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shadow_vector2011-09-04 09:24 am
niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in shadow_vector2011-09-04 09:24 am
Cascade
NC-17
IDW
Drift/Wing
sticky
Someone forwarded me this req from the kink meme, because they thought I could do a good job with it. Hope you like it!
“Ah!” Wing cried out, wings flaring against the berth, gold optics shining and deep, as Drift’s overload burst into him, Drift’s hands clutching at his shoulder nacelles, chassis hard on the slim cockpit. Drift couldn’t hide the half-feral grin as he dropped his weight onto the jet, his whole system thrumming with electric satisfaction. He reveled in the feel of the jet’s frame trembling beneath him, his spike still lodged in the valve, heated by friction and his own spill of transfluid. It was a sweet luxury.
He ducked his head down, mouth finding Wing’s, pushing into a kiss, warm and possessive, feeling the jet curl against him, EM field like liquid gold around him.
After a long moment, he pulled away, the kiss ebbing between them. They both winced as he rocked his hips back, spike sliding from the valve. Wing whimpered, and not the sound of desire. Drift’s brow furrowed. “You all right?”
“Fine,” Wing said, his voice thin and unconvincing, one hand sliding between them. “Just…a little sore.”
Drift’s optics flicked down between them, at the smear of silver along the jet’s thighs. He…had been a bit rough. “Sorry,” he muttered, easing his weight off Wing.
“Don’t be,” Wing said, summoning a smile, turning to kiss Drift.
“Should…maybe give you some down time,” Drift said, his voice husky and soft between them, feeling the jet’s hands soothing his shoulder.
Wing frowned, the mouth tugging into the kiss. “Probably,” he whispered, with regret.
Drift’s mouth quirked into a smile, as he settled on his side, one arm thrown over Wing’s chassis. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. For some reason Wing’s concern amused him, as he floated, in a sated haze.
“But…?”
Drift shook his head, curling around Wing’s frame. “Get some recharge, Wing.” His voice was rough with the unaccustomed emotion, conflicted between an unfamiliar caring and the loss of something he’d come to enjoy. He…wasn’t used to having things.
A hesitation, and then Wing’s frame softened, melting against Drift’s, the EM field a gentle, grateful lick against him as they let recharge take them together.
[***]
It was…not as frustrating as Drift had expected. It felt weird, the first day, to tangle and curl together, with the idea that they couldn’t do…that. And he’d let Wing take him, the jet’s spike riding against him slow and gentle, long, sweeping waves of desire cresting over both of them, so different from Drift’s hard, demanding urgency. And strangely, it made Drift feel…wanted, to have Wing approach him, touch him, and it seemed like being given to rather than being taken.
He sat on the edge of the berth, watching Wing bend to apply an iridescent polish to the red flares on his knees. Everything the jet did was graceful, almost breathtaking to watch.
Wing looked at him over his shoulder, a smile breaking across his face. “What?”
“Nothing. Just watching.”
A wing rustled, almost gratified. “You can come tonight, if you want.”
Drift shook his head. “I don’t belong there.”
Wing swiped more polish down his armor—the red shining, pearllike. “It might be better than sitting here alone?”
Drift paused. It probably would be. At least Wing would be there.
Wing turned, sensing his hesitation. “I’d really like it if you came,” he murmured. He turned away, closing up the polish.
“I…could.” Drift didn’t want to give in, but the sudden image of Wing, gleaming, resplendent, hanging over him under the envious gazes of other mechs was…too much. And Wing knew that he had won, his smile incandescent when he turned around.
[***]
Drift, Wing thought, was adorable, especially the way he tried to look bold, confident and like he didn’t care—all while never stepping more than three strides from Wing’s side. The party swirled around them, music wafting over a hum of conversation. Mechs, in exotic polishes, the air scented with glosses and waxes, clustered around the room, most marked with the telltale Great Sword over their shoulders.
Drift clutched at the cube Wing gave him, feeling naked and unarmed, tossing the contents down rather faster than he should have, as the Knights clustered around him, curious, studying his alien armor, tilting their heads at the Decepticon sigil on his chassis. He wondered what they thought—judging him? Loathing him? Fearing him? Dai Atlas had presumed him some sort of contagion, but they seemed more curious than anything.
