Trick or Treat challenge
Title: Quiet
Author: tainry
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money.
Characters/pairing: IDW Ratchet/Perceptor
Warnings: Sticky, m/m, mild angst.
Summary: Ratchet appreciates Perceptor’s changes, and is quietly appreciated in turn.
Notes: For the tf_rare_pairing monthly challenge. Prompt: IDW Ratchet/Perceptor - Treat - Post-coital.
~700 words
“I’ve missed you.” Ratchet nuzzled the edge of the adamant plate.
A quiet interrogative pulsed through Perceptor’s fields.
Their frames pinged and cooled, engines running down to a pleasant, barely-palpable hum. It had been a while since they had last renewed their physical friendship. Since before…since before the incident with Beachcomber and Blaster. Perceptor had not been in much of an affectionate mood for a long time after that, though Beachcomber had made a more or less complete recovery. Being shot by one of your best friends could do that, even if said best friend was being mind-controlled by Soundwave at the time.
Then had come Turmoil, and Drift. Perceptor had not been completely rebuilt, though, and at least his body still held most of the old familiar delights. Perceptor’s breastplate was hard - and masked the feel of his spark - but warm.
The new Perceptor was quiet. You could still get him going, as Swerve had found out, but day to day, and by and large Perceptor was much less talkative than he had been. Ratchet kind of missed that. Especially on off-cycles like this one, where a little post-coital conversation would have been a welcome distraction; the widely-ranging subjects they had once so freely discussed giving him something to think about besides…besides the things he tended to think about these days.
People changed, sometimes. For good or ill. The heavier armor on Perceptor’s once light frame was reassuring in a way. If Perceptor was going to run around with Wreckers, sniping gestalts… Monstructor. Monstructor! Slag!
“You feel good,” Ratchet murmured, hands wandering down Perceptor’s sides. “I like you like this. Nice ‘n solid.”
Perceptor tipped his head down and kissed the tip of one chevron, hugging him a little tighter for a moment.
“Those gyros in your forearms make your hugs more balanced, too.”
Perceptor’s fields bounced and jiggled, a silent laugh, and Ratchet looked up in time to catch the smile. He curled his hands around Perceptor’s hips, and Perceptor obligingly spread his legs, allowing Ratchet to resettle himself. Perceptor’s valve was still sheened with lubricant and Ratchet eased into him, clean and slow, spike pulsing in measured extension.
“So quiet, though,” Ratchet said, before he could decide to say nothing after all. He rocked his hips just enough to set their armor against each other more easily, and kissed along Perceptor’s jaw.
“Sorry.” Barely a whisper, rough around the edges.
Ratchet understood. He did. But he missed that pleasant-timbered voice, the cultured accents of Altiplan-Iacon, where the universities perched. His mouth and Perceptor’s fit together with the perfection of long practice.
Each of the six rings in Perceptor’s valve had been tuned to a different frequency of vibration and field - each bringing a different flavor of pleasure. Ratchet had tasted them all this night already, and now Perceptor kept the rings inert, lending texture, the stimulation of slight stricture, making Ratchet keenly aware of how far in his spike was. How far yet to go.
He withdrew from their kiss briefly, just long enough to curl his body into a better angle to sheath himself fully. “So good… Work of art…” He slid his hands up Perceptor’s waist, fingers deft.
“As…as are your hands…” A reluctant whisper. Ratchet knew Perceptor would always call them Ratchet’s hands, regardless of their origin. They were good hands because they were on Ratchet’s arms. You could love a person for believing things like that.
The tip of Ratchet’s spike pushed past the last ring and slid home into the apex socket. They kept their ports closed, but Ratchet sighed, both of them relaxing into the connection itself, ancient and purely physical, even if the social and emotional ornamentation surrounding the act had obscured the simplicity of it.
Fingertips stroking the best places, the small places up high along Ratchet’s sides, Perceptor began to hum. Part engine, part vocoder, deep in his chest. Part spark, maybe. Ratchet for once didn’t care, didn’t try to wheedle how he did it out of him. He sighed and felt all his cables loosen, all his lines run warm and steady. Let his shutdown routine begin without start/stop, without wary/watch. Ratchet sighed happily and listened to his friend hum him to sleep.
