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Some time had passed since Clobber had went to search for Hot Rod. It was just Perceptor and Dead End in Maccadam’s, waiting for their return. It had been fairly quiet, in the meanwhile, allowing Perceptor time to think. Though, every now and then, he would pick up on sounds—sounds from Dead End.
The other mech was doing various tasks; restocking the energon, fortifying the entrances, cleaning his weapon… He was doing everything but rest, which was what he needed to do, after they had all narrowly escaped the Quintessons.
As of right now, Dead End had finished setting some boxes down, now standing at the bar, using a rag to clean off the smeared energon and excess residues from his blaster.
Perceptor slowly stood from the chair he had been sitting on, approaching the other mech. He stopped when he stood beside him, a servo atop the bar counter. His optics, despite blind, briefly glanced over at Dead End.
He didn’t speak just yet.
Dead End’s optics flickered toward Perceptor, his cleaning slowing for a moment. The rag dragged lazily over the blaster's surface—too casually to be actual maintenance, too methodical to just be fidgeting.
“… Something you need?” His voice was quieter than usual, more tired, and holding something unreadable.
He didn’t look directly at Perceptor, either; instead opting to stare down at the counter.
“What I would like is for you to take a break," Perceptor responded, in an equally quiet tone.
His helm turned to face Dead End, even if he couldn't actually "see" him properly.
"You’re overworking yourself," he added, taking note of the exhaustion, however subtle, in the other's voice. “Again.”
Dead End opened his intake to argue, to deny it. But Perceptor beat him to it.
“I’ve seen you.”
Dead End scoffed at the irony of those words. Perceptor chose to ignore the sound.
“You’ve been working ever since we have retuned.” He leaned a little closer. His servo twitched slightly, as if considering raising it. “But your frame is tired, and needs to rest in order to properly recuperate.”
Perceptor had hit the nail right on the head. Dead End's frame was exhausted. Every part of him was sore, from his pedes to his shoulders, and even his back hurt. He was also incredibly tired, in every sense of the word, but he didn't want to give that away; didn't want to show just how tired he felt. Didn't want to give anyone that leverage.
His grip tightened on the rag, just a bit, and he leaned against the counter.
"It'll pass,” he spoke bluntly, refusing to admit that Perceptor was right.
Perceptor frowned. He knew that Dead End could be stubborn and hard-headed at times. He also knew how he tended to neglect his own needs and well-being—not only that, but also how he was prone to pushing himself too far and refusing to give himself the chance to relax and recharge.
It was a habit of his, and it drove Perceptor crazy.
He also wasn't going to just let it slide this time. Not when the other mech was clearly exhausted and refusing to admit to it.
"We both know it won't," he said sternly.
Dead End's vents hitched—just for a fraction of a second. His grip on the rag tightened, but he still didn't look at Perceptor.
"Tch," was all that came out of his intake, dismissive and sharp like always. But there was something else underneath it—something tired.
He knew Perceptor was right. He knew pushing himself like this would only make things worse later on when he couldn't function properly anymore because his frame had given up from overuse.
But admitting that would mean accepting weakness in front of someone else… And Dead End hated feeling weak in front of others more than anything else in the universe.
"... So what?"
Perceptor nearly huffed out a sigh at the response.
Typical Dead End. Hard-headed, stubborn, and always refusing to admit that he was wrong or in need of help.
But Perceptor wasn't going to let him just brush it off like that. No, not this time. Not when Dead End was pushing himself too far and refusing to take care of himself.
"So, you need to take a break. You need to rest. Now.” His tone was flat.
Dead End's spark twinged at the words—practically a command.
He finally snapped his helm toward Perceptor, optics flashing with something between irritation and the barest hint of embarrassment.
"Who the hell do you think you are, ordering me around?” His voice was sharp, but there was little real heat behind it—mostly just frustration at being called out so bluntly, as well as something else he didn’t want to properly acknowledge.
Perceptor wasn't fazed by the response. He had seen this many times before from other mechs, and he knew generally how to handle it.
“Someone who cares about your well-being and doesn't want to see you exhaust yourself into oblivion," he answered bluntly.
He didn’t wait to let Dead End protest further, stepping closer.
“Sit down,” he told him, using a servo to point toward a nearby booth.
