Speed and Status ch 3
May. 30th, 2011 08:38 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
niyazi-a.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shadow_vectorNC-17
IDW
Drift, Blurr, Perceptor, random Wreckers
sticky, and Blurr is Spotlight: Blurr oh and part of this might be familiar as a bit I'd written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
tf_speedwriting months ago.
Perceptor pushed himself off the repair berth. “I'm fine,” he said, pitching his voice low. Springer and Topspin stepped back, half-alarmed, half-relieved. Truth was, he was the closest thing they had to a medic. Repairs done on him were rote, by the book, plop in a tank and hit the green button.
“You sure?”
Perceptor nodded. A host of words boiled up in his vocalizer, but he pushed them back with the memory: searing agony, Turmoil's derision burning into him, over top, even, of the sharp guilt-edged pain that he, he had been the one to betray their location, compromise their mission. Amateurs. He, with his running mouth. Never again.
Never again.
He'd hung in that tank...for how long? His chrono was off. Too long. Uselessly long. Floating, swimming in memories. Strange armor. Hard shock of pain. A rifle muzzle, point blank over his right optic. Someone running toward him, blown back. And then...nothing, the battle raging away from him, even the enemy finding him beneath the effort of finishing off. Abandoned, discarded, bleeding out in the darkness.
And then, a flash of white in the darkness, blue optics glowing down from a white helm, strong hands cradling his broken frame, gentle but sure, the feel of alien armor against his back, the bald, gaping hole in his chassis spilling fluid and spark against the pure white.
His own team had abandoned him; but the strange mech came for him. He'd hung for...days in that tank, chewing that over. His own team, his Wreckers, Kup, had fended for themselves, taken their freed captives, but forgotten Perceptor. Beneath notice, even his pain. Possibly, probably, deliberately. If he'd kept quiet then....It was his fault. It was his punishment.
He looked back over his shoulder, Topspin's anxiety, Springer's relief—as if he'd dreaded some sodden torrential outburst. No, Perceptor thought. Not from me. Not again. “Fine,” he repeated. He reached for a scanner, running it over his medical tell-node, then honing it on the systems, one by one. He'd find his weaknesses, one by one, and eradicate them. Ruthlessly.
“You...feelin' all right, Perceptor?” Topspin asked, cautious, amending hastily, “You know, for someone who's just come out of regen?”
“Yes,” Perceptor said, and felt, they all felt, the expectant silence, waiting for his usual deluge of words, and then the awkwardness from Topspin and Springer when it never came. Almost as if shaking their belief that they ever really knew him.
The feeling was mutual.
[***]
Perceptor still hadn't figured the solution, but even he, occasionally, recognized there was a time for rest. His hands were trembling from overwork, his cortex fuzzy from lack of fuel. He needed a break.
He had some strange, nibbling sensation in his cortex, that he wrote off as lack of fuel and exhaustion, as he walked down the corridor. As if something would be...different there.
No. Nothing was different except him. What was bothering him was probably the strange sense that so much had changed, inside, but so little outside. As if he were seeing through a new visual processor array. He'd thought he'd fit in here. He'd thought the Wreckers were his friends—or the closest he'd had to friends. Disillusion, he thought. That's what you're feeling.
He keyed the door code, and had stepped into the room before the white mass on his berth registered. The strange mech. The one Turmoil had called Deadlock. The one who had come back for him.
Perceptor froze, blinked his optics, sure it was some...hallucination. But the mech was still there when he opened them again, and even after he ran a quick visual feed check.
He stepped closer, and suddenly there was a flash of silver, and a blade sprang up between them, vicious and sharp and aiming at his throat, blue optics blazing above it.
The sword disappeared just as suddenly, whispering home into a sheath. “Perceptor,” the voice said, and it rippled with memory through Perceptor's cortex. “Sorry. They...told me to stay here.” He pushed to his feet, awkwardly in the small space. “I'll go...somewhere.”
“No,” Perceptor said. “Stay.” His exhaustion lined his face. “Work it out in the morning.”
