![[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 Halcyon AU (lol like you didn't see this coming)
Drift, Perceptor, Wing
STICKY, threesome, asymptotal PWP
In the end, it was Kup who had done most of the talking-down of Springer from the heights of his towering rage that had sent even Topspin scurrying to his quarters. But Perceptor had been clever enough to know that positioning Kup on their side was a good strategy. Kup...owed him, in ways neither wanted to acknowledge. And Kup knew that another ready arm, steady gaze, another fighter for the Autobot cause, was another victory.
The problem was, of course, Wing's refusal to wear the Autobot insignia. He insisted he belonged to neither faction, and wasn't an Autobot. Drift had given a wry smile, and held Wing at his line, insisting that if Autobots meant freedom, that meant Wing's freedom not to wear a 'splash of paint'. Drift felt Springer's rejection of Wing even more keenly, Perceptor thought, than his own—Deadlock had been a known enemy, notorious, lethal, a tally of Autobots killed by his hand running...several gigabytes of datastorage. Wing had...killed no one on either faction.
“He's untried,” Perceptor had said. “Most Wreckers are. That's hardly grounds for rejection.”
“Don't tell me who I can let onto my team,” Springer snapped.
Perceptor's face had gone blank, quiet. “Merely,” he said, quietly, “wanting to establish your criteria.”
“This isn't science!”
Perceptor stared him down. And that's when Kup had taken over. And possibly, simply by sheer dint of volume, Kup had worn Springer down.
Through it all, Wing had sat, quiet, optics darting over them, acutely aware he did not how to navigate this new landscape, and quietly, meekly, grateful for the help.
“Stupid,” Drift thought, as the door finally shut behind them, all three of them piled into Perceptor's room. “Springer shouldn't worry about things he can't understand.”
Wing perched on the edge of the berth, wings flared to the sides just enough to clear the berth.. “I am sorry that this is causing you distress. I thought it would solve...all our problems.” A sad smile.
“We'll handle Springer,” Perceptor said. He wanted to reach out to the jet, but lacked the words. He settled himself next to the jet, laying one hand, palm up, on the jet's knee. A smaller black hand folded itself gratefully into it.
“I will not let you down,” Wing said, fiercely. “I will not betray you, or your friends.” The secret pained heart of what was bothering him—the unspoken assumptions behind Springer's objections.
“We know that,” Drift said. “And they will, in time.” He unfastened his Great Sword, laying it near Wing's—Springer had gone so far as to refuse to allow the white jet to carry a weapon on board ship. And Wing had tolerated it, but Drift knew—or thought he could imagine—how hard it was to be forced apart from your linked blade. He dropped to one knee in front of Wing, covering their joined hands with his own. “But enough of that tomorrow.” He let his fingers slide over theirs, up Wing's silver thigh. “Now it's just us.”
A smile flickered, feeble but genuine, on the jet's mouth, as he turned his face to Perceptor, inviting a kiss. Drift rumbled with pleasure as their mouths met, his other hand moving to Perceptor's leg, fingers dipping into the gaps between the treads. Wing pushed against the red shoulder, tilting Perceptor back, still locked in a kiss, his other hand tugging at Drift, pulling him off the ground, onto Perceptor's frame.
Drift wasn't one to refuse such an invitation. He bent forward, brushing his cheek against Wing's hand before nuzzling against the silver thigh in front of him, up to the hard just of Perceptor's pelvic span. He grinned at the way Perceptor twitched, just from the light contact of his ventilation, the gentle brush of his helm against the silver of the thigh. He paused, his mouth a hot circle against the black of Perceptor's pelvic arch, tempting, taunting, promising. Perceptor's whimper was trapped in Wing's kiss, his hands clutching at the white frame.