Dead End's entire frame stiffened, his vents stuttering to a halt for a second. His optics flared—wide and unreadable—before narrowing into something sharp.
“Excuse me?”
The words came out in a low growl, including shock at the sheer audacity of Perceptor acting like he had any right to tell him what to do. Though, something held him back from actually snapping at the other mech.
His grip on the rag tightened further before he finally let it drop onto the counter with an irritated flick of his wrist.
"... You got some nerve, you know that?"
Perceptor didn't back down. He stood firm in the face of Dead End's irritation, his expression unchanging.
"And you have some nerve being so stubborn," he countered, his tone even. He held Dead End's gaze, unwavering and unflinching.
He didn't care if he was irritating the other mech, or if he didn't like being ordered around. This was for his own good. And Perceptor was going to make sure that Dead End was properly taken care of.
Dead End let out a scoff, his frame tensing even more. He had to resist the urge to throw something at Perceptor just to shut him up.
But even despite the annoyance running through his frame, he found himself almost… flustered at the way the smaller mech spoke to him.
“I don't need you to babysit me," he retorted.
His gaze darted away, refusing to look directly at Perceptor. His spark was flaring in his chassis for some reason.
Perceptor scoffed right back, unimpressed by Dead End's resistance.
He stepped forward, closing the distance between them once more. Their frames were nearly touching now.
“Clearly, you do," he lightly huffed, his voice low but still as even as ever. "You don't take care of yourself. You don't rest. You overwork yourself every chance you get, and you ignore your own needs. That is not a formula for healthy functionality."
His servo went to grab Dead End's wrist, stopping him from cleaning his already-spotless rifle. The other went to slowly take the rag from his servos.
“So, yes. You do need 'babysitting'."
The closeness. The contact. The tone. The words.
Dead End's frame tensed even further when Perceptor stepped close. He tried to focus on his irritation instead of the way their close proximity made his spark skip.
And when Perceptor took the rag from him, his gaze darted back to the smaller mech. His frame was completely taut now, his engines revving quietly from the contact of their servos.
Perceptor took note of Dead End's reactions, subtle as they were. He could feel the tension in the other's frame, he could hear the engines faintly revving, and he could see the way his optics widened just a fraction.
He was starting to see through the stubborn façade.
He tilted his helm slightly, as if examining the other—despite his lack of working optics.
"… You're tense," he noted quietly as he took the rag and set it aside. The servo on Dead End’s arm remained, despite the rag already set onto the table.
Dead End's vents hitched at the word.
Tense.
He was tense. He was taut like a tightly coiled spring, nearly shaking from the tension running through his frame. But it was more than just stress, more than just the irritation of being ordered about, and more than just being tired.
He was also… flustered.
He hated how his frame reacted around Perceptor. He hated the way his spark flared, his engine revved. He hated how close they were.
He hated how he liked it.
Perceptor was still watching him closely, now noticing how Dead End's frame was faintly emitting heat. He could hear Dead End's engine revving with something more than irritation.
His optics narrowed slightly. Something else was going on besides the obvious tension. He had a suspicion as to what was going on.
Perceptor decided to test his theory, moving even closer. Their frames were brushing now, his smaller body pressed against Dead End's side.
“Sit down,” he repeated the order. His tone was as level as before, though this time, he spoke quieter, words a gentle yet firm murmur near Dead End’s audial.
Dead End's entire frame locked up the moment Perceptor pressed closer, his vents stuttering to a halt.
His spark was practically screaming now—his engine revving loud enough that it might as well have been a roar for how obvious it was. His optics flickered wildly, darting between Perceptor and anywhere else like he couldn't decide if looking away or straight at him would be worse.
"... You're really pushing your luck," he muttered out through gritted dentas—but there wasn’t any real bite behind the words this time. Just something strained and shaky.
And then, after another second of hesitation, he moved toward the booth with slow steps, refusing to acknowledge just how flustered—or worse—he actually felt about the whole situation.
Perceptor watched Dead End walk slowly toward the booth. The larger mech was clearly flustered, trying to maintain his façade but failing miserably.
Perceptor followed after, trailing closely behind until they reached their destination.
He watched the other with a calm and calculating gaze as Dead End sat down, letting the silence drag out. He didn’t sit yet, just watching, observing.