The white mech stepped back as Perceptor edged to the berth. It struck Perceptor: the berth was not that big. Two could recharge on it if they were...intimate.
“I'll take the floor,” he said, quietly.
The white mech shook his head. “No.” He dropped to the floor, swiftly, almost defiantly, making the decision for them. “I'll take the floor.”
Perceptor was too tired to argue, the berth looking too welcoming. And, as he lay himself down on it, horizontal for the first time, he felt the warmth from the other mech's systems radiating from the berth against him. It felt...strangely comforting and unnerving at the same time. He looked over at the white mech, who was leaning against the wall beside the berth, cradling the large sword between his knees. “You can't be comfortable.”
He kept his face in profile, some attempt to give Perceptor privacy, perhaps. The visible side of his mouth quirked. “Recharged like this plenty of times. Be fine.”
Perceptor found his optics roaming, strut-weary as he was, over the alien lines of the helm, down to the hands—the hands that had picked him up from that stained floor, the hands that saved him. “I..never thanked you.”
“Huh?” The mech turned, and his face, for a moment, was open, surprised; not the tight mask of before.
“For saving me. Thank you.”
A moment of silence, that grew awkward, like spines. Perceptor ducked his head. “I'm sorry,” he murmured.
“Sorry...for thanking me?” A hint of something like humor. Something no one used around Perceptor. To Perceptor. And his awkwardness crested, and then washed away, a wan smile spreading over his face.
“Tired,” he said.
The other mech nodded, and Perceptor lifted his head to see a grin, honest and real. “Get some recharge.”
He dropped back down to his back, obedient, something burning under his chestplates, warm and fierce and sudden. “Rest well, Deadlock,” he whispered.
He didn't see the darkness cross the face, obliterating the smile, dimming the blue optics.
[***]
How had he done this again? He’d sworn he wasn’t going to go back to the narcissistic blue racer but…here he was. So much for swears. So much for common sense. So much for self-control.
Deadlock. He wasn't Deadlock. That wasn't who he was, who he wanted to be.
Just a mistake. A slip. Or, as Drift thought about it, only sense. Perceptor hadn't been functional when he'd given his name. He'd only heard Turmoil call out Deadlock, recognizing the voice.
Recognizing the voice. His voice unchanged. How much else also?
Drift really wasn’t up to thinking about that right now, his spike pounding into Blurr’s slick valve: heat and pressure and friction in all the right ways. He growled at the rising overload, forcing it back, wanting to draw this out. Blurr, on his hands and knees, whimpered softly, his optics fixed on the mirror he’d set up, watching himself, watching Drift behind him, Drift’s hands on his hip armor, the rhythmic rocking of Drift’s scabbards, like waving white flags. Surrendering, in a sense. Drift? No. Deadlock. Or some vertiginous space between.
“Faster!” Blurr swiveled his hips, impatient. “Faster!”
Drift curled his hands farther forward around the hips, keeping his fingers flat, trying not to dig in, though what he wanted—really wanted—to do was squeeze his fingers into the armor until it squealed, until Blurr cried out, twitching, pain and pleasure swirling together. He changed his thrusts—sharper, shallower, shorter, his vents coming in sharp pants, his spike tingling, wanting, wanting. He didn’t look at the mirror, instead focusing his optics on the sweeps and curves of Blurr’s armor, before closing them off entirely, shutting off vision to concentrate on speed and rhythm, the sharp clench of the valve against his spike, lubricant slicking from the valve over his spike’s housing, hot and thin and wet.
He slowed, three deep, long thrusts, nearly the entire length of his spike, giving some guttural snarl at the third one, jamming his spike deep, unable to hold off the overload any longer. His transfluid slammed against Blurr’s ceiling node like a blow, the blue mech shuddering, valve grasping, greedy.
Drift spread his fingers again, a reminder to both of them that he hadn’t damaged Blurr’s frame, his shoulders releasing tension. This was good. This was what he could deal with—using each other, body and system seeking physical release. No commitment. No attachment. No emotions. Just hard, fast, demanding interfacing. Impersonal.
