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shadow_vectorNC-17
IDW
Drift/Perceptor
sticky, intercrural, manual restraint, consent issues that are hard to qualify.
Probably the last time I'm going to write this pairing, at least for a while. So...rejoice, I guess.
Perceptor let himself be shoved against the wall. He could see the feral flatness in Drift's optics, the blue nearly opaque. And a dark part of his sensornet thrilled at the sight, and another, softer part felt a strange honor that Drift came to him and him alone when he was like this.
He considered Drift, gauging him through narrowed optics. What did Drift need? That came first, always, above whatever Perceptor wanted or needed. He owed Drift and he would never forget it, and there was no limit to how much he would pay, or in what currency.
Drift wanted resistance: Drift waited, in front of him, hand hard on Perceptor's reinforced chassis, twitching with anticipation for Perceptor's next move.
“You could have,” Perceptor said, quietly, “asked me to move.” Deliberately pushing. He was slow to escalate to the physical, knowing his own disadvantages. No one Perceptor had ever seen could beat Drift close in. Drift claimed, sometimes, in the quiet hours of darkness, those rare occasions that they lay tangled together, when Drift allowed himself that solace, that there was Wing, someone far better than he, who made him look like an amateur, a newspark.
Perceptor couldn't imagine it—anyone better, stronger, faster than Drift. And he didn't want to think—though that thought had come to him, too, in those long, gentle hours—that were Wing still alive....
“Could have,” Drift challenged, bringing him back to the here and now.
“Going somewhere?” Perceptor tilted his head down, looking up at Drift from under its rim. Pointing out, sharply, that Drift had stood here for several moments.
“No.”
Perceptor could sense the rising excitement from the other's EM field, like a sharp prickle against his armored front. Yes, he was doing what Drift wanted, his goading arousing the white armored mech. He hadn't thought he'd ever be good at this, and wasn't sure he'd call the fierce pleasure he felt at it 'enjoyment,' but it was something deeper than he normally let himself feel, resonating with that part that had given him the strength to do his self modifications.
“Well,” he said, placing one hand on the inside of Drift's wrist, “I have business to attend. If you don't mind.”
“And if I do?” Perceptor would have thought it real anger, real hostility, if he hadn't seen the excited flick of the optics down Perceptor's frame.
Perceptor's thumb, almost involuntarily, glided in a caress up Drift's wrist, across the base of his thumb. Drift's hands fascinated him, and he could feel each of the digits, stronger than a usual mech hand frame, pressing into his armor. “Then you do.” He paused, considering. Drift needed...just a bit more, though it hurt Perceptor to push this far. “Autobots have rights to their own thoughts and feelings.”
Drift growled, shoving back against Perceptor's chassis, the words penetrating like spears the opacityof his optics. “Rights,” he spat. “You go too far with these rights, use them as shields, as walls, and grow soft and weak behind them.”
Perceptor frowned. “We are not weak.” Another push, an invitation.
And Drift took it—his hand moved to Perceptor's throat, tearing free from Perceptor's grasp, hauling the black helm closer. “Weak,” he hissed. “I'll show you.”
Perceptor wanted nothing more than to tilt his head forward, match his mouth against Drift's. His lip plates burned for the contact. But Drift's words stung, even though he knew he'd set them up himself. Perceptor was...not weak. He would prove it, to Drift, to himself. He would show restraint. “Show me,” he challenged.
Another flare from the optics, a snarl over the mouthplates, the hand hard and tight on his helm. And then, so quickly Perceptor could not process, Drift had flung him across the room, and he stumbled. Drift was on him before he could flip over, pinning him with his weight, pressing his chassis into the decking that suddenly felt cool against his desire-warming systems.
Hands, hard along his back, jabbing at him, half-torn between wanting to cause pain and unable to control themselves, so caught up in his own need Drift was. Perceptor writhed, his head shoved to one side, Drift burying his face in Perceptor's throat, mouth febrile, intense, dentae pinching at the control lines. Perceptor shivered, struggling to press his palms against the floor, lifting his weight and Drift's.
