I really enjoyed The Prize! Makes me wonder how long it’d take for Megatron to even understand user’s language lol
They’re not going to be able to speak to each other any time soon ⚠️ blood
The Prize Pt 9
Gladiator Megatron x Reader
• Struggling and pushing at the little mech’s servos, you can’t see what’s happening, but you can hear it. The brutal sounds of collisions, the roars, and screams have your heart racing. Make it hard to breathe as a cloying, metallic scent fills the air and one of the twins says something to the other. What happens to you if your protector doesn’t walk away from this fight? Will you be given away to someone else or just left to wander around down here until lack of food and water kill you?
• 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.
Call it mindless self-indulgence. @revelboo's gladiator Megatron fic has me by the throat and I couldn't help myself. So here it is, a Slice of Life, or Missing Moment drabble set in her AU. A fic of a fic, fic-ception if you must.
Unpolished, unproofread and unbetad because I needed to get it out of my system and move on.
Also blame @botmilf's quote "There was a different kind of beauty to him when he slept: an angelic culmination of all his docility" that forever changed my brain chemistry.
Anyway Megatron has beef with a pouf.
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.
And you held him through it all, treasuring a vulnerability he never showed. Not even to himself.
• “What happened here?” He asks as he looks around the wash stall you’d led him to before his attention drops to you as you mix up soap. Intending to wash him like you’re courting him apparently. ‘From what I’ve heard, the big brains are still trying to figure that out,’ you say, head lifting to stare at the sky overhead with a frown. Before you sit on your cart and start removing your foot coverings. ‘What’s the story on those?’ You ask, gesturing at him with a foot covering and it takes him a klik to realize you mean his “war” paint.
• 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.
Hear me out...I had this idea. I personally see this fitting for Tarn, Gladiator Megatron, or Gladiator Soundwave walking by a black market or being shown prizes you can win by a merchant...as he paruses he see a like one those fancy bird cages with a white laced almost see through cloth and the most melodious singing coming withing that cage, something was inside pulling him towards the siren call...
He pulls the veil lace, and inside is a small, strange, organic alien, dressed in soft silks and lace, sitting in a swing inside the cage. You continue to sing your lullaby seemingly undisturbed. Unaware or simply apathetic to the others around you....but when you open your eyes and look into his optics, he finds himself disgusted for a SPLIT Second, such strange alien chirping but beautiful singing came from an organic
You simply study him almost as if you see what he lays beneth all that he hides, you see his spark like you were expecting him...waiting for him, such a small, fragile, and weak thing that seems tainted by the putridity of life of the rich and powerfull...the voices in his head quiet down finally hearing your alien lullaby he feels calm and at peace
The merchant is telling him he simply found you singing in a field of flowers with animals, that you were an organic from a dirt and water planet
Now, depending on the guy, how you got taken differs between Tarn and Megatron & Soundwave
With Megsy and Soundy, when you announce to be the big prize for a match megsy or Soundwave fight like they have never done before, he HAS to win you...and when he does win you
You are a secret heaven for him when the fights are done...when the rebellion starts...when the war erupts when he is tired your there in your secret room singing and waiting for him to sink his helm in your tights as you pat his helm...
Now Tarn?...he straight up just grabs your cage and givesthe merchant mercy of no death for being a betrayer, and he is very much keeping you a secret. Your cage gets bigger...the more he gets to spend time with you, he gives you 'jewelry'...which is a trackers he is never letting you go...
There are some...paranormal things that happen around you that neither mech is able to grasp, like how injuries he had the day before sleeping around you heal faster than they should, or how when he is around you, he isn't hungry anymore...no one was aware, while yes, you are "human" and you aren't "Rare"
You and your siblings were created lastly by the one and the other celestials they found you all so darling and gave you the task to help mortals and guide them. They called you once an "Angel"...and you simply allowed the merchant to take you simply because you were curious
Who should be the ML?
TARN
MEGATRON
SOUNDWAVE
Voting ended onFeb 9
Honestly, though, with Megatron and Soundwave routes, Soundwave ends up meeting you if Megatron is the one to find you And Vice-Versa
Those two trust, loyalty, and respect to one another knew they are their best ally to keep you safe, If something ever to were to happen to him on arena or when they are in missions in the war to keep you safe from others-Now this could end with a throuple route...but it obviously different dynamic if megsy is the main or soundwave is the main ml...
ok its done! sadly a little late for transformers day, but here's some prewar megop! had a lot of fun sneaking characters into the crowd in the background lol.
I do also have the speedpaint for this if anyone would be interested, but they take so long to process that I don't think I'll post it otherwise.
