[identity profile] niyazi-a.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] shadow_vector

NC-17
IDW Halcyon AU
Wing/Perceptor, Drift
Sticky, minor dom sub, minor bloodplay, minor blindness play
I wrote this like…ages ago.  It was sitting handwritten somewhere.

 

 

Perceptor released the moan in a soft controlled gust. He could feel the self-satisfied pulse of Wing’s EM against his backframe, the smaller hands, so like Drift’s, yet so different, sliding around his waist, thumbs circling the joins of the coolant hoses.  He looked down, forgetting for a moment the visual-feed inhibitor, wanting to see, his cortex feeding him the image of the black-armored hands , fingers spidering forward.

“Hands up,” Wing murmured, his voice a delicious brush against Perceptor’s neck.  Perceptor regripped the beam over his head. Nothing held him there: no rope, no binding, other than his will and the rules of Wing’s little game.

“I like you like this,” Wing said, dropping down, kissing the bulky mass of Perceptor’s chassis, hands sliding down the lean silver thighs.

Perceptor said nothing, his body trembling traitorously against the touches—Wing’s cool hands, hot mouth, drawing intricate lines that shimmered over his net. The blindness just enhanced it, forcing Perceptor to focus almost breathlessly, intently, on the physical-- place he so rarely, rarely was—now feeding data to his too-expansive cortex.

It was…new.  A little discomfiting, perhaps, that he not be able to see.  It forced him to trust.  But he trusted Wing.

Wing had laughed when he’d mentioned that. “Trust,” Wing had said, planting the word in Perceptor’s mouth, with a teasing kiss, sliding from the kiss into a gentle nip.

He felt the jet shift around, fingers probing at the tracks down Perceptor’s leg, tracing one of the thigh access hatches.  There was a pause, the hands leaving Perceptor’s frame, and then a sudden sharp slice.  He hissed at the sudden pain, feeling a hot slide of energon, thick and rich, spilling from a cut line.

Wing gave a dark sound, his fingers feathering down the exposed mechanisms, framing the line, paralleling the slow trickle, before he bent in, mouth hot, eager, hungry; licking up the spill, clicking with pleasure as he fastened his mouth over the small cut, glossa probing at the split lips of the mesh hose.

Perceptor shuddered, his body registering pleasure and pain, his cortex on the brink of incomprehension, alarms of damage, worry, the thinnest filaments of fear…mingling with the arousing sound of Wing’s pleased whimpers, the delicate touches of mouth and glossa against his sensitive inner systems, his own energon effervescing in contact with the current on Wing’s glossa.   Did he trust Wing? Yes.  He fought the alarms, giving in to his sensornet’s wall of scintillant current, feeling it swirl and eddy around him. 

His fingers clutched at the beam, grinding his hesitations under his palms. 

A rise against him: Wing’s mouth caught his, and he could taste the copper-sweet of his own energon in the other’s mouth. He shuddered, darkly aroused, the jet feeding him the tangy energon and lust even as he felt the burning prickle of his autorepair sealing the cut.

He chased the kiss as Wing drew away, dropping down onto his heels.

A sound behind him—the whoosh of the door opening.  He froze, half turning his blind head. It was locked! Or rather…Wing had said it was locked.  No one should have the keycode except….

“Drift’s here,” Wing murmured. “I think he wants to watch.”

A throaty chuckle from behind Perceptor. “Drift does.”

Perceptor shuddered at the laugh, its promise, the idea of Drift watching as Wing drew out his desires, playing with his arousal.

“It’s up to you,” Wing whispered, stroking his hands over Perceptor’s heaving chestplate, ratching back his own desires, his touch gentle, almost soothing, giving Perceptor an escape.

He didn’t want to escape. “Yes.”

The fingers brushing over the beryllium plate shifted, tracing the frame, riding the different plates of the abdominal armor to sweep out along Perceptor’s hips, like lines of fire, blazing along where his pelvic frame began. He could picture the small hands, glossy black against his matte, the finer mesh mail of the slender wrists.  He could conjure Wing’s face, as well, the part-rapt, part-coy expression, caught up in the process of bringing another pleasure, gold optics glowing like embers, mouth parted as if on the verge of words, or perhaps beyond them entirely.

The hands wrapped around his waist, pressing him against the exotic frame, Wing’s turbines cycling on with arousal, letting the vibration travel between them.  He blinked his blinded optics, trying to recompose his face, let nothing of his mounting desire show, his fingers squeezing roughly against the overhead beam.

