Halcyon part 6
Apr. 21st, 2011 03:11 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
niyazi-a.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shadow_vectorNC-17
IDW
Drift/Wing/Perceptor
sticky, threesome
***]
Tomorrow. Topspin would arrive tomorrow. Drift had spent the afternoon examining the landing pad--the first New Crystal City had built, and just for the occasion. He knew they were divided: Dai Atlas wanted the city to remain a peaceful backwater: some of the other mechs had wanted to move, to follow Wing’s example, taking their message to the distant stars.
They had won, because even Dai Atlas admitted that holding a mech against his will, even in paradise, was keeping him in prison.
Drift had overseen the base, having surveyed and laid out hundreds of LZs in his time, trying to busy himself in work, and not at the galloping of his chronometer, counting down the cycles when he’d have to choose. He was exhausted, body and spark, emotionally drained, as he rounded the corner to the quarters they had given him, tapping the code with weary fingers, numb, but not numb enough. Tonight, one last night with Wing. And then he'd try to pick up the pieces with Perceptor. He never knew he could hurt so much and have no visible mark.
And he knew he was wrong, but he'd turned it over in his mind and...there hadn't seemed, as hard as he had looked, any answer that was right. Hurt Wing or hurt Perceptor. There was no alternative.
The door opened.
Drift froze, his exhaustion sheeting off him like water as he crossed the threshold: on his berth, Wing, sprawled on his back, arms pinned over his head by one black hand, thighs thrust apart by Perceptor’s hips as the larger mech drove furiously into him. Froze was...not...quite the right word, since there was nothing cold about it--he locked up filled with a blazing heat, so he could only watch as Perceptor’s black pelvic frame thrust against Wing’s white armor, one of Wing’s ankles hooking around a silver thigh, the redflashed knee stabilizer flagging the movement. Wing’s hands curled around the large hand that pinned him, his shoulders twisting off the berth, optics intense, like suns of gold, mouth mobile, half-smiling up at the Perceptor’s serious face.
Perceptor gave a growling hiss, just as Wing’s hips seemed to jump from the berth, a cry bursting from his mouth. Perceptor’s body arched against him, driving the spike home as deeply into the valve as he could, gaze locked with Wing’s as if enflamed by Wing’s open desire. Drift remained still, watching, as they seemed to ease down together onto the berth, a shudder running concurrently through both frames.
Drift’s systems unlocked. “Don’t move,” he murmured, one hand sliding between Perceptor’s shoulder and neck, pulling him into a hungry, demanding kiss. Drift could feel the heat from their systems fluttering against him, the gentle throbs of their EM fields meshing. Drift let his hands run down Perceptor’s body, to where it joined Wing’s, tracing the lines--where Wing’s thighs wrapped over Perceptor’s hips, where their bellies touched. They both quivered under his touch.
He broke the kiss. “This little demonstration for me, I presume?”
Perceptor nodded.
A gentle laugh beneath them. “Not...entirely,” Wing purred. Drift felt his mouth break into a grin.
“Not done with you.”
“You...technically...haven’t started with me.” Wing gave a playful squirm.
“Is he...always like this?” Perceptor murmured.
“Yes.” When he's happy. And Drift realized that...since the first time, Wing hadn't been happy—the way Wing could be. Drift ran one thumb down Perceptor’s cheek, taking in the contrast: Perceptor quiet and calm, Wing hot and shameless, before turning his attention to Wing. Perceptor released his grip on the white wrists as Drift bent down, pulling Wing's mouth against his. “Your idea?” He felt Wing's smile against his lips. Of course.
Drift rocked back, jerking his chin at Perceptor. “Has he seen your wings?”
Wing shook his head, stretching his arms around Drift's shoulders. Drift allowed the embrace for a moment, his optics appreciative over the white frame. Wing was undeniably beautiful, and never more than like this, alive with desire. “Wings,” he prompted.
Wing smiled. “Yes.” He wriggled his way up onto his elbows, gasping as Perceptor's spike slipped from his valve. He paused, optics flicking closed for a klik, shivering with the experience before rolling to stand by the edge of the berth. He flared his wings out, locking them open, looking coyly over one shoulder. “Like this?”
Drift growled assent, before nodding at Perceptor. “Interesting design, right?”
Perceptor studied the design—Drift could see the appraising looks travel over the interlocking panels, the folding strut. He nodded agreement.
