Jealousy

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW
Drift/Perceptor, Ironfist
sticky, jealousy, inner Deadlock

A/N This fic plays a little bit of timeline tweaking. Pretend Ironfist and the other new recruits joined the Wreckers, and there’s some overlap with Drift being there. Deanoned kink meme request


“Perceptor!”

Something in the bright chiming tone set Drift’s dentae on edge. He looked up from the datapad he was scrolling through. The Autobots did…everything differently. He kept having to try to tell himself that just because it wasn’t the way Decepticons did it, it wasn’t wrong. Thinking that the ‘con way was, well, Turmoil’s way, helped, a lot, but still. It took some adjustment.

The blue-helmed mech—bulky limbed, facemasked—glowed as he held out a hand. “Ironfist. Remember? From Kimia?”

He seemed…perky. Drift frowned, as a feeble smile flickered to life on Perceptor’s mouthplates. “Yes,” Perceptor said, quietly. “I remember.”

“I was so glad to see your name on the list!” Ironfist said, still clutching Perceptor’s hand in his. “And I’d heard you’d done some self-modding—which is dangerous, you know. Remember what Jetfire always said about Bludgeon—but wow.”Drift did not like the way the blue optics roamed over Perceptor’s frame. One bit. “You…can we go over them sometimes? I’d love to know what you’ve done.”

“Yes. Of course,” Perceptor replied. Drift…seethed. No, Perceptor. You’re too busy to talk about such…intimate stuff with this new mech. Who is looking at you like that.

“I can’t believe I’m a Wrecker!” Ironfist bounced.

Yeah, Drift though, me neither. He cleared his vocalizer, loudly enough that Perceptor looked over at him, startled.

“This,” Perceptor said, uncertainly. “is Ironfist. He is responsible for many armaments upgrades. We worked together briefly in armaments research at Kimia. And this,” he turned to Ironfist, “Is Drift.”

Drift ground his mouthplates. That was it? This is Drift? No ‘This is the mech who saved my life’? ‘The mech with whom I—regularly—have cortex-shortingly hot interfacing?’ Okay, maybe that second was a bit much but…some acknowledgment?

“Nice to meet you!” Ironfist thrust out his hand.

Drift glared, but forced himself to take the blue hand in his own. He squeezed the hand just hard enough to get a wince. “Yeah,” he managed. Barely.

[***]

Perceptor had tried to talk Drift out of coming, claiming he’d be ‘bored’. Which, of course, was all the more reason why Drift came to the workshop, straddling a chair at the end of the workbench, Perceptor on one side, Ironfist on the other. They’d been yammering—all right, Ironfist had been been doing most of the yammering, but Perceptor had been doing the encouraging nodding and monosyllabic backchanneling—for cycles, it felt like, as Perceptor brought out one after another modification. Right now, he had his forearm armor locks open, the teal armor spread open, revealing the stabilizing mechanisms he’d installed.

It was intimate. Too intimate, if you asked Drift. Which, of course no one did. Which was part of the reason Drift was seething, almost audibly.

It would help--maybe--if he could understand like...anything they were saying. But this was hard-core science talk. Actuators and functional loads and capacitor influx modifiers and…yeah he had no clue. It was by far the most words he’d heard Perceptor use since, well, Turmoil’s ship, and he couldn’t help but well, wonder. And these two obviously had some history—a comfort level Drift had had to work to earn.

He swallowed a snarl, reaching over and jerking one of Perceptor’s guns from the holster pod he wore, even on board ship. Perceptor twitched but, well, having your arm splayed open in some sort of display mode kind of killed the reflexes.

Drift began dismantling the gun, crisply, laying the pieces out in front of him with practiced ease. He looked up: both of them were staring at him. “What? Weapons maintenance.”

Perceptor’s mouth quirked as though starting to smile but thinking better of it. “Thank you, Drift.”

Drift preened, just a bit, shooting a smug look at Ironfist.

“I-I guess you take your weapons maintenance pretty seriously, here,” Ironfist said.

