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NC-17
IDW mid AHM ish
Drift/Perceptor
Sticky
Another de-anoned kink meme request. 
 

 

The hand on Perceptor’s shoulder startled him, just for an instant, his hand closing reflexively over one pistol. Despite the fact they were in the Citadel, were—nominally— safe.

“Won’t need that,” Drift’s voice was hoarse, his other hand closing on Perceptor’s wrist. He pulled back, turning Perceptor around, pushing him back against the wall. His mouth found Perceptor’s, nudging into it, fiercely, rising up on his toeplates to negate the height difference, leaning his weight. Perceptor’s arms reached around him before recoiling.

He tore his mouth away, concerned. “Drift, what are you--?” His hands, his forearms, were yellow-green and smeary and tacky. 

“Swarm goo,” Drift said, distracted, pushing forward, his arms closing on Perceptor’s waist.

Swarm…goo. He was coated in it, streaking his white armor, dark and clotty against the black. “You should rinse off,” Perceptor said. Who knew what sort of deleterious effect the fluid might have? The Swarm were mindless, vicious experiments, some sort of cloned virus, infinitely replicating. Their fluids were most likely contaminated.

Perceptor might have known if…he still did that. But the small, impromptu lab the Autobots had set up in the reinforced basement of the Citadel was no place for him. He’d felt it immediately the one time he’d dared cross the threshold, a sort of cold dead hopelessness, like trying to kindle a fire from ashes. But still, he had enough caution to insist that the ‘goo’ should be washed off. 

“Later,” Drift said, rubbing his pelvic armor against Perceptor’s. “Something else now.”

Perceptor frowned, bracing his hands on the white shoulder armor. “Now, Drift.” 

Drift growled. Perceptor rarely used that tone with him. “Fine,” he said, pushing back, sinking his weight back into his heel plates. Until a corner of his mouth quirked. He tapped Perceptor’s chassis, stained with the yellow gunk from where it had come in contact with Drift’s armor. “You, too, then.” 

[***]

Warm cleanser poured over their bodies, a slippery fall of the clear liquid, pelting over their armor, seeping into seams, sliding sensuously over the inner systems. Perceptor had never considered it anything more than simply functional before. Then again, he’d never had Drift—an aroused Drift—with him before. A Drift who was scrubbing at Perceptor’s frame, optics blazing blue with barely-contained lust. 

“Clean enough?” Drift asked. He gave a light swab over Perceptor’s pelvic armor. He’d refused to let Perceptor move, positioning him under the cleanser tap like a statue, before taking up the brush.

“I was referring to you.” Perceptor shivered, even in the warmth of the cleanser—Drift’s ministrations sending brush-bristle prickles of pleasure over his sensor net, his armor awake and alive to touch.

Drift shrugged, easily, before his optics brightened. “Ah, forgot to clean this.” He snapped open the interface hatch, fingers rubbing over the equipment covers. “Important.”

“That,” Perceptor choked, feeling the warm rush of his valve nodes firing on, “wasn’t dirty.”

Drift winked up at him, one of those looks no one had given Perceptor, ever. One of those intimate, teasing glances that kindled something even stronger than obligation. “It will be.” 

[***]

Perceptor’s vents spluttered in the puddles, warm cleanser raining down over him, partially blocked by Drift’s body over him. Drift body rocked, sharp, intense moves, matching the tempo at which he thrust himself into Perceptor. His spike was hot, friction and pressure, one hand hooked under Perceptor’s right knee, the other bracing over the red shoulder. His optics locked with Perceptor’s, fierce blue, his mouth open, halfway between moaning and growling.

Perceptor’s own hands clutched around the shoulders, not blocking, not constraining Drift’s movements, but feeding some inexpressible, fragile, need to touch. Perceptor fought with his own desire, determined to hold it off, delay it. His own desire wasn’t important: Drift’s was. He wanted nothing to distract from it, especially not his own response. This was for Drift. Any pleasure Perceptor got out of it was secondary. 

