I want ya baaaad.
Well right now unfortunately these wires…aren’t…cooperating—augh!
I’ll—I’ll be there soon enough.
There is…quite a lot of work that still needs to be finished.
He opted to put his overcharged state to better use, focusing the electrical surges to wind its way down his arms and honing along the density of his claws. The servo that held onto the medic’s wrists above tested the amount of shock that would be instilled into Ratchet’s body upon contact, purposely emitting a heightened amount far more than he intended into the broken lines of the Autobot’s wrists. For that area, he intended nothing but pain for now; to inflict suffering and torment in the most sensitive area on Ratchet’s form, next to the inner workings of his frame itself. Ratchet’s attempts to remain as collected as possible earned a pleased roll of his engine, catching every pained shift in his form and the quiet sounds of protest before he could silence them out completely. Defiant, he mused to himself. Despite his tyrannical ways, he rather enjoyed when others fought against him and defied him; ergo why he continued to keep Starscream around despite the Commander’s treacherous ways. He always enjoyed a good fight, after all.
The servo that had been at uneasy rest upon the medic’s hip clasps down firmly, the tips of his claws barely pinching against the armor as the electrical surge eases into the thicker plating protecting the region; easily he slides his servo up along Ratchet’s side, pricking him with brief charges every few seconds while leaning his frame further down until he is almost parallel to Ratchet’s bound frame. He snarls and grins into their face, violet optics afire with menace, the glyphs that had been eroding their way onto his armor in full, vibrant view by this point. Whatever conscious thought he held previous had long been pushed aside for a more sinister mentality, the dark energon sweeping over his mind and hiding away the gladiator that had once been, replaced with the herald of the World-Eater.
It’s almost an instinct to know where their panels hide away upon their armor, the edges fitted seamlessly, almost as if they were never there at all. His servo pauses just above them, radiating the electrical flashes between the nooks so that they could sink down and discharge all across such sensitive nerves and wiring. It was only a sign of what was to come, and the rush excited him. He contemplated simply forcing the other to submit, taking what he desired and leaving them were they lay. But no—he wanted this to extend to a different level; there was nothing more riling than causing another to willingly obey despite knowing they shouldn’t. Ratchet would push against him until the bitter end, this he knew… but that only made his desire to watch the ever staunch medic snap grow stronger.
He moves his codpiece against Ratchet again, transferring the burning heat that stained his armor into the base of the medic’s frame, repeating the action again and again, slow but forceful as he causes their body to shift upwards each time before letting it fall again. The movements were made easier when the medic’s legs tightened around his own frame; whether due to pain or a subconscious desire that even Ratchet was unaware of, he didn’t care. But it simply caused the warlord to continue his endeavors with earnest. The tip of his claw traces around the closed panel that hid what he sought, teasing it with small sparks of energy as he maintained watch on Ratchet’s expressions, waiting to decide on whether he would coax the physician to play along with his game or not.
"Oh, so unwise dear Ratchet… so unwise.”
The electrical charge snaking down from Megatron’s clawed embrace to his servos that twitch and flinch miserably hurts. Static crawls into throbbing joints, makes cabling ache and feel like thousands of needles are pricking into them at once. The connection between wrists and servos feels far too raw and as though salt is being poured into the feebly bleeding wounds. This must be some form of torture, he thinks, for this much concentration to be put on the most valuable part on his body. If permanent damage is done to them…the panic of the mere thought has anxiety bubbling in the back of his intake and churning unpleasantly in his tank. He can’t lose the one thing that he can help with and yet he’s not in any position to convince the barbarian leaning over him otherwise. He can neither jerk his limbs free nor move away from the large chassis pressing against his own, much to his displeasure.
Ratchet’s hips flinch when electricity surges into the plating next, seeping in just enough to make circuitry warm even more much to the medic’s outraged embarrassment. He squirms in place, plating pulling tight at the feeling of Megatron’s free servo trailing up his chassis again and the warlord leaning in even closer, bringing them too near each other. When the warlord snarls down Ratchet finally turns his head, scowling harshly and craning his neck cabling as far away as he can. He doesn’t want his space invaded to this extent, it’s making every instinct he has in him scream to get away. The tilt allows him to finally notice glyphs scrawling across the other mech’s plating and glowing vibrantly. Ratchet only has a brief second to stare in confusion before his attention is once again jerked elsewhere in the form of claws smoothing over a very specific panel and electricity worms its way underneath. The feeling of static running over the hidden components underneath makes the medic arch briefly, jaw dropping in surprise and then snapping shut tightly.