Drift took the opportunity, swooping one arm to hook around Perceptor's, angling it back behind him, trapping it between Perceptor's back and his belly, his mouth still fierce and hard on Perceptor's throat. Perceptor could feel the heat between them, felt, suddenly, acutely, Drift's interface panel ground against his hip, like a separate heat, the thighs threading through his longer legs.
Perceptor writhed, twisting against the floor. His mind raced. He didn't feel threatened, despite the pull of pain at his shoulder gyro. Drift was not out to hurt him. Drift was..exorcising something that had probably been born in the lower zones of Cybertron. Pain was incidental to Drift's need to demonstrate power. The trust thrilled Perceptor, that he should be chosen. And if he were honest, a dark thrill swirled in his sensornet at the pain, and at the game—his own eroticism, his own need to control. But while Drift needed physical dominance, Perceptor needed mental, needed the dangerous dance of maneuvering, strategizing.
“Someone could come by,” he murmured, half into the floor, testing Drift's response.
“Let them,” Drift growled, lifting his head from Perceptor's throat. The boxy armor of his forearm slid down Perceptor's side, tracing the narrow waist. Perceptor shivered. Someone could come by, and see them: Drift writhing, feral, atop Perceptor; Perceptor pinned, helpless before Drift's physical strength and his own desire. Someone could see them.
Perceptor moaned at the thought. He didn't want to be caught, and yet...the idea of it thrilled him. Drift ground his pelvic span harder, more urgently, against Perceptor's hip.
Perceptor kicked back with one leg, bumping awkwardly, ineffectually, against the back of Drift's thigh. A weak blow, and he knew it, designed simply to signal resistance. Drift laughed, tightening his hold on Perceptor's pinned arm, sliding his chassis over Perceptor's back kibble.
Perceptor gasped, a hot sharp nip sending white lances of sensation over his sensornet as Drift attacked his scope. He struggled, tugging at his shoulder, swatting uselessly with his one free hand, trying to figure, trying to puzzle a way out of it. He couldn't explain how or why this aroused him, but the scientist in him could not deny the evidence: his interface system throbbed with want, ventilations gasping from him, forcing heated air against Drift's armor in an obvious telegraphing of his desire.
Drift lifted his mouth off the scope, giving Perceptor some time to recover, after one last lingering, nearly-gentle lick. “Want to take you right here,” he muttered. He slid his free hand down, over Perceptor's pelvic frame, curling the fingers in the gap between the structural heavy span and the top of Perceptor's white thigh. Planting the idea. Not pushing, yet. Perceptor whimpered at the thought, his valve already slick with anticipation. He would let Drift take him, anywhere, if only for the exquisite sensation, more than physical, of being on the edge of control, and then falling into complete abandon.
He knew his role: he twisted his head from side to side, over his shoulders. “No.”
“No?” Drift echoed, a dark amusement in his voice. He ducked his head down sliding his cheek over the scope, feeling, Perceptor knew, Perceptor shiver beneath him. “Should I try to change your mind? Beg for it?”
Perceptor felt his own frame twist and shiver on the floor, pressed into the deck plating, solid and stable. He wasn't sure how long he'd hold out at that game, pretend to not want it. He felt ready to break already. Weak, he thought, vaguely. Must be stronger.
“Or,” Drift purred, “Frag consent. How about I take you anyway?”
Perceptor's systems should have run cold, desire stifled, but for some reason he couldn't name, couldn't figure, they raced higher. Drift, forcing himself in, piercing Perceptor's resolve, intruding his spike forcefully into Perceptor's valve: the very idea blazed over his sensor net like an electrical storm.
Drift moved above him, and Perceptor suddenly felt the sharp heat of the other's spike, bare, pressurized, urgent, against his hip. Drift made some murmuring, incoherent sound, grinding into Perceptor's frame.
