#gladiator megatron

• Roaring in pain when a blade sinks into the back of his leg, splitting his plating and biting into the joint of his knee, he goes down. And swings his mace back, feeling it connect with a satisfying crunch as his last opponent screams. Head turning, he uses the mace to push himself up, feeling energon slicking his leg as he leans heavily on the weapon. Limping forward as his opponent tries to drag himself away, he can hear the other mech gasping that he yields. Venting raggedly, his servos clench on the handle of his mace. Not even surprised when the other mech lashes out frantically. Desperately trying to bring him down. Sidestepping, he brings the mace down on the other mech’s head, optics shuttering at the wet crack.

• The roar that swells through the arena makes you wince, hands covering your ears. They’re chanting again, peds coming down in rhythmic thumps above you and you wonder if it’s over. Searching for your mech when the little guy finally moves his hand, your breath catches. He’s broken and battered, covered in something luminous as he lifts a gore covered mace over his head. And his head turns, optics finding you. Staring before he’s throwing his head back with a roar at the cheering crowds. Your relief that he’s survived is short lived though as you notice the bodies strewn about his peds. Reminding you that he’s dangerous. A monster. But he’s your best bet at surviving. You need a monster in this place.

• Limping across the arena floor, his optics narrow. Hadn’t told the twins to not let you watch, but he wishes he had. The horror on your uncannily Cybertronian features hurts. Will you be scared of him now? Cower from his touch? Reaching out his hand, he takes you from the twins and can feel the frantic, too-quick beating of your heart against his servos. But you don’t resist or try to get away. “Report to medical,” one of the guards demands and his plating lifts as he cradles you against his chassis.

• Looking up at him as he growls softly, those red optics study you. A big servo brushes your cheek as he walks, his pace slow and pained. Hurt. The glowing alien blood all over him not only his opponents’ apparently and it scares you. What happens to you if his wounds are fatal? Awkwardly patting his chassis to get his attention, he glances down at you and you touch his chassis again. “Don’t die on me, okay?” Know he can’t understand you, but without him? Your life expectancy goes to zero and you know it. Need him.

Previous

• 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.

They had found the soft pink thing and, of course, he had seized it. Not that he was particularly fond of it, but he assumed you would be. It was soft like you, albeit its bright pink color was much more blinding than the hue of your frame. One could argue it was, for lack of better words, a punch in the optic. And it was horrendously malleable, and round. Had it been a living creature, Megatron would have seriously pitied how pathetic it was.

You were massaging your back. He knew that the hard metal of his chamber was nothing short of a torture rack for you, but he couldn't offer you anything better. He himself was confined into the hollow four walls befitting of a mech of his status, no matter the fame his streak of victories brought upon him. He was still a slave, after all. And you, you were even less.

He placed the pink, round thing on the protruding wall frame on which you stood. He watched as your optics flicked open and your intake stretched in a wild look which he assumed to be elation. You launched yourself at the thing, landing on it with the softest thud. You then proceeded to close your arms around it, and press yourself more firmly against it as it muffled the incomprehensible noises you made.

Megatron was pleased at how well you received your gift.

Then, life went on, every cycle the same. He'd enter the arena, beat his opponent into scrap, or slash them open with the weapon assigned to him, watch them bleed to their death and then retreat into his chamber. Sometimes, the enemy would beg for mercy. Something both of them knew couldn't be allowed to mechs of their status. But still, his opponent would beg. As if it could change anything. Megatron's spark would constrict then, and with a precise blow to the corollary energon lines he'd release all the gas, depleting the spark chamber of essential nutrients and ceasing its activity in a few, painless kliks. Then the crowd would roar, oblivious to the half-whispered curses that seeped past the gladiator's intake.

Megatron always came back full of dents and cuts, fury twisting his optics into an ever-lasting glare. He used to train by punching the walls of his chamber, and no mech on the other side dared complain lest they taste his rage first-hand. Then, you were assigned to him, and he stopped the activity altogether. The fury remained, but sharing his chamber with you made it more bearable.

You couldn't speak. Well, he assumed the incoherent alien warbling you threw at him was a language. But you were too small, too weak and he didn't have the means not the knowledge to acquire a synthesizer. He had seen one, on the audial of a senator, and he knew he could never, not even dream of, acquiring one. But he was pleased with the way your eerily-familiar faceplates stretched in a smile for him, the way they twisted in a frown when he came back from the arena. Cupping you in his servos and petting your soft helm seemed to alleviate your ailments, and his as well. And so, words were unneeded.

You had begun to recharge on the pink thing the very cycle he brought it to you. It was roughly half your size, which was on itself irrisory compared to his. But it was soft, and you liked it, and your arms curled around it and he often came back to find you splayed on it rather than standing, arms up, to greet him. You had begun to prefer it to him.

Maybe because both of you were soft, and he wasn't.

He began to hate the thing.

Then, one cycle he caught you actively stroking it. Soft, alien servos laying gentle caresses on its motionless surface.

A strange, acrid feeling spread through him.

He kept watching you and, klik after klik, that feeling turned into resolution.

His energon reserves were enough. It would be a one-time-thing anyway.

He checked the entrance of his chamber. He was lucky he was one of the very few with a door. He didn't have anything to block it, but every mech knew better than to enter unannounced.

He walked back to you, growling at how you spared him little attention and immediately continued cuddling your gift.

He mass displaced. You reeled back, shrieking as he appeared right in front of you. Much smaller than he was, now, much closer to your size. He knelt and grabbed the pink thing, withholding it from you and placing it beside himself.

You looked at him, then at it, then back at him. And the initial surprise left your frame as you smiled for him once again. It was much more pleasant than usual, to see it so up-close.

Then, you did something strange.

You slowly leaned towards him, grabbed the thing and placed it behind yourself. Then, you withdrew your arms again and this time, you reached for him. Soft, alien servos cupped his helm, and for a moment it made him feel surrounded by clouds (when was the last time he had even seen clouds?). Vapor exited his frame and with it, tension he had been carrying since he came online.

He stared at you as you brushed your digit on his cheekplate, unable to comprehend what you were doing and why he liked it so much. Then, you surprised him again by beginning to tug him gently, bringing his frame upon yours. He found himself encased between the sharper edge of your helm (couldn't even call it sharp) and the softer part of your chassis. So soft, it was impossible not to reach for it. But you slapped his servo away before he could place it against your frame, and he decided he'd respect your wishes.

You began to lean back, his frame still held in your arms, and lied comfortably against the gift. Then, you began to do to him what you'd been doing to the object. Your servos stroked him gently, humming an alien tune as your chassis reverberated softly against his cheekplate.

You were cuddling him.

There was so much tension trapped in his frame. So much, he could feel his gears creak every time he moved. Your digit stroked between two panels, and he couldn't help but flinch at the unknown gentleness of your touch. Then you murmured something and withdrew your servos.

You were beginning to move away, and he couldn't let you do it. He held you more firmly against himself, his arms now encircling your frame, helm not budging from its assigned spot. You chuckled. Laughed, like one of his kind, and kept stroking him as vapor escaped the seams of his frame.

It was peaceful, too peaceful. Too sweet, too soft, too much. He couldn't help himself. He began to tremble, then, full-on shaking. Rattling like a newforged sparkling. But you didn't chastise him for it. Nor did you scuttle away. If something, you held him closer, more firmly, murmuring things in your alien language, and letting him relinquish all he pain he had sealed to his frame since he came online.