Dead End sank into the booth with stiff, jerky movements—like he was resisting every inch of it. His frame was still radiating heat, his vents uneven as they cycled too fast for comfort.
He refused to look at Perceptor when the smaller mech didn't sit yet; instead keeping his gaze fixed stubbornly on the table in front of him like that would somehow make this entire situation less embarrassing.
"What?" he finally muttered out after a few seconds passed in silence—voice low and rough around the edges.
His grip tightened slightly on one edge of the seat cushion beneath him like an anchor point for himself right now.
Perceptor didn’t verbally respond.
Instead, he began to move. His servos braced themselves against the table as he crawled onto the booth.
Dead End’s optics widened, but, again, Perceptor didn’t let him get a word in.
The smaller mech shifted, now positioned atop Dead End’s lap. Perceptor was kneeling, a leg on either side of the other’s torso, servos on his own lap. His helm was still directed toward Dead End, still examining him.
Dead End's entire frame froze—spark, engine, vents, all of it. His optics were wide, staring at the other in disbelief. His servos twitched at his sides like he didn’t know where to put them—whether to shove Perceptor off or pull him closer—internally, he wanted the second option.
"Wh—what the hell do you think you're doing?” His voice cracked halfway through the words in sheer shock and flustered panic.
He couldn't even move right now without risking making this worse somehow.
“Helping you relax,” Perceptor replied simply, as if it was the most obvious answer.
And to test something, he thought to himself.
His servos went up, pressing lightly against Dead End’s chassis. He then guided him to lean back.
“Now,” he continued, “be good for me and cease your complaints.”
Dead End's intake snapped shut as he leaned back at Perceptor's touch, his helm spinning and engine roaring.
This was insane. He was letting the smaller mech handle him, letting him take charge and move him around like some toy. It was absolutely ridiculous, and yet…
Somehow, he didn't hate it. The heat running through his frame was not from irritation, but something else entirely.
And against every better sense in his frame, he was giving in.
He didn't protest or try to move. He didn't speak. He only nodded his helm faintly.
Perceptor felt a flicker of pride when Dead End nodded without protest. He had been right in his earlier suspicion.
His servos continued to roam across the bigger mech's frame, skimming over his armor with a light touch. He noted the excessive heat coming off of him. It was clear that Dead End was very riled up, no matter how much he tried to hide it.
Perceptor’s servos then travelled downwards. His gaze followed, digits moving slowly and gingerly against the various plating. They came to a stop when one servo was gently on top of Dead End’s interface panel.
Dead End's frame jerked, the plating warming instantly. His vent hitched, and a rough-sounding groan rumbled in his engine, low and ragged.
He wanted. He wanted so badly to grind against that servo, to yank Perceptor closer and drag him down into his lap, to do something, anything, to relieve the building tension and heat.
But the smaller mech hadn’t told him to do anything yet. So, he obediently kept still, clenching his servos into fists at his sides.
Perceptor felt a spark of satisfaction when he heard the low noise that rose from Dead End's engine. That was a good sign.
He took notice of how the other's frame seemed to twitch in an almost desperate attempt to control itself, and he chuckled to himself.
Someone's very impatient.
Perceptor’s servo pressed against the panel a little firmer this time, “Open.”
Dead End jolted at the command, his frame arching slightly under Perceptor's touch.
He obeyed instantly—plating sliding open with a sharp click as heat and static spilled out in waves. His chassis was practically heaving with each vent, his engine revving loud enough that anyone nearby would have heard it if they weren’t careful.
And still, he kept himself from moving beyond that initial reaction—though every fibre of him screamed to rut up into the other mech’s servo like some desperate fuel-starved scrapheap.
"… You're enjoying this," Dead End muttered out accusingly between uneven cycles of air through clenched dentas.
Perceptor didn’t reply again, turning his focus to the spike that had pressurised from the now-open panel.
It was large; a fair length and girthy. It was fully erect, sticking out from between Perceptor’s tibulen, and faintly throbbing. There were tapered spikes lining the sides—a modification, perhaps?
He shifted closer, using his digits to lightly graze the underside of Dead End’s length, as if analysing it.
Dead End buzzed violently, his entire frame shuddering.
The spikes weren’t just for show—they were modified to enhance friction and sensation beyond standard function. He hadn't exactly planned on having them in use like this—not with someone who could so easily tease him over it without even realising what he was doing.