Drift inched back, but Blurr caught his spike with his valve, running the tension calipers in a rolling wave up the spike. Drift shuddered, his spike twitching at the contact, charge prickling over it, another spurt of transfluid milked from his channel. Blurr gave a purring laugh. “Like that, huh?”
Drift swept a hand over his face, his body quivering. “Yeah,” he managed. He braced himself, one hand on Blurr’s aft, withdrawing his spike slowly, letting the silver transfluid dribble down Blurr’s thighs, his spike. Blurr dropped his hips to one side, turning.
“Should have stayed in. Could get you going again,” Blurr purred.
No. The hardest edge was off Drift’s lust, and the controlling gleam in Blurr’s optics dampened his desires.He'd wanted to punish. Blurr. Himself. The edge was off, the sharp sting of humiliation, of what he'd lowered himself to, strong enough to last. “Maybe next time.”
Blurr pouted. “Maybe next time we can see if I can get you off that way.”
Drift dropped back onto his heels, stowing his spike. “Can. Knew a mech—“ he cut himself short.
Blurr cocked his head. “Knew a mech…?”
Drift frowned. Didn’t want to seem like he had a secret. Not to Blurr. Not that he trusted the blue mech: kind of the opposite. If Blurr had something on Drift, he’d try to use it. He shrugged. Keep names out of it, he told himself. Make it sound anonymous. Just sex. Just fucking. “Yeah. Straddled me. And just,” he made a vague gesture with his hands. “Took a cycle but…,” he shivered with the memory: Wing, motionless over him, immobile save for the delicate pulling, probing, of his valve’s caliper mechanisms on Drift’s spike. “Intense.” He’d screamed his vocalizer raw at the sudden, hard release, like a wall bursting before a flood of water.
Blurr looked at him expectantly, his gaze flicking down to the closed interface hatch. Well, might as well tell him the rest. Put him in his place, right?
Drift snorted. “Then again. And…another time. Six, I think, before he slipped.” He’d…not really been keeping count, thrashing wildly, helpless, enthralled, Wing beaming down at him like a radiant sun, feeding on his release.
“Slipped.” Despite himself, intrigued. Huh. Something you never heard of, Mr Mech of the World?
Drift’s grin took a sly edge and he felt a surge of remembered emotion for Wing, his casual kinkiness, as if perversion, shame, judgment…simply didn’t exist in his world. Drift leaned forward, one hand on the berth next to Blurr’s shoulder, his voice husky and close.
“He got off on the pressure. Having so much fluid, held in his valve, or something. He was just…rolling on some kind of ecstasy and then,” his grin was edged, slicing into Blurr's presumption that he knew everything, “lost control. All that fluid, pressure.” His body twitched, remembering in a deeper way than his cortex. “So very wet,” he whispered.
He hid his smirk at Blurr’s aroused shock, rolling off the berth, out of reach. “Should try it sometime,” he said, knowing Blurr would never have the patience, and that he didn't want that long intimacy with anyone else, reaching for his Great Sword, not even caring if the triumph was evident in his gaze as he turned to leave. So much he’d learned from Wing: only one of which was the white jet’s absolute refusal to shame. Nothing was illicit, nothing was shameful if the other mech wanted it, too; if it brought pleasure. Sex about pleasure, not power…or rather sex about the power of bringing another pleasure.
Where had that gone? Already, he'd lost it, the way a dream slowly burns off upon waking.
He ached to have that again, as much as he yearned, at night for the city he’d walked away from, New Crystal City, what he’d always wanted.
It was something from the past, a jewel he could take out and admire, pure and bright. He refused to let the fact that it was in the past, that he’d never have anything like that again, taint the memory of what it had been. It had been beautiful, transcendent. It blazed through his memory, his body, brighter than a sun. Against which these…make-do releases were merely that—releases of pressure, de-stressing a gauge. It could be nothing more. And he deserved no better.
