#ratchceptor

“This time, you do as I say.”

Ratchet swallowed hard, unnerved and amused by the light in Perceptor's optics.

“Oh really.”

“Oh yes, Ratchet. You owe me an apology, after all.”, said Perceptor softly, the hint of a tease in his voice, “Broke my sweet little spark and all that.”

“Sweet little spark. Right.”, scoffed Ratchet, “Sweet like a shot of engex on an empty tank, Perceptor.”

“Some find that sweet.”

“Unless they know better.”

“And I suppose you do?”, asked Perceptor nonchalantly, “I've learned a thing or two since I was a babbling Kimian scientist with a minor crush, you know.”

Ratchet looked entertained as he approached where Perceptor sat primly on the edge of the berth, “Oho, a learned scholar now. Then regale me Percy- what have you learned, hm?”

The CMO leaned closer, his grin cocky and defiant at the hard edge to Perceptor's gaze- and he froze when Perceptor's servos gripped his chin. The sniper's expression was lofty and cold- and he smiled like a melting glacier.

“I've learned you're a bit full of yourself- given your old nicknames. Party Ambulance, really?”, began Perceptor, “And I've learned you pride yourself on having never begged. And that your knees, though strong, are not the best they've ever been.”

“Eh?”

Perceptor's pede hooked around Ratchet's knee and pulled, sending Ratchet down onto the bent joint with a hissed curse.

And now here he was, on bent knee before the Science-Sniper himself.

Perceptor's smile was like an oil flow- not quite real and nearly toxic in the way it curved his lipplates. His servos shifted their grip on Ratchet's chin, cupping the medic's jaw as the scientist leaned back slightly.

“And I think I've learned just how to get to you.”

“H-Have you now.”

Perceptor nodded slowly, his smile unchanging, “Oh yes... I know exactly how to get you.”

Slowly, Ratchet's other leg moved until he was on both knees, Perceptor's optics holding him in place like the Serpent of Eden itself; the sniper tilted his helm.. and moved one pede to press against Ratchet's panel.

And pressed.

Ratchet choked softly, moving to jerk away from the sudden burst of sensation along his sensornet but Perceptor refused to relinquish his grip.

“You crave praise, because you never received it during the war – isn't that right, Ratchet, darling?”

Silence.

“Now now, no stubbornness from you, sir CMO.”, scolded Perceptor softly, “I can give you exactly what you want- however.”

The click of Perceptor's panels sliding away, and Ratchet glanced down at the flicker of teal biolights along soft valvelips for only a moment before looking back to Percy's wicked smile and glimmering reticule.

“You'll have to earn it.”

“I don't take orders, Perceptor.”, said Ratchet, fighting to keep his voice level.

“If I tied you down and left you to watch, would that rectify such stubborn behavior?”

And Ratchet internally cursed the sudden click of his fans onlining.

Perceptor laughed, and Ratchet couldn't fight the shiver that raced down his backstrut as he once again glanced at the apex of Perceptor's thighs. He knew that pistols were contained in the compartments to either side- knew that at a moment's notice Perceptor could have one in his hand; ready to fire between the optics of the unlucky mech he chose as his target.

He hated the little thrill of the idea of being between those thighs.

“Oho, what an interesting reaction, Ratchet.”, chuckled Perceptor, finally releasing the CMO from his too-calm grip, “Is that what you want?”

“I-I...I?”

“Or is it ME tied down that you want? We have many options in this little game.”

Those cursed fans whirred harder.

“But... you have to earn it, Ratchet.”, crooned Perceptor, pressing against Ratchet's panel with his pede again and relishing the shudder that raced over the CMO's frame, “Is such a reward worth casting aside that stubborn adherence to rank you've suddenly decided to fake?”

Perceptor leaned back on his elbows, thighs opening just a little wider to show a flickering teal node.

Ratchet whined. He froze once he realized the sound had escaped him- looking from Perceptor's valve to his grin and back again. He swallowed hard, pride battling with desire until the latter finally won out in a grand display of rumbled static and flickering white optics.

He leaned forward, forgoing pleasantries and plating to drag his glossa over those careful teal teases and groaned as Perceptor sighed. He heard Perceptor's thigh spread further; felt a hand trace the tip of his chevron- and shuttered his optics.

His glossa plunged deep, making Perceptor's back arch high as the teasing touches to the chevron moved to a hand holding onto his helm. Ratchet's hands clawed fr a grip on Perceptor's hips, pulling the sniper closer as Ratchet groaned thickly against Perceptor's valve; making the sniper's grip on the medic's helm briefly tighten as whispered praise leaked in inches and centimeters from the icy-tempered mech sprawling on the berth.

Ratchet shifted, shouldering one of Perceptor's legs- and then the other. Thighs squeezed his helm as he sucked on that glinting teal node and Perceptor hissed a filthy swear-

Ratchet moaned hoarsely at that; far more used to the soft-spoken and shy scientist than the soldier he had become without Ratchet's knowledge nor permission. Perceptor's hips rocked as his voice rose higher and higher with every suck and stroke and hungry motion until the sniper's thighs loosened.

