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shadow_vector2011-05-01 06:47 am
niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in shadow_vector2011-05-01 06:47 am
Entry tags:
Mayfic! Rush.
NC-17
IDW, mid AHM ish?
Blurr/Drift
sticky, kind of dom/sub but not the way you think. ALSO, my slightly idiosyncratic read of Blurr.
Obscure and random Lerner and Loewe song! Yeah, it's May, the month in which, alas, somewhere in the Jurassic era, I was born. And I am 'celebrating' by...uh...PWP. Don't judge me! *sob* Any kinks/scenarios you'd like to see me try, let me know.
Blurr lived for moments like this. Pure speed, motion, feeling the whole machine of his body coming together, all the smaller systems, servos, hydraulics, working as one. The only time Blurr felt whole, the only time he felt real.
And the idea that it was...useful. He'd known all along that racing was...trivial, which was why it had never satisfied, why he had always wanted, needed more. Drift had sneered, once, that he'd just run around a track, a big empty zero. And Blurr had raged, but Drift had nailed it.
But now, freedom, movement, the world passing him in smeary streaks of color, wind whistling through his audio, his high crest a cool blade through the air, he wasn't just a zero, wasn't running on a circuit. The Swarm snarled behind him, a writhing mass, one will spread through a thousand bodies, one hunger, clawing at him, like a giant organism, a huge cell throwing pseudopods after him.
Ha. They'll never catch me.
He leaned, the pounding of his pistons jarring his hips, leaning sideways, as he cornered around the shattered edge of a building, his intakes sucking in air, feeling the heat spooling off behind him. It was freedom, body and mind against pavement and air, forcing progress, moving through. It was...bliss.
It was...a dead end.
He skidded to a stop, a wash of heat from his own systems billowing around him, overtaking his suddenly stopped frame. Freedom seemed to shatter on the ground at his feet.
He whirled, optics keen over the walls, the box trap he found himself in. A window, too high up to reach, its plasglass intact, forbidding. No purchase there. Rubble there, but not enough to get him up and out and over. The two small stun pistols he had with him snapped into his hands as the Swarm surged around the corner, some of the Insecticons crashing into the far side, limbs crunching, blind with rage and haste.
No. This was not how Blurr died. Blaze of glory, yes. Trapped by bad luck in some foul eddy of the Swarm? No.
The Swarm foamed toward him, misshapen limbs clawing the air, gouging at the walls, the ground, unleashing their rage upon anything that got in their way: including each other. Snarls, spurts of fluid, the clicking, clattering shear of twisted, uneven limbs raged toward him, as if furious at his perfection, symmetry, sleekness.
An explosion from behind, plasglass shattering, fragments hailing over Blurr's back, helm. “In here.” The voice quiet, yet still audible over the foaming roar. Blurr turned—the white shape of Drift in the small window, black hand stretching down, reaching.
Blurr gave a grin that only partially masked his relief. He threw on a burst of speed, the way he'd started so many races, so fast that his footplate gouged the pavement, using the rushing momentum to get some height on the wall, snatching for Drift's extended hand with both of his.
Drift hauled him inside the narrow window, foot braced on the concrete frame, substituting haste for delicacy. Blurr's chassis scraped the wall, leaving a score of sky blue paint, and he heard the visceral sound of dismay from his own vocalizer. Fraggin' Swarm. And enamel was hard to come by, and a color-match? Impossible.
He landed heavily, Drift overbalancing, tumbling over onto his back, Blurr with him, chassis on chassis. Blurr grinned. “Thanks for the save.” He could rage about enamel later. Now...?
Drift nodded, quiet as always, pushing to roll Blurr off him, regain his feet. “Should move.”
Blurr stopped him. “Why? They can't make it up this high.” The Swarm was vicious, but stupid. The best they could do was clamber over a mass of each other's bodies to get up higher, and, chances were, they'd have lost interest, turned to tearing themselves apart, before they made it that far. Out of sight, out of their tiny hive mind. If they waited long enough—a cycle, maybe two—the Swarm would leave, frustrated, thwarted, already half-forgetting their prey.
And all that cyberdrenaline, and all that joy in movement, were spinning in Blurr's systems, set ablaze by relief—safety, rescue. And Drift underneath him was warm and sleek and inviting, beautiful after all that gaudy ugliness.
Drift caught the blaze in Blurr's optics, his own flickering warm. Oh yes. Drift understood. He might pretend he didn't want to, but he did, and it was one thing, Blurr thought, as he pulled Drift closer, mouth seeking mouth, that made them fit so well together.