IDW
Drift, Blurr, Perceptor, random Wreckers
sticky, and Blurr is Spotlight: Blurr oh and part of this might be familiar as a bit I'd written for
tf_speedwriting months ago. Perceptor pushed himself off the repair berth. “I'm fine,” he said, pitching his voice low. Springer and Topspin stepped back, half-alarmed, half-relieved. Truth was, he was the closest thing they had to a medic. Repairs done on him were rote, by the book, plop in a tank and hit the green button.
“You sure?”
Perceptor nodded. A host of words boiled up in his vocalizer, but he pushed them back with the memory: searing agony, Turmoil's derision burning into him, over top, even, of the sharp guilt-edged pain that he, he had been the one to betray their location, compromise their mission. Amateurs. He, with his running mouth. Never again.
Never again.
He'd hung in that tank...for how long? His chrono was off. Too long. Uselessly long. Floating, swimming in memories. Strange armor. Hard shock of pain. A rifle muzzle, point blank over his right optic. Someone running toward him, blown back. And then...nothing, the battle raging away from him, even the enemy finding him beneath the effort of finishing off. Abandoned, discarded, bleeding out in the darkness.
And then, a flash of white in the darkness, blue optics glowing down from a white helm, strong hands cradling his broken frame, gentle but sure, the feel of alien armor against his back, the bald, gaping hole in his chassis spilling fluid and spark against the pure white.
His own team had abandoned him; but the strange mech came for him. He'd hung for...days in that tank, chewing that over. His own team, his Wreckers, Kup, had fended for themselves, taken their freed captives, but forgotten Perceptor. Beneath notice, even his pain. Possibly, probably, deliberately. If he'd kept quiet then....It was his fault. It was his punishment.
He looked back over his shoulder, Topspin's anxiety, Springer's relief—as if he'd dreaded some sodden torrential outburst. No, Perceptor thought. Not from me. Not again. “Fine,” he repeated. He reached for a scanner, running it over his medical tell-node, then honing it on the systems, one by one. He'd find his weaknesses, one by one, and eradicate them. Ruthlessly.
“You...feelin' all right, Perceptor?” Topspin asked, cautious, amending hastily, “You know, for someone who's just come out of regen?”
“Yes,” Perceptor said, and felt, they all felt, the expectant silence, waiting for his usual deluge of words, and then the awkwardness from Topspin and Springer when it never came. Almost as if shaking their belief that they ever really knew him.
The feeling was mutual.
[***]
Perceptor still hadn't figured the solution, but even he, occasionally, recognized there was a time for rest. His hands were trembling from overwork, his cortex fuzzy from lack of fuel. He needed a break.
He had some strange, nibbling sensation in his cortex, that he wrote off as lack of fuel and exhaustion, as he walked down the corridor. As if something would be...different there.
No. Nothing was different except him. What was bothering him was probably the strange sense that so much had changed, inside, but so little outside. As if he were seeing through a new visual processor array. He'd thought he'd fit in here. He'd thought the Wreckers were his friends—or the closest he'd had to friends. Disillusion, he thought. That's what you're feeling.
He keyed the door code, and had stepped into the room before the white mass on his berth registered. The strange mech. The one Turmoil had called Deadlock. The one who had come back for him.
Perceptor froze, blinked his optics, sure it was some...hallucination. But the mech was still there when he opened them again, and even after he ran a quick visual feed check.
He stepped closer, and suddenly there was a flash of silver, and a blade sprang up between them, vicious and sharp and aiming at his throat, blue optics blazing above it.
The sword disappeared just as suddenly, whispering home into a sheath. “Perceptor,” the voice said, and it rippled with memory through Perceptor's cortex. “Sorry. They...told me to stay here.” He pushed to his feet, awkwardly in the small space. “I'll go...somewhere.”
“No,” Perceptor said. “Stay.” His exhaustion lined his face. “Work it out in the morning.”
