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“It’s just a little bit of fun,” Rung said, tumbling the plugin between his fingers.
Megatron eyed the silver tip with visible distrust as it rolled.
“I rarely do it as a part of my legitimate practice,” Rung explained, “not unless the patient asks for it. There’s no consensus in the literature as to its efficacy, and it’s difficult to predict when it will work at all. Still, if you think it would be helpful to relax, we could try a little bit…?”
The little mesmer noisebox sat between them on the table, its outside enameled with complex black and white patterns fit to dizzy the optic. Rung hadn’t intended to bring it out tonight, but they’d been talking about the intricacies of the Cybertronian mind, as they did from time to time, and it had reminded him that he still had the box squirreled away in his berthside storage locker. Handy, that they were already in his hab.
Megatron crossed his massive arms and snorted. “Please. I’m not suggestible.”
“Of course not, darling.”
“I have a processor that resisted assimilation by a Quintesson judge,” Megatron insisted. “No fairground trinket is a match for my will power. It’s laughable to even try.”
“Mmm,” said Rung. He caught the tip of the plugin between two fingers. “But it is soothing. And you always get so worked up before I can hardly more than touch you...”
Ahah. Once you knew Megatron, it was very easy to pick out when that particular stiffening of the joints was a sign of rampant embarrassment. It was the same stiffening Rung felt when he was sitting in Megatron’s lap, trying to get him to ease up and part his panels.
Going slowly didn’t seem to help. Last week he’d spent fifteen lovely but frustrating minutes squeezing and petting the soft protoform of Megatron’s chest, only to be suddenly and unceremoniously dumped on the floor when Megatron got too overwhelmed to stay sitting anymore. Rung was a very patient mechanism, but being dumped on the ground was not among his top five favorite ways to end an evening.
He sighed. “We don’t have to try it if you don’t want to,” he started to say.
“You can try it,” Megatron interrupted him. “I’m not afraid of a peddler’s toy. But don’t expect it to have results.”
Rung smiled at him. “No,” he said, “of course not.”
There were two plugins, each with a thin rounded tip. Megatron glared at them warily as Rung got up out of his chair, unspooling the lengths of insulated wire as he circled back around to Megatron’s dorsal ports. Rung paused, hand partway to its destination. “If they remind you too much of—”
“I told you I’m not afraid,” Megatron said, and thumped the side of his neck for emphasis. “Do your worst.”
“If you insist,” Rung said, and slotted in the first plug. Every joint in Megatron’s frame stiffened in a wave, from the heavy bolts of his ankles up to the fine links in his neck. He made a strangled little noise in the bottom of his throat. There was a thin crackle of energy around the plugin site.
This was part of the trick, of course. The Cybertronian processor was very easy to fool with flashy data. If it felt something new, that meant something new must be happening. Rung slotted in the second plug, and watched as the variance of light fizzled and flashed in Megatron’s optical suite. It was just nonsense data that the box was feeding into him, harmless junk really, but the sheer load of it pulled all available processing power to read-and-sort, which forced passive programs to shut down and silence.
“Megatron,” he said, softly. “Do you feel alright?”
Megatron made a distracted noise.
“Megatron, look at me.”
There was a fluttering of lights, as if Megatron was struggling, and then he finally managed to come all the way back online. Rung waved a finger in front of his face to make sure he was still tracking. So far so good.
“This is the part where I usually do guided regression,” he said, “but we’re working on the present right now, so why don’t you follow me into this house, on the hill, by the sea? Look at the windows. Think about the shape of the windows. I have your hands. I’m pulling you inside. Think about the door. Think about the floor. Think about the beautiful long couch at the center of the room…”
And he went on like that for a while, leading Megatron into the berthroom of an imaginary house, which was full of every creature comfort he could imagine, and the smell of something familiar and sweet from a long long time ago.
“There we are,” he said, at last, when he’d placed Megatron on a chair in the imaginary berthroom. “This is a good place, where only good things happen. No one can see you or hear you here, no one but me. When I take you back out of this house, everything you did or said will be like a dream—you’ll remember it, but it won’t have the power to hurt or embarrass you. Do you understand?”