Drift laughed, letting the vibration travel through the metal, sliding one hand up to prod the manual release, dipping his face into the exposed panel, glossa tracing a warm spiral over Perceptor's spike cover. Perceptor's mouth tore away from Wing, bursting a cry into the air, optics, Drift knew without looking, going wild and distant, staring at the ceiling, as the spike cover retracted, the spike pressurizing slowly against, into the heat of Drift's mouth.
Wing rolled down, resting his cheek on Perceptor's chassis, stroking down the belly with one idle hand, his gold optics homing in on Drift's face, his mouth around the spike, his glossa flicking random intervals over the dark metal. Drift...didn't even think of hesitating. There was no judgment in Wing's gaze, no degradation, no diminishment, only a shared joy at giving pleasure, taking pleasure from watching him pleasure Perceptor. Wing was...everything the Decepticons could never understand. Drift felt the optics lick over him like warm flames of desire as he bent to his task, squeezing and licking against Perceptor's spike, causing the large mech to writhe and moan, hands clutching against the berth.
Drift let his optics lid for a moment, feeling his glossa slide and swell over the spike, feeling Perceptor's desire like an electric field, building, pushing against him. He opened the optic shutters, Wing's optics gold and wanting on him.
He paused, lifting his head with one slow lick off the spike. “Touch yourself,” he said, his voice hoarse, his own desire licking back against Wing, against Perceptor. Wing's optics spiraled, mouth parting in half of a gasp of surprise, loving, wanting, to be pushed over the edge. His hand crept, as Drift watched, between his thighs, thumb stroking over one silver thighplate as the hand released the manual catch. His optics were wide and almost worried on Drift's, intent, intense, wanting.
The spike uncovered itself without any coaxing into Wing's hand, palm curling over it, around it, slicking the gloss of lubricant down the silver length. Wing whimpered, optics keen on Drift's face, seeking response, wanting to be desired more than the physical release of stroking his spike. He began riding his hand up and down the ornate arabesques of metal. Drift felt a gust of warm air from the jet's ventilation system, Wing's body taut, almost trembling with want, the spike a silver flash in the black of Wing's hand.
Another hand, black, covered one white hip, pulling Wing's body down, flattening his hips. Perceptor, wanting the same view. Wing flopped obediently onto his back, helm on Perceptor's chassis, optics dimming toward the ceiling, aware—Drift could feel it in the feathered flare of the jet's EM field—of both sets of optics devouring the spectacle, feeding on his wanton display.
He moaned, more loudly now, one hand clutching for Drift's, the other slow and tormenting along his spike. Perceptor's hand lay along his thigh, encouraging, wanting.
Drift's mouth stilled on Perceptor's spike, distracted by the jet's arching, squirming form, his delirious little moans, the slow, smooth tempo of the hand twisting up and down the spike.
Wing's body bucked into an arch, spine lifting off the berth, the spike jolting a hot spurt of silver, as a loud cry tore from his vocalizer. He released down to the berth, hips dropping hard against the metal, ventilations gasping and ragged. His head rolled languorously toward Drift's, optics sated, lidded, silver spattering his chassis, one bright drop on his cheek, glowing like stars even against the white frame.
“Yes?” he asked, his voice like silk.
Drift gave a grin, turning his attention back to the spike, with a new mission. Rile the jet up for more. Wing was...insatiable. Or at least inexhaustible, it seemed. Maybe a jet thing, maybe a Crystal City thing, but all Drift knew was that Wing...could always take more. He let his own gaze unfocus, concentrating on the spike again, feeling it slide in his mouth, feeling the rounded nubs of sensor nodes over his glossa.
And then, feeling the warm gentle fuzz of an EM against his, the gold gaze less than a handspan away. He lifted his head, Wing's mouth finding his, lip plates meeting over, around, Perceptor's spike. Above them, Perceptor's fists ground against the berth in deprived frustration. “Want something, Wing?” he murmured through the kiss, pausing to lick up the length of the spike, slowly. Oh, Wing, I've learned more from you than you thought you were teaching.
