August Contest Entry #1
Title: Poetry in Motion
Rating: PG-13 (T+)
Universe: G1
Author: mirage_shinkiro
Pairing: WheeljackxBlurr
Word Count: 1,382
Summary: Wheeljack has secretly loved Blurr for vorns, but he struggles to gather the courage to tell him.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Note: For the August challenge “Summer storms and winter rains.”
Dancing past, Blurr is all grace and fluid movements as he enters Wheeljack’s lab. Ever smiling, Blurr reminds him of summer, a season Cybertron hasn’t seen for five millennia. Still Wheeljack can remember warm summer evenings. The sun would set low on the horizon, painting the sky crimson and gold, while the stars rose in the east, dotting the heavens with sparkling white lights. Happy memories of a happier time, but when Wheeljack looks at Blurr, he can smile secretly beneath his blast mask.
Now, though, the world is dark and chilly. Night reigns forever on a world with no sun, and Wheeljack rests momentarily in his lab after his shift ends. The orn’s project is the same as it has been for a stellar cycle now: the Ark. Wheeljack and Grapple have designed it, and every engineer, mechanic, and construction worker in the Autobot forces has been relocated to Iacon to help build it. Even Blurr has been appropriated and roped into the task, his speed considered an asset for a job they have little time to complete.
“You-cleaned-your-lab,” Blurr notes, zipping from shelf to shelf in Wheeljack’s private sanctum. “You-never-clean-okay-you-do-clean-but not-unless-you’re-worried-so-what-are-you-worried-about?”
The flowing words wash over Wheeljack’s processor like a silvery river. He and Blurr have become friends over the vorns, having held lengthy conversations during the many repairs and modifications Wheeljack has performed on his legs. Over time, their talks expanded to the mess hall or the corner pub, and now Wheeljck’s spark surges when he sees Blurr. “I’m not worried, promise.”
“Liar.” Blurr races up to his desk and stops, leaning over it. “You-can-tell-the-others-whatever-you-like-but-you-don’t-have-to-always-be-cheerful-around-me-so-please-tell-me-what’s-wrong.”
Leaning back in his desk chair, Wheeljack glances away, feeling petty. The larger the challenge, the more determination he can muster, but small setbacks infuriate him. He stares at the dingy copper walls and shelves of his lab, further irritated by their orange hue. The polymer protecting them from turning brown or green works, but it doesn’t hold the true color. “It’s something stupid,” he admits, all too aware that his audiofins are flashing too dimly as he talks.
With fluid motions, Blurr gestures at the room with his arm, leaving a blue smear in the air. “It-can’t-be-too-stupid-if-you-cleaned-your-entire-lab-because-I-know-how-you-hate-to-clean-this-place-and-yet-you-did-it-overnight.”
“Pest.” A trace of humor lightens Wheeljack’s tone. Leave it to Blurr to not let a subject drop. “It’s just . . . well, I proposed an alteration to the Ark’s shields that I think will strengthen them, but Perceptor shot it down. That wouldn’t usually bother me, but that’s the fifth proposal in a row I’ve made that he’s rejected.” He frowns to himself, unable to shake the feeling something will go wrong on their mission.
Blurr dances from foot-to-foot as though too agitated to stand still. Others find it annoying, but to Wheeljack Blurr is poetry in motion - the graceful curve of a hip, the sinuous stretch of a leg. When set free to run, Blurr’s every step is smooth, flowing, elegant. Perfection. Wheeljack sometimes imagines the beauty of Blurr’s back arching off his berth, his hands covering the expanse of Blurr’s abdomen as he brings him pleasure. He can almost hear the breathless panting, the impassioned cries and whimpers; he dreams of the warm body beneath him, pressing against him. However, he hasn’t yet found the courage for a simple kiss. Blurr doesn’t know the depth of Wheeljack’s feelings, and since Blurr is surrounded by a gaggle of handsome friends his own age, Wheeljack is unwilling to tell him.
“That-would-be-upsetting-and-I-don’t-think-you’re-being-petty-at-all.” Blurr halts abruptly, standing utterly still for a klik. “But-it’s-more-than-that-isn’t-it? You’re-upset-about-something-else-I-can-tell-so-don’t-you-dare-hide-it-from-me.”