Author: tainry
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money.
Characters/pairing: IDW Ratchet/Perceptor
Warnings: Sticky, m/m, mild angst.
Summary: Ratchet appreciates Perceptor’s changes, and is quietly appreciated in turn.
Notes: For the tf_rare_pairing monthly challenge. Prompt: IDW Ratchet/Perceptor - Treat - Post-coital.
~700 words
“I’ve missed you.” Ratchet nuzzled the edge of the adamant plate.
A quiet interrogative pulsed through Perceptor’s fields.
Their frames pinged and cooled, engines running down to a pleasant, barely-palpable hum. It had been a while since they had last renewed their physical friendship. Since before…since before the incident with Beachcomber and Blaster. Perceptor had not been in much of an affectionate mood for a long time after that, though Beachcomber had made a more or less complete recovery. Being shot by one of your best friends could do that, even if said best friend was being mind-controlled by Soundwave at the time.
Then had come Turmoil, and Drift. Perceptor had not been completely rebuilt, though, and at least his body still held most of the old familiar delights. Perceptor’s breastplate was hard - and masked the feel of his spark - but warm.
The new Perceptor was quiet. You could still get him going, as Swerve had found out, but day to day, and by and large Perceptor was much less talkative than he had been. Ratchet kind of missed that. Especially on off-cycles like this one, where a little post-coital conversation would have been a welcome distraction; the widely-ranging subjects they had once so freely discussed giving him something to think about besides…besides the things he tended to think about these days.
People changed, sometimes. For good or ill. The heavier armor on Perceptor’s once light frame was reassuring in a way. If Perceptor was going to run around with Wreckers, sniping gestalts… Monstructor. Monstructor! Slag!
“You feel good,” Ratchet murmured, hands wandering down Perceptor’s sides. “I like you like this. Nice ‘n solid.”
Perceptor tipped his head down and kissed the tip of one chevron, hugging him a little tighter for a moment.
“Those gyros in your forearms make your hugs more balanced, too.”
Perceptor’s fields bounced and jiggled, a silent laugh, and Ratchet looked up in time to catch the smile. He curled his hands around Perceptor’s hips, and Perceptor obligingly spread his legs, allowing Ratchet to resettle himself. Perceptor’s valve was still sheened with lubricant and Ratchet eased into him, clean and slow, spike pulsing in measured extension.
“So quiet, though,” Ratchet said, before he could decide to say nothing after all. He rocked his hips just enough to set their armor against each other more easily, and kissed along Perceptor’s jaw.
“Sorry.” Barely a whisper, rough around the edges.
Ratchet understood. He did. But he missed that pleasant-timbered voice, the cultured accents of Altiplan-Iacon, where the universities perched. His mouth and Perceptor’s fit together with the perfection of long practice.
Each of the six rings in Perceptor’s valve had been tuned to a different frequency of vibration and field - each bringing a different flavor of pleasure. Ratchet had tasted them all this night already, and now Perceptor kept the rings inert, lending texture, the stimulation of slight stricture, making Ratchet keenly aware of how far in his spike was. How far yet to go.
He withdrew from their kiss briefly, just long enough to curl his body into a better angle to sheath himself fully. “So good… Work of art…” He slid his hands up Perceptor’s waist, fingers deft.
“As…as are your hands…” A reluctant whisper. Ratchet knew Perceptor would always call them Ratchet’s hands, regardless of their origin. They were good hands because they were on Ratchet’s arms. You could love a person for believing things like that.
The tip of Ratchet’s spike pushed past the last ring and slid home into the apex socket. They kept their ports closed, but Ratchet sighed, both of them relaxing into the connection itself, ancient and purely physical, even if the social and emotional ornamentation surrounding the act had obscured the simplicity of it.
Fingertips stroking the best places, the small places up high along Ratchet’s sides, Perceptor began to hum. Part engine, part vocoder, deep in his chest. Part spark, maybe. Ratchet for once didn’t care, didn’t try to wheedle how he did it out of him. He sighed and felt all his cables loosen, all his lines run warm and steady. Let his shutdown routine begin without start/stop, without wary/watch. Ratchet sighed happily and listened to his friend hum him to sleep.