And this was the point where he expected Megatron to say something contradictory, just to establish dominance over the scenario. But the commentary never came.
“Megatron?” Rung prodded. “Answer me when I speak to you.”
“Yes,” Megatron said, in a mild, dreamy sort of voice.
Rung stared. “Oh dear,” he murmured. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it work this well on someone. Except Swerve, maybe.”
“Yes,” Megatron said.
Rung rocked back on his heels and thought about it. The mesmer box wasn’t magic, it was just a quick hack to suggestibility. Common wisdom held that you couldn’t get someone to do anything that they were morally or otherwise opposed to; regardless, it was a little bit alarming to have Megatron so malleable in front of him, so suddenly.
But appealing, too…
“We’re going to make you feel so good,” Rung told him, and cupped his face gently in both hands. “Tell me how to make you feel good.”
Megatron made a confused noise.
“Hmm,” Rung said. “Maybe too complex. Alright, darling, here are the rules. Are you listening? Wonderful. When I ask you a question, you must answer me truthfully. When you don’t like something, you must tell me so clearly.”
Megatron’s optics were hazy, but - “Yes, Rung.”
“Good boy. You’re doing so well already. On your knees, please?”
Without protest, Megatron got out of his chair and lowered himself to his knees on the floor. The mesmer box was still plugged into him, but the cords were plenty long enough for Rung to ignore them.
Rung stroked his mouth with the pad of one thumb. “Are you excited, darling? Are you ready to begin?”
“Yes, Rung.”
Rung hummed in approval and gently pushed open the dark mouth against his finger. He slipped inside, tracing the edge of Megatron’s glossa, petting the softness until oral solvent was pooling at the edge of Megatron’s mouth. He withdrew, eventually, but kept petting the wet bottom lip for a moment longer.
“Leave your mouth open until I say otherwise,” he ordered, “unless it’s to tell me yes or no.”
Megatron made a soft little sound, and Rung took that as his cue to let go, leaving Megatron’s handsome mouth open and empty. He shivered a little to himself, thinking of how lovely it would be to paint that willing, pliant mouth with transfluid. Not right now, though. He really had indulged himself enough.
Rung stepped back, not far, but enough that he was taking in the whole of Megatron where he kneeled.
“Now, open up for me,” Rung said. “Show me that precious frame.”
This would usually be the part where they started to lose footing. There was something about being observed, even by someone who was more than enthusiastic about what he was observing, that seemed to overwhelm Megatron entirely. The furthest they had ever gotten was furiously making out with Rung’s spike in Megatron’s hand, slowly being worked until he came mid-kiss.
But this time Megatron came open in a smooth ripple of plating, chest and all the rest at once.
“Perfect,” Rung breathed.
Megatron’s chest protoform was soft and just a little swollen with the fuel sacks classic to his frametype. They were very charming, in Rung’s opinion, and a wonderful little handful, and right up until Megatron had dumped him on the floor, he’d been enjoying cooing over them.
The little nozzles were poking up too, probably from the rush of cool air. Rung couldn’t help but reach for them, rolling the nubs gently in his fingers. Megatron shivered.
“What was I telling you the last time you showed me these…” Rung said, and tugged at the soft protoform. “Oh that’s right. I was telling you how cute they are. You didn’t like that. But I can’t help it, you’re too much for me. Tell me how that feels.”
“Good,” Megatron said.
It was rare to see so much bare mesh in one place. And unfairly tempting. Rung cupped the whole thing in his palm and squeezed it, watching the black blossom of protoform depress where he pushed in on it, and said, “How about that? Does that hurt?”
“No,” Megatron said, “it feels good...”
“Oh good,” Rung murmured, “I was afraid maybe I had hurt you before and you just didn’t want to tell me.”
Megatron shook his head.
“Mouth open, now,” Rung reminded him, and spent the next several kliks watching Megatron go drooling and unfocused as Rung kneaded and pinched the soft, exposed mesh. When Megatron started to whine in protest, Rung switched his treatment to the other well, and left the first one tender and throbbing behind him.
