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shadow_vector2011-09-05 06:28 pm
niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in shadow_vector2011-09-05 06:28 pm
Scrubbing Drift
NC-17
IDW Halcyon AU
Drift/Perceptor/Wing
sticky, fluff
Based on this picture
“I’m fine!” Drift squirmed in Wing’s grasp, as the jet carried him, bodily, into Perceptor’s workshop.
“I think Perceptor is the better judge of that,” Wing said, firmly.
“Of what?” Perceptor looked up from The Judge’s targeting array splayed open on the table. His optics focused on Drift, coated in the gummy yellow gunk, and pushed to his feet. “Swarm?” He shook his head. No, that was long over.
Wing shook his head, looking a bit guilty. “He…fell.”
“Fell.”
Drift growled. “Slipped. Training accident.”
The picture became clear: the pair of them, sparring with each other. They were like newframes, sometimes, with their ‘training’. But Perceptor had noted how much happiness it brought Drift: a quiet, satisfied calm. And it blunted the edge of what Perceptor knew was Wing’s secret homesickness.
It had been mostly harmless. Until now. “In what?” Perceptor could smell the faint sourness of picocorrosion. Slip, fall, it was irrelevant.
“In the drive coolant.”
“No big deal,” Drift muttered. He bladed a hand down his chassis, the yellow goop sliding off his fingers to splat onto the floor.
“Used drive coolant,” Wing added, his beautiful face pulling into a frown.
One that Perceptor matched. He…didn’t want to think about how that could possibly have happened. There was a story there-- one that might call for a lecture from Kup for the both of them, by the way Wing hung his head, guiltily—but the priority now was Drift. “How?” His optics narrowed to a glare, pinning Wing.
“I-I didn’t expect the lid to give like that.” Wing drooped. “But I brought him right here!”
So they broke something. Perceptor sighed.
“It’s just goop. That smells bad. And itches.” Drift squirmed, but Wing held him fast.
Drift, Perceptor thought, was, for all his qualities, no scientist. ‘Swarm goo’, ‘gunk’, ‘goop’. He shook his head and spun toward the decon shower, stopped. No, the light fall of cleanser wouldn’t cut the gunk if it had already been run through the hyperdrive. Drift needed a soak.
He turned toward the storage, hauling out a large cistern, dragging it to the decon shower, running the fluid on high. It thundered into the metal tub. “Bring him.”
“I can walk!” Drift protested, but Wing hustled him along anyway, until his knee bumped the tank. “Frag. Let go of me!” He struggled, and he could have freed himself, but he wouldn’t—they all knew—fight Wing with all his skill. Not that it would necessarily help. Wing seemed gentle, but, well, he’d trundled Drift down here already. The jet was tougher than he seemed.
Perceptor nodded, reaching over to scoop Drift’s legs, pinning the white legs against his chassis, and together the two managed to wrestle the thrashing mech into the filling tank.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Drift howled, warm cleanser slopping over the sides of the tank as he flailed.
“No,” Perceptor said, coolly, reaching behind him to snatch up a brush, handing another to Wing. Drift was being ridiculous. And the fighting only moreso.
“It’s just gunk! It only itches.”
“Not if Perceptor doesn’t think so.” Wing applied the brush, firmly, along one of Drift’s shoulder panels, as if determined to scrub away his mistake.
Drift arched up, the coarse bristles sending a thousand prickles of sensation down his net, his hands clutching at the cold metal rim, legs thrashing, until Perceptor snatched one, applying the second brush to the gluey mass drying on the top of the black footplate.
“Stop!” Drift shouted, trying to jerk his foot back. Perceptor’s optics turned hard, strong scientist’s hands finding a neural cable, squeezing until Drift forced his leg down.
“Does it hurt?”
“No,” Drift squirmed, air hissing, bubbling from his vents into the tub as the brush scrubbing against his feet sent flares of ticklishness over him. “I can clean myself though.”
“But this,” Wing said, one arm snaking around Drift’s shoulders, the voice purring against his audio, “Is more fun.”
“Fun,” Drift muttered, but any other response was cut off by a sluice of cleanser over his head. He roared, furious as the cleanser splashed down his face, dripping from his helm. Behind him, Wing laughed as Drift tried to push himself out of the tub, halted by Perceptor’s grip on his foot.
