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shadow_vector2011-08-26 10:55 am
niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in shadow_vector2011-08-26 10:55 am
Entry tags:
Speed and Status part 8
NC-17
IDW
Drift, Blurr, Perceptor
sticky, angst
Drift caught up with Blurr halfway down the corridor, storming headlong, hands in hard fists until he snatched at one of Blurr’s shoulderpanels, spinning him around and into the hard steel of the bulkhead. There was a flare of confusion in the optics, blue against blue, before they read Drift’s contorted face, and the mouth plates curled into a smile. “Missed you, too,” Blurr said, before his mouth was covered by Drift’s, the mouthplates bruising against him.
“Shut up,” Drift said, breaking the kiss, hands hard on Blurr’s frame, shoving him against the wall.
Blurr’s systems, still primed from the heady confrontation with Perceptor, blazed on. He hooked Drift’s knee with one heel, puling the white mech against him. “Make me.”
It was worth it for the feral snarl on Drift’s face. Everything Blurr had said to Perceptor was true: there were simply things Drift wanted, Drift did, Drift was, that were beyond Perceptor’s ability to handle. Slag, Drift had shown it himself just now, just by coming to Blurr.
Blurr tasted triumph in the hard kiss, as Drift ground against him. They tumbled to the floor in a clattering rush, Blurr taking the opportunity to wrap his legs around the white hips, under the scabbards, his thighs scraping the sensitive undersides. Drift moaned into him, hands desperate along his body.
Blurr purred. This…was how he wanted it, Drift on the edge of control, trembling, frantic, helpless before his lust; Blurr the channel, cool, in control. The whole disruption of whatever it was between Perceptor and Drift just made it sweeter.
“Want me?” Blurr murmured. He levered his hips, twisting Drift underneath him, leaning forward, his elbows on the white chassis, mouth inches from a kiss. He ground his pelvic span in open invitation over Drift’s.
Drift snarled.
Blurr grinned, reaching between them, unsnapping the hatches with one smooth, practiced gesture. Drift’s optics flickered in anticipation, body surging up against Blurr’s. Blurr rocked his hips over Drift’s, the bare metal of their exposed equipment covers sliding together, hot and satiny. Drift moaned, openly, optics dimming, hands clutching around Blurr’s shoulders.
The spike cover retracted itself beneath Blurr’s contact, the spike slick and wet, jabbing out against Blurr’s still covered valve. “Tell me you want me,” Blurr teased, dropping down to nip the parted mouthplates.
“Frag,” Drift gasped. “Obvious?”
Blurr laughed. Of course it was. “I want you to say it,” he purred, rubbing his covered valve wantonly over the spike, the metal rim grating over the spike’s underside nodes. “Say it, Drift. Tell me you want me.”
Drift groaned, hands digging into Blurr’s shoulders, almost hard enough to hurt. “Fine! Want you. Now.” He jerked his hips up against the taunting valve.
Blurr winked, lifting his pelvic frame, releasing the valve cover. He lowered himself down, pausing, his trained racer’s legs giving him control a mech like Drift could only envy. And Perceptor…never even match. The mouth of his valve pushed against the head of the spike. “Not…good enough. Say, ‘I want you, Blurr’.” The name was important. He was no anonymous fuck. Even in his racing days.
Drift bucked his hips, but Blurr knew this old trick and had clamped his knees around the rebellious white frame. Drift snarled. “Stop holding out.”
“But I’m not holding out,” Blurr murmured. “I just want you to have some manners.”
Drift’s face clouded, the comment striking home, some place deep. His hands clamped on Blurr’s hips. “I want you. Blurr.” He spat the words, as though hating the admission.
Blurr…was okay with that. “Close enough,” he flicked his glossa over the angry mouth, “this time.” He rocked back, lifting away from the kiss, settling the spike inside him, tormenting Drift with the slow way he eased himself down, the spike filling his valve inch by inch. He allowed himself a sigh of pleasure. Drift did have a nice spike. In addition to that fiery spirit. Blurr was used to being wanted, being treated like a special commodity. The novelty of Drift’s half-abrasive desire was something irresistible.
He moved, rocking his valve, his hips riding slowly over Drift’s pelvic span. And Drift was his, optics wide and almost blank, mouth parted, rapt, entirely at Blurr’s whim and direction. Caught, trapped, his entire system firing and and keyed to the motion of Blurr riding his spike.
Blurr’s.