“That’s right,” Rung cooed, “just a little more. You can take a little more, can’t you?”
Megatron moaned, which was better than a yes, really. The drool was leaking down his chin, onto the well-groped fuel well, still a little pink with the depressions of Rung’s fingerprints. Rung paused to scoop up the slippery mess with his fingertip.
“Poor thing,” he said, and wiped off the slick on Megatron’s bottom lip. “You can close your mouth now, darling. That was well done, we can—Oh!”
Megatron had closed his mouth around Rung’s finger, in fact, and begun to suckle it very earnestly. Rung’s spike twitched, even inside his housing, as a rush of heat went up his back. Megatron made a pleased hum and half-shuttered his optics.
“H—ohhh.” The smooth hot pressure of glossa was more attention than he’d felt from anyone in a long time. And Megatron seemed to love it, making shameless little grunts and whines as he went about licking and sucking every joint.
Rung bit his lip hard, mastering himself with some real effort after a moment. He pulled his hand out of Megatron’s reach, although it pained him, and stepped away.
“I didn’t realize,” he said, equal parts taken-aback and excited about it. “I had no idea—you’re a terribly wanton little thing, aren’t you?”
Megatron licked his lip. “Yes, Rung.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t call you that.” Megatron barely tolerated ‘darling’ and ‘sweetspark’—surely he’d be upset about anything more degrading, no matter how lovingly Rung meant it. “Do you hate it when I call you my wanton little thing?”
Megatron shook his head.
“Do you like it?” pressed Rung. “I really can stop if—”
“I like it,” said Megatron, in his dreamy soft voice. “It feels good.”
“Oh.” Rung’s knees went a little weak. “And you want me to make you feel good, don’t you, darling?”
“Yes,” Megatron said, so wonderfully relaxed, so open. Another bead of drool dripped from his chin down onto his fuel wells. “I want to feel good.”
“My sweet messy slut,” Rung said, and beamed. “How do you feel about that? Are you my precious little slut?”
“Yes,” Megatron said.
“Okay,” Rung said, and resisted the urge to rush back over and cover him with kisses, because if he did that he would probably never stop and they both had things to do in the morning. “Okay.”
Focus. They were trying to get to the first thing Megatron had put on the interface consent form, which was valve use. The hypnotism hadn’t been on the original paperwork, of course, but after this they would have to remember to update the form. For completeness’ sake, if nothing else.
He looked Megatron up and down, his optics lingering on the finger-bruised fuel wells, the shining lips, the lovely silhouette of his broad shoulders and substantial thighs. And the space between, where the plump dark lips of his valve were just beginning to spread, and the heavy curve of his spike jutted up from its housing.
“Mm. Aren’t you adorable,” Rung said. “Let me see more, spread wider now. Oh, wonderful.”
Megatron had slipped his hand down and spread his valve in the V of his fingers, his gaze still vacant and unperturbed. He had a very pretty natural valve, the same dark mesh as his wells, and the gentle plush lips just begging to be fingered.
“I want you to get wet for me,” Rung told him. “You know how to do that? Think of something sexy. What’s something you find sexy, darling?”
Megatron leaned up towards Rung, as if begging for a pat, or a kiss. “You,” he said.
“Oh,” Rung said, and almost couldn’t bear it. “Well, I.” And then he swallowed thickly. “Aren’t you a sweet bot. Go on then, what of mine would you like to see?”
“Your optics,” Megatron said, and reached up for Rung as if he was going to take the glasses off himself. Rung was so startled that he let him do it, simply standing there while Megatron took the frames in his hands and pulled them right off Rung’s nose.
For a moment Rung simply looked into Megatron’s own optics, feeling raw and a little vulnerable without the distance his glasses afforded him. Then he jolted back into action and rescued the glasses from Megatron’s lax grip, tucking them away into a frame compartment. “A—anything else?” he asked.
“Your spike,” Megatron said, “please, I want to suck your spike.”
Rung blinked at him. Well that was new. Heat flashed through his abdomen at the thought of it. “That’s what you want, darling? Are you sure?”