Wing handed him another cube, plucking the empty one from his hands with a playful tweak. “Having fun?”
A shrug and another gulp. He…wasn’t sure. “It’s new.” Wing grinned, bumping a shoulder against Drift.
One of the Knights swept in, smiling broadly. “I see you’ve captivated Wing,” the mech said, purple optics glowing, darting between the two.
Drift tried to give a nonchalant shrug, but his spark seemed to swell. Someone had noticed. Someone was maybe, even, envious? He could hope. He let his hand float toward Wing, toward the fine projection of his wing strut, possessive, entranced. Wing gave a pleased chirr, pressing into the touch.
And this party didn’t seem so difficult after all—Wing leaning into him, beautiful, sweet, like a warm sun, and the mechs weren’t judging him so much as seeing him as someone Wing found worthy. It was heady, and more intoxicating than the potent energon he drank.
There was a lull, and Wing guided him to a seat, perching himself next to Drift, one leg hooking over Drift’s thigh, actively seeking contact. The gesture was just so natural and casual that Drift felt his entire frame seem to glow with acceptance. He lay his hand on the knee, thumb stroking into the joint, feeling the EM field flare against him. Wing handed him another cube, his smile fuzzy and enticing.
The energon and his desire whirled together across his systems. He reached over, around Wing’s shoulders, hauling the helm close. “You,” he whispered, against the white flat of the audial flare, “are beautiful.” He was aware he was drunk, reckless, but keeping the words in right now seemed impossible.
Wing’s engines purred, wingpanels shifting in embarrassed pleasure. “Thank you,” he murmured, letting his head turn, mouth finding Drift’s almost without seeking. Drift hooked his hands around the hips, pulling the jet onto his lap, the slide of metal on metal, Wing’s solid, compact weight against him, spinning up across his net.
He broke the kiss, hands stroking down the sides, fingertips flirting with the folded wings, down the sleek thigh. “Don’t thank me,” he said, voice husky and thick, letting his optics crawl over the white frame that was his, allowing his touches, wanting his attention. He dipped down, burying his face in the cabling of Wing’s throat, nipping and licking at the intricate lines, one hand tracing idly over a shoulder, feeling the nacelle’s seams, the elegant sweep of the pinions. “You’re beautiful, and I want you.” Two ridiculously true statements.
Wing tipped his head back, opening his throat to the caresses. “I want you,” he murmured, the vibration tickling Drift’s lip plates. Drift growled, pleased, letting his hands ride lower, flirting with the interface hatch. Wing squirmed on his lap, one hand clutching into Drift’s thigh. His EM lashed against Drift’s.
Drift’s fingers dipped between the thighs. “When we get home…later…?”
Wing whimpered. “Yes?”
Drift let his mouth ride the throat cabling up to Wing’s chin, then to lick the audial flares. “I could be gentle.” He…hoped. He wanted nothing more than to sheath himself in the jet’s tight valve, feel Wing writhe and shiver beneath him. His spike stirred to attention, and he felt acutely aware every millimechanometer of distance between his spike and the valve. But he could restrain himself. He could wait and then he could go slow.
Wing shivered, frame vibrating deliciously against Drift’s body. Drift pressed the body against his, hand sliding around the far hip, not caring who could see. Wing was his, and he was staking a claim.
“I want to feel you,” he whispered. “Under me. Around me.” His mouth found Wing’s in a tearing, hungry kiss that the jet reciprocated, pulling a possessive, wanting growl from Drift’s throat.
Wing made a soft cry, suddenly rending himself away, twisting with his quick agility free of Drift’s touch. “I-I…I’ll be back,” he said, wringing his hands as he rose to his feet.
Drift sat back, hurt, uncomprehending. What had he done wrong? Gone too far, probably. His mouth flattened into a frown.
Wing shook his head, bending over, hands resting on Drift’s thigh skirting panels, brushing his mouth over the frown, as though to erase it. “It’s not you, Drift. I just need the maintenance facility for a bit.”