Still, he gave a soft, rhythmic moan--the soft caresses of the falling cleanser, the trickles over his armor from where it runneled off Drift’s frame, contrasting with the demanding thrusts, sent sensation skirling around, delicate and fierce, sweet and forceful all at once, mixing into a gentle storm over Perceptor’s sensor net. And Drift seemed enflamed by the sound, his own vents hitching, optics glowing over from the shadow of his face. 

Drift’s hand tightened over Perceptor’s thigh, giving a low, feral growl as his body juddered into overload, heat bursting over the warmth of the cleanser, the electrical burst a sharp charge over Perceptor’s valve nodes, sparking him, despite his best attempts to hold back, into his own release, his thighs gripping around Drift’s body, compresssing the hip scabbards, his body bucking and rising against the white frame, mouth open around the sound he had managed to quell.

“Oh,” he managed, finally, tension releasing from his joints, softening against the wet floor. His hands stroked over the shoulders, not entirely sure this was...allowed. 

Drift’s optics burned, possessive, sated, as he bent down, mouth seeking Perceptor’s. “Mine,” he murmured, just as their mouths met, sharing the word like a bond between them.

[***]

“I’m fine,” Drift insisted, trying to twist out of Perceptor’s grasp. “I’ve fought before, you know.”

“I know.” Perceptor sighed. He lay the microsprayer aside. No sense unless Drift would actually hold still. 

“Got energon on me before,” Drift added. “Not a big deal.”

“This isn’t energon,” Perceptor said quietly. He wished for a fleeting moment he could still justify tearing down to the lab, shutting his process tree to any other demands than that of scientific curiosity. Selfishness. How had he not seen how selfish he was? “Better safe than sorry.” Or dead. Lost too many already to the Swarm. Still, he could insist on decontamination.   Proper decontamination.

Drift gave an aggrieved sigh. “Not going to leave me alone about this.”

Perceptor simply shook his head.

Drift glowered, frustrated. “Do it fast, then.” 

Perceptor blinked. 

“What? Come on. Get it over with. Get back to something...more interesting.” He let his gaze travel up Perceptor’s chassis, in blatant hint.

Perceptor fought the temptation. Drift needed proper decontamination, first. “Yes,” he said, simply, gesturing for Drift to sit back down.

Drift plopped down onto the stool Perceptor had drawn up, flipping one of his hip sheaths aside with a quick, graceful gesture. “Didn’t we just hit the washracks?” he muttered.

“Want to make sure. Check for pitting or corroding from the....uh...Swarm goo.” He frowned at the term.  

“Fine,” Drift grumbled, but he settled down. Apparently even he saw the dangers in armor corrosion. 

Perceptor waited a beat, before regathering his tools. He worked in silence, using the microsprayer and a small probe, scraping at the tight joins in Drift’s helm.

“Anything?” Drift said, abruptly. 

Startled, Perceptor twitched, his wrist jumping, spraying microspray cleanser over the rise of one of Drift’s helm finials before he shut it off. “Sorry,” he said, swiftly, palming the tools, reaching for a cleansing rag, embarrassed by his twitch. The downside, he figured, of his boosted reflexes. 

“It’s okay,” Drift said, twitching his head away as Perceptor reached with the rag. 

Perceptor’s mouth flattened; he reached resolutely for the finial, clamping his hand around it. He dried it briskly with the rag. Drift jolted upright for a klik, gasping at the touch, almost as if it hurt. Perceptor released most of the tension, swabbing more delicately at the finial. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “It wasn’t my intention to hurt.”

“It’s fine,” Drift said, but his voice lacked its usual edge. He tilted his head, almost into Perceptor’s touch. Some apology for twitching, Perceptor figured. He finished wiping the finial, carefully, laying the rag down. “Other side,” Drift murmured, optics lidded.

“What?”

“Do the other side.” Drift’s optics brightened. “What? Don’t want me to be uneven.” 