“We do,” Drift said, coldly.

“Some of us, too seriously,” Perceptor hinted. Right. Look in a mirror, Perceptor.

“You can never take some things too seriously,” Ironfist nodded, enthusiastically. Ugh. Go back to disagreeing with me.

Drift broke down the weapon, trying to bury himself—or look like he was—in the mechanism. Truth was, he’d spent most of his life around guns. There was no mystery here. He could disassemble, clean and reassemble just about any gun ever made. In the dark. Possibly for a speed record. So the entertainment value was minimal, but holding it was strangely soothing, familiar. The gun wasn’t ignoring him. Drift wished he could say the same for the gun’s owner, who was now calling up specs on his chestplate to show Ironfist.

In the pause, while Perceptor searched, Drift cut in. “Standard pistol,” he said, flipping it sideways in his grip. “Reasonable range, tolerable stopping power. Had any practice with it?”

“I, uh,” Ironfist scrubbed a hand over his head. “We had a training course.”

Drift’s look oozed scorn. Training course. One small step up from ‘well, I saw a movie about it once’.
“Right. Well, here, safety matters. Never point this at anything you don’t intend to shoot,” he brought the barrel, casually, to bear on Ironfist’s face, “and always keep your finger out of the triggerwell.” His finger curled around the trigger. “Accidents can happen so easily.”

“Drift…,” something warning in Perceptor’s tone.

“What? Safety briefing.”

Perceptor blinked, uncertainly. “I…just…later?”

“It’s never a bad time for safety,” Drift said, mimicking Ironfist’s perky tone.

“Yes, but…perhaps you could at least lower the gun.”

Oh, that. Fine. Drift lay his finger along the barrel, lowering the gun. Perceptor pried it from his hand, with a rather short ‘thank you.’ Thank you, my white aft, Drift thought sourly, watchng the gun slide into its holster on Perceptor’s hip. He let his optics rest on the hip for a long moment, the joining of black and silver, where the thigh swept into the pelvic frame. His engine revved, thinking of what he’d done, what he’d like to do, with that particular part of Perceptor’s body. His optics trailed up the chassis, warm and fuzzy with rather…hot memories.

Until he saw the way the head was bent forward, listening to some boring thing Ironfist was saying. Something about semi-conductors and semi-metals and semi-other stuff that Drift couldn’t even semi pretend he cared about. But Perceptor did, apparently. And Drift suddenly realized that there was…a lot he didn’t share with Perceptor. Science, but also history. He’d known it at one level—no one he’d met had come from the depths he had, the gutters of Cybertron, but just…the realization of all the history he’d missed—all those years and days, Perceptor was with others. And he’d missed it. While others—like Ironface here—had had it. His time. He felt…robbed.

Ironfist finished his story with something that was supposed to, apparently, be hilarious. Ironfist broke into a peal of laughter that burned Drift’s audio. Perceptor gave an amused, subdued snort. Drift...had no idea. Drift grunted, pushing to his feet, snatching at Perceptor’s sniper rifle.

“Drift…?”

“What?”

“I, uh, Ironfist does not need another safety lesson.” A glint of something in the optics, behind the reticle.

“Fine. Just cleaning it while you…do your boring science.” He slung the rifle across the table.

“It’s not boring!” Ironfist said. “In fact, we’ve done—I’ve done—tons of mods and enhancements for firearms.” He turned back to Perceptor. “Remember?”

“You worked on Optimus’s rifle, yes?”

Ironfist beamed.

And so, apparently Perceptor remembered. And another tidal wave of burbling. That swung quickly into technical aspects, integrated circuits, rifling wear, things he partially knew about but from a user’s perspective, not a designers. He knew what to do if a gas tube cracked. He didn’t know how or why it did. Or what the ‘pressure variant quotient’ was.

Don’t care, he thought. But he did. The one thing he knew--thought he knew--they knew better. They knew more. All he knew how to do was shoot and maintain--someone else’s invention.

