wow that's really ...better than canon! roninknightJuly 13 2011, 23:38:49 UTC
It had been too long. And Drift had found himself wanting to contact Perceptor, wanting to explain why he'd chosen Earth instead of staying with the Wreckers. But every time he'd called up the long range comm, every time he was alone in the comm booth...the words had failed him. Everything seemed cheap, easy, a flimsy rationalization.
How could he tell Perceptor the truth when even he wasn't sure what it was?
And watching Perceptor here...he began to wonder how much he knew of the mech. He'd never really seen Perceptor given over to science like this, and, despite the fact that he had no slagging right he felt a stab of envy. For science. A thing.
Perceptor was avoiding him. Probably trying to make it easier: always the sniper's way, move from a distance. But it wasn't easy with this...mass growing between them.
He follows after the taller mech, but not too far. Enough to stand, silhouetted in the doorway. "Perceptor." It's not much of a start.
Drift's shoulders relaxed as he felt Perceptor fall into step behind him. It felt...nice. He had forgotten--or forced himself to forget--even this small intimacy.
And the gun, inside the door. Drift thought his spark would burst at the familiarity. Strange how the weapon, the corner--the first time this place had seemed like home.
Well. Here they are. In private. Alone. And everything neither of them could say filling the air between them.
"I'm sorry. For hurting you." Drift's thumbs worried the hilts of his short blades.
It's curious how familiar this room feels to Perceptor, despite never having set foot in it before. More comfortable than any number of berthrooms he's had over the years. Kimia, with the Wreckers, on any number of disreputable little bases and stops. They've all blurred together into a homogeneous mass of bland... discomfort.
When had it been since he'd last felt himself at home? Since he'd last felt comfortable? Not just... going through the motions of life, marching from one deployment to the next, completing the assignments as quickly and efficiently as possible, never seeking anything more than that. Just speed, efficiency, and as much detachment as he could maintain
( ... )
It's possible that the room has picked up some of Drift's electromagnetic resonance. He certainly spends enough time here.
"You can. You can be of use there." He has to push Perceptor away. He doesn't want to. He wants to pull Perceptor against him, letting their EM fields flow and run together. He wants to let that speak the words he can't speak...shouldn't speak.
His optic shutters droop, feeling the keen scrutiny like a kind of caress, tipping his face upward to the taller mech.
"You've had other obligations," Drift whispers. "You should have faith that I'd can wait." He tips his face toward the black hand, that used to smell like blaster discharge, now, strangely, like chemicals.
"I know that I can," he replies softly, leaning into the feel of Drift's field, fingers curling to rest against his cheek. "I will not. I belong here."
In other words, he will not allow himself to be pushed away. Especially not now, when he can feel the subtle pulses of Drift's field, his own cycling to match. He doesn't need the words, had long since learned that words... sometimes got in the way.
"I always have faith in you." It's himself that he doubts so much.
But he's tired of talking, now, and he has the privacy he'd craved. And Drift. With a low, possessive growl, he tilts his head, pressing forward to seize Drift's lips in a heated kiss.
Drift isn't going to tell any mech where he can and cannot be. He's had enough try to dictate to him. And...he doesn't want Perceptor to leave. Though at the same time, he fears for the future--that the same situation that tore them apart before would arise again. "You belong where your spark is at peace."
Wherever that is. If Perceptor even allows himself that much.
His optics dim at the touch along his cheek, the way the fingertips--still so sensitive, calibrated to science and a gun--trace the join of his helm.
He can't say anything to Perceptor's flattery. He doesn't have faith in himself, and feels Perceptor's as somewhere between an honor and a weight. And that weight, sometimes, keeps him grounded.
The growl thrills him, and his mouth is parted before Perceptor's makes contact, his entire system stirring with want long restrained. His glossa flirts with Perceptor's, inviting, teasing, goading the larger mech, his own hand sliding around the narrow red waist.
Perceptor leans into that hand settling upon his waist, his own free hand sliding up to slip between the hilt of one shortsword and Drift's plating, curling around to rest against his back. The soft growl deepens when he finds Drift's lips parted, and he nips sharply before pressing in, tasting deeply, his thumb stroking Drift's cheek for the long, long moments that he indulges himself.
