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niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shadow_vector2012-08-15 02:35 pm
Sweet Electric
IDW
Drift/Wing
sticky, possible consent issue (dosed with aphrodisiacs)
An attempt at a kink meme fill....not sure it worked?
Drift scowled at the bright clean walls of Wing’s quarters. Wing had been gone…forever, it felt like, though the shadows from the artificial light of the underground city hadn’t moved at all. Which somehow just made the time seem to crawl even slower.
Every wall was ornate, as everything here, carved, etched, inlaid with metals of a half-dozen colors—all the unnecessary labor and effort of those who had nothing better to do with long hours than gild lilies. He was used to the heavy architecture of a battlecruiser, the only decoration in the plates of reinforced metal were the long rows of rivets, and the thin beads of caulk.
All this made him edgy, imagining all these unnecessary hours.
Energy stirred restlessly through him. Wing had left him, gone off to some meeting even the jet had labeled as boring, promising to be back.
It felt like an age ago. Drift had memorized the tessellated pattern on the walls, sounded them for weaknesses and then thrown himself truculently onto Wing’s berth for possibly the least restful nap in the history of recharge.
And still Wing wasn’t back.
And to top it all off? He was itchy. Itchy. All the new joints and plates the Crystal City medics had replaced rubbed over each other whenever he moved, the new sensors overtuned and sensitive.
Oil. He needed oil. His fingers scratched idly at a plate, friction heated, but brought no relief, only edging the itching into something like pain.
Wing had to have some around here. Just, well, anything to coat the wear-raw plates.
Drift rolled off the berth to the maintenance facility. Everything here, too, was intricately decorated. Even the cleansing cloths had colored and woven patterns. Frag, he thought, staring at an array of ornately shaped and stoppered bottles and tins on the shelves, what he wouldn’t give for the ugly stenciled bare-metal tins of Decepticon basic stores right now.
Smelling didn’t help either, everything had a mix of fragrances that almost dizzied him, reminding him exactly how long it had been since he last refueled.
Drift growled, grabbing a bottle at random, rubbing a few drops between his fingers. The scent was light and clean, the oil spreading easily. Good enough: he dropped to the floor, grabbing a cleansing cloth, and slathered the stuff on his itchy joints, nearly trembling with relief.
Pain he could handle. You didn’t last long as a Decepticon if you were afraid of a little pain. But itching was another thing entirely: a slow, maddening gnawing at the edges of your sensorspan. And with it removed, his hunger shifted to the fore.
Wing had to have stashed something in here. Probably small, probably overfancy. But Wing was too much a creature of comfort to not have something. Drift knew his own quarters had e-rats squirreled away in twenty different places, in advance of the next all-too-common supply shortage.
Drift dug around, finding a small cabinet near the berth. And he had a sudden image of Wing, wrapped in the last diaphanous tendrils of recharge, reaching over to expand the pleasure with a snack. It made Wing just a little less distantly perfect, a little, almost…understandable. Drift felt some of the hard edge of hatred soften.
He pulled out a small box, plain, with simple writing in some script he couldn’t read, pushing aside the other bags and jars and boxes of stuff, covered in brighter colors or patterns or frothing with ribbons. No. The plainest one, the one Wing probably wouldn’t even miss.
He placed one in his mouth, pausing, now that there were no witnesses, to savor it, to feel the flavors melt themselves across his glossa, sweet and complex. It was all new to him, even how complicated they made simple silly candies, but this, at least, he could appreciate.
And the next one, the texture crispier, flavor almost tart. He found himself sighing with pleasure, taking the candy in slow bites, letting the flavors meld and mingle in his mouth.
As he began sampling the third, he heard the sound of the doorlocks from Wing’s front room disengaging. Frag. He hurriedly crammed the last one into his mouth, stuffing the box in the back of the cabinet, feeling suddenly caught out and ashamed.
“Drift?” Wing’s voice, caught in the arched walls of the front room, turning the syllable into a melody. The jet’s footsteps moved towad the berth room. Drift had just enough time to flop himself on his side on the berth, shutting his optics, before the jet’s silhouette was in the doorway. He caught the almost fod smile on Wing’s face from under slitted optics, before Wing stepped in, moving quietly this time. “Drift,” Wing murmured. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect the meeting to go so long.”
Drift feigned a sleepy shrug, pushing to his elbows. He could still taste the last of the candies, the sweetness singing through his systems, in a way almost as potent as high grade.
“I’m sorry if I woke you,” Wing said.
Another shrug. “Bored with sleeping anyway.” True enough.
The smile unclouded on Wing’s face. “I have to go back for one more meeting, but I thought you might like to come with me.”