“I like touching you,” Wing murmured, letting his hands wander the upraised arms.

“You just like touching.” Drift’s voice, to their left. Perceptor could place him, now, probably seated on the berth. Was he leaning forward, intently, or tilted back, curious, entertained?  Perceptor wanted to know.  

Wing laughed. “True.  But I like how he fights not to show a reaction.”  One hand left Perceptor’s frame, only to reappear, five little sharp contacts, over his interface hatch.  Perceptor stiffened, the contact jolting through him.  “See?” Wing said, voice rich, amused.

“I do,” Drift agreed.  Perceptor would give anything to see Drift’s face, read his arousal.  And what had been something like a game between them, seeing how long Perceptor could endure Wing’s teasing, attentions without succumbing to the urge to break the rules, grab the jet, pin him to the wall, the floor, anywhere he could trap those maddening, wandering hands, had suddenly changed. It was no longer a game but a performance, a display for a very appreciative audience.  His own engines slipped his rigid control, excess charge from his arousal feeding into them, idling them higher.

Drift laughed. “Killing me not to get involved.”  And those words blazed across Perceptor’s cortex, a sharp admission.  Wing aroused him, but Drift…moved him in an entirely different way.

“You may,” Wing offered, with that natural gallantry that so often floored both of them. He let his hands slide lower, fingers flirting under the edge of the pelvic frame. He might be willing to step back, but he was unrelenting with Perceptor. 

“No,” Drift said. “Want to see where this goes.”

“It wasn’t really going anywhere,” Wing admitted.

“It should,” Drift said, and Perceptor could almost hear the nod. 

Perceptor felt Wing quiver against him, the jet’s own wild arousal at Drift’s involvement.  It was one thing they shared, without envy, the jet often happy enough to curl around them in recharge.

“So,” Drift asked. “He’s not allowed to touch you.”

“Right,” Wing said.

A soft laugh. “You’d’ve snapped ages ago.”

Wing laughed back, fingers resuming their maddening travel around Perceptor’s hips, palms glossing over the planes, fingertips flirting with the tops of the thighs.

A shifting of weight from the left. Perceptor could hear the actuators fire, pistons slide.  He tried desperately to match them to movement. “Did you cut him?

“I did.” 

A rumbling purr. “I’d like to see that.”

Wing gave a gratified chirr, the hands sliding up Perceptor’s chassis, searching, questing.  One thumb rolled contemplatively over an exposed cable in Perceptor’s under arm. Perceptor stifled a shiver, anticipating the sharp lick of the blade, a hot sharp cut, the warm trickle of energon down the cut hose, over the armor plate of his chassis.   Perceptor’s head lolled back, blinded optics turning to the ceiling, immersed in the play of pain, the wet slip of energon, the rapid light prickle of autorepair.  Was Drift watching the slow pink line, or was he studying Perceptor’s face for some response?  Either option thrilled him, and a whine fought its way from his vocalizer as Wing’s mouth fastened over the wound, sucking at the energon.

Drift gave a hot growl. Perceptor sagged against Wing, his entire attention focused on the hungry, insistent licks on the split hose. Wing gave an echoing growl, mouth fastened on the gap in Perceptor’s armor, hands clutching the blocky chassis against him.

The jet’s ankle hooked around his thigh, grinding their pelvic frames together and it struck Perceptor that Wing…wasn’t do the best job restraining himself either, his teasing randiness transmuted under Drift’s gaze to something sharper. 

Wing’s head lifted, audial flares sliding over Perceptor’s mouth. Perceptor resisted—barely—the urge to nip the silky metal as it moved. Wing’s voice was a husky whisper against his helm. “I’m going to take you,” he said, letting one hand slide between their bodies, over the seam of the interface hatch, “here, with Drift watching.”  He said it partly to arouse, to tantalize the both of them; but also partly to ask permission. Wing played at aggression, wanting reassurance that his attentions were wanted, that his partner knew he was safe. 

“Are you?” Perceptor murmured the challenge.  He gripped the beam again, letting the movements of his arms and shoulder signal he might be ready to move. 