Finally, though, he breaks the kiss, but only long enough to speak a few words, his lips brushing against Drift's.
"Then I belong hereThe delicate microsensors in his fingertips note the thin scratches in the surface enamel of Drift's plating as he curls his hands and tugs, pulling Drift flush against him, even as he steps closer. His EM field is almost crackling with the hunger that has built up inside during the long, lonely stretch of time since they had last parted. Optic shutters drifting partially closed, another growl claws its way past his vocal processor when he initiates that kiss again, his glossa sweeping in to tangle with Drift's
( ... )
Drift finds himself shaking, at the contact. It had been so long--too long--since anyone had touched him at all, much less with such aroused intensity. His optics flared, refusing to dim or shutter before the kiss, wanting to see everything, feel everything.
He knew--he remembered--how hard it was for Perceptor to lay himself open, vulnerable, like this, and it nearly staggers him. His hands clutch at the broad red shoulder panels, stepping one foot between Perceptor's, the side of one greaveplate rubbing against the treads tucked in behind Perceptor's ankles.
A growl builds in his throat, not a threat, not even a warning, but a sort of joyous sound. His hands finally release their grip, stroking gently down the arms, a lover rediscovering the other's body, an explorer come to long unvisited terrain, feeling the metal, the EM field, everything real and alive and wanting.
The strength of his arousal, of the flare of possessive lust that fires through his relays as he drinks in that answering growl surprises even himself. He's missed Drift so much. Missed touching, being touched. Missed the hot glint of those blue optics fixed upon him. Missed the feel of Drift's strong hands floating across his plating. The scent of the oil Drift uses to hone the blades. The familiar hiss of pistons firing. The sweep of that audial flare. The severe draw of Drift's mouth against his own
( ... )
Drift quivers, momentarily overwhelmed by the larger mech, the way Perceptor's body, his EM field, just enveloped him. He kisses back, mouth fierce against Perceptor's, turning to lick at the palm that turned his head, exposing his throat. He finds his weight pressing against Perceptor, leaning into him, his hands roaming over the coolant hoses, fingertips tracing down the backs of the long thighs, memory and present cascading together, a frothy foam of sensation.
And the engines: He's missed the rev of the powerful tank engines, the way vibration traveled through their conjoined frames, the way the sound seemed to lick at his audio.
He gasps as Perceptor bends, the large frame bowing over him, the dentae sinking into his throat cabling, throwing pain like sparkling stars through his sensornet.
He bends his knees, pulling his weight back, lowering to the floor.
Between the slide of Drift's glossa against his sensitive hand, and the scrape of Drift's too-knowing fingers against his coolant hoses and hips, Perceptor finds himself grateful that Drift has the presence of mind to begin shifting them downward. His own knees weaken as deep tremors of pleasure roll through his systems, and he finds himself needing the weight of Drift's frame pressing against him to keep him as upright as he is.
He answers that soft gasp with another low rumble of his own, folding his knees to follow Drift downward, his hands curled into blunt claws that he rakes downward from Drift's shoulder, and upward from his hip. He wants so hard, hungers so much. Little flickers of static leap between their frames from his amped EM field as he worries that conduit between his lips
( ... )
Perceptor need not have wasted any concern: Drift wouldn't mind being compressed beneath the larger mech's frame. He gives a half-growl at the mouth worrying the power conduit in his throat, his own hands gripping more fiercely, static jumping from his fingertips to the gaps in the red armor, his knees coming up around Perceptor's thigh, squeezing the long limb against him.
It has been too long and he'd been a fool to leave this. But duty had nagged at him--in a way he knew Perceptor never would--until he'd succumbed, writing this off as selfishness, as an indulgence he hadn't earned.
He had earned it, or at least, Perceptor had earned it, earned any pleasure he could grasp. And that was what fired over Drift's net, making him turn his head to seek the mouth again for a deep, gentle kiss, optics half-lidded and wanting. Everything he'd wanted and more than he deserved right here.