And Drift found himself sorely, sorely tempted by the fact that Perceptor always kept his rifle loaded. One slip of the finger…but no. Perceptor would see him, and either know, or think that Drift was that clumsy. Either answer was unacceptable.

But this Ironfist? Had to go.

[***]

“Is something wrong, Drift?” Perceptor sat down next to him in the refectory.

“Wrong? About what?” Drift’s hand closed, harder than necessary, over his cube.

Perceptor frowned. “You seem…on edge.”

Drift scoffed. “On edge? Me? About what? I’m not on edge about anything.”

Perceptor looked…dubious, his reticle whirring. “Are you certain?”

“Of course.” Drift forced a smile. Which failed, going flat like a tire, so he buried it, he hoped, in a sip
from his cube. “Why?”

Perceptor’s optics went just about everywhere but Drift’s face. “Just… you don’t seem to like Ironfist.”

“Ironfist?” Drift resisted the urge to stab something. “Why would you think that? Like him just fine.”
...for target practice. He took another sip.

Perceptor sagged, looking relieved. “Glad to hear that.” He took a quick, nervous sip of his own cube.
“Because I invited him over tonight.”

Drift spluttered, energon spraying over the table. “Over? For what?”

Perceptor’s optics widened with alarm, grabbing a cleansing cloth to mop up the mess. “Are you…all right?”

“Yeah, fine.” It was a new definition of ‘fine’ perhaps. Something like ‘simmering with green-tinted jealousy’. Close enough. “You,” he coughed, “invited Ironfist over.”

“Yes. He, uh, doesn’t have a lot of friends.”

“Yeah.” Probably a few damn good reasons for that. Drift frowned. “Can see you’re close.”

“Drift…?” Perceptor looked worried, as Drift pushed to his feet. “I can postpone it.”

No. “No need.” Might as well get it over with. Not like Drift had anything, you know, planned tonight or anything. Which he didn’t, unless interfacing was a ‘plan’. He forced a smile on his face. “Looking forward to it.” The way he looked forward to little chats with Springer or Storytime with Uncle Kup.

[***]

Drift sat himself in the exact center of the couch, the only piece of furniture in the room large enough to present that…problem of Ironfist and Perceptor perhaps getting too close. Not on his watch. Let Ironfist sit on that chair. Over there. Better yet, on the stool. Maybe the floor. …out in the hall.
Perceptor shot him a curious look as he entered their small dayroom. Drift folded his legs under him, forcing his face serene. “Drift?”

“Yes?” Drift raised entirely innocent optics.

“You are…?”

“Meditating,” Drift said, firmly, placing his fingers in lion mudra on his knee armor.

“...Ironfist is coming over.”

“He’s not here yet,” Drift said, placidly. Which Perceptor should have taken as a warning. Shut down and logical was Drift’s red flag. And the fact that Perceptor didn’t pick up on it...did not help.

The door chimed, just then, and Perceptor crossed the room, casting one last worried look back at Drift before he keyed it open.

Ironfist bounced into the room. Urgh. There went any Zen Drift might have accrued. Just...bounced right out of him. “Hi, Drift!”

Be nice be nice be nice. Drift felt Perceptor’s optics on him. “Ironfist,” he nodded, letting his optics slide over to Perceptor. Who still looked dubious, but the hard edge was off his frown.

Ironfist pulled a packet out of his storage. “I brought those holovids we’d talked about,” he said. What holovids? When? Drift frowned. “What do you want to watch first?”

Perceptor shifted on his feet, awkward.. “It’s up to you.”

“You sure?” Ironfist looked through the stack of vids he’d brought. Drift’s spark sank. That many? Would take all night. And the next. And the next. “Let’s see. Well...let’s try Pulses of the Spark! I have the last three seasons and remember how we used to stop everything to watch it back on Kimia?”

Perceptor cocked his head. “Yes. I remember.” A ghost of a smile.

Pulses of the Spark? That sounded like a...? No. No way. Couldn’t be.

