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niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shadow_vector2011-12-03 11:04 am
On Station
IDW, meh we'll call it Halcyon AU
Drift, Perceptor, Wing, Hoist, Trailbreaker (that sexy beast)
sticky, bondage, vague dom/sub, double penetration, fingering/fisting, mirrorplay, misuse of a charging pack
AN: OKAY so there was this kinkmeme prompt. (Oh huge thanks to
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aniay whose newsletter lets me follow req without having to deal with the wank and nonsense.) But...yeah I totally failed in execution. The first part is way too derpy/cracky and the second part, I dunno. I don't think it fills the requirements of the kink. :< NONETHELESS have 4.5K of derpy porn. “This,” Wing said, his gold optics glowing over his shoulder nacelle as he turned back to look at Drift, “will be fun!”
“Fun.” Drift frowned. An Autobot supply hub was anything but ‘fun’. Staring, if not hostile, mechs, muttered rumors, his whole ugly history swirling around him like the grime of the gutters, a stain that would never leave him.
“Well,” Wing said, with a coy shrug, “It’ll be a pleasant change, at least, right? No fighting.”
“Great,” Drift grumbled. At least he could do ‘fighting’. He’d been doing it for millennia. He’d done his share of resupply runs, too, but Decepticon resupply was its own beast. And comparing Decepticon resupply with combat? He’d still choose combat.
Perceptor merely shrugged one shoulder, buried in the datapad with their supply list.
“Just want off the fraggin’ ship,” Topspin said. “Onto solid ground.”
“Not really solid,” Drift said. “Station. Not proper planetfall.”
“I know that,” Topspin said, sharply, his optics narrowing. The airlock gave the hiss-pop of vacuum being breached, the inner blast doors spiraling open.
“Come on,” Wing said, turning. “No bad tempers.” He cocked his head chidingly at Drift, as though the mech’s surliness were somehow adorable. Drift glowered back, but backed down.
Topspin rolled his optics, pushing past them. “You can all stay here and fraggin’ argue about moods and slag if you want.”
Drift glowered as the large mech pushed by, turning to follow, disgruntled. Wing gave a sheepish shrug, and he and Perceptor fell into step together.
They crossed onto the station proper.
Suddenly a klaxon rang, yellow lights strobing, a pink wall shimmering to life, suddenly, before and behind Wing and Perceptor. Drift whirled, one sword already in his hand, a curse flying from his mouthplates.
Wing’s pinions flared, startled, optics wide. “Wha-what’s wrong?”
Perceptor frowned, studying the forcewall. “These are quarantine protocols.”
“Quarantine,” Drift snarled through the soft buzz of the field, stuck on the other side. Topspin gave them one last look over his shoulder, before shaking his head and moving off. Not his problem and he wasn’t going to make it one.
“Apparently it reads something…alien in Wing.”
“Alien.” Drift growled at the barrier. As though that would do any good.
“They have a protocol, Drift,” Perceptor said, calmly. “Be patient.”
Drift didn’t do patient. He paced as though he were the one caged, until he heard the approach of a security detail.
Perceptor nodded. “Trailbreaker.”
“Perceptor.” An almost shy tilt of the head, acknowledging. “What do we have here?” The dark mech moved down the barrier to peer at Wing.
Who peered back, head tilted up, bright opticked and curious. “Hello!”
“Wing,” Perceptor said, explaining. “He’s with us.”
“With…you.”
“Who are you,” Drift bumped Trailbreaker’s elbow, optics blue lines of aggression. He’d slammed the sword home in its scabbard, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t ready to fight. Drift…never let his guard down.
“Drift,” Perceptor said. “It’s Trailbreaker. He’s security.”
“Security,” Drift scoffed. “From what.”
“Protocols are in place against enemy infiltration.”
“Enemy.” Drift bristled.
“I am not an Autobot,” Wing said, calmly. “Is that it?”
Trailbreaker reached to the wall, tapping a code into the security box. “Probably not. One of the alarms rang up as fusion incendiary.”