He's distracted, Perceptor thought. Time to make a move. Perceptor pulled one leg up, pushing his hips off the floor, scrambling to rise. Drift, caught off guard, grabbed him, and they tumbled over, landing, as Perceptor had figured they would, with Drift above him, pinning his arms over his head, grinning wickedly down at Perceptor, straddling his pelvic frame.
Perceptor craned his head, catching sight of Drift's erect spike over his belly, framed by the lean black thighs, the white skirting panels. It was silver and sleek and rigid with want. Drift caught the line of Perceptor's gaze, and looked up, optics dark.
Drift shoved his legs back, broad greaves hard on the outsides of Perceptor's thighs, driving them together, clamping them just as he shoved his spike, with a quick, sudden gesture, at the small gap between them, just under the bulge of Perceptor's codpiece. Drift snarled, squeezing the thighs tighter around his spike. Perceptor felt the heat and slide of the spike against his thighs, against the underside of his own interface hatch, a slick pull of raw lust.
Drift growled, arching to lick the scope, hands stretched far over his head, pinning Perceptor's wrists, as he began thrusting, in sharp, punishing strokes, his hips against the narrow gap between Perceptor's thighs. Perceptor struggled with his wrists, pushing up against Drift's grip, hearing the pleased, throaty sound in response, the hands tightening over his narrow wrists. Drift's mouth on his scope left a hot trail of feedback, the pressure of the thrusting between his silver thighs exquisitely intense, grazing the underside of his interface panel like flashes of desire.
Drift's face hovered over his, lip plates parted, optics glazed with lust, the lines of the face, and the intricate swoops of his helm, intimate and beloved as they rocked over him, driven by the untamed lust that stabbed his spike with brutal intensity. Above him, the Great Sword's hilt rose like a spine.
And Perceptor had a flash of realization—not that Drift needed it this hard, but that this...odd position was a mitigation. Were Drift pounding into Perceptor's valve with such wild abandon, it would...hurt. So this was, in some strange way, a measure of control, an expression of a desire not to hurt Perceptor, an attempt to avoid pain, even though it was...immensely frustrating.
Drift gave a shuddering gasp, arching up, slamming Perceptor's captive wrists against the ground, his spike giving a whipcrack throb as the overload struck him, and Perceptor felt the hot spray of transfluid on the backs of his thighs, along the dorsal span of his pelvic frame.
Drift collapsed on top of Perceptor, shuddering, releasing the trapped hands, lessening the pressure against Perceptor's thighs. Perceptor lay still under him, knowing any gesture he'd make could be misinterpreted. Especially throwing his arms around Drift's broad shoulders.
Drift moved, pushing up off Perceptor's chassis, palm flat on Perceptor's reinforced armor. When he met Perceptor's gaze, his optics were clear and focused. “I'll make it up to you,” he said, his voice throaty, holding the last vestige of a growl.
“There's no need,” Perceptor said. And now, he knew it was allowed—he stroked one hand over Drift's shoulder.
Drift's optics dimmed at the touch, before he winced, pulling his body off Perceptor's. He looked down their bodies, feeling the slick stain of his lubricant and transfluid on Perceptor's thighs with a twinge of embarrassment. “Yes,” he said, softly, “there is,” and rocked forward, and for the first time in the encounter their mouths met, as equals. His kiss was tentative, unsure of its welcome. Perceptor tipped his mouth into it, inviting, welcoming, forgiving that which needed no forgiveness. Drift trusted him with his darkness and that was the greatest honor and the greatest gift he could ask for.
IDW
Drift/Perceptor
sticky, intercrural, manual restraint, consent issues that are hard to qualify.
Probably the last time I'm going to write this pairing, at least for a while. So...rejoice, I guess.
Perceptor let himself be shoved against the wall. He could see the feral flatness in Drift's optics, the blue nearly opaque. And a dark part of his sensornet thrilled at the sight, and another, softer part felt a strange honor that Drift came to him and him alone when he was like this.