Wing gave a playful growl, almost an imitation of Drift's, lunging forward, pushing Drift up and back from Perceptor, locking his mouth in a hard, urgent kiss, Perceptor's lubricant slicking their lip plates before he moved closer, settling his hips over Perceptor's sinking himself onto the larger mech's spike. Wing paused, optics shuttering, sinking into, onto the spike, mouth open against Drift's. Perceptor's hands glossed up his thighs until Wing caught them, jerking them toward his pelvic frame, planting them over the white rounds gyros on his waist.
Wing's arms came up around Drift's neck, pulling him into a kiss as he began rocking his hips against Perceptor's frame. His ventilation chuffed happily as Perceptor caught on, his hands on the jet's white hips tugging him, pushing, pulling, setting the rhythm in counterpoint to the rise and fall of his own hips, spike driving into the eager valve.
Wing framed Drift's face with his hands, one hand's fingertips brushing his cheek, his other hand cupping an audio receiver, panting, kissing at Drift's mouth in small, teasing nips, his body shuddering with desire.
Perceptor clamped down on the white hipframe, holding Wing still against him, impaled on him, giving a tight groan, his spike leaping to overload. Wing bit Drift's lip plate, keening into his own release, feeling the heat and rush and pressure of Perceptor's transfluid inside him.
Drift felt the jet quiver, the race of charge from his EM field flickering over his frame, licking at Drift's. Drift slipped one hand down between them, finding the join of Wing's and Perceptor's bodies, his fingers circling the girth of the spike, where it disappeared into the valve. Perceptor groaned beneath him, the fingertips glossing his hypersensitized nodes.
Drift pulled away from Wing's sharp kiss, just long enough to grin, push one knee onto the berth between them. He shoved Wing back, laying him out and down over Perceptor's chassis, spike still in valve, working his way between them to sink his own overeager spike into Perceptor, pressing Wing's weight between them.
Not that Wing minded—his EM flared hard against both of them, his hands moving to rake down Drift's back, kicking one knee out to wrap the leg around Drift's body, encouraging him, tugging him closer to Perceptor. Drift's mouth slid off of Wing's seeking Perceptor's over the jet's shoulder, his spike sliding into the valve, keeping the pace slow, hard, teasing them both, feeling Wing's spike, slick with lubricant and his own transfluid, slide against his belly.
There were no words; there was no need for any words, their bodies and systems saying anything, everything important—desire, want, trust, sharing, pleasure.
Drift's kiss slipped to Wing's throat, bending, biting into the cables, hard enough to feel the mesh yield, feel Wing's body writhe in response, his hands clawing for Drift's back. Drift snarled into the bite, tasting the sweetness of energon and the bitter bite of rent rubber, slamming his spike home into Perceptor, possessive, claiming them both.
A soft hiss of cooling fans, a chorus of pings from heated metal cooling slowly, the three entwined together. Slowly, reluctantly, Drift released the bite, glossa flicking over the droplets of energon welling from the small tear, easing himself up, his weight off the two.
Wing stopped him, hands stroking over his spaulders. “Thank you,” Wing murmured, “both of you.”
Drift grinned, to hide his awkwardness. Wing's emotions were always too intense, too sincere. “For what?”
Wing released him, the fingers trailing down the white metal, his smile almost dreamy, turning his head to Perceptor as well. “For letting me belong.”
Drift shrugged, awkward, wordless. It wasn't a matter of letting. Wing belonged. He might have to prove his place among the Wreckers, but here? He had no proving to do.
Perceptor's mouth quirked, his optics dark and strange, before he wrapped his arms around the white frame, rolling to one side, curled almost protectively around the jet, black helm pressing comfortingly against the white plane of Wing's audial flares. He covered the jet's hips with one thigh, one of Wing's feet touching his shin, enveloping the smaller mech.
Drift's shoulders loosened, and he dropped on to the berth next to them, arms around their shoulders, resting his head above Perceptor's helm, Wing between them like a glowing pearl.
