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Megatron circled the bound mech, occasionally dragging his fingers down glistening white and red paint, but for the most part, admiring with his optics. There was a certain something to be said about medical restraints and their uses. They were sturdy without causing lasting harm, and very appropriate given the current circumstances.

The choice of black had been appropriate, Megatron thought. It sat well against Ratchet's paint. White and red glistened in the overhead light, highlighting where thick straps wound about the medic's wrists and ankles. He was, as the humans would say, hog-tied though also suspended from the ceiling. Megatron would have to thank Hoist for his efforts.

Ratchet's array was on display, lubricant seeping steadily from his valve and his spike. Both were painted in fluids, dripping to the floor in a growing puddle. The smell of his arousal was thick and tangy and every in-vent made the scent stronger.

Megatron smirked.

“Imagine what the others would say, to see you like this,” he said mildly, circling Ratchet again. He kept his pace slow and steady. Measured.

He felt the medic's optics follow him. He hadn't blindfolded Ratchet for precisely this reason. He wanted Ratchet to watch him. He wanted Ratchet to want and need and wait for Megatron to grant it to him.

He paused behind Ratchet, just out of sight. He admired the medic's array, the plush white rim burnished with red and the swollen anterior node. Ratchet's biolights flickered fitfully, perhaps in tune to the throbbing of his finger.

Megatron traced the rim of Ratchet's valve with a single digit, sliding through the damp folds. Lubricant seeped into his joints.

The valve twitched. More lubricant seeped free. Ratchet's engine gave a small rumble. The bindings creaked. His field pulsed, hot and heavy. The arousal-scent deepened.

Megatron licked his lips.

“I wonder if you would beg for me,” Megatron mused aloud as he added a second finger. He traced the contours of Ratchet's valve and flirted with his anterior sensor, feeling it pulse beneath the pad of his thumb. “I wonder how long I can keep you like this.”

There was a plip as lubricating fluid dripped to the floor. Ratchet's spike bobbed, no doubt aching. Perhaps it was due some attention as well.

Megatron shifted his attention to Ratchet's spike. He took the banded red and white unit into his hand, caressing the tessellated ridges and drawing lines of charge with the sensor nodes. He pinched the head of it, saw Ratchet jerk, which set his bound frame to swaying.

Megatron's array flashed heat, pinging him for release. His spike was swollen within its housing and his valve clenched on nothing, squeezing out pearls of lubricant. His own pleasure would wait, however.

He stepped back and turned toward the table of assorted accessories. What flavor tonight? He side-eyed Ratchet, hand trailing over the options given. There was pain and pleasure here. Whips and crops and paddles and electroprods. Soft cloths for tickling and soothing. Heated oil to trickle through seams.

Nothing appealed at the moment. The use of his own hands would be enough, he suspected. There would be plenty of time for the rest later. If he were to judge Ratchet's energy field, the medic was good for the entirety of their off-duty cycle.

Megatron circled back around to Ratchet's front. He poked at the ball gag between Ratchet's lips, keeping his vocalizations muffled. Oral lubricant gathered at the corners and dribbled down his chin. Autobot blue optics stared up at him, bright with pleasure, begging without words.

“You have my comm,” Megatron said. He slipped a forefinger under the ball-gag's strap. He tugged lightly on it, pulling Ratchet's helm forward by an inch. “I trust you'll use it should you need. I'll be highly displeased if you don't. Understand?”

Ratchet's intake flexed as he swallowed. More oral lubricant bubbled around the edges of the gag. His optics narrowed. His helm tilted fractionally.


“Good.” Megatron released the strap, letting it snap back against Ratchet's face.

Ratchet flinched and made a muffled sound, probably one of outrage. He was glorious in anger, all spit-fire and jagged fields and flared plating. But he was even more so on the cusp of pleasure.

Megatron circled behind Ratchet again. More lubricant had gathered in Ratchet's valve now, glistening between the folds. The puddle beneath him had grown and his rim flexed as though Ratchet were clenching and unclenching with need. His cooling fans whirred and buzzed away.

Megatron clicked his glossa and pressed a thumb to Ratchet's anterior node. The medic made a muffled noise. His thighs trembled. His field flared with need, rushing against Megatron's as if trying to coax him to join in.