He considered Drift, gauging him through narrowed optics. What did Drift need? That came first, always, above whatever Perceptor wanted or needed. He owed Drift and he would never forget it, and there was no limit to how much he would pay, or in what currency.
Drift wanted resistance: Drift waited, in front of him, hand hard on Perceptor's reinforced chassis, twitching with anticipation for Perceptor's next move.
“You could have,” Perceptor said, quietly, “asked me to move.” Deliberately pushing. He was slow to escalate to the physical, knowing his own disadvantages. No one Perceptor had ever seen could beat Drift close in. Drift claimed, sometimes, in the quiet hours of darkness, those rare occasions that they lay tangled together, when Drift allowed himself that solace, that there was Wing, someone far better than he, who made him look like an amateur, a newspark.
Perceptor couldn't imagine it—anyone better, stronger, faster than Drift. And he didn't want to think—though that thought had come to him, too, in those long, gentle hours—that were Wing still alive....
“Could have,” Drift challenged, bringing him back to the here and now.
“Going somewhere?” Perceptor tilted his head down, looking up at Drift from under its rim. Pointing out, sharply, that Drift had stood here for several moments.
“No.”
Perceptor could sense the rising excitement from the other's EM field, like a sharp prickle against his armored front. Yes, he was doing what Drift wanted, his goading arousing the white armored mech. He hadn't thought he'd ever be good at this, and wasn't sure he'd call the fierce pleasure he felt at it 'enjoyment,' but it was something deeper than he normally let himself feel, resonating with that part that had given him the strength to do his self modifications.
“Well,” he said, placing one hand on the inside of Drift's wrist, “I have business to attend. If you don't mind.”
“And if I do?” Perceptor would have thought it real anger, real hostility, if he hadn't seen the excited flick of the optics down Perceptor's frame.
Perceptor's thumb, almost involuntarily, glided in a caress up Drift's wrist, across the base of his thumb. Drift's hands fascinated him, and he could feel each of the digits, stronger than a usual mech hand frame, pressing into his armor. “Then you do.” He paused, considering. Drift needed...just a bit more, though it hurt Perceptor to push this far. “Autobots have rights to their own thoughts and feelings.”
Drift growled, shoving back against Perceptor's chassis, the words penetrating like spears the opacityof his optics. “Rights,” he spat. “You go too far with these rights, use them as shields, as walls, and grow soft and weak behind them.”
Perceptor frowned. “We are not weak.” Another push, an invitation.
And Drift took it—his hand moved to Perceptor's throat, tearing free from Perceptor's grasp, hauling the black helm closer. “Weak,” he hissed. “I'll show you.”
Perceptor wanted nothing more than to tilt his head forward, match his mouth against Drift's. His lip plates burned for the contact. But Drift's words stung, even though he knew he'd set them up himself. Perceptor was...not weak. He would prove it, to Drift, to himself. He would show restraint. “Show me,” he challenged.
Another flare from the optics, a snarl over the mouthplates, the hand hard and tight on his helm. And then, so quickly Perceptor could not process, Drift had flung him across the room, and he stumbled. Drift was on him before he could flip over, pinning him with his weight, pressing his chassis into the decking that suddenly felt cool against his desire-warming systems.
Hands, hard along his back, jabbing at him, half-torn between wanting to cause pain and unable to control themselves, so caught up in his own need Drift was. Perceptor writhed, his head shoved to one side, Drift burying his face in Perceptor's throat, mouth febrile, intense, dentae pinching at the control lines. Perceptor shivered, struggling to press his palms against the floor, lifting his weight and Drift's.
Drift took the opportunity, swooping one arm to hook around Perceptor's, angling it back behind him, trapping it between Perceptor's back and his belly, his mouth still fierce and hard on Perceptor's throat. Perceptor could feel the heat between them, felt, suddenly, acutely, Drift's interface panel ground against his hip, like a separate heat, the thighs threading through his longer legs.
