Speed and Status part 10
Mar. 6th, 2012 04:26 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
niyazi-a.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shadow_vectorIDW
Blurr, Drift, Perceptor
sticky, coitus interruptus
Drift let Blurr pull him down onto Blurr’s berth, trying to ignore the niggling voice in the back of his cortex. He couldn’t even hear it clearly, no idea what it was saying, just a disquieted buzz.
Probably best to drown it, he thought, mouth meeting Blurr’s with some force, glossa intruding through the lipplates. Blurr gave a growl of pleasure beneath him, spreading his thighs, squeezing them against Drift’s waist. Drift had never had anyone who wanted him—who never refused his advances, who seemed to enjoy, at some level, his attention.
And here he had two: Blurr and Perceptor, as different as he could imagine. And even their desires were different: Perceptor offering, Blurr dangling, taunting his desire in front of him like a toy.
Which was why he had chosen Blurr—that distance Blurr had from his own arousal, reminding them both this was just a game, just an exchange. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t deep.
He pushed against the blue frame beneath him, the desire he’d been restraining all evening welling up in his systems, his spike surging against the cover. He could already feel, fed from memory, the silky tight slide of Blurr’s valve around it, holding, containing him.
A laugh, buzzing against his chassis, across their lipplates, as Blurr squirmed a hand between them. Drift made room, lifting his hips, thrumming with anticipation. “Eager,” Blurr teased.
“That a problem?”
Another laugh, husky. “Not at all, Drift.” The hand rubbed over his pelvic span, taunting, before it flipped open the panel. Drift rocked his hips, shoving his spike’s cover against the teasing fingers.
Blurr circled the spike cover, letting it whisk itself aside, palm curling around the slick spike as it jutted from the housing. He stroked the spike, grinning as Drift pushed against his hand, shifting his weight to the side, his grip on the spike.
Drift frowned, muttering frustration. “Want you,” he said, admitting that much. Was that what Blurr wanted? This game again?
“Mmmmm,” Blurr said, “I can see that. I can feel it, too.” He twisted his hand around the spike, sending a jolt through Drift’s frame.
Drift pushed a hand between the blue thighs, reaching for Blurr’s interface hatch. The thighs clamped down on his hand, pinning him. Blurr shook his head, optics glinting. “I want you this way.”
Drift growled. “I don’t.”
An easy shrug. “Too bad.”
“No, it’s not,” Drift said, levering his knee between the legs, pushing himself back over Blurr.
“No.” Blurr’s voice was flat and cutting.
“Why?” Drift could feel frustration melding with anger. He wanted Blurr. What more could Blurr want? What stupid game was he up to now?
“Because I said no.” The hand squeezed his spike, hard enough to hurt. Drift winced, biting a cry of primal pain as he jerked back, yanking his spike from Blurr’s grasp. He lay on his back for a long moment, spike jabbing, stung by the air, ventilations sharp and ragged. He was…sick of this. Sick of having to play a game. He’d thought Blurr was better because Blurr didn’t take it seriously, but he saw now that the blue mech did. Very seriously. Just the control more than the emotion.
And he’d let himself be led.
Not anymore.
Drift pushed up, shoving his spike, aching, painful, back in its housing. Better that than stay here, Blurr’s toy.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Not going to tell you,” Drift snapped, snatching for his Great Sword. The fact that he’d been here so often that he had a spot for the sword irked him, and he slammed it home in its attachments with a force that distracted him from the ache of his thwarted spike.
“Why not?”
Drift turned, his mouth curling into a sneer he thought he’d left behind in Crystal City. “Because I said so.”
“You’re not leaving.” Halfway between a question and an order.
[***]
Really, Blurr had had enough. Drift had been entertaining in the rec room, and coaxing him out of his little scruples had been a cute little novelty, but Drift had been…difficult. He didn’t used to be this way. He used to be more tractable and much more fun.
Perceptor, he thought. That sulky, sullen Perceptor needed to be dealt with. He lost, and he should have the decency to keep his puppy-dog loss to himself and not try to spoil things. Pettty. Immature. He expected better from the scientist.