“He’s not a bomb!” Drift said, fists balling.
“The propulsion nacelles,” Perceptor offered. “They’re an archaic technology.”
Trailbreaker nodded, firing up his own personal forceshield as he dropped the barrier. “I’ll be able to verify in a moment.”
Wing stayed still, bemused.
Trailbreaker approached, pulling a scanner from his storage. “You’re not going to blow up, are you?”
“I…would prefer not to?” The question, or the questioner, perplexed the white jet.
“He’s not a bomb!” Drift repeated.
“Yes, well…,” Trailbreaker said, “try not to, please.”
“I will do my best!” Wing grinned, while the larger mech approached him, holding out a scanner.
“Hmn,” Trailbreaker said. “You’re right. It’s the nacelles tripping the alarm.”
“Is that going to be a problem?” Wing said, and for the first time his face shifted, the smile wavering. “I’d…really looked forward to getting off the ship.”
Trailbreaker hesitated, the scanner hanging in the air for a long moment. “We could…get Hoist to give you a clear?” He sounded as if he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing himself say.
The gold optics brightened. “That would be most kind.”
Trailbreaker took a step back, his forceshield flaring brighter for a klik, as though unsure. “I’ll…we’ll do that.” His EM seemed to almost glow under the gold light of Wing’s gaze.
[***]
“I’m so sorry for all this trouble,” Wing was saying, sitting up on the exam table.
“Oh, no trouble at all!” Hoist bustled over his tray of tools, before turning to the white mech. “Rather a nice break in routine, really.”
“Really.” Drift glowered, arms folded over his chassis.
“Oh yes!” Hoist said. “It’s not very often I get to do this. Normally it’s just routine physicals, minor accidents. This is like…science!”
“First a bomb, and now science.” Wing wriggled. “This has been an interesting day already!”
Drift glowered, but it only made Wing’s smile brighter. “Rather actually get on station,” he reminded.
“Yes,” Wing admitted. He turned to Hoist, as the mech began examining one of his shoulder nacelles. “What would you recommend here for entertainment?”
“Entertainment?” Hoist tilted his head, optics ceilingward, considering. “We do have a cinema—that’s quite interesting. We show holovids of foreign civilizations sometimes. Fascinating! And music, both dance and orchestral. We’re a small station but we do have some luxuries.”
“Music!” Wing said, lighting up. “I miss music.”
Drift gave a dangerous rumble, optics ticking over, already realigning whatever plans he’d made to include music.
“Oh, you simply must. We have some excellent recordings and live performances.”
“Thought you were here to check him out,” Drift said, pointedly. As in, not play tour guide. Drift was already finding himself homesick for the Xantium. Which was…weird. And wrong.
“Oh, yes. Of course.” Hoist bent back to his work. Drift’s optics raked over him, nearly seething with resentment every time Hoist touched Wing. “Well,” Hoist continued, “I could give you the names of a few cafes on station, at least.” He tinkered for a moment, before closing the access panel. “All right. All clear.”
Wing bounced on the table, throwing his arms around the medic. “Thank you!”
Drift hissed, even louder as Hoist returned the hug, helping lift the jet off the exam table.
“I’m…I’m quite happy to help,” Hoist said, awkwardly.
Drift? Would be quite happy to impale Hoist.
[***]
“This is nice, don’t you think?” Wing was perched on the very edge of his chair, optics darting everywhere in the small club that Hoist had recommended.
“Hnnf.” Drift glowered into his cube. “All right, I guess.”
Perceptor’s gaze circled the room coolly, his targeting reticle whirring, turning everything into a target. “The music is not too loud,” he said, finally, as though the struggle for something nice to say had been epic.
“I like it,” Wing said, beaming.
It struck Drift that it was probably more than a little unfair to Wing: they were hardly sociable mechs, after all. Drift’s scowl deepened. Probably just bringing the jet down. The fact he’s so interested in everything here shows how tired he is…of you.
“Drift?” Wing asked, optics concerned. “Are you angry?”
Yes. “No.”