[***]
Drift waited outside the door to Perceptor’s quarters for a long moment, straining to hear any sound within. Which didn’t help: Perceptor barely made a sound unless they were interfacing, and on those instances, he was wanton, whimpering, moaning, crying out, as if desire was too strong to be held in his frame, as if it must escape through sound.
Face what you have done, Drift, he told himself, staring at the burnished blurred reflection of his face in the metal . You did it on purpose. You left, and went to Blurr, knowing it would hurt Perceptor, wanting it to hurt him. And why? Because he dared to try to reach out. Because he mentioned Wing.
You’re right, Drift. You’re no Autobot.
He coded the door open, slipping inside, crouching low to spread his weight. Perceptor lay in recharge on the berth, a datapad tumbled loose from his hand making obvious what he’d intended to do: stay up, until Drift returned.
Drift drew his Great Sword, gently, slowly, the schuss of metal seeming to hiss in the otherwise silent room. Perceptor’s recharging systems were barely a hum, barely covering the sound as Drift folded himself onto the floor, curling in a ball half under the berth, pressing against the support strut. Hiding, he told himself. Hiding from the blame you’ve earned. Since when do you hide?
“Drift.” The word floated out, down to him.
Drift’s optics squeezed shut. “Yes.”
A long silence, and he could feel Perceptor struggle with what to say. And he struggled, trying to formulate an answer for the blame, the question, that would be flung at him.
Perceptor spoke. “I’m sorry.”
Drift jolted. Not…what he had been expecting. “For what?”
“For offending you. For pushing you away. Back to…,” Perceptor’s voice cracked.
Drift felt his hands ball into impotent fists. Who are you going to hit, Drift? Who are you angry at? Yourself. You just…take it out on everyone around you. “Not your fault.”
“It is.”
Drift cycled air. “I’ll ask Springer for new quarters in the morning.”
A hiss of air above him, cold and sharp, like a blade being drawn across metal. “Drift—.” And then silence. And then, “As you will.”
Drift ached, staring for a long moment at the berth’s underside, hating himself. But no, he argued. This was for the best. Look. You’re only hurting him. You’re breaking him down. You can’t control yourself. It’s like you told him: he deserved better.
Maybe this way, in time, Perceptor would get that chance.
Drift pushed back, spaulders bumping into the berth, cycling his optics down, willing this night to be over.
IDW
Drift, Blurr, Perceptor
sticky, angst
Drift caught up with Blurr halfway down the corridor, storming headlong, hands in hard fists until he snatched at one of Blurr’s shoulderpanels, spinning him around and into the hard steel of the bulkhead. There was a flare of confusion in the optics, blue against blue, before they read Drift’s contorted face, and the mouth plates curled into a smile. “Missed you, too,” Blurr said, before his mouth was covered by Drift’s, the mouthplates bruising against him.
“Shut up,” Drift said, breaking the kiss, hands hard on Blurr’s frame, shoving him against the wall.
Blurr’s systems, still primed from the heady confrontation with Perceptor, blazed on. He hooked Drift’s knee with one heel, puling the white mech against him. “Make me.”
It was worth it for the feral snarl on Drift’s face. Everything Blurr had said to Perceptor was true: there were simply things Drift wanted, Drift did, Drift was, that were beyond Perceptor’s ability to handle. Slag, Drift had shown it himself just now, just by coming to Blurr.
Blurr tasted triumph in the hard kiss, as Drift ground against him. They tumbled to the floor in a clattering rush, Blurr taking the opportunity to wrap his legs around the white hips, under the scabbards, his thighs scraping the sensitive undersides. Drift moaned into him, hands desperate along his body.
Blurr purred. This…was how he wanted it, Drift on the edge of control, trembling, frantic, helpless before his lust; Blurr the channel, cool, in control. The whole disruption of whatever it was between Perceptor and Drift just made it sweeter.
“Want me?” Blurr murmured. He levered his hips, twisting Drift underneath him, leaning forward, his elbows on the white chassis, mouth inches from a kiss. He ground his pelvic span in open invitation over Drift’s.
Drift snarled.
Blurr grinned, reaching between them, unsnapping the hatches with one smooth, practiced gesture. Drift’s optics flickered in anticipation, body surging up against Blurr’s. Blurr rocked his hips over Drift’s, the bare metal of their exposed equipment covers sliding together, hot and satiny. Drift moaned, openly, optics dimming, hands clutching around Blurr’s shoulders.