Blurr is right. Wheeljack slumps, trying to decide whether to air his grievance or not. While it’s true that Blurr reminds him of summer, in Wheeljack’s mind it’s a summer full of storms. Since their work is almost complete, the Ark will be leaving soon, and Wheeljack is unsure how long they’ll be gone before they can find energy. And although he’s tried and tried, but he can’t get Blurr added to the crew’s manifest. “We’ll probably be done with the Ark in two decarons.”
“And-that’s-bad-why?” Blurr leans against his desk, pushing the sensual slope of his hip outward.
Wheeljack gathers his courage and meets Blurr’s gaze. “Because you won’t be going with me.” No, Wheeljack will leave, and it will be like winter instead. Not warm summer storms but the cold rains of a lonely spark.
Time stands motionless, the poetry of Blurr’s movements absent and captured like a still frame. Then, so quickly that Wheeljack barely registers it, Blurr swoops to his side, kneeling by his chair. “I know.” The words are slower, more precise. He reaches for Wheeljack’s hand, only to pause and let his arm drop. “I wish I was going with you.”
Watching Blurr lower his head, Wheeljack realizes he’s been a fool. All this time he’s been convinced Blurr couldn’t be interested in an older mech like himself, but here Blurr is, hovering beside him and wishing to touch him. Retracting the mask that protects his face, Wheeljack bares himself to Blurr. It’s been a vorn since he’s done so for anything other than medical reasons, and it feels oddly intimate. “I’ve actually requested that you be added to the crew manifest.”
Blurr flinches and doesn’t look up, although his grimace is still evident. “I-know-and-I’ve-made-the-same-request-but-the-crew-complement-is-so-small-and-they’re-being-so-picky-and-Kup’s-asked-specifically-that-I-remain-here-under-his-command-and-it’s-just-so-frustrating!” He glances up. “I-don’t-want-to-be -” He pauses, staring at Wheeljack’s face. His words become a halting whisper. “Primus . . . you’re beautiful.”
Although Wheeljack’s spark sings at the revelation that Blurr has tried to remain with him, it surges white-hot at his compliment. “So are you.” His voice trembles at the admission, at the need to touch Blurr.
However, Blurr is the one who touches him, reaching up to cup Wheeljack’s cheek. He slowly traces his thumb down his cheek seam then over his lips. “I want to stay with you.” The intensity of his gaze spears Wheeljack’s spark. “Do you love me?”
“Yes.” The word leaves Wheeljack’s mouth before his processor even catches up. He’s wanted to say so for far too long.
In a graceful leap, Blurr knocks Wheeljack from his chair, toppling them onto the floor and cushioning their impact with one hand. He settles between Wheeljack’s legs and cups his face again, once more tracing his fingertips over Wheeljack’s lips. He speaks slowly, carefully, quietly. “I’ve longed to hear you say that.”
Caught under Blurr’s weight, Wheeljack’s circuits tingle with the electricity that surges through his frame. The intimate, sensual nature of their position triggers a tidal wave of arousal, and for a moment, Wheeljack’s fantasy plays in reverse - Blurr’s hands on his body as he arches into the touch, gasping Blurr’s name. The idea is equally appealing, although Wheeljack doesn’t want to rush through the first, tender stages of their relationship. “I’ve longed to say it.”
Blurr leans down, capturing Wheeljack’s lips in a soft kiss. When Wheeljack runs his arms around his shoulders, pulling him close, Blurr presses into the kiss, sucking gently on his lower lip. Wheeljack loops one leg over Blurr’s leg, entwining their bodies, and sucks Blurr’s upper lip in return, moaning faintly as his panel rubs Blurr’s thigh. Teasing Blurr’s lips with his glossa, Wheeljack coaxes Blurr’s mouth open, and then their glossa caress, creating a dance of their own. Poetry of a different nature arises between them, and for that moment, their lives are neither summer storms nor winter rain but rather spring sunshine.
However, too soon the interlude is over and clouds bunch on the horizons again. When they part, they lock gazes, optics saying what their words can’t.
“We don’t have long,” Wheeljack whispers.
Blurr shakes his head. “Better two decaorns than nothing.”
Truth, although a bitter one. “Then stay with me for now.” Wheeljack is willing to sacrifice all his recharge to simply talk with Blurr through the night.
“I will.” Blurr languidly brushes his fingertips over Wheeljack’s audiofin, making him shiver. “And I’ll be here when you return from your mission, too.”