Wing wouldn’t lie, Drift thought, and it was such an obvious and simple answer he felt almost a little dull for his worry.
Wing bumped his nasal playfully against Drift’s nose. “I’ll be right back and we can pick up…right…about…here.” His smile was phosphorous bright and inviting, blasting away any doubt.
Drift felt an answering smile on his mouth. “Don’t be gone long,” he said, trying to couch it as a threat, and failing. Wing winked, before turning away.
[***]
Drift was killing him, Wing thought, crossing into the maintenance facility. His entire interface system felt ablaze, the memories of Drift’s touches down his thighs, over his folded wings, his shoulders, were teasing, tantalizing ghosts. And Drift’s offer, to be gentle: He shivered, catching himself on the white-tiled wall with one hand. He wasn’t sure Drift could succeed, but the idea that the hard Decepticon would even try….
Well, he thought, pulling himself up. They say that high grade loosens the truth, so maybe Drift’s soft praise, the pleading, gentle tone he never normally used was how he really felt. Wing felt his valve sensors fire again, the same hot burst of lust and desire as when he was sitting on Drift’s lap.
He wasn’t ready. His valve was still hot and sore, the sensors’ fine circuitry not repaired yet. It was impossibly frustrating: to want and not be able to do. The heat from the still-damaged nodes grew, until he thought the wiring might melt. Water, he thought. Anything to cool the heated nodes down, get himself back under control.
Wing found the spray nozzle, his other hand snapping open his hatch. He could feel the heat radiating out from his valve, the cover almost scorching to the touch.
As the water touched the valve, Wing cried out, leaning to rest his helm on the wall. Cool water sluiced over the cover, around the rim, bleeding off the heat. The cover retracted, metal contracted, after a moment, enough to fit back into its recesses. “Oh,” Wing moaned, softly, the water swirling into the very bottom of the valve, a moving, liquid caress over the heated, sore nodes and lining. His ventilations deepened, steadied. That felt…so much better. Maybe tonight, they could…?
Just the thought of it, the idea of the presence of Drift, his spike, heavy, thick, pressing inside him, stretching the valve lining, sliding node over node…Wing whimpered, turning the nozzle, aiming it higher into his valve. He chirred, letting his optics dim, shutting out the sterility of the maintenance facility, the white and silver fixtures, concentrating on the flowing coolness of the water, the pattering sound of it hitting the ground, trickling down his legs, swirling around the valve’s lining. It was impossibly sensual. His hips rocked, slowly, into the flow. If he shifted things just…right…. Wing gasped, the cold spray hitting the ceiling node of his valve, spiraling its way down the lining, a cold rush of pure sensation.
A noise to his left. Wing looked up, startled, optics flickering to life, suddenly red-hot aware of, well, what it looked like. No, what it was—using a maintenance nozzle in his valve. In a public room. “Drift!” His voice squeaked.
Drift stood, openmouthed, staring. “I came to check on you,” he said, weakly. “Thought…something might have happened.” He tried to tear his gaze away from the interstices of Wing’s thighs, where the clear water still poured, cascading over the silver armor. He gave a ragged vent.
“I—uh, it’s not what it looks like!”
A flicker of a smile, as Drift stepped closer. “Really. What does it look like?” The optics flicked down, then up, and then Wing found himself spun, shoulders jarring against the wall, Drift’s mouth ferocious on his. Wing’s hand clutched on the nozzle, water gushing between them, his head tipping back against the wall, mouth opening, whimpering with want. Drift’s hands were hard on his chassis, plucking at the armor, body scraping over Wing’s.
“Drift,” Wing said, tilting his head from the kiss.
A soft chuckle, the hands hard on Wing’s sides, as Drift lowered himself, mouth tracing a hot, lustful line down Wing’s chassis.
“Drift!” Wing repeated, more urgently, this time, as a glossa flicked between his thigh and pelvic frame. “I--!” He tried to free his hand, pinned between them, the nozzle spraying water over his exposed equipment. Drift’s hand closed over his wrist, holding it still, angling the flow back toward the valve. Wing could hear the aroused snort as he shuddered at the contact, and then the sudden heat of Drift’s mouth pushing between his thighs, glossa circling the valve’s rim, insistent and warm in the middle of the cold flow.
