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shadow_vector2012-06-12 03:19 pm
Most Quiet Need
IDW
Perceptor/Drift
sticky, rough sex
for
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ravynfyre, part of that unending tally of percyporn I owe her. The prompt was something like 'blunt your hurt on mine' but it veered from angst into, uh, PWPPerceptor cycled a vent of air, trying to force it to be steady, smooth. He’d never been in control of his emotions, but as a scientist, well, they hadn’t been an issue. One didn’t get angry at molecules. But now, he was supposed to be beyond that. All of that—emotions, anger, fear, all of it, he had left behind, bled out on the floor of Turmoil’s ship.
Or so he’d thought, until moments like these arose, when emotions seemed to rise behind him like a cobra’s hood, hijacking his stability, and he found himself as now, clutching at his chestplate, feeling his fuel pump hammering against his armor, his fuel, overoxygenated, surging through his lines. He couldn’t name the emotion, it was just—feeling, and too much of it.
He moved, lurching, one hand tracing down the corridor, clinging to the wall, until he reached the door to his quarters. He slapped the code in, telling himself that once inside…something. Things would be better. He’d be safe, private, and he could overmaster this maelstrom.
A movement, a blur of white, Drift rising to his feet as the door opened. “Perceptor?”
Perceptor jolted at the sound of his name, rounding on Drift, his hands finding the white spaulders, shoving the smaller mech against the wall. He stood, pressing close against Drift, armor hard against armor, staring down, the only sound between them the harsh rattle of air through his vents.
He realized his hands were digging in, fingers like knives against Drift’s armor. He forced his hands to loosen, flattening his palms, fingers trembling with tension.
“Do it,” Drift whispered, his optics giving a slow, steady blink.
“It.”
Drift’s hands slid around his waist, thumbs trailing the vacuum hoses. “I can take it.”
They looked at each other, a strange, tense moment of trembling understanding: Drift knew Perceptor better than he knew himself, what he wanted, what he needed. Perceptor shuddered, his hands tightening on the armor again, his head ducking down, seeking Drift’s throat.
Drift angled his head aside, baring the cables, and Perceptor could feel Drift’s EM field, rough with arousal, his sigh, raw and wanting. He felt a strange sound, a growl, bubble up in his vocalizer: he clamped it into a bite around one of Drift’s throat cables.
“Yes,” Drift murmured, the vibration carrying through the cables in his throat. His hands clawed at Perceptor’s back. “More.”
Perceptor felt something dark, like an eel of blackness, twist and writhe within him, at once aroused and irritated by the quiet challenge. His grip tightened on the shoulders, throwing Drift off-balance, toward the berth, shoving him down.
Drift struggled, batting Perceptor’s arms aside. Perceptor let his weight fall, heavy chassis landing on Drift’s chestplate, driving his knee between the dark thighs. Perceptor found himself grabbing one of the smaller wrists, pinning it to the berth, a feral grin crossing his mouth as Drift bucked up his chassis, twisting under him.
Drift growled, his own optics lidding, sly. “Want something?” he hissed.
Perceptor made a sound, like a matching growl, his pelvic armor heating against Drift’s, acutely aware of the contact, of the other’s EM field licking around him like flames.
“Try and take it,” Drift said, before flinging himself hard to one side.
There was a mad scramble of limbs, across the berth, nearly toppling onto the floor, Drift fighting like a wildcat and yet—holding back. Perceptor could feel it—the way a shove wasn’t quite as powerful as he knew Drift capable of, but just enough to make it a struggle.
He gave a rippling sound of triumph as he pinned Drift down, the mech’s hips twisted half on his side, shoulders flat. Drift’s interface hatch had come undone in the scramble, caught on Perceptor’s thigh or jounced against a knee, and Perceptor felt the wash of wanting heat.
Echoed in his own.
He freed one hand just long enough to release his own equipment, his optics hard on Drift as he pushed into the valve, bracing one hand on the knee he pushed to the side, his own long legs straddling Drift’s other thigh.
Drift gave a growling hiss, his spinal struts arching up as he felt the intrusion into his valve, calipers squeezing down, as though trying to deny Perceptor entrance.
Perceptor felt a sharp pain on his lip plate, his own dentae biting down, as he forced himself in, feeling the heat and slickness of the valve, the raw lust blazing from Drift’s optics. He drove in, seating his spike against Drift’s ceiling node, and paused, his ventilations rough and eager.
“That all you have?” Drift’s mouth was contorted into a snarl, goading, taunting.
“No,” Perceptor said, his own stirring, disquieted emotions blazing to life. He thrust into the smaller mech, abdominal plating resting on the white scabbard of Drift’s upraised hip, riding his spike in the tight circumference of the valve.
Drift writhed, dorsal line flexing like a wild serpent on the berth, causing the valve to flex and twist around his spike, enflaming his lust. He felt a slick wash of Drift’s lubricant against his thighs, hot and slippery, as he curled, at the top of every thrust, jamming his spike against the valve’s top.
Drift cried out, a wild ululation, the valve clenching wildly against the spike, gripping nearly to the point of pain. More. Perceptor wanted more.
He hooked his hand under the other hip, jerking Drift upright, spike still seated in his throbbing valve, dragging the spike’s ridged plates over the nodes. Drift gasped, overcome with the wash of sensation, unable to resist, settling on his knees.
