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shadow_vector2011-06-27 08:43 am
niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in shadow_vector2011-06-27 08:43 am
Entry tags:
Interlude
Title: Interlude
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
yellow_ideya
Continuity: IDW, AHM-ish
Pairing/Characters: Perceptor/Drift
Rating/Category: R
Word Count: 1483
Notes/Warnings: pnp interfacing, no significant spoilers. The requester wanted action or porn or both. With some of the characters they'd suggested, I found it almost impossible--IDW Thundercracker sits on his ass and watches TV. Unless he's watching action or porn...? (And believe me, I'd thought of it, because it's probably utter anon/stealthfail for me to write THIS pairing.) However, here? Action AND porn! Whoo-hooooo.....?
Perceptor’s optics onlined, his internal chrono marking one cycle till comm check. He’d fallen asleep, slumped against the wall in this far corner of the Citadel, rifle tucked behind him, between him and the wall, drained. He’d been alone then, deliberately, not wanting company, not wanting the pressure of having to be on edge, where, if he moaned or whimpered in his sleep from bad dreams, he needn’t be ashamed. The Swarm was out there, waiting, and even he had eventually acknowledged that he needed to recharge. A weapon was no weapon if it was out of focus, imprecise.
He was not alone anymore: Drift had found him, somehow, with that unerring way Drift had always found him. Drift had fallen into recharge, face pressed against Perceptor’s chassis, arms flung wide around him, snuggled between Perceptor’s legs. The heavy hilt of the Great Sword jutted above his back, nearly in Perceptor’s face, while the sleek finials stabbed the air below it, one nestled against Perceptor’s reinforced chestplate. And in his recharge, somehow, unaccountably, one of Perceptor’s arms had come to rest around the white shoulders, below the heavy spaulder. Not restraining, but…accepting.
Drift was beautiful when he recharged, his frame loose, open, limbs in graceful lines, radiating a certain, almost cat-like comfort. It wasn’t just the exotic armor, but the sinuous, sure litheness in the lines, strength controlled, power and confidence contained. Perceptor would give almost anything to see Drift’s face, to see if the tension soothed from Drift’s mouth when he recharged. He moved his free hand, not daring to touch, but stroking it over the high edges of the contented fuzz of Drift’s EM field, cycling a sigh. He had no idea what Drift saw in him, but he wasn’t one to turn that away, the quiet acceptance, and the white mech’s turning to him for moments like this, the gentle, soft solace of co-recharge.
Drift murmured, shifting on top of Perceptor’s chassis, arching into the brushes on his EMF, one hand clutching at the coolant hose that snaked around Perceptor’s midsection, legs moving, sliding over the gritty floor. Perceptor tensed at the grating sound splitting the heavy silence. His hand froze over Drift’s frame.
Drift sighed, and the helm tilted up, warming-up blue optics focusing blearily on Perceptor’s face. “Hey there,” Drift said, voice hoarse, vocalizer cold from disuse. A rare smile quirked one corner of his mouth.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Perceptor said, lowering his hand, sheepish.
Drift gave a warm purr, squirming forward, accepting the apology with a kiss. “I don’t mind.” He moved one knee, the projecting armor sliding against the back of Perceptor’s upraised thigh. “But since we’re both awake…?” One hand, warm from some minor autorepair, glossed down Perceptor’s side, feeling for the interface hatch.
Perceptor felt the faint flush of a smile on his lip plates, his own hand trailing, more slowly, over Drift’s white chassis, his scientist’s palms knowing the shapes, studying the contours and the feel of the white enamel, like satin pouring through his fingers. Drift twisted into the movement, optics glazing, frozen halfway through another kiss, as though Perceptor’s light touch tore him out of himself. Perceptor leaned closer, nudging the mouth with his own, glossa brushing over the still-parted mouth plates. Which stretched into a smile, optics undimming, as Drift surged farther up his body, free hand coming to cup Perceptor’s helm. He dipped into the kiss as though tasting it.
Drift scrambled up onto his knees, getting distance between their bodies, his free hand snapping open first his own, then Perceptor’s hatch. His fingers hesitated over Perceptor’s cable. “Wanted you last night,” he murmured, nuzzling the heavy nasal of his helm against Perceptor’s nose, sleek and inviting. It was…not a place that got a lot of physical contact, and for a moment Perceptor was startled by how sensuous it was.
“Could have.” This close, Drift’s optics were blue coruscating gems, and he could see fine grit and oil over the optic shutters.
