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shadow_vector2011-08-23 10:05 am
niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in shadow_vector2011-08-23 10:05 am
Entry tags:
Clean Admission
NC-17
IDW
Wing/Drift
sticky, more or less PWP
“Come,” Wing said, his gold optics twinkling, folding his hands around Drift’s. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”
Drift swallowed his denial—it was pointless. He had no choice. One day he might defeat the jet in combat, but Wing’s enthusiasm…? No. So he let himself be dragged by the hand onto the street, feeling, as always, the sharp awareness that were he not here, Wing would simply have flung himself from the balcony and flown where he wanted to go—that mute courtesy of not mentioning how much Drift bogged down his life. “Can you at least tell me where we’re going?”
A flash of the gold optics over the swell of his shoulder nacelle. “To the baths.”
Baths. “You have a maintenance facility,” he pointed out. Which he did use.
“Pssh, that.” Wing shrugged. “That’s fine for everyday, but sometimes, you want to get really clean.”
Drift frowned, steps slowing. “Something you’re trying to tell me?”
“What?” Wing stopped, turned, surprised. “Oh, no. Nothing like that.” His startled expression melted into a grin, and he pushed Drift playfully against a wall, dipping in for a kiss, hands stroking down Drift’s chassis. “Not at all.”
Drift tipped his mouth into the kiss. It was one thing he was still getting used to: how open Wing was, and apparently everyone here, with these signs of affection. Decepticons did not touch each other, or even look at each other in certain ways, in public. Wing pulled away from the kiss, breaking it gently, optics hovering over Drift’s for a moment, before he pulled away.
“Come on. I really hope you like it.” As he turned, he let his hip bump against Drift’s body.
Well, that seemed to hold a certain promise. He followed in Wing’s wake, letting his optics travel over the elegant lines of the folded wings, the steady rhythm of the red-flashes on his knees. He’d never seen anything as beautiful as Wing; sometimes he wondered if Wing had existed in the same Cybertron he had. Much less was real and his.
Wing winked over his shoulder, ducking into a large fluted-arched building, bounding down the steps eagerly. Drift followed, the low vault of the hallway blocking his view until he came to the bottom step.
So this was a bath. The landing opened onto a series of glittering, glistening pools of different colors. Mechs of various frame types lounged around them, floating in some, some scrubbing or being scrubbed. The room was alive with chatter. Optics turned, curious, toward the doorway, and Drift could feel them lingering on his own alien, dark limbs. He twitched.
Wing showed his wristbolt to a mech sitting by the landing: Drift mimicked the movement, trailing after Wing, aware of the optics on him as he moved.
Wing led him to one side, off the main room, past a series of translucent-walled private cubiculae. It was quieter here, only the soft hums of conversation, the rare splash of liquid.
“Here,” Wing said, with a firm nod. “I like this one.”
They all looked the same to Drift—small, semi-transparent forcedomes over smaller basin-like pools, but what did he know? Wing touched the dome control, rippling it to some sort of finely veined white, the forcedome blocking out sound as well as sight, so they were in a glowing white cocoon of privacy. “Come in,” Wing said, lowering into one of the pools, a gently roiling green. He looked up at Drift’s hesitation. “it’s rated for much larger mechs. We can both fit. I promise.”
Drift muttered, but slowly gripped the edges, lowering himself in. The green fluid fizzed and bubbled against him, hydrojets stirring it over and under and through his systems. Wing grinned at the surprised expression. “Feels good, right?”
Drift…didn’t know. It felt different, he’d grant it that. He lowered himself down, the green liquid topping his shoulders before his feet found bottom. He looked down with a certain horror: the fizzing, foaming liquid detaching strings and clots of filth from under his armor—black ribbons of gunk and grease. He shrank back, mortified, as Wing moved closer.
Wing laughed. “Don’t be upset, Drift.”
“Not, just…,” he looked down at the gunk floating free from his systems. “…dirty.”
“Well, when was the last time you had a full strip out?”