Ratchet growled when Perceptor nudged Ratchet's helm away; shamelessly, the CMO licked his lubricant-slicked lips and looked up to Perceptor with that hungry and haunted look- somewhere between lust and desperation.

“Release your panel.”

“B-”

“Ah-ah-ah. Be good for me, darling.”

Ratchet swallowed hard... and nodded. He exvented wisps of steam as his panel retracted, his knees suddenly not as sturdy as his spike pressurized in record time.

Perceptor languidly sat back up, that oil-over-iceflow smile on his face.

“Under the berth. Reach to the left. You'll feel a case- I need you to drag it out... If you want your reward.”

Ratchet dove down, servos scrabbling to get ahold of what Perceptor said as he tried not to be distracted by the image of the scientist with wrists bound and that damn smile on his face. He knew, deep down, this was the easiest anyone had conquered his cocky facade but he couldn't be driven to give a damn at this point.

He felt the sharp corner of an old ammunition case, and hauled it out in one tug.

The lock was loosed already, and he looked to Perceptor.

The sniper shrugged, “Sometimes I like a little fun when I'm on my own.”

Ratchet winced at the throb in his spike as his processor betrayed him and zeroed in on the image it conjured- Perceptor with his hands cuffed to the headboard of the berth, squirming and pleading as a false spike vibrated in his valve with no interest in stopping.

He leaned over the case for a moment before pulling it open- his optics widened, and he looked at Perceptor in surprise and desire.

And nothing answered him but that. Damn. Smile.

“The cuffs, Ratchet. The pretty ones, if you please.”

Ratchet nodded numbly, rummaging within the “pleasure chest” for a moment before he pulled forth prettily decorated burgundy cuffs- etched with gold and brass in references that were vaguely holy.

Perceptor laughed, cold and warm all at once like arctic magma or undersea volcanoes ready to erupt... And held out his hands, wrists together.

“Not too tight- I will be quite cross with you.”

Ratchet nodded again, not trusting his voice to be much more that skittish static already- where had his confidence gone?- as he gently clicked the cuffs into place around Perceptor's still-slim wrists. The sniper's smile was unbreakable as he moved back further onto the berth with a wriggle and a chuckle before laying flat with a sigh as his backstruts relaxed.

Ratchet watched, optics glowing and servos twitching as he watched Perceptor expertly hook the slack of the cuff's linked chain over a nearly-unnoticeable hook screwed into the headboard of the berth.

Ratchet's spike throbbed again, echoing hard enough through his frame that it felt like it could knock him down.

“Come here, darling.”, crooned Perceptor. He was propped on the firm pillows some berths had; his grin suddenly wicked and devilish in nature as his thighs opened and his valve gleamed wetly.

Ratchet carefully followed onto the berth, setting between Perceptor's thighs and staring at the teal node that seemed to be beckoning him closer with every flicker. He exvented steam again, shaky hands on Perceptor's thighs and hissing softly as the heat from the snipers plating sent a zing along too-sensitive hands.

“Dial the sensitivity up into the red.”

“I-I won't be able to-”

“You will, Ratchet. If you want me badly enough.”

Ratchet was held firm by Perceptor's gaze- and he sent the commands to dial up the sensitivity in his hands.

“You may touch- but you may not overload.”

Ratchet was hesitant, reaching slowly towards Perceptor's slick valve. He pressed his thumb gently against that glowing teal node, watching as Perceptor sighed softly and let his helm drop back. Already, Ratchet's hands were like flash fires of sensation- threatening to burn him up from his wrists onward.

But, Perceptor had said he could touch.

And oh, how he wanted to.

He slid two fingers gently into the warm valve presented to him- and moaned open mouth as the calipers rippled. He froze solid, a pillar of ice and fire all at once, to get ahold of himself in order not to... disappoint Perceptor.

The thought felt strange and yet familiar all at once. Slowly, he pumped his servos in and out; shaking hard enough to rattle his own plating as Perceptor moaned and gasped as nodes were pressed against through the internal mesh of his valve. His hips rocked with the motions of Ratchet's hand and the medic's jaw went slack.

His hands shuddered and shook and he switched them out- one pumping servos into slick warmth while the other thumbed the glowing and swollen teal node at the top of the valve's opening.

“Oh, Ra-atchet.”, groaned Perceptor, back arching as valve calipers cycled down in a slow overload that rolled over Perceptor's sensornet.

Ratchet thought he was going to burn up from the inside. Already his spike was drooling prefluid and throbbing in time with his pulse.

The medic pulled his hands away, steam trickling from his vents in regular trails now as he panted with an open mouth- his jaw slack and his optics swirling white-grey-blue as Perceptor smiled at him in that languid way an incubus would once his prey was caught.

“Approach.”

Ratchet inched forward on his knees, every bob of his spike nearly painful at this point.

“Slowly, Ratchet. And you are not to overload until I give you permission.”

“B-But-”

“No backtalk now...”, purred Perceptor, “I've still a crop in that little chest of mine- and a spike ring, if need be.”

Ratchet's frame shook down to the struts as he lifted Perceptor's hips to rest on his own thighs for just a second- just long enough to pull himself some semblance of together.