Drift resisted, for a klik, hands a barrier between them, mouth still, before it overcame him, too, and the hands moved to Blurr's shoulder's pulling him back against him, body surging upward. “Not...the time for this,” he managed, a rough gasp, a token protest.
“If we waited for the right 'time',” Blurr murmured, taking advantage of Drift's distraction, dropping his attention, his mouth, to Drift's throat, “there'd be no pleasure for any of us.” Just...cold hard reason, there. Perhaps not Perceptor's type of logic, but Blurr's own. Why wait, when you're not guaranteed a future? Why deny any joy, any happiness, however temporary, any light in all this darkness? What did Autobots fight for? Or did they just fight...against?
He heard a soft moan, could feel it vibrate against his eager mouth from Drift's vocalizer, the hands urgent, needing. And yes, that was the other thing about Drift—the need. Not some delicate, fine-brushed desire, but hot, hard, brutal lust.
Blurr gasped in a delighted pain as Drift's hand tore at his interface panel, the fingers rough over the equipment covers. He gave a growl of assent, biting into a cable in the so-tempting black throat, his own hands clutching down the sleek white sides, tugging at the seams, pulling, prying, impatient. He loved Drift's impatience, the savage, rough hands, who didn't care who Blurr had been, who only wanted what Blurr was now.
Well, he was Blurr. Impatience was a synonym, especially when it came to something he wanted. And he wanted Drift.
He wanted Drift so much he even retracted the valve cover, omitting the usual fight for dominance, the curious war that Drift always fought against submission. One day, he'd explore that. When there was time and Blurr had patience. But here, in an upper floor abandoned building, scraps of furniture, slivers of plasglass scattered on the ground, everything grey-brown and ugly? Here was only the time for desire, blue and white twisting together like a flame.
Drift's hands gripped the blue hips, sinking his spike home, slick with lubricant. His optics dimmed, almost overwhelmed, feeling things so thoroughly that sometimes Blurr felt a pang of envy. Interfacing to him was about the rush, the dance of wills and desires, wants and demands. Drift was just...in the body, his entire frame sensitive, so that a touch could overwhelm, a kiss could bring him to distraction.
The envy didn't last, because, after all, this desire, this complete, exquisite openness to physical sensation was Blurr's to play with. He rocked back, sitting up, spreading his thighs across Drift's hip scabbards, letting his hands trail down the contours of the white chassis, flirting with the line between the black and the white, smirking at Drift's shuddering response. He squeezed the calipers of his valve down against the spike, giving a throaty laugh as Drift hands clutched, spike surging against the pressure. Primus, yes. Irresistible.
He rocked his hips, blue over white, shifting the spike inside him, rubbing node against node. Forward, then back, hands covering Drift's on his hips. “I want it rough, don't you?” he goaded, squeezing the hands under his.
Drift didn't need too many hints. Another of his good qualities, Blurr thought, watching the almost-feral smile flicker over Drift's face, the legs between his bracing against the ground, fingers resettling over the hips for leverage. All the answer Blurr needed, really.
And Drift could deliver 'rough'. No gentle, testing thrusts that slowly built in speed and force. He started like Blurr off a starting block, a jolting burst into full speed, systems roaring, spike stabbing at the ceiling node, riding that line between rough and violent like a razor's edge, enjoying the pain. Blurr threw his head back, giving in to the hard burst of sensation over his net, radiating in stabbing pulses from his valve. A brutal affirmation of life, of feeling, in the grey waste of this place, under the shadow of death.
Drift's ventilation hissed, squeezing against Blurr's hips, grinding his pelvic frame against the underside of Blurr's, driving one last sharp thrust inside, frame shuddering in overload. His mouth bit down over a snarl, optics narrowed and feral. That, Blurr thought, was his. He owned Drift in these moments, completely, utterly, all that illusion of quiet civility stripped away, stripped down, Drift laid bare before him, under him. Blurr grinned, as if he knew a secret, his own overload a distant echo, a gossamer wash over his systems. Nice, but secondary to the head trip.
He leaned forward, Drift twitching as the action changed the angle on his spike, stroking his fingers over that taut face, smoothing the wild lines, the boundary between face and helm, framed on the filth , feeling the heat of arousal against his fingertips, and then, his mouth, tasting Drift's arousal, release. Tasting his victory.