There was something to be said about older, sturdier, powerful frames. Strong and utilitarian, firm lines, thick plating. Bold and appropriate colors. The kind of frame that could take a blow and keep on going.

Oh, Megatron liked them sleek and sultry, too. (Though he would not say such a thing aloud. Rodimus would never cease strutting about if he knew.) But really? Megatron enjoyed frames like Ratchet's.

He especially liked them quivering and desperate.

Megatron grinned and slid a single finger into Ratchet's valve. The plush lining grasped at his digit, hot and eager. Moist walls fluttered around him. Heat wafted outward, reeking of arousal.

Megatron licked his lips again and imagined sinking himself into that welcoming valve. He imagined pushing slowly between the plush folds as Ratchet swallowed him inch by inch. His engine roared.

“How long has it been, Ratchet?” Megatron purred.

He added a second finger and then a third, both in quick succession. Ratchet's valve yielded to him, welcomed his fingers, and drooled lubricant. Megatron could feel the charge gathering in Ratchet's valve; it teased his fingers.

“How long since someone has been willing to give you this?”

Megatron's free hand reached below and curled around Ratchet's spike. It was appropriately sized for Ratchet's frame, but the larger beauty of it was the thickness. It felt so good sliding into Megatron's valve, the slight width at the root stimulating the sensors just within the rim of Megatron's valve.

He shivered thinking about it. But that was for another time, another session.

Megatron gave Ratchet's a few strokes and squeezed to feel the unit pulsing in his grip. He pinched the tip and gathered up the leaking pre-fluid. Ratchet jerked. A muffled moan rose from behind the ball-gag. His field flickered with need.

“Is this why you come to me?” Megatron asked, knowing full well Ratchet couldn't answer.

A fourth finger joined the others and Megatron knew he could fit his thumb in as well. If he wanted, he could slide his entire fist into Ratchet and get mewls and cries for more. Ratchet's pleasure was intoxicating.

This, Megatron reasoned, was true power.

“Can no one on this ship give you what you need?”

He removed his fingers, grabbed Ratchet's hips, and replaced them with his spike all in one smooth motion. He plunged deep into the medic, filling him to the brim.

Megatron groaned, engine rumbling, as Ratchet's calipers fluttered around him. The tip of his spike nudged Ratchet's ceiling node and sought the furthest depths. There was a cluster of sensors right about there.

Ratchet whimpered, clenching down on Megatron's spike. The straps creaked. The chains suspending him rattled. His valve spiraled down as if trying to trap Megatron within him.

“Hm. That must be it,” Megatron said.

He nestled himself in Ratchet's valve and then he didn't move. He was content to stand there, Ratchet convulsing around his spike, while his hands roamed. He palmed Ratchet's aft, stroked down his sides, tickled his hands, and occasionally reached around to give Ratchet's spike some attention.

Ratchet squirmed. His thighs shook. He swayed in his bindings, his valve clutching at Megatron's spike. Little flashes of charge rose from beneath his armor. Heat blasted from his frame. The floor was covered in drips of lubricant, from his spike, his valve, his mouth. His ventilations were ragged, desperate.


“Do you want me to frag you?”

He palmed Ratchet's aft, thumbs sliding inward to poke at the stretch of the mech's valve. He could easily slide his thumbs in alongside his spike, stretch Ratchet wider.

In fact, he did just that. He hooked his thumbs into the folds and pulled. Ratchet whined and wriggled. His valve squeezed all the harder. Pearls of lubricant seeped out from around Megatron's spike.

“You want it, you'll have to take it,” Megatron said. He rocked forward, grinding into Ratchet. He was rewarded with a muffled noise that could best be described as a whine.

Megatron grinned. His thumbs dug harder at the rim of Ratchet's valve.

“Frag yourself, Ratchet,” Megatron ordered. “Because that's all you're going to get.”

A frustrated sound erupted from the medic. Ratchet wriggled and tried to rock backward, difficult considering that he had little leverage. There was nothing to brace himself against.

