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shadow_vector2011-04-20 06:22 am
niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in shadow_vector2011-04-20 06:22 am
Entry tags:
Halcyon part 5
NC-17
IDW
Perceptor/Drift, Perceptor/Wing
sticky, angst
Perceptor had spent the latter part of the afternoon with the technicians, and his right arm was now armored, the stabilizing circuitry he’d designed reinstalled. The weight felt new, an adjustment to the days without armor. How quickly, Perceptor thought, we become accustomed to loss.
He was sitting in the window alcove of his assigned quarters, watching the sunset streak, red and purple, across the sky. It was peaceful, and suddenly…Perceptor discovered he hated peace. War, or even an argument, a puzzle to solve, something, would have been a welcome distraction. But peace left him time to think, time to feel. It felt like standing on a glacier, bitter cold, the plates of ice cracking beneath him, the very ground lurching as if at any moment it would yawn up and swallow him.
Prepare yourself, the growing darkness seemed to say, shadows blooming in the corners of the room. This is your future: darkness and frozen time.
“Perceptor?” Drift’s voice, quiet, unsure, behind him. Perceptor turned.
Drift stood in the doorway, nervous, almost sheepish.
“What are you doing here?” Perceptor blurted.
An embarrassed, stiff smile. “Wanted to be with you.”
“Wing.” An accusation.
“He…sent me.”
“He sent you.”
Drift shuttered his optics. “Yes. What he asked for, when he won today. Wanted me to,” he shrugged, “come to you.”
Oh. To end it, once and for all. To complete his claim. A flourish, Perceptor thought, and nothing more. And part of him flared with satisfaction: Wing was not so perfect after all.
Drift read his expression. “He wanted me to...be with you.” He struggled with the words, giving up in a helpless shrug.
The flare of hot satisfaction squelched dead, Perceptor trying to summon hatred against the beautiful white jet, against the hard tide of his own inadequate pettiness. Or at least against Drift, for needing to be ordered to come to him. But all he felt, all he really felt, was an aching longing that Drift was here. Another flaw. Another weakness.
“How do you feel about him, Drift?” The last rampart of resistance, throwing Wing between them.
Drift shook his head. “Didn’t come here for that.” And that was all the answer he intended to give, and as much as Perceptor could bear.
“What did you come here for?”
“You.” Drift dropped to one knee in front of Perceptor, a careful hand on the red knee. Perceptor wished he could be like Drift—just here, now, in the moment, the future not an endless stream of despairing possibilities. Perceptor struggled to find words, wanting to reach out, but knowing he had no right.
Drift pushed off his knee, moving up Perceptor’s body, his mouth finding Perceptor’s faultlessly, as though it belonged there, wanted to belong there. Perceptor gave into the warm invitation, one hand, his new one, coming up involuntarily to stroke over the white spaulder. It might be the last time, he thought.
And Drift took him, there, in the chair, pulling the black of his pelvic armor to the edge, kneeling before him, hands sliding tenderly over his damaged legs, into the tracks of his lower legs, and up, stroking around the dip of his waist, Drift’s mouth a hot circle of want and need on Perceptor’s still-battered red, kissing the damage, the injuries, as though they were beautiful. They were symbols of what they had suffered together. Together. Back when they had been....
Perceptor’s hands stroked over the helm, up the finials, down the hilt of the Great Sword—Wing’s sword, he thought, for an instant, before he shoved the thought from his mind, determined, just once, to experience, to think, to feel like Drift—along its sheath, the sensitive attachments, moaning his desire into the cool metal. Wrong, lost, undeserved desire, but he could not, in his weakness, bring himself to refuse. He'd accept scraps from Wing's hand. He was that pathetic.
Drift’s desire crested against him, the overload hard and sweet, and Perceptor’s spine arched up, into Drift’s chassis, his hands clutching at Drift’s shoulders, his head thrown back, mouth silently shaping his own release. Drift squirmed upward, pulling Perceptor’s mouth against him, the kiss tender, and, Perceptor thought, the way a farewell might be kissed. He pulled away. “I’ll tell them…something,” he said, quietly. “You can stay. No one would blame you.” Not even me.