“Fun,” Wing repeated, dropping the bucket, wrapping his arms around Drift’s shoulders. Drift felt a sudden warmth, pliable, insistent, on one of his helm finials. He arched up, gasping.
“Wing!”
“What?” Wing purred, mouth sliding off the finial. “I’m just making sure you’re really clean.”
A soft chuff of sound from down by Drift’s foot, Perceptor shaking his head. Drift turned to him. “See? Wing. Not helping.”
“He’s helping,” Perceptor asserted. “He brought you here.” He bent back down over the foot, stroking the brush in long, slow sweeps down the sole’s pressure plates.
Drift collapsed back into the cleanser, twitching, his entire sensornet afire, something less like the growl he intended and way more like a moan escaping him. His spike surged behind its cover, thumping against the metal, pressurizing, and each sweep of the brushes against him, down his shoulders, over his footplate, seemed a firm stroke over his spike. And Wing’s mouth, hot and seeking on his helm finial, send shimmers of raw want through his systems.
“Not…helping,” Drift managed, his hips squirming in the tank. “Really,” he croaked. “I can do this myself.” With some privacy. Where he could take care of the raging heat building in his spike.
“You can’t reach everywhere,” Perceptor said, sternly, beginning a light sweep up Drift’s leg.
Drift shuttered his optics, trying to blank the sight of the brush, of the large black-enameled hand holding his ankle. It didn’t work—optics blanked, it was as though sensation swamped his sensor feed: he could feel every bristle, feel the moving line of the water on his chassis, emanations of heat from its surface. It was delicious, and sensual and both Perceptor and Wing were studying him, watching him, touching him, their attention on him like a ghostly hand that stirred and caressed his net.
He whimpered, body jolting rigid abruptly, optic shutters ground closed.
“Did he just…?”
A soft sound. Drift unshuttered his optics, staring down, to where he could see the seep of silver from around his interface hatch—the telltale leak of transfluid, spilling from the overload. Behind him, Wing gave an appreciative sound, the hands sliding down over his chassis, the brush loosely held in one hand. “You’re so beautiful,” Wing breathed, “when you let yourself go.”
Drift tried to mutter something which got smothered in a sudden febrile kiss, and a hand stroking along his helm finials. He found himself turning into the kiss, a needy sound bubbling in his throat.
“Good,” Perceptor murmured, and Drift felt a hand reaching around him, hauling one hip up. “We need to get your back, as well.”
Wing laughed. “All part of my plan.”
“Right,” Drift muttered, jerking his leg from Perceptor’s other hand, pushing to his feet in ardent pursuit of the kiss, water sluicing down his frame. “Your plan.”
“I like my plan,” Wing said, sliding his hands up in long slow lines from Drift’s hips.
“You’ve had worse,” Perceptor said. “Like sparring in the engine room.”
Wing wilted, head bowing, wings drooping loose behind his back.
Perceptor relented. Time enough for that later, and it wasn’t entirely Wing’s fault. It did take two of them to cause trouble, and unlike Drift, Wing hadn’t spent large portions of his life on starships. Drift should know better. He pushed Drift’s pelvic frame around, exposing the back’s expanse to him—the jut of the spaulders, the white chassis armor and the finer black plating of Drift’s waist, flaring out into his pelvic frame. The gentle motion of Drift’s helm, as he tilted over to lock into a kiss with Wing, rippled down his spinal struts, creating a long, sensuous line of motion.
One that Perceptor couldn’t resist tracing with his brush, gentle at first, skimming the central dorsal line, then feathering the brush out from the center, soft little lateral sweeps. Drift gave a rumble of arousal, burying his face between Wing’s shoulder and his throat. Perceptor ran the brush down one side, tugging backward with it, watching as Drift rocked his weight back, a sensual yielding to the brush’s direction.
Perceptor stepped one foot into the tank, pulling the hips back against him, bracing the white armor against him, steadying him as he scrubbed. Wing’s hands curled around the shoulders, letting Drift’s mouth explore the lines of his throat. One of the jet’s hands reached for the small bucket again.
