Conflict Resolution

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW
Springer/Drift
sticky 
set after Spotlight: Drift, before “Everything in its Place.”
for ratharee's request!

“You know,” Springer said, dropping into a seat opposite Drift in the Axion’s small cantina, “I had orders to take you out. Before.”

Drift gave that subdued half-smile, looking up from where he was oiling down one of his blades.  “Doesn’t surprise me.”

Springer took a long swig of his high grade. “A lot of us had personal reasons to want to offline you. A lot still do.”

A quick flare of the blue optics up at him, then back down. “And you?”

“Yeah.”  Springer gave a sound that might have been a chuckle. “Kup wants to give you a chance. Just sayin’, I’m not going to let you use that chance to ruin the Wreckers.”

Drift nodded. “Fair enough.”

Springer watched Drift for a long moment over the rim of his cube.  “Different here?”

“Than the Decepticons?” Drift gave a thoughtful tilt of the head. “Hierarchy’s different. Power structure.”

“How?” 

A snort. “Rank has certain privileges, for one thing.  Anyone below your rank, you can take.” He shrugged. “Sexually.”

Springer blinked. Not…what he was expecting.  “Turmoil.”

Drift looked up. “Yes.”  Simply that.

It was hard to shake that image: Deadlock, snarling, pinned by the massive commander.  Springer felt a hot shiver run through his frame like a blast of air.  Well, what the frag do you way to that?   He paused.  “We don’t do that here.”

“Noticed.”  A ghost of a smile.  “Going to take some getting used to.” Another quick flash of the optics, too fast for Springer to read, before Drift tucked back over his blade, with a conversation-ending air of concentration.

[***]

The image proved impossible to shake, as well as the idea.  Decepticon warships run as some sort of sexual chain of domination. It made a dark sort of logic, Springer supposed, and it fit with all the lurid stories he’d ever heard about Megatron, stories he’d merely written off as so much propaganda.

Until now.

And what was worse, Drift seemed to haunt him.  Or rather, the shadow of Deadlock seemed to peer out at him through Drift’s blue optics.

He scoured Drift’s behavior for any sign of disloyalty, any gap in the performance. And he saw, simply, a perfect soldier: quiet, focused, professional.  He kept his weapons in top order, his hobby seemed to be sparring, either with an opponent or with the air, running through a series of motions that made the sharp blades blur in the light. Or, on a rare occasion, a strategy game, which he played with a deadly earnestness. 

Springer had read Deadlock’s files. Had them memorized: battles, casualties, statistics, preferences.  But it was something else entirely to have him here—here—on Kup’s transport ship, that same mind, that same face, here, looking over at him. And sometimes, he would catch an almost unconscious movement, a shift of weight, a swing of the wrist, and it was Deadlock, again, graceful, lethal, and here. Springer’s sensornet thrummed with a strange, tight electricity, half alarm, half arousal as the two ideas collided.

Drift moved past him, nearly silently, with a polite nod, on his way to the Medibay, where he sat vigil outside of Perceptor’s regen tank. Kup had faith in the swordsmech, based on that alone: one act of valor. Was it enough? Was it a veneer or was that really what Drift was under the surface all along?

[***]

A chime at his office door—or at least, the small room he’d requisitioned on Kup’s ship. It did well enough, at least till they got back to his ship. Springer looked up. “Open.”

Drift stepped through, hands on his sword hilts. He ducked his head: Springer noticed that, for once, the mech was naked of his Great Sword.  Huh. Wonder what that meant.

Springer tipped back in his chair, optics giving Drift a measuring look. There, around the optics. And there, the way his hips moved when he walked, that slight hitch of a mech who’s accustomed to carrying a gun’s extra weight. Deadlock.  But the optics were innocent wide and blue, and the mouth uncreased from Deadlock’s scowl.

“What do you want?”  He couldn’t keep the edge out of his voice, especially as Drift stepped closer, close enough that he felt his EM field nudged. Springer rose. 

Drift stopped, looking up, a smile quirking one corner of his mouth as his hand moved, catching Springer’s helm and pulling his face down. Before Springer could protest, his mouth met Drift’s, the smaller mech’s parting in a kiss, glossa flicking out to tease the line between Springer’s own mouthplates. Drift pulled away, hand still cupping the back of Springer’s helm. “You can if you want,” he whispered, his voice gravelly with lust.