Wing’s head tilted, unconvinced. “I know,” he said, following the direction of Drift’s gaze to his empty cube. “I’ll get us another round.” He bounced off the chair before either could do more than exchange glances, nearly dancing to the bar.
Drift and Perceptor watched as he caught the bartender’s gaze, the way his hips swayed, slowly, sensuously, to the music, as though enthralled. Drift didn’t know he cared about music so fraggin’ much.
Wing tapped a mech’s arm, his face already lit up with a warm smile. Trailbreaker, Drift recognized from before. Whatever Wing said, the larger mech turned, listening, his face unreadable behind the mask. Drift didn’t like masks. Too much like Turmoil, too much hidden behind them.
Trailbreaker shrugged, and held out a hand, and Drift could see the air seem to ripple around it.
“Forceshield,” Perceptor explained, quietly. He, too, was watching the jet.
“Showing off,” Drift muttered.
Another exchange, and suddenly, Wing turned around, his back to the dark mech, flaring his wingpanels, head tipped almost coyly over his shoulder.
Drift’s growl seeemed to hum through the air, rising to a feral snap as Trailbreaker reached out, touching the wings. “Enough,” Drift said, slamming his empty cube on the table, pushing off his chair.
“…yes,” Perceptor pushed up behind him.
“Oh!” Wing burbled. “Here they are.” He gave a happy chirr. “Drift, Perceptor. You remember Trailbreaker.”
“We’ve met,” Drift said, optics flat and hard.
Undaunted, Wing continued, “Did you know he can generate forcefields? That’s why they used him as security here!”
“Yes,” Perceptor said, almost too quietly.
Trailbreaker tipped back. Apparently even his magic special forceshields didn’t protect him from the hard wave of hostility coming from the other two. “We were…just talking.”
“Talking and maybe we were going to dance!”
“No.” Drift’s fists balled. “No dancing.”
“No?” Wing looked puzzled.
“Time to go back,” Perceptor said.
Wing looked crestfallen. “Already?”
Drift wavered, then lunged forward, abruptly, his mouth finding Wing’s, hands hot and possessive and knowing around the chassis, tugging at the folded panels. Wing gave a startled beep, before his own hands came up, stroking the deep spaulders of Drift’s shoulders. “You want to dance?” Drift muttered, breaking the kiss.
“I…would like to, yes?”
Drift’s engines gave an unhappy growl, hands squeezing at the wing panels before releasing them. “All right. But,” he whispered, “you come home with us.”
Wing’s look of worry melted to a smile. “Of course.”
Drift nodded, gruffly, stepping back. He jerked his chin at Trailbreaker, then the dance floor. “You. Dance.”
“What?” A startled blink.
“You should dance with Wing,” Perceptor explained, as though used to translating for Drift.
“I…but? Do I get any say in this?” Trailbreaker’s blue optics bounced among the three.
“Don’t you want to?” Wing asked, looking hurt.
“Well, yes…but….”
“But.” Drift grabbed one of the dark wrists, hauling the larger mech off his seat, nearly flinging him to the dancefloor. “Dance.”
[***]
Wing loved everyone right now: his arm was slung around Drift’s shoulders, his entire EM field a warm, gold fuzzy glow. He especially loved Drift. And Perceptor. And that wall. The floor, well, that was just being playful, the way it tried to trip him up. But that’s what Drift was for.
“Is he all right?” Perceptor’s voice, behind him.
“Fine. Little overcharged and under powered.” Drift’s voice rumbled pleasantly against Wing’s armor. He tried to snuggle against it, stumbling again.
“Love you,” Wing murmured, barely noticing. Drift stopped, hauling him to his feet. “Do you love me?”
Drift heaved the jet up, knees slung over one arm. “Yes,” he said.
Wing giggled and dropped his head back, peering around Drift toward Perceptor. “You?”
“Yes.”
Wing squirmed, delighted. Overcharged, but delighted, snuggling against Drift’s chassis until they hit the onramp for the ship.
“Look!” he giggled. “I didn’t blow up.”
“No,” Drift said, almost patiently. “You didn’t.”