IDW Halcyon AU (lol like you didn't see this coming)
Drift, Perceptor, Wing
STICKY, threesome, asymptotal PWP
In the end, it was Kup who had done most of the talking-down of Springer from the heights of his towering rage that had sent even Topspin scurrying to his quarters. But Perceptor had been clever enough to know that positioning Kup on their side was a good strategy. Kup...owed him, in ways neither wanted to acknowledge. And Kup knew that another ready arm, steady gaze, another fighter for the Autobot cause, was another victory.
The problem was, of course, Wing's refusal to wear the Autobot insignia. He insisted he belonged to neither faction, and wasn't an Autobot. Drift had given a wry smile, and held Wing at his line, insisting that if Autobots meant freedom, that meant Wing's freedom not to wear a 'splash of paint'. Drift felt Springer's rejection of Wing even more keenly, Perceptor thought, than his own—Deadlock had been a known enemy, notorious, lethal, a tally of Autobots killed by his hand running...several gigabytes of datastorage. Wing had...killed no one on either faction.
“He's untried,” Perceptor had said. “Most Wreckers are. That's hardly grounds for rejection.”
“Don't tell me who I can let onto my team,” Springer snapped.
Perceptor's face had gone blank, quiet. “Merely,” he said, quietly, “wanting to establish your criteria.”
“This isn't science!”
Perceptor stared him down. And that's when Kup had taken over. And possibly, simply by sheer dint of volume, Kup had worn Springer down.
Through it all, Wing had sat, quiet, optics darting over them, acutely aware he did not how to navigate this new landscape, and quietly, meekly, grateful for the help.
“Stupid,” Drift thought, as the door finally shut behind them, all three of them piled into Perceptor's room. “Springer shouldn't worry about things he can't understand.”
Wing perched on the edge of the berth, wings flared to the sides just enough to clear the berth.. “I am sorry that this is causing you distress. I thought it would solve...all our problems.” A sad smile.
“We'll handle Springer,” Perceptor said. He wanted to reach out to the jet, but lacked the words. He settled himself next to the jet, laying one hand, palm up, on the jet's knee. A smaller black hand folded itself gratefully into it.
“I will not let you down,” Wing said, fiercely. “I will not betray you, or your friends.” The secret pained heart of what was bothering him—the unspoken assumptions behind Springer's objections.
“We know that,” Drift said. “And they will, in time.” He unfastened his Great Sword, laying it near Wing's—Springer had gone so far as to refuse to allow the white jet to carry a weapon on board ship. And Wing had tolerated it, but Drift knew—or thought he could imagine—how hard it was to be forced apart from your linked blade. He dropped to one knee in front of Wing, covering their joined hands with his own. “But enough of that tomorrow.” He let his fingers slide over theirs, up Wing's silver thigh. “Now it's just us.”
A smile flickered, feeble but genuine, on the jet's mouth, as he turned his face to Perceptor, inviting a kiss. Drift rumbled with pleasure as their mouths met, his other hand moving to Perceptor's leg, fingers dipping into the gaps between the treads. Wing pushed against the red shoulder, tilting Perceptor back, still locked in a kiss, his other hand tugging at Drift, pulling him off the ground, onto Perceptor's frame.
Drift wasn't one to refuse such an invitation. He bent forward, brushing his cheek against Wing's hand before nuzzling against the silver thigh in front of him, up to the hard just of Perceptor's pelvic span. He grinned at the way Perceptor twitched, just from the light contact of his ventilation, the gentle brush of his helm against the silver of the thigh. He paused, his mouth a hot circle against the black of Perceptor's pelvic arch, tempting, taunting, promising. Perceptor's whimper was trapped in Wing's kiss, his hands clutching at the white frame.
Drift laughed, letting the vibration travel through the metal, sliding one hand up to prod the manual release, dipping his face into the exposed panel, glossa tracing a warm spiral over Perceptor's spike cover. Perceptor's mouth tore away from Wing, bursting a cry into the air, optics, Drift knew without looking, going wild and distant, staring at the ceiling, as the spike cover retracted, the spike pressurizing slowly against, into the heat of Drift's mouth.