The white mech stepped back as Perceptor edged to the berth. It struck Perceptor: the berth was not that big. Two could recharge on it if they were...intimate.
“I'll take the floor,” he said, quietly.
The white mech shook his head. “No.” He dropped to the floor, swiftly, almost defiantly, making the decision for them. “I'll take the floor.”
Perceptor was too tired to argue, the berth looking too welcoming. And, as he lay himself down on it, horizontal for the first time, he felt the warmth from the other mech's systems radiating from the berth against him. It felt...strangely comforting and unnerving at the same time. He looked over at the white mech, who was leaning against the wall beside the berth, cradling the large sword between his knees. “You can't be comfortable.”
He kept his face in profile, some attempt to give Perceptor privacy, perhaps. The visible side of his mouth quirked. “Recharged like this plenty of times. Be fine.”
Perceptor found his optics roaming, strut-weary as he was, over the alien lines of the helm, down to the hands—the hands that had picked him up from that stained floor, the hands that saved him. “I..never thanked you.”
“Huh?” The mech turned, and his face, for a moment, was open, surprised; not the tight mask of before.
“For saving me. Thank you.”
A moment of silence, that grew awkward, like spines. Perceptor ducked his head. “I'm sorry,” he murmured.
“Sorry...for thanking me?” A hint of something like humor. Something no one used around Perceptor. To Perceptor. And his awkwardness crested, and then washed away, a wan smile spreading over his face.
“Tired,” he said.
The other mech nodded, and Perceptor lifted his head to see a grin, honest and real. “Get some recharge.”
He dropped back down to his back, obedient, something burning under his chestplates, warm and fierce and sudden. “Rest well, Deadlock,” he whispered.
He didn't see the darkness cross the face, obliterating the smile, dimming the blue optics.
[***]
How had he done this again? He’d sworn he wasn’t going to go back to the narcissistic blue racer but…here he was. So much for swears. So much for common sense. So much for self-control.
Deadlock. He wasn't Deadlock. That wasn't who he was, who he wanted to be.
Just a mistake. A slip. Or, as Drift thought about it, only sense. Perceptor hadn't been functional when he'd given his name. He'd only heard Turmoil call out Deadlock, recognizing the voice.
Recognizing the voice. His voice unchanged. How much else also?
Drift really wasn’t up to thinking about that right now, his spike pounding into Blurr’s slick valve: heat and pressure and friction in all the right ways. He growled at the rising overload, forcing it back, wanting to draw this out. Blurr, on his hands and knees, whimpered softly, his optics fixed on the mirror he’d set up, watching himself, watching Drift behind him, Drift’s hands on his hip armor, the rhythmic rocking of Drift’s scabbards, like waving white flags. Surrendering, in a sense. Drift? No. Deadlock. Or some vertiginous space between.
“Faster!” Blurr swiveled his hips, impatient. “Faster!”
Drift curled his hands farther forward around the hips, keeping his fingers flat, trying not to dig in, though what he wanted—really wanted—to do was squeeze his fingers into the armor until it squealed, until Blurr cried out, twitching, pain and pleasure swirling together. He changed his thrusts—sharper, shallower, shorter, his vents coming in sharp pants, his spike tingling, wanting, wanting. He didn’t look at the mirror, instead focusing his optics on the sweeps and curves of Blurr’s armor, before closing them off entirely, shutting off vision to concentrate on speed and rhythm, the sharp clench of the valve against his spike, lubricant slicking from the valve over his spike’s housing, hot and thin and wet.
He slowed, three deep, long thrusts, nearly the entire length of his spike, giving some guttural snarl at the third one, jamming his spike deep, unable to hold off the overload any longer. His transfluid slammed against Blurr’s ceiling node like a blow, the blue mech shuddering, valve grasping, greedy.
Drift spread his fingers again, a reminder to both of them that he hadn’t damaged Blurr’s frame, his shoulders releasing tension. This was good. This was what he could deal with—using each other, body and system seeking physical release. No commitment. No attachment. No emotions. Just hard, fast, demanding interfacing. Impersonal.
