His lap is soaked, covered in a mixture of lubricant and transfluid. He’s lost count of the number of times his palm has impacted the flame-emblazoned aft.
But he knows how many overloads he’s caused, and it’s still not enough for Megatron’s pride.
Rodimus wriggles over his thighs again. He’s a mess, a whimpering, needy mess and Megatron is all too eager to provide. Right now, his palm rests on Rodimus’ aft, his plating so hot as to be scorching. His valve is leaking, his spike is leaking, but he’s still pressurized, he’s still hard, humping and rutting against the side of Megatron’s thigh.
His fingers twitch and clench where his wrists are caught in Megatron’s free hand, pinned to the base of his backstrut. His spoiler winglets are twitching, twitching, and his field is a frantic, needy mess.
“P-please!” Rodimus cries, garbled and static-laced, his aft wriggling enticingly.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Megatron says casually as he rubs Rodimus’ very sore aft. “I think you’ve learned your lesson. I think I’ve forgiven you even.”
“No!” Rodimus tugs at his wrists to no avail. “No, I’m still… I’m still… I’m a bad boy!”
Megatron can barely contain his glee. “Oh, I think you’re being too hard on yourself. You’ve practically been a model of good behavior lately.”
Megatron’s glossa sweeps over his lips. “Perhaps what you seek is a preemptive punishment, hm? Something to encourage future good behavior?”
He slips his hand down, lets a single fingertip trace the rim of Rodimus’ dripping valve and grins when Rodimus tries to wiggle back toward it.
“Yes! I need– I need–”
“I know what you need,” Megatron interrupts, squeezing Rodimus’ wrists. His hand returns to his co-captain’s aft, giving it a pat. “And I’m just kind enough to give it you.”
He lifts his hand and slams it back down onto Rodimus’ aft. The loud ring of metal on metal is almost enough to drown out Rodimus’ pleased wail.