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shadow_vector2011-05-06 12:21 pm
niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in shadow_vector2011-05-06 12:21 pm
Entry tags:
Mayfic! Intoxication
NC-17
IDW
Perceptor/Drift
sticky, the return of 'earscritches' and OMG it gets downright schmaltzy. sorry.
Perceptor wobbled back to his quarters, hands just ever-so-slightly stretched for balance. It would not do to fall over. Least of all because he wasn't entirely sure he could regain his feet.
Then again, perhaps that was not a bad solution, he thought hesitating at the intersection. Perhaps he should simply switch to his alt mode. Slow, yes, but....not that much slower than this progress.
The image flashed across his processor—crashing and bumping into walls, doors, clonking and grinding through turns, and then his light cannon, armed, only a simple code away from off-safety.... No. He was safer—the Axion was safer—if he walked.
Finally. His quarters. He tapped the lock code. Stopped, frowning at his fingers that suddenly seemed impossibly uncoordinated. He tried again, slower this time, each number its own individual jab. Even so, one jab hit right at the join between six and seven. Try again.
The third try worked, the door whooshing open silently, as if trying to pretend it hadn't seen that rather...embarrassing spectacle. Well, he'd be better in the morning. And he'd remember, next time: no drinking contests with Twin Twist. Ever.
He paused at the threshold, just...looking. Drift sat on the floor, cross-legged, one of his shorter swords naked across his dark thighs, a whetstone in one hand. He was bent over, intent. He was...beautiful. It took Perceptor's breath away sometimes—all right, in the interests of scientific accuracy, 100% of the time—to think that someone as beautiful and powerful as Drift would have anything to do with him.
Yet here he was, looking up from his work, blue optics gentle, a welcoming, genuine smile on his face. Perceptor's spark ached. “Have a good time?” Drift asked.
“Important to be sociable,” he responded. Noncommittal and rather pleased that he didn't, at least, stagger or stumble over the words.
Drift nodded. “You look tired.”
Tired. Perceptor was overcharged to the point of barely being able to stand. But he'd take 'tired.' He nodded. “Long day.”
“Almost done here,” Drift said, a sort of open hint. Which...Perceptor did not need, because all of the fizzing tingling energy that was skirling around his sensornet courtesy of the...however many cubes of high grade he'd tossed back suddenly ignited with an entirely new purpose, and Drift went from just being beautiful to being...wanted. Intensely.
Perceptor nodded, and Drift's smile brightened, warm and open. Perceptor's sensornet surged on, his spike pressurizing, his hands tingling with their desire to touch Drift, palms traveling over the smooth planes of that exotic white armor, fingertips trailing over the finer black mesh armor, the articulation seams, Drift writhing under him....
He realized he was still...standing there, staring.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine.” Perceptor moved toward the berth, but, passing by Drift, bent over his sword, realized he hadn't set his smaller pistols to charge. A thoughtless, careless oversight, caught up in the challenge of Twin Twist's invitation. He switched directions—managing not to fall over, though his arms did flail, and headed across the room. Drift kept his optics staunchly downcast on his work, deliberately not seeing Perceptor's unsteadiness.
The pistols charging, Perceptor turned and allowed himself a long moment to openly stare at Drift as a prize, a reward—the compact white hip frame, the white flanges of the scabbards, the narrow black waist, swelling into the white chassis, powerful shoulders. And above all, picked with that trace of red, the white helm with its complicated architecture, the sweeps of the cheekplates, the elongated paired finials. Perceptor's own helm was spare and sleek, with none of those projections, and those in particular.....
He moved quietly, as quietly as he could managed, up behind Drift. If Drift heard him coming, he gave no sign until Perceptor dropped down beside him, on one knee, wrapping his arms around the shoulders. Just to touch. Just to feel the gentle hum of Drift's systems against him, to nuzzle against the white audio.
He felt a soft laugh. “Hey there,” Drift purred, letting himself lean back into the embrace. “Thought you were tired.”
A thousand admittedly lame lines collided in Perceptor's cortex, everything from 'never tired when you're around' to an inebriated, entirely Twin Twist influenced 'you'll know tired when I get done with you.'. Instead, he just raised his head, kissing his way up one of the projecting finials. Better decision, he thought, blearily, especially as Drift shivered, his ventilation stuttering. Perceptor gave a tenuous grin, emboldened, enflamed by overcharge and Drift's response, licking a line from the bottom of the finial, where it broke from the curve of the helm, up to its point.