Perceptor writhed, twisting against the floor. His mind raced. He didn't feel threatened, despite the pull of pain at his shoulder gyro. Drift was not out to hurt him. Drift was..exorcising something that had probably been born in the lower zones of Cybertron. Pain was incidental to Drift's need to demonstrate power. The trust thrilled Perceptor, that he should be chosen. And if he were honest, a dark thrill swirled in his sensornet at the pain, and at the game—his own eroticism, his own need to control. But while Drift needed physical dominance, Perceptor needed mental, needed the dangerous dance of maneuvering, strategizing.
“Someone could come by,” he murmured, half into the floor, testing Drift's response.
“Let them,” Drift growled, lifting his head from Perceptor's throat. The boxy armor of his forearm slid down Perceptor's side, tracing the narrow waist. Perceptor shivered. Someone could come by, and see them: Drift writhing, feral, atop Perceptor; Perceptor pinned, helpless before Drift's physical strength and his own desire. Someone could see them.
Perceptor moaned at the thought. He didn't want to be caught, and yet...the idea of it thrilled him. Drift ground his pelvic span harder, more urgently, against Perceptor's hip.
Perceptor kicked back with one leg, bumping awkwardly, ineffectually, against the back of Drift's thigh. A weak blow, and he knew it, designed simply to signal resistance. Drift laughed, tightening his hold on Perceptor's pinned arm, sliding his chassis over Perceptor's back kibble.
Perceptor gasped, a hot sharp nip sending white lances of sensation over his sensornet as Drift attacked his scope. He struggled, tugging at his shoulder, swatting uselessly with his one free hand, trying to figure, trying to puzzle a way out of it. He couldn't explain how or why this aroused him, but the scientist in him could not deny the evidence: his interface system throbbed with want, ventilations gasping from him, forcing heated air against Drift's armor in an obvious telegraphing of his desire.
Drift lifted his mouth off the scope, giving Perceptor some time to recover, after one last lingering, nearly-gentle lick. “Want to take you right here,” he muttered. He slid his free hand down, over Perceptor's pelvic frame, curling the fingers in the gap between the structural heavy span and the top of Perceptor's white thigh. Planting the idea. Not pushing, yet. Perceptor whimpered at the thought, his valve already slick with anticipation. He would let Drift take him, anywhere, if only for the exquisite sensation, more than physical, of being on the edge of control, and then falling into complete abandon.
He knew his role: he twisted his head from side to side, over his shoulders. “No.”
“No?” Drift echoed, a dark amusement in his voice. He ducked his head down sliding his cheek over the scope, feeling, Perceptor knew, Perceptor shiver beneath him. “Should I try to change your mind? Beg for it?”
Perceptor felt his own frame twist and shiver on the floor, pressed into the deck plating, solid and stable. He wasn't sure how long he'd hold out at that game, pretend to not want it. He felt ready to break already. Weak, he thought, vaguely. Must be stronger.
“Or,” Drift purred, “Frag consent. How about I take you anyway?”
Perceptor's systems should have run cold, desire stifled, but for some reason he couldn't name, couldn't figure, they raced higher. Drift, forcing himself in, piercing Perceptor's resolve, intruding his spike forcefully into Perceptor's valve: the very idea blazed over his sensor net like an electrical storm.
Drift moved above him, and Perceptor suddenly felt the sharp heat of the other's spike, bare, pressurized, urgent, against his hip. Drift made some murmuring, incoherent sound, grinding into Perceptor's frame.
He's distracted, Perceptor thought. Time to make a move. Perceptor pulled one leg up, pushing his hips off the floor, scrambling to rise. Drift, caught off guard, grabbed him, and they tumbled over, landing, as Perceptor had figured they would, with Drift above him, pinning his arms over his head, grinning wickedly down at Perceptor, straddling his pelvic frame.
Perceptor craned his head, catching sight of Drift's erect spike over his belly, framed by the lean black thighs, the white skirting panels. It was silver and sleek and rigid with want. Drift caught the line of Perceptor's gaze, and looked up, optics dark.