Wing’s entire frame shuddered, hands clutching, one against the nozzle, the other at Drift’s deep spaulder, his optics rolling skyward. Drift moved, hiking one of Wing’s legs over his shoulder so the jet balanced—barely—on one foot plate, his knee curling over the broad shoulder, thighs pushed apart, and Drift’s mouth lapping insistently against his valve, the cool water rushing over his chin. Wing’s ventilations were hoarse, filling the small room with soft, unconvincing protests, as the glossa circled, teasing one of the nodes.
Drift laughed, the sound another wave of sensation against Wing’s net, reverberating through the water, into his valve’s hyperattuned surface. His optics lidded to hazy blue slits looking up the length of Wing’s chassis, feeding on the jet’s wanton writhing, one hand clutching under the thigh slung over his shoulder.
Wing’s knee buckled, even as his shoulders slammed against the wall, wings flaring wide. A cry tore itself from his throat, entire body wracked with the overload, valve calipers clutching on the unholdable water. Drift’s hands tightened around the hips, taking the weight on his shoulders, mouth stilling on the valve. The cry echoed through the small space, ricocheting off the glossy tiles. Drift pulled his mouth away, his rank crest resting on the thrust of Wing’s pelvic armor, almost nuzzling against the spread thighs.
Wing’s hands clung, released, and then stroked over the shoulders supporting him, the finials of the helm, no sound between them other than the trickle of water. Wing struggled with something, anything, to say, but he was still trembling, his sensornet tangled with mortification and desire—his own embarrassment swirling with Drift’s obvious arousal.
A slide over his pelvic span, Drift’s cheek armor against his thigh. Wing looked down, Drift smiling up at him, optics glossy, bright with desire.
“I--,” Wing began, unsteadily, “Later, when we get back I’ll return—“
Drift cut him off with a shake of the head, sliding his buccal armor along the thigh. “Forget later. Forget what you think I want.” The mouth, glossed with lubricant and water, curled into a smile. “This is what I want.”
IDW
Drift/Wing
sticky
Someone forwarded me this req from the kink meme, because they thought I could do a good job with it. Hope you like it!
“Ah!” Wing cried out, wings flaring against the berth, gold optics shining and deep, as Drift’s overload burst into him, Drift’s hands clutching at his shoulder nacelles, chassis hard on the slim cockpit. Drift couldn’t hide the half-feral grin as he dropped his weight onto the jet, his whole system thrumming with electric satisfaction. He reveled in the feel of the jet’s frame trembling beneath him, his spike still lodged in the valve, heated by friction and his own spill of transfluid. It was a sweet luxury.
He ducked his head down, mouth finding Wing’s, pushing into a kiss, warm and possessive, feeling the jet curl against him, EM field like liquid gold around him.
After a long moment, he pulled away, the kiss ebbing between them. They both winced as he rocked his hips back, spike sliding from the valve. Wing whimpered, and not the sound of desire. Drift’s brow furrowed. “You all right?”
“Fine,” Wing said, his voice thin and unconvincing, one hand sliding between them. “Just…a little sore.”
Drift’s optics flicked down between them, at the smear of silver along the jet’s thighs. He…had been a bit rough. “Sorry,” he muttered, easing his weight off Wing.
“Don’t be,” Wing said, summoning a smile, turning to kiss Drift.
“Should…maybe give you some down time,” Drift said, his voice husky and soft between them, feeling the jet’s hands soothing his shoulder.
Wing frowned, the mouth tugging into the kiss. “Probably,” he whispered, with regret.
Drift’s mouth quirked into a smile, as he settled on his side, one arm thrown over Wing’s chassis. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. For some reason Wing’s concern amused him, as he floated, in a sated haze.
“But…?”
Drift shook his head, curling around Wing’s frame. “Get some recharge, Wing.” His voice was rough with the unaccustomed emotion, conflicted between an unfamiliar caring and the loss of something he’d come to enjoy. He…wasn’t used to having things.
A hesitation, and then Wing’s frame softened, melting against Drift’s, the EM field a gentle, grateful lick against him as they let recharge take them together.
