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shadow_vector2011-05-05 12:21 pm
niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in shadow_vector2011-05-05 12:21 pm
Entry tags:
Mayfic! Hush
NC-17
IDW
Drift/Wing
sticky pwp
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tformers100 table Talent: prompt Trouble
Based off a picture many of you probably saw on now-defunct fapchan, jazz/soundwave. It was HAWT. However, since that's not a pairing I just melt for, I...did not save it. ;__;
Drift pushed Wing back against the curving wall of the staircase, grinning as the jet's wings scraped against the wall, the long stretch of the Great Sword ringing off the metal. There was just something...distracting, following the even sway of the white hips preceding him up the stairs of the library, the smooth, sensuous rhythm, economical grace of the pistons firing, the taunting side-to-side of the point where the wingpanels met was...hypnotic. And frustrating. And Drift could only take so much.
“Drift?” Wing's confused courtesy, letting himself be shoved against the cool metal, letting Drift push up against him, hands hovering over the white shoulders. Drift's own hands cupped under the pelvic frame, exploring the smooth curves of the hips, the skirting panels that had taunted him with their sensual sway.
“Wing.” Drift grinned, leaning in, his mouth covering Wing's, his glossa probing past Wing's lip plates, hands stroking down the jet's sleek sides.
“Library,” Wing said, tearing his mouth away, his hands unsteady on Drift's spaulders. “We must be quiet.”
“Quiet.” Drift's optics glittered. He pecked a kiss against Wing's mouth, a sweet succulent fruit he refused to bite, then dropped down to Wing's throat, the black cables, the rotational actuators, favoring each of them with a flick of his glossa, a nip of his mouth.
And then lower, the idea fermenting in his cortex like a heady brew of high-grade, fingers joining mouth to trail down Wing's body, tracing the complicated interlocking of plates of the jet's chassis, that seemed to sweep and fold toward the pelvic span.
“Drift,” Wing whispered, warning, his hands trying to tug Drift upward. Drift laughed, sliding one thumb in to tap the manual release of Wing's interface panel, looking up the length of Wing's body, blue optics glowing with desire, as he settled more surely onto one knee, worming his hand to hook under one of Wing's. He pulled the silver thigh over his arm, against his shoulder, parting the thighs, dipping his head to let his mouth nuzzle against the valve cover.
He felt the EM field flare against him, heard the soft crackle of onlining sensor nodes behind the thin metal lid. He growled quietly against it, tracing a hot quick circle with his glossa. Wing squirmed, but he couldn't move too much, pinned against the wall, his balance compromised by the leg over Drift's shoulder.
The cover retracted, Wing's hands clutching against the wall, fingertips scraping against the metal. Drift gave a soft grunt of triumph, lidding his optics, probing his glossa into the valve. Wing's arousal tasted sweet, warm and tangy, tempered by the shaky gusts of air from the jet's cooling systems fanning across Drift's body. Drift probed further, catching one of the sensor nodes. He slid his glossa against it, tenderly, then roughly, drawing it out, pulling it closer, to pinch it between his mouthplates.
“Guh!” The exclamation tore itself from Wing's vocalizer, echoing down and up the spiral lines of the stairwell.
Drift stopped, sliding over the node with his glossa, before lifting his head—marginally--from between Wing's trembling thighs. “Hush,” he murmured. “Library.”
“Drift, we can't...”
“We are.” He dove back, a quick semi-circle over the valve's rim, laughing against the brushed metal as Wing gasped, his hands clutching at Drift's shoulders. Wing's shoulders slammed against the wall, the white jet writhing, hands clawing over Drift, giving mixed messages, pushing and pulling, wanting and wanting to refuse, desire and civility fanning a hot flame between them.
Drift's own desire spiked, fed by his control: Wing's entire body, quivering, wanting, systems anticipating, yearning for him, was his. Moved by the slightest flick or slide of his glossa, the slightest chuff of hot breath over an exposed node. His. Entirely and utterly, Wing's pleasure, desire, entire concentration.
It was the most selfish, possessive thing he had ever done, he thought, pushing against the valve again, pressing the hips against the the wall, his free hand stroking down Wing's shaking leg, fingertips spiderweb touches along the exposed back of the knees, down and up the seams of the thighs. And above all, Wing's body, squirming, flattening against the wall, as if crushed by his desire, his need, and then, as one final demanding circle tore the charge of overload from him, buckling forward, folding his body over Drift's, burying an ecstatic scream against Drift's backplates. His. Utterly his, in silence and sound, in desire and its trembling aftermath.