His spike nosed against Perceptor's valve, sending a tremor down Ratchet's backstrut before he ever-so-slowly pressed in. His optics rolled back as inch by inch; his spike buried itself in Perceptor's too-warm too-slick valve until the baseplate was flush against the sniper's plating.

He panted weakly, shivering and holding onto Perceptor for dear life.

In a small show of mercy, Perceptor watched him for a moment, waiting until Ratchet's plating stopped rippling and lifting to bleed steam like purity.

“Good bot.”

Ratchet wanted to glare at the sniper, wanted to shoot him a look laced in venom and lasciviousness but all he could do was fight to stop his optics rolling back into his helm and offlining.

“Now. Move, Ratchet. And don't you dare finish before I do.”

With a weak nod, Ratchet's hips drew back and surged forward. Perceptor gasped, pedes curling inward as he moaned into the air like molasses or absinthe-syrup.

And Ratchet couldn't stop himself. He tried, valiantly, to continue at the slow pace demanded of him but the sensations were magnified far too much for him to hold back- and the whispered praise and demands of “More” and “Faster” filled his audials and helm until he was drunk on that as much as he was the clenching valve that held tight to his spike.

Ratchet adjusted the angle of his hips and nearly sobbed when Perceptor wailed out at the strike to a ceiling node. Perceptor's legs dropped wide open; he clenched his dentae as Ratchet pounded into his valve with choked off sounds and bursts of static coming from his vocalizer as steam now billowed from the CMO's vents.

Perceptor's servos closed around whatever he could grip onto- the slats of the headboard, the slack of the cuff chain- whatever was closest.

He whispered and gasped his praises and his orders; sensornet flashing like the countdown on the atom bomb as he squirmed and rolled his hips. Ratchet cried out then, bottoming out and pressing close to Perceptor as he shuddered and desperately tried to pull back from the edge of delirium.

“Just a little more, darling, just a little more-”, panted Perceptor, rocking his hips to press against that deepset node again, “Dooooon't you dare stop yet, not yet-”

A slow pull backwards, and a hard thrust forward. Ratchet panted Perceptor's name like a mantra, sprinkled in between with pleas and gasped begging to let him overload. Perceptor's grin was near- hellish as his valve calipers cycled tightly down; pulling a hiss from Ratchet and an uptick in the speed of his thrusts.

And finally, blissfully, Perceptor's back arched high as his caliper rippled out of sync and Ratchet's name flowed from him like shuddering absolution. Ratchet's frame was steaming, he begged in garbled static tones as he dug his hands into the berth now and the sensation of servos dragging over fine-made silvermesh sheets sent prickles through his sensornet like rosethorns.

“Harder, Ratchet, harder don't- do-n't- ah-!”

Ratchet swore he was going to offline as another overload rocked Perceptor's frame like a deep-fault earthquake.

The clatter of cuffs falling loose and one optic focused enough to see Perceptor slip his own cuffs with a smile- hands pressed against the headboard.

“Come now Ratchet- come on.”

Ratchet let off another glitched static whine.

He buried himself as deep as he could, choking on Perceptor's name as the sniper's legs were suddenly around his waist and holding him in place.

“Overload.”

“I-I ca-an't I put it o-off so l-lo-”

His hips jerked against Perceptor, almost wailing as Perceptor's valve calipers cinched as tight as a vise and held him deep in slick heat and he nearly collapsed forwards as Perceptor moved a hand to take one of the CMO's.

Still sheened in lubricants; Ratchet watched in pleasure-drunken awe as Perceptor pulled it up to that sinfully smiling mouth; opened his lips almost delicately...

And let the two middle digits slide past them; laving them with his glossa before giving one hard suck.

Ratchet's optic feed clicked to greyscale, the left going completely fuzzy as he nearly convulsed and overload rattled through him like a hurricane made tangible. He howled Perceptor's name, hunching over so that his chevron rested down against Perceptor's chestplate and he gagged on the air he tried desperately to take in and cool his systems with. His hips jerked and rolled and bucked- held firm by Perceptor's strong legs.

Once again, the fact that those thighs held pistols within them flickered over Ratchet's consciousness and all was lost.

His voice shattered like sugar-glass, his jaw went slack and he knew oral solvent was leaking from the corner of his mouth but there wasn't a thing he could do about it as his spike throbbed and pulsed relentlessly within Perceptor and emptied everything he had into the sniper until he whimpered with each wave of sensation over his sensornet.

His systems were overclocked as he shuddered a final time- optics unseeing and his limbs numb and feeling weightless. Perceptor's legs released him; with a humongous effort, Ratchet eased his limp and oversensitive spike free of Perceptor's valve and simply dropped to the side; panting weakly with his fans running on high and rattling with the effort to cool his frame.

Perceptor laughed, a clarion call of a sound belying his devilish nature before he settled down next to the shivering Ratchet. He pulled the CMO closer, letting him sap the heat of a tank-grade frame and guided Ratchet's still trembling hand between scuffed steel thighs.

Ratchet wheezes as his servotips registered the viscous mess of transfluid and lubricant coating Perceptor's valvelips and slowly leaking from his frame.

“And to think, darling- that was simply round ONE.”