Work Text:
Drift holds Perceptor's waist tighter when he starts to fidget.
"Stop moving," Drift rumbles, mandible resting on Perceptor's shoulder. "Told you not to."
Perceptor bites at his bottom lip and in-vents, slow and intentional so he doesn't lose it completely.
When this had just been an idea that Drift had proposed to him, it had seemed harmless enough. Perceptor lets Drift warm his spike in his aft port while his waste tank was full. A little foreign to Perceptor, sure, but he's able to respect the fact that Drift seemed very candid and bashful in the way that he'd explained how much this would turn him on. And, not one to deny Drift anything that he wants, Perceptor usually finds it within his spark to experiment.
And it was easy at first, that's the thing. Deceptively easy, even, to sit here with his datapad while Drift would lazily thrust in and out of his aft for a few kliks at a time. The reality of this arrangement, however, had only hit Perceptor squarely when there had been multiple warnings about voiding his tanks popping up in his HUD.
That makes it painfully real, and faced with the act of having to relieve himself like this fills him with terrible anxiety edged with a sick sense of arousal, made only worse by every throb that Drift's spike gives inside of him.
It hurts— Perceptor ought to curl in on himself, angle in any other way that makes his tanks feel less heavy. He's never paid much attention to the sensation of holding it in like this, as much as he finds himself distracted with lab work and forgetting to empty them.
Drift speaks, then. "You need to void your tanks yet?"
It’s hard to push the words out, even. Shame is usually something he doles out when it comes to Drift, never something that he spares for himself, exactly. To be on the receiving end of this an intense, unfamiliar thrill. Perceptor bows his helm, ashamed to murmur out a yes in response.
A glutton for punishment; if only Perceptor didn't find so much pleasure in his indignification.
"Go on, then," Drift says, tone airy and affected, "if you need to."
Perceptor does try to relax— even then, absurdly, he finds himself growing incredibly shy. Despite the way his tank aches beneath his midsection plating and the evermore frequent pop-ups in his HUD, Perceptor stupidly finds himself unable to.
Drift's grip on Perceptor's hips falters a little as Perceptor feels the bot's EM field flare with concern. "It's okay if you can't or don't want to, Percy, we don't have to—"
"I want to," Perceptor cuts in, evenly, and his tone would make one believe that he wasn't affected by this at all. Drift would almost be offended if he didn't feel how shivery the scientist was around him, on his lap.
"Let me help," Drift purrs, leaning to kiss the shell of Perceptor's finial. Drift's digits start their slow slide down Perceptor's midsection, stopping as they dip inwards with the curve of Perceptor's exposed valve. The first slide of his fingers is nice, but the second pass is wetter and Perceptor shivers, tensing. That squeezes Drift's spike inside of him, and the mech gives a throaty groan from behind him as his white digits move to worry Perceptor's node beneath them.
Snaking his other hand from Perceptor's hip to now let his back fall flush to his chassis, Drift palms over where Perceptor's tanks lie beneath his plating and presses in, soft at first. Perceptor gives a sharp whine in return, the pressure on both ends suddenly feeling constricting. The tip of Drift's spike presses blunt inside of him, just shy of his tank and the feeling of urgency is driving Perceptor perhaps a little insane. The whole thing is, really. How much the other mech throbs inside of him, how eager Drift is to make Perceptor make a mess of himself.
"Drift," Perceptor murmurs, urgent, "It's— I can't hold it."
Delighted, the laugh that the mech behind him barks is nothing short of wicked. Drift's hand gives a quick circling of Perceptor's node and he bullies his hips upwards in a curt, sharp motion. Perceptor squeaks, voicebox static-thick, and a spurt of piss that Perceptor can't tense enough to hold in trickles down both of their thighs, onto the berthsheet below.
"Please," Drift rasps. "Give it to me, come on, Percy, please—"
Reflexively, Perceptor tries to clench down, hunch forward, to fight it. Too little, too late, however, and Perceptor's EM field flares a distinct snap of shame as the rest comes spilling out with a distinct gushing sound accompanying it.
The noise that Drift makes is nothing short of strangled, and his reaction makes Perceptor feel stupid. Almost reverent in the way that he's gasping as he whispers Primus, oh, Percy, Percy, disbelieving and infatuated.
Pressing his helm into Perceptor's shoulder, Drift begins to thrust upwards into his aft port, quick jerks of his hips that sends the arcs of piss further across the berthsheet, soaking through. When he's purely chasing his own pleasure in the wake of Perceptor defiling himself, Drift wears his desire so openly. A notion that would normally make Perceptor's spark soar, and he reasons it probably still would if he wasn't so humiliated.
"Just a klik," Drift manages, breathless between thrusts, "just need a klik."
Perceptor wants nothing more than to go to the washracks, scrub himself so vigorously he shines like he's new. Though underneath the shame, the filth, he feels strangely prideful to have made Drift so wild for it, to have pleased him so thoroughly.
Traitorously, Perceptor feels himself growing wet now that his tank is completely voided. Drift barely acknowleges him through his babbling, and continues to thrust all the same. Drift's vents feel hot on his shoulder and condensation clings to his plating as his spike worries a cluster of Perceptor's interior nodes.
"Just need a— a klik, Percy, I promise," Drift whines, "just a klik and I'll clean you up."