Drift looked stricken, as though Perceptor had just shot him. “I would,” he said. He looked down the length of their joined bodies, his spike still hot and stirring in Perceptor’s valve. His face rippled with distress, looking helpless, lost. It was…terrifying. Perceptor would do anything to snatch the words back. “I…,” he bowed his head onto Perceptor’s chassis, his voice small, muffled against the beryllium plate. “I don't want to choose.” A pitiful, hopeless, impossible plea.
[***]
Perceptor stood, for the first time, on his own. Mobility, no fear of his systems overheating. Repaired. Fixed.
He didn’t feel fixed.
He tried to convince himself it meant something. Other than the time was getting nearer to saying goodbye to Drift. He didn’t belong here: even visually, he stood out, Drift fit in.
The door chimed behind him, where he stood on the balcony. He stiffened. Wing.
The white jet stepped out onto the balcony with him, pausing for a moment to survey the city spread like a glittering carpet beneath them. It probably looked different to Wing, Perceptor thought. Not just familiar, but as a jet, his entire perspective on the world must be different. Strange.
“May I speak with you?” Wing asked, his posture tight and formal. Perceptor shrugged assent, not turning, not moving. Petty, he thought, but he didn’t want to make it easy. He was losing everything to the jet, the only thing he dared have or want.
Wing rocked gently from side to side. He looked over the city, the sunlight gleaming over his white helm, optics distant. “He loves you,” he said. Simply that.
Perceptor clutched for the railing. Of all the weapons he’d expected Wing to deploy, this was…this was not one of them. He cycled a vent, saying nothing. Not agreeing, not denying, but secretly, inwardly, a fierce flame burned, that Wing could see it. As if that made it real.
“A make-do.”
Wing shook his head. “Stubborn like he is, too.” The gold optics tore themselves away from the glittering view, studying Perceptor. “He’s...unhappy,” Wing said, and the soft curve of his lip plates fell away for a moment. “And you’re unhappy.”
It was the next logical progression: “And you? Are you happy?”
The mouth quivered. “I was. I thought I was. And I let it blind me.” The helm bowed, humbled. “I didn’t see how it was hurting him.”
It made no sense: this was his rival, this was his enemy, the one who had supplanted him in Drift’s attentions. This was the root cause of his unhappiness, standing before him, admitting to wrong, to selfishness. And all he wanted to do was say something comforting, soothing. He reached a hand--his replaced hand--the glossy digits stroking over Wing’s shoulder. “He makes his own decisions, Wing.”
Wing looked up. “No one should be forced to decide this sort of thing,” he said, softly. “He would have been happier if he’d continued to think I was dead.” There, bald and ugly, truth; the wings drooping, miserable before it. Perceptor ached, recognizing what it took out of a mech to speak such horrible truths, knowing he’d locked his own deep inside, buried them in silence. And he couldn’t stop himself, that core of softness that had always been in him, no matter how he’d tried to harden his exterior, stiffen his face and his emotions like an impenetrable defense against feeling, against loss, spun to life, and he drew the jet against him, arms folding over the broad shoulders, hoping the physical contact covered for the words he couldn’t say. How many times had he thought this himself? How many times had he felt like the burden holding Drift back?
“And,” Wing said, his words muffled against Perceptor’s shoulder, fingers creeping around the blocky mass of red armor, needy, accepting the embrace, like reaching over a wall, “I worry. That now, that this...has ruined happiness forever for him.”
“He will choose the right thing,” Perceptor managed, feeling the jet vibrate against him.
“I don’t want him to choose the right thing,” Wing said, and for a moment there was a hint of temper in the voice, an immovable stubbornness, that which had made him, allowed him to defy the Circle’s own rules. “I want him to be happy.”
Perceptor nodded. Yes. The decision was beyond ‘right’ and ‘wrong’. He humbly accepted the correction. “Me too,” he admitted, aware that he was, for the first time, sharing equally with Wing.
The white audial flare slid over his armor, and Perceptor looked down, golden optics meeting his own, and suddenly, the jet’s mouth was on his, warm and wanting, giving and seeking comfort, joining their pain. Perceptor’s mouth opened into the kiss, Wing’s mouth shy and tentative under his, the hands skimming over his armor, exploring.