Drift shoved his legs back, broad greaves hard on the outsides of Perceptor's thighs, driving them together, clamping them just as he shoved his spike, with a quick, sudden gesture, at the small gap between them, just under the bulge of Perceptor's codpiece. Drift snarled, squeezing the thighs tighter around his spike. Perceptor felt the heat and slide of the spike against his thighs, against the underside of his own interface hatch, a slick pull of raw lust.
Drift growled, arching to lick the scope, hands stretched far over his head, pinning Perceptor's wrists, as he began thrusting, in sharp, punishing strokes, his hips against the narrow gap between Perceptor's thighs. Perceptor struggled with his wrists, pushing up against Drift's grip, hearing the pleased, throaty sound in response, the hands tightening over his narrow wrists. Drift's mouth on his scope left a hot trail of feedback, the pressure of the thrusting between his silver thighs exquisitely intense, grazing the underside of his interface panel like flashes of desire.
Drift's face hovered over his, lip plates parted, optics glazed with lust, the lines of the face, and the intricate swoops of his helm, intimate and beloved as they rocked over him, driven by the untamed lust that stabbed his spike with brutal intensity. Above him, the Great Sword's hilt rose like a spine.
And Perceptor had a flash of realization—not that Drift needed it this hard, but that this...odd position was a mitigation. Were Drift pounding into Perceptor's valve with such wild abandon, it would...hurt. So this was, in some strange way, a measure of control, an expression of a desire not to hurt Perceptor, an attempt to avoid pain, even though it was...immensely frustrating.
Drift gave a shuddering gasp, arching up, slamming Perceptor's captive wrists against the ground, his spike giving a whipcrack throb as the overload struck him, and Perceptor felt the hot spray of transfluid on the backs of his thighs, along the dorsal span of his pelvic frame.
Drift collapsed on top of Perceptor, shuddering, releasing the trapped hands, lessening the pressure against Perceptor's thighs. Perceptor lay still under him, knowing any gesture he'd make could be misinterpreted. Especially throwing his arms around Drift's broad shoulders.
Drift moved, pushing up off Perceptor's chassis, palm flat on Perceptor's reinforced armor. When he met Perceptor's gaze, his optics were clear and focused. “I'll make it up to you,” he said, his voice throaty, holding the last vestige of a growl.
“There's no need,” Perceptor said. And now, he knew it was allowed—he stroked one hand over Drift's shoulder.
Drift's optics dimmed at the touch, before he winced, pulling his body off Perceptor's. He looked down their bodies, feeling the slick stain of his lubricant and transfluid on Perceptor's thighs with a twinge of embarrassment. “Yes,” he said, softly, “there is,” and rocked forward, and for the first time in the encounter their mouths met, as equals. His kiss was tentative, unsure of its welcome. Perceptor tipped his mouth into it, inviting, welcoming, forgiving that which needed no forgiveness. Drift trusted him with his darkness and that was the greatest honor and the greatest gift he could ask for.
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no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 04:54 am (UTC)Sorry for not commenting more, *is a biiiiig lurker* but know that I'm here and I appreciate and adore everything that you write. XD
no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 05:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 11:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 01:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 03:53 pm (UTC)This is only one person's opinion, but please reconsider. Surely there are other people reading who don't comment...I'm so shy and I used to be a total lurker, but I have really tried to get in the habit of commenting on the stuff I like even if I feel lame saying some short thing. So she and I -can't- be the only ones who love your D/P.
I'll shut up now...
no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 01:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 04:57 pm (UTC)And you do the same thing with Perceptor, though it seems more obvious in the comics that he has issues to work through. I love your take on how he does so!
And when you write them together, like this, the chemistry you create just sizzles and I usually end up melting from it. :3
If you quit writing them that's your prerogative, just don't do it thinking that you're no good at it!
no subject
Date: 2011-02-08 01:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-13 03:55 pm (UTC)<3
no subject
Date: 2011-02-14 12:42 pm (UTC)