Perceptor cocked his head, but...all right. Maybe Drift finally saw the point in making sure. He rolled his work stool around to Drift’s other side. Drift didn’t complain, not even once, as he worked along the armor seams. He could feel the slow, steady pulse of Drift’s EM field, stable and calm against his front as he worked. Trust, he thought. Drift didn’t let many mechs get close to him, physically or otherwise. It was...indescribably gratifying to Perceptor that Drift let him. 

Done. Perceptor turned, with some regret, to put down his tools. “I saw no damage,” he reported.

Drift still sat there. “Dry it off.”

Perceptor blinked.

“Dry it off.” He hesitated. “ Please.”

Perplexed, Perceptor picked up the rag. It was possible that the fine spray cleanser itched or something. And not like he’d pass up an opportunity to touch Drift. He cautiously swabbed at the base of the finial, then, slowly, up the length. Drift sighed, his engine rumbling. 

“Drift?”

“What?” Drift sounded almost drowsy. Well, Perceptor thought, he had had a long shift. It made sense it would finally catch up with him. “It feels good,” Drift added. He tilted his head into Perceptor’s hand.

Oh. Perceptor lay the rag aside, stroking the white flare of metal experimentally. The blue optics dimmed. Drift lowered his helm, turning it toward Perceptor, inviting the touch. Perceptor stroked with the tips of his fingers, gentle on the enamel, up the length of the finial, then again, tracing the swoop from Drift’s forehelm up into the white projection. Drift gave a contented sound, one hand curling on Perceptor’s thigh. 

Hrm. No, Perceptor thought. Drift must be exhausted. He needed sleep more than he needed another round of interfacing. “Time for recharge,” he said, giving one last, light stroke up the finial. He expected resistance, the hand to clutch around his hip, Drift to make some saucy complaint. Drift nodded, slowly, optics, when he turns his face to Perceptor’s, warm and dim.

[***]

Drift always recharged in the most uncomfortable positions. This time, he was face down on Perceptor’s chassis, nasal smushed against the heavy chestplate. One arm stretched up past Perceptor’s helm, the other flopped out to the side, his legs tangled with Perceptor’s. Perceptor lay still, not wanting to move, to risk waking him. 

Perceptor couldn’t remember how they’d gotten into this awkward position, but he found it strangely comforting. No one had ever recharged with him, at least, not with this level of comfort and abandon, as though Drift let down his guard entirely. 

Drift made a querulous sound, one hand curling on air, twitching as if in the very verge of a bad memory purge.

The two sharp spines of the finials jutted over Drift’s head, floating over Perceptor’s face. He remembered the way Drift had softened against him earlier when he’d stroked them. It was...worth a chance. It might relax him again.

Or Drift might jerk awake and punch him. It was Drift.

But even so, it would be worth it: Drift needed rest, proper recharge, especially if he was bent on throwing himself back into the Swarm like that. Better to wake him from a bad purge than let it wrap its claws around him, pull him under.

Perceptor brought one hand up slowly, stretching the back of one finger to brush, lightly, tentatively, along the sweep of the finial. Drift sighed on top of him, tightened joints loosening. Encouraged, Perceptor stroked again. Another shifting of the white and black frame on top of him, one hand curling against his armor. Perceptor continued gently petting the finial, fascinated, as Drift gave a contented mewing little sigh against him, a sound Perceptor had  never heard him make before.

Perceptor edged his other arm out from under Drift’s outflung thigh, reaching cautiously for the other finial. Drift purred against him, snuggling tighter for a moment before wriggling his way up, optics half-lidded and dim, to brush his mouth against Perceptor’s. 

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Perceptor whispered.