“Please,” Megatron said, with a kind of miserable whine in the edge of his voice that was so unlike anything Rung had ever heard from him before. Whining was the sort of thing that Megatron disparaged in other bots.
Rung hopped up on the edge of the table and opened his panel immediately, taking his spike in hand. “Come here, darling,” he said, “you’ll get it.”
Megatron shuffled forward on his knees until he was level with Rung’s spike, and opened his mouth. Rung fed it to him a little at a time, forcing both of them to take it slow, cupping the back of Megatron’s helm to guide the process. Megatron kept swallowing, almost frantically, as Rung slid across his glossa—if his optics hadn’t kept that far-away dreaminess, Rung would have worried he was panicking. But he didn’t stiffen, or pull back, or protest, or anything of the sort. He just let himself be slowly throated, until Rung was hilt deep in him and sighing.
“Good bot,” he said, petting the back of Megatron’s helm. “You like having my spike on your glossa, don’t you, dear. That’s very good. Keep swallowing. You’re a wonderful little spikesleeve. Be good for me and I’ll let you rub your node next.”
Rung fragged his mouth slowly, guiding Megatron back until the spiketip rested just on the flat of his glossa and then pulling him back onto it fully, so that the tip buried itself in the tight squeeze of Megatron’s intake. Megatron made a soft choking noise with each hilting, throat working hard around Rung. He seemed to like it though; his optics flickered wildly each time, as if he were cascading with charge.
“Mmmm.” Rung wondered if Megatron might like to try spikewarming like this, eventually, if having something in his throat was such a desirable thing for him. “Alright, let me see your valve now.”
Megatron whimpered. It was with actual visible reluctance that he pulled off Rung and sat back on his heels, knees spread as wide as they would go. He spread himself with both hands, a finger hooked under either lip.
“Oh my,” Rung said. “What a good little slut you are, darling. That’s exactly right.”
Between the now fully plumped lips, Megatron’s valve was drooling a strand of lubricant into the wet little puddle beneath him.
Rung got off the table and did a circle of Megatron’s frame, observing every angle with delight and even a certain amount of reverence. It was hard to imagine this dribbling vision had spent the entire war celibate. It was hard to reconcile this shameless creature with the dour mech who had all but panicked last week at the idea of having his nozzles kissed.
“I want you to go ahead and rub your node,” Rung said, from behind him. “But slowly, alright? Don’t get too worked up.”
Megatron’s hand crept down his hip and disappeared out of sight. There was a wave of tense-and-release down his spinal strut, as his arm moved in tight little circles.
“Now,” Rung said, and pressed his fingers to his mouth thoughtfully. “How shall we have you fragged? I can come down to you in the angelic position… or we could bend you over into the beast position… what would you like, darling?”
The answer was a confused, helpless noise, and Rung quickly stepped in close and let Megatron lean his face into his hands for reassurance.
“Hush, darling, don’t panic,” Rung said. “I’ll decide for you. Why don’t you come down on your hands and knees for me? No, dearest, you have to stop—well, I guess that works too.”
Megatron had knelt forward on just the one hand, and left his other rubbing obediently at his node. It was an appealing thing to watch, Rung had to admit. There was something so desperate about the sight of someone kneeling and self-pleasuring, something so solid and graceful about Megatron holding himself upright all the while. Rung petted down the strut of his spine in appreciation.
Bent forward like this, with his knees spread, Megatron offered up a view of his valve that was absolutely to die for. Rung could even see the little welling of lubricant at the center of his slit, before gravity caught it and pulled it dripping down towards the floor.
It occurred to Rung that he hadn’t exactly been drowning in interfacing and personal connections during the war either. He had to take a deep steadying breath before he was able to continue.
“What a sweet hole you have,” he said, his voice smoothing as he regained control. “I bet it’s ready and warm for me now, isn’t it? Tell me if it’s ready.”