But he tried, and the sight of the struggle made Megatron's fans spin faster. He ex-vented heat and watched Ratchet thrash and squirm and rock back onto his spike. Ratchet's valve cycled harder and clamped down in an inconsistent rhythm. He whined, knees struggling to bend inward against the pull of the straps. His field battered harder at Megatron's, demanding where his mouth could not.

Megatron took pity on Ratchet. He adjusted the position of his right hand, keeping his thumb hooked on Ratchet's rim, but allowing his fingers to curve down. The tip of his index digit nudged Ratchet's anterior node and circled the throbbing sensor.

Ratchet bucked. The dangling chains swung him harder. His field flared with desperation. The scent of hot metal and lubricant was thick on Megatron's glossa.

Megatron rubbed harder at the anterior sensor. He leaned over Ratchet, firmly entrenching his spike in the medic's valve. Ratchet moved against him, aft grinding hard on Megatron's pelvic array. His valve pulsed, little static charges nipping at Megatron's spike.

“I could keep you like this all night,” Megatron said, almost offhand. His fingers pinched and rubbed Ratchet's external node. “Ask Hoist to take your shift. Pull out and leave a false spike behind. I could go to recharge and leave you on the edge, never quite enough. There are many things I could to do you, Ratchet.”

A blast of heat filled the room. Ratchet's helm tossed. Charge crackled along his spinal strut. His anterior node throbbed under the pad of Megatron's finger.

Megatron smirked. “But for right now, what I really want, is to watch you come undone on my spike. So do it. You have ten kliks.”

Ratchet's squirming intensified. He whined, engine snarling, as he struggled to move himself on Megatron's spike. But the straps kept him frustratingly immobile.

Megatron draped his frame against Ratchet and ex-vented hotly over the medic's bound hands. Sensitive fingers twitched. His valve convulsed.

“Seven kliks, Ratchet,” he said and rocked against Ratchet's array. He forced his thumbs deeper, the knuckles scraping his own spike as he thrust. The head of his spike nudged that ceiling node.

“Five kliks.”

Charge gathered in Ratchet's valve. He trembled, frame hovering on the cusp of overload. Ratchet's movements were uncoordinated and desperate; his ventilations stuttered. His moans were endless, his frame trembling.

“Two kliks,” Megatron murmured, and he drew Ratchet's anterior node between his fingers. He rolled it roughly as he took one of Ratchet's fingers into his mouth.

He pinned it between his denta and bit down in the same moment he pinched Ratchet's external sensor.

Static erupted as Ratchet thrashed. His valve spasmed, squeezing down tight on Megatron's spike. His engine roared as he overloaded, and the fluttering of his rim on Megatron's thumbs was unbearably erotic.

Megatron gentled his touches, drawing out the overload as long as he could. He lapped at Ratchet's abused finger with his glossa and gently stroked the anterior node with the tip of one digit. Ratchet trembled beneath him, plating hot enough to steam.

Megatron stroked Ratchet's lower back until the tremors went away and the grip on his spike allowed him to ease out of Ratchet's valve. A mess of lubricant spilled in his wake, splashing to the floor.

The image of pushing Ratchet to the floor, to shoving a thick false spike into him as he lapped up the lubricants, would not leave Megatron be. He saved the idea for later. Right now, his own arousal was making itself known as it hummed through his systems.

Megatron patted Ratchet's aft, ignored the spike still yearning for touch, and circled around to the medic's front. Two deft flicks and the gag's clasps popped free, enabling him to work it free of Ratchet's mouth. He dropped it to the floor and stuck two lubricant-sticky fingers into Ratchet's mouth. He briefly stroked them along the medic's glossa before withdrawing.

Ratchet looked up at him, glossa flicking over his lips.

“You've certainly earned your reputation,” he said, his vocals laced with static. He was still running hot, which meant that container of coolant would find a use soon after all.

Megatron chuckled and held his spike at the base, dragging it over Ratchet's lips. “So have you,” he said. “Open.”

Ratchet smirked, his optics brighter, if that was at all possible. There was a hint of stubborness in his gaze, and certainly in his field. Where it had once been licking eagerly at Megatron's own, it suddenly retracted.

“Make me,” Ratchet challenged, and clamped his mouth shut. His lips curved with the ghost of a smirk.

Not ready to fully submit just yet, was he?

Megatron's engine revved.

So be it.