Wing’s mouth departed, to nip against his throat, lick over the edge of his chestplate, palms tracing parallel circles over Perceptor’s frame. “Wing--,” Perceptor managed.
“No words,” Wing murmured, the mouth coming back, briefly, against his. “Words haven’t been much good at solving things so far.” And there was a flicker of a smile, a glow in the lidded optics that kindled Perceptor’s desire, that such looks, such desires, should ever be aimed at him.
Wing slid down Perceptor’s frame, hands and mouth along the abdominal plating, until his nasal bumped over the top of Perceptor’s interface hatch. Perceptor gasped, hands reaching for Wing’s, along his thighs. Wing squeezed against them, thumbs caressing Perceptor’s wrists.
A gentle laugh vibrated across the panel, and then a quick, practiced release, and then the jet’s mouth, ardent, against his spike cover.
Wing paused, looking up, his gold eyes seeking Perceptor’s from the expanse of his torso, asking permission. And Perceptor knew this was an apology, a humbling recompense for the pain Wing had caused him, trying to palliate some of the helplessness and despair with pleasure and control. Perceptor’s body thrummed, rigid with want, as he managed a brusque nod. He saw one corner of a mouth curl, the optics casting down again, as Wing took his spike, a hot pressure over the metal. He couldn’t tear his gaze away: the white helm, the golden optics dim and aroused, intent. He shuddered, hands clutching at the jet’s shoulder nacelles, clinging for balance as Wing’s glossa traced over the ridges and nodes of the spike, his hands kneading at Perceptor’s thighs.
Perceptor had no idea what to make of this, what to do, other than to let his systems take their lead, have their way, his sensornet swelling and rushing with charge, with sparks and eddies of sensation, brightly colored light and sound. He stifled a cry, acutely aware they were on the balcony, visible, exposed, as he gave in to the overload, the charge cascading over him, limbs trembling, hands clutching into the red arcs of Wing’s shoulders, his weight leaning, quivering, unsteady, against the jet’s frame.
Wing pulled back, slowly, releasing the spike with a coy reluctance, dipping back almost playfully to lick along the nodes, chirring with second-hand pleasure at Perceptor’s sharp twitches. His mouth curled into a smile, letting the spike finally go. He rested there for a moment, on one knee, looking up at Perceptor, optics wide and keen, cycling a vent, before surging upwards, twining around Perceptor’s frame, mouth seeking his, the tart taste of Perceptor’s transfluid crossing their mouths, like some contract or bond had been signed.
Wing stepped one leg around Perceptor, and he felt the firm gouge of the jet’s knee stabilizer as Wing stepped closer, pushing Perceptor gently off-balance, lowering him to the ground, managing to wedge himself between the silver thighs, one hand sliding over Perceptor’s covered valve, the touch light, tantalizing, open in its promise. Perceptor yielded, the cover clicking open. Wing’s optics blazed down at him, lambent with desire, the white body rolling sinuously, sinking his spike smoothly into Perceptor’s valve, warm and slick and hard. A shiver ran through Wing’s frame, air gusting through his ventilation system.
Perceptor’s hands floated, cautiously, down Wing’s body, over the folded ridge of the wings, up the rise of the Great Sword, pulling the shoulders down against his, inviting, welcoming the contact. It wasn't Wing's fault, any of this. All he'd been guilty of was the same as any of them: wanting. Needing. And he, at least, was trying to make amends.
Wing moved, and his movements were...the opposite of Drift’s: where Drift’s thrusts were sharp, demanding, hard, Wing’s were slow, like sine waves, ebbing and flowing, rising and falling, like a force of nature, a moon-pulled tide, slow, even, and careful where Drift’s were hard and heedless.
Perceptor writhed under Wing, rocking in tempo, hips rising to meet, their bodies united, unified, thrusting aside any other differences between them, until Wing arched up, pinions flaring, optics rolling skyward, as the rapture seized him, taking Perceptor with him, charge shimmering over their systems.
Wing collapsed onto Perceptor’s chassis, ducking his head against the red shoulder, giving a limp, drained shudder as the charge faded. Sun kissed their joined bodies, like a kind of blessing.
Wing moved, pushing up onto an elbow, smiling down at Perceptor for a moment, before playfully leaning to nuzzle against the scope. Perceptor gasped, his valve giving an involuntary squeeze against Wing’s spike. Wing gave a pleasurable squirm against him.