His vents came in sharp hitches now, his engine roaring loud enough that the booth beneath them practically vibrated from sheer force alone.
“F-Frag," Dead End choked out between strained cycles of air.
His servos finally moved, grasping at Perceptor's hips on instinct, as if wordlessly begging for more contact.
Perceptor hummed when he felt those servos on his hips, still lightly tracing the undersides of the spike with one servo.
He was still helping the other relax, yes, but he also wanted to see how Dead End would react. It was a rare chance to experiment, after all.
He leaned in close, practically whispering, "Be good. Don't move."
His other servo moved to the spike as well. One remained near the base, whilst the other’s digits felt the smaller spikes protruding along the length.
Perceptor's helm tilted up slightly, and he spoke again.
"And, please, do use your words if you require something.”
Don't move.
Dead End shuddered at the order, a ragged whine stuck in his intake. He wanted to obey, wanted to be good, but it was incredibly difficult when the smaller mech was touching him like that.
His servos clenched tighter around Perceptor's hips, the metal creaking and denting under the sheer force of his grip.
"F-Frag, please," he finally breathed out between strangled venting, words strained and barely understandable.
He knew what he needed, but he wasn't used to asking—let alone begging.
Perceptor smiled, pleased with the response. He knew that it was difficult for Dead End to submit, but the fact that he was doing it now…
Good.
His servos remained where they were, gently continuing their teasing and near-clinical tracing of the spike.
"Please what?" he asked innocently. "You have to use your words, Dead End. I can't read your mind."
A strangled, frustrated sound came from somewhere deep in the larger mech's chassis. He hated how easily Perceptor managed to get him to cave.
He could barely think straight right now, let alone form a coherent sentence together.
"Please," he repeated, as if the word was the only thing he was capable of right now—which, at that moment, it sort of was. "Need you to touch me. Move. Something. Anything."
The desperation was all too clear in his trembling voice.
He was going to lose his mind like this.
Perceptor was contented with the response he received. In return, his servo gave a slow, purposeful stroke along Dead End’s spike.
“That’s a good mech,” he praised softly.
His servos then retracted, much to the other mech’s satisfaction. Though, before Dead End could complain, Perceptor moved forward, bracing himself against the other’s chassis.
He was now kneeling over Dead End’s spike, servos resting on the larger mech’s chest plating. His own interface panel was open, revealing his valve. It was pre-lubricated, the sensitive mesh glistening and reflecting the gentle glow from his biolights.
Dead End's vents stuttered to a halt—his entire frame going completely still as he took in the sight.
He had never seen Perceptor like this before. The smaller mech was right there, open and ready, his valve practically begging for something to press into it. Dead End's engine revved so hard that the booth beneath them rattled with sheer force.
His servos twitched on the other’s hips, as if unsure whether to yank Perceptor down onto him or not move an inch out of sheer disbelief.
"Perceptor—I..." he trailed off, his voice a strangled gasp. "You don't have to..."
Perceptor lightly pressed a digit to Dead End’s dermas, quieting him.
“It’s alright,” he reassured. “I’m simply helping you relax.”
With that, Perceptor began to lower himself onto that eager spike, intake parting with a soft gasp as he felt the head start to enter him.
Dead End's servos jerked at the first contact. He could barely comprehend what was happening right now. It was surreal and unbelievable. How was this a situation he found himself in? The usually calm, no-nonsense Perceptor was kneeling over his lap right now, sinking down onto his spike like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Dead End felt like the air had been punched from him. The heat radiating off their frames was so intense, it would be a miracle if they didn’t spontaneously combust right there and then.
Perceptor let out a shuddery moan once he had fully seated himself. His servos rested on Dead End's shoulders for balance.
Dead End’s spike had felt bigger from his brief analysis, but now that he was sitting atop it...
It was intense. The pressure, the heat, the fullness. He had almost forgotten what it was like to be filled up like this, to have another mech so deep within him. He felt full. Almost overly so, the protrusions on the sides only adding to the feeling.
Perceptor allowed himself a moment to adjust to the sensation. Once he was somewhat settled, he looked back up at Dead End.
“You're being so good for me," he murmured softly.
A strangled, desperate whine left Dead End's intake at those words. He could have overloaded just from that alone; from Perceptor's voice, from the praise, from just the overwhelming amount of everything he was feeling right now.