Wing rolled down, resting his cheek on Perceptor's chassis, stroking down the belly with one idle hand, his gold optics homing in on Drift's face, his mouth around the spike, his glossa flicking random intervals over the dark metal. Drift...didn't even think of hesitating. There was no judgment in Wing's gaze, no degradation, no diminishment, only a shared joy at giving pleasure, taking pleasure from watching him pleasure Perceptor. Wing was...everything the Decepticons could never understand. Drift felt the optics lick over him like warm flames of desire as he bent to his task, squeezing and licking against Perceptor's spike, causing the large mech to writhe and moan, hands clutching against the berth.
Drift let his optics lid for a moment, feeling his glossa slide and swell over the spike, feeling Perceptor's desire like an electric field, building, pushing against him. He opened the optic shutters, Wing's optics gold and wanting on him.
He paused, lifting his head with one slow lick off the spike. “Touch yourself,” he said, his voice hoarse, his own desire licking back against Wing, against Perceptor. Wing's optics spiraled, mouth parting in half of a gasp of surprise, loving, wanting, to be pushed over the edge. His hand crept, as Drift watched, between his thighs, thumb stroking over one silver thighplate as the hand released the manual catch. His optics were wide and almost worried on Drift's, intent, intense, wanting.
The spike uncovered itself without any coaxing into Wing's hand, palm curling over it, around it, slicking the gloss of lubricant down the silver length. Wing whimpered, optics keen on Drift's face, seeking response, wanting to be desired more than the physical release of stroking his spike. He began riding his hand up and down the ornate arabesques of metal. Drift felt a gust of warm air from the jet's ventilation system, Wing's body taut, almost trembling with want, the spike a silver flash in the black of Wing's hand.
Another hand, black, covered one white hip, pulling Wing's body down, flattening his hips. Perceptor, wanting the same view. Wing flopped obediently onto his back, helm on Perceptor's chassis, optics dimming toward the ceiling, aware—Drift could feel it in the feathered flare of the jet's EM field—of both sets of optics devouring the spectacle, feeding on his wanton display.
He moaned, more loudly now, one hand clutching for Drift's, the other slow and tormenting along his spike. Perceptor's hand lay along his thigh, encouraging, wanting.
Drift's mouth stilled on Perceptor's spike, distracted by the jet's arching, squirming form, his delirious little moans, the slow, smooth tempo of the hand twisting up and down the spike.
Wing's body bucked into an arch, spine lifting off the berth, the spike jolting a hot spurt of silver, as a loud cry tore from his vocalizer. He released down to the berth, hips dropping hard against the metal, ventilations gasping and ragged. His head rolled languorously toward Drift's, optics sated, lidded, silver spattering his chassis, one bright drop on his cheek, glowing like stars even against the white frame.
“Yes?” he asked, his voice like silk.
Drift gave a grin, turning his attention back to the spike, with a new mission. Rile the jet up for more. Wing was...insatiable. Or at least inexhaustible, it seemed. Maybe a jet thing, maybe a Crystal City thing, but all Drift knew was that Wing...could always take more. He let his own gaze unfocus, concentrating on the spike again, feeling it slide in his mouth, feeling the rounded nubs of sensor nodes over his glossa.
And then, feeling the warm gentle fuzz of an EM against his, the gold gaze less than a handspan away. He lifted his head, Wing's mouth finding his, lip plates meeting over, around, Perceptor's spike. Above them, Perceptor's fists ground against the berth in deprived frustration. “Want something, Wing?” he murmured through the kiss, pausing to lick up the length of the spike, slowly. Oh, Wing, I've learned more from you than you thought you were teaching.