A step back. Never. In the gutters, they didn’t even have standard maintenance, and later? There was never time. The closest he’d come had been limb replacements. The answer must have been written on his face; Wing’s sympathy fought a losing battle with laughter. Wing stroked one hand down Drift’s arm, squeezing gently. Drift writhed.
“Your head, too, then,” Wing said.
“Huh?”
“Your head. Like this.” Wing dropped down, letting the green bubbling liquid close over his head for a long moment before he burst back up. The green liquid sheeted off his armor. “See?”
Drift’s mouth twitched. Fine. Might as well. And if his helm mechanisms were as filthy as the rest of him? He could swear he felt itchy. He dunked down, and felt the fizzy pressure against his armor, frothing through the seams, bubbling through the cables. It felt…almost too good, scouring and clean. He broke the surface, the cool air striking the wet finials of his helm, the green liquid streaking down his face.
“Feels better, right?” Wing’s grin tinged with hope.
Drift shrugged. “Feels different.”
Wing shook his head, knowingly, as though Drift’s refusal to admit to pleasure was somehow endearing. “Why don’t you go to the radiant pool?” Wing laughed at his hesitation, green droplets flying from the tips of his helm’s audial flares. “This cleanser can be harsh. Radiant fluid is a penetrating oil.”
“Why don’t you go, then?”
“Because I want to clean my wings.” Wing tilted his head. “You’d be surprised how filthy they get.” As if to make his point he flared his wings out, taking up the length of the pool. Grey clouds of dirt seemed to detach themselves from the panels. “See?”
“Yeah, fine.” He hated to admit that it did make him feel a little better, as he levered himself out of the liquid. He sat on the pool’s rim for a moment, watching as Wing hummed with delight, turn his wings under the hydrojets. Wing’s pleasure was something to behold. He wished he’d ever had that openness; sometimes he wondered if he could ever feel so intensely, much less openly.
Wing blinked, drowsily. “You’re still here?” he teased.
Drift grunted, pulling his feet out of the green cleanser. His whole frame felt scrubbed, almost on the edge of pain, the sensors firing at max. He felt aware of surfaces he’d never felt before—the undersides of his thigh armor, the long line of his backstruts. Even the air of the baths seemed like a tingling caress over his net.
Fine. He stepped carefully, green liquid pooling around his feet as he moved to the other pool—a flat, still surface of purple. It resisted his weight as he tried to lower himself in, forcing buoyancy, his legs floating up insistently as his weight settled. The purple goo felt like liquid velvet, seeping slowly in through his systems, with a kind of exquisite pleasure.
He felt himself shiver, optics lidding. He’d never been weightless like this before: A few times the gravity generators on ships he’d been on had failed, but even then, the air had been thin and it was only a matter of instants until magnaclamps engaged. This felt different—thick and solid and supported, movements heavy and slow.
He barely noticed Wing slipping in with him until a shadow fell over his face. Wing: his arms braced against the sides, chassis supported by the purple fluid, hovering over Drift. “Feels nice, right?” Wing asked.
Drift grunted, hating giving in that much, hated even giving into the pleasure for a moment. Wing covered his frown with his mouth, glossa sliding over the frowning lip plates, teasing at the line between them until Drift just gave in, parting his mouth into the kiss.
Wing let go of the edges, the radiant purple fluid suspending him over Drift, so that just their mouths touched, their bodies hanging limp and loose, and every sensor seemed activated, primed, so that the kiss was like a blossom of stars over Drift’s net.
Drift felt movement, and a sudden pressure on his legs as Wing curled his around Drift’s thighs. A corner of the jet’s mouth quirked. “It struck me,” Wing murmured, mouth still brushing Drift’s as he spoke, “that we did not clean everything.”
Drift jolted, feeling a buzzing pressure—a hand, gloved in the fluid, opening his interface hatch, and the velvet pressure of the fluid pressing in, plush against his equipment covers. A harsh hiss of sound, as Drift twisted clumsily in the heavy fluid. Wing laughed, throaty against Drift’s desperate hiss. “I want you so much,” Wing breathed, his mouth brushing against Drift’s.
