Caught (up)

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW
Drift/Blurr
sticky, minor dominance play, PWP
for tf_rare_pairing  prompt: Drift/Blurr too fast too furious
respective characterizations taken from their Spotlights.


“Come on,” Blurr said, pushing Drift back against the wall, purring his engines against him. “I’ll let you use your pretty little knives on me.” His hands curled around Drift’s hip, under his scabbard.

Drift twisted away, halfheartedly. Blurr was pushy, a complete narcissist who had seemingly never heard the word ‘no’.  And as much as Drift wanted to say the word—if only to enjoy the shock value—his systems fired on.  Blurr wasn’t much for subtlety, but he knew what he wanted and could be really damn persuasive.

Drift growled, his own hands grabbing at the blue shoulder armor, pulling Blurr toward him.  “Don’t tempt me,” he murmured.

“I can’t help it,” Blurr teased, optics glinting. “Tempting’s what I do.”

Only Blurr could pull that line off without any irony.  “Shut up,” Drift said, without any real rancor, covering the blue mouthplates with his own.  His hands gripped around Blurr’s waist, feeling the light armor slide under his palms.  His glossa probed between the mouth plates, insistent, hot, pulling the narrow hips against his. The less talking Blurr did, the better.  Besides, it gave more time for…other things.

Blurr kissed back, his mouth hungry, glossa tangling against Drift’s, hands roaming over Drift’s white frame, skirting the boundaries where black changed to white.  He leaned his weight into Drift’s, pushing him back into the bulkhead.
Drift tore his mouth away. “Not here,” he managed. Blurr took the opportunity to dive down, transferring his attentions to Drift’s throat.  Blurr’s glossa rode expertly down one control cable. He grinned as he felt the white mech shudder, as though desire hit Drift hard, like a wall.  He felt hands tighten over his hips, the pelvic frame in front of him grind against his.

Blurr lifted his mouth, just enough to speak. “Why not? Afraid of getting caught?” he challenged.  He slipped a hand between their bodies, letting his fingers slide down the side of Drift’s pelvic frame. “I,” he whispered, “didn’t think you feared anything.”

Another soft growl, frustrated, the pelvic arch twitching, trying to escape his inexorable touch. “Getting caught,” Drift murmured, “dumb.”

“Never tried it, have you?” Blurr responded, lifting his head to lick over the delicate audio receptors.  “Thought your kind liked it risky.”

Drift went stiff. “My kind.”  His voice was missing, entirely, the teasing edge.

Blurr pouted. “Come on,” he said. “Don’t get like that, Drift.”  His fingers feathered over the pelvic span, flirting with the manual release of the interface hatch.

“Like what.” Still flat, numb. Motionless.

“Uptight,” Blurr said. “No fun.” He kissed the mouth again, the lip components parting around his glossa, but not responding.  Blurr gave a frustrated huff. “Stop being like this,” he ordered.

“My kind,” Drift repeated.

Blurr’s mouth pinched, brow furrowing under the prow of his helm. “Your kind.  Warriors.  Front lines.”  He tweaked one of the short swords. “Running into combat with no range weapon? Thought that meant you liked to live a little..dangerously.”

Some of the tension left Drift’s frame.  Not all.

“And anyway,” Blurr pushed on, relentless,, “what can they do to us?  Kick us off the team? For interfacing?” His hand slid along the underside of the scabbard, tracing the panels.

Drift seemed to hesitate, hanging on indecision. His own hands moved, slowly, finally, over Blurr’s frame, up the spinal struts.

“That’s better,” Blurr purred, rubbing his chassis over Drift’s windscreen. “Now,” he murmured, nuzzling under the helm’s sleek lines, “how do you want it?”

Less talking, Drift thought.  Definitely less talking.  Let him concentrate on having Blurr—on touching, being touched by, being wanted by, this thing that would have walked right by him, optics white with disdain, back on Cybertron.  Good enough for you now, am I?

He answered with his mouth, nipping a line up Blurr’s jaw until their lip components met, his hands locking hard around the blue hip frame, pulling Blurr’s body down on top of him as he slid himself down the wall.

He grunted, his Great Sword bumping against the floor until he reached back, sweeping it to one side and under him.  Blurr settled on top of him, grinning down, pulling away from the kiss, sliding his thighs down Drift’s. Blurr’s weight was lighter than it had any right to be, his armor still the ultralight racing alloy from before the war, the frame designed for speed and motion, light and fast.  Drift’s own underframe was sturdy, heavy, designed for hard combat rather than speed.  “So,” Blurr murmured, curling his lower spine, sliding his pelvic frame over Drift’s, his hands feather-touching along Drift’s deep spaulders.  