He wanted to be good. He wanted to be good for Perceptor. He wanted to make the smaller mech feel good.
His servos remained where they were, still refusing to move on their own, as if he was resisting the urge to just grip and pull and mark and claim.
He had to bite his derma to stop himself from doing something stupid.
Perceptor noticed how tightly Dead End was holding himself together. The bigger mech probably wasn't even aware of it, but every circuit and wire in his frame was strained to the absolute limit. One glance down showed that he was trembling. He was restraining himself for Perceptor's sake, holding back the urge to claim him at that moment.
That simply wouldn't do. Not now. Not when the whole ordeal was meant to help the other mech relax.
Perceptor placed a servo on Dead End's cheek, urging the other to look at him.
"Look at me."
Dead End jolted at the touch, his optics snapping up to Perceptor's blind gaze.
There was something terrifyingly vulnerable in that moment—the way Dead End felt so small despite his larger frame, as if he was just a sparkling waiting for orders.
His vents hitched when he finally met Perceptor’s stare head-on. The words died in his intake; all that came out was a shaky exhale and an unspoken plea for more contact—more praise, more pressure, anything.
Perceptor was acutely aware of all of Dead End's current feelings. How desperately he needed this, how he was straining not to move or take charge. He could see it written all over the mech's frame.
So, like a proper scientist, Perceptor gave him exactly what he needed, further stoking the fire.
He gently cupped Dead End's faceplate, a servo on either side.
"You're doing so well," he began slowly. "You're obeying my instructions exactly as I had asked. You’re such a good mech.”
Those words hit Dead End like a ton of high grade. He could have sworn that his optics nearly whited out at the praise.
Something feral and wanton flared in him right then, and all thoughts of holding himself together went straight out the window. He was a mech starved and touch-deprived, and he was tired of pretending he didn't want, need, desire.
A strangled, ragged whine rumbled in his engine. His servos clenched around Perceptor's hips, almost desperately.
“Can I move?" he managed out through clenched dentas.
Perceptor let out a quiet hum, as if considering the question.
He leaned closer, helm tilting to the side once more.
“If it will help you relax… then, by all means, proceed.”
That was all the permission Dead End needed to hear.
His servos gripped Perceptor's hips tighter, digits scraping lightly against the sensitive metal. He lifted the other mech up, just a few inches above him, in a motion that was far too fluid to be anything but practiced.
Dead End didn’t wait; he yanked Perceptor the few inches back down onto his lap, forcing his entire length back into that hot, tight valve.
Perceptor couldn't hold back the ragged moan that left his intake when Dead End pulled him down like that, sudden and rough. He felt so full—impossibly so, and the burn was nearly overwhelming. He felt like he was being split open, yet in a way that sent pleased shivers down his spinal struts.
He leaned forward, resting his helm against Dead End's chassis as he tried to adjust.
Dead End's engines revved in response to that needy noise, his grip on the other's hips almost painful.
The urge to push up and claim was growing stronger. The need for more was building up, and it was getting increasingly more difficult to hold back.
Perceptor was still adjusting, which was the only reason why Dead End wasn't bucking up to fill him even more. He still wanted—no, needed to be a good mech.
“Doing alright?" he asked after a moment, voice strained as if he was physically restraining himself.
Perceptor's fans stuttered at the question, his vents hitching. He nodded weakly, barely able to form any coherent thoughts right now—let alone words.
The pleasure-pain of the stretch was ever-present, but he was gradually acclimating to it.
"Y-Yes," he managed to get out, voice ragged. "I'm—I'm alright.“
Dead End took in the response, letting it soothe something in his spark. He took a moment to collect himself, his processor slowly starting to come back to him.
“I—I'm going to start moving," he warned Perceptor in a low, gruff voice.
His servos then shifted on the smaller mech's hips, adjusting his grip once more. It was firmer this time.
He moved slow at first, careful and controlled despite how much it was killing him to not just slam upward. The spikes along his length dragged against the other’s valve with every thrust, sending waves of sensation through both of them.
A sharp groan left Dead End's intake when he felt Perceptor clench around him. His grip on those hips tightened even further, as if afraid the smaller mech would pull away.