“Don’t mind,” Drift said, dreamily. He tilted his head, suggestively, until Perceptor brought his hand up, obediently, stroking at the finial. Drift rumbled against him, hands clutching slowly around Perceptor’s shoulders. Drift’s mouth found his again, in a strange, gentle, seeking kiss. Their mouthplates met, moving over each other, Drift’s glossa almost shy, not daring to intrude. Perceptor let his other hand slide over the shoulder, down Drift’s back, pressing against the thinner black plating on Drift’s waist. He loved the feel of Drift’s body under his hands, but so rarely got to touch, to explore the contours, the textures of Drift’s exotic armor. 

Drift moaned against him, the sound vibrating through their joined lips, his hips rocking against Perceptor’s. Perceptor let his fingers wander lower, over the heavy hipframe, down the back of the pelvic mounting. Drift shuddered over him, hands kneading into the red shoulder panels. Drift arched his head back, breaking from the kiss, and Perceptor saw the bared expanse of the smaller mech’s throat above him, open, vulnerable.

Perceptor tilted his head up, nipping gently at the exposed cables, wanting to touch, to feel while the opportunity was offered. Drift gasped, hands hooking hard into his armor, body squirming over Perceptor’s, sending a warm shiver of pleasure through him. Perceptor curled up, half-sitting, pulling Drift against him, feeling the dark thighs slide and grip over his hips. For a few moments, there was nothing in the dimness but the earnest huffs of their ventilation, the sleek scrape of metal on metal, the faint half-whimper of Drift’s arousal. Perceptor’s desire was a silent thing, by comparison, but no less intense.

Drift twisted, his palms reaching for the berth, thighs sliding off Perceptor’s black pelvic frame, arching his back under Perceptor’s hand. Perceptor rolled to his knees, intrigued, letting Drift slither onto the berth, his black hands roaming over the smaller mech’s armor--the shoulders, the ribstruts, flirting with the undersides of the scabbards, and up and back along the arms. Drift gave a longing sigh, half-somnolent, moving under Perceptor’s touch. Curious. And more curious--Drift seemed almost limp, inclined to lie still and be stroked. Which he...never did. Barely tolerated uninvited touches. 

“Drift,” Perceptor murmured, kneeling over the outstretched white frame.

“Mmm?” Drift wriggled sinuously, his fingers kneading the berth. Perceptor felt a shimmer of desire: Drift, letting himself be touched, wanting the contact. He leaned forward to stroke one of the finials again, the other wandering down the line of the chassis as it flowed to the rib struts, the thinner waist, then the sudden flare into the heavy pelvic housing.. Drift’s optics, only half-visible, his cheek on the berth, were dim and wide with pleasure, his EM field pulsing against Perceptor’s front.

“Are you...well?” That...wasn’t even close to what he was trying to ask, but Perceptor couldn’t seem to find the right words to ask. 

“Yessss,” Drift purred, arching his neck into Perceptor’s touch. The optics flicked sidelong up at Perceptor. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Perceptor answered, perplexed. Still, part of him thrummed with desire at Drift’s unusual laxness, tension seeming drained from his frame. He bent lower, leaning into that plushness of electromagnetic force, his one hand, emboldened by Drift’s gentle whimpers, sliding between the squirming thighs.  

“Oh!” The soft cry was striking from Drift’s vocalizer, a helpless, wanting mew. The hips wormed against Perceptor’s hand in completely unambiguous invitation. Perceptor felt his interface systems blaze, his EM flaring against Drift’s, the hard fuzz of it eliciting another squirm from the body beneath. Drift’s interface hatch bumped against Perceptor’s fingers. His own ventilations coming unsteadily, Perceptor’s hand brushed against the equipment covers, hesitating as the valve cover snicked quietly open under his touch.

His own spike surged behind its housing, wanting nothing more than to bury itself in Drift. He fought himself, letting his fingers simply circle the rim of the valve, feeling Drift shudder beneath him, hands clutching at nothing. Drift’s desire was intoxicating to him: Perceptor felt his own optics dim, giddy with the control he had over the white mech’s response. He ran his other hand up the bare channel along Drift’s spinal struts, where, during the day, the Great Sword rested. It felt...intimate. Vulnerable. Exposed. Touching it felt like touching trust itself.