Drift shook his head, nipping at Perceptor’s lower lip. “No,” he murmured. “Want you to…,” he gave up with a shrug, white spaulder rearing in Perceptor’s vision. Perceptor sighed, returning the nip with a shy touch of his glossa. He understood: Drift wanted permission, consent, desire. Implied wasn’t good enough. Perceptor thought he had figured the reasons, but even without, he respected Drift’s decision.
“Yes,” Perceptor said, clearly, quietly, giving permission, letting his chassis arch up to close the distance between them, his hand moving to Drift’s interface hatch, stroking light touches along the cable, feeling Drift shudder with desire.
Drift took his cable, laying it next to Perceptor’s in his palm, cords threaded through his fingers. He looked at them for a long moment, the two brushed steel connectors, the silver mesh wire covers. Perceptor could only guess what Drift read in the image, before the white helm turned upward again, gaze hunting his, inexorable, just as the hand squeezed together, driving the connectors home.
Perceptor gasped, dropping his firewalls instantly, at the sudden rush of input: stimulus, data, systems log information. His hands clutched over Drift’s shoulders, sensornet blazing with colors and sounds and sharp prickles of sensation. Drift dropped his own firewalls slowly, with great control, letting the data reach and pool against the next wall, like waters in a flood, before dropping the wall. The data’s rush took on a slower, surging tempo, stopping, eddying and rushing onward. Perceptor shuddered with each dropped wall, feeling, acutely, that Drift was letting him in. And it felt someplace sacred, like a cathedral opening up before him.
And he felt the contrast, the irony, of how quickly, willingly, he dropped everything before Drift. But now, sharing system feeds, he knew that…Drift wanted that, respected his openness, cherished Perceptor’s subdued eagerness.
“You pick,” Drift whispered, releasing their connected cables to sag between them, busying his hands with sliding up Perceptor’s frame, thumbs dipping into the tiny gap between arm and shoulder. Perceptor cycled an unsteady vent, Drift’s memory files opening in front of him. He moved quickly over the data, driven by need, by the rising tide of their combined datastreams, throbbing toward synchrony, He scoured, searching tags, his cortex—or Drift’s, melded with his own—guiding him, letting him grasp Drift’s tag system, which symbols led to happier memories.
And he wanted a happy memory. There was too much sadness in this place.
This one: he selected, and it unspooled before him, sucking him in, with Drift.
Swords. Bright flashes of light slicing through the air, the hiss and slide of pistons firing, smooth whirs of balance gyroscopes, the blades no longer inert metal, but moving, feeling, like silver extensions of Drift’s arms, of his will. It took a moment for Perceptor to place, but it was Drift, inside one of the smaller practice rooms on the Axion. It seemed…forever ago to him, but the memory was blazing and crisp, and he could feel, through the link, Drift’s focus, crystalline, sharp, and the fierce joy of a body in confident motion. He could feel the pressure of air as the blades sliced through it, traveling up his wrists; the quick, careful turns of the wrist; the shift of balance, feet tracing quick, economical arcs, lunging forward, dodging back; the past, the future, identity, everything, just dropping away, as if spun off by the centrifuge of Drift’s movements. Leaving only now: motion and precision and surety. Now: life and strength. Now: and the stark beauty of systems working in synchrony, flow and compensation. Now: the power of the body, fierce and strong.
Another flash-flare of light, the dual blades Drift wielded slicing up through the air, carving an intricate shape whose brilliance blinded Perceptor’s visual processing as their datastreams snapped into synchrony. He gasped, a choked sound, clutching Drift against him, feeling the touch from inside and out. The overload’s charge spiraled through his systems, bright and hot and clean, as though burning off impurities, dirt, all the weight of memory, all the burden of worry.
Drift, atop him, arched rigid, his own hands nearly gouging into Perceptor’s armor, before dropping his weight down, spent, overcharge dancing its blue flames over his EM field like a beautiful storm. And Perceptor felt this, too, directly, through the link—the immediacy, the intensity with which Drift felt everything.
And he felt…paltry by comparison, every moment, every experience mitigated by his cortex, thought and overthought, weighed and considered, as though there was a distance, a wall between himself and direct experience.
“No,” Drift whispered, lifting his head, meeting Perceptor’s gaze before moving to nuzzle drowsily against his neck. “No judging.” And Perceptor felt a warm flow of something…stronger than affection through the connection, pushing aside the last of his doubts, warm like the sunlight Cybertron hadn’t seen in ages.