Wing squeezed at the black span of his pelvic armor. “I am.”  He dodged his head to the other side, giving a daring, sharp lick at Perceptor’s scope, masking a quick flick of his hand to open the interface hatch.  “I want you.” The words were almost a whine of desire, and Perceptor felt himself breaking. His ventilation hitched, as Wing reached overhead, grabbing his wrists, tugging them down, guiding Perceptor lower, his knees bending until he landed on his knees, straddling Wing’s hips.  He could feel the sleek planes of Wing’s skirting armor.  His hands clutched at Wing, the game—or at least that stage of it—over the jet’s shoulder nacelles.

He bent his head, seeking Wing’s, hand snaking around the white helm to pull the jet’s mouth against his, burying the groan of desire in the kiss as Wing’s spike filled him.  He let his own hands, stiff from clutching at the beam, slide down the silky armor of the jet’s arms, pinning the wrists into the ground.  “Taking me?” he goaded, rolling his pelvic frame over Wing’s.  The kiss stretched into a soft mewling moan against him, warm puffs of air from Wing’s taxed ventilations brushing over him. 

Wing’s hips squirmed against his, under his, and he decided he liked the jet like this: pinned, writhing, whimpering at his control.

He moved, more insistently, picking up tempo, hearing as well as feeling Wing squirm beneath him.  He bent over, bumping sightlessly against Wing’s helm, biting at the heavy nasal, feeling Wing’s hips buck up against his in surprise.  “Thought you were going to take me, Wing,” he whispered, tightening his hands over the slim wrists, pushing back for leverage. . 

Wing thrashed, squealing with frustration, the stabilizers on his knees bumping against Perceptor’s backframe as he struggled, the movement rocking his spike within the valve.  Perceptor could feel the fingers clutch around his hands.

And then, a mouth on his, hard, demanding, entirely unlike Wing’s soft, seeking kisses, a thumb glossing under his scope, another reaching behind his helm, the visual-feed inhibitor snapping off.  Blue optics flared in his returning visual field, and the heavy white nasal of Drift’s helm.  His body jolted, valve clutching at the spike inside. Wing cried out, overwhelmed, his entire body arching against them. Drift growled into the kiss, feeling the crackle of charge as Wing’s overload ricocheted through Perceptor, the valve clamping down against the spike. 

“Guess I ruined your little game,” Drift murmured against Perceptor’s mouth.

Wing squirmed, struggling with his pinned wrists.  “You don’t sound very sorry, Drift.”

Perceptor felt the mouth pull into a smile as Drift pulled away from the kiss.  “I’m not. At all.” He ducked in for another kiss, hands lingering over the broad red shoulders before he turned to face Wing. “Looks like you lost, huh?”

“I did not!” Wing protested, planting his heels, trying to buck Perceptor’s weight off him, hands in helpless fists, still trapped by the larger mech's hands.  “I was in control the whole time.”

Perceptor felt a snort of laughter, unaccustomed, almost painful, burst from his vocalizer.  Drift laughed outright, dipping down to kiss the outrage from Wing’s face. “Maybe,” he murmured, sliding his other hand up Perceptor’s thigh, fingertips trailing at the join of their bodies, “you’d like a do-over?” 

 

Date: 2011-06-11 02:50 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ravynfyre.livejournal.com
I totally need a "GUH THUD" icon for these three... I honestly have no words for how hot this was to me. Whatever coherency I might have had was fried right out.

yeah. I'll, uh.... be in my bunk. y'know. if anyone needs me.

*loves this so hard*

Date: 2011-06-11 03:11 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] gwenithcoy.livejournal.com
Wow....I almost can't think straight after reading that! GUH! I will never stop melting at these three....soo hot and wonderful! :)

Date: 2011-06-11 03:40 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ex-naggingf.livejournal.com
I love the way you write these three :)

Date: 2011-06-11 09:33 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] swift117.livejournal.com
so good that you write the three of them together and dont make the reader be torn between them...

love how you characterize them.

Date: 2011-06-11 10:29 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ithilgwath.livejournal.com
nnng! Yes. Do-over. And then again. And again. And again. *shivers pleasantly* That was so yummy. hhhhng!

Date: 2011-06-12 04:31 pm (UTC)

Date: 2011-06-15 03:43 am (UTC)
aughoti: (Default)
From: [personal profile] aughoti (from livejournal.com)
*eep*

Wow. Just.... wow. You manage to make this simultaneously playful, elegant (gods, the tactile descriptions!) and scorching hot.

Date: 2011-06-17 01:58 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] mieka-writes.livejournal.com
guh.. very pretty trio

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