Perceptor nodded, signaling to Wing, and the jet poured the warm bucket down Drift’s back, the water cascading down the armor, white and black. Drift’s frame traced a serpentine line, his hands clutching with desire, hips bumping back against Perceptor’s pelvic span.
Perceptor felt heat stir through his frame, the arousal he’d been trying to suppress from the moment he’d seen the drenched mech, Wing’s arms fierce and protective around him. But this was…too much, the white frame squirming, bumping against him. Perceptor hooked the hips back against him, experimentally. Drift gave a soft growl into Wing’s throat, but arched against the hands, as Perceptor ground against his back.
“I think you should,” Wing’s voice, soft, tempting, his hands sliding down Drift’s frame, slicking against the glossy wetness. He always could read Perceptor’s mind. About that much, anyway, or anything emotional. No matter how well Perceptor thought he masked his feelings, Wing was always able to simply…pierce right through. It would be unsettling if it weren’t so benign.
A small click—Wing’s hands reaching under Drift’s belly, finding, faultlessly, the interface hatch. Drift’s growl deepened, biting into the throat until Wing gave a sharp gasp of pain and arousal. Perceptor’s hands loosened on the white hips, stroking the length of the scabbards, thumbs curling to the undersides, contemplating. The cleaning was a priority, but already, the worst of the coolant had been neutralized, Drift’s armor crisp white and black and not sullied yellow.
And Drift was bumping against him, certainly inviting the possibility….
Perceptor lay his brush down, one hand moving to release his spike. He hovered it by the mouth of the valve, one finger circling over the rim. Drift pushed back against his hand, burying a growl against Wing’s chassis. Wing grinned encouragingly, hands stroking twin lines up Drift’s back.
The two of them were terrible: disruptive, reckless, emotional. And Perceptor couldn’t stand against them: he shifted forward, sinking his spike into Drift, forcing the hips still, so that he could enter slowly, feeling the pressure shift around his spike, the nodes greeting and parting, the calipers shifting around him. Drift would go too fast, left to his own devices, stampeding after release. He could feel the impatience already, tension in the white hips.
Perceptor moved slowly, letting the tempo build gradually, gently sliding into the valve, his hands hard, bracing Drift still. Drift writhed, his vocalizer giving wild, inchoate wanting sounds, clinging to Wing’s shoulders. Wing’s mouth busied itself on the projections of Drift’s helm, nuzzling and licking the finials, his one hand still slid under Drift’s chassis, fingertips teasing at Drift’s spike, letting Perceptor’s slow thrusts set the movement for him.
Perceptor felt the overload rise almost too quickly, but the sight of Drift, enthralled, clinging to Wing, shivering against him, the sweep of the scabbards against his thighs as he pushed forward, the soft sounds both Wing and Drift made, drove him over the edge faster than he wanted. Heat and pleasure burst through his systems, lighting them up white and tingling, current pouring through his capacitors, as the fluid spilled from his spike.
Drift gave a choked sound, jolting forward, once, and Wing’s pleased chirr and the sharp crackle of discharge signaled Drift’s own release, as much as the spill of silver transfluid, floating, swirling like fine ink, on the surface of the cooling water.
“This,” Drift said, eventually, thigh servos still trembling, clinging onto Wing for balance, valve still twitching against Perceptor’s embedded spike, “was all a trap, I’m guessing.”
Wing laughed, the sound sweet and musical. “Do we really,” he said, ducking down to kiss the frowning mouth, “have to trick you, Drift? For this?”
Drift tipped into the kiss, glossa parting Wing’s lipplates, his hips rolling delicately against Perceptor. Not conceding the point, but giving in. He pulled away, optics trailing down Wing’s chassis. “You,” he muttered, “got some of it on you, too.”
“So I did,” Wing grinned, and then gave a squealing laugh as Drift hooked under his arm, tossing him into the tank with him. He wriggled, water lapping over the both of them. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about, Drift. This feels pretty nice.” He tipped his head back, exposing his chassis, hand finding one of the floating brushes, and handing it to Drift.
“Both of you.” Perceptor sighed. He tried to summon the sternness, the lecture that he knew they deserved, but as he jumped back, tickled by an errant brushstroke against his leg, as the two tumbled together in the water, and heard the rare, precious sound of Drift’s laugh…no. The lecture would wait. The war would wait. He could do this much for all of them.
