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shadow_vector2011-11-19 09:19 am
A Long Time Building.
IDW
Perceptor/Drift
sticky, mild dom/sub, possible consent issues for the very squeamish. For
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ravynfyre who wanted some Percy topping Drift. I'm aware it could be, and likely should be, more aggressive, but they kept pushing back against that.It had been building for a long time, Perceptor supposed. Springer and Drift made no secret of their mutual dislike. But he hadn’t quite been prepared—at least yet—for this explosion of temper.
Springer’s voice, raised and angry, bled through the door. But even more alarming: Drift’s voice, a sharp, short bark, just as loud, just as angry, before the door whooshed open: a sharp, dangerous sound Perceptor had heard maybe a half-dozen times. Drift stormed out, a white fury, his optics raking over Perceptor and Kup who were loitering—perhaps too obviously—around Springer’s office.
“Where do you think you’re going to go?” Springer’s voice chased after Drift, high and mocking.
Drift snarled over his shoulder, turning and driving a fist into the bulkhead, letting the echoing metal speak for him as he stomped down the corridor.
“That went well,” Kup said, dryly. “Lay on enough charm, there, Springer?”
“He’s fraggin’ impossible to deal with.”
“Used to say that about you, kid.” Kup’s cy-gar shifted to the other side of his mouth, an equivalent of a wink. “You turned out okay.”
Springer glowered. “I was never a ‘con.” He made a rude gesture down the hallway.
Kup exchanged a glance with Perceptor. They’d expected this to come to a head sooner or later, some mutual, mute telepathy. Perceptor nodded, turning on his heel down the corridor. Kup would handle Springer.
“Oh that’s right,” Springer called out, pitching his voice to ricochet down the hallway, “Go chase after your Decepticon pet!”
Perceptor…really hoped that Drift hadn’t heard that.
[***]
He found Drift, two cycles later, when it finally occurred to him to check the engine room. ‘Where do you think you’re going to go?’ Springer had mocked—Drift had gone to the place that reminded him the most of the gutters: ugly, closed in, full of noise and bad smells. The white mech hunched on the floor, his armor smeared with grease, knees drawn up, his mouth twisted in a rictus of hate aimed at nothing and everything.
“Drift,” Perceptor said, his voice nearly lost in the engines’ rumble. He stepped closer, his shadow falling over the black footplate. “Drift.”
“Go away.” The hoarse growl cut through the engine sounds far better than Perceptor’s soft voice.
Perceptor frowned, the movement minute on his tightly controlled face. “Why.”
“Don’t want to talk.” A quick flick of the optics up to his face, then down: flat, hostile.
Perceptor squatted down. “We don’t have to talk.”
A growl, the hands knotting together. Perceptor stayed like that for a long moment, simply watching, being. Waiting.
Drift’s mouth was always the best, the surest indicator of his moods, and as Perceptor watched, he saw a half-dozen moods skim over the face: anger, frustration, hurt and that brittle fragility Perceptor saw only rare flashes of. “What do you want?”
You to be happy, Perceptor thought, but shoved it aside with force. Not what Drift needed right now. “Springer,” he said, simply, bracing himself for the sneer that answered.
“What about.”
“We’re a team, Drift.”
“Team.” He spat the word. “Suppose that means we have to get along.”
A wry twist of Perceptor’s mouth. “It would help, but this is the Wreckers, after all.” Harmony and peace weren’t Wrecker stock in trade, even for each other. He watched the joke fall flat between them, like glass flash-frozen and shattering. “What did Springer say?”
A snarl, the hands tightening on air. “Had a right to say it,” Drift said, finally, voice almost lost amidst the insistent engine hum.
“That wasn’t what I asked, Drift.” He was getting nowhere being gentle. Sometimes Drift needed a stronger hand, defaulting to viewing any sort of gentleness as weakness.
Drift’s outrage was expected, then, the way he seemed to roar to his feet. “Did he send you after me? Your…Decepticon pet?”
Oh. So he had heard that. Perceptor rose, also, leaning in to press his height advantage on the smaller mech. “No,” he said, louring over the engine sound. The heat seemed to push in against them, oppressive and thick. He knew Drift was fixating on that, summoning an attack against Perceptor because he was here and Springer wasn’t. Perceptor felt, then smothered, a flare of resentment.
“Then why are you here?” Drift jutted his chin up, defiant. Trying, Perceptor knew, to push him away. A show of force he wanted, and didn’t want, to succeed.
It wouldn’t. “Because,” Perceptor said, pushing closer, his chassis bumping against Drift, “You need someone who can get through to you.”
“You think you can?” A sneer, but it was thin, almost driven by reflex, while underneath, Drift was uncertain, wavering.
“Yes,” Perceptor said, steadily. Inwardly, he gathered himself. Drift needed this. And he? He needed it too. One hand reached for a broad, white spaulder.
Drift slapped it aside, the sneer growing to a growl.
Perceptor let the hand be swatted aside, bringing up his other palm to lock Drift’s elbow, his struck hand turning to grasp the wrist. He spun Drift around, face into the warm, vibrating bulkhead of the engine room. “Proof?”