It’s been quite some time since that panel has been accessed in such a manner and it leaves Ratchet aching in a completely different way from the constant pain above his helm. That’s not to say that he’ll be allowing Megatron access to his port any time soon, if ever. His thighs clench tighter and his field draws so near that it’s acting more as a second coating of armor at this point. For a brief moment in time Ratchet honestly believes that he has everything under control. And then Megatron grinds against his pelvic array again and the heat that blooms at the touch makes him flinch.
The very fact that it doesn’t stop, firm and persistent movements inching him up the table and then allowing him to fall back down into the other’s chassis again and again, is riling the bot’s system up in a way that he doesn’t want to acknowledge. There are claws tracing his panel, circling stubbornly and sending bursts of sparks into the sensitive wiring beneath, making him twitch. He knows his faceplate must be heating now with the way his body is trembling ever so slightly. Yet he holds his mask in place as best as he can even though his scowl is lopsided and melting into something else, and he’s having trouble looking Megatron in the optics without wanting to waver away.
The combination of it all finally has his cooling fans whirling to life much to his humiliation and his plating warming to above average temperatures. By now he isn’t sure if his legs are squeezing around the other mech in order to try and shove him away or pull him close, but he has enough self control to frown ferociously up at the tyrant still.
“Quiet." Is all he can really hiss, ventilation stuttering when Megatron moves against his pelvic array again.
The medic would have been wise not to attempt a retreat; despite his age, the tyrant was as keen as ever when it came to movements, and his observations were as precise as his blade. His time in the Pit was well spent on developing his sensors, and he frequently put them to use aboard the Nemesis when tailing who was walking about; he could notice the faint differences between Starscream’s lightly-felt and careful footsteps from Soundwave’s indifferent strides, all the way to the clicking and burdened tone of an Insecticon from Breakdown’s heavy stomps. Certainly he would have heard him and struck out.
His optics strike up to glare the medic head-on, scarred lips thinning as they assessed their wound; the dull throbbing in his mind was nothing more than an irritant for now. Nothing he had not felt or endured previous, nothing he could not push back with ease for now. Indulging himself in the empowered energon of Unicron had its adverse side-effects, some of which he did not realize would inflict long-term issues upon his psyche; nonetheless, he had adjusted to the best of his ability to the conditions. He’d not lose himself over some pitiful urge the Dark One felt in the pit of his mind.
"If I were, would you stop me?" Of course he knew the answer. Ratchet held no flame in comparison to the ferocity that Megatron could unleash, especially if the influence of Unicron overtook him. But that didn’t mean the medic would simply stand and do nothing in his presence.
Such a hopeful desire, Ratchet. But he had no intention of leaving for now.
"…Why this planet?”
That answer requires no response whatsoever, only a peeved expression and barely contained optic roll. They are both aware of how little Ratchet could do to stop Megatron from doing anything. The medic is positive he’d at least be able to get one good hit before he got his arms torn from his chassis. The thought sours his mood even more. Resisting the urge to snarl something biting in tone back up at the tyrant, Ratchet instead peels his servo away from his injured arm and peers blearily down at the energon coating his digits, slicking the metal inconveniently.
If Megatron is going to insist on standing around blathering about whatever is on his mind, Ratchet hysterically wonders if maybe he can grab a chair to sit in and rest on. After all, he could be here all night at this rate.
"What do you mean why this planet?" He sharply snaps back, "You will have to be more specific."
What are the chances that Optimus will walk through the awning right now and spot the con leader? Slim to none. Why is it that every time something awful like this happens, the medic is on his own? Ratchet squares his jaw and stares the tyrant down as best as he can.
I know one shall rise is new but I really loved how he and ratchethatesyou handled each other. The way he writes Optimus right now is amazing and I love how protective he and Ratchet are of each other even if they’re not involved together romantically. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a Ratchet and Optimus who were simply friends be explored, and I’m looking forward to seeing these two play together some more.
Oh god what do I even say to this?? Thank you anon!