“It’s ready,” Megatron said, and the mechanisms of his valve clenched and squeezed, pushing another heavy drip of lubricant through his slit. “Please… It is warm, it feels warm…”
“I know it is, sweetie,” Rung said, cupping the soft dark protoform in his palm and rubbing gently. His fingers pushed away Megatron’s, and caged the swollen bead of his node. “No more touching yourself,” Rung said. “I can’t have you overbalancing, can I? Both hands on the floor.”
Megatron’s weight shifted as he came down on both hands. The clench of his valve was frantic now, as if protesting the loss, but he held still all the same while Rung gently mapped the swell and curve of each valve lip. Rung trailed his fingers back to the bottom—or rather the top, at this angle—of the slit, and pushed his finger between the soaking mesh.
“Ohhh,” he breathed, and tried not to shiver at the molten heat around his digit. “Oh, darling, you feel so good, I can’t wait to come in you. Give us a squeeze if you’re ready. Oh, yes darling, perfect.”
He did have to press Megatron’s hips up into the right alignment, but then as sure as anything he was sliding inside, into the silky grip of Megatron’s calipers. They twitched, spasmed, and then neatly cinched down around Rung’s spike. Perfect equipment. Perfect response.
“When I come, you come,” Rung told him, “that’s the rule. Not before and not after. As soon as you feel my transfluid, you’re going to release yours as well. You can stroke your spike if you need the extra help.”
Megatron was panting a little, his helm bowed down as if just having Rung inside of him was almost more than he could take. But finally he managed to say “yes, Rung,” and then “please.”
Rung fragged him. Supporting himself on Megatron’s hips, burying himself in the obedient grip of Megatron’s valve, Rung let himself go a little wild with the desperate arousal he’d been bottling down since the mesmer box took effect. Primus, just to watch the ripple along Megatron’s arched back, just to feel how easily his frame supported both their weights—to hear the soft mindless noises he made as Rung thrust into him—
“You’re so good,” Rung panted, “darling, you’re so good, you’re taking it so well—”
Megatron moaned and collapsed forward onto his forearms, one hand scrambling between his legs for his spike. His cheek had come to rest against the ground, his mouth open, expression hazy with pleasure.
“Oh, look at you,” Rung said, warm from spike to antenna with affection. If Rung was lucky, he’d start drooling again in a moment. The wet-mouthed look was very fetching on Megatron. “That’s it, sweetie. Don’t worry about anything but milking my spike.”
The plush opening of Megatron’s valve met Rung’s housing again and again, until finally Rung felt that lick of hard charge up his own back, the flicker that spelled an incoming overload.
“I’m going to get your insides wet now,” Rung told him, “so—ah—remember the rule…”
Down against the floor, Megatron bit his lip, and then the speed of his wrist doubled.
A half-dozen more strokes, and then Rung slotted himself in as deep as he could, gasping as the overload lanced through him. The shatter of charge leapt from his node and raced down the base of his spike, bridging the spill of transfluid directly into Megatron’s primed ceiling node. They went over in a cascade, shivering and jolting with feedback from the aftershock.
Rung bit his own lip and gave a short, hard thrust, forcing a startled moan out of Megatron. The squeeze and ripple was heavenly in the come down. He pulled away and reached under Megatron, fingering the tip of his spike. Nice and sticky.
“That’s my good bot,” Rung sighed. “My perfect little slut, I knew you could do it.”
He gave Megatron’s spike one last good pull—a final spurt of transfluid hit the floor—and then coaxed Megatron upright on his knees. For a moment Rung just admired the look of him, all wet and well used. So perfect. So dear.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Mmmm,” Megatron said, in an absent, contented sort of way.
Rung laughed. “That’s the ticket. Would you like to come out of the Mesmer state now?”
Megatron shook his head.
“No?”
Megatron shook his head again.
“Well, alright,” Rung said. “Just a bit longer. You can’t stay like that forever, you know.”
He went and fetched a cleaning rag, and then settled himself on the floor between Megatron’s open knees. There was lubricant smeared across everything from his spike to his thighs, glittery and delicate in the red flushed light from his node. Rung clicked his glossa.
“Now, try not to get too excited,” he said, “if you get dirty again, I’ll have to clean you again, and we’ll be here all night.”