“Well,” Ironfist said, bustling over to the holovid player, “Season 85 kind of jumped the shark, you know. Only so many times they can pull off the Evil Clone thing, you know? But we’ll start with the Season 83 pre-cap. Lots of good stuff. Silverbelle finally tells Klaxon she was--oops!” His optics went wide. “Yikes! Almost gave it away.” He laughed. “I remember how much you liked Silverbelle.”

Perceptor stiffened. “That was...a while ago.”

“Awwww, you had that derpy crush for years, you told us! Wanted her autograph and everything.”

Perceptor coughed, embarrassed. Which Drift might have enjoyed more if his cortex wasn’t spinning with raw, green, sticky envy. Silverbelle. Giggling about a crush with Ironfist. Autographs. But...he’d heard none of this. Not one word. Drift felt...hollow.

“Anyway,” Ironfist continued, straightening up. “You’ll love this season.” He looked around. “Uhhh, where should I sit?”

Drift bit down a list of suggestions. Starting with a pulse cannon. A smelter. A black hole.

Perceptor gestured. “You can sit on the couch.”

Drift frowned. Ironfist looked wary. Ha. Rightfully so. “Drift will make room, I’m sure,” Perceptor said. “And you can get to know each other.”

Drift’s mouth twitched, angry. He’d been apparently a little too convincing in his claim that the clonky looking little geek didn’t bother him. He wanted to get to know Ironfist the same way he wanted to lick cyberbarnacles. Ironfist trotted over. Drift shifted over to one side, grumpily, snatching at his hip scabbard, jerking it aside before Ironfist squished it with his bulk. Perceptor ducked out of the room, heading toward the small energon dispenser in the side room.

“So,” Ironfist began.”You like soap vids?”

“No.”

Ironfist hesitated, waiting for more. When it didn’t come, he shifted, nervously on the couch. “Is that a real sword?” He pointed.

What...the...? Drift goggled at the question. Thought this Ironfist was supposed to be smart or something. “Yes,” he snapped. “Real sword.” He didn’t trust himself to say anything more. Well, not with Perceptor just in the next room.

“Oh. It’s...real pretty.”

Drift glowered, one hand closing on a hip scabbard. “These swords are real, too,” he said, darkly.

“Drift.” Perceptor bent over, laying three cubes of energon onto the low table.

“Just making small talk,” he muttered, loosening his hand from around the hilt.

Perceptor frowned. “Yes,” he said, quietly. He looked over toward the chair. “I’ll just...sit over heee--!” Drift caught his wrist, tugging him back skillfully. The back of Perceptor’s knee bumped into Drift’s greave, buckling, dropping Perceptor heavily onto Drift’s lap.

“You can sit right here,” Drift said. He gave a grin. A little edged, but sincere--the warm thrum of Perceptor’s engines against him, the warmth of the heat sinks, was really, really reassuring. He wrapped his hands around Perceptor’s waist--partly for the touch but partly to prevent him from getting away. Mine.

“Drift!”

“What? This way we’re all together. Right?” Drift hid his smirk behind Perceptor’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t want anyone to feel left out or anything.” Like...me.

“I...yes. Fine.” Perceptor moved, awkwardly, draping an arm over Drift’s shoulders.

Ironfist was staring. Good, Drift thought. Get a good optic full. Perceptor. Mine. He nuzzled showily against the scope, grinning as Perceptor squirmed, as Drift tried to drown out the already-sappy theme music from the holovid.

[***]

“Drift.” Perceptor’s voice was quiet, as always, but Drift had learned to read a thousand different inflections even in that one syllable.Drift made a soft, sleepy grunt, snuggling against the red armor. A hand closed over his. “Drift.”

“Whut?” Drift murmured, optics dim with the recharge he’d fallen into, that had spared him from...whatever Sillybells had done with Klaxon. What. A. Shame. He rubbed his helm against the shoulder in front of him, nipping drowsily along the edge.

“Ironfist is gone.”

“Good.” Thought he’d never leave. Drift unlocked his hands, sliding one over the cool glassy chestplate, the other wandering down a thigh.