IDW Halcyon AU
Drift/Perceptor/Wing
sticky, fluff
Based on this picture
“I’m fine!” Drift squirmed in Wing’s grasp, as the jet carried him, bodily, into Perceptor’s workshop.
“I think Perceptor is the better judge of that,” Wing said, firmly.
“Of what?” Perceptor looked up from The Judge’s targeting array splayed open on the table. His optics focused on Drift, coated in the gummy yellow gunk, and pushed to his feet. “Swarm?” He shook his head. No, that was long over.
Wing shook his head, looking a bit guilty. “He…fell.”
“Fell.”
Drift growled. “Slipped. Training accident.”
The picture became clear: the pair of them, sparring with each other. They were like newframes, sometimes, with their ‘training’. But Perceptor had noted how much happiness it brought Drift: a quiet, satisfied calm. And it blunted the edge of what Perceptor knew was Wing’s secret homesickness.
It had been mostly harmless. Until now. “In what?” Perceptor could smell the faint sourness of picocorrosion. Slip, fall, it was irrelevant.
“In the drive coolant.”
“No big deal,” Drift muttered. He bladed a hand down his chassis, the yellow goop sliding off his fingers to splat onto the floor.
“Used drive coolant,” Wing added, his beautiful face pulling into a frown.
One that Perceptor matched. He…didn’t want to think about how that could possibly have happened. There was a story there-- one that might call for a lecture from Kup for the both of them, by the way Wing hung his head, guiltily—but the priority now was Drift. “How?” His optics narrowed to a glare, pinning Wing.
“I-I didn’t expect the lid to give like that.” Wing drooped. “But I brought him right here!”
So they broke something. Perceptor sighed.
“It’s just goop. That smells bad. And itches.” Drift squirmed, but Wing held him fast.
Drift, Perceptor thought, was, for all his qualities, no scientist. ‘Swarm goo’, ‘gunk’, ‘goop’. He shook his head and spun toward the decon shower, stopped. No, the light fall of cleanser wouldn’t cut the gunk if it had already been run through the hyperdrive. Drift needed a soak.
He turned toward the storage, hauling out a large cistern, dragging it to the decon shower, running the fluid on high. It thundered into the metal tub. “Bring him.”
“I can walk!” Drift protested, but Wing hustled him along anyway, until his knee bumped the tank. “Frag. Let go of me!” He struggled, and he could have freed himself, but he wouldn’t—they all knew—fight Wing with all his skill. Not that it would necessarily help. Wing seemed gentle, but, well, he’d trundled Drift down here already. The jet was tougher than he seemed.
Perceptor nodded, reaching over to scoop Drift’s legs, pinning the white legs against his chassis, and together the two managed to wrestle the thrashing mech into the filling tank.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Drift howled, warm cleanser slopping over the sides of the tank as he flailed.
“No,” Perceptor said, coolly, reaching behind him to snatch up a brush, handing another to Wing. Drift was being ridiculous. And the fighting only moreso.
“It’s just gunk! It only itches.”
“Not if Perceptor doesn’t think so.” Wing applied the brush, firmly, along one of Drift’s shoulder panels, as if determined to scrub away his mistake.
Drift arched up, the coarse bristles sending a thousand prickles of sensation down his net, his hands clutching at the cold metal rim, legs thrashing, until Perceptor snatched one, applying the second brush to the gluey mass drying on the top of the black footplate.
“Stop!” Drift shouted, trying to jerk his foot back. Perceptor’s optics turned hard, strong scientist’s hands finding a neural cable, squeezing until Drift forced his leg down.
“Does it hurt?”
“No,” Drift squirmed, air hissing, bubbling from his vents into the tub as the brush scrubbing against his feet sent flares of ticklishness over him. “I can clean myself though.”
“But this,” Wing said, one arm snaking around Drift’s shoulders, the voice purring against his audio, “Is more fun.”
“Fun,” Drift muttered, but any other response was cut off by a sluice of cleanser over his head. He roared, furious as the cleanser splashed down his face, dripping from his helm. Behind him, Wing laughed as Drift tried to push himself out of the tub, halted by Perceptor’s grip on his foot.