[***]
It was…not as frustrating as Drift had expected. It felt weird, the first day, to tangle and curl together, with the idea that they couldn’t do…that. And he’d let Wing take him, the jet’s spike riding against him slow and gentle, long, sweeping waves of desire cresting over both of them, so different from Drift’s hard, demanding urgency. And strangely, it made Drift feel…wanted, to have Wing approach him, touch him, and it seemed like being given to rather than being taken.
He sat on the edge of the berth, watching Wing bend to apply an iridescent polish to the red flares on his knees. Everything the jet did was graceful, almost breathtaking to watch.
Wing looked at him over his shoulder, a smile breaking across his face. “What?”
“Nothing. Just watching.”
A wing rustled, almost gratified. “You can come tonight, if you want.”
Drift shook his head. “I don’t belong there.”
Wing swiped more polish down his armor—the red shining, pearllike. “It might be better than sitting here alone?”
Drift paused. It probably would be. At least Wing would be there.
Wing turned, sensing his hesitation. “I’d really like it if you came,” he murmured. He turned away, closing up the polish.
“I…could.” Drift didn’t want to give in, but the sudden image of Wing, gleaming, resplendent, hanging over him under the envious gazes of other mechs was…too much. And Wing knew that he had won, his smile incandescent when he turned around.
[***]
Drift, Wing thought, was adorable, especially the way he tried to look bold, confident and like he didn’t care—all while never stepping more than three strides from Wing’s side. The party swirled around them, music wafting over a hum of conversation. Mechs, in exotic polishes, the air scented with glosses and waxes, clustered around the room, most marked with the telltale Great Sword over their shoulders.
Drift clutched at the cube Wing gave him, feeling naked and unarmed, tossing the contents down rather faster than he should have, as the Knights clustered around him, curious, studying his alien armor, tilting their heads at the Decepticon sigil on his chassis. He wondered what they thought—judging him? Loathing him? Fearing him? Dai Atlas had presumed him some sort of contagion, but they seemed more curious than anything.
Wing handed him another cube, plucking the empty one from his hands with a playful tweak. “Having fun?”
A shrug and another gulp. He…wasn’t sure. “It’s new.” Wing grinned, bumping a shoulder against Drift.
One of the Knights swept in, smiling broadly. “I see you’ve captivated Wing,” the mech said, purple optics glowing, darting between the two.
Drift tried to give a nonchalant shrug, but his spark seemed to swell. Someone had noticed. Someone was maybe, even, envious? He could hope. He let his hand float toward Wing, toward the fine projection of his wing strut, possessive, entranced. Wing gave a pleased chirr, pressing into the touch.
And this party didn’t seem so difficult after all—Wing leaning into him, beautiful, sweet, like a warm sun, and the mechs weren’t judging him so much as seeing him as someone Wing found worthy. It was heady, and more intoxicating than the potent energon he drank.
There was a lull, and Wing guided him to a seat, perching himself next to Drift, one leg hooking over Drift’s thigh, actively seeking contact. The gesture was just so natural and casual that Drift felt his entire frame seem to glow with acceptance. He lay his hand on the knee, thumb stroking into the joint, feeling the EM field flare against him. Wing handed him another cube, his smile fuzzy and enticing.
The energon and his desire whirled together across his systems. He reached over, around Wing’s shoulders, hauling the helm close. “You,” he whispered, against the white flat of the audial flare, “are beautiful.” He was aware he was drunk, reckless, but keeping the words in right now seemed impossible.
Wing’s engines purred, wingpanels shifting in embarrassed pleasure. “Thank you,” he murmured, letting his head turn, mouth finding Drift’s almost without seeking. Drift hooked his hands around the hips, pulling the jet onto his lap, the slide of metal on metal, Wing’s solid, compact weight against him, spinning up across his net.
He broke the kiss, hands stroking down the sides, fingertips flirting with the folded wings, down the sleek thigh. “Don’t thank me,” he said, voice husky and thick, letting his optics crawl over the white frame that was his, allowing his touches, wanting his attention. He dipped down, burying his face in the cabling of Wing’s throat, nipping and licking at the intricate lines, one hand tracing idly over a shoulder, feeling the nacelle’s seams, the elegant sweep of the pinions. “You’re beautiful, and I want you.” Two ridiculously true statements.