Perceptor let himself linger, looking down his body, at the glossy wetness leaking from the silver-rimmed valve, at his dark-chased spike, buried in, wetted down, and the backs of the thighs, the heavy white framing of Drift’s pelvic armor, laid bare, laid open. The scabbards flared like wings around them as he pushed forward , sinking that last inch of spike into the valve. An angle Drift could never see: Perceptor’s alone.
He gritted his dentae, hands hooking around the lean hips, bracing Drift as he pounded against him, feeling all the stir of emotions: anger, fear, self-doubt, despair, everything seem to swarm around him, building through him like a rushing in his fuel lines, moving and no longer stagnant.
And Drift was beautiful like this, his spinal struts undulating, the smaller black mesh catching in the dim light as he moved, his hands—powerful and lethal—clawing helplessly at the berth, his hips raised, offering, wanting to be taken.
It was almost too much: Perceptor reached, pulling Drift up, hooking his shoulder, while another hand drew one of the short blades. The only conscious thought he had was to thumb the blade, making sure it was the blunt, unsharpened edge he pressed against Drift’s throat, the armored back pressed against his crystal chestplate.
Drift gave a startled croak, and Perceptor could see the optics widen.
“I could kill you,” Perceptor hissed in the white audio, his black helm sliding against the sleek finial. “I could kill you like this.” He pressed harder, the sword a bar of iron under Drift’s throat.
“Yes,” Drift said, hands floating, torn between grabbing at the blade and clinging backwards to Perceptor for balance. He tilted his helm upward, baring his throat to the blade in submission.
The position had changed the angle, his spike now moving in short, shallow strokes, jabs, really, against the front of Drift’s valve lining. He could feel the change, the shifting pressure, the frantic slide of the calipers against him, and with one last thrust, a sharp shudder over Drift’s entire body, echoed in the guttural cry and another wash of heat and fluid against him. He had no idea why this aroused him, why having Drift, vulnerable, at swordpoint, shivering, impaled on his spike, why the thought of that drove him nearly frantic with desire. He only knew that it did: that having the fierce warrior pinioned with desire, submitting to him, took the maelstrom of emotions and immolated them, entirely, burning off his anger and doubt, charring all of that into mere, instantaneous cinders.
This time, Perceptor couldn’t withstand it: his spike jolted, transfluid bursting into the tight valve. His optics widened, blinded, clutching Drift against him, choking on a roar of pure release.
The sound echoed around the small space of their quarters, their EM fields buffeting against each other, barely daring to breathe.
Perceptor groaned, forcing his tight hands to release the blade, lowering it from the exposed throat. “Drift, I…,” he shook his head, feeling like he should apologize. What had he done: come in, inflicted himself on the smaller mech. Forced him. Threatened him..
“…needed that,” Drift said, his voice roughened, letting himself drop forward onto his hands, but not moving away, Perceptor’s spike still sunk in his body. He turned his head, blue optics flashing over his shoulder. “You needed it. I needed it.” The valve gave a rippling squeeze down Perceptor’s spike, making him jump.
“But I—“ He looked down, his hand stroking apologetically down Drift’s rib struts, his hips.
“Don’t apologize.” A sharp edge to the voice, as he reached back, taking the sword from Perceptor’s limp grip, sliding it back into its scabbard. His optics lidded, easing himself off the spike, settling down onto one hip. “Didn’t hear me complaining, did you?”
“No.” He dropped back to his heels, his spike still jutting, silver-streaked, between them, as though blaming him.
Drift wiped one hand over his throat, coming up with one droplet of energon, from a split line, shimmering on one fingertip. He caught Perceptor’s gaze, flicking out his glossa, purring.
“I could patch that,” Perceptor said, already kicking one leg off the berth, moving to the small repair kit.
“It’ll heal,” Drift said, negligently.
Perceptor frowned, dropping the kit on the berth. “You will let me clean it and patch it.” His mouth was set: he’d done the damage, he had to fix it. He could make this right. He glared, the reticle whirring into focus.
Drift gave an almost indulgent grin, tipping his head over, exposing the line. “My, my,” Drift said, huskily. “I like it when you’re forceful.”
It was a joke, and Perceptor felt his facial plates heat with embarrassment, that crested, and then faded, and he caught himself grinning as he reached for a swab. “It’s clear that someone has to look after you,” he retorted.
"The sorts of trouble I get into," Drift agreed. A soft snort of laughter, a hand brushing his arm. “Glad it’s you.”
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okay, first you dragged me in right off the bat with imagery like "cobra's hood" and the pure shaken description of Perceptor's frantic instability and need, and then you completely set me on fire with the interface... I wish I had something a hell of a lot more coherent to say than homminahomminannnfguhfuck, but, umm... yeah. this was hot damn, woman. Thank you.
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... when emotions seemed to rise behind him like a cobra’s hood ...
This! This was definitely my favorite line in whole fic! The smut was hot as Pit and the way you portrayed Perceptor's emotions, his franticness, the dam breaking from something dark was amazing, but the mental image I got the very moment I read those words was a thing of beauty!.
A part of me kept thinking that the only reason Drift knew what to do was because he himself had experienced the situation far too many times without a proper (read: consenting) outlet.
- Senna-chan
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