“Fun,” Wing repeated, dropping the bucket, wrapping his arms around Drift’s shoulders. Drift felt a sudden warmth, pliable, insistent, on one of his helm finials. He arched up, gasping.
“Wing!”
“What?” Wing purred, mouth sliding off the finial. “I’m just making sure you’re really clean.”
A soft chuff of sound from down by Drift’s foot, Perceptor shaking his head. Drift turned to him. “See? Wing. Not helping.”
“He’s helping,” Perceptor asserted. “He brought you here.” He bent back down over the foot, stroking the brush in long, slow sweeps down the sole’s pressure plates.
Drift collapsed back into the cleanser, twitching, his entire sensornet afire, something less like the growl he intended and way more like a moan escaping him. His spike surged behind its cover, thumping against the metal, pressurizing, and each sweep of the brushes against him, down his shoulders, over his footplate, seemed a firm stroke over his spike. And Wing’s mouth, hot and seeking on his helm finial, send shimmers of raw want through his systems.
“Not…helping,” Drift managed, his hips squirming in the tank. “Really,” he croaked. “I can do this myself.” With some privacy. Where he could take care of the raging heat building in his spike.
“You can’t reach everywhere,” Perceptor said, sternly, beginning a light sweep up Drift’s leg.
Drift shuttered his optics, trying to blank the sight of the brush, of the large black-enameled hand holding his ankle. It didn’t work—optics blanked, it was as though sensation swamped his sensor feed: he could feel every bristle, feel the moving line of the water on his chassis, emanations of heat from its surface. It was delicious, and sensual and both Perceptor and Wing were studying him, watching him, touching him, their attention on him like a ghostly hand that stirred and caressed his net.
He whimpered, body jolting rigid abruptly, optic shutters ground closed.
“Did he just…?”
A soft sound. Drift unshuttered his optics, staring down, to where he could see the seep of silver from around his interface hatch—the telltale leak of transfluid, spilling from the overload. Behind him, Wing gave an appreciative sound, the hands sliding down over his chassis, the brush loosely held in one hand. “You’re so beautiful,” Wing breathed, “when you let yourself go.”
Drift tried to mutter something which got smothered in a sudden febrile kiss, and a hand stroking along his helm finials. He found himself turning into the kiss, a needy sound bubbling in his throat.
“Good,” Perceptor murmured, and Drift felt a hand reaching around him, hauling one hip up. “We need to get your back, as well.”
Wing laughed. “All part of my plan.”
“Right,” Drift muttered, jerking his leg from Perceptor’s other hand, pushing to his feet in ardent pursuit of the kiss, water sluicing down his frame. “Your plan.”
“I like my plan,” Wing said, sliding his hands up in long slow lines from Drift’s hips.
“You’ve had worse,” Perceptor said. “Like sparring in the engine room.”
Wing wilted, head bowing, wings drooping loose behind his back.
Perceptor relented. Time enough for that later, and it wasn’t entirely Wing’s fault. It did take two of them to cause trouble, and unlike Drift, Wing hadn’t spent large portions of his life on starships. Drift should know better. He pushed Drift’s pelvic frame around, exposing the back’s expanse to him—the jut of the spaulders, the white chassis armor and the finer black plating of Drift’s waist, flaring out into his pelvic frame. The gentle motion of Drift’s helm, as he tilted over to lock into a kiss with Wing, rippled down his spinal struts, creating a long, sensuous line of motion.
One that Perceptor couldn’t resist tracing with his brush, gentle at first, skimming the central dorsal line, then feathering the brush out from the center, soft little lateral sweeps. Drift gave a rumble of arousal, burying his face between Wing’s shoulder and his throat. Perceptor ran the brush down one side, tugging backward with it, watching as Drift rocked his weight back, a sensual yielding to the brush’s direction.
Perceptor stepped one foot into the tank, pulling the hips back against him, bracing the white armor against him, steadying him as he scrubbed. Wing’s hands curled around the shoulders, letting Drift’s mouth explore the lines of his throat. One of the jet’s hands reached for the small bucket again.
Perceptor nodded, signaling to Wing, and the jet poured the warm bucket down Drift’s back, the water cascading down the armor, white and black. Drift’s frame traced a serpentine line, his hands clutching with desire, hips bumping back against Perceptor’s pelvic span.
