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shadow_vector2012-05-03 06:40 am
After Innocence
NC-17
IDW pre-war
Gasket/Drift
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wicked3659's request, Drift losing his virginity. Of sorts because I wanted this to be consensual.
It wasn’t something you wasted energy to remember, down here in the gutters: the first time a mech shoved you against a wall, hand tearing at your crotch. There were more important things to remember, always—what level guards were bribable and with what, location of the latest haven, what shape that part was you needed for self-repairs, where all your hideyholes were, a whole host of things necessary to survival.
Interfacing wasn’t one of them. It was just a thing that happened sometimes, like an arrest, like bleeders, because you were in the wrong place, and alone.
So when Gasket leaned over, one night, about two decacycles after meeting him, pressing his face against Drift’s, Drift simply dropped to his back, going limp, optics distant.
Gasket froze. “I-is something wrong?”
Disappointed, Drift thought. But that was nothing new. Not really. Just that he stupidly kept thinking things might be different. “No.” He looked up, optics steady. “Come on. Get it over with.”
Gasket looked hurt, snatching his hands back as though scalded. “Drift. I wasn’t aware…I mean, I thought you, you know, liked me?”
“With you, aren’t I?” The question seemed…dumb. Why would he expose himself to Gasket, let himself recharge, helpless and vulnerable, in the same room, if he didn’t trust the mech?
“I meant,” Gasket frowned, “more than that. Liked me. That way.”
“What way?” Drift shrugged, sitting up.
“That way. Intimately.”
Drift’s turn to frown. “No one who’s ever had me has pretended to like me before. If you want it, do it. Owe you enough for it anyway.”
Gasket reached over, one hand stroking Drift’s cheek, the blue gaze meeting his. “No, Drift.” He shook his head. “It’s supposed to be enjoyable. For both sides.” The fingertip brushed along the line between his cheek and armor.
Drift snorted, wanting to pull away from the touch, the strange, warm tingling of the armored finger against him. “Right.”
“I hope you let me show you, sometime,” Gasket said, lifting his hand. Drift felt the absence of touch like an ache, but before he could summon something to say, Gasket had turned his back to Drift, flopping down heavily on his side.
[***]
Drift puzzled over his words for a decacycle. He supposed—maybe—it must have felt good to those who had taken him, shoved him against a wall, thrust inside him. Or else…why do it?
Gasket stayed distant from him, from time to time giving him a sort of sad look, but not daring anything more.
Drift squatted down beside him, mind made up, mouth set in a hard line.
“What’s up?” Gasket summoned a smile, warm and friendly, as if there was no tension between them.
Drift tried to make words, but he couldn’t even think of what to say. Instead, he leaned forward, clumsily bumping his mouth against Gasket’s.
“I thought…,” Gasket tilted his head, but his mouth parted against Drift’s, the lip plates silky and inviting. Drift felt a shiver of something like tension, silver and coruscating, down his frame, into the pit of his belly.
“Changed my mind,” Drift said.
“Oh.” Gasket’s hands came up, cautiously brushing at Drift’s shoulders, as though not sure he was allowed to touch. The touches sent ghostly caresses over his sensornet. Drift felt a sound build in his throat, a sort of whimper of wanting.
But wanting what?
He leaned closer, knowing only that he wanted more. More contact, more of the soft, shivery touches. His own hand hovered over Gasket’s shoulder, the pale yellow armor almost calling to him.
Gasket twisted, pulling them both down to the chipped concrete pavement. “I wish we had a better place,” he murmured, his blue optics almost sad.
Drift gave a glance around, shrugging. “Safe enough.”
“More to it than safety,” Gasket said, in that soft, longing voice that made Drift wonder about the life the other had known before he’d fallen to the gutters. He pushed Drift’s shoulder back, gently, sliding his chassis armor over Drift’s. Drift tensed, forcing himself to relax, mouth in a tense smile. Gasket leaned in for another kiss, starting shallow and shy, and probing deeper, his glossa flirting between Drift’s lipplates. Drift mimicked him, warily, optics distant and open and uncertain.
Gasket gave a quiet sound, a laugh, breaking the kiss in slow stages. “Feels good?”
Drift hesitated, weighing the answer. “…yeah.”
“I’ll have to try harder.” Gasket grinned, pushing back, sliding down Drift’s battered chassis, pausing to plant little kisses on the dented plates, until he knelt over Drift’s interface hatch. He looked up, his blue optics a glow in the dimness, lowering his mouth, to trace the hatch’s seams with his glossa. Drift twitched, his entire frame tensing, hands scraping into claws on the pavement. He felt his sensornet swirling, tingling and warm and electric, and a strange pressure under the metal.
Gasket opened the hatch, and Drift hissed tension, forcing away the memories. “Tell me,” Gasket said quietly, “if you want me to stop.”
Drift nodded, flattening his palms against the floor.
A release, then a sensation of air and movement, and then heat, Gasket’s mouth circling Drift’s spike.
Drift groaned, hips pushing up into the contact. Gasket lay a palm on his thigh, lifting his head, his mouth sliding down the length of the spike. A rush of sensation, Gasket’s glossa circling the spike’s tip before he released it.
“All right?” Gasket asked, voice husky.
A sharp vent of heated air from Drift’s cooling system, as he gave an unsteady nod. Another flash of Gasket’s smile, like the sun Drift only rarely saw, and the mech bent again, returning his attention to the spike.
Drift moaned, head lolling back, gritting against the floor behind it. His optics stared into the shadows above him, unseeing, blank, his entire concentration on the impossibly delicate sensations that seemed to ripple out from his spike, washing color and shivery tingles of feeling over his net, and ebbing back, a rising pressure, pushing, building, something rising toward a climax.
He knew what would happen, of course. But he’d only seen it, felt it, from the other side: that final stab into his valve, the scalding flood of silver fluid. He knew what it felt like: shame and pain. But this was something entirely different, something sweet and powerful, rising through his entire frame, an electron sea rising to a tide, racing to crash against something.
It hit, suddenly, a maelstrom of sensation, hot and tingling, every color and sound seeming to slam over Drift, the tension in his pelvic region bursting through his spike, liquid and hot like quicksilver.
He wasn’t aware his body had arced up, shoulders and hips on the floor, arms rigid, until he released, backplate hitting the ground.
A laugh, vibrating up his charged spike, as Gasket released it. He paused, meeting Drift’s gaze, glossa running a slow circuit of his lipplates before he pushed forward, into a chaste kiss. The blue optics hovered over Drift’s lowlight red. “Yes?”
Drift’s hands, uncertain, reached to Gasket’s shoulders, and beyond, to graze the kibble behind. He tried a smile, but his whole frame felt weak, wrung out, and he felt floating in some delicious torpor. “Yes.”
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But aww, Gasket is such a sweetheart. Who better to instruct him in all the best parts of interfacing? I love how you handled this situation, Gasket's gentleness, Drift's hesitation, and how the whole experience was colored in an unusual way because his preconceived notions are far different than ours.
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so touching fic *.*
(sorry for bad english ._.