Recipient:
yellow_ideya Continuity: IDW, AHM-ish
Pairing/Characters: Perceptor/Drift
Rating/Category: R
Word Count: 1483
Notes/Warnings: pnp interfacing, no significant spoilers. The requester wanted action or porn or both. With some of the characters they'd suggested, I found it almost impossible--IDW Thundercracker sits on his ass and watches TV. Unless he's watching action or porn...? (And believe me, I'd thought of it, because it's probably utter anon/stealthfail for me to write THIS pairing.) However, here? Action AND porn! Whoo-hooooo.....?
Perceptor’s optics onlined, his internal chrono marking one cycle till comm check. He’d fallen asleep, slumped against the wall in this far corner of the Citadel, rifle tucked behind him, between him and the wall, drained. He’d been alone then, deliberately, not wanting company, not wanting the pressure of having to be on edge, where, if he moaned or whimpered in his sleep from bad dreams, he needn’t be ashamed. The Swarm was out there, waiting, and even he had eventually acknowledged that he needed to recharge. A weapon was no weapon if it was out of focus, imprecise.
He was not alone anymore: Drift had found him, somehow, with that unerring way Drift had always found him. Drift had fallen into recharge, face pressed against Perceptor’s chassis, arms flung wide around him, snuggled between Perceptor’s legs. The heavy hilt of the Great Sword jutted above his back, nearly in Perceptor’s face, while the sleek finials stabbed the air below it, one nestled against Perceptor’s reinforced chestplate. And in his recharge, somehow, unaccountably, one of Perceptor’s arms had come to rest around the white shoulders, below the heavy spaulder. Not restraining, but…accepting.
Drift was beautiful when he recharged, his frame loose, open, limbs in graceful lines, radiating a certain, almost cat-like comfort. It wasn’t just the exotic armor, but the sinuous, sure litheness in the lines, strength controlled, power and confidence contained. Perceptor would give almost anything to see Drift’s face, to see if the tension soothed from Drift’s mouth when he recharged. He moved his free hand, not daring to touch, but stroking it over the high edges of the contented fuzz of Drift’s EM field, cycling a sigh. He had no idea what Drift saw in him, but he wasn’t one to turn that away, the quiet acceptance, and the white mech’s turning to him for moments like this, the gentle, soft solace of co-recharge.
Drift murmured, shifting on top of Perceptor’s chassis, arching into the brushes on his EMF, one hand clutching at the coolant hose that snaked around Perceptor’s midsection, legs moving, sliding over the gritty floor. Perceptor tensed at the grating sound splitting the heavy silence. His hand froze over Drift’s frame.
Drift sighed, and the helm tilted up, warming-up blue optics focusing blearily on Perceptor’s face. “Hey there,” Drift said, voice hoarse, vocalizer cold from disuse. A rare smile quirked one corner of his mouth.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Perceptor said, lowering his hand, sheepish.
Drift gave a warm purr, squirming forward, accepting the apology with a kiss. “I don’t mind.” He moved one knee, the projecting armor sliding against the back of Perceptor’s upraised thigh. “But since we’re both awake…?” One hand, warm from some minor autorepair, glossed down Perceptor’s side, feeling for the interface hatch.
Perceptor felt the faint flush of a smile on his lip plates, his own hand trailing, more slowly, over Drift’s white chassis, his scientist’s palms knowing the shapes, studying the contours and the feel of the white enamel, like satin pouring through his fingers. Drift twisted into the movement, optics glazing, frozen halfway through another kiss, as though Perceptor’s light touch tore him out of himself. Perceptor leaned closer, nudging the mouth with his own, glossa brushing over the still-parted mouth plates. Which stretched into a smile, optics undimming, as Drift surged farther up his body, free hand coming to cup Perceptor’s helm. He dipped into the kiss as though tasting it.
Drift scrambled up onto his knees, getting distance between their bodies, his free hand snapping open first his own, then Perceptor’s hatch. His fingers hesitated over Perceptor’s cable. “Wanted you last night,” he murmured, nuzzling the heavy nasal of his helm against Perceptor’s nose, sleek and inviting. It was…not a place that got a lot of physical contact, and for a moment Perceptor was startled by how sensuous it was.
“Could have.” This close, Drift’s optics were blue coruscating gems, and he could see fine grit and oil over the optic shutters.