Eh, maybe not. Spend all your life locked up in a lab, maybe you didn’t know how things worked. Blurr knew. In life: winners and losers. And losers had to learn to lose well. Blurr had learned that lesson himself, his early days on the circuit. Part of the reason he hated losing: he hated that acid burn of shame that started from the optics, roiled over the face, settled, finally, below one’s tanks.
So, fine. He’d do a public service and tell Perceptor where to get off. Better for all of them.
After all, just a game, right?
[***]
The range. He found solace in the range, sending round after round down range. The jump of the pistol in his hand, the steady tempo—kop-kop-kop—of the rounds, the rhythm of his targeting reticle’s process queue, soothed him somehow: violence and control, release and restraint.
He still hurt, every time he stopped to reload or to reprogram targets. Every time his cortex could let slip from the focus of targeting a shot, or reloading the gun, the pain returned.
Self-inflicted, he thought. Stupid to have thought more. Stupid to let yourself get attached. Gratitude was what you told yourself. Really? Does gratitude hurt? More than that, did gratitude have a right to hurt the one you were trying to thank?
No.
So this, however real it felt, wasn’t real. It shouldn’t be happening. He shoved it aside.
But it still hurt, even after he’d sent 500 rounds downrange. It…wasn’t working. Time to give up.
Perceptor sighed, the hot air gusting down his sides, as he stripped the targets, loaded the pistol—as per Wrecker SOP—with live rounds. The hour was late, his own charge low: maybe he could recharge, now.
He left the range, into the larger, open practice area where the Wreckers practiced their hand-to-hand. Drift had promised, one night, their bodies shedding heat, exhausted, sated, where Drift’s voice was a silken murmur, to show him some moves. Even this place, then, was stained, colored by what might have been.
“Going somewhere?” Blurr’s voice, drawled, like one of Drift’s swords against stone.
Perceptor stiffened at Blurr, and then the strange challenge. “Quarters.”
“Alone.” An edge to his voice.
“Yes.” Of course. Unfortunately. He steeled his face expressionless.
“Miss him?” The helm tilted, coy.
A choking sound. Yes. So much so that ‘yes’ seemed like a blasphemous understatement. He blinked, giving no answer.
“He doesn’t miss you, Perceptor.” Blurr stepped back, blocking the door, leaning against it in overt display. This is what he chose. You don’t—dare—question his choice.
Perceptor didn’t. His head lowered, even so taller, bulkier than Blurr. He had remade himself entirely after his resurrection and it still wasn’t enough. He still didn’t matter. “I know.”
“You need to stay out of it.”
“I am.” I’m trying.
“He doesn’t want you. Moping around. Seriously. Lose with dignity. I’m embarrassed for you.”
Perceptor’s mouth opened, as if Blurr had struck him hard, full force, in the belly, no sound but a squeak of pain. And his hand came up, the loaded gun still in it, as if it belonged to someone else, the black eye of the barrel moving to stare Blurr directly between the optics. “Stop,” he heard his voice say, chalky and cold as death, “talking.” It was the closest thing to mercy he could offer—shut up while I can still keep my finger off the trigger.
A hand, a white back-panel, on the gun, prying it up, gently. “Play nice,” Drift’s voice, quiet, giving away nothing. He lifted the gun with one hand, the other reaching with a hiss of metal, and Perceptor found his palm filled with the hilt of a sword. Drift stepped back, the gun in his hand. “Heard everything,” he murmured, his head tilting to one side, and the optics were cold and blue and distant and…pointing at Blurr.
Drift stepped back. The sword’s blade was in Blurr’s throat, held by Perceptor’s hand. And Perceptor knew this was something Drift was offering him, approving him and…choosing his side. His chassis shuddered with emotion, his engine choking, guttering. “Kneel,” Perceptor said, his voice a hard hiss of static.