IDW
Drift/Wing
sticky pwp
tformers100 table Talent: prompt Trouble Based off a picture many of you probably saw on now-defunct fapchan, jazz/soundwave. It was HAWT. However, since that's not a pairing I just melt for, I...did not save it. ;__;
Drift pushed Wing back against the curving wall of the staircase, grinning as the jet's wings scraped against the wall, the long stretch of the Great Sword ringing off the metal. There was just something...distracting, following the even sway of the white hips preceding him up the stairs of the library, the smooth, sensuous rhythm, economical grace of the pistons firing, the taunting side-to-side of the point where the wingpanels met was...hypnotic. And frustrating. And Drift could only take so much.
“Drift?” Wing's confused courtesy, letting himself be shoved against the cool metal, letting Drift push up against him, hands hovering over the white shoulders. Drift's own hands cupped under the pelvic frame, exploring the smooth curves of the hips, the skirting panels that had taunted him with their sensual sway.
“Wing.” Drift grinned, leaning in, his mouth covering Wing's, his glossa probing past Wing's lip plates, hands stroking down the jet's sleek sides.
“Library,” Wing said, tearing his mouth away, his hands unsteady on Drift's spaulders. “We must be quiet.”
“Quiet.” Drift's optics glittered. He pecked a kiss against Wing's mouth, a sweet succulent fruit he refused to bite, then dropped down to Wing's throat, the black cables, the rotational actuators, favoring each of them with a flick of his glossa, a nip of his mouth.
And then lower, the idea fermenting in his cortex like a heady brew of high-grade, fingers joining mouth to trail down Wing's body, tracing the complicated interlocking of plates of the jet's chassis, that seemed to sweep and fold toward the pelvic span.
“Drift,” Wing whispered, warning, his hands trying to tug Drift upward. Drift laughed, sliding one thumb in to tap the manual release of Wing's interface panel, looking up the length of Wing's body, blue optics glowing with desire, as he settled more surely onto one knee, worming his hand to hook under one of Wing's. He pulled the silver thigh over his arm, against his shoulder, parting the thighs, dipping his head to let his mouth nuzzle against the valve cover.
He felt the EM field flare against him, heard the soft crackle of onlining sensor nodes behind the thin metal lid. He growled quietly against it, tracing a hot quick circle with his glossa. Wing squirmed, but he couldn't move too much, pinned against the wall, his balance compromised by the leg over Drift's shoulder.
The cover retracted, Wing's hands clutching against the wall, fingertips scraping against the metal. Drift gave a soft grunt of triumph, lidding his optics, probing his glossa into the valve. Wing's arousal tasted sweet, warm and tangy, tempered by the shaky gusts of air from the jet's cooling systems fanning across Drift's body. Drift probed further, catching one of the sensor nodes. He slid his glossa against it, tenderly, then roughly, drawing it out, pulling it closer, to pinch it between his mouthplates.
“Guh!” The exclamation tore itself from Wing's vocalizer, echoing down and up the spiral lines of the stairwell.
Drift stopped, sliding over the node with his glossa, before lifting his head—marginally--from between Wing's trembling thighs. “Hush,” he murmured. “Library.”
“Drift, we can't...”
“We are.” He dove back, a quick semi-circle over the valve's rim, laughing against the brushed metal as Wing gasped, his hands clutching at Drift's shoulders. Wing's shoulders slammed against the wall, the white jet writhing, hands clawing over Drift, giving mixed messages, pushing and pulling, wanting and wanting to refuse, desire and civility fanning a hot flame between them.
Drift's own desire spiked, fed by his control: Wing's entire body, quivering, wanting, systems anticipating, yearning for him, was his. Moved by the slightest flick or slide of his glossa, the slightest chuff of hot breath over an exposed node. His. Entirely and utterly, Wing's pleasure, desire, entire concentration.
It was the most selfish, possessive thing he had ever done, he thought, pushing against the valve again, pressing the hips against the the wall, his free hand stroking down Wing's shaking leg, fingertips spiderweb touches along the exposed back of the knees, down and up the seams of the thighs. And above all, Wing's body, squirming, flattening against the wall, as if crushed by his desire, his need, and then, as one final demanding circle tore the charge of overload from him, buckling forward, folding his body over Drift's, burying an ecstatic scream against Drift's backplates. His. Utterly his, in silence and sound, in desire and its trembling aftermath.
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also, i have the picture if you want it.
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also, LOL!! best research ever! :D
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Damn. I want a Wing of my very own.
also... I have no idea what picture you are talking about in your notes at the top. o_O?
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