Drift shook his head, nipping at Perceptor’s lower lip. “No,” he murmured. “Want you to…,” he gave up with a shrug, white spaulder rearing in Perceptor’s vision. Perceptor sighed, returning the nip with a shy touch of his glossa. He understood: Drift wanted permission, consent, desire. Implied wasn’t good enough. Perceptor thought he had figured the reasons, but even without, he respected Drift’s decision.
“Yes,” Perceptor said, clearly, quietly, giving permission, letting his chassis arch up to close the distance between them, his hand moving to Drift’s interface hatch, stroking light touches along the cable, feeling Drift shudder with desire.
Drift took his cable, laying it next to Perceptor’s in his palm, cords threaded through his fingers. He looked at them for a long moment, the two brushed steel connectors, the silver mesh wire covers. Perceptor could only guess what Drift read in the image, before the white helm turned upward again, gaze hunting his, inexorable, just as the hand squeezed together, driving the connectors home.
Perceptor gasped, dropping his firewalls instantly, at the sudden rush of input: stimulus, data, systems log information. His hands clutched over Drift’s shoulders, sensornet blazing with colors and sounds and sharp prickles of sensation. Drift dropped his own firewalls slowly, with great control, letting the data reach and pool against the next wall, like waters in a flood, before dropping the wall. The data’s rush took on a slower, surging tempo, stopping, eddying and rushing onward. Perceptor shuddered with each dropped wall, feeling, acutely, that Drift was letting him in. And it felt someplace sacred, like a cathedral opening up before him.
And he felt the contrast, the irony, of how quickly, willingly, he dropped everything before Drift. But now, sharing system feeds, he knew that…Drift wanted that, respected his openness, cherished Perceptor’s subdued eagerness.
“You pick,” Drift whispered, releasing their connected cables to sag between them, busying his hands with sliding up Perceptor’s frame, thumbs dipping into the tiny gap between arm and shoulder. Perceptor cycled an unsteady vent, Drift’s memory files opening in front of him. He moved quickly over the data, driven by need, by the rising tide of their combined datastreams, throbbing toward synchrony, He scoured, searching tags, his cortex—or Drift’s, melded with his own—guiding him, letting him grasp Drift’s tag system, which symbols led to happier memories.
And he wanted a happy memory. There was too much sadness in this place.
This one: he selected, and it unspooled before him, sucking him in, with Drift.
Swords. Bright flashes of light slicing through the air, the hiss and slide of pistons firing, smooth whirs of balance gyroscopes, the blades no longer inert metal, but moving, feeling, like silver extensions of Drift’s arms, of his will. It took a moment for Perceptor to place, but it was Drift, inside one of the smaller practice rooms on the Axion. It seemed…forever ago to him, but the memory was blazing and crisp, and he could feel, through the link, Drift’s focus, crystalline, sharp, and the fierce joy of a body in confident motion. He could feel the pressure of air as the blades sliced through it, traveling up his wrists; the quick, careful turns of the wrist; the shift of balance, feet tracing quick, economical arcs, lunging forward, dodging back; the past, the future, identity, everything, just dropping away, as if spun off by the centrifuge of Drift’s movements. Leaving only now: motion and precision and surety. Now: life and strength. Now: and the stark beauty of systems working in synchrony, flow and compensation. Now: the power of the body, fierce and strong.
Another flash-flare of light, the dual blades Drift wielded slicing up through the air, carving an intricate shape whose brilliance blinded Perceptor’s visual processing as their datastreams snapped into synchrony. He gasped, a choked sound, clutching Drift against him, feeling the touch from inside and out. The overload’s charge spiraled through his systems, bright and hot and clean, as though burning off impurities, dirt, all the weight of memory, all the burden of worry.
Drift, atop him, arched rigid, his own hands nearly gouging into Perceptor’s armor, before dropping his weight down, spent, overcharge dancing its blue flames over his EM field like a beautiful storm. And Perceptor felt this, too, directly, through the link—the immediacy, the intensity with which Drift felt everything.
And he felt…paltry by comparison, every moment, every experience mitigated by his cortex, thought and overthought, weighed and considered, as though there was a distance, a wall between himself and direct experience.
“No,” Drift whispered, lifting his head, meeting Perceptor’s gaze before moving to nuzzle drowsily against his neck. “No judging.” And Perceptor felt a warm flow of something…stronger than affection through the connection, pushing aside the last of his doubts, warm like the sunlight Cybertron hadn’t seen in ages.
no subject
no subject
mmm anyway, action + porn = purrrrr~
no subject
*clings to you* Thank you, it's sweet and beautiful and sexy and wonderful. ;~;
*fails forever at adequately showing her thanks*