Blurr’s optics narrowed with scorn. Perceptor pressed in with the blade, the weight unfamiliar in his wrist, but enough to push the sharp blade against a fuel line. Blurr’s face changed, the control slipping, as he dropped down, slowly, to one knee, then the other, hands raised. “Don’t be stupid,” he said, his voice suddenly small, defiance trickling from his voice like the thin line of energon sliding up the blade.
“I’m not,” Perceptor said. “Hands up more.”
“What do you think you’re going to do?”
“Whatever he wants,” Drift murmured.
“You’re a witness.”
A snort. “Witness to what?” A blade in his voice: Blurr had no friend here.
“He could kill me.” Looking past Perceptor, still, as though Perceptor didn’t matter. Perceptor pressed with the blade.
Drift crossed behind Perceptor’s back. “Any of us can. Any time. Why you should have respect.” Some dark hint behind the words that Perceptor couldn’t—entirely—parse.
But Drift’s voice sent velvet shimmers through Perceptor, just the voice. He barely noted the words, other than they were for him, against Blurr.
“Perceptor should have some respect. He lost.”
“And you won.” A sudden acid coldness in Drift’s voice. Perceptor wondered what had happened between the two, whom he’d last seen curled together, to bring this blade of ice between them.
“He’s not,” Perceptor heard his own voice, glacial, brittle, speaking up for the first time, “a prize. A trophy. He’s…,” he faltered. What, Perceptor? What word could possibly encompass him? Savior, beautiful, honorable…. “Drift.”
A strange sound from behind him, from Drift. Had he offended the white mech? Again? Overstepped?
And then a white arm around his chassis, and a pressure against his squared backplate, a hot mouth on the back of his neck, possessive, claiming. Perceptor shivered. “Thank you,” Drift whispered, and his dentae bit fiercely into the back of the collar armor, until Perceptor could feel the metal give. Perceptor bit back a moan that threatened to erupt from his vocalizer. The hand released him, fingers stroking along the heavy chestplate, feathering delight over his net like sharp stars.
“I think,” Drift said, lifting his head to peer at Blurr over Perceptor’s shoulder, “you should go.”
Dismissal, cold and clean as a sword cut. “This isn’t over,” Blurr muttered, pushing the blade aside.
“It is.” Drift, brooking no denial.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2012-03-06 11:50 pm (UTC)Also, that icon is gorgeous. /random and on cold meds
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Date: 2012-03-06 09:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-06 11:51 pm (UTC)Glad you like!
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Date: 2012-03-07 02:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-06 10:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-06 11:51 pm (UTC)Glad you liked!
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Date: 2012-03-08 09:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-06 10:20 pm (UTC)I love your Perceptor! :)
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Date: 2012-03-06 11:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-06 11:21 pm (UTC)A strange sound from behind him, from Drift. Had he offended the white mech? Again? Overstepped?
And then a white arm around his chassis, and a pressure against his squared backplate, a hot mouth on the back of his neck, possessive, claiming. Perceptor shivered. “Thank you,” Drift whispered, and his dentae bit fiercely into the back of the collar armor, until Perceptor could feel the metal give. Perceptor bit back a moan that threatened to erupt from his vocalizer. The hand released him, fingers stroking along the heavy chestplate, feathering delight over his net like sharp stars.
this continues to be my favorite part of this chapter.
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Date: 2012-03-06 11:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-07 12:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-07 01:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-07 01:44 am (UTC)That bite was just... unbearably sexy. The entire story is so angsty and delicious. ♥
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Date: 2012-03-07 01:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-07 08:19 pm (UTC)I also love the emotional roller coaster that you always seem to send me on during your multi-chapter stories.
Perceptor's defense for Drift is wonderful, I love that he gets upset over Blurr referring to Drift like an object to be won instead of a person. It's sweet that he can't come up with a single word that encompasses all the things Drift is to him.
claiming bite = Sexy (I wonder if any of the other Wreckers would notice the bite mark)
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Date: 2012-03-15 06:47 pm (UTC)I've read the first two chapters in FF.net and just loved it there. Haven't put into my favorites yet, though. Still, to find EIGHT more chapters was just... GUH! I think my mind had an orgasm or something.
- Senna-chan