Practiced Hands

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW
Trailbreaker/Wing, Wing/Drift
sticky, misuse of forcefields, and whatever that kink is called where someone gets off on their partner having sex with someone else.  I dunno.

Trailbreaker’s broad back struck against the wall with a loud clunk, his hands held away, apart from the small white jet who was pressing up against him, nuzzling against his throat.  “You…uh, sure this is okay?”

Wing purred, strong, supple hands finding delicate seams in Trailbreaker’s chassis armor, thumbs tracing the join of his windscreen to his chest plating. His gold optics glowed with heavy-lidded desire. “More than okay,” Wing said, huskily.

“I…I mean your friends.”  The one with more swords than hands, in particular.  Not a mech Trailbreaker wanted  coming after him. He was allergic to sharp objects. 

The mouth parted, from a nuzzle to a sharp nip on a throat energon line,palm flat on his windscreen. “Oh yes.  They approve of this.”  One hand skimmed around Trailbreaker’s hipframe, pulling their bodies together. 

“Approve? You have to ask their permission?” That seemed…was the small jet some sort of slave? 

A soft chuckle. “Not quite. They suggested it to me.” 

Trailbreaker’s hands hovered closer to the wings, attracted, despite something most mechs would call ‘common sense’ or ‘sense of self-preservation’. “Suggested.” Was Wing the one who had to be talked into it?

A nod, the face turning up to his, nipping at the chinplate before drooping into a pout.  “You don’t want me?”

Hrrrrrgh. That was something easily filed under ‘Ridiculous Questions’.  How could anyone not want the sleek white jet, even without Wing’s body pressed up against him, the optics longing and importunate? The wings flared beneath his tentative touch, pushing against his hands, just before Wing dropped to one knee, his mouth blazing a hot line down Trailbreaker’s chassis, fingers lingering, eddying in the wake, as though fascinated by the mass of the heavy armor that Trailbreaker needed to shield his field generator nodes. 

Trailbreaker squeaked, his hips bouncing  back against the wall, as the jet’s mouth found his interface hatch, his glossa sending tingles of raw current that seemed to run into the hatch’s edges. His hands kept a light grip over the wings, feeling the sensitive sensorskin seem to shift and slide under his fingertips. 

“Because,” Wing murmured, pressing his mouth against the hatch so that the words vibrated against the metal, “I want you.” 

Trailbreaker groaned, his entire body twitching with want. Normally, he went to that bar and nobody even talked to him. Tonight? Jet. All over him. And he was not complaining. 

He felt his interface hatch click open, one quick gesture of the jet’s thumb, before that hand returned to skim the red armor on his thigh.  A pause, and then a long lick up that thigh that turned into an audial-flare sort of nuzzle, spreading the current from the charged glossa over the armor like a fine layer.

His spike, mortifyingly, had released from its cover, dark metal shiny with lubricant, jutting like a sharp testament to his desire into the air between them. 

The gold optics glowed, glancing upward to the red visor, glinting with sharp want, before he moved forward, and Trailbreaker felt a warm mouth encircle the tip of his spike. The glossa probed at it, sliding over sensitive nodes.

There had to be a downside to this. There had to be a really big negative that Trailbreaker wasn’t seeing. Because this kind of thing? Didn’t happen to him. Exotic, beautiful mechs didn’t just…come up to him and want interfacing. It just didn’t happen. 

Still, there Wing was, on one knee between Trailbreaker’s feet, hands curling over the red banded thighs, his mouth encircling Trailbreaker’s spike, optics lidded in a sort of blissful concentration.  He could feel the mouth’s heat, the sharp current of the glossa across his nodes, tripping through the lubricant.  This…didn’t happen.

But it was happening, and his spike didn’t care about probabilities. It surged in the other’s mouth, rigid with arousal, as his hands moved to stroke gently down the back of the helm, the scalloped edges of the audial flares. The overload seemed to race through him, pushing, faster, and faster, flooding away conscious thought, doubt, anything other than a pure tide of pleasure building, needing, wanting release.  His knee servos trembled, as though uncertain of his weight. 

Trailbreaker gave a strangled sound, as the charge burst through his systems, fluid in one hot spurt from his spike, arching off the wall, optics fixed, as though glued, to the rapt expression on Wing’s face, down the length of his chassis.

Wing stilled, waiting as the last quivering aftershocks worked out of Trailbreaker’s frame, before slowly releasing the spike, gently licking along the shaft as he withdrew, dropping back onto one heel.

Trailbreaker hooked his hands under the swells of the shoulder nacelles, hauling the jet up to his feet, his mouth searching for Wing’s, glossa pushing past the lush mouthplates, tasting his own transfluid in the jet’s warm mouth.  Wing gave a soft whimper, and Trailbreaker bent lower, hands sliding to the jet’s hips, lifting the smaller mech off the ground.

The berth. He wanted to get the jet on the berth.  Maybe then he could believe this was happening, when he could feel the weight under him, the familiar space of his berth around them. 

The sleek silver thighs stretched around his broad hips, arms wrapping around Trailbreaker’s neck, pulling into the kiss, squirming his body against the larger frame as Trailbreaker moved, with a desperate  haste, toward the berth. 