Perceptor lifted one hand, tracing it down the side of Wing’s helm. “Ironic,” he murmured, fingers following the ornate swirl of the audial flare, “I suspect both of us have been pushing him toward the other.” A feeble smile.
Wing laughed, the sound reverberating, like touch, through Perceptor’s keyed sensornet. “It doesn’t have to be that way,” he said. He nipped the scope, wriggling into Perceptor’s reaction.
Perceptor cocked his head. Wing leaned into the black palm, rubbing his cheek over Perceptor’s hand, giving a satisfied rumble.
“We don’t have to be rivals,” Wing said. “We’ve tried that and...,” he gave a rueful shrug, “everyone lost.”
Perceptor’s answer was cut off by another nip, more aggressive, one hand joining it to stroke down the scope.
Wing’s optics glowed over the red shaft. “Such an Autobot thing, really, thinking of everything as zero-sum.”
“Autobot...thing.” Perceptor’s vent quickened, his hands twitching, wanting to return the favor, find the secret sensitive areas on the white frame above him. “Is it wise to talk ideology...right now?”
“Why not?” Wing gave a giddy laugh, leaning to lick a slow line up the scope, his optics holding Perceptor’s. Drift had hinted that Wing was...a bit of a libertine. “Audience is paying attention.”
Perceptor felt the rare pull of a smile on his upper lip plate. “Is this how you convinced Drift?” he asked, clamping his arms around the white hips, rolling over, tucking the jet under his body. It wasn't a very good joke—awful, in fact, laced with Perceptor's own black insecurities, but Wing’s laugh sang against him as he pulled the jet into a kiss.
[***]
IDW
Perceptor/Drift, Perceptor/Wing
sticky, angst
Perceptor had spent the latter part of the afternoon with the technicians, and his right arm was now armored, the stabilizing circuitry he’d designed reinstalled. The weight felt new, an adjustment to the days without armor. How quickly, Perceptor thought, we become accustomed to loss.
He was sitting in the window alcove of his assigned quarters, watching the sunset streak, red and purple, across the sky. It was peaceful, and suddenly…Perceptor discovered he hated peace. War, or even an argument, a puzzle to solve, something, would have been a welcome distraction. But peace left him time to think, time to feel. It felt like standing on a glacier, bitter cold, the plates of ice cracking beneath him, the very ground lurching as if at any moment it would yawn up and swallow him.
Prepare yourself, the growing darkness seemed to say, shadows blooming in the corners of the room. This is your future: darkness and frozen time.
“Perceptor?” Drift’s voice, quiet, unsure, behind him. Perceptor turned.
Drift stood in the doorway, nervous, almost sheepish.
“What are you doing here?” Perceptor blurted.
An embarrassed, stiff smile. “Wanted to be with you.”
“Wing.” An accusation.
“He…sent me.”
“He sent you.”
Drift shuttered his optics. “Yes. What he asked for, when he won today. Wanted me to,” he shrugged, “come to you.”
Oh. To end it, once and for all. To complete his claim. A flourish, Perceptor thought, and nothing more. And part of him flared with satisfaction: Wing was not so perfect after all.
Drift read his expression. “He wanted me to...be with you.” He struggled with the words, giving up in a helpless shrug.
The flare of hot satisfaction squelched dead, Perceptor trying to summon hatred against the beautiful white jet, against the hard tide of his own inadequate pettiness. Or at least against Drift, for needing to be ordered to come to him. But all he felt, all he really felt, was an aching longing that Drift was here. Another flaw. Another weakness.
“How do you feel about him, Drift?” The last rampart of resistance, throwing Wing between them.
Drift shook his head. “Didn’t come here for that.” And that was all the answer he intended to give, and as much as Perceptor could bear.
“What did you come here for?”
“You.” Drift dropped to one knee in front of Perceptor, a careful hand on the red knee. Perceptor wished he could be like Drift—just here, now, in the moment, the future not an endless stream of despairing possibilities. Perceptor struggled to find words, wanting to reach out, but knowing he had no right.