“Drift, please.” Perceptor plucked the hand off his thigh. “We need to talk.”

No. Talking was the last thing they needed to do. Or, looking at the stiffness of Perceptor’s face, the last thing Drift wanted to do. Perceptor looked...upset. “In the morning.”

“No.” Perceptor was implacable. “Now.”

Drift huffed. “Fine.”

“Ironfist.” Perceptor turned his upper body, facing Drift. He moved the arm that had been around Drift’s shoulders to rest on one spaulder.

Drift squirmed. “I really don’t want to talk about him.” He’d much rather run his hand down Perceptor’s lean, silver thigh.

Perceptor’s mouth was a thin line. He stopped Drift’s hand, covering it with one of his own. “Which is why we need to.”

Drift growled. “Fine. He’s...very nice.” The words tasted like rust.

“You don’t believe that.”

“I do.” ...not. Not at all. He felt himself go very still, under Perceptor’s weight.

“Drift. Don’t lie to me.”

Drift turned his head. “Fine. Can’t stand him.”

“He’s...innocuous.”

Drift shrugged. “Sure. Yeah.”

“What don’t you like about him?”

Everything. Drift ground his mouthplates, silent, dropping his gaze to Perceptor’s chassis.

“He’s...a little too curious.” Oh great, Drift thought. Stand up for the facemasked little geek. “And I know his manners are a little...clumsy. If he asks you something that makes you uncomfortable, you can just refuse to answer.”

What? “Uh yeah. That...hasn’t come up.”

“Then...?” Perceptor’s optics were all too intent. Confused, as if he’d thought he had the answer and was wrong. And Perceptor...wasn’t used to being wrong.

“Too close to you,” Drift blurted.

“Too...close.” Perceptor stopped. “You’re...,” he hesitated, tasting the next word as if it was the taste of an impossibility. “jealous?”

“Jealous? Me? No way. Of him? Come on, Perceptor. Why would I be jealous of a chunk like Ironfist?” See? Totally convincing.

“I don’t know. Why would you?”He...did not sound convinced, totally or otherwise.

Drift froze. He’d faced down countless enemies without the twinging terror he felt right now. “I...he knows you. From before.”

Perceptor blinked, digesting the information. Exactly like Perceptor--slow, methodical. “I’m...not who I was before, Drift.”

“Still--”

“He knows who I used to be. Not who I am. You do.” Perceptor hesitated, a little stunned by his own admission--the depths under the words, echoing deep.

“He knows science,” Drift said, weakly, holding on to the rancor, trying not to feel like a fool. And...failing.

“You,” Perceptor said, quietly, leaning in, “know me.” Light glimmered from his reticle optic as he ducked in, awkwardly, to brush his mouth over Drift’s. He wasn’t used to initiating. Drift wasn’t used to it either, going still, optics dimming at the light touch. Perceptor’s mouth pushed in, a bit more, nudging against Drift’s, inviting the mouth to open under his.

Drift responded, tipping his head back, bringing his hands up to the blocky armor of Perceptor’s shoulders. Perceptor twisted his hips around, coming to straddle Drift’s legs, knees on either side of the hips, bumping against the scabbards. His hands braced on the back of the couch, on either side. He lifted his mouth from Drift’s. “There’s no reason to be jealous,” he murmured.

Drift ground his optic shutters, embarrassed. He should have trusted Perceptor more. Shouldn’t have let his insecurity get in the way. Just that...Perceptor was all he really had, the only thing beyond the Great Sword that mattered to him. “I know,” he managed, dropping his gaze to the tapered red chassis.

A hand cupped his chin, tilting his face back up. Perceptor’s optics were intense, blazing with a rare light. “I’m yours,” he said, with the tone of voice of someone stating an absolute fact.

“I know,” Drift repeated, even less sure, this time. His hands floated down to the narrow waist, touching lightly, as if Perceptor were fragile. Or...as if his right to touch were the fragile thing.

“Then prove it,” Perceptor said.