“I’m a good jet,” Wing whispered, drowsily, the words fading into a satisfied chirr.
Drift exchanged a glance with Perceptor, shaking his head, as Wing fell into recharge, snuggled against Drift as the other mech walked. Perceptor nodded back. “Yes,” the red Autobot said, quietly. “We’ll talk later.”
[***]
“Almost envy him,” Drift murmured, standing by the berth on which the jet sprawled. Wing purred in his recharge, his engines at a comforted idle, one hand slack across his abdominal plating. As they watched, one nacelle pinion shifted, as though seeking a more comfortable positioning.
“Yes,” Perceptor said, stooping to coil the last of the cable .
“Ours,” Drift said.
Another nod. “He knows it.”
“Not enough,” Drift said. He leaned forward, one knee landing on the berth next to Wing. He caught that wrist on the jet’s abdomen, swinging the slack arm over the jet’s head.
Wing stirred, his hips rolling back on the berth, optic shutters cracking. “Mmmmmm,” Wing hummed.
Drift ducked down, pressing his mouth against Wing’s, waiting until the lip plates shifted under his, warming and softening into a kiss. The optics onlined, a soft gold glow limning Drift’s cheeks.
Drift broke the kiss, pressing Wing’s wrist against the berth over the jet’s head, optics flicking up to where Perceptor had moved to the head of the berth.
“Good morning,” Wing said, worming under Drift’s weight.
“Not yet,” Drift said. He gave a signal, and Perceptor dropped a loop of cable around the jet’s wrist, tugging upward sharply as Drift brought the second wrist up to meet it.
Wing tipped his head back, curious. “Drift…?”
Drift took advantage of the bared, uptilted throat, dropping his mouth down onto the exposed cables. Wing squeaked, upper spinal struts arching into Drift’s chassis. Drift’s hands slicked down the exposed sides. curling over the seams in the armor.
Wing shivered against him, optics looking up the length of Perceptor’s standing frame. “Perceptor?”
“Wing,” Perceptor answered, his hands twisting the cable tighter around Wing’s wrists. He tugged them out further, then looked up, contemplating the beams across the ceiling.
Drift bit at a throat cable. Wing yelped. “D-did I do something wrong?”
“No,” Drift muttered, lifting his face from Wing’s throat. A droplet of energon, like amethyst, glistened on his mouthplates. “But you’re ours.”
“I am,” Wing said, his optics suddenly solemn.
Drift pushed back to his knees, as Perceptor tugged upward on Wing’s bound wrists, dragging him to the edge of the berth. Drift stood up, reaching for the end of the cable as Perceptor flung it over a beam, hauling on it, as Perceptor lifted Wing up, so that the small jet balanced on the foreplates of his feet, on the floor just by the edge of the berth. Perceptor took advantage, sliding his hands down the arms, teasing into the underarm gaps in the armor. Wing whimpered, leaning back into the touch.
Drift secured the knot, then stepped closer, his hip bumping Wing’s shoulder, one hand coming down to cup the audial flare. Wing tipped his head, nuzzling against the hand, his mouth reaching for the hip, glossa moving to trace a line between the white and black, where the heavy armor joined the lighter meshmail. Drift twisted his hip into Wing’s range, the jet’s mouth searching for the projection of his interface hatch, sliding the nasal of his helm over it, exventing a sharp warm pant of air against Drift.
Drift thought of this—willingness, openness—and Trailbreaker. Or Hoist. A growl built in his throat, his fingers dropping to the base of the helm, teasing along the back cables, the directional spines of Wing’s folded flight panels.
Drift dropped to his knees on the berth, mouth finding Wing’s again, his hands stroking over the nacelles, as Perceptor’s wrapped around from behind, sliding over the pelvic span, down the silver fronts of Wing’s thighs.
Part of Drift knew Wing adored this, loved being the center of attention, loved touch, loved being wanted. And he was happy to want, happy to touch, to give Wing the attention he wanted, if it meant that Wing was his.