Wheeljack can only pray that will come true.
Rating: PG-13 (T+)
Universe: G1
Author: mirage_shinkiro
Pairing: WheeljackxBlurr
Word Count: 1,382
Summary: Wheeljack has secretly loved Blurr for vorns, but he struggles to gather the courage to tell him.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Note: For the August challenge “Summer storms and winter rains.”
Dancing past, Blurr is all grace and fluid movements as he enters Wheeljack’s lab. Ever smiling, Blurr reminds him of summer, a season Cybertron hasn’t seen for five millennia. Still Wheeljack can remember warm summer evenings. The sun would set low on the horizon, painting the sky crimson and gold, while the stars rose in the east, dotting the heavens with sparkling white lights. Happy memories of a happier time, but when Wheeljack looks at Blurr, he can smile secretly beneath his blast mask.
Now, though, the world is dark and chilly. Night reigns forever on a world with no sun, and Wheeljack rests momentarily in his lab after his shift ends. The orn’s project is the same as it has been for a stellar cycle now: the Ark. Wheeljack and Grapple have designed it, and every engineer, mechanic, and construction worker in the Autobot forces has been relocated to Iacon to help build it. Even Blurr has been appropriated and roped into the task, his speed considered an asset for a job they have little time to complete.
“You-cleaned-your-lab,” Blurr notes, zipping from shelf to shelf in Wheeljack’s private sanctum. “You-never-clean-okay-you-do-clean-but not-unless-you’re-worried-so-what-are-you-worried-about?”
The flowing words wash over Wheeljack’s processor like a silvery river. He and Blurr have become friends over the vorns, having held lengthy conversations during the many repairs and modifications Wheeljack has performed on his legs. Over time, their talks expanded to the mess hall or the corner pub, and now Wheeljck’s spark surges when he sees Blurr. “I’m not worried, promise.”
“Liar.” Blurr races up to his desk and stops, leaning over it. “You-can-tell-the-others-whatever-you-like-but-you-don’t-have-to-always-be-cheerful-around-me-so-please-tell-me-what’s-wrong.”
Leaning back in his desk chair, Wheeljack glances away, feeling petty. The larger the challenge, the more determination he can muster, but small setbacks infuriate him. He stares at the dingy copper walls and shelves of his lab, further irritated by their orange hue. The polymer protecting them from turning brown or green works, but it doesn’t hold the true color. “It’s something stupid,” he admits, all too aware that his audiofins are flashing too dimly as he talks.
With fluid motions, Blurr gestures at the room with his arm, leaving a blue smear in the air. “It-can’t-be-too-stupid-if-you-cleaned-your-entire-lab-because-I-know-how-you-hate-to-clean-this-place-and-yet-you-did-it-overnight.”
“Pest.” A trace of humor lightens Wheeljack’s tone. Leave it to Blurr to not let a subject drop. “It’s just . . . well, I proposed an alteration to the Ark’s shields that I think will strengthen them, but Perceptor shot it down. That wouldn’t usually bother me, but that’s the fifth proposal in a row I’ve made that he’s rejected.” He frowns to himself, unable to shake the feeling something will go wrong on their mission.
Blurr dances from foot-to-foot as though too agitated to stand still. Others find it annoying, but to Wheeljack Blurr is poetry in motion - the graceful curve of a hip, the sinuous stretch of a leg. When set free to run, Blurr’s every step is smooth, flowing, elegant. Perfection. Wheeljack sometimes imagines the beauty of Blurr’s back arching off his berth, his hands covering the expanse of Blurr’s abdomen as he brings him pleasure. He can almost hear the breathless panting, the impassioned cries and whimpers; he dreams of the warm body beneath him, pressing against him. However, he hasn’t yet found the courage for a simple kiss. Blurr doesn’t know the depth of Wheeljack’s feelings, and since Blurr is surrounded by a gaggle of handsome friends his own age, Wheeljack is unwilling to tell him.
“That-would-be-upsetting-and-I-don’t-think-you’re-being-petty-at-all.” Blurr halts abruptly, standing utterly still for a klik. “But-it’s-more-than-that-isn’t-it? You’re-upset-about-something-else-I-can-tell-so-don’t-you-dare-hide-it-from-me.”