One of Drift's hands clutched at Perceptor's forearms, the white body arching back against his as Perceptor rocked upward on his knee, taking the finial into his mouth, sucking on it, tracing down its planes.
The chassis heaved in his arms, a whining moan escaping Drift's vocalizer. Perceptor had remembered this...intense a response the last time he'd touched the finials—intense and more: Drift's compliance, submission. His spike seemed to answer to Drift's helpless whine. Perceptor dropped back, clinging to the white body, pulling Drift back and down onto the floor, pressing his body against the trembling frame, enthralled by the change in Drift, the change in himself. Normally, he was the one trembling, whimpering, wanting. Now he wanted, yes, but...he wanted to take.
He nipped at the finial, giving a gratified chuckle as Drift cried out, the white hips bumping against his pelvic frame. “Want something?” he murmured, almost dizzied by his own boldness, the teasing tone in his voice.
Drift muttered a curse, squirming as Perceptor returned his attention to the finial, licking another hot line up it and then pulling away, venting cool air against it. A hand reached behind him, grabbing blindly at Perceptor, groping till it found the blocky mass of his hip, the powerful fingers squeezing at the armor, bracing it as he bumped himself against it.
“Thought you were supposed to be smart,” Drift managed, the sting of the words drained by the...incredibly intoxicating whimper in his voice, the squirm of his body.
Perceptor released his spike, squeezing it between their bodies, letting Drift feel the slick heat of it against his backframe as he threw his thigh over the smaller hips, freeing one of his hands to raise and toy with the hip scabbard. “This?” he goaded, rocking his hips, spike sliding between them. He licked the finial again, almost purring. Oh yes. He remembered this. This was...science, perhaps. Investigation.
He let his hands roam over Drift's front, over the chassis, flirting with the flat planes of Drift's pelvic frame, toying with the hip scabbard's sensitive underside over his thigh, his arm wedged under the shoulder Drift's weight was on. He liked this—on their sides, so much more room to...explore.
“Stop...teasing,” Drift demanded.
“Teasing.” Perceptor rocked his spike between them again, letting himself give a grunt of desire as the friction prickled over his spike's nodes. “You want me, Drift?”
Another muffled oath, one of Drift's hands working between his own thighs, snapping open his interface panel, before groping back, trying to grab Perceptor's spike.
The hand closed around his spike, Perceptor jolting at the sudden, fierce contact. “Yes,” Drift said, firmly, tugging at the spike.
Perceptor didn't have much will to resist, rocking his hips back to clear the space, sinking his spike into Drift. They both froze for a moment, overwhelmed at the contact, the friction-warmed spike, already half-carrying charge, against the cool caliper system.
Perceptor's thrusts were slow and gentle, his hand around Drift's hip guiding the spine to arch and contract against him, feeling the slide of the sleek white armor against his belly, his chestplate, Drift's legs entangled with his. He loved the feel of the other mech's body, the open demonstration of desire, lust, want. It didn't matter which it was, because it was directed at...him. Perceptor, the one everyone wrote off, everyone considered some...neutered scientist, or worse, some 'defilement.' Drift accepted, took, wanted him. Had saved his life without knowing who he was, and even then, even then had wanted to know him.
He loved Drift, and he knew he'd never bring himself to say it, never have the courage, the narcissism to lay that burden on him. But he could show it, he could demonstrate and maybe, maybe, make Drift feel the best parts of it, without the dreaded obligation of reciprocation. He could show it by showing how much he wanted Drift, how much he wanted Drift's pleasure, how much he valued the confidences of the intimate moments like this: that Drift trusted him enough to be helpless with him, unprotected, open.
He nuzzled against the finial again, his arms moving to wrap around the white frame, pressing Drift's body against him as if trying to imprint the contours and textures against his own as his spike built, slow, inexorable, insistent, up to an overload charge, dragging pants and squirms and soft moans from Drift.
And when Drift arched up, suddenly, force against Perceptor's embrace, optics flaring white-blue, crying out a clear hot note of pleasure as the overload hit, wracking him with charge, desire burning channels of white fire over his net, Perceptor couldn't help but hope that Drift...understood.
IDW
Perceptor/Drift
sticky, the return of 'earscritches' and OMG it gets downright schmaltzy. sorry.
