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Perceptor rested against the opening of his hide site, sharp optics scanning the ground below for any signs of danger. It was his first legit shift since becoming a Wrecker and he had to admit that it was nice to be away from the others, for once. They were always asking him why he did what he did, why the sudden change of spark, what bothered him so much; he never replied with anything more than just “I have my reasons.”
After about an hour or so of playing watchman for Kup and his team, Perceptor’s mind began to wander. He wouldn’t even be there if it weren’t for a certain sword toting mech, and said mech had occupied his thoughts ever since that fateful day.
Oh, Drift was a beautiful Cybertronian. He was sleek and handsome, and those majestic, touchable finials adorning his helm were begging for the sniper’s skilled hands. Perceptor would be lying if he said he didn’t want the swordsman.
He could already feel his core temperature rise at the thought of subduing the former Decepticon. The thought of Drift’s gruff voice in his audial, moaning and mewling for his spike, sent a shiver up the sniper’s spinal strut.
Unable to take it any longer, Perceptor retracted his pelvic plating, his spike pressurizing almost instantly. He sat his rifle aside and moved into a comfortable position before lightly trailing his fingertips along the underside of his length. The sniper imagined Drift’s touch, how he would tease the prominent ridges and the smooth lines along the sides. His engine rumbled as he slipped his long fingers around the base, giving a gentle tug.
If only Drift felt the same way… If only he could have the mech’s valve stretching around his hard spike. Perceptor began to tease the tip, trembling as he brushed his thumb over the slit, smearing the fluid already collecting there.
“Drift…”
He tilted his head back, optics dimming. Yes, he wouldn’t last much longer, not with thoughts of his savior occupying his mind.
Perceptor’s lips parted as his hand quickened…
“Need some help?”
The sniper slowed his movements, optics locked on the intruder. Drift had managed to sneak into his hideout; how long has he been watching? Without another word, the swordsman moved in and knelt between Perceptor’s thighs.
“I had no idea you felt this way,” he purred, leaning closer, slipping his hand around Perceptor’s spike. The sniper felt a growl erupt from his vocalizer as Drift began to pump his hand along his ridged length. He had to fight the urge to tackle the mech to the floor and fuck him senseless—no, he didn’t want to ruin it.
As Perceptor made to look away from Drift, the latter promptly took his chin and forced the sniper to stare into his optics. “I want to see your face when you overload.”
“Drift,” he gasped.
“I can feel it, Perceptor…”
“Please…”
The swordsman brought his hand to the head, his thumb swiping over the tip before sliding back down to give the base a light tug. His hand came up to grip Drift’s arm as he arched against the wall, his features twisting into a blissful expression as the transfluid escaped his spike.
Drift gave a few more strokes before slowly pulling away to lick the silvery fluid from his fingers, amused at how intent Perceptor was in watching. “Would you like some company for the remainder of your shift?”
“… I… I would like that, Drift.”