Drift’s interface equipment surged at the words, his hips bumping up against Wing’s body. The mouth smiled against his. “Is that an invitation, Drift?”
Drift growled, but didn’t protest as Wing’s hand slid further tweaking over his valve cover. Wing squirmed in the radiant fluid, pushing forward, slowly, his spike entering the valve, thighs tightening over Drift’s legs, arms bracing against the side of the pool for leverage.
It was slow and sweet and powerful, Wing’s body surging against him, the motion moving the radiant fluid in gentle, languorous eddies around and through Drift’s frame. The moment seemed to stretch, long and quiet save for the gentle sound of Wing’s soft whimpers, muted notes in some sensual song, sound muffled, his entire body caressed by the radiant fluid through the gentle motions.
He’s done this before, Drift thought, noticing the balance, the bracing. Wing’s done this before. You’re not first, you’re not special.
He shoved the thought, hot and sharp with envy, from his mind. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was now—slow and warm and wanted. It was not weakness to give in to this, and envy protected him from nothing.
Drift’s hands came up as the charge swelled, rising to climax, wrapping around Wing’s torso, pulling their bodies together through the thick liquid, his body in slow, heavy tremors as the overload washed over him—a long, lingering thing, holding him at the brink of ecstasy, his mouth against Wing’s in a tender, stilled kiss. And Drift let himself be pulled under, the purple radiant fluid closing over him entirely, as the ecstatic charge danced and spun through his system to the slow, stately rhythm of the shifting fluid.
The buoyant fluid finally went unmoving, suspending them, motionless, still joined, Wing’s legs wrapped over Drift’s thighs, as though creating a purple jewel of memory. Remember this, it seemed to say. Remember this moment, the pure, slow bliss—no war to run to, no violence to chase. In this moment you have everything you need and more: everything you could ever want. He pulled Wing against him, until their chassis rubbed through the thick fluid.
Wing broke the kiss, in that way he did that almost seemed, at times, like he could read Drift’s mind, nestling his head against Drift’s shoulder and the fluid seeped into Drift’s mouth, thick and sweet.
IDW
Wing/Drift
sticky, more or less PWP
“Come,” Wing said, his gold optics twinkling, folding his hands around Drift’s. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”
Drift swallowed his denial—it was pointless. He had no choice. One day he might defeat the jet in combat, but Wing’s enthusiasm…? No. So he let himself be dragged by the hand onto the street, feeling, as always, the sharp awareness that were he not here, Wing would simply have flung himself from the balcony and flown where he wanted to go—that mute courtesy of not mentioning how much Drift bogged down his life. “Can you at least tell me where we’re going?”
A flash of the gold optics over the swell of his shoulder nacelle. “To the baths.”
Baths. “You have a maintenance facility,” he pointed out. Which he did use.
“Pssh, that.” Wing shrugged. “That’s fine for everyday, but sometimes, you want to get really clean.”
Drift frowned, steps slowing. “Something you’re trying to tell me?”
“What?” Wing stopped, turned, surprised. “Oh, no. Nothing like that.” His startled expression melted into a grin, and he pushed Drift playfully against a wall, dipping in for a kiss, hands stroking down Drift’s chassis. “Not at all.”
Drift tipped his mouth into the kiss. It was one thing he was still getting used to: how open Wing was, and apparently everyone here, with these signs of affection. Decepticons did not touch each other, or even look at each other in certain ways, in public. Wing pulled away from the kiss, breaking it gently, optics hovering over Drift’s for a moment, before he pulled away.
“Come on. I really hope you like it.” As he turned, he let his hip bump against Drift’s body.
Well, that seemed to hold a certain promise. He followed in Wing’s wake, letting his optics travel over the elegant lines of the folded wings, the steady rhythm of the red-flashes on his knees. He’d never seen anything as beautiful as Wing; sometimes he wondered if Wing had existed in the same Cybertron he had. Much less was real and his.
Wing winked over his shoulder, ducking into a large fluted-arched building, bounding down the steps eagerly. Drift followed, the low vault of the hallway blocking his view until he came to the bottom step.
