Night Visit

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW/G1
Drift/Perceptor
sticky

Don't try to fit this into the ongoing plotline.  This, technically, fits somewhere in AHM, after Percy does his badass sniping of the icky monster thing right over Drift's shoulder. (The actual story with plot will be pnp, but hey, moar smut is better, right?)
for decepticon41  who asked for some sticky for them!  

Perceptor jolted awake at the tug on his rifle, his black fingers clutching automatically, in the darkness, for the cool familiar barrel.  His optics whirled to lowlight, his reticle searching for a lock. 

A soft laugh. “So you really do sleep with this thing.”  Blue optics glinted in the darkness, which slowly resolved to a white helm.  Drift.

“Doesn’t do to be unprepared,” Perceptor said.  He forced his black fingers to relax their grip.  Not letting go entirely, but enough not to appear—he hoped—compulsive.

“We’re safe here,” Drift said, dropping one knee onto the berth next to Perceptor’s hip. As though he were invited. As though this were planned.  And Perceptor found he did not mind the presumption.  “And besides, sniper rifles aren’t good for close in.”  He tapped one of his scabbards, with a teasing grin of superiority.  Blades, to Drift, were far superior. 

Perceptor shrugged, pushing up onto one elbow. “War is unpredictable,” he said. He didn’t want to admit, even to Drift, the comfort he derived from the hard barrel, the pressure of the sight against his cheek.  But he had a feeling that even so, Drift understood. 

Drift ran one finger down the fluted barrel, his enigmatic half-smile curving on his lips.  “Pretty,” he observed. 

Perceptor hadn’t really thought about it, in terms of aesthetics.  “The fluting increases surface area of the barrel so it doesn’t overheat from multiple fires.”  Pretty didn’t matter.  Except for Drift who was…beautiful.  And here.  Why?

“Ah,” Drift said, his grin broadening.  “And this?” His fingers curled over the broad, flanged muzzle brake covering the barrel’s mouth.

“Dissipates recoil and prevents muzzle rise.”  Perceptor’s own fingers brushed the brake, possessive.  He knew every micron of his weapon:  what it did, why it was the way it was, how it functioned, how it might break, how to repair it.  In a way, it was the most intimate relationship he’d ever had.

Drift’s fingers moved from the muzzle brake, one fingertip riding over the back of Perceptor’s knuckle.  Perceptor’s hand went still, frozen. “You,” Drift said, his voice husky, “are wound too tightly.”  

“I—“ Perceptor could not even formulate a response, before Drift bent down, pressing his mouth against Perceptor’s.  He took advantage of Perceptor’s open mouth, probing his glossa past the startled lips, brushing Perceptor’s glossa with his own, sending a bright cascade of current tingling through Perceptor’s sensor net. And then he withdrew, pulling away, his weight balanced on his one hip, and one palm flat on the berth, the other still curling over Perceptor’s on the muzzle brake.  He pinched, gently, Perceptor’s lower lip plate between his, giving it one last flick of his glossa before he finally relented, releasing it. 

The shoulder servo Perceptor’s weight was on trembled, as if overtaxed, his sensor net ablaze with unfamiliar but not unwelcome sensation. 

Drift bent closer, and Perceptor found himself tilting his head up for another kiss, only to have the white helm pass by his mouth, to whisper in his audio, as Drift’s hand pushed his shoulder flat against the berth, “You need to loosen up,  Perceptor.” 

For some reason, perhaps, Perceptor thought, something about the oscillation frequency of Drift’s voice, resonating against his core frequency, or the tangle of their EM fields, but the words sent an almost electric shock skittering over his systems.

Drift laughed, sliding the cheek lamellar over Perceptor’s in an intimate nuzzle, letting his hand travel in a wandering line from Perceptor’s shoulder, down his chassis, over the round swell of his vacuum-sealed hoses, to the black flat panel on his pelvic span.  He twitched.

“See?” Drift murmured.  “Too tight.” 

“Focused,” he argued, his hands fluttering, nervously, not knowing what to do. Stop Drift’s wandering, suggestive hand? He…did not want to.   

“Too much tension destroys itself,” Drift said, ducking in to lick his glossa over Perceptor’s mouthplates.  They tingled at the contact, the live current somehow sweet, like the Seeker-grade energon he’d sipped once, at Kup’s insistence.  He hadn’t enjoyed the experience, then—an intoxicant for its own sake, as Kup drank to forget, when Percepter so desperately wanted to remember.

But this was different, and he found himself leaning up into it, moving his mouthplates, trying to prolong the contact, the delicate, sweet touch. 