Drift inched back, but Blurr caught his spike with his valve, running the tension calipers in a rolling wave up the spike. Drift shuddered, his spike twitching at the contact, charge prickling over it, another spurt of transfluid milked from his channel. Blurr gave a purring laugh. “Like that, huh?”
Drift swept a hand over his face, his body quivering. “Yeah,” he managed. He braced himself, one hand on Blurr’s aft, withdrawing his spike slowly, letting the silver transfluid dribble down Blurr’s thighs, his spike. Blurr dropped his hips to one side, turning.
“Should have stayed in. Could get you going again,” Blurr purred.
No. The hardest edge was off Drift’s lust, and the controlling gleam in Blurr’s optics dampened his desires.He'd wanted to punish. Blurr. Himself. The edge was off, the sharp sting of humiliation, of what he'd lowered himself to, strong enough to last. “Maybe next time.”
Blurr pouted. “Maybe next time we can see if I can get you off that way.”
Drift dropped back onto his heels, stowing his spike. “Can. Knew a mech—“ he cut himself short.
Blurr cocked his head. “Knew a mech…?”
Drift frowned. Didn’t want to seem like he had a secret. Not to Blurr. Not that he trusted the blue mech: kind of the opposite. If Blurr had something on Drift, he’d try to use it. He shrugged. Keep names out of it, he told himself. Make it sound anonymous. Just sex. Just fucking. “Yeah. Straddled me. And just,” he made a vague gesture with his hands. “Took a cycle but…,” he shivered with the memory: Wing, motionless over him, immobile save for the delicate pulling, probing, of his valve’s caliper mechanisms on Drift’s spike. “Intense.” He’d screamed his vocalizer raw at the sudden, hard release, like a wall bursting before a flood of water.
Blurr looked at him expectantly, his gaze flicking down to the closed interface hatch. Well, might as well tell him the rest. Put him in his place, right?
Drift snorted. “Then again. And…another time. Six, I think, before he slipped.” He’d…not really been keeping count, thrashing wildly, helpless, enthralled, Wing beaming down at him like a radiant sun, feeding on his release.
“Slipped.” Despite himself, intrigued. Huh. Something you never heard of, Mr Mech of the World?
Drift’s grin took a sly edge and he felt a surge of remembered emotion for Wing, his casual kinkiness, as if perversion, shame, judgment…simply didn’t exist in his world. Drift leaned forward, one hand on the berth next to Blurr’s shoulder, his voice husky and close.
“He got off on the pressure. Having so much fluid, held in his valve, or something. He was just…rolling on some kind of ecstasy and then,” his grin was edged, slicing into Blurr's presumption that he knew everything, “lost control. All that fluid, pressure.” His body twitched, remembering in a deeper way than his cortex. “So very wet,” he whispered.
He hid his smirk at Blurr’s aroused shock, rolling off the berth, out of reach. “Should try it sometime,” he said, knowing Blurr would never have the patience, and that he didn't want that long intimacy with anyone else, reaching for his Great Sword, not even caring if the triumph was evident in his gaze as he turned to leave. So much he’d learned from Wing: only one of which was the white jet’s absolute refusal to shame. Nothing was illicit, nothing was shameful if the other mech wanted it, too; if it brought pleasure. Sex about pleasure, not power…or rather sex about the power of bringing another pleasure.
Where had that gone? Already, he'd lost it, the way a dream slowly burns off upon waking.
He ached to have that again, as much as he yearned, at night for the city he’d walked away from, New Crystal City, what he’d always wanted.
It was something from the past, a jewel he could take out and admire, pure and bright. He refused to let the fact that it was in the past, that he’d never have anything like that again, taint the memory of what it had been. It had been beautiful, transcendent. It blazed through his memory, his body, brighter than a sun. Against which these…make-do releases were merely that—releases of pressure, de-stressing a gauge. It could be nothing more. And he deserved no better.
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Date: 2011-06-02 06:18 am (UTC)