Drift blinked, aware that his EM field just gave a pulse hard enough to slap against Perceptor’s. Thanks, systems, he thought. “What?”

Perceptor gave a quiet, throaty laugh. “Prove it, Drift.” He slid one hand down Drift’s body, squeezing at the white interface hatch. Drift’s body jolted. One corner of Perceptor’s mouth quirked up--not much of a smile, perhaps, but it was like the sun to Drift.

“I...,” Oh frag words. They were useless here. Always had been, come to think of it. Drift’s hands closed around Perceptor’s waist, hauling the body down against his. His mouth found Perceptor’s throat, the larger mech tipping his chin up to bare more, while he wriggled his own hips, bumping them up against Perceptor’s pelvic span. Mine, he thought. His hands slid over the hips, down the thighs, gripping at the sleek lines, black against silver. His ventilation rattled uneven, swamped with a desire mingled with possessiveness. “...want you,” he finally finished.

Perceptor’s hand moved between their bodies, his throat still opened to Drift’s mouth. He felt his way, semi-blind, first down his own frame, opening his panel, and then reaching down to Drift’s. Drift froze, nipping gently at a control cable, just compressing the mesh. His spinal struts arched into Perceptor’s touch as the hand fumbled over his panel, finding the release. He felt the warmth of a palm over his equipment covers, the long fingers feathering along the sensitive inner metal before retreating to circle the spike cover.

Drift made a short sound as his cover released, and Perceptor curled his hand around the spike that jutted out, leaping to pressure. He twitched as Perceptor rotated his palm, spreading the lubricant down the spike.

Perceptor tilted his head, gently disengaging his throat from Drift’s mouth. Drift looked up, his helm resting on the back of the couch. “So take me,” Perceptor said, solemnly.

Drift’s hands gripped around the black hipframe as Perceptor moved, guiding the spike into him. Drift gasped at the silky heat that enveloped his spike, his own hips surging upward, eager to own, to be owned. He growled, jamming his spike up to its limit, the bare metal of their panels pushed against each other. His optics burned against Perceptor’s as he began pushing into the valve, pressing his feet into the floor, hips lifting and rocking into Perceptor’s body, sliding against the spread silver thighs.

“Mine,” he whispered, watching Perceptor’s whole body rock with the tempo of his gentle thrusts. “Mine.” Mine to please, mine to touch. Mine to know. No one else’s. Perceptor was silent over him, hands clutching at the couch’s back, optics meeting Drift’s, mouth parted, his cooling systems humming from arousal. Drift was smaller, but more powerful--he could bodily lift Perceptor, his stronger legs rocking Perceptor’s entire mass, his spike burying itself hard and deep, like a sword finding its sheath. Drift couldn’t tear his gaze from Perceptor’s face, aroused, open, shyly wanting. Wanting him.

A quiet, punctuated moan escaped Perceptor’s vocalizer, and Drift could feel the hands bunch into the back of the couch, as if gripping for life. The valve shivered against him, a tender, delicate ripple, as he slowed his thrusts, drawing it out, building the charge, the tension, slowly. Mine. My control.

Until he lost it--his whole body shuddering, his spike impaling the valve above it. His legs went rigid, jamming his spike to its base into Perceptor, his head thrown back, hands clutching at the black metal, mouth clamped over a cry.

Perceptor convulsed above him, against him, around him, the couch’s back cracking from Perceptor’s grip. His vocalizer made no sound, but his tank engine roared on, the vibrations shaking through his frame. The sound was so sudden, so abrupt, bursting across the earnest silence of the room that Drift burst into laughter.

“I...that was...not funny,” Perceptor said, abashed, as Drift lowered his hips, sinking down with them, twitching and shivering as the motion shifted the spike across his nodes.

Drift curled up, moving his hands from the hips to around the chassis, pulling Perceptor down on top of him, his own chassis vibrating with laughter. He tilted his head up, pulling the frowning mouth into a kiss. “Yes, it was.” He wriggled his hips against Perceptor’s, grinning as the larger mech squirmed. “And...thank you.”