So this was a bath. The landing opened onto a series of glittering, glistening pools of different colors. Mechs of various frame types lounged around them, floating in some, some scrubbing or being scrubbed. The room was alive with chatter. Optics turned, curious, toward the doorway, and Drift could feel them lingering on his own alien, dark limbs. He twitched.
Wing showed his wristbolt to a mech sitting by the landing: Drift mimicked the movement, trailing after Wing, aware of the optics on him as he moved.
Wing led him to one side, off the main room, past a series of translucent-walled private cubiculae. It was quieter here, only the soft hums of conversation, the rare splash of liquid.
“Here,” Wing said, with a firm nod. “I like this one.”
They all looked the same to Drift—small, semi-transparent forcedomes over smaller basin-like pools, but what did he know? Wing touched the dome control, rippling it to some sort of finely veined white, the forcedome blocking out sound as well as sight, so they were in a glowing white cocoon of privacy. “Come in,” Wing said, lowering into one of the pools, a gently roiling green. He looked up at Drift’s hesitation. “it’s rated for much larger mechs. We can both fit. I promise.”
Drift muttered, but slowly gripped the edges, lowering himself in. The green fluid fizzed and bubbled against him, hydrojets stirring it over and under and through his systems. Wing grinned at the surprised expression. “Feels good, right?”
Drift…didn’t know. It felt different, he’d grant it that. He lowered himself down, the green liquid topping his shoulders before his feet found bottom. He looked down with a certain horror: the fizzing, foaming liquid detaching strings and clots of filth from under his armor—black ribbons of gunk and grease. He shrank back, mortified, as Wing moved closer.
Wing laughed. “Don’t be upset, Drift.”
“Not, just…,” he looked down at the gunk floating free from his systems. “…dirty.”
“Well, when was the last time you had a full strip out?”
A step back. Never. In the gutters, they didn’t even have standard maintenance, and later? There was never time. The closest he’d come had been limb replacements. The answer must have been written on his face; Wing’s sympathy fought a losing battle with laughter. Wing stroked one hand down Drift’s arm, squeezing gently. Drift writhed.
“Your head, too, then,” Wing said.
“Huh?”
“Your head. Like this.” Wing dropped down, letting the green bubbling liquid close over his head for a long moment before he burst back up. The green liquid sheeted off his armor. “See?”
Drift’s mouth twitched. Fine. Might as well. And if his helm mechanisms were as filthy as the rest of him? He could swear he felt itchy. He dunked down, and felt the fizzy pressure against his armor, frothing through the seams, bubbling through the cables. It felt…almost too good, scouring and clean. He broke the surface, the cool air striking the wet finials of his helm, the green liquid streaking down his face.
“Feels better, right?” Wing’s grin tinged with hope.
Drift shrugged. “Feels different.”
Wing shook his head, knowingly, as though Drift’s refusal to admit to pleasure was somehow endearing. “Why don’t you go to the radiant pool?” Wing laughed at his hesitation, green droplets flying from the tips of his helm’s audial flares. “This cleanser can be harsh. Radiant fluid is a penetrating oil.”
“Why don’t you go, then?”
“Because I want to clean my wings.” Wing tilted his head. “You’d be surprised how filthy they get.” As if to make his point he flared his wings out, taking up the length of the pool. Grey clouds of dirt seemed to detach themselves from the panels. “See?”
“Yeah, fine.” He hated to admit that it did make him feel a little better, as he levered himself out of the liquid. He sat on the pool’s rim for a moment, watching as Wing hummed with delight, turn his wings under the hydrojets. Wing’s pleasure was something to behold. He wished he’d ever had that openness; sometimes he wondered if he could ever feel so intensely, much less openly.
Wing blinked, drowsily. “You’re still here?” he teased.
Drift grunted, pulling his feet out of the green cleanser. His whole frame felt scrubbed, almost on the edge of pain, the sensors firing at max. He felt aware of surfaces he’d never felt before—the undersides of his thigh armor, the long line of his backstruts. Even the air of the baths seemed like a tingling caress over his net.
