Perceptor/Vos 11., please!
“No, you don’t get a choice.”
Vos blinked before quickly furrowing his browplates, the light in his red optics flashing angrily. He’d been obedient; he’d listened, he’d done as he was told. He’d kept Perceptor alive–kept them *all* alive. And he was even kneeling before the seated Autobot scientist like some… some lowly beggar.
“It’s this, or nothing at all,” Perceptor stated, cementing his dominance. There’d be no room for arguing. He looked down upon the captive Decepticon with a cold glare and an even chillier frown. Still, he held out the fuel line–offering.
Vos hissed. He glanced at the cube connected to the pump–mid-grade garbage. But it was, unfortunately, better than nothing. Bitterly, Vos yanked open the small panel on his neck, exposing an input socket.
Perceptor knew Vos was smarter than to attack, but he still hesitated a moment before plugging the pump into the socket. Rubber lining closed tight around the cable, and suction switched on. He couldn’t taste the mid-grade slowly filling his system, but he felt it. His tanks rumbled, equally disappointed. But just before Vos could start shaking, furious and defeated, Perceptor placed a larger hand on top of his head.
Vos winced, shutting an optic. He peered up at the Autobot, confused. Perceptor’s face remained blank of emotion–then his hand started moving. Stroking along the top of his head. Fingers working down ridges and raised points of armor. And, like always, Vos was soon relaxing, his frame settling. Then Perceptor found *that spot*, and Vos’s optics flickered, hooded. His engine rumbled, something akin to a purr maybe, and he went limp. The mid-grade continued flowing.
Perceptor had tamed the beast, so to speak, but even now the tension in his own actuators were beginning to settle.