Drift shuddered and Perceptor’s hand traveled along the shoulder and out, covering the white hand-armor with his own black palm, letting their fingers intertwine. 

“Do you want me to--?” 

He felt Drift panting beneath him, struggling with the admission, wondering if this was some test, some game. “Yes,” Drift said, finally, optics flickering shut for a klik, as if shutting himself from what he’d just admitted. 

Perceptor squeezed his hand in Drift’s, while his other regretfully left the sleek smaller frame with one last gentle tweak at a scabbard, snapping open his own hatch. He cycled a vent, almost shivering with his own desire. He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted this until now. 

Drift gave a groan as Perceptor rocked forward, his spike nosing slowly, gently, into the valve. He forced himself to move slowly, letting the valve cycle open, adjust to his presence, his free hand supporting his weight off of Drift’s back. Drift’s optics floated closed, the mouth open in a gentle, half-surprised expression of intensity, burying himself in the sensation, in the moment, not trusting himself to form words.

Perceptor had no ability to do that either, right then, his hip frame twitching and quivering as the valve calipers cinched, haltingly, down against the girth of his spike. Drift turned his head, his cheek against the cool metal of the berth, optics unfocussed on the teal armor of Perceptor’s forearm. 

Perceptor vented, releasing the heated air in a slow, juddering sigh, rocking carefully against Drift’s body, ready to stop the moment Drift showed any discomfort. It was...odd to consider Drift as ‘fragile’. But this was some wide vulnerability he’d never shown before and Perceptor felt the trust as a palpable thing, thick and sweet like honey, and he was determined not to endanger that.

Drift moved beneath him, his own hips shifting against Perceptor’s, matching Perceptor’s slow, even thrusts, extending the motion: arching up into the thrust, easing down from the off-stroke.

Perceptor eased his weight onto Drift’s body, covering him, pulling one knee to lift up Drift’s hip, changing the angle, feeling Drift’s dark thigh hot and smooth over his. 

He bent lower, nuzzling against the finial, feeling Drift quiver beneath him. “I want you,” Perceptor said, barely above a whisper. Drift whimpered, raising his cheek, optics yearning, studying and finding something in Perceptor’s expression that wracked another shudder through his frame. Drift’s other hand groped for Perceptor’s, clinging to it, his strong swordsmech’s hands squeezing against Perceptor’s, black against black.

Perceptor’s desire crested, Drift’s body twisting under him enflaming him, a white hot fire scattering sparks over his sensor net. He heard himself panting, hoarsely, burying his face in the gap between Drift’s helm and shoulders, his dentae gritting down on the back of Drift’s neck, his breath hot and possessive. 

Drift’s body jolted underneath his, the hands squeezing against Perceptor’s, shoulders straining as the overload shocked through Drift’s body. The frame bucked up against Perceptor’s chassis, valve hypercalibrated, squeezing forcefully against the spike.   Perceptor’s dentae sank into a mesh hose, as he stifled the high growl of his own overload, feeling the scalding jerk of his spike against the tight calipers, Drift’s body shivering and yielding beneath him.

They sagged down to the berth, Perceptor’s heavier weight on Drift’s, legs tangled, hands gripping each other against the flat berth, neither wanting to be the first to move or speak, to endanger this fragile thing between them. Slowly, regretfully, Perceptor released his grip on the cable, resting his lean cheek against the white span of Drift’s helm. 

Drift sighed, joints hissing releases of tension, melting against the berth. He drew one of his hands toward him, bringing Perceptor’s hand to his mouth, pressing his lip plates against the jut of Perceptor’s thumb. 

“Want me to move?” Perceptor asked, gently. He outweighed Drift by quite a bit; he had to be crushing Drift. 

“No,” Drift murmured. Perceptor saw his optics dimming, his engines cycling down toward recharge, his valve still quivering slickly against Perceptor’s spike, “No.”

 

 

 

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