Perceptor wobbled back to his quarters, hands just ever-so-slightly stretched for balance. It would not do to fall over. Least of all because he wasn't entirely sure he could regain his feet.
Then again, perhaps that was not a bad solution, he thought hesitating at the intersection. Perhaps he should simply switch to his alt mode. Slow, yes, but....not that much slower than this progress.
The image flashed across his processor—crashing and bumping into walls, doors, clonking and grinding through turns, and then his light cannon, armed, only a simple code away from off-safety.... No. He was safer—the Axion was safer—if he walked.
Finally. His quarters. He tapped the lock code. Stopped, frowning at his fingers that suddenly seemed impossibly uncoordinated. He tried again, slower this time, each number its own individual jab. Even so, one jab hit right at the join between six and seven. Try again.
The third try worked, the door whooshing open silently, as if trying to pretend it hadn't seen that rather...embarrassing spectacle. Well, he'd be better in the morning. And he'd remember, next time: no drinking contests with Twin Twist. Ever.
He paused at the threshold, just...looking. Drift sat on the floor, cross-legged, one of his shorter swords naked across his dark thighs, a whetstone in one hand. He was bent over, intent. He was...beautiful. It took Perceptor's breath away sometimes—all right, in the interests of scientific accuracy, 100% of the time—to think that someone as beautiful and powerful as Drift would have anything to do with him.
Yet here he was, looking up from his work, blue optics gentle, a welcoming, genuine smile on his face. Perceptor's spark ached. “Have a good time?” Drift asked.
“Important to be sociable,” he responded. Noncommittal and rather pleased that he didn't, at least, stagger or stumble over the words.
Drift nodded. “You look tired.”
Tired. Perceptor was overcharged to the point of barely being able to stand. But he'd take 'tired.' He nodded. “Long day.”
“Almost done here,” Drift said, a sort of open hint. Which...Perceptor did not need, because all of the fizzing tingling energy that was skirling around his sensornet courtesy of the...however many cubes of high grade he'd tossed back suddenly ignited with an entirely new purpose, and Drift went from just being beautiful to being...wanted. Intensely.
Perceptor nodded, and Drift's smile brightened, warm and open. Perceptor's sensornet surged on, his spike pressurizing, his hands tingling with their desire to touch Drift, palms traveling over the smooth planes of that exotic white armor, fingertips trailing over the finer black mesh armor, the articulation seams, Drift writhing under him....
He realized he was still...standing there, staring.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine.” Perceptor moved toward the berth, but, passing by Drift, bent over his sword, realized he hadn't set his smaller pistols to charge. A thoughtless, careless oversight, caught up in the challenge of Twin Twist's invitation. He switched directions—managing not to fall over, though his arms did flail, and headed across the room. Drift kept his optics staunchly downcast on his work, deliberately not seeing Perceptor's unsteadiness.
The pistols charging, Perceptor turned and allowed himself a long moment to openly stare at Drift as a prize, a reward—the compact white hip frame, the white flanges of the scabbards, the narrow black waist, swelling into the white chassis, powerful shoulders. And above all, picked with that trace of red, the white helm with its complicated architecture, the sweeps of the cheekplates, the elongated paired finials. Perceptor's own helm was spare and sleek, with none of those projections, and those in particular.....
He moved quietly, as quietly as he could managed, up behind Drift. If Drift heard him coming, he gave no sign until Perceptor dropped down beside him, on one knee, wrapping his arms around the shoulders. Just to touch. Just to feel the gentle hum of Drift's systems against him, to nuzzle against the white audio.
He felt a soft laugh. “Hey there,” Drift purred, letting himself lean back into the embrace. “Thought you were tired.”
A thousand admittedly lame lines collided in Perceptor's cortex, everything from 'never tired when you're around' to an inebriated, entirely Twin Twist influenced 'you'll know tired when I get done with you.'. Instead, he just raised his head, kissing his way up one of the projecting finials. Better decision, he thought, blearily, especially as Drift shivered, his ventilation stuttering. Perceptor gave a tenuous grin, emboldened, enflamed by overcharge and Drift's response, licking a line from the bottom of the finial, where it broke from the curve of the helm, up to its point.
One of Drift's hands clutched at Perceptor's forearms, the white body arching back against his as Perceptor rocked upward on his knee, taking the finial into his mouth, sucking on it, tracing down its planes.