Perceptor moved, kicking Wing’s ankles, spreading the feet till the jet’s leg’s were in a wide straddle. “Stay.”
Wing nodded obediently, shivering at the sudden coolness behind him as Perceptor stepped away, his EM field’s absence palpable. One of Drift’s hands crept around the back, tugging at the wing panels, his other hand still holding, loosely, the end of the cable, controlling Wing’s arms like a pulley. Wing released the folded panels, whimpering into the kiss.
Perceptor returned, dropping something onto the berth before bending behind the jet, pushing the footplates farther apart. Wing broke the kiss, tipping his head down, fingers twining around the cable overhead to help keep his balance. Drift grinned, peering between the jet’s spraddled legs, as Perceptor pushed his rifle between the jet’s feet, forcing his legs apart. Wing looked up, uncomprehending, and Drift’s smile grew edged. “Ours,” he said.
Wing tried to squirm, but the position limited his range of motion. His hips made a small, intricate wriggle, stopped abruptly by one of Perceptor’s hand, hard on his haunches, sliding forward, then, around his hips, between his thighs. Drift purred, reaching between them, fingers tangling with Perceptor’s for a moment, before shifting to open Wing’s interface hatch. His fingers scraped roughly over Wing’s equipment covers, laughing at the way the jet squirmed, hot and wanting, against his hand.
Perceptor reached past him, picking up the small box he’d laid on the berth, uncoiling leads. Drift recognized it, suddenly: a pulse-rifle charging pack. He cocked one supraoribital ridge, and got an enigmatic smile in return, a look that seemed to say, ‘you’ll see.’
Perceptor laid one of the leads on a wingpanel, one thumb moving with a scientist’s precision, rheo’ing up the charging pack.
“Oh!” Wing arched back, the wingpanel flaring out almost involuntarily, hands clutching at the cable over his head.
“Hurt?” Perceptor’s voice betrayed nothing.
A quick, insistent shake of the head, as though the jet didn’t quite trust himself to words.
“Good.” Another flick of the rheo, another gasp as the current raced over the sensitive flightsystems. Drift’s engines revved, mouth parted, simply watching, and aroused enough simply by watching, by hearing.
Perceptor caught Drift’s gaze, over Wing’s shoulder, repositioning the charge lead. Wing squirmed again, a delicious cry tearing from his vocalizer, his hands curling uselessly against the cable. Wing’s optics drooped languorously closed, as the current slithered through his systems.
“Beautiful,” Drift breathed, and Wing whimpered again, optics flaring under their lidded shutters.
“Yes,” Perceptor agreed, clamping the charge pack to his chassis with a magnet, freeing a hand to slide between the jet’s thighs again. His fingers curled around the valve’s rim, tickling at it until it released with a soft click, coaxed into yielding. Perceptor’s gaze met Drift’s and they exchanged some signal. Drift released the cable, giving slack to the elevation of Wing’s wrists, and Perceptor caught the jet’s arms, pushing him down, bent forward over the berth, legs still spread by the rifle’s length.
Wing caught his weight on his elbows, trying to crane his head over his shoulder as Perceptor slicked a hand down his hip, over the rarely-exposed segment of the top of his thighs. Perceptor’s touch went from a harsh rake to a light, almost brushlike caress, both of which sent delicious tremors over Wing’s frame. Perceptor’s hand probed between the legs, at the exposed, vulnerable valve, fingers teasing around the rim until Wing felt his hips twitch back, wanting, inviting more. A soft growl, and a sudden warm pressure of a digit pushing into the valve’s silky darkness.
Wing’s mouthplates parted, around a silent sound, optics widening as Perceptor pushed another finger in, beside the first, his optics pinning Drift’s gaze. Drift was rapt, shifting to his knees, still holding the cable like a leash, one hand clutching at Wing’s bound hands, tangling with the fingers. Wing’s body twitched, squirming, his mouth shaping a series of squeaks as Perceptor continued to probe his valve, curling his fingers in the jet’s tight valve, coaxing out those delicious sounds and squirms.