IDW, mid AHM ish?
Blurr/Drift
sticky, kind of dom/sub but not the way you think. ALSO, my slightly idiosyncratic read of Blurr.
Obscure and random Lerner and Loewe song! Yeah, it's May, the month in which, alas, somewhere in the Jurassic era, I was born. And I am 'celebrating' by...uh...PWP. Don't judge me! *sob* Any kinks/scenarios you'd like to see me try, let me know.
Blurr lived for moments like this. Pure speed, motion, feeling the whole machine of his body coming together, all the smaller systems, servos, hydraulics, working as one. The only time Blurr felt whole, the only time he felt real.
And the idea that it was...useful. He'd known all along that racing was...trivial, which was why it had never satisfied, why he had always wanted, needed more. Drift had sneered, once, that he'd just run around a track, a big empty zero. And Blurr had raged, but Drift had nailed it.
But now, freedom, movement, the world passing him in smeary streaks of color, wind whistling through his audio, his high crest a cool blade through the air, he wasn't just a zero, wasn't running on a circuit. The Swarm snarled behind him, a writhing mass, one will spread through a thousand bodies, one hunger, clawing at him, like a giant organism, a huge cell throwing pseudopods after him.
Ha. They'll never catch me.
He leaned, the pounding of his pistons jarring his hips, leaning sideways, as he cornered around the shattered edge of a building, his intakes sucking in air, feeling the heat spooling off behind him. It was freedom, body and mind against pavement and air, forcing progress, moving through. It was...bliss.
It was...a dead end.
He skidded to a stop, a wash of heat from his own systems billowing around him, overtaking his suddenly stopped frame. Freedom seemed to shatter on the ground at his feet.
He whirled, optics keen over the walls, the box trap he found himself in. A window, too high up to reach, its plasglass intact, forbidding. No purchase there. Rubble there, but not enough to get him up and out and over. The two small stun pistols he had with him snapped into his hands as the Swarm surged around the corner, some of the Insecticons crashing into the far side, limbs crunching, blind with rage and haste.
No. This was not how Blurr died. Blaze of glory, yes. Trapped by bad luck in some foul eddy of the Swarm? No.
The Swarm foamed toward him, misshapen limbs clawing the air, gouging at the walls, the ground, unleashing their rage upon anything that got in their way: including each other. Snarls, spurts of fluid, the clicking, clattering shear of twisted, uneven limbs raged toward him, as if furious at his perfection, symmetry, sleekness.
An explosion from behind, plasglass shattering, fragments hailing over Blurr's back, helm. “In here.” The voice quiet, yet still audible over the foaming roar. Blurr turned—the white shape of Drift in the small window, black hand stretching down, reaching.
Blurr gave a grin that only partially masked his relief. He threw on a burst of speed, the way he'd started so many races, so fast that his footplate gouged the pavement, using the rushing momentum to get some height on the wall, snatching for Drift's extended hand with both of his.
Drift hauled him inside the narrow window, foot braced on the concrete frame, substituting haste for delicacy. Blurr's chassis scraped the wall, leaving a score of sky blue paint, and he heard the visceral sound of dismay from his own vocalizer. Fraggin' Swarm. And enamel was hard to come by, and a color-match? Impossible.
He landed heavily, Drift overbalancing, tumbling over onto his back, Blurr with him, chassis on chassis. Blurr grinned. “Thanks for the save.” He could rage about enamel later. Now...?
Drift nodded, quiet as always, pushing to roll Blurr off him, regain his feet. “Should move.”
Blurr stopped him. “Why? They can't make it up this high.” The Swarm was vicious, but stupid. The best they could do was clamber over a mass of each other's bodies to get up higher, and, chances were, they'd have lost interest, turned to tearing themselves apart, before they made it that far. Out of sight, out of their tiny hive mind. If they waited long enough—a cycle, maybe two—the Swarm would leave, frustrated, thwarted, already half-forgetting their prey.
And all that cyberdrenaline, and all that joy in movement, were spinning in Blurr's systems, set ablaze by relief—safety, rescue. And Drift underneath him was warm and sleek and inviting, beautiful after all that gaudy ugliness.
Drift caught the blaze in Blurr's optics, his own flickering warm. Oh yes. Drift understood. He might pretend he didn't want to, but he did, and it was one thing, Blurr thought, as he pulled Drift closer, mouth seeking mouth, that made them fit so well together.
