what you’re doing. Optics narrowing, his servos flex against you, feeling the way your flesh gives. What would it be like to give in? To claim you as alien and strange as you are. It’s obscene to even consider it, but at the same time, your form is strangely Cybertronian. Familiar. And that’s so odd to him. How could they have found organic life so different from their own, but still so similar? “Are you mine?” He growls and your eyes flash with heat, your scent shifting.

• Hurrying through the base and trying to avoid huge peds, you glance at your dossier. At the Megatron variant you’ve been assigned. Because usually, this guy is always problematic from what you’ve heard. This one, though? He looks angry; his helm, his face, and frame decorated with markings and his lip curled to flash denta. He’s also handsome. But then, you’d signed up because of the rumors. Because you’d been curious about the aliens. Ever since they’d arrived you’ve been fascinated with the Cybertronians. And all that anger on his face? The rebellion? It’s so fascinating. He’s fascinating.

• Sees so many Cybertronians with humans. Doesn’t know what to make of any of this. Because it’s what he’d imagined minus the organics. What he’d been fighting for. Peace and equality. No senate and no more castes. No more being trapped or judged by your altmode. It feels like a dream and he doesn’t quite trust it. “Sir!” Looking around, he rumbles as he spots familiar faces and so many new faces. “Sir?” Hesitating, he looks down and there’s a human staring breathlessly up at him with a smile. Rumbling as he slides his ped away from you, he frowns down at you. You’ve got your covering half off around your waist, the thinner covering underneath baring your arms and the designs covering them. And it’s still so strange how Cybertronian your people look. What are the odds of finding another sentient race so similar to their own? “Hi, I’ve been looking for you. I’m yours,” you say, offering him your name, but his processor is caught on that ‘I’m yours.’

• Didn’t mean to say it like that, but you’d gotten flustered and the words a bit mixed up. He’s just frowning seriously down at you, too. Do those markings mean something? They must to him since you haven’t really seen any other aliens with markings like his. They make him seem wilder, more feral somehow. Temptingly dangerous. Flustered, you know yourself well enough to know that the bad boy, rebel image he has going is all just tailor made to draw you in. Get you in trouble. “Is that so?” He growls and that deep, rumbling voice is just the cherry on top of the inappropriate thought sundae that you’re now enjoying. ‘If you want me to be,’ you answer.

• Are you flirting with him? Remembers the way Terminus had been possessively cradling the human he’d been carrying. The way he’d seen several other Cybertronians interacting with these organics. Is that what’s going on? Some kind of interspecies meetup to find conjunxes? Even more lost, he watches your eyes give him a slow once over. Like you find him desirable and that thought is so foreign to him. So used to being looked down on because of his frame, his altmode. Barely noticed. Had been put to work in the mines right after coming online and knew he’d die in those same mines. Knew it. But then Terminus had been killed in front of him for daring to question a mech from an upper caste and everything had changed. He’d started pushing back. Started taking what he wanted. Making them hear him, see him. Isn’t used to being seen without giving someone a reason to notice him, though. “How about a bath? Some energon while we get to know each other,” you say and he vents softly, rumbling as his lips twitch.

• Smoothing a hand against his chassis, you feel the hum of his internal systems, his plating warm under your palm. Alive. Drawing your hand away, you frown at the glowing stuff on your fingertips. His blood. And a big servo touches the back of your hand as he growls softly, his attention on your stained fingers as he vents and his head comes up suddenly. Skin prickling as his rumbling shifts into an aggressive growling, you look over at the stranger lingering in the doorway.

• Optics narrowing as he takes in the stranger, it takes him a klik to notice the second bot lingering just behind the first mech. “You don’t look much like a medic,” he growls, servos curling around you as you chirp uncertainly. Picking up on his suspicion maybe. Because the bot in front of him? His paint’s too pristine, too colorful and extravagant. ‘Oh no. I never cared much for getting my hands dirty,’ the stranger says, studying him in a way that has his plating lifting. Like he’s a thing, not a person. ‘I just wanted to meet the fighter that’s causing such a stir. The lowly mining bot who claimed the name of a Prime like he had every right.’

• Watching the blue mech standing behind the one that’s talking step forward and hold out a container, your mech doesn’t make any move to take it. Just rumbling a low warning as the stranger growls nonsense, hands moving as he talks. And the blue one opens the container to make you suck in a breath. “Hey!” You yelp. There’s other stuff in there, but that’s your freaking underwear you’d been wearing when you’d gotten abducted, beamed up, whatever on top of the pile. “Those are mine!” You seethe and your mech rumbles something at the stranger who gestures at you with a smile that makes your skin crawl.

• “I’d like us to be friends,” the mech says and he cups his hands around you as you gesture angrily, chirping loudly. Excited about what’s in the box. “You can think of this as a goodwill gesture. Food and water for your little pet. Coverings, too. I imagine it’s probably cold down here and your little organic looks so fragile.” Optics narrowing even as he wants to reach for the container, he presses you against his chassis and your chirping falters to a sullen sounding warbling. ‘And what do you gain from our friendship?’ He demands as you squirm against the palm of his hand. Hearing the veiled threat behind the mech’s smile. Knows this has to be one of the aristocracy and hates him for that alone. “Do you know the lower castes adore you? But a mech like me? They’ll never love me. Never trust me. You, though? They’ll follow you to the Pit and back.” Staring at this stranger, he thinks of Terminus, expression belligerent as he’d dared to question a higher caste mech. Remembering what had happened as hate twists through him. Maybe this mech had nothing to do with that. With what happened to Terminus. But he’s still one of them. One of the privileged who’s never felt the ache of an empty tank, who’s never been afraid. One of the mechs that watches the fights from up high and cheers for every brutal, senseless death because they don’t see fellow Cybertronians. Only animals.

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