No need to specify what he was talking about: Springer’s hands wrapped around Drift’s smaller frame, thumbs trailing the Great Sword’s channel. His hands slid down the waist to the hips, lower, cupping the back joins of the thighs, and then, abruptly lifting, taking Drift’s weight off the ground, moving him onto the console. Drift leaned back, elbows catching him as Springer parted his thighs.

It was fast, rough: soldier’s interfacing, filled with grunts and huffs of heated air as Springer thrust his spike into Drift, feeling the calipers flutter and squeeze around its girth, the valve warm and responsive.  Drift’s optics studied his face, impassive, only his valve’s quivering and the rising charge giving away his own arousal. Springer’s own gaze kept floating to the sight of his spike, electrum yellow and glossy with lubricant, plunging in and out of the dark metal of the valve. Deadlock’s valve, he thought, his systems raging with lust.

Springer snarled, jerking his spike roughly out of Drift, the cool air stinging his spike as he reached, roughly, for Drift’s arm, flipping the other over, slamming his belly down on the desk, one arm high behind his back. He bent over, sliding his spike between Drift’s parted thighs, hissing his ventilation in the other’s audio. “Deadlock,” he growled.

Drift shifted beneath him, spreading his stance. “Left that behind.”

“Can’t leave it all behind.” He rolled his hips, his spike leaving a smear of lubricant along Drift’s aft plating. One of the scabbards scraped against his hip. “Can you?”

A twisted smile, almost Deadlock’s grin. “Can I?”

Springer bit into the white shoulderbrace, jamming his spike into the cooled valve. The valve cinched down on his spike, tight and hard, and the interfacing became a fight, valve and spike bruising each other, armor scraping, mass against mass.  This was Deadlock, writhing beneath him, fighting him, hand twisting, leg kicking back.  This was Deadlock, and how Turmoil had probably taken him, a conquest, a mastering.  Drift’s defiance was arousing, an accelerant to the heat between them.

Springer’s rotor engine roared, the overload blasting through him, heat and light and a wave of pleasure turned concussive. He arched off of Drift’s back, jamming his spike that much deeper into Drift’s body, as transfluid flooded from him. He could feel tension sheeting off him, his sensor net cool and tingling in its absence, leaving him loose, drained and a little wobbly.

A long moment of quivering, rigid silence, before Springer gave a shuddering sigh. “Frag.”

A twitch beneath him, around him, Drift giving a soft laugh. He spread his fingers;  Springer released his trapped wrist, Drift rolling his shoulders over to turn his head toward Springer. He looked…sated, as though the violence of it was somehow cathartic.  The optics glinted. “Still going to take me out?”

His sardonic smile spread to Springer’s face, as the triple changer slicked a hand down Drift’s side and down the back of one thigh, feeling a thin seep of his fluid trail from the friction-heated valve. “Think I have a better way to keep you in line.”

Comments

[skyure.livejournal.com]

hmmm So much delicious tension between those two ...

[silaphet.livejournal.com]

i fail my words, but <3

[ratharee.livejournal.com]

This is wonderful. X3 Thank you so much.

[halkrath.livejournal.com]

This made my day but I think I'm still going to join Ladydragon76 in her freezer, mine's too small.

[ladyofdragons.livejournal.com]

Well done! Seeing these two interact is a guilty pleasure of mine I'm starting think. I love how this is a conflict from the very start, Drift very smoothly taking the upper hand when surprising Springer with the sexual domination comment. And he pretty much keeps it the whole way through, and even though he gives ground during the 'facing, he gains a whole lot more by the end. Not that Springer sees it that way of course.

It occurs to me that as much of an aft Springer is to him, in a way it's probably easier for Drift to deal with than the passive-aggressive looks and whispers. Dealing with Springer is probably child's play compared to the maneuverings required while in service with the Cons, and far more familiar.

Somehow I see a pattern developing where the great sword's lack becomes an invitation. Nice touch with that little detail by the way. :D

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

hodamn.... *spontaneously combusts and shoves self into freezer to cool off* Drift is so... centered and assured in this! guh! the whole thing is WOW!

[sasuke-emosauce.livejournal.com]

*joins the others in the freezer*

[acidgreenflames.livejournal.com]

Fantastic as always! Now I'm going to go make room in the freezer with the others XD

[deedeesaurus.livejournal.com]

...Guuuuh I can't think of anything intelligent to say, you've made me a happy puddle of goo and glee with your wonderful writing once again!

[scarredbutalive.livejournal.com]

really hopes said freezer is the size of a room because I´m joining in...