Every tiny spark, each minute scrape of plating, draws another little tremble from Perceptor as the sensations continue building within his starved tactile relays. The simple comfort of touch, of trust, and the heat of the passion he's denied himself arc from system to system. It's like liquid fire coursing through his fuel lines as he shifts to allow Drift's knees to clutch his thigh. He can feel the want, the desire, like waves of heat shimmering in the space between them, and it wrenches a soft whimper from deep within as he turns into that kiss.
He shifts, hands coming up to cradle Drift's helm between them, the pads of his thumbs stroking up white cheek guards. As his hips settle to rest upon Drift's, Perceptor has to spare a flicker of processing power to cycle his cooling fans up a notch; he's on fire from within, his lines coursing with the shocks of spilled current and his fuel and coolant pumps both hammering with strain.
He... he won't last long. It's been too long, and he's wanted this just too much. He's trembling with
( ... )
The heat from Perceptor's venting system washes over Drift like another caress, eddying and flowing with his own. His hands remember this frame, every contour, every seam and he lets his fingers make it more real, as though drawing Perceptor into existence.
Sparks crackle between them, a bluish hazy fuzz that builds and surges, feeding on their desire. He moans into the kiss, safe, cocooned in his small room buried in the back of the base, but even so, he bites down on the sound, as though admitting to pleasure would open himself up to ridicule or rejection. He loves the weight of Perceptor on top of him, loves the trembling want. It's Perceptor's, but it's his, one of the few things Drift dares claim, that he could cause such want and pleasure in another.
He tears his mouth from the kiss, moan dying to a growl as he seeks the throat, his cheek armor brushing over the scope. He's at the verge, his own hands, body, fierce with need.
Even though the sound is quiet and abruptly censored, that soft moan sends a jagged knife of hot desire through Perceptor's systems. Drift has always been more guarded than he in these moments, too many years of want coding as a weakness drilled into his core to allow him to freely utter the softer sounds. Growls and feral hisses aplenty, but these more wanton utterances of desire and appreciation are rare specimens indeed, and Perceptor sharply arches against Drift as it stabs little blades of current though his pleasure receptors
( ... )
How could he tell Perceptor the truth when even he wasn't sure what it was?
And watching Perceptor here...he began to wonder how much he knew of the mech. He'd never really seen Perceptor given over to science like this, and, despite the fact that he had no slagging right he felt a stab of envy. For science. A thing.
Perceptor was avoiding him. Probably trying to make it easier: always the sniper's way, move from a distance. But it wasn't easy with this...mass growing between them.
He follows after the taller mech, but not too far. Enough to stand, silhouetted in the doorway. "Perceptor." It's not much of a start.
Reply
And the gun, inside the door. Drift thought his spark would burst at the familiarity. Strange how the weapon, the corner--the first time this place had seemed like home.
Well. Here they are. In private. Alone. And everything neither of them could say filling the air between them.
"I'm sorry. For hurting you." Drift's thumbs worried the hilts of his short blades.
Reply
When had it been since he'd last felt himself at home? Since he'd last felt comfortable? Not just... going through the motions of life, marching from one deployment to the next, completing the assignments as quickly and efficiently as possible, never seeking anything more than that. Just speed, efficiency, and as much detachment as he could maintain ( ... )
Reply
"You can. You can be of use there." He has to push Perceptor away. He doesn't want to. He wants to pull Perceptor against him, letting their EM fields flow and run together. He wants to let that speak the words he can't speak...shouldn't speak.
His optic shutters droop, feeling the keen scrutiny like a kind of caress, tipping his face upward to the taller mech.
"You've had other obligations," Drift whispers. "You should have faith that I'd can wait." He tips his face toward the black hand, that used to smell like blaster discharge, now, strangely, like chemicals.
Reply
In other words, he will not allow himself to be pushed away. Especially not now, when he can feel the subtle pulses of Drift's field, his own cycling to match. He doesn't need the words, had long since learned that words... sometimes got in the way.
"I always have faith in you." It's himself that he doubts so much.