Wing gave a playful growl, almost an imitation of Drift's, lunging forward, pushing Drift up and back from Perceptor, locking his mouth in a hard, urgent kiss, Perceptor's lubricant slicking their lip plates before he moved closer, settling his hips over Perceptor's sinking himself onto the larger mech's spike. Wing paused, optics shuttering, sinking into, onto the spike, mouth open against Drift's. Perceptor's hands glossed up his thighs until Wing caught them, jerking them toward his pelvic frame, planting them over the white rounds gyros on his waist.
Wing's arms came up around Drift's neck, pulling him into a kiss as he began rocking his hips against Perceptor's frame. His ventilation chuffed happily as Perceptor caught on, his hands on the jet's white hips tugging him, pushing, pulling, setting the rhythm in counterpoint to the rise and fall of his own hips, spike driving into the eager valve.
Wing framed Drift's face with his hands, one hand's fingertips brushing his cheek, his other hand cupping an audio receiver, panting, kissing at Drift's mouth in small, teasing nips, his body shuddering with desire.
Perceptor clamped down on the white hipframe, holding Wing still against him, impaled on him, giving a tight groan, his spike leaping to overload. Wing bit Drift's lip plate, keening into his own release, feeling the heat and rush and pressure of Perceptor's transfluid inside him.
Drift felt the jet quiver, the race of charge from his EM field flickering over his frame, licking at Drift's. Drift slipped one hand down between them, finding the join of Wing's and Perceptor's bodies, his fingers circling the girth of the spike, where it disappeared into the valve. Perceptor groaned beneath him, the fingertips glossing his hypersensitized nodes.
Drift pulled away from Wing's sharp kiss, just long enough to grin, push one knee onto the berth between them. He shoved Wing back, laying him out and down over Perceptor's chassis, spike still in valve, working his way between them to sink his own overeager spike into Perceptor, pressing Wing's weight between them.
Not that Wing minded—his EM flared hard against both of them, his hands moving to rake down Drift's back, kicking one knee out to wrap the leg around Drift's body, encouraging him, tugging him closer to Perceptor. Drift's mouth slid off of Wing's seeking Perceptor's over the jet's shoulder, his spike sliding into the valve, keeping the pace slow, hard, teasing them both, feeling Wing's spike, slick with lubricant and his own transfluid, slide against his belly.
There were no words; there was no need for any words, their bodies and systems saying anything, everything important—desire, want, trust, sharing, pleasure.
Drift's kiss slipped to Wing's throat, bending, biting into the cables, hard enough to feel the mesh yield, feel Wing's body writhe in response, his hands clawing for Drift's back. Drift snarled into the bite, tasting the sweetness of energon and the bitter bite of rent rubber, slamming his spike home into Perceptor, possessive, claiming them both.
A soft hiss of cooling fans, a chorus of pings from heated metal cooling slowly, the three entwined together. Slowly, reluctantly, Drift released the bite, glossa flicking over the droplets of energon welling from the small tear, easing himself up, his weight off the two.
Wing stopped him, hands stroking over his spaulders. “Thank you,” Wing murmured, “both of you.”
Drift grinned, to hide his awkwardness. Wing's emotions were always too intense, too sincere. “For what?”
Wing released him, the fingers trailing down the white metal, his smile almost dreamy, turning his head to Perceptor as well. “For letting me belong.”
Drift shrugged, awkward, wordless. It wasn't a matter of letting. Wing belonged. He might have to prove his place among the Wreckers, but here? He had no proving to do.
Perceptor's mouth quirked, his optics dark and strange, before he wrapped his arms around the white frame, rolling to one side, curled almost protectively around the jet, black helm pressing comfortingly against the white plane of Wing's audial flares. He covered the jet's hips with one thigh, one of Wing's feet touching his shin, enveloping the smaller mech.
Drift's shoulders loosened, and he dropped on to the berth next to them, arms around their shoulders, resting his head above Perceptor's helm, Wing between them like a glowing pearl.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-04-29 01:19 pm (UTC)