He finds his pet beaten, exhausted and hungry. He extracts a contract, granted one given under duress, but it's a contract all the same.
He takes his pet back to their burrow where Darksteel and Skylynx sniff at him. Predaking wards them off with hisses and a flick of his tail.
“Mine,” he tells them.
“Ain't ya gonna share?” Darksteel whines.
“We wanna play with him, too,” Skylynx huffs.
Predaking growls, low in his chest, and they back off. He ignores the seething waves of disdain rolling off his pet and ushers him back to the larger den Predaking had claimed for his own. He doesn't have a door, there's no need for one, but the narrow hallway has a sharp curve that keeps him out of sight of the others.
Modesty is for non-Predacons.
He shoves his pet toward his nest and after a graceless stumble, Megatron falls upon it. He abruptly flips over onto his aft, glaring up at Predaking as though there's still something to fear in the once-warlord.
Predaking reverts to his bipedal form and, for the moment, ignores his pet. He rifles through his stash of scavenged supplies and produces a cube of energon. Only then does he turn to offer it to Megatron.
But before silver claws can come into contact with the cube, Predaking lifts it out of his reach.
“Ah, ah,” he says with a smirk. “Payment first.”
Megatron growls, though it's a weary sound. His field is a weak and lifeless thing, testament to how long he's spent alone out in the wilderness. His optics are dim for lack of energon. His armor carries the pits and scars of his last battle.
Predaking inhales, dragging in the scent of blaster fire and charred energon. The scent of battle. Mmm. His favorite.
What a prize.
He twirls the cube in his fingers, watches Megatron watch him juggle it.
“You are hungry, my former master,” Predaking purrs, and his optics trail along Megatron's frame, from helm to split pedes.
For now, he wants to look Megatron in the optics as he grinds his submission home. Perhaps later he'll have Megatron on his knees, aft presented as all pets should do.
“But you have to earn it,” Predaking says. He leans closer, enough that his heat washes down on Megatron.
Megatron growls again. “You delight in my humiliation, beast.”
Only a mech would take offense to that. Predaking, however, glorifies in his origins. He is proud to be a Predacon.
“That I do.” He cocks his helm. “You know what I want, pet. Open.”
Megatron's gaze slides away, his helm tilting to the side, betraying the new additions Unicron had granted him. His pedes slide apart, knees bending, until Predaking can take a long, leisurely look at his panel. He grins and lowers himself to his knees, crawling over Megatron on all four limbs, setting the energon cube within reach.
“A leader,” Predaking purrs, one talon raking down the middle of Megatron's panel, right over his concealed junction, “must know what it means to serve.” He taps Megatron's panel, watching the once-warlord jerk beneath him. “Open.”
The seal irises open, the scent of lubricant drifting to Predaking's sensors. His wings shiver with delight. He slides one claw into Megatron, feeling the damp clench of the once-warlord's valve around it. For all his purported disdain, Megatron hungers for it.
Predaking's purr deepens as he leans down, nuzzling Megatron's bared intake. “Your shame is intoxicating,” he murmurs. “You may renege at any time, my pet. Just say the word.”
Megatron's baleful stare rolls back toward him. His legs slide up, knees pressing inward, against Predaking's armor. As if to prove he is no coward.
“Our deal is struck,” Megatron growls and he lifts his arms above his helm, crossing his wrists. He tilts his helm in a manner that is almost coy. His hips push down against Predaking's finger, taking him deeper. “I mean what I say.”
Predaking chuckles and slides in a second finger, feeling the stretch and give of the calipers around it. “As do I, my pet. As do I.”