Nonetheless, when Rung rubbed gently at the swollen little node with his rag, Megatron shuddered all over and pushed his hips up into Rung’s hand.
“Oh my,” Rung said, with wry fondness. “You really do have to have it your way, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Megatron, and if Rung hadn’t known better he would’ve sworn that there was a hint of mischief in that dreamy voice.
---
There really was a limit to how long one might spend in the mesmer state, especially when one had to go back on shift soon. Rung bundled Megatron into a tarp on his berth and then squirmed his way into Megatron’s arms, cradled against Megatron’s still-bared chest.
“We’re going to leave the house now, dearest,” he said.
Megatron frowned. Rung would have almost called it a pout, on another mech.
“I’m sorry,” said Rung, “but the house isn’t disappearing. It’ll be right here, waiting for you, and we can return to it at any time. Now come with me, that’s it, take my hand.”
He led Megatron out of their little imagined home, down the garden path, further and further into the real world. “I’d like you to count up to ten,” he said, “and when you reach ten you will be fully aware and awake again, in complete control of your processor and your frame. Ready?”
“One,” said Megatron, a little dully. “Two, three, four…”
At ten, Rung eased the plugs from the ports in the back of Megatron’s neck.
All Megatron’s armor seams snapped shut so quickly that Rung nearly lost a finger, and Rung mourned a little at the loss of that beautiful chest. Megatron shuddered and curled forward over Rung, hiding his face in the crook of Rung’s neck.
“Hello,” said Rung, softly. “How do you feel?”
He petted the back of Megatron’s helm. Megatron made a choked noise that barely resembled words.
“You’re not allowed to be embarrassed,” Rung told him. “I did say.”
“You hold no power over me now,” said Megatron, his voice hoarse. “I’ll be agonizingly mortified if I want. I’d thought—I didn’t—I drooled on your spike, Rung.”
“Yes,” said Rung. “You were very cute about it.”
He couldn’t see Megatron’s expression, but he could feel the surge of heat in Megatron’s face, feel the reflexive squeeze of Megatron’s arms around him. Megatron muttered something inaudible.
“What was that?” prodded Rung.
He didn’t get an answer. Sudden dread punched through Rung’s tanks like a mortar shell; had he made a terrible mistake? It all seemed so clear when Megatron was happy and peaceful and pleading for more, but they hadn’t—they hadn’t actually discussed what he should do, if the hypnotism were to work. Had he been putting too much faith in the essentially benign nature of the mesmer box?
Had he—had he done something to Megatron that Megatron hadn’t wanted?
His helm felt very hot. His mouth was dry. “Megatron,” he said, stacking one syllable precariously on the next, “If I’ve hurt you…”
“I’m fine,” Megatron muttered.
“If I’ve hurt you,” Rung said, “if you think I’ve violated the terms of the consent agreement—I’ll go to Ultra Magnus, and tell him what I’ve done, and you’ll never have to—”
Megatron wriggled an arm free of the tarp and grabbed Rung like he was scruffing him, pulling him up and away just far enough to glare at him.
“Do not do that,” he said. “Because then I will have to go tell Ultra Magnus that I liked it, and then we will never be able to look each other in the optics again.”
“Oh,” Rung said. Relief flooded him, because if Megatron was only worried about the mortification of being Perceived By a Coworker, then he was basically alright. Just shy. For someone who could walk into the command room of an improvised aerial retaliation and feel perfectly at home, he had an awfully hard time navigating a simple moment of openness between mechs.
Megatron lowered Rung down, tucking him back into place. With his face buried in Rung’s neck again, he mumbled something else.
“Dearest, I can’t hear you,” Rung said, more fond this time than fearful.
“I said, I feel good,” said Megatron. “That’s all. I feel very good.”
“Oh.” Rung beamed. “I’m so pleased, darling. So do I.”
After some time, Rung turned off the lights. The box sat on the table where they left it, plugs scattered forgotten across the floor, unaware of anything except the patterns it generated inside itself, spinning visions down its lines into the slowly cooling dark.