Drift pushed off his knee, moving up Perceptor’s body, his mouth finding Perceptor’s faultlessly, as though it belonged there, wanted to belong there. Perceptor gave into the warm invitation, one hand, his new one, coming up involuntarily to stroke over the white spaulder. It might be the last time, he thought.
And Drift took him, there, in the chair, pulling the black of his pelvic armor to the edge, kneeling before him, hands sliding tenderly over his damaged legs, into the tracks of his lower legs, and up, stroking around the dip of his waist, Drift’s mouth a hot circle of want and need on Perceptor’s still-battered red, kissing the damage, the injuries, as though they were beautiful. They were symbols of what they had suffered together. Together. Back when they had been....
Perceptor’s hands stroked over the helm, up the finials, down the hilt of the Great Sword—Wing’s sword, he thought, for an instant, before he shoved the thought from his mind, determined, just once, to experience, to think, to feel like Drift—along its sheath, the sensitive attachments, moaning his desire into the cool metal. Wrong, lost, undeserved desire, but he could not, in his weakness, bring himself to refuse. He'd accept scraps from Wing's hand. He was that pathetic.
Drift’s desire crested against him, the overload hard and sweet, and Perceptor’s spine arched up, into Drift’s chassis, his hands clutching at Drift’s shoulders, his head thrown back, mouth silently shaping his own release. Drift squirmed upward, pulling Perceptor’s mouth against him, the kiss tender, and, Perceptor thought, the way a farewell might be kissed. He pulled away. “I’ll tell them…something,” he said, quietly. “You can stay. No one would blame you.” Not even me.
Drift looked stricken, as though Perceptor had just shot him. “I would,” he said. He looked down the length of their joined bodies, his spike still hot and stirring in Perceptor’s valve. His face rippled with distress, looking helpless, lost. It was…terrifying. Perceptor would do anything to snatch the words back. “I…,” he bowed his head onto Perceptor’s chassis, his voice small, muffled against the beryllium plate. “I don't want to choose.” A pitiful, hopeless, impossible plea.
[***]
Perceptor stood, for the first time, on his own. Mobility, no fear of his systems overheating. Repaired. Fixed.
He didn’t feel fixed.
He tried to convince himself it meant something. Other than the time was getting nearer to saying goodbye to Drift. He didn’t belong here: even visually, he stood out, Drift fit in.
The door chimed behind him, where he stood on the balcony. He stiffened. Wing.
The white jet stepped out onto the balcony with him, pausing for a moment to survey the city spread like a glittering carpet beneath them. It probably looked different to Wing, Perceptor thought. Not just familiar, but as a jet, his entire perspective on the world must be different. Strange.
“May I speak with you?” Wing asked, his posture tight and formal. Perceptor shrugged assent, not turning, not moving. Petty, he thought, but he didn’t want to make it easy. He was losing everything to the jet, the only thing he dared have or want.
Wing rocked gently from side to side. He looked over the city, the sunlight gleaming over his white helm, optics distant. “He loves you,” he said. Simply that.
Perceptor clutched for the railing. Of all the weapons he’d expected Wing to deploy, this was…this was not one of them. He cycled a vent, saying nothing. Not agreeing, not denying, but secretly, inwardly, a fierce flame burned, that Wing could see it. As if that made it real.
“A make-do.”
Wing shook his head. “Stubborn like he is, too.” The gold optics tore themselves away from the glittering view, studying Perceptor. “He’s...unhappy,” Wing said, and the soft curve of his lip plates fell away for a moment. “And you’re unhappy.”
It was the next logical progression: “And you? Are you happy?”
The mouth quivered. “I was. I thought I was. And I let it blind me.” The helm bowed, humbled. “I didn’t see how it was hurting him.”
It made no sense: this was his rival, this was his enemy, the one who had supplanted him in Drift’s attentions. This was the root cause of his unhappiness, standing before him, admitting to wrong, to selfishness. And all he wanted to do was say something comforting, soothing. He reached a hand--his replaced hand--the glossy digits stroking over Wing’s shoulder. “He makes his own decisions, Wing.”