The spike cover retracted itself beneath Blurr’s contact, the spike slick and wet, jabbing out against Blurr’s still covered valve. “Tell me you want me,” Blurr teased, dropping down to nip the parted mouthplates.
“Frag,” Drift gasped. “Obvious?”
Blurr laughed. Of course it was. “I want you to say it,” he purred, rubbing his covered valve wantonly over the spike, the metal rim grating over the spike’s underside nodes. “Say it, Drift. Tell me you want me.”
Drift groaned, hands digging into Blurr’s shoulders, almost hard enough to hurt. “Fine! Want you. Now.” He jerked his hips up against the taunting valve.
Blurr winked, lifting his pelvic frame, releasing the valve cover. He lowered himself down, pausing, his trained racer’s legs giving him control a mech like Drift could only envy. And Perceptor…never even match. The mouth of his valve pushed against the head of the spike. “Not…good enough. Say, ‘I want you, Blurr’.” The name was important. He was no anonymous fuck. Even in his racing days.
Drift bucked his hips, but Blurr knew this old trick and had clamped his knees around the rebellious white frame. Drift snarled. “Stop holding out.”
“But I’m not holding out,” Blurr murmured. “I just want you to have some manners.”
Drift’s face clouded, the comment striking home, some place deep. His hands clamped on Blurr’s hips. “I want you. Blurr.” He spat the words, as though hating the admission.
Blurr…was okay with that. “Close enough,” he flicked his glossa over the angry mouth, “this time.” He rocked back, lifting away from the kiss, settling the spike inside him, tormenting Drift with the slow way he eased himself down, the spike filling his valve inch by inch. He allowed himself a sigh of pleasure. Drift did have a nice spike. In addition to that fiery spirit. Blurr was used to being wanted, being treated like a special commodity. The novelty of Drift’s half-abrasive desire was something irresistible.
He moved, rocking his valve, his hips riding slowly over Drift’s pelvic span. And Drift was his, optics wide and almost blank, mouth parted, rapt, entirely at Blurr’s whim and direction. Caught, trapped, his entire system firing and and keyed to the motion of Blurr riding his spike.
Blurr’s.
[***]
Drift waited outside the door to Perceptor’s quarters for a long moment, straining to hear any sound within. Which didn’t help: Perceptor barely made a sound unless they were interfacing, and on those instances, he was wanton, whimpering, moaning, crying out, as if desire was too strong to be held in his frame, as if it must escape through sound.
Face what you have done, Drift, he told himself, staring at the burnished blurred reflection of his face in the metal . You did it on purpose. You left, and went to Blurr, knowing it would hurt Perceptor, wanting it to hurt him. And why? Because he dared to try to reach out. Because he mentioned Wing.
You’re right, Drift. You’re no Autobot.
He coded the door open, slipping inside, crouching low to spread his weight. Perceptor lay in recharge on the berth, a datapad tumbled loose from his hand making obvious what he’d intended to do: stay up, until Drift returned.
Drift drew his Great Sword, gently, slowly, the schuss of metal seeming to hiss in the otherwise silent room. Perceptor’s recharging systems were barely a hum, barely covering the sound as Drift folded himself onto the floor, curling in a ball half under the berth, pressing against the support strut. Hiding, he told himself. Hiding from the blame you’ve earned. Since when do you hide?
“Drift.” The word floated out, down to him.
Drift’s optics squeezed shut. “Yes.”
A long silence, and he could feel Perceptor struggle with what to say. And he struggled, trying to formulate an answer for the blame, the question, that would be flung at him.
Perceptor spoke. “I’m sorry.”
Drift jolted. Not…what he had been expecting. “For what?”
“For offending you. For pushing you away. Back to…,” Perceptor’s voice cracked.
Drift felt his hands ball into impotent fists. Who are you going to hit, Drift? Who are you angry at? Yourself. You just…take it out on everyone around you. “Not your fault.”
“It is.”
Drift cycled air. “I’ll ask Springer for new quarters in the morning.”
A hiss of air above him, cold and sharp, like a blade being drawn across metal. “Drift—.” And then silence. And then, “As you will.”
Drift ached, staring for a long moment at the berth’s underside, hating himself. But no, he argued. This was for the best. Look. You’re only hurting him. You’re breaking him down. You can’t control yourself. It’s like you told him: he deserved better.
Maybe this way, in time, Perceptor would get that chance.
Drift pushed back, spaulders bumping into the berth, cycling his optics down, willing this night to be over.
no subject
Glorious angst.