They were proving a point: Wing’s desire was theirs, and they wanted him, wanted to control his pleasure, his lust, his want.
“Please,” Wing gasped, his hands clinging to Drift’s. The two exchanged a look over the broad expanse of Wing’s back, his half-flared wings fuzzed with current, riding the edge of an overload Perceptor had balked at completing.
Perceptor nodded, sliding one hand up the small of the jet’s back, the sensitive, rarely-touched metal under the wing panels, to brace Wing as his other hand began working in earnest at the valve, the fingers curling, coaxing at the lining, rubbing over the sensor nodes.
Wing sank his dentae into Drift’s dark thigh, the metal muffling a cry on the verge of shattering into ecstasy, his bound hands clutching helplessly on empty air. Drift gave a soft growl, his own spike, inches from the jet’s cheek, pinging him insistently.
The body bucked, spinal struts rolling in a sharp, whipcrack wave, charge crackling visibly over the wingspan, as the overload tore through him. His knee servos buckled, and for a moment he was upright only through the presence of Perceptor’s hand in his valve, holding up the shuddering body as a wash of fluid cascaded, hot and thin, from the valve.
Perceptor had a feral snarl on his face, triumphant, when they exchanged glances again. Drift jerked his chin, handing over the cable like a leash. Perceptor nodded, tugging it backward, slowly releasing his hand from the valve, as though rapt at the way each movement, each tiny gesture, sent shivers down Wing’s body.
Drift launched himself off the berth, disappearing behind the two. Not that Wing was in any condition to track the white mech: his systems were still cascading charge and bliss over him.
Drift returned to prop a large mirror on the berth, tilting his head as he adjusted the angle. “Watch yourself,” he said, turning to Wing.
“Drift, I--,”
Drift cut him off with a shake of the head, seating himself on the berth, wriggling forward, sliding his legs between Wing’s, one hand seeking the spike cover.
“Drift!” Wing cried, as his spike released into the other mech’s hand, slick and hard and ready.
“Watch.” Drift curled his palm around the spike, stroking up the length slowly, letting the lubricant slick under his fingers. Perceptor shifted, one hand around Wing’s chassis to stabilize him, pushing his helm between a shoulder nacelle and Wing’s audial flares, turning the jet’s head to the mirror. The gold optics tried to stray, embarrassed at his own wantonness, even as his body arched and twisted, hips rocking to push his spike eagerly into Drift’s hand.
The hand on his spike became the center of his world for a long moment, as he tracked its pressure over his nodes, pulling, sliding, sending quivers of pleasure through him, turning him into an instrument so very willing to be played. His gold optics half-lidded, shyly captivated by the sight of his own lust-ridden frame, the two mechs focused on him: Drift’s ventilations synched with his, sharp and short, as his hand worked Wing’s spike, while Perceptor, behind him, stroked his free hand over Wing’s hip.
“Drift,” he gasped, his tone warning. “I’m…stop.”
Drift gave a soft laugh. “No.”
Wing squirmed, trying to twist his spike from Drift’s maddening hand. “But—“
“Yes. Watch.”
As though the word were permission, the overload charge cracked over Wing’s spike, and he arched back, head lolling against Perceptor’s shoulder, his spike jumping in Drift’s hand as it gave a sharp, fast spurt of transfluid, spattering over Drift’s chassis. His optics were locked on the mirror, his own body rigid with the overload, the silvery droplets, Drift’s lust-tinged smile.
He sagged, trusting Perceptor with his weight, letting the ripples of ecstasy run roughshod over his systems, current cascading from circuit to circuit, his processor swimming with bliss.
“No,” Drift said, pushing between him, rising to a kiss. “Not done with you, yet.” He took Wing’s weight, arms wrapping around the chassis as Perceptor moved, bending his knees. Wing gasped, feeling a spike nose into his valve. His legs wobbled, weakened of charge, but any protest was swallowed by Drift’s mouth, warm, hungry, on his.
“Ours,” Perceptor said, his voice barely a whisper, hands sliding down the spraddled thighs, fingertips fanned out.