((Oh my gosh—thank you„„,))
You speak as though you believe older bots lose their drive for relations after a certain age.
No, I believe that is just a Wheeljack thing.
I don’t really have a scientific explanation for you. Some mechs simply crave fragging more than others.
((Yes, we are determined to finish it! So you will definitely get an end from us eventually!))
There is no attempt to bother answering their former question; whether rhetoric in response to his own words or not, he saw no purpose in giving it the grace of a reply. The second one caught his attention only for the briefest of moments, optics flickering up to the bound wrists that paralleled each other due to his grasp; break them? Perhaps eventually. For now, they were of more use to him than they were a hindrance. In this method, the medic could hold no hope of escaping him regardless of wiles short if tearing off ones limb. The tyrant would not hold such desperate action above Ratchet, but it was also not a feat so easily done and he knew it would require a great deal of effort on Ratchet’s end to meet such a goal.
For now, he would enjoy the struggle between them, revel in the defiant expressions that the medic makes in his own agony as a well-crafted mask to his affronts. But they both realize the severity of the situation at hand… one misguided movement from the talons that had buried themselves in Ratchet’s chassis could cause the fatal rupture of the spark chamber hidden beneath masses of wires and fuel lines. And the noises that ring in his audio receptors drive him further down into the pit, until nothing but blackness and primal energy corrode his very core. In this state of mind, there was no regard; no concern, no prerogative, no purpose but to inflict the sufferings of whatever lay before him. Such a target simply happened to be Ratchet.
He leans up, careful to keep his claws firmly planted within the crevice he’s created, slowly dragging Ratchet’s frame downwards. This results in two actions: the first being the cuffed servo tearing further through armor and wired tendons in Ratchet’s wrists. If he’s lucky, the amount of damage and tear will leave the medic’s servos inoperable; however he knows better than to rely on happenstance luck alone, and continues to tighten his grip on Ratchet’s wrists to leave them stretched beyond their limits despite him forcing the rest of his body downwards. The second act is the more pleasurable one, for him: using the talons he’s hooked into Ratchet’s frame, he slowly pulls the other down until Ratchet’s legs slip beyond his waist and the base of Ratchet’s frame is pressed firmly against his codpiece. By now the overcharge has flared his armor’s temperature ratings, leaving direct contact nothing more than a blazing sear against unprotected areas. The grind of battle armor against Ratchet’s plating makes him chuckle, deep and dark, boding nothing more than sinister intent. Finally his talons rip up wickedly through the placement they had held, tearing through Ratchet’s chassis armor and leaving a surge of electricity bouncing off of his plating as severed wires are sliced and dance within the new opening. With his servo now free, he allows it to trace along the side of Ratchet’s frame, mulling to himself aloud as he stared down at his victim before letting his servos rest at the medic’s hip and tap tantalizingly so against the metal ridges.
"Now… do I simply butcher you here and leave you for your precious friends to find… or do I humiliate you entirely and show Optimus—show you just how helpless you truly are? Perhaps, given how gracious a lord I am, I will permit you to choose… should you choose wisely, that is.”
He’s venting hard.
It’s been a long time since he’s been forced to endure this amount of physical pain. There have been close calls, yes, but for such an amount of damage to be inflicted on his servos—Ratchet grinds his denta together and concentrates on his anger that’s simmering beneath his controlled mask. Again his digits twitch, motion cables and joints fizzling, sparking in protest from the rough treatment. Medic servos are too sensitive for this handling and the agony shooting in bursts through Ratchet’s sensors are driving him mad.
It’s now that the bot feels so strongly about how he wishes he could be more than a medic. That he could have become some sort of battle-ready warrior that could rip his enemies limb from limb if they tried to mess with him. He doesn’t like being put into situations where he feels truly helpless to stop what’s happening, it’s too reminiscent of previous circumstances that have gone wrong. There’s the urge to flick his gaze away from Megatron’s steady heated stare and refuse to acknowledge what’s happening in some attempt to save face. But the pain that’s lacing through his circuitry, far too near his spark, is something that he can’t just back down from. Besides, he has too much pride to allow Megatron to think that he’s any sort of scared.
Not that that means he actually is or anything.