“Oh, my—“
Perceptor's words were lost in a strangled gasp that tore through him. He felt like he was being electrocuted in the most blissful sense of the word. His servos clutched at whatever they could find, digging into the other's chassis to ground himself.
Dead End's steady, measured pace was both too much and yet not even close to enough.
He could feel every subtle movement from where they were joined, the pressure and heat nearly overwhelming.
Dead End's spark flared at the noises Perceptor was making, an almost feral sense of desire flaring up in him.
"You’re squeezing me so tight," he murmured in a tone that bordered on desperate.
He could feel Perceptor’s servos moving, stroking across his faceplate, tracing the line of his jaw. His optics were fixed on Dead End’s face.
Perceptor let out another choked gasp as a jolt of heat shot through him, his servos trembling slightly against the other's cheek.
His gaze remained fixed on Dead End, though it was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on literally anything besides the pleasure running through him.
Slowly, he began to move his hips in tandem. He groan quietly, riding the other mech, following the rhythm Dead End had set.
Dead End's entire frame seized at the feeling of Perceptor moving on his own. His vents came in sharp, uneven hitches as he watched the smaller mech with a gaze that was almost reverent. The way he rode him—desperate and slow all at once—had Dead End seeing stars behind his optics.
"Frag," Dead End choked out between ragged cycles of air, his servos finally moving to grip Perceptor’s hips tighter. "You feel too good."
He didn't have the willpower left to stop himself from thrusting up harder into that heat now; every movement sending waves of sensation through both their frames alike.
Perceptor was struggling to maintain his composure. The sensations coursing through him were too intense. It was nearly overwhelming.
The way Dead End filled him, stretching him to the very limits… The way the other's servos tightened around his hips, digits digging into the sensitive metal… And the way he bucked into him with a force that had Perceptor seeing static…
It had the smaller mech trembling weakly against him, barely able to keep himself upright.
“Y-You’re—mmhn, being s-so good for me,” he murmured between pants.
Dead End nearly overloaded then and there from the praise. The fact that he was the one being praised, and by Perceptor no less, had him reeling.
His engine purred at the words, an almost possessive feeling flaring up within him at the sight of Perceptor trembling in his lap.
He was the one causing that.
"I-I am?" he managed out, his voice coming out in a strangled exhale.
He thrust up a little harder, wanting to hear more of that praise coming from the mech above him.
Perceptor barely managed to hold back a strangled moan at the sudden thrust. He felt like his processor was going to short circuit at any moment. He could hardly think with how overwhelming the sensation of being filled like this was.
“Y-You are," he affirmed softly, his own movements increasing in speed. "You're doing everything I've asked. Being so good for me, behaving so well…”
His servos found their way to Dead End's chestplate, running over the expanse of metal with a light touch.
Dead End couldn't take it—couldn't take how good Perceptor was making him feel. The way the smaller mech touched him, praised him, rode him like he was something precious to be treasured instead of a weapon to be used...
It had Dead End seeing stars behind his optics as he thrust up into that tight heat with increasing force and speed. His servos tightened their grip on those hips almost painfully now; all pretense of control gone entirely.
"P-Perceptor," he choked out between ragged vents—the other’s name sounding more like a prayer than anything else right then.
His spike throbbed violently inside the smaller mech as if begging for release.
Perceptor was completely unraveling by that point. The sensations coursing through his frame were too much. The burn, the heat, the way Dead End's spike throbbed inside of him, filling him completely, almost as if he was made to take him—it was overwhelming, and he couldn't think straight when his frame was like this.
Dead End calling his name, the reverent tone to his voice, the way he practically begged for him—it was all pushing Perceptor closer and closer to the edge. But his focus was on the other mech, keeping a quick yet steady pace of his hips.
Dead End was a mech on the edge of overload. Every movement, every sound, every touch from Perceptor had him reeling closer to that sweet release—his engine roaring loud enough that anyone in a ten-foot radius would have heard it if they weren’t careful.
His servos clutched at Perceptor's hips hard enough to leave dents behind as he thrust up into him with increasing force and speed. His entire frame shuddered violently under the smaller mech’s weight above him.
"P-Please," Dead End begged out between uneven cycles of air through clenched dentas. It was an unspoken plea for more friction or praise or something—anything, really, right now.