Wing felt Drift’s mouth curve into a smile against his, and the other mech’s body shifted closer. Wing cried out, feeling another pressure, presence, against his valve. He shivered, cycling his calipers wide, and felt Drift’s spike slide into him, next to Perceptor’s. He barely dared to ventilate, cooling his systems only in short, shallow pants, as his valve struggled to stay wide, the lining stretched, the sensor cilia spread like fine velvet, taut over the intruding mass.
No one moved, for a long moment, simply resting, taking the moment. Drift began, slowly shifting his spike, sliding it in the valve, the underside rubbing Perceptor’s, in a gentle rhythm. He sped up, as Wing’s calipers adjusted, still slow, still gentle and even. Perceptor’s hands clawed at Wing’s thighs, and he too began to move, in a counterpoint tempo, slower than Drift’s, flooding Wing with a complex sycope.
Wing didn’t even bother trying to stand, letting the two, their hands, their hipframes, support him, carry his weight as they were carrying his desires on a surging sea of charge and desire. He hung between them, bound wrists limp with surrender overhead, letting their spikes take him, their mouths write hot glyphs of want and need over his mouth, his shoulders, his throat, marking him invisibly more surely than anything, that he was theirs, belonged to them, wanted to belong to them.
His whole body shuddered, as if wrung out, and a wash of fluid cascaded over the spikes within him, a climax building in him, through his systems. He shuttered his optics, sinking not into himself, but into the awareness of them inside him, around him, their need and hunger, their mounting pleasure—things more potent, more intoxicating and arousing than any kiss or any caress.
Drift’s dentae bit, suddenly, into a throat cable and Wing felt the hard release of transfluid inside him, the sharp crackle of current overwhelming him to the point that he felt like he was falling, tumbling, buffeted by Perceptor’s own release a moment later. Transfluid scalding hot, flooded him, stretching his valve unable to escape. He cried out, almost a keen of pure pleasure, his entire body trembling around, between them, shuddering him into unconsciousness.
[***]
Wing’s optics opened slowly, blearily. He was on the berth, laid on his back, the room dimmed as though it were recharge cycle. Drift and Perceptor sat on opposite sides of him. Drift reached over, wringing a cleansing cloth in a basin of hot water, before turning to swab it gently up Wing’s thigh. The touch was neutral, not sexual, not intended to arouse.
“He’s awake,” Perceptor noted. He had one of Wing’s wrists over his thighs, examining it for damage, buffing out scratches from the binding cable.
“I am,” Wing echoed, his voice crackling from his undercharged vocalizer.
Perceptor turned, smoothly, and pressed an energon cube into his free hand.
Wing struggled to his elbows, Drift moving to help. “What was this for?”
Drift gave a half-smile, leaning forward to plant a kiss on Wing’s helm crest. “You’re ours.”
It struck Wing—and he couldn’t imagine why it hadn’t before—that they felt jealous, threatened by the others on the station. They shouldn’t. It was almost ridiculous. And for a moment he felt a pang of distress that would have soured the moment. He let it pass, taking a slow, measured sip of the energon, feeling it race over his systems like warm, liquid silk. And felt a smile, wicked, curl over his mouthplates.
“You know,” he said, batting his optics coyly, “If this is what I get for daring to ask another mech to dance…?”
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*is incoherent*
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And Wing being so adorkable....love it! ^^
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That was SOOO hot!!!
*is a happy op*
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and using the rifle as a spreader? and the charge pack? GUH! Holy hell, woman! I has a happy in my-- well, you get the idea. >_>
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*reads again*
So. Damn. HOT!
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Hahahahahaha! Yeah, you got 'em, Wing. ;DDDDDD
<3333333333333333
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Great work. Always captivates me and I can't look away, especially with this threesome in the Halcyon AU. (Even though Percy feels a little left out sometimes). Very very hot stuff.
And the claiming, dom!Drift and Percy were wonderfully written.
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“You’re not going to blow up, are you?”
“I…would prefer not to?”
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That was my favorite part. I love humor even more than porn. :3 ♥