The chassis heaved in his arms, a whining moan escaping Drift's vocalizer. Perceptor had remembered this...intense a response the last time he'd touched the finials—intense and more: Drift's compliance, submission. His spike seemed to answer to Drift's helpless whine. Perceptor dropped back, clinging to the white body, pulling Drift back and down onto the floor, pressing his body against the trembling frame, enthralled by the change in Drift, the change in himself. Normally, he was the one trembling, whimpering, wanting. Now he wanted, yes, but...he wanted to take.
He nipped at the finial, giving a gratified chuckle as Drift cried out, the white hips bumping against his pelvic frame. “Want something?” he murmured, almost dizzied by his own boldness, the teasing tone in his voice.
Drift muttered a curse, squirming as Perceptor returned his attention to the finial, licking another hot line up it and then pulling away, venting cool air against it. A hand reached behind him, grabbing blindly at Perceptor, groping till it found the blocky mass of his hip, the powerful fingers squeezing at the armor, bracing it as he bumped himself against it.
“Thought you were supposed to be smart,” Drift managed, the sting of the words drained by the...incredibly intoxicating whimper in his voice, the squirm of his body.
Perceptor released his spike, squeezing it between their bodies, letting Drift feel the slick heat of it against his backframe as he threw his thigh over the smaller hips, freeing one of his hands to raise and toy with the hip scabbard. “This?” he goaded, rocking his hips, spike sliding between them. He licked the finial again, almost purring. Oh yes. He remembered this. This was...science, perhaps. Investigation.
He let his hands roam over Drift's front, over the chassis, flirting with the flat planes of Drift's pelvic frame, toying with the hip scabbard's sensitive underside over his thigh, his arm wedged under the shoulder Drift's weight was on. He liked this—on their sides, so much more room to...explore.
“Stop...teasing,” Drift demanded.
“Teasing.” Perceptor rocked his spike between them again, letting himself give a grunt of desire as the friction prickled over his spike's nodes. “You want me, Drift?”
Another muffled oath, one of Drift's hands working between his own thighs, snapping open his interface panel, before groping back, trying to grab Perceptor's spike.
The hand closed around his spike, Perceptor jolting at the sudden, fierce contact. “Yes,” Drift said, firmly, tugging at the spike.
Perceptor didn't have much will to resist, rocking his hips back to clear the space, sinking his spike into Drift. They both froze for a moment, overwhelmed at the contact, the friction-warmed spike, already half-carrying charge, against the cool caliper system.
Perceptor's thrusts were slow and gentle, his hand around Drift's hip guiding the spine to arch and contract against him, feeling the slide of the sleek white armor against his belly, his chestplate, Drift's legs entangled with his. He loved the feel of the other mech's body, the open demonstration of desire, lust, want. It didn't matter which it was, because it was directed at...him. Perceptor, the one everyone wrote off, everyone considered some...neutered scientist, or worse, some 'defilement.' Drift accepted, took, wanted him. Had saved his life without knowing who he was, and even then, even then had wanted to know him.
He loved Drift, and he knew he'd never bring himself to say it, never have the courage, the narcissism to lay that burden on him. But he could show it, he could demonstrate and maybe, maybe, make Drift feel the best parts of it, without the dreaded obligation of reciprocation. He could show it by showing how much he wanted Drift, how much he wanted Drift's pleasure, how much he valued the confidences of the intimate moments like this: that Drift trusted him enough to be helpless with him, unprotected, open.
He nuzzled against the finial again, his arms moving to wrap around the white frame, pressing Drift's body against him as if trying to imprint the contours and textures against his own as his spike built, slow, inexorable, insistent, up to an overload charge, dragging pants and squirms and soft moans from Drift.
And when Drift arched up, suddenly, force against Perceptor's embrace, optics flaring white-blue, crying out a clear hot note of pleasure as the overload hit, wracking him with charge, desire burning channels of white fire over his net, Perceptor couldn't help but hope that Drift...understood.
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oh man... this.... wow. Perceptor is so awesomely cute when he's drunk. And Drift.... guh. They're both so damn sweet and hot together. Perceptor daring to want enough to take, Drift daring to let himself be taken...
I adore this like BURNING.
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Second thanks! :D Drift doesn't trust too many mechs with his softer side. Or earscritches.
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I cannot get enough of your writing.
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