War Game

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW
Springer/Drift
sticky, hatesex? 
for tf_rare_pairing prompt Springer/Drift 'i hate how I want you'

Drift followed Springer to his ‘office’, glaring at the green-armored backstruts marching in front of him. The only time Springer copped to military bearing was when he was torqued.  

Drift…didn’t care if he was torqued off or not. Springer thought he knew everything about how to run a battle, but Drift had fought in more engagements than Springer, and he knew how Decepticons thought and worked.  So as far as that went, Springer could just cry that he was wrong and leave Drift the frag out of it.

He knew how to play the game, though, so he snapped himself into rigid parade rest, his hands under the comforting weight of his Great Sword, across the desk from where Springer settled himself down. The wait was deliberate, too, Drift supposed.  See? The problem with trying to mindgame Drift is he’d served under Turmoil. After that, everyone else was a rank amateur. 

“So.”  Springer made a show of glaring at Drift from under the rim of his helm.

“So.” 

Springer glowered, and then fussed with a datapad, squeezing it hard in his fingers. “You know, you don’t call the shots around here, Drift.”

“I know.” 

“You know, there’s a way we do battle.”

“A way.” Not a very good one, as far as he was concerned. 

“The Wrecker way.”

“Which mine wasn’t.”  Time to stop playing tag. Or at least start playing it with hand grenades.

“We didn’t have to come after you.”

Drift shrugged. “You didn’t have to follow me to victory, you mean.”  Sure he’d rushed ahead of the main advance. It was called ‘exploiting an opening’. It was how you won.

Springer threw down the datapad, pushing abruptly to his feet. “We followed you because Wreckers don’t leave a mech behind. Like you did all of us.”

“Then maybe I’m not a Wrecker,” he said, soft but calculating.

Springer lunged forward, his hands hard on Drift’s shoulders, driving him back till his spaulders slammed into the wall behind him. “That’s not something you get to decide, Drift.”

“No,” Drift said. “You do.”  Challenging, daring, even as he felt Springer’s EM field flare against his, rough  and jagged. 

“You’re disappointing Kup,” Springer muttered, his optics catching Drift’s, holding them. “He took you in.”

That one struck home and deep, Drift’s mouth twitching with emotion.  “Not fair,” he whispered.

“Complaining about fairness, Decepticon?” The hands on his shoulders curled around the bevels, scraping at the seams as he leaned closer, so that the last word, the name, vibrated between them, filling the space between their bodies. 

Drift growled, the same timbre as Springer’s mocking tone, his own hands yanking the blocky orange against his.  “Think you should stop talking.”

“You think.” A slide of Springer’s pelvic span over Drift’s.

“If you know what’s good for you.” A goad, pushing them both where they wanted to go.

“Oh.”  Springer gave a lopsided, sharp grin. “I know what’s good for me.” He pushed a knee between Drift’s, parting the smaller mech’s dark thighs, sliding his leg up to ride his greave stabilizer against the underside of Drift’s pelvic frame as his hand slipped open Drift’s interface hatch.

Drift snarled, shoving back, one ankle hooking around the leg Springer was balancing on to sweep him off balance. Springer fell, dragging Drift down with him, though the white mech managed to land, straddling the larger mech’s hips, his right fist reared back to strike, while his left rested on the orange chassis, as though holding Springer down.

Springer grinned, bucking his hips up.  It wasn’t enough to dislodge Drift, who’d hooked his heels around Springer’s thighs. But it was enough to scrape his pelvic span against Drift’s exposed interface hatches.

“Resourceful, Drift.  Give you that much.”  His hands clamped over Drift’s scabbards, fingers hard on the sensitive undersides. He watched the pain travel over the face, a laugh bubbling from his vocalizer as the flinch was echoed by a flare of arousal on the EM field. “But you always do overcommit.”  He snapped open his own interface hatch, his spike stabbing out of its housing immediately.

A struggle, as he used the scabbards to try to drive Drift’s body down, his spike into Drift’s valve, Drift’s thigh servos whining with resistance, the hips twisting and squirming. Springer pushed off his feet, driving his hips upward, sinking his spike into the twisting, valve.  Drift tried to resist him, calipers protesting, rippling down the spike, trying to eject it.

 It was part of the game, resistance, distance, Drift thought.  Part of the fight that two warriors couldn’t leave behind, violence so much a part of their language that it seeped into pleasure.

Springer laughed, one hand shoving down on Drift’s backpanel, as the hands set to strike seemed to shift on his chassis, the hands clawing over the armor.  Drift looked down at Springer, a snarl on his face, just before his knees locked into Springer’s rib struts, as though accepting this change of battlefield.

Silence, beyond the straining of their bodies, the hot chuffs of ventilation systems, urgent hissing growls from their vocalizers. Their optics locked, mingling desire and hostility, the hard attraction of mechs who refused to admitting to want, Drift’s hands clutching on the chassis, as Springer’s dug into the white hips, both of them shifting to drive their bodies together, thrusting into each other, as though this were some contest of wills. 

Springer gave a sort of choking cry, hands hooked over the white hips, his body juddering rigid as the overload overtopped his will, Drift crowing triumphantly, even as the overload’s charge jumped to his nodes, tripping his own overload, current racing, high and hot, over his circuits.

A long, shivering moment, as they both let the energy crest over their bodies, keen-edged pleasure in hot, electric waves, that ebbed only slowly.

Drift grunted, swinging one leg over Springer’s body, jerking his valve off the spike with a sharp movement that made them both gasp, the sudden shock of pain like a chaser for the heady overload. He snapped his interface hatch shut, on his feet before Springer could do more than sit up, his own transfluid streaking silver down his spike. 

“That’ll teach you a lesson,” Springer said, pulling on his cynicism like a robe over his too-naked desires, even as he let his optics roam over the sleek hips, the dip of the waist of Drift’s back as he moved to leave.

Drift stopped at the door, blue optics glinting around his spaulder. “Right.”

Comments

[scgphoenix.livejournal.com]

Oh yes, I totally loved this.

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

wow... damn, Springer. The Perceptor in my head is going to pop your head like a grape, one of these days. >_

[ladystarscream.livejournal.com]

daaaaaamn! teh Hawtness!
I love both springer and drift, but together? hummmmm. Nice! love the "tough guy" violent sex. hummm.
*goes to find a cold shower*

[eerian_sadow]

oh this was brilliant! i love how the stress and tension and emotions all wound up into something that neither of them were really expecting. and then the denial there at the end, where Springer isn't quite ready to own up to what really happened there.

loved it!