Sun and Ocean

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

R
IDW
Springarm/Wheelarch (yes they actually are canon characters)
spark interfacing, twincest
*headdesk* They're identified as twins on Milne's dA. My brain...ran with that



Springarm stifled a cry as Wheelarch bit into his upper tire. Red and amber hands sleeked down his sides, with the knowing touch of a long-familiar lover, and more, one who could feel the echo of every touch like a gossamer ghost.

“Rough shift,” Wheelarch murmured, the bite softening to a gentle lick up the tire’s edge, one hand detaching from around the waist to tease the twin struts.

Springarm shivered, leaning back into the embrace, his own hands reaching behind him, blind, catching at Wheelarch’s hips. “We managed.”

“We always do.” Wheelarch let himself be tugged against Springarm’s back, the mass of Springarm’s lower tire between them, a maddening, beloved obstacle. His knee armor slid between the tire and the back of Springarm’s thigh. “I don’t know about you, but I have some tension I’d like to work off.”

Springarm felt a smile stretch his mouthplates, his system singing with desire. “We should blank the window, at least.”

Wheelarch murmured some quiet blandishment as he licked his way down the tire’s mount, one hand stretching toward the window control, reaching around Springarm’s side.

Springarm took advantage, turning slowly in the one-armed embrace, one hand coming up to turn Wheelarch’s helm to his. His optics studied the face, so like his, the visor’s sleek chevron, as he pulled the face into a kiss, his lips just brushing Wheelarch’s, flirting on the very edge of transgression.

Wheelarch smiled against his mouth plates, glossa giving a sharp, teasing flick, pulling Springarm against him. “Window’s blanked,” he whispered, the words a temptation between them.
And Springarm couldn’t resist—could never resist. He plunged into the kiss, hands suddenly fierce on Wheelarch’s shoulders, hooking around the plates, opening himself to the gentle wash of feedback. Wheelarch growled against him, wriggling, rubbing the amber glass of their canopies together. Springarm felt his spark surge, calling to his twin.

Wheelarch dropped his weight, pulling Springarm down with him, crashing to the floor in a pile of limbs, weight thudding against his tires. Wheelarch’s hands found the tail flares on Springarm’s back kibble, wrapping around them like handles. “How do you want it?” he murmured, EM flickering against Springarm, inviting, wanting, offering.

As if Springarm could refuse. He worked one hand between them tracing the contours of the amber canopy as his answer.

“Should know by now,” Wheelarch teased. He wormed, making space between them as Springarm squirmed back, his kiss slowly trailing from Wheelarch’s mouth, down his chin, and chassis. He hummed softly as his mouth met the cool glass of the canopy, feeling the slick surface like silk beneath his mouthplates, tasting the sharp tang of the cleaner Wheelarch used.

He heard, felt the soft click as Wheelarch released the catch, and dropped back, weight on his knees, opening the canopy with something like reverence, to expose the dark metal orb of his twin’s spark chamber. He cycled a vent. No matter how long they’d been together, how many times they’d done this, this was a sacred thing: the trust, and the spark itself.

His hands curled around the chamber, exploring its contours, the burnished texture of the metal, the gentle warmth. Beneath him, Wheelarch purred, arching into the touch, alive to every caress, every nuance, feeling even Springarm’s soft, hushed ventilations as a delicate trill in the air. Springarm bent, brushing his mouth over the chamber, trembling with emotion. It was like kissing the Matrix itself.

Wheelarch made him wait for it—as always, knowing that the anticipation whetted his desire. Springarm didn’t mind the wait, his mouth eager and ardent over the petals of shielding covering the chamber’s front, until he felt them spiral open—thirteen small shapes, the number of the originals, irising open, and the swirling flaming flicker of Wheelarch’s red gold glowed against him.

Springarm had never seen anything so beautiful: Wheelarch’s spark was just like him—restless, moving, curious, seeming to lap and tease Springarm’s hand as he brushed through its outer aura.

He felt Wheelarch open the sensory link between them, felt the sudden rush of feedback and sensation: air almost stinging on the exposed spark chamber, the sense of openness, vulnerability, armor slid aside, and his own touches shivered through Springarm’s systems, an echo of Wheelarch’s sensory feed.

How, he thought, could this be wrong? How could this be evil, unallowed, by the originals, by those who had created them all? Who would ban this perfect unity, this sacred sameness? This absolute reflection of joy and love? Not the originals, not the makers of the Matrix. Surely not.

Springarm felt Wheelarch twist into his touch, felt the soft flare of the spark energy—indescribable—against his cheek.

He pushed up, palm on Wheelarch’s shoulder, his other lingering in a brush to the sparkchamber’s side as he levered himself above his twin, his own canopy opening, armor retracting, and his own spark light, green and blue, like the dappled depths of an ocean, reaching for Wheelarch’s.

A soft sound, a yearning cry, shared between them, a hushed, spontaneous harmony, as their sparks danced together, blue and red, fire and water swirling together, mingling, touching.
And beyond the colors, their systems merged, memories and sensation meshing together, feedback redoubling as their mouths met again, as though closing a circuit. Springarm could feel his weight on Wheelarch, could feel himself—as Wheelarch—pressed into the ground by it, feel the gentle tug of gravity against him, and the cool wash of his own spark against Wheelarch’s own heat. And above those, the knowledge that Wheelarch could feel him, sense him, know him as deeply as he did Wheelarch.

They flirted with oblivion: the temptation to stay here forever, touching, kissing, probing, feeling the most intimate recesses of the other’s thoughts and emotions. There were no secrets between them, light and darkness, likes and dislikes, equally noted, compared, acknowledged even as their systems rose to an overload, stressed from attempting to compensate for the extra processing load, sensors quivering from phantom feedback.

The overload crackled slowly between them, a blanket of static, knitting them together as their bodies shuddered, a distant reflection of their sparks conjoined in bliss.

They curled together, physical systems rebooting languorously, spark chambers sliding closed. Cooling systems whirred on, a whisper of sound, an echo of joy, shared between them. Leaning over, Wheelarch bumped his nose against Springarm’s, his optics just coming into focus under the visor he wore.

Springarm smiled, drowsily. “Too good to me,” he murmured, his hand moving, tenderly, to close Wheelarch’s canopy, thumb sliding over the amber as though stroking sunlight made solid.

“Really?” Wheelarch smirked. “Guess I’ll have to make you earn it next time.” He bumped his chin against Springarm’s, mouth brushing his in a tease of a kiss.

Springarm grinned, shoving at the gold-armored shoulder, in a familiar, playful tussle. Wheelarch knew how to pull a moment back from the dangerous brink of too much emotion. “You do that.”