Then, there’s movement. Ratchet barely bites back a groan when he’s dragged downwards, arms straightened as far as they can and wrists straining. His servos clench into fists and then release just as quickly, stiffening in agony. And yet he keeps being stretched, dragged downwards enough to force his pedes to slip off of the table he’s pinned to. The loss of support finally elicits a pained wheeze, chassis fully held in place by the tyrant’s grip as his legs clench around the other’s large frame. It occurs to the medic far too late what’s happening and when he feels Megatron’s pelvic array grind against his own, sending a startled twitch up his backstrut, he inhales sharply and loudly, unable to hold the mask together fully any longer. The feeling is hot enough to make sensors below his waist prickle with interest even as everything above is clouded with pain.
The warlord’s claws rip through his plating so suddenly that it leaves Ratchet breathless, feeling like he’s been punched in the gut so hard that he’s gagging. He can see his own inner circuitry, wires snapped and cables shredded and it draws a choked cry from his vocals, strangled and forcibly bubbling to the surface. It hurts, Primus it hurts so bad. His arms are aching to free themselves and fix this damage that’s been done, seal everything up before things can go even more wrong. But there’s no way to free himself, not with the clawed servo gripping his limbs so tightly and the other slipping down his side and onto a hip, mockingly tapping on the plating.
The medic is speechless save for grunting, trying to block out certain areas that feel as though they are on fire from the torment. His processor is whirling, trying to keep up with what Megatron is rumbling down at him and he realizes, abruptly, that the tyrant is giving him some twisted chance to decide his fate. And, despite his body trembling and servos feeling numb, his expression darkens with indignant rage.
He doesn’t answer past that one word, doesn’t give Megatron the pleasure of vocals that will undeniably shake ever so slightly from the trauma. Instead he glares up at him, pulls the mask on even stronger and steels himself enough to still the tremors running along taut motion cables.
He’s silent at their remark, snide as it might be. Or perhaps it wasn’t—he had gone beyond the point of caring for the meaning behind their hushed words. In truth, he was cursing himself for snapping so easily, so quickly on the medic. It was not their place to witness the struggle he endured even now against actions that were long ancient and gone; there was nothing he could do to change events. Why did he continue to allow it to plague him now? Why did he continue to let those memories fester and consume him whole? Perhaps there was a part of him, somewhere in the back of his clouded mind, that relished what had happened… or perhaps it was simply something he held onto out of spite against himself.
"Perhaps we will," he shoots back after moments of silence. The response is empty, tone nothing more than a flattened drawl of his graveled voice. Even the timing of the response is lagged long after the moment had passed and it’s clear his mind is elsewhere rather than focused on the present—rather than focused on the Autobot that settle behind him. Not that it mattered. He felt no threat from Ratchet, and whatever damage the other could inflict in short time, he could twist around and cause threefold once it came to pass.
"…You should fix your injury, doctor. It would do you no good if you bled out from negligence.”
If only such an injury could cause the other suffering and provide a threat of dying. But the presence of energon made his processor throb in pain; he had his own reasons for desiring the other to repair himself, as a darkness rolled through his very being, as if something were attempting to scratch the surface of his mind.
The silence that follows gives Ratchet enough time to reassess his injuries while he quietly stands in place. The pierced motion cable definitely throbs in time with his spark, but he’s felt worse. He’s just glad that whatever little damage Megatron has inflicted definitely doesn’t feel permanent or irreversible in any way. The medic raises his gaze again, silently takes in the oddly thoughtful, if not slightly irritated, expression on the larger mech’s faceplate.
He should probably find some means of escape now that the attention isn’t on himself. Ratchet glances around discreetly, knowing fully well if he takes even a step Megatron will know. It’s not exactly easy to sneak up on the warlord. Before he does finally take that first step though, Megatron has escaped whatever cloud of thoughts he has in his twisted processor and is once again addressing him. Ratchet grimaces, optic ridges narrowing as he stares unamused up at the other.
"Yes, that would be a tragedy." He drawls.
Ratchet feels out his wound with an uninjured servo, digits skimming over the tears and holes in plating and everything underneath. Is Megatron planning on watching him fix himself? The medic shoots another scowl at his enemy.
"Are you planning on standing there forever?" It’s not like Ratchet could do much of anything if Megatron chose to do anything he doesn’t approve of. But maybe the warlord will just…go back to his ship.