“Can touch, if you like,” Drift offered. Perceptor hesitated before moving forward, running his hands, an engineer's hands, over the planes and angles. Wing shivered under his touch—the wings were packed with exquisitely calibrated sensors.
Drift joined Perceptor, and for a long moment they stroked the white flared wings together, each pair of hands holding a different knowledge—Perceptor's parsing the science in the shapes, Drift remembering the sensitive bliss of a lover's touch. Wing staggered back, helpless in the throes of stimulation. Drift caught him, wrapping arms around him—one around the narrow white waist, the other under the wing, clutching at the chassis, burying his face in the back of the jet's neck.
Hands slid over Wing's front, over the valve leaking silver fluid down the thighs. Wing whimpered, wanting, as Perceptor reached even farther, his palm sliding tauntingly over the valve, fingertips reaching for Drift's interface hatch. Wing squirmed in frustration.
Drift gave a soft laugh, lifting his face from Wing's neck. “I can normally take care of that myself, Perceptor,” he murmured.
“Maybe,” Perceptor answered, “you needed a little help. There's no shame in seeking help from your friends,” he said tartly, parroting back Drift's own words, but without any real malice.
Drift laughed. “Oh? Well, then. I do need some help.” His optics winked, reaching one hand around Wing's thigh. Reading his intent, Perceptor reached forward, his mouth joining with Drift's over Wing's shoulder, the sleek pinion satiny against their cheeks, as he took Wing's weight, hooking his hands under the white arms, tipping Wing's torso forward, as Drift spread the jet's thighs, seating his spike in the slick valve. Wing cried out, clasping his arms around Perceptor's neck, his valve clutching at Drift inside him. Wing's optics were blind with desire, his mouth hot against Perceptor's chassis, throat, licking and nipping his way over the broad black helm.
Wing's responses were pure and unashamed, all the openness Perceptor wished he could let himself show. And for a moment he felt threatened, felt that here was something Wing could offer that he never could fulfill, that if this was a need for Drift, he would lose. But the mouth, seeking his, the hands exploring his broad shoulders, grazing his audio, weren't trying to threaten, to shut him out, but to include him, bring him within the circle, make him part of a closed circuit. He lifted the jet's chin, staring for a long moment into the wide golden optics, before letting his mouth close over Wing's. More than including, Wing wanted to be a conduit, a way to let Perceptor show Drift what he couldn't otherwise.
Wing shuddered against him, Drift's slow thrusts building charge, Drift's hands tugging and sliding the wing plates—a grounder's fascination with flight, a lover's fascination with his partner's pleasure. Perceptor felt a rare smile form around the jet's kiss, as he snaked a hand down the white chassis, groping, blind, until he found the spike cover.
Wing tore his mouth away with a shocked squeak as the spike cover retracted, his spike jutting into Perceptor's ready palm.
Drift shot him a smoldering glance, sharing in the pleasure of contact, of sharing something, and someone. And a brief hopeful moment of relief, that at least right now, right here, Drift didn't have to make a choice. Just once, if never again, he could have them both.
Perceptor's hand worked smoothly against the spike, feeling the lubricant heat from the friction, the delicious tingle of charge from activated friction nodes, while Wing's own hands clung to the red armor, his spinal strutwork arching and contracting, wracked with desire. For Perceptor, still sated from his own overload, it was enough to watch Drift, to feed on the spectacle of the two of them, to feel the rising charge of the spike in his hand, feel the familiar tempo of Drift's hips, transmitted through Wing's responsive frame.
Wing keened, hands clawing at the red armor, spine snapping up, as both of his systems cascaded into a simultaneous overload. Perceptor felt the hot snap of the charge against his palm, then the fast, hard spurt of fluid, some few droplets hitting his belly, his thighs His mouth found Wing's, covering the sound, as if tasting the release, as Drift gave a growling shudder, before bending forward. Drift wrapped his arms around the white torso, resting his cheek against the naked span of Wing's back, his optics lidded but focused on Perceptor's mouth, joined with Wing's.
IDW
Drift/Wing/Perceptor
sticky, threesome
***]
Tomorrow. Topspin would arrive tomorrow. Drift had spent the afternoon examining the landing pad--the first New Crystal City had built, and just for the occasion. He knew they were divided: Dai Atlas wanted the city to remain a peaceful backwater: some of the other mechs had wanted to move, to follow Wing’s example, taking their message to the distant stars.