“So.” Drift’s own hands reached over the blue aft, for the lean thighs, jerking them apart over his hip frame, before snapping open Blurr’s interface hatch. His fingers found the valve cover, circling the rim lightly before gripping it, hard, as though he wanted to tear it off.  Just to hear the surprised gasp from Blurr, the pleasure/shock/pain/novelty ripple across his face. Oh, I know more of this, Drift thought.  If Blurr wanted it the way Decepticons did?  Drift could deliver.  

“Turn over,” Drift said.

The cocky smile flickered.  

“You asked how I wanted it. Turn over.” Drift pushed at one of the pale blue shoulders.  

Blurr sat up, pulling his thigh uncertainly back over Drift’s hips.  Drift rolled up, jerking the shoulders around, hauling them down on top of him, twisting his weight to throw Blurr’s lighter lower body across his.  He popped open his interface hatch, spike sliding erect, pressurized,. He growled as it bumped up against Blurr’s still covered valve.  

“I can,” he murmured, “go through it.”  He felt a shiver of half-fear, half-arousal in the light frame.  Something new, Blurr? he goaded, inwardly. He pinned Blurr to him, one arm over the chassis, the other a hard bar across the hips.  He bent his knees up, between Blurr’s thighs, spreading them wider, bracing his feet on the floor. Blurr hesitated, strangely still, strangely quiet, before the valve cover yielded with a soft click.  Drift gave a throaty satisfied sound, sinking his spike into the valve’s narrowness, slow progress, driving it against the top node.  Blurr’s hands clutched over his, hips twitching, thighs squeezing against Drift’s.

 “Continue?” Drift asked, voice rough with lust.

Blurr nodded.  “Frag yes,” he said, trying bravado but his voice was barely over a whisper.  

Just to torment the blue mech, Drift started slowly, agonizingly slowly, dragging his spike in and out of the valve, the full length, each  motion taking the time to count to ten. Blurr writhed on top of him, arms thrashing, helm dropping back against Drift’s shoulder.  “Frag,” Blurr moaned. “Faster.”  

Faster? No.  Drift kept the slow pace, curling his pelvic frame into Blurr’s, long, slow, deep strokes, until he could barely bear it himself, gritting his dentae against the rise of lust.  He splayed his hands, remembering Blurr’s disgust at being damaged, arching the servos to raise the fingers themselves off the armor, remove--he hoped--the temptation to grip,to seize.  

Blurr moaned over him, a high, needy keen, trying to goad Drift to a faster pace, and then, trying to rock himself over Drift’s spike double the speed of Drift’s slow thrusts.  “Frag, come on!”  Blurr whined, body twisting in Drift’s hard embrace.  “More. Faster.”  

“No place to make demands, Blurr,” Drift murmured, pinning Blurr’s head against his shoulder armor with his own helm.  “All your speed, and what good does it do you now, huh?”  The thrashing made him laugh. He liked Blurr like this, ungrounded, off-balance. Wing would have asked, begged. Blurr was demanding.  And he liked the change.  Not that one was better than the other, but that they were so different.  No confusion, no blurred lines.  

Blurr gave an outraged cry, before Drift smothered it with a hand. “No noise.”  Blurr tried to protest. “Difference between getting caught and getting us caught, Blurr,” Drift warned.  He squeezed at the jaw just enough to put the seed in Blurr’s mind that he could hurt him and...had no problems with the idea.  While Blurr was light and fast, he was heavy and his hands, because of the swords, were probably some of the more powerful on the Wreckers. Blurr whimpered, but it was mixed with desire; the valve trembled around Drift’s spike.  

Drift gave in--to Blurr, to his own raging sensornet. He picked up speed, driving his hips against Blurr’s, his vents gusting long and deep. Faster and faster, hips pistoning off the floor, Blurr’s thighs gripping around his, the blue hands clawing at his with frantic desire but no power, soft whimpers buzzing against Drift’s hand. He felt his sensornet surging against him, charge rising, higher and higher, like an ocean of flame.

Drift threw his head back, optics rolling, helm clanging against the Great Sword’s hilt as the overload shot through his sensornet like a nova, fighting till the last his want to bend, to bite, to tear into Blurr’s armor with his dentae. He knew it was a condition--not to damage Blurr’s armor-- and he abided by it...as much as he could.  The overload shocked through his spike as he jammed it one last time deep into Blurr’s valve, feeling Blurr’s overload burst against him.

Drift dropped his hips back down onto the ground, and, after a heaving release of air, loosened his grip around the blue frame. Blurr gave a sated sigh, his valve clutching weakly against the spike as it slid out.

Drift laughed, softly.  “Maybe next time,” he murmured, rubbing his cheek flare against Blurr’s audio, “I’ll need my ‘pretty knives’.”  But not this time.