Drift recoiled. “To a meeting?” Yeah, no thanks.
“Not to the meeting. But it’s in a museum. You could look around.” He fended off Drift’s frown with a quick, “It’s at least different from being here.”
A powerful argument. “All right.” It was better than here. He levered himself off the berth, glossa searching furtively for crumbs of the candy in the corners of his mouth. He took a moment, steadying himself. Wing was…really beautiful. He knew this, and most of the time he kept it at bay with a thin resentment, how dare Wing be so unconsciously beautiful. But sometimes, it struck him with the force of a hammer, leaving him reeling. “Let’s go.”
Wing smiled, and it felt like Drift had had all the air sucked out of his ventilation system. “I really think you’ll like it.”
Drift shrugged, almost a squirm. “Doesn’t matter. Still stuck here.”
The smile dimmed, optics tilting.
Drift frowned, sulking at himself. “Come on. Let’s go.”
[***]
The museum sat in the center of a large, circular plaza, the pavements around it carved with whorls and swirling lines. It seemed restless and restful both at once, the pattern constantly in motion. Wing led him across it, up the bank of steps, each tuned to a different note, ringing a soft progressive scale as they climbed. Everything here, more than it needed to be.
Wing left him in the narthex, after pulling him into a quick embrace that seemed to set Drift’s circuits spinning: warm and plush and alluring. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, but until then, you can at least look around.”
Drift grunted, resenting that that beautiful, pleasurable fuzz was being taken from him. “Fine.” Tease. He glowered, moving off down one of the display wings. Whatever. Fine. He could look around at this stupid old stuff. Stupid old stuff they’d dragged all the way from Cybertron.
Stupid old stuff that back on Cybertron he’d never have been allowed near.
He glowered at the first hallway, piles and piles of sculptures, set up on little daises, with special lights around them, and tiny little placards. Junk. Just carved up junk.
Stupid. He reached the end of the hall, turning, frustrated, feeling more caged in with all this old stuff than in Wing’s quarters. He gave a snarl of frustration, storming over to stare at one of these stupid things, some thing of two mechs fighting. Stupid sculpture from the wall of some…temple to someone or something whose glyphs he didn’t know. Helpful. Right. He felt smarter already.
He turned to the sculpture and froze. They…weren’t fighting. One mech had another pinned, belly to some surface long disappeared, and was spiking him. The first mech’s mouth was open in a shape of desire, optics lidded, halfway in the act of turning back over his shoulder, while the other leaned forward, one hand sliding down the hip, and under the wrist, Drift could just barely glance the spike, just a glimpse of it, entering the other’s valve.
Oh.
He turned, looking at the other sculptures. They were all the same—mechs, in twos or threes or even, rarely, fours, their bodies locked together in shapes of desire and lust.
One caught his attention, mounted from the ceiling: a jet in his alt, holding a grounder, in his root mode, pinned against his belly.
Drift felt his belly seem to liquefy, melting into a liquidy heat, his ventilation picking up.
And over there: A seated mech cupping another’s helm against his exposed valve.
He felt pressure and heat build in his valve, an unfamiliar sensation, the calipers running through a system check that nearly bent him over with want.
He had to get out of here. He had to.
He pushed back to the main room, trying not to look, but his optics always seemed to get caught by something—the arch of a spine, mid-overload, the way one mech’s hips fit so cleanly against another’s, the blissful expression of a face. He was nearly shaking by the time he made it to the main hall, his leg servos quivering, almost as though exhausted.
He’d seen pornography before: Decepticons were hardly innocent. But most of it was crude and violent, and even so, even the best, had never affected him like this. Right. He leaned against a wall, one palm flat, almost needing it for balance. He had to fight his other hand from sliding between his legs, stroking his interface hatch. NO. Not here.
He’d find something else.
He moved forward, finding another display. Colored lights and music. All right. This had to be safe. This had to…hopefully…soothe the almost burning build of desire in his belly.
Blue light washed over him as he stepped under the archway, the lights themselves dimming into indigo shadows. He cycled a vent of air, deeper, trying to relax, trying to ignore the strange tingling pressure in his interface array. Right. Colors. Music. No robots fragging each other, limbs twined together, bodies arched in passion….
Right. No. Here. Stop thinking about that. Think about the way the lights are slowly changing, cycling into violet, now almost rosy purple. Like dawn, he thought. Kind of like dawn in an oxygen-rich atmosphere the way the colors shifted almost imperceptibly through the spectrum. The sound changed, too, a gentle humming that seemed to vibrate against his underframe. It felt…good. Really good. And for a long moment Drift just stood there, letting the sound and light wash over him. He could feel it, almost, the sudden flighty melody, skittering over his armor, like little birds dancing, and the rising light, specks of green-gold against the rose. Colors that shouldn’t match, shouldn’t go together, blending in a gouached harmony.