They had won, because even Dai Atlas admitted that holding a mech against his will, even in paradise, was keeping him in prison.
Drift had overseen the base, having surveyed and laid out hundreds of LZs in his time, trying to busy himself in work, and not at the galloping of his chronometer, counting down the cycles when he’d have to choose. He was exhausted, body and spark, emotionally drained, as he rounded the corner to the quarters they had given him, tapping the code with weary fingers, numb, but not numb enough. Tonight, one last night with Wing. And then he'd try to pick up the pieces with Perceptor. He never knew he could hurt so much and have no visible mark.
And he knew he was wrong, but he'd turned it over in his mind and...there hadn't seemed, as hard as he had looked, any answer that was right. Hurt Wing or hurt Perceptor. There was no alternative.
The door opened.
Drift froze, his exhaustion sheeting off him like water as he crossed the threshold: on his berth, Wing, sprawled on his back, arms pinned over his head by one black hand, thighs thrust apart by Perceptor’s hips as the larger mech drove furiously into him. Froze was...not...quite the right word, since there was nothing cold about it--he locked up filled with a blazing heat, so he could only watch as Perceptor’s black pelvic frame thrust against Wing’s white armor, one of Wing’s ankles hooking around a silver thigh, the redflashed knee stabilizer flagging the movement. Wing’s hands curled around the large hand that pinned him, his shoulders twisting off the berth, optics intense, like suns of gold, mouth mobile, half-smiling up at the Perceptor’s serious face.
Perceptor gave a growling hiss, just as Wing’s hips seemed to jump from the berth, a cry bursting from his mouth. Perceptor’s body arched against him, driving the spike home as deeply into the valve as he could, gaze locked with Wing’s as if enflamed by Wing’s open desire. Drift remained still, watching, as they seemed to ease down together onto the berth, a shudder running concurrently through both frames.
Drift’s systems unlocked. “Don’t move,” he murmured, one hand sliding between Perceptor’s shoulder and neck, pulling him into a hungry, demanding kiss. Drift could feel the heat from their systems fluttering against him, the gentle throbs of their EM fields meshing. Drift let his hands run down Perceptor’s body, to where it joined Wing’s, tracing the lines--where Wing’s thighs wrapped over Perceptor’s hips, where their bellies touched. They both quivered under his touch.
He broke the kiss. “This little demonstration for me, I presume?”
Perceptor nodded.
A gentle laugh beneath them. “Not...entirely,” Wing purred. Drift felt his mouth break into a grin.
“Not done with you.”
“You...technically...haven’t started with me.” Wing gave a playful squirm.
“Is he...always like this?” Perceptor murmured.
“Yes.” When he's happy. And Drift realized that...since the first time, Wing hadn't been happy—the way Wing could be. Drift ran one thumb down Perceptor’s cheek, taking in the contrast: Perceptor quiet and calm, Wing hot and shameless, before turning his attention to Wing. Perceptor released his grip on the white wrists as Drift bent down, pulling Wing's mouth against his. “Your idea?” He felt Wing's smile against his lips. Of course.
Drift rocked back, jerking his chin at Perceptor. “Has he seen your wings?”
Wing shook his head, stretching his arms around Drift's shoulders. Drift allowed the embrace for a moment, his optics appreciative over the white frame. Wing was undeniably beautiful, and never more than like this, alive with desire. “Wings,” he prompted.
Wing smiled. “Yes.” He wriggled his way up onto his elbows, gasping as Perceptor's spike slipped from his valve. He paused, optics flicking closed for a klik, shivering with the experience before rolling to stand by the edge of the berth. He flared his wings out, locking them open, looking coyly over one shoulder. “Like this?”
Drift growled assent, before nodding at Perceptor. “Interesting design, right?”
Perceptor studied the design—Drift could see the appraising looks travel over the interlocking panels, the folding strut. He nodded agreement.
“Can touch, if you like,” Drift offered. Perceptor hesitated before moving forward, running his hands, an engineer's hands, over the planes and angles. Wing shivered under his touch—the wings were packed with exquisitely calibrated sensors.
Drift joined Perceptor, and for a long moment they stroked the white flared wings together, each pair of hands holding a different knowledge—Perceptor's parsing the science in the shapes, Drift remembering the sensitive bliss of a lover's touch. Wing staggered back, helpless in the throes of stimulation. Drift caught him, wrapping arms around him—one around the narrow white waist, the other under the wing, clutching at the chassis, burying his face in the back of the jet's neck.