He lowered the jet down, and Wing detached himself, reluctantly, lying along the berth’s cool metal, gold optics lidded and languorous. Beautiful, Trailbreaker thought, as a dreamy smile stretched over Wing’s fresh-kissed lip plates. “Why me?” he asked, the words coming out more demanding than he’d intended. 

He expected the beautiful smile to shatter, but it spread, like warmed oil. “Why not you?” 

Trailbreaker frowned, hand opening and closing, wanting to touch.  “I just…,” he gave a shrug.  “This isn’t normal. This doesn’t usually happen.”

Wing grinned. “Maybe that’s why.” He reached one hand out for Trailbreaker’s, the other resting across his crest. “But the truth is, it’s because you are kind.”

“…kind.”

A tilt of the head, one knee rising up, turning the jet’s body into a series of captivating lines and contours.  “Even after all the war, even after everything, you are kind.” A sadder curl to the smile. “That is no small thing, Trailbreaker.”

It seemed small enough, but the lithe contours of the jet’s frame on his berth overrode any further debate: Trailbreaker dropped on knee on the bed, moving to hover over the smaller white frame, feeling excitement build within him, again. Already. His spike tingled, hydraulics firing, as he bent lower, covering Wing like a shadow. 

He ducked down, meeting the jet’s upraised mouth for another kiss, one palm flat on the berth, the other greedily exploring the sleek body beneath him. Wing squirmed under his touch, goading, electric.

No, Trailbreaker thought. Not this fast. This might…never happen again for him. He was determined to enjoy it.  Without really thinking, he activated his forcefield, pushing down against the jet’s writhing, twisting body.

Wing gasped, his weight pressed against the berth by the forcefield, like a water-smoothed stone, against him. Trailbreaker gave a nervous smile. “You like that?” His tone was half-teasing, half asking. 

Wing tried to squirm, the forcefield’s contours holding him flat, as Trailbreaker’s generators compensated effortlessly for the jet’s movements. Trailbreaker felt a triumphant growl bubble in his throat.  Trailbreaker sent a roiling pulse over the forcefield, a ripple of ions dancing over the field’s surface.  Wing gave a sharp little cry, hands trying—and failing—to reach Trailbreaker’s body. Even that seemed to arouse the jet, his ventilations gusting in short, hot pants over the field’s surface. 

Trailbreaker bent lower, pushing the jet’s legs aside with a pulse of the field, letting it slide over the berth as he found Wing’s mouth again.  His spike leapt at the thought, the silver thighs revealing the hidden catch of Wing’s interface hatch. He let his visor roam up the jet’s body, to the amber optics, lambent and open, watching him, and being watched. The jet enjoyed being watched, ravished with a gaze: Trailbreaker could feel the rising charge of the EM field licking over his forceshield. 

He reached, releasing the catch, fingers grazing over the equipment covers. His spike pushed cool lubricant as he felt the excited quiver of the valve cover, releasing against his fingers. 

He grinned into the kiss, levering himself between Wing’s legs, sending a burst of the forcefield under the jet, boosting the hips to meet his as he leaned to sink his spike into the willing, wanting valve.

Trailbreaker edged in, feeling the calipers of the smaller-frame defaults releasing and twitching aside to accommodate his larger girth. Wing’s mouth pulled against his, gasping, in slow little bursts, as the spike pushed the valve’s plushwet lining aside. 

“All right?” Trailbreaker murmured, pulling away from the kiss, letting his optical visor have a freer field of vision of the jet’s pinned, quivering body.

“Yes,” Wing breathed, twitching one last time as the spike seated itself fully in his valve.  The mouth quivered, uncertain. “I want to touch you,” he said, voice small, shy.

A smile played at  the corners of Trailbreaker’s mouth. “No,” he said, worming his hips over Wing’s, feeling the mech writhe against the forcefield.

“But…?”

“But nothing,” Trailbreaker said. “Just…feel.” 

The melting way the jet whimpered, Trailbreaker felt a burst of triumph, as he began thrusting—slowly, at first—against the valve, feeling the soft, velvety lining slide over his spike.  He let the forcefield hold him over Wing, a hard bubble of energy, keeping their bodies separate.  Wing’s hands pawed at the forcefield’s edges, frustrated, longing, importunate.

Trailbreaker’s grin grew lopsided, wry.  This didn’t happen to him. Ever.  They called him when they needed him, nothing more.  Nobody wanted him for him.  Nobody wanted him, period.  He wanted this to last, to be special. He wanted to make this powerful and real.  

He pushed closer, revving the field generator, expanding it to envelope Wing, pushing the hard shell over him, and bringing the jet into the close, tight atmosphere of the forcefield, in which everything was under Trailbreaker’s control.

Wing’s hands took advantage of their sudden, temporary freedom, wrapping around Trailbreaker’s broad chassis, fingertips playing with the kibble between the larger mech’s shoulders. 

Trailbreaker grinned, pausing in his thrusts, rheoing with the field, sending waves of pressure over the white armor, pressing and feathering over the wings.  The jet arched, optics lidding, sinking into it, obedient, in a way, to the command to just feel.  The field’s pressure and temperature licked over him, warm and cool, hard and then gossamer-soft, a thousand minute caresses. 