But he's tired of talking, now, and he has the privacy he'd craved. And Drift. With a low, possessive growl, he tilts his head, pressing forward to seize Drift's lips in a heated kiss.
Reply
Wherever that is. If Perceptor even allows himself that much.
His optics dim at the touch along his cheek, the way the fingertips--still so sensitive, calibrated to science and a gun--trace the join of his helm.
He can't say anything to Perceptor's flattery. He doesn't have faith in himself, and feels Perceptor's as somewhere between an honor and a weight. And that weight, sometimes, keeps him grounded.
The growl thrills him, and his mouth is parted before Perceptor's makes contact, his entire system stirring with want long restrained. His glossa flirts with Perceptor's, inviting, teasing, goading the larger mech, his own hand sliding around the narrow red waist.
Reply
Finally, though, he breaks the kiss, but only long enough to speak a few words, his lips brushing against Drift's.
"Then I belong hereThe delicate microsensors in his fingertips note the thin scratches in the surface enamel of Drift's plating as he curls his hands and tugs, pulling Drift flush against him, even as he steps closer. His EM field is almost crackling with the hunger that has built up inside during the long, lonely stretch of time since they had last parted. Optic shutters drifting partially closed, another growl claws its way past his vocal processor when he initiates that kiss again, his glossa sweeping in to tangle with Drift's ( ... )
Reply
He knew--he remembered--how hard it was for Perceptor to lay himself open, vulnerable, like this, and it nearly staggers him. His hands clutch at the broad red shoulder panels, stepping one foot between Perceptor's, the side of one greaveplate rubbing against the treads tucked in behind Perceptor's ankles.
A growl builds in his throat, not a threat, not even a warning, but a sort of joyous sound. His hands finally release their grip, stroking gently down the arms, a lover rediscovering the other's body, an explorer come to long unvisited terrain, feeling the metal, the EM field, everything real and alive and wanting.
Reply
Reply
And the engines: He's missed the rev of the powerful tank engines, the way vibration traveled through their conjoined frames, the way the sound seemed to lick at his audio.
He gasps as Perceptor bends, the large frame bowing over him, the dentae sinking into his throat cabling, throwing pain like sparkling stars through his sensornet.
He bends his knees, pulling his weight back, lowering to the floor.
Reply
He answers that soft gasp with another low rumble of his own, folding his knees to follow Drift downward, his hands curled into blunt claws that he rakes downward from Drift's shoulder, and upward from his hip. He wants so hard, hungers so much. Little flickers of static leap between their frames from his amped EM field as he worries that conduit between his lips ( ... )
Reply
It has been too long and he'd been a fool to leave this. But duty had nagged at him--in a way he knew Perceptor never would--until he'd succumbed, writing this off as selfishness, as an indulgence he hadn't earned.
He had earned it, or at least, Perceptor had earned it, earned any pleasure he could grasp. And that was what fired over Drift's net, making him turn his head to seek the mouth again for a deep, gentle kiss, optics half-lidded and wanting. Everything he'd wanted and more than he deserved right here.
Reply
He shifts, hands coming up to cradle Drift's helm between them, the pads of his thumbs stroking up white cheek guards. As his hips settle to rest upon Drift's, Perceptor has to spare a flicker of processing power to cycle his cooling fans up a notch; he's on fire from within, his lines coursing with the shocks of spilled current and his fuel and coolant pumps both hammering with strain.
He... he won't last long. It's been too long, and he's wanted this just too much. He's trembling with ( ... )
Reply
Sparks crackle between them, a bluish hazy fuzz that builds and surges, feeding on their desire. He moans into the kiss, safe, cocooned in his small room buried in the back of the base, but even so, he bites down on the sound, as though admitting to pleasure would open himself up to ridicule or rejection. He loves the weight of Perceptor on top of him, loves the trembling want. It's Perceptor's, but it's his, one of the few things Drift dares claim, that he could cause such want and pleasure in another.
He tears his mouth from the kiss, moan dying to a growl as he seeks the throat, his cheek armor brushing over the scope. He's at the verge, his own hands, body, fierce with need.
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