Hands slid over Wing's front, over the valve leaking silver fluid down the thighs. Wing whimpered, wanting, as Perceptor reached even farther, his palm sliding tauntingly over the valve, fingertips reaching for Drift's interface hatch. Wing squirmed in frustration.
Drift gave a soft laugh, lifting his face from Wing's neck. “I can normally take care of that myself, Perceptor,” he murmured.
“Maybe,” Perceptor answered, “you needed a little help. There's no shame in seeking help from your friends,” he said tartly, parroting back Drift's own words, but without any real malice.
Drift laughed. “Oh? Well, then. I do need some help.” His optics winked, reaching one hand around Wing's thigh. Reading his intent, Perceptor reached forward, his mouth joining with Drift's over Wing's shoulder, the sleek pinion satiny against their cheeks, as he took Wing's weight, hooking his hands under the white arms, tipping Wing's torso forward, as Drift spread the jet's thighs, seating his spike in the slick valve. Wing cried out, clasping his arms around Perceptor's neck, his valve clutching at Drift inside him. Wing's optics were blind with desire, his mouth hot against Perceptor's chassis, throat, licking and nipping his way over the broad black helm.
Wing's responses were pure and unashamed, all the openness Perceptor wished he could let himself show. And for a moment he felt threatened, felt that here was something Wing could offer that he never could fulfill, that if this was a need for Drift, he would lose. But the mouth, seeking his, the hands exploring his broad shoulders, grazing his audio, weren't trying to threaten, to shut him out, but to include him, bring him within the circle, make him part of a closed circuit. He lifted the jet's chin, staring for a long moment into the wide golden optics, before letting his mouth close over Wing's. More than including, Wing wanted to be a conduit, a way to let Perceptor show Drift what he couldn't otherwise.
Wing shuddered against him, Drift's slow thrusts building charge, Drift's hands tugging and sliding the wing plates—a grounder's fascination with flight, a lover's fascination with his partner's pleasure. Perceptor felt a rare smile form around the jet's kiss, as he snaked a hand down the white chassis, groping, blind, until he found the spike cover.
Wing tore his mouth away with a shocked squeak as the spike cover retracted, his spike jutting into Perceptor's ready palm.
Drift shot him a smoldering glance, sharing in the pleasure of contact, of sharing something, and someone. And a brief hopeful moment of relief, that at least right now, right here, Drift didn't have to make a choice. Just once, if never again, he could have them both.
Perceptor's hand worked smoothly against the spike, feeling the lubricant heat from the friction, the delicious tingle of charge from activated friction nodes, while Wing's own hands clung to the red armor, his spinal strutwork arching and contracting, wracked with desire. For Perceptor, still sated from his own overload, it was enough to watch Drift, to feed on the spectacle of the two of them, to feel the rising charge of the spike in his hand, feel the familiar tempo of Drift's hips, transmitted through Wing's responsive frame.
Wing keened, hands clawing at the red armor, spine snapping up, as both of his systems cascaded into a simultaneous overload. Perceptor felt the hot snap of the charge against his palm, then the fast, hard spurt of fluid, some few droplets hitting his belly, his thighs His mouth found Wing's, covering the sound, as if tasting the release, as Drift gave a growling shudder, before bending forward. Drift wrapped his arms around the white torso, resting his cheek against the naked span of Wing's back, his optics lidded but focused on Perceptor's mouth, joined with Wing's.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-04-21 09:47 pm (UTC)Glad you did this story-arch. It felt too bad Wing's being dead. You made him such a great char.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-21 11:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-22 12:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-22 12:34 am (UTC)man, I don't know whether to be more excited or scared for Wing! He's really got very little idea how nasty the big world out there can be, but at least he's got two awesome mechs who adore him to try to keep him from getting too much of the shiny knocked off. And I wonder how much tech's different between Crystal City and the rest of the universe. Drift and Perceptor between them are probably going to have some fun tables-turning: back home Wing's the teacher and they're the cultural students, but out there, they'll be the wise city cousins showing the innocent country cousin around. <33333
*grabs OT3 icon* XDDDDD
no subject
Date: 2011-04-27 05:34 am (UTC)What I like best is the emotion you put into so the story is more than just sex