Blurr is right. Wheeljack slumps, trying to decide whether to air his grievance or not. While it’s true that Blurr reminds him of summer, in Wheeljack’s mind it’s a summer full of storms. Since their work is almost complete, the Ark will be leaving soon, and Wheeljack is unsure how long they’ll be gone before they can find energy. And although he’s tried and tried, but he can’t get Blurr added to the crew’s manifest. “We’ll probably be done with the Ark in two decarons.”
“And-that’s-bad-why?” Blurr leans against his desk, pushing the sensual slope of his hip outward.
Wheeljack gathers his courage and meets Blurr’s gaze. “Because you won’t be going with me.” No, Wheeljack will leave, and it will be like winter instead. Not warm summer storms but the cold rains of a lonely spark.
Time stands motionless, the poetry of Blurr’s movements absent and captured like a still frame. Then, so quickly that Wheeljack barely registers it, Blurr swoops to his side, kneeling by his chair. “I know.” The words are slower, more precise. He reaches for Wheeljack’s hand, only to pause and let his arm drop. “I wish I was going with you.”
Watching Blurr lower his head, Wheeljack realizes he’s been a fool. All this time he’s been convinced Blurr couldn’t be interested in an older mech like himself, but here Blurr is, hovering beside him and wishing to touch him. Retracting the mask that protects his face, Wheeljack bares himself to Blurr. It’s been a vorn since he’s done so for anything other than medical reasons, and it feels oddly intimate. “I’ve actually requested that you be added to the crew manifest.”
Blurr flinches and doesn’t look up, although his grimace is still evident. “I-know-and-I’ve-made-the-same-request-but-the-crew-complement-is-so-small-and-they’re-being-so-picky-and-Kup’s-asked-specifically-that-I-remain-here-under-his-command-and-it’s-just-so-frustrating!” He glances up. “I-don’t-want-to-be -” He pauses, staring at Wheeljack’s face. His words become a halting whisper. “Primus . . . you’re beautiful.”
Although Wheeljack’s spark sings at the revelation that Blurr has tried to remain with him, it surges white-hot at his compliment. “So are you.” His voice trembles at the admission, at the need to touch Blurr.
However, Blurr is the one who touches him, reaching up to cup Wheeljack’s cheek. He slowly traces his thumb down his cheek seam then over his lips. “I want to stay with you.” The intensity of his gaze spears Wheeljack’s spark. “Do you love me?”
“Yes.” The word leaves Wheeljack’s mouth before his processor even catches up. He’s wanted to say so for far too long.
In a graceful leap, Blurr knocks Wheeljack from his chair, toppling them onto the floor and cushioning their impact with one hand. He settles between Wheeljack’s legs and cups his face again, once more tracing his fingertips over Wheeljack’s lips. He speaks slowly, carefully, quietly. “I’ve longed to hear you say that.”
Caught under Blurr’s weight, Wheeljack’s circuits tingle with the electricity that surges through his frame. The intimate, sensual nature of their position triggers a tidal wave of arousal, and for a moment, Wheeljack’s fantasy plays in reverse - Blurr’s hands on his body as he arches into the touch, gasping Blurr’s name. The idea is equally appealing, although Wheeljack doesn’t want to rush through the first, tender stages of their relationship. “I’ve longed to say it.”
Blurr leans down, capturing Wheeljack’s lips in a soft kiss. When Wheeljack runs his arms around his shoulders, pulling him close, Blurr presses into the kiss, sucking gently on his lower lip. Wheeljack loops one leg over Blurr’s leg, entwining their bodies, and sucks Blurr’s upper lip in return, moaning faintly as his panel rubs Blurr’s thigh. Teasing Blurr’s lips with his glossa, Wheeljack coaxes Blurr’s mouth open, and then their glossa caress, creating a dance of their own. Poetry of a different nature arises between them, and for that moment, their lives are neither summer storms nor winter rain but rather spring sunshine.
However, too soon the interlude is over and clouds bunch on the horizons again. When they part, they lock gazes, optics saying what their words can’t.
“We don’t have long,” Wheeljack whispers.
Blurr shakes his head. “Better two decaorns than nothing.”
Truth, although a bitter one. “Then stay with me for now.” Wheeljack is willing to sacrifice all his recharge to simply talk with Blurr through the night.
“I will.” Blurr languidly brushes his fingertips over Wheeljack’s audiofin, making him shiver. “And I’ll be here when you return from your mission, too.”
Wheeljack can only pray that will come true.