Wing tipped his head back, opening his throat to the caresses. “I want you,” he murmured, the vibration tickling Drift’s lip plates. Drift growled, pleased, letting his hands ride lower, flirting with the interface hatch. Wing squirmed on his lap, one hand clutching into Drift’s thigh. His EM lashed against Drift’s.
Drift’s fingers dipped between the thighs. “When we get home…later…?”
Wing whimpered. “Yes?”
Drift let his mouth ride the throat cabling up to Wing’s chin, then to lick the audial flares. “I could be gentle.” He…hoped. He wanted nothing more than to sheath himself in the jet’s tight valve, feel Wing writhe and shiver beneath him. His spike stirred to attention, and he felt acutely aware every millimechanometer of distance between his spike and the valve. But he could restrain himself. He could wait and then he could go slow.
Wing shivered, frame vibrating deliciously against Drift’s body. Drift pressed the body against his, hand sliding around the far hip, not caring who could see. Wing was his, and he was staking a claim.
“I want to feel you,” he whispered. “Under me. Around me.” His mouth found Wing’s in a tearing, hungry kiss that the jet reciprocated, pulling a possessive, wanting growl from Drift’s throat.
Wing made a soft cry, suddenly rending himself away, twisting with his quick agility free of Drift’s touch. “I-I…I’ll be back,” he said, wringing his hands as he rose to his feet.
Drift sat back, hurt, uncomprehending. What had he done wrong? Gone too far, probably. His mouth flattened into a frown.
Wing shook his head, bending over, hands resting on Drift’s thigh skirting panels, brushing his mouth over the frown, as though to erase it. “It’s not you, Drift. I just need the maintenance facility for a bit.”
Wing wouldn’t lie, Drift thought, and it was such an obvious and simple answer he felt almost a little dull for his worry.
Wing bumped his nasal playfully against Drift’s nose. “I’ll be right back and we can pick up…right…about…here.” His smile was phosphorous bright and inviting, blasting away any doubt.
Drift felt an answering smile on his mouth. “Don’t be gone long,” he said, trying to couch it as a threat, and failing. Wing winked, before turning away.
[***]
Drift was killing him, Wing thought, crossing into the maintenance facility. His entire interface system felt ablaze, the memories of Drift’s touches down his thighs, over his folded wings, his shoulders, were teasing, tantalizing ghosts. And Drift’s offer, to be gentle: He shivered, catching himself on the white-tiled wall with one hand. He wasn’t sure Drift could succeed, but the idea that the hard Decepticon would even try….
Well, he thought, pulling himself up. They say that high grade loosens the truth, so maybe Drift’s soft praise, the pleading, gentle tone he never normally used was how he really felt. Wing felt his valve sensors fire again, the same hot burst of lust and desire as when he was sitting on Drift’s lap.
He wasn’t ready. His valve was still hot and sore, the sensors’ fine circuitry not repaired yet. It was impossibly frustrating: to want and not be able to do. The heat from the still-damaged nodes grew, until he thought the wiring might melt. Water, he thought. Anything to cool the heated nodes down, get himself back under control.
Wing found the spray nozzle, his other hand snapping open his hatch. He could feel the heat radiating out from his valve, the cover almost scorching to the touch.
As the water touched the valve, Wing cried out, leaning to rest his helm on the wall. Cool water sluiced over the cover, around the rim, bleeding off the heat. The cover retracted, metal contracted, after a moment, enough to fit back into its recesses. “Oh,” Wing moaned, softly, the water swirling into the very bottom of the valve, a moving, liquid caress over the heated, sore nodes and lining. His ventilations deepened, steadied. That felt…so much better. Maybe tonight, they could…?