Drift resisted, for a klik, hands a barrier between them, mouth still, before it overcame him, too, and the hands moved to Blurr's shoulder's pulling him back against him, body surging upward. “Not...the time for this,” he managed, a rough gasp, a token protest.
“If we waited for the right 'time',” Blurr murmured, taking advantage of Drift's distraction, dropping his attention, his mouth, to Drift's throat, “there'd be no pleasure for any of us.” Just...cold hard reason, there. Perhaps not Perceptor's type of logic, but Blurr's own. Why wait, when you're not guaranteed a future? Why deny any joy, any happiness, however temporary, any light in all this darkness? What did Autobots fight for? Or did they just fight...against?
He heard a soft moan, could feel it vibrate against his eager mouth from Drift's vocalizer, the hands urgent, needing. And yes, that was the other thing about Drift—the need. Not some delicate, fine-brushed desire, but hot, hard, brutal lust.
Blurr gasped in a delighted pain as Drift's hand tore at his interface panel, the fingers rough over the equipment covers. He gave a growl of assent, biting into a cable in the so-tempting black throat, his own hands clutching down the sleek white sides, tugging at the seams, pulling, prying, impatient. He loved Drift's impatience, the savage, rough hands, who didn't care who Blurr had been, who only wanted what Blurr was now.
Well, he was Blurr. Impatience was a synonym, especially when it came to something he wanted. And he wanted Drift.
He wanted Drift so much he even retracted the valve cover, omitting the usual fight for dominance, the curious war that Drift always fought against submission. One day, he'd explore that. When there was time and Blurr had patience. But here, in an upper floor abandoned building, scraps of furniture, slivers of plasglass scattered on the ground, everything grey-brown and ugly? Here was only the time for desire, blue and white twisting together like a flame.
Drift's hands gripped the blue hips, sinking his spike home, slick with lubricant. His optics dimmed, almost overwhelmed, feeling things so thoroughly that sometimes Blurr felt a pang of envy. Interfacing to him was about the rush, the dance of wills and desires, wants and demands. Drift was just...in the body, his entire frame sensitive, so that a touch could overwhelm, a kiss could bring him to distraction.
The envy didn't last, because, after all, this desire, this complete, exquisite openness to physical sensation was Blurr's to play with. He rocked back, sitting up, spreading his thighs across Drift's hip scabbards, letting his hands trail down the contours of the white chassis, flirting with the line between the black and the white, smirking at Drift's shuddering response. He squeezed the calipers of his valve down against the spike, giving a throaty laugh as Drift hands clutched, spike surging against the pressure. Primus, yes. Irresistible.
He rocked his hips, blue over white, shifting the spike inside him, rubbing node against node. Forward, then back, hands covering Drift's on his hips. “I want it rough, don't you?” he goaded, squeezing the hands under his.
Drift didn't need too many hints. Another of his good qualities, Blurr thought, watching the almost-feral smile flicker over Drift's face, the legs between his bracing against the ground, fingers resettling over the hips for leverage. All the answer Blurr needed, really.
And Drift could deliver 'rough'. No gentle, testing thrusts that slowly built in speed and force. He started like Blurr off a starting block, a jolting burst into full speed, systems roaring, spike stabbing at the ceiling node, riding that line between rough and violent like a razor's edge, enjoying the pain. Blurr threw his head back, giving in to the hard burst of sensation over his net, radiating in stabbing pulses from his valve. A brutal affirmation of life, of feeling, in the grey waste of this place, under the shadow of death.
Drift's ventilation hissed, squeezing against Blurr's hips, grinding his pelvic frame against the underside of Blurr's, driving one last sharp thrust inside, frame shuddering in overload. His mouth bit down over a snarl, optics narrowed and feral. That, Blurr thought, was his. He owned Drift in these moments, completely, utterly, all that illusion of quiet civility stripped away, stripped down, Drift laid bare before him, under him. Blurr grinned, as if he knew a secret, his own overload a distant echo, a gossamer wash over his systems. Nice, but secondary to the head trip.
He leaned forward, Drift twitching as the action changed the angle on his spike, stroking his fingers over that taut face, smoothing the wild lines, the boundary between face and helm, framed on the filth , feeling the heat of arousal against his fingertips, and then, his mouth, tasting Drift's arousal, release. Tasting his victory.
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The smut very tasty too ;)
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And then it all still boils down into a head trip. Manipulation. Getting what he wants, however it takes.
In short... he's still IDW Blurr. Bravo. Mucho Bravo!
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