Perceptor had never heard Dead End plead like this. It was desperate, ragged, and filled with a kind of need that had him going weak. He was lost in the sensations himself, but hearing the other mech begging like this… It made it worth it, just to hear him lose control like this.
He leaned forward, helm tilting to the side again. His optics were fixated on Dead End's faceplate.
His voice was hoarse, panting in ragged gasps. He spoke out again in a tone that was low and needy.
"Overload for me."
That was it.
That single command sent Dead End completely over the edge—his entire frame seizing up as a loud, ragged cry tore from his intake.
His spike throbbed violently inside Perceptor, spilling thick streaks of transfluid in hot pulses as he came undone beneath him. His servos clenched so hard on the other’s hips that they dented the metal plating.
Perceptor watched, enthralled, as Dead End tipped over the edge.
He rode him through it, feeling that heat fill him and knowing he was the cause of it. He was the one to reduce a usually stoic mech into a trembling wreck, and he relished in the knowledge of it.
His own overload was close. So very close. He just needed a little more—a little more friction, a little more heat… something.
Without much more thought, Perceptor leaned closer, his dermas meeting Dead End’s in a kiss.
Dead End's vents stuttered at the unexpected action. He was still trembling faintly from the aftershocks of his overload, but he had just the wherewithal left to return the kiss hungrily.
His servos shifted, one coming up to frame the back of Perceptor's helm as if to pull the smaller mech closer. His other servo trailed down the length of Perceptor's spinal struts before settling on the curve of his aft, encouraging the movement of the mech's hips.
The kiss was rough and filled with a desperate hunger that bordered on animalistic with its intensity. Yet it was tender and soft enough to send a shiver through Perceptor's frame, his entire frame trembling against the other's bigger form.
And before he knew it, he reached his climax.
His overload had never hit him this fast or hard before. He whimpered against the other's dermas, gripping onto him tightly. His digits dug into the plating of Dead End’s chassis. His hips were still moving, albeit gradually slowing, continuing to ride him as he felt waves of pleasure crash through him.
Dead End held Perceptor close throughout his overload, his servos pulling the mech against his frame in a tight, almost vice-like grip. He continued to kiss him through it, as if wanting to swallow the small, needy whimpers that were leaving his intake.
His spike twitched weakly inside Perceptor, still releasing small pulses of fluid that added to the already-overfilling valve.
He had never felt so satisfied in his entire functioning.
Perceptor felt himself go lax against the other's frame as his overload finally ebbed. His frame was still trembling with the aftershocks, his vents coming in uneven stutters. He felt full, and yet at the same time, he didn't want to pull away.
He broke the kiss, leaning his helm against Dead End's chassis in an almost exhausted manner. He was silent for a long moment, just listening to the steady thrum of the bigger mech's engine as another shudder ran through his frame.
“Primus…” he quietly sighed, “you were so good.”
A wave of pure, smug pride and satisfaction filled Dead End's spark at the words. There was just something about being praised by Perceptor specifically that had him preening.
He held the smaller mech close, his servos running over the back of his helm soothingly.
“I had a good reason to be," he responded, his voice a low grumble. "Had you making some pretty sounds."
Perceptor let out a low, shaky huff at that, "You are awfully proud of yourself, aren't you?" he mused fondly, still leaning against his chestplate.
His frame was gradually coming down from its high, the aftershocks fading as he felt the stickiness between his thighs. His valve was still full of transfluid, and the fullness was a pleasant, almost soothing ache.
Meanwhile, his servos traced the other mech’s form, picking up on the signs that Dead End was finally relaxed.
Dead End let out a low, rumbling chuckle at the comment.
He shifted slightly beneath Perceptor—still not moving to pull his spike free yet, as if savouring the moment while it lasted. His vents were slower now; more relaxed than they had been in what felt like ages.
"’Course I am," he muttered back smugly. "I got you of all mechs to moan for me."
Perceptor let out another little huff, “I was simply just helping you relax.”
He shifted, getting comfortable on Dead End’s lap. He gently nuzzled his faceplate into the junction between the other mech’s shoulder and neck. It was a strangely domestic gesture, and yet, neither made any move to get away.
“Right, right… Just ‘helping me relax’.”
Dead End could hardly keep the amusement out of his gruff voice. He leaned his helm back against the booth's backrest, his optics fluttering with a subtle sense of contentment.