Just the thought of it, the idea of the presence of Drift, his spike, heavy, thick, pressing inside him, stretching the valve lining, sliding node over node…Wing whimpered, turning the nozzle, aiming it higher into his valve. He chirred, letting his optics dim, shutting out the sterility of the maintenance facility, the white and silver fixtures, concentrating on the flowing coolness of the water, the pattering sound of it hitting the ground, trickling down his legs, swirling around the valve’s lining. It was impossibly sensual. His hips rocked, slowly, into the flow. If he shifted things just…right…. Wing gasped, the cold spray hitting the ceiling node of his valve, spiraling its way down the lining, a cold rush of pure sensation.
A noise to his left. Wing looked up, startled, optics flickering to life, suddenly red-hot aware of, well, what it looked like. No, what it was—using a maintenance nozzle in his valve. In a public room. “Drift!” His voice squeaked.
Drift stood, openmouthed, staring. “I came to check on you,” he said, weakly. “Thought…something might have happened.” He tried to tear his gaze away from the interstices of Wing’s thighs, where the clear water still poured, cascading over the silver armor. He gave a ragged vent.
“I—uh, it’s not what it looks like!”
A flicker of a smile, as Drift stepped closer. “Really. What does it look like?” The optics flicked down, then up, and then Wing found himself spun, shoulders jarring against the wall, Drift’s mouth ferocious on his. Wing’s hand clutched on the nozzle, water gushing between them, his head tipping back against the wall, mouth opening, whimpering with want. Drift’s hands were hard on his chassis, plucking at the armor, body scraping over Wing’s.
“Drift,” Wing said, tilting his head from the kiss.
A soft chuckle, the hands hard on Wing’s sides, as Drift lowered himself, mouth tracing a hot, lustful line down Wing’s chassis.
“Drift!” Wing repeated, more urgently, this time, as a glossa flicked between his thigh and pelvic frame. “I--!” He tried to free his hand, pinned between them, the nozzle spraying water over his exposed equipment. Drift’s hand closed over his wrist, holding it still, angling the flow back toward the valve. Wing could hear the aroused snort as he shuddered at the contact, and then the sudden heat of Drift’s mouth pushing between his thighs, glossa circling the valve’s rim, insistent and warm in the middle of the cold flow.
Wing’s entire frame shuddered, hands clutching, one against the nozzle, the other at Drift’s deep spaulder, his optics rolling skyward. Drift moved, hiking one of Wing’s legs over his shoulder so the jet balanced—barely—on one foot plate, his knee curling over the broad shoulder, thighs pushed apart, and Drift’s mouth lapping insistently against his valve, the cool water rushing over his chin. Wing’s ventilations were hoarse, filling the small room with soft, unconvincing protests, as the glossa circled, teasing one of the nodes.
Drift laughed, the sound another wave of sensation against Wing’s net, reverberating through the water, into his valve’s hyperattuned surface. His optics lidded to hazy blue slits looking up the length of Wing’s chassis, feeding on the jet’s wanton writhing, one hand clutching under the thigh slung over his shoulder.
Wing’s knee buckled, even as his shoulders slammed against the wall, wings flaring wide. A cry tore itself from his throat, entire body wracked with the overload, valve calipers clutching on the unholdable water. Drift’s hands tightened around the hips, taking the weight on his shoulders, mouth stilling on the valve. The cry echoed through the small space, ricocheting off the glossy tiles. Drift pulled his mouth away, his rank crest resting on the thrust of Wing’s pelvic armor, almost nuzzling against the spread thighs.
Wing’s hands clung, released, and then stroked over the shoulders supporting him, the finials of the helm, no sound between them other than the trickle of water. Wing struggled with something, anything, to say, but he was still trembling, his sensornet tangled with mortification and desire—his own embarrassment swirling with Drift’s obvious arousal.
A slide over his pelvic span, Drift’s cheek armor against his thigh. Wing looked down, Drift smiling up at him, optics glossy, bright with desire.
“I--,” Wing began, unsteadily, “Later, when we get back I’ll return—“
Drift cut him off with a shake of the head, sliding his buccal armor along the thigh. “Forget later. Forget what you think I want.” The mouth, glossed with lubricant and water, curled into a smile. “This is what I want.”
no subject
But I think that is what being drunk makes out of him.
*sighs*
Nice xD
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Loved it <3
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