Wing looked up. “No one should be forced to decide this sort of thing,” he said, softly. “He would have been happier if he’d continued to think I was dead.” There, bald and ugly, truth; the wings drooping, miserable before it. Perceptor ached, recognizing what it took out of a mech to speak such horrible truths, knowing he’d locked his own deep inside, buried them in silence. And he couldn’t stop himself, that core of softness that had always been in him, no matter how he’d tried to harden his exterior, stiffen his face and his emotions like an impenetrable defense against feeling, against loss, spun to life, and he drew the jet against him, arms folding over the broad shoulders, hoping the physical contact covered for the words he couldn’t say. How many times had he thought this himself? How many times had he felt like the burden holding Drift back?
“And,” Wing said, his words muffled against Perceptor’s shoulder, fingers creeping around the blocky mass of red armor, needy, accepting the embrace, like reaching over a wall, “I worry. That now, that this...has ruined happiness forever for him.”
“He will choose the right thing,” Perceptor managed, feeling the jet vibrate against him.
“I don’t want him to choose the right thing,” Wing said, and for a moment there was a hint of temper in the voice, an immovable stubbornness, that which had made him, allowed him to defy the Circle’s own rules. “I want him to be happy.”
Perceptor nodded. Yes. The decision was beyond ‘right’ and ‘wrong’. He humbly accepted the correction. “Me too,” he admitted, aware that he was, for the first time, sharing equally with Wing.
The white audial flare slid over his armor, and Perceptor looked down, golden optics meeting his own, and suddenly, the jet’s mouth was on his, warm and wanting, giving and seeking comfort, joining their pain. Perceptor’s mouth opened into the kiss, Wing’s mouth shy and tentative under his, the hands skimming over his armor, exploring.
Wing’s mouth departed, to nip against his throat, lick over the edge of his chestplate, palms tracing parallel circles over Perceptor’s frame. “Wing--,” Perceptor managed.
“No words,” Wing murmured, the mouth coming back, briefly, against his. “Words haven’t been much good at solving things so far.” And there was a flicker of a smile, a glow in the lidded optics that kindled Perceptor’s desire, that such looks, such desires, should ever be aimed at him.
Wing slid down Perceptor’s frame, hands and mouth along the abdominal plating, until his nasal bumped over the top of Perceptor’s interface hatch. Perceptor gasped, hands reaching for Wing’s, along his thighs. Wing squeezed against them, thumbs caressing Perceptor’s wrists.
A gentle laugh vibrated across the panel, and then a quick, practiced release, and then the jet’s mouth, ardent, against his spike cover.
Wing paused, looking up, his gold eyes seeking Perceptor’s from the expanse of his torso, asking permission. And Perceptor knew this was an apology, a humbling recompense for the pain Wing had caused him, trying to palliate some of the helplessness and despair with pleasure and control. Perceptor’s body thrummed, rigid with want, as he managed a brusque nod. He saw one corner of a mouth curl, the optics casting down again, as Wing took his spike, a hot pressure over the metal. He couldn’t tear his gaze away: the white helm, the golden optics dim and aroused, intent. He shuddered, hands clutching at the jet’s shoulder nacelles, clinging for balance as Wing’s glossa traced over the ridges and nodes of the spike, his hands kneading at Perceptor’s thighs.
Perceptor had no idea what to make of this, what to do, other than to let his systems take their lead, have their way, his sensornet swelling and rushing with charge, with sparks and eddies of sensation, brightly colored light and sound. He stifled a cry, acutely aware they were on the balcony, visible, exposed, as he gave in to the overload, the charge cascading over him, limbs trembling, hands clutching into the red arcs of Wing’s shoulders, his weight leaning, quivering, unsteady, against the jet’s frame.
Wing pulled back, slowly, releasing the spike with a coy reluctance, dipping back almost playfully to lick along the nodes, chirring with second-hand pleasure at Perceptor’s sharp twitches. His mouth curled into a smile, letting the spike finally go. He rested there for a moment, on one knee, looking up at Perceptor, optics wide and keen, cycling a vent, before surging upwards, twining around Perceptor’s frame, mouth seeking his, the tart taste of Perceptor’s transfluid crossing their mouths, like some contract or bond had been signed.
