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shadow_vector2011-06-29 08:21 am
Sipes
IDW
Drift/Perceptor
Sticky
For those who don't know, tire siping Ravynfyre and I had been talking about it the other night and she can attest that my first comment was...HOW DO I APPLY THIS TO ROBOT PORN.
“Road composition,” Perceptor explained. “Bitumen, friction heated. It can cause a loss of traction.”
“Noticed that,” Drift muttered, rubbing his ankle, where the bodywork was dented, the white armor scraped black and down to primer from the accident. Some functional mobility issues, Perceptor noticed. But mostly, the injury seemed to be to Drift’s pride. He supposed it was not…good to slide off a road and slam into a brick wall. He couldn’t go that fast, himself. It had never been an issue. And his own treads had a tendency to gouge into bituminous asphalt.
“Perhaps--.” No. Perceptor drew himself up short. Suggest to Drift that he drive a little less recklessly? That would not be well received.
Drift looked up. “Perhaps what?”
Uh. “Perhaps I could do something to increase traction?”
“Change their fraggin’ road composition.” Another surreptitious attempt to pop a dent with his fingers.
“That’s…not quite feasible.”
A sharp blue glower. “What? And don’t say load up my trunk.”
What? Perceptor blinked. “No. I…was thinking about the tires.”
“Nothing wrong with my tires.” He stroked one hand over a tire on his forearm. Did Drift look a little…defensive?
“No. But…siping.” He made a gesture, horizontal, with one hand. “Small cuts, across the breadth of the tire.”
The optics narrowed. “You want…to cut…my tires.”
Well yes, but…not that way. Perceptor frowned. “It doesn’t hurt.”
Drift stiffened, looking insulted. “Can handle it.”
This…was not going well. “It would help. Significantly.” His hands stirred in a small gesture, letting Drift make the decision.
Drift glowered, and then, “Fine. All right.” He thrust out an arm. “I can take it.”
“Yo-you need to be in your alt,” Perceptor said. If he were going to do this, it should be done right. “The tires need to rotate freely.” In his bipedal mode, the tires were locked down.
Drift gave a snarl of frustration, flipping into his alt with an air of barely restrained outrage. “Fine. Happy now?” His voice was muffled under the planes of his hood.
Not…really? “Need you on the lift.” He gestured. “Rotate freely.”
Drift bit down some sort of invective that doubtless would have blasted Perceptor’s audio, which he buried in a rev of his engine as he roared over to the vehicle lift. It was, Perceptor supposed, a bit embarrassing, exposing, hiked up on a lift like that, weight held by his frame, unable to move. It must feel fairly helpless. But it had to be done, and Drift, for all his grousing, trusted Perceptor.
Or he wouldn’t be on the lift at all.
Perceptor kicked the lift switch as he walked over, watching the beams lift, the tires drop slightly, loosed from Drift’s weight as it dangled him slowly in the air. Except the left rear, where the impact had driven part of the quarterpanel into the tirewell. Oh, Drift. He stopped to grab a jar of nanites before moving to stand beside Drift’s injured side. Perceptor placed the jar on Drift’s trunk, running his hands gently over the damage, sweeping away some stone dust and small gravel chips. It would heal but right now…. “I can pull this out.”
“Do it.”
“Let me get a sensorblock.”
“No. I can handle it.” Irritation cresting in the voice.
“All right.” Perceptor felt a wave of strange sympathy for Drift: in a way he understood the white mech’s stoicism. It was different than his own, trying to deny feeling. Ironic that Drift’s stubborn refusal to admit to pain could call up this tendril of something almost…sweet and gentle in Perceptor. “I’ll be quick.”
“Fine,” Drift snapped. “Just do it already.”
Perceptor grabbed the crumpled metal, his sensitive engineer’s hands knowing just where to position for leverage. His shoulders jerked back and the metal gave a groaning pop as the metal unbent into its former shape. Or close enough. Autorepair and the eisenlines embedded in the armor would smooth out the rest. Still, he slathered the well, inside and out, with the cool nanite gel. That should take some of the pain away, he thought. And Drift wouldn’t complain too vociferously.
Now, to the task. Perceptor rotated the tire on its axis, sliding the treads over his palm, gauging the depth. The rubber dragged over his hands, the texture fascinating, and he could almost smell the roadwear, sharp and tarry and black-smelling. It was…strangely sensual and he allowed himself a small moment, very controlled, of simply…the moment. Drift rarely let himself get touched this way, and his exotic beauty had begged for Perceptor’s hands from the first moment. It was indulgence, sheer and selfish.
Perceptor reined himself in. Back to the task. The tires, yes. Sliding so sensually over his hands. He pulled back, activating one of the microcutters in his finger, probing, considering where to begin.
“This won’t hurt.”
“You keep saying that,” Drift muttered. “Every time you say it I believe it less.” The doorlocks engaged and disengaged in irritation.
Yes. Fine. Stop hesitating, Perceptor.
He drew the microblade across a tread, the other hand sensitized, anxious for any bad response. He saw the brake calipers engage, stop, loosen. “Are you…?”
