This was not what he expected.
But there he was, tied up in his own chains, in his own vessel, in his own idea of a medical bay, with that old timer of a medic crouched over him, his open spark chamber, and an evil gleam in his Autobot blue optics.
“Ya don’t got what it takes,” Lockdown had challenged.
And Ratchet smirked.
He teased Lockdown’s chestplates open with blunt, talented fingers. Ratchet had traced paths of pleasure that made Lockdown pant, made him twist in his chains, made him at once glad he hadn’t fought very hard.
Those fingers traced around his spark chamber, drawing lines of charge. He could see the light of his spark reflecting in the medic’s face, over his cracked chevron.
Ratchet grinned and ex-vented damp heat against the reaching tendrils of Lockdown’s spark. He grunted as his backstrut arched, his chest pushing toward the medic.
“Ya ain’t gonna eat me, are ya, old timer?” Lockdown taunted, tilting his chin, feigning disinterest.
“Well,” Ratchet replied as his face bent nearer and nearer to the increasingly frantic pulses of Lockdown’s spark, “that depends on whether or not you behave.”
He closed the distance and Lockdown felt, somehow, the first damp swipe of a glossa over the furthest ring of his spark energy. Pleasure zinged like lightning down his backstrut, and his entire frame jolted. A moan slipped free, his systems surging with charge.
“Hnngh. Do it again!” Lockdown demanded as he tugged at the restraints, the sound of rattling chains like music to his audials.
Ratchet laughed, the vibrations echoing through Lockdown’s spark. “Say please.”
He was going to do it. He was going to make Lockdown beg. Apparently, this was the old timer’s idea of revenge.
Frag him to the Pit and back.