Wing stepped one leg around Perceptor, and he felt the firm gouge of the jet’s knee stabilizer as Wing stepped closer, pushing Perceptor gently off-balance, lowering him to the ground, managing to wedge himself between the silver thighs, one hand sliding over Perceptor’s covered valve, the touch light, tantalizing, open in its promise. Perceptor yielded, the cover clicking open. Wing’s optics blazed down at him, lambent with desire, the white body rolling sinuously, sinking his spike smoothly into Perceptor’s valve, warm and slick and hard. A shiver ran through Wing’s frame, air gusting through his ventilation system.
Perceptor’s hands floated, cautiously, down Wing’s body, over the folded ridge of the wings, up the rise of the Great Sword, pulling the shoulders down against his, inviting, welcoming the contact. It wasn't Wing's fault, any of this. All he'd been guilty of was the same as any of them: wanting. Needing. And he, at least, was trying to make amends.
Wing moved, and his movements were...the opposite of Drift’s: where Drift’s thrusts were sharp, demanding, hard, Wing’s were slow, like sine waves, ebbing and flowing, rising and falling, like a force of nature, a moon-pulled tide, slow, even, and careful where Drift’s were hard and heedless.
Perceptor writhed under Wing, rocking in tempo, hips rising to meet, their bodies united, unified, thrusting aside any other differences between them, until Wing arched up, pinions flaring, optics rolling skyward, as the rapture seized him, taking Perceptor with him, charge shimmering over their systems.
Wing collapsed onto Perceptor’s chassis, ducking his head against the red shoulder, giving a limp, drained shudder as the charge faded. Sun kissed their joined bodies, like a kind of blessing.
Wing moved, pushing up onto an elbow, smiling down at Perceptor for a moment, before playfully leaning to nuzzle against the scope. Perceptor gasped, his valve giving an involuntary squeeze against Wing’s spike. Wing gave a pleasurable squirm against him.
Perceptor lifted one hand, tracing it down the side of Wing’s helm. “Ironic,” he murmured, fingers following the ornate swirl of the audial flare, “I suspect both of us have been pushing him toward the other.” A feeble smile.
Wing laughed, the sound reverberating, like touch, through Perceptor’s keyed sensornet. “It doesn’t have to be that way,” he said. He nipped the scope, wriggling into Perceptor’s reaction.
Perceptor cocked his head. Wing leaned into the black palm, rubbing his cheek over Perceptor’s hand, giving a satisfied rumble.
“We don’t have to be rivals,” Wing said. “We’ve tried that and...,” he gave a rueful shrug, “everyone lost.”
Perceptor’s answer was cut off by another nip, more aggressive, one hand joining it to stroke down the scope.
Wing’s optics glowed over the red shaft. “Such an Autobot thing, really, thinking of everything as zero-sum.”
“Autobot...thing.” Perceptor’s vent quickened, his hands twitching, wanting to return the favor, find the secret sensitive areas on the white frame above him. “Is it wise to talk ideology...right now?”
“Why not?” Wing gave a giddy laugh, leaning to lick a slow line up the scope, his optics holding Perceptor’s. Drift had hinted that Wing was...a bit of a libertine. “Audience is paying attention.”
Perceptor felt the rare pull of a smile on his upper lip plate. “Is this how you convinced Drift?” he asked, clamping his arms around the white hips, rolling over, tucking the jet under his body. It wasn't a very good joke—awful, in fact, laced with Perceptor's own black insecurities, but Wing’s laugh sang against him as he pulled the jet into a kiss.
[***]
no subject
no subject
You have just saved my absolutely wretched day. ^_^ And a couple of my co-workers, who i am ready to beat for making it so
And since it is Perceptor and Drift, may I assume that there are still a few ways for those two to turn situation to worse before it is solved?
no subject
Leave it to Wing to get Percy to almost-smile.
I think I feel most sorry for Drift in this mess. Both mechs he wants are pushing him to the other. The first time all three are in the berth together is going to be interesting.
no subject
nail the cute geek!er I mean hit the nail on the head! Not about making the right or wrong choice, but about being happy... with a good side helping of when in doubt, shut up and make like bunnies. ^____~ And it totally did have to be him, too, because of that whole purity thing I think. Drift and Perceptor are too busy thinking of themselves and the world as broken to consider the possibility that there might be a way to make everyone happy. Wing's unworldly enough that shining visions of how the world ought to be are something he still (always) believes in, and thankfully he drags the others along for the ride! ^____^no subject