Perceptor felt heat stir through his frame, the arousal he’d been trying to suppress from the moment he’d seen the drenched mech, Wing’s arms fierce and protective around him. But this was…too much, the white frame squirming, bumping against him. Perceptor hooked the hips back against him, experimentally. Drift gave a soft growl into Wing’s throat, but arched against the hands, as Perceptor ground against his back.
“I think you should,” Wing’s voice, soft, tempting, his hands sliding down Drift’s frame, slicking against the glossy wetness. He always could read Perceptor’s mind. About that much, anyway, or anything emotional. No matter how well Perceptor thought he masked his feelings, Wing was always able to simply…pierce right through. It would be unsettling if it weren’t so benign.
A small click—Wing’s hands reaching under Drift’s belly, finding, faultlessly, the interface hatch. Drift’s growl deepened, biting into the throat until Wing gave a sharp gasp of pain and arousal. Perceptor’s hands loosened on the white hips, stroking the length of the scabbards, thumbs curling to the undersides, contemplating. The cleaning was a priority, but already, the worst of the coolant had been neutralized, Drift’s armor crisp white and black and not sullied yellow.
And Drift was bumping against him, certainly inviting the possibility….
Perceptor lay his brush down, one hand moving to release his spike. He hovered it by the mouth of the valve, one finger circling over the rim. Drift pushed back against his hand, burying a growl against Wing’s chassis. Wing grinned encouragingly, hands stroking twin lines up Drift’s back.
The two of them were terrible: disruptive, reckless, emotional. And Perceptor couldn’t stand against them: he shifted forward, sinking his spike into Drift, forcing the hips still, so that he could enter slowly, feeling the pressure shift around his spike, the nodes greeting and parting, the calipers shifting around him. Drift would go too fast, left to his own devices, stampeding after release. He could feel the impatience already, tension in the white hips.
Perceptor moved slowly, letting the tempo build gradually, gently sliding into the valve, his hands hard, bracing Drift still. Drift writhed, his vocalizer giving wild, inchoate wanting sounds, clinging to Wing’s shoulders. Wing’s mouth busied itself on the projections of Drift’s helm, nuzzling and licking the finials, his one hand still slid under Drift’s chassis, fingertips teasing at Drift’s spike, letting Perceptor’s slow thrusts set the movement for him.
Perceptor felt the overload rise almost too quickly, but the sight of Drift, enthralled, clinging to Wing, shivering against him, the sweep of the scabbards against his thighs as he pushed forward, the soft sounds both Wing and Drift made, drove him over the edge faster than he wanted. Heat and pleasure burst through his systems, lighting them up white and tingling, current pouring through his capacitors, as the fluid spilled from his spike.
Drift gave a choked sound, jolting forward, once, and Wing’s pleased chirr and the sharp crackle of discharge signaled Drift’s own release, as much as the spill of silver transfluid, floating, swirling like fine ink, on the surface of the cooling water.
“This,” Drift said, eventually, thigh servos still trembling, clinging onto Wing for balance, valve still twitching against Perceptor’s embedded spike, “was all a trap, I’m guessing.”
Wing laughed, the sound sweet and musical. “Do we really,” he said, ducking down to kiss the frowning mouth, “have to trick you, Drift? For this?”
Drift tipped into the kiss, glossa parting Wing’s lipplates, his hips rolling delicately against Perceptor. Not conceding the point, but giving in. He pulled away, optics trailing down Wing’s chassis. “You,” he muttered, “got some of it on you, too.”
“So I did,” Wing grinned, and then gave a squealing laugh as Drift hooked under his arm, tossing him into the tank with him. He wriggled, water lapping over the both of them. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about, Drift. This feels pretty nice.” He tipped his head back, exposing his chassis, hand finding one of the floating brushes, and handing it to Drift.
“Both of you.” Perceptor sighed. He tried to summon the sternness, the lecture that he knew they deserved, but as he jumped back, tickled by an errant brushstroke against his leg, as the two tumbled together in the water, and heard the rare, precious sound of Drift’s laugh…no. The lecture would wait. The war would wait. He could do this much for all of them.
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<3
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::falls over::
Mmmmmmmm, lovely. <3
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