His servos continued to rub along Perceptor's back, almost idly now. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt this relaxed.
“You know, for a mech who claims to be a scientist, you're surprisingly good at other things," he teased gently.
Perceptor chuckled at the comment, letting out a soft sigh as the servos rubbed down his back in a soothing manner.
“I have my talents, as you've found out," he mused in response.
He let his optics drift shut for a moment, just feeling the hum of Dead End's engine from beneath him. It was an oddly comforting sound, one that had the smaller mech wanting to stay there indefinitely.
His next words were spoken quietly.
"You don't make for a bad pillow, you know."
Dead End scoffed in faux offense at that.
"You're using me as a pillow right now? I feel a little insulted."
Nevermind the fact that the corner of his intake was lifted in a subtle smirk.
His servos stilled for a moment, before shifting to lightly trace the curve of Perceptor's spinal strut once more.
“I'm good for more than just a place to rest," he murmured lowly.
Perceptor let out a soft chuckle at that, shifting slightly to get more comfortable. He was lying against Dead End's body now, his frame draped across the larger mech as he took full advantage of his new makeshift 'pillow'.
“Oh, are you?" he teasingly queried, voice lilting subtly.
He was aware that he was getting a bit bold, but he couldn't bring himself to care right now. Not when the other mech was being so good.
Dead End's vents hitched at the tone. He hated how much Perceptor got to him with just a single, teasing remark.
“Yeah," he grumbled out, his servos tightening slightly on the smaller mech's frame in warning—though there was no real heat behind it. "Don't make me prove it again."
The threat sounded more like a plea than anything else; as if Dead End genuinely hoped Perceptor would push for round two despite how spent they both were already.
Perceptor let out a low, amused huff at that. He could all but hear the underlying pleading in that gruff tone of voice.
He was still sensitive from his previous overload, but that didn't stop the heat pooling in his valve once again just from the thought of another round. It was almost ridiculous how desperate his frame and processor had become.
“You think you could still manage that?" he murmured slyly, sensually.
Perceptor tilted his helm against the other mech's shoulder. He shifted his legs, deliberately moving his weight to grind down on the spike that was still buried inside of him.
“After how spent we both already are? Just from your begging alone, I'm surprised you haven't short-circuited yet."
“Who said I was at my limit?"
Dead End's servos grabbed Perceptor's thighs, guiding the smaller mech to grind against him once more as he shuddered. His overload had left him feeling more sensitive than normal, and he had already been very sensitive before that point.
All he could think about was how good Perceptor felt around him, and how much he wanted to do this again. And again, and again. And maybe some more after that, too.
Perceptor's processor was starting to get hazy again, his mind clouded with pleasure and need.
Dead End's touch had a near-irresistible effect on him. The way he held him, the way he felt, it was like Perceptor didn't ever want the moment to cease.
"Then show me.” His words were challenging, almost taunting. “Prove how good you can be for me."
Dead End's vents hitched again at the challenge. He knew what Perceptor was doing, and he damn well knew that he was falling for it.
He could never resist that tone, the way Perceptor could so easily switch between commanding and teasing. And it didn't help that he sounded like that right now.
He wanted to give in, to do anything that the smaller mech would ask of him. But there was the little matter of being completely spent.
“Don't get me wrong," he said breathlessly, "I want to, but…”
"But?" Perceptor questioned, though he already knew the response he was going to receive.
His servos came up to lightly grip the other mech's shoulders, grasping the plating gently. He was still draped across Dead End's frame, shifting to a more comfortable position atop his lap.
That spike still remained buried in his valve, and it was only now that Perceptor began rocking his hips slightly, seeking friction.
"But you're too worn out?" His voice was slightly breathy, with a hint of teasing.
He leaned closer, dermas lightly grazing Dead End’s.
“That’s alright. Let me do the work.”
The words sent a shudder through Dead End's frame. He couldn't believe the effect that Perceptor's voice was having—how hot he sounded. The teasing, the challenging tone, it was all going to drive him wild.
His servos tightened on the smaller mech’s thighs, almost to the point of gripping tight enough to leave dents.
He wanted to give a snappy response so badly. He wanted to flip Perceptor onto his back and do it again until both of them couldn't walk.
But all he could find himself doing was nodding slightly, leaning back against the booth, optics locked onto Perceptor’s frame.