Fine. He stepped carefully, green liquid pooling around his feet as he moved to the other pool—a flat, still surface of purple. It resisted his weight as he tried to lower himself in, forcing buoyancy, his legs floating up insistently as his weight settled. The purple goo felt like liquid velvet, seeping slowly in through his systems, with a kind of exquisite pleasure.
He felt himself shiver, optics lidding. He’d never been weightless like this before: A few times the gravity generators on ships he’d been on had failed, but even then, the air had been thin and it was only a matter of instants until magnaclamps engaged. This felt different—thick and solid and supported, movements heavy and slow.
He barely noticed Wing slipping in with him until a shadow fell over his face. Wing: his arms braced against the sides, chassis supported by the purple fluid, hovering over Drift. “Feels nice, right?” Wing asked.
Drift grunted, hating giving in that much, hated even giving into the pleasure for a moment. Wing covered his frown with his mouth, glossa sliding over the frowning lip plates, teasing at the line between them until Drift just gave in, parting his mouth into the kiss.
Wing let go of the edges, the radiant purple fluid suspending him over Drift, so that just their mouths touched, their bodies hanging limp and loose, and every sensor seemed activated, primed, so that the kiss was like a blossom of stars over Drift’s net.
Drift felt movement, and a sudden pressure on his legs as Wing curled his around Drift’s thighs. A corner of the jet’s mouth quirked. “It struck me,” Wing murmured, mouth still brushing Drift’s as he spoke, “that we did not clean everything.”
Drift jolted, feeling a buzzing pressure—a hand, gloved in the fluid, opening his interface hatch, and the velvet pressure of the fluid pressing in, plush against his equipment covers. A harsh hiss of sound, as Drift twisted clumsily in the heavy fluid. Wing laughed, throaty against Drift’s desperate hiss. “I want you so much,” Wing breathed, his mouth brushing against Drift’s.
Drift’s interface equipment surged at the words, his hips bumping up against Wing’s body. The mouth smiled against his. “Is that an invitation, Drift?”
Drift growled, but didn’t protest as Wing’s hand slid further tweaking over his valve cover. Wing squirmed in the radiant fluid, pushing forward, slowly, his spike entering the valve, thighs tightening over Drift’s legs, arms bracing against the side of the pool for leverage.
It was slow and sweet and powerful, Wing’s body surging against him, the motion moving the radiant fluid in gentle, languorous eddies around and through Drift’s frame. The moment seemed to stretch, long and quiet save for the gentle sound of Wing’s soft whimpers, muted notes in some sensual song, sound muffled, his entire body caressed by the radiant fluid through the gentle motions.
He’s done this before, Drift thought, noticing the balance, the bracing. Wing’s done this before. You’re not first, you’re not special.
He shoved the thought, hot and sharp with envy, from his mind. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was now—slow and warm and wanted. It was not weakness to give in to this, and envy protected him from nothing.
Drift’s hands came up as the charge swelled, rising to climax, wrapping around Wing’s torso, pulling their bodies together through the thick liquid, his body in slow, heavy tremors as the overload washed over him—a long, lingering thing, holding him at the brink of ecstasy, his mouth against Wing’s in a tender, stilled kiss. And Drift let himself be pulled under, the purple radiant fluid closing over him entirely, as the ecstatic charge danced and spun through his system to the slow, stately rhythm of the shifting fluid.
The buoyant fluid finally went unmoving, suspending them, motionless, still joined, Wing’s legs wrapped over Drift’s thighs, as though creating a purple jewel of memory. Remember this, it seemed to say. Remember this moment, the pure, slow bliss—no war to run to, no violence to chase. In this moment you have everything you need and more: everything you could ever want. He pulled Wing against him, until their chassis rubbed through the thick fluid.
Wing broke the kiss, in that way he did that almost seemed, at times, like he could read Drift’s mind, nestling his head against Drift’s shoulder and the fluid seeped into Drift’s mouth, thick and sweet.
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Also, the Percy-In-My-Head is just grinning triumphantly at the whole, “Well, when was the last time you had a full strip out?” bit. heh.
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