“Fine,” Drift snapped. “Just stop stopping.”
Perceptor gave a nervous huff. Yes. Stop hesitating. He bent to his work, left hand slowly rotating the tire on the axle, his right’s microblade moving swiftly, over across the tire’s width, cutting into the treads perpendicular to the rotational direction. He got engrossed in the work, the black rubber’s almost velvety texture, the fascinating intricacy of the tread pattern, some to channel rain, some for grip. He swiftly developed a rhythm to it, finger flicking over the treads, barely noticing anything but the smooth progression of tire between his hands. Drift had gone quiet, hunched on the lift, engine idling grumpily.
Finished. He straightened, reaching again for the jar of nanites, slathering them over the tire’s surface. Drift went…still. Perhaps the nanites stung, but Perceptor had had enough warnings: he wouldn’t presume to ask.
He let his thumb run up the main rainchannel where some of the edgecuts were raw. Drift shuddered. But said nothing. Still, Perceptor kept a wary optic on the white frame as he stepped around behind the fender to the other rear tire. This tire rotated freely on this side: Perceptor ran a full, smooth revolution before prepping his microblade.
Drift twitched as the cutter made first contact, the engine idling higher and for a klik he seemed to rock on the lift. The brake calipers quivered, rigid, away from the disc. No, Perceptor thought. He will tell me if he wants me to stop. He shifted his weight forward, for a better position, flexing his hand, recalling the easy rhythm he had used on the other tire. Perceptor gave a small nod, finger flexing, before moving back in again. The tempo came back to him, blade flicking lightly over the treads.
He startled, feeling something hot drip on his knee armor. He housed the blade safely away before looking down, to see a pearl-clear gloss of a drip of liquid on the span of red. It looked like…?
Perceptor bent down, looking at the dark undercarriage, tracing the familiar bits of armor, the under sheathing and…oh. Another drip, right from the hatch covering Drift’s interface equipment. It…didn’t hurt apparently. He could not resist—his hand came up, feeling the slick heat of the armor, lubricant fluid seeping from the panel’s seams. Yes. The same fluid. And the heat was unmistakable. Drift jolted, engine snarling. His rear wheels whipped through the empty air.
“Drift?”
“Shut it.” The lift rocked. “And get me off this stupid thing.”
“Not done.”
A lurching movement above him—Perceptor backpedaled as Drift managed—somehow—to burst out of his alt, balancing on his hip plates. The nanite jar tumbled off the white trunk--Perceptor saw it spinning, falling. And then a blur of white and black, and weight on his chassis and Perceptor was driven to the ground, palms thrown out wide to break his fall as Drift landed on him. The blue optics were wide, feral, the mouth curled into a snarl that buried itself in Perceptor’s throat, his fingers clawing at Perceptor’s helm crest, tearing Perceptor’s head aside. Drift’s weight straddled him, thighs sleek and powerful over his hips, and Perceptor felt a frantic scrabble of a hand between them, then the sharp rush of air after his panel was snatched open.
“Didn’t,” Drift growled, his voice vibrating against Perceptor’s throat, mouth plates nipping the cables, “hurt.” He hiked his hips up, sinking himself onto Perceptor’s spike, even as it pressurized itself out of the housing. Perceptor gasped, hands clutching at the white shoulders over him, as the slickness and heat enveloped his spike, squeezing down against him.
Drift’s head stayed buried in his throat, gasping ventilations along Perceptor’s chassis, as he rocked, swiftly, back and forth, working the spike in his valve. Perceptor’s hands dropped to the hips, over the scabbards, just to feel the push and pull of the pistons under the light mesh mail of Drift’s armor. The valve tugged at, around, his spike, building charge, using him wantonly, recklessly, the white body rocking over his, taut with lust. And he wanted it, always wanted Drift. Drift’s tempo was fast, needy, racing to climax, his ventilation nearly grunting against Perceptor, hands gripping at the red shoulder, the black helm.
Drift cried out, spinal struts snapping straight, optics flashing white and distant, unseeing, mouth stretched around a long vowel of ecstasy. Perceptor gasped, hands digging into the sleek hips atop his, spike jumping, nearly crushed in the valve’s cycling calipers, halfway between pleasure and pain.
Drift’s growl grew less feral, optics clearing, wide and blue, as he looked down at Perceptor, pinned to the ground. “Sorry for asking?” he said.
A small, almost imperceptible smile dared the corner of Perceptor’s mouth. “No.”
The smile was mirrored, magnified, on Drift’s face. “Am I going to have to try harder?”
Perceptor dropped his hands from Drift’s hips, to rest lightly on the ankle tires, running one slow finger up the rain channel. He gave a soft snort of laughter as Drift’s body jerked on top of his, the valve quivering against his spike. “Can you?”
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I particularly like the door locks and calipers, in this fic.
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This was so delactably yummy >:3 I love a wanton Drift. Sexiest mech alive
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Also, Drift pouncing on Percy and topping in that way. FUCK. So hot.