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shadow_vector2012-01-24 05:37 pm
Speed and Status part 9
IDW
Drift, Blurr, Perceptor
sticky, slightly rockstar/groupie sex.
Blurr laughed, the vibration traveling through the black metal in front of him, as he hooked one hand around Drift’s thigh, hauling him closer to the edge of the berth. One advantage of Drift’s new quarters, cramped as they were, was just this kind of opportunity. He covered the rim of the valve with his mouth, glossa over the protective cover, tapping a sharp, wanting tattoo against the warm metal. Drift moaned, one hand clutching for Blurr’s over his hip.
“Behave, now,” Blurr murmured, just to hear the defiant growl, feel the abdominal actuators fire under his hand. His glossa flicked again at the cover, as if asking for admittance. Drift groaned, hips rolling, as the cover retracted. Blurr resettled himself on his knees, parting Drift’s thighs over the edge of the berth. One of the white mech’s heels hooked on the berth’s edge, the other dangled off, barely touching the ground. Drift’s short legs were…strangely alluring to Blurr, all of that power and speed compacted into small space. So unlike Blurr’s own long, elegant limbs.
And this: Drift’s resistance, Blurr’s inexorable mouth licking at the valve’s rim, the white mech gasping, twitching in time, as though he were an instrument for Blurr to play.
And play he did, sealing his mouth around the valve, sucking in a sharp breath, letting the suction travel through the valve, firing the nodes, his glossa then intruding searching for a node to lap against.
“Blurr,” Drift said, warning, squirming, but powerlessly, wanting control, but also wanting this, helpless before his own arousal.
Blurr lifted his head. “Yes?” Let him have what he thinks he wants.
Drift groaned, pelvic span surging up after the mouth. Oh, Blurr had something for that. He caught Drift’s gaze, the blue optics over the white chassis, and wiped one finger across his mouth, glossed with Drift’s lubricant, before pushing it into the valve. The optics widened, Drift sucking in a sharp vent of air, helm lolling back.
This was the whole point, Blurr thought, twisting his finger in the valve, foxing the calipers that tried to cinch down against it. Why go to Perceptor when Blurr was so much better? And knew so much more.
Like this. Blurr pushed in another finger, beginning a long, slow motion in the valve, rolling the fingers back and forth in a sort of ‘come here’ gesture. Drift moaned, body twisting, hand clutching tight over one thigh. Blurr laughed, licking the sweet fluid off his own lips, his ventilation matching the rising pants of the white chassis.
Drift arched up, the valve clamping down against Blurr’s fingers, and for a moment he was just rigid, on the edge of ecstasy, before tumbling off it with a scream that filled the small space, hands scraping against his thighs, one heelplate gouging into the berth.
And this…this was the reward: the gush of fluid, a hot rush, over his hand. So Drift was one of those. He’d suspected as much.
He chuckled, the excess valve lubricant dripping off his wrist, puddling on the floor in thin splats, as Drift lay, shuddering, on the berth, valve quivering around Blurr’s hand. “Gusher, are you?” He gave a teasing wiggle of his hand: Drift gave a choked squeak, another rush of scalding fluid pouring over Blurr’s fingers. “Don’t worry,” Blurr purred. “It’s hot.” He withdrew his hand, coyly, licking the hot salty fluid of his fingers. “Do it any time you like.”
Top that, Perceptor .
[***]
Perceptor sat in the back of the rec room, curled over the datapad. He couldn’t even pretend like he belonged. He couldn’t pretend anything anymore. He was only here out of rote routine.
No, that wasn’t true. He was here to hurt himself, to slice his emotions raw watching Drift. Drift sat, away from the cluster of the other Wreckers, who were engrossed in some game of chance, optics distant. Was he troubled?
Not your concern, Perceptor. Not your place. He’d told you as much, moving out coldly, and even the strange look in his optics as he’d said a muffled, hurried, ‘thank you,’ was nothing. Mere discomfort. Regret. Probably hating, in retrospect, every moment he’d had with Perceptor, every moment that had kept him away from Blurr.
He’d lost. Drift had chosen Blurr, and he had no place to question that. It was his own stupidity, his own naivete, that kept his optics lingering, almost hungrily, over the white armor.
Drift looked up from the datapad he had been idly thumbing through, the catlike finials swinging upward, and Perceptor was so enthralled in that movement, the graceful sweep of the armor, that he didn’t—quite—follow the gaze, until he saw the blue optics looking into his. He flinched, flustered, at the gaze, and turned away, though his spark flared at the almost-timid smile.
Oh Drift, he thought, aching at the simple, beautiful grace of the mech’s movements. That had been his, before he’d tried too hard.
And then Blurr swung into the room, blue hips swinging, almost as if he knew exactly where Drift would be, and flopped himself over the dark thighs, knocking the datapad carelessly out of Drift’s hands. Drift’s hands jerked out of the way, awkwardly, lap filling with Blurr, and the blue mech reaching up, pulling the startled face down into a kiss.
Perceptor got up, not even caring how obvious it was, as the stool he’d been perching on scraped loudly against the floor. The warmth around his spark burst into green, acid flames. He couldn’t be here right now, watching them. In front of him.
It made no difference. He knew—he knew—they were together. So why did it matter, seeing them? Why did it hurt?
He didn’t know. It defied logic and reason and everything. All he knew was that he had to get away.
[***]
Drift tore his mouth from Blurr’s as Perceptor made his exit. He wasn’t good at this, but even he could see the tight pain on the red mech’s face. Not a hot flash of jealousy, but actual pain. But…Perceptor had offered, like a business transaction. It hadn’t meant anything to him, really, had it?
“What?” Blurr murmured, running a finger down his cheek.
“Perceptor.” Under the heavy rim of his helm, his brow furrowed. “Looked hurt.”
“So?” Blurr shrugged. “Not your problem.”
Drift frowned. “Should go talk to him.”
Blurr’s fingers tightened under Drift’s chin, turning the white helm to face him. “No. He wants to be alone, obviously. Why he left.” He saw the uncertainty on Drift’s face, and wriggled on the lap. “And I do not want to be alone.”
“I--,” Drift looked uncertainly at the closing door.
“Drift,” Blurr murmured, sliding one hand between the legs he sat on, trailing his fingers up the inner thigh seams, “Trust me. I know Perceptor better than you do.”
no subject
Poor Percy... Go after him, Drift!
Now excuse me while I go stifle the urge to drop-kick Blurr into a black hole...
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no subject
Drift go talk to Percy!
PERCY *hugs*
Meanwhile other Wreckers in the rec room are too busy gambling to notice any of the drama.
:D I am so happy that you updated!!!