“Let go of me,” Drift snarled, cheekplate grating into the wall.
“Make me.” Perceptor leaned forward, his heavy chestplate shoving against the white frame.
A growl, and the frame grated against the metal, one leg striking back at Perceptor’s legs.
Perceptor stepped over the strike, clinging fast to the arm he twisted up behind Drift’s back, feeling the strain on the white mech’s shoulder gyros. “Have to try harder than that, Drift.”
A high rev of the engine, thrumming against him, and a wash of heat. Another wrench, the other palm trying to leverage a push off the wall. Perceptor reached around, snatching the hand off the wall, pinning them both up high between the white spaulders.
“You’re not even trying, Drift,” Perceptor leaned forward, his voice a hot whisper. He hated to admit how aroused he was getting. This…wasn’t who he was. He didn’t enjoy hurting other mechs. But Drift’s EM field flared with lust and pain commingled, calling something out of him. And it was getting through, breaking, somehow, through the hard resentment, the high wall Drift built around himself. He felt a growl bubble in his vocalizer, as he bent down, tilting the helm aside, to sink his dentae into the sleek dark cables of Drift’s throat. “Because,” he purred, “if you were, you’d be winning.”
A sharp cry, half growl, half whimper.
“Admit it, Drift.” He ground his chestplate over the armor, feeling his interface systems tingle on. He knew he was right: If Drift really wanted him away, he’d be flung against the far bulkhead. And that thought, and the thought that that tension, that violence, roiled under Drift’s surface, turgid and contained, fanned an ember of desire.
A curse, that dropped, without heat, from trembling mouthplates. The vibration of the engines through the walls seemed to shimmy through them, tickling their contact points. Perceptor’s own ventilations hitched, his desire blowing naked and obvious in hot eddies of air, against Drift’s back. “Drift….”
One blue optic glared from the side of its socket at him. “Do it,” Drift snarled, hot, impatient. Perceptor felt the hipframe squirm back against his, riding that line between fighting and yielding.
The line was a razor’s edge, slicing through Perceptor’s better judgment, shredding his hesitations. He forced his weight forward, crushing Drift against the wall, feeling the hands pinned between their bodies, as he freed one hand, reaching between Drift’s thighs, groping roughly for the interface hatch. He’d been gentle, in the past, but gentle wasn’t what either of them wanted this time.
Drift moaned, the optic shutters clicking down, mouth parting in a softer shape than the scowl. His interface equipment was hot under Perceptor’s touch, as he rocked his hips back against him, trying to guide, to control, even now.
“No,” Perceptor said, his voice calm, tight. Drift stilled, instantly, though his ventilations hissed from his vents. Perceptor’s spike unhoused itself, rigid with want, glossed with lubricant. He hovered it around the valve, rubbing the tip of it against the thin petals of the valve cover, testing Drift’s obedience.
The white frame shuddered, an exquisite ripple running up the fine black plating of Drift’s waist, but the hipframe was still, immobile.
“Good,” Perceptor said, bland, neutral, knees bending to compensate for his greater height, sinking his spike into the valve in a hard, smooth stroke.
Drift tensed, cheekplate grinding against the wall, hands gripping futilely at Perceptor’s chassis.
Perceptor tilted his head up, pressing the chestplate against the broad back, pressing his belly in close contact with Drift’s quivering backframe. He released one hand, hooking under Drift’s knee, hauling it up so that Drift balanced on one foot, the bulk of his weight pressed into the wall. Perceptor gave a quiet, feral growl, that got swallowed in the engine throb as he began thrusting, hard and deep, driving into the valve.
Perceptor bit into one spaulder , Drift crying out a sharp, “Unh!” his optics flaring wide and blind with want, his one free hand clawing at the engine room wall, black fingers rigid with suppressed lust.
Drift grunted in time with Perceptor’s thrusts, the scabbards of his hips slapping Perceptor’s thighs. Perceptor felt the overload swell over his systems, seeming to gather from the air between them, pooling through his belly, gathering, swirling, tumultuous, rising in charge and pressure and tension.
Tension, eagerness, want, thrummed through the white body, the dark thigh hooked over Perceptor’s arm. Drift shocked rigid, abruptly, the valve clutching around Perceptor’s spike, tearing control from Perceptor’s body, the overload crackling between them. The hips bucked back against him, Drift’s mouth pressing against the wall, half-gnawing, half-kissing the unyielding surface.
Perceptor released the remaining wrist, letting his hand curl around the white chassis, slide under the chest, down Drift’s front. His fingers spread around the join of their bodies, where his spike was embedded in the smaller valve, fingers growing slick and wet from their fluids, eliciting the last, delicate shivers from Drift’s frame.
Drift’s frame heaved, ventilations deep and hot, shedding the excess heat of the overload in the hot room. “Pet,” he said, exhausted, bitter.
“No,” Perceptor murmured, leaning forward, catching the edge of Drift’s mouth into a kiss. “No.”
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So hot
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Oh man, so fantastic! *glomps* Thank you so much for this! It's perfect!
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Springer needs a good kick in the aft, though.
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Very beautiful, even if a little rough.
By the way, that position is just...unf!
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