Silver thighs strained over his hips, an open hint, wanting, demanding, the body sagging back, trusting him entirely, surrendering to the field.  Trailbreaker cupped the jet’s helm, tipping the optics to meet his own, as he began moving again, at first slow, even rocks in the valve.  He wrapped his arms around the jet, sitting up abruptly, splaying Wing’s thighs over his own as he knelt, using the forcefield to take the jet’s weight.  Wing clung to Trailbreaker, fingers curling over the clear edges of the windscreen, rapt with sensation.

For all his attempts at restraint, the climax came too quickly, too soon, overwhelming Trailbreaker’s systems, current dancing through his circuitry. Wing keened, the sound swirling in the confined of the forcefield, adding a high resonance to sing through both their bodies. 

Trailbreaker cut the field, hands gentle on the trembling, charge-staticked wings, laying the jet gently down on the berth, arranging himself beside, propped on one elbow. “Thank you,” he said, suddenly shy.

Wing gave a delicious, sated purr. “I think I should be thanking you.”

Trailbreaker frowned, feeling the last ripples of ecstasy fade from his net. “I should let you go.”  His palm slid up the jet’s chassis.  “I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

A shrug. “Don’t want it to end.” Because, he knew, it would never happen again.

“Who says it has to?” Wing rolled over, curling against the broad chassis, optics rich with promise. 

[***]

Drift stood up the instant the door cycled open, and in a flash, Wing found himself shoved against the wall, the other mech’s mouth hard on his, hands hard and possessive on his chassis, his hipframe, as if reclaiming his own.

Drift pulled away, growling. “I can taste him.”

“Yes.” 

Drift  jerked Wing off the wall, spinning him around, twisting one arm behind his back as he ground his chest into the flightpanels.  “He took you.” Drift’s arousal battered against Wing’s EM field, feral, demanding.

“As you wanted.”

A grunt. “Enjoy yourself?” And for a moment, the voice slipped, gruffness giving away to a concerned tenderness.

Wing smiled, even though the gesture was hidden against the wall. “Very much.”

“Good.” A hand retightened over his wrist, the other sliding down the back of one thigh. Drift’s mouth found a throat cable, nipping.  “Mine now.”

“Yes. Always.” Wing felt the tremor run through Drift’s boddy at the words, the promise behind them. Interfacing was sharing pleasure to Wing—with Drift, he had something so much more than that. 

“Make you prove it.” The words vibrated through Wing’s throat, the hand snaking between his thighs.

“Yes.” The word was breathless, eager. He knew that Drift love him, fretted for his pleasure, bending his wants to indulge Wing’s small desires.  It was an honor all the more sacred for being Drift’s first.

“Mine,” Drift repeated, possessive.

Wing turned, Drift releasing his grip reluctantly.  Wing cupped the glowering face, kissing the snarl from the lipplates. “Mine,” he echoed, softly, optics open and accepting.

The mouth softened, hands finding new holds on him. Hands unlike Trailbreaker’s—knowing and practiced.  There was a fascination with the awkward, the new, exploring.  But there was also this—knowing, adoring touches, skillful worship.  Wing was so glad—unutterably happy—that Drift didn’t make him choose.  

“Not going to save you,” Drift said, pulling the hip frame against his.

His own hands, equally practiced, knowing, sliding along the scabbards. “I’d hope not,” Wing returned, mouth quirking in a tease.

Comments

[http://users.livejournal.com/__wilderness__/]

*purrs* Oh this was just delicious.

[ultrarodimus.livejournal.com]

XD Interesting use of Trailbreaker's forcefield.

^_^ I liked this very much

[femme4jack.livejournal.com]

That was the perfect reward at the end of the day. I adore that Wing wants Trailbreaker because he is a nice guy. But I think if other mechs had an idea of just what he could do with those forcefields in the berth, he might find himself with a lot more company.

[mmouse15.livejournal.com]

Oh, that was nice. I needed something fun to read at the end of this very long day, so I thank you for the read that was not only fun, but sexy and sweet.

[velvet-infinity.livejournal.com]

That was so yummy!!

I feel bad for TB though... poor guy. He really Is kind and sweet!! LOVED the use of his forcefield in this!

[tainry.livejournal.com]

Rawr!!!! 8DDD

[darkeyes-17.livejournal.com]

Tonight? Jet. All over him. And he was not complaining....best...line....EVER! And nor should you complain TB :D

Trailbreaker's uncertainty really made this piece, as is Wings assurance. Who would say no to a sexy Wing anyway?

Another awesome fic. Enjoyed Drift's posessiveness ;D

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

guh... this turned out so awesome! Drift's reassertion kink is delicious, and very sweet, for the way he manages to make Wing's sweet, innocent wants for everyone *work* so nicely!

And Breaker's almost dorky innocence... I want to snuggle him so hard! Holy crap, they're sexy together!

Thank you for this. So awesome!

[flybystardancer.livejournal.com]

Guh. Hot.

(And an bit of why-do-I-even-know-this, the word you're looking for is probably cuckolding.)