He felt Drift’s mouth stretch into a smile against his, before parting, inviting Perceptor’s own shy kiss, even as Drift’s hand opened the catch on his interface panel, the sword-trained fingers sliding over his equipment covers, stroking, caressing the warmed metal.  Perceptor’s hands reached for Drift’s shoulders, his optics drifting closed, letting his physical awareness take over the load of interpreting data, focusing on the tactile, the cool satin smoothness of Drift’s broad spaulders, the sensual velvet brush of their EM fields, and over all, Drift’s hand, growing more and more insistent on his equipment covers, strokes varying from feathery gentleness to a rough, almost painful scrape. 

His spike cover released with an embarrassing click, his spike pressurizing, the node scraping over the cover even as it retracted, causing him to shudder.  He twisted his hips, mortified by his lack of control of his own desire, but Drift, over him, gave a pleased, sensual purr, wrapping his palm around the spike. 

Perceptor’s optics flew open as Drift’s hand gave an almost expert, teasing squeeze at the spike, opening to blue optics laughing down at him, pleased and aroused, hot with desire. 

I should, he thought, reciprocate. I should not simply lie here, selfish, greedy, taking.  I have taken too much already.  His hands moved, down Drift’s back, feeling his way awkwardly down the broad scabbard where the great sword perched, haft over Drift’s head like a miniature halo.

Drift broke the kiss to murmur, softly, the sound vibrating against Perceptor’s mouth, “Lie still.”

“But—“

“Too tight,” Drift said, moving his mouth to brush Perceptor’s helm crest.  “Up here, always on, always thinking, always under pressure.”  He squeezed the spike in his hand. “Let go and let things happen.  Let go of control.” 

Perceptor’s hands fell away, curling into nervous emptiness, wanting to do, but not knowing what to do, and it struck him that Drift was right. He was always trying to figure out what he should be doing, worrying about what he was doing, and not just…letting go.

“Better,” Drift murmured.  His hand moved on the spike, pulling, twisting, lubricant slick and wet between his fingers.  Perceptor's optics dimmed, and he felt his vent cycle pick up, almost as if…almost as if Drift was feeling this, too, aroused by Perceptor’s response, his own control over Perceptor’s systems. 

Perceptor shuddered at the thought, his spike twitching between Drift’s fingers.  He turned his face toward Drift’s, inviting a kiss. “This much?” he asked.

Drift stirred from his reverie, the smile that Perceptor had come so quickly to associate with him warm on his mouth. “Yes.  This much.”  He lowered his mouth to Perceptor’s, a delighted sigh rippling between them. 

His tugs on Perceptor’s spike became more insistent, demanding.  Perceptor felt his thighs tremble under tension, an overload charge building behind the capacitors. He could feel as well as hear a soft growl building in Drift’s throat, a hint of some feralness from his past, a hunger he parceled out to himself in careful doses, his kiss growing more forceful as well, glossa probing in, possessive and still somehow wanting.

Perceptor’s hands jumped into fists, banging on the berth as his hips bucked up, no longer able to withstand the building current, the overload ripping through his systems, his illusions of control.  A cry bubbled in his vocalizer and he tore his mouth from Drift’s, burying his face in the white throat, nearly biting into the cables in the paroxysm of sensation that swept over him.  Drift tilted his head, opening the gap for Perceptor’s mouth, his own lips jarred and bruised from Perceptor’s shattered kiss. 

His hips quivered, transfluid hot and slick between them, on his chassis, on Drift’s.  Drift continued stroking the spike, gently, coaxing the last shudder, the last jolt of overload from it before he withdrew his silver-stained hand. 

Perceptor fell back against the berth, an apology building on his lips, reticle focusing on the half-arc dent in one of Drift’s throat-cables. 

“Don’t you dare,” Drift said, pressing a lubricant- and transfluid-wet finger over Perceptor’s lips, keeping them closed.

Perceptor could smell the metal tang of his own transfluid on Drift’s fingers, and the salt-ion of his own lubricant.  His vents juddered from him, sated and yet aroused by the scent.  He flicked his glossa, cautious, shy, against Drift’s fingers, tasting Drift, tasting himself, his optics lidding with a post-coital languor. 

He could feel, even without seeing, Drift smile over him, and then bend down, and lick his own fingers, then parting them, glossa sliding between his fingers over Perceptor’s lips. 

Perceptor moved, raising one hand to touch Drift’s helm, to bring him closer, taste more of the kiss.

A loud clatter, as Perceptor’s elbow bumped the folded bipod of his rifle, knocking it off the berth, onto  the floor.

“If you,” Drift murmured, mouth on Perceptor’s, hand moving to stroke Perceptor’s lean, silver cheek, “even think of going after that….” 

 

Comments

[gatekat.livejournal.com]

Reading Percy as the aggressor would make me *so* happy.