A harmony that seemed to ripple its way through him, spiraling, fluttering around his interface equipment. He fought it. Something was wrong. This…this wasn’t him.
His ventilation caught, and he forced himself to move. Another part of the display would be better. Another exhibit. Right.
He pushed forward, out of the delicate pastels, the light, flirtatious music, into another: dark, purples and indigos shot with bright golds. Like an ion storm, he thought, or a bombardment. The sound here—he couldn’t really call it music—was thunderous, a bass rolling, thick and round. Yes. A bombardment, exactly. Drift felt his systems hitch, a burst of the old, familiar cyberdrenaline hitting his systems, fuel pumping fast and oxygenated, circuits singing with anticipation. His hand floated down to where he normally holstered a gun, closing almost surprised on empty air.
Combat was, he had to admit, exhilarating. Life and death, spiraling together, power and helplessness, fate and luck all swirling around in a potent mix. It had always aroused him, life calling to life, the rush of pitting one’s will against death itself. And winning, time and again.
The tingling in his interface equipment was mounting, and he found himself squirming as he stood, thighs rubbing together.
Maybe.
He could.
He looked around. No one was here. It was after hours, the museum closed to the public. Not even a docent or guard. No one would see. No one would know.
He slipped over to a corner, his ventilations quick and hot, sliding one hand over his pelvic armor, feeling the heat behind the metal. Another furtive look. Still no one. Come on. Come on!
He flicked open his interface hatch, the metal panels nearly burning under his touch. His spike surged against the cover, but below that, his valve seemed to ripple. Wanting. And when his fingers explored, he found lubricant seeping around the seal. He found himself nearly panting, fingers slick in the substance, his valve cover slick and frustrating under his touch.
Drift just needed a better angle, or something. He squatted down, letting the shadowy colors and the cascading rumbling sounds wash over him, tilting his hips forward, fingers ready to probe into the valve. He could…it wouldn’t take long….
“Drift?”
Wing’s voice, from the entryway. Drift startled, his hand scraping across the valve nodes hard enough to make him wince. He whipped the cover closed. “What?” His voice was reedy, insincere, halfway irritated and caught out.
“Drift?” The voice, coming closer. “We’re done. The meeting. We can go, if you want.”
He just wanted to be alone for five kliks right now. He practically snarled, rising to his feet. “Yeah. Fine.” He wiped his wet hand along his thigh as Wing came into view, the dark lights playing over his white armor, his optics glowing like two stars. Drift felt that strange slick desire rise again, tendrilling out for Wing.
“Everything all right?”
“Fine.” Drift scowled. No. “Just…stupid light and music.” They deserved part of the blame. Because this wasn’t him. This wasn’t right.
Wing shot him a strange look. “Do you want to go somewhere? Or just home?”
Home. Drift snorted, clinging to his sullenness like a shield. “This isn’t my home, none of it.”
The wounded look on Wing’s face hurt, but it quelled the burning heat. At least enough to think. Not that it helped for long: walking next to Wing was some sort of special torment today. His optics couldn’t tear themselves away from the smooth even roll of the hips, the way the skirting panels swayed, the way the half-light of the underground city cast velvety shadows over his armor. He found himself nearly falling behind, just wanting to watch.
Well, more than watch, but he refused to admit that much even to himself.
It was the stairs that broke him, trailing behind the jet as he mounted the last staircase to his quarters, the way Wing’s wingpanels flared slightly for balance as he turned to look back at Drift, who was standing on the landing just…staring. Staring while his interface systems scalded with arousal.
“Everything all right?” Wing asked, optics tilted with concern.
“Yeah,” he croaked, and then mounted the stairs in a rush, hands finding Wing’s body, pulling him into a kiss, ardent and insistent. He felt the body soften against his, like something melting, Wing’s hands sliding around his shoulders, mouth parting, returning the kiss.
Drift groaned, dipping his head lower, burying itself in the throat cables, driving forward, pushing Wing back against the wall. His interface systems raged, and he caught one of Wing’s thighs between his own, grinding against it. He could feel the wetness of leaking lubricant, and he didn’t care.
“Drift,” Wing murmured, tilting his throat open to the fierce, nipping kiss, “Inside? We could….”
Drift growled, shoving away from Wing. “Whatever.” Right. They probably just didn’t do it out here in hallways. Civilization. Stupid.
Wing gave his arm a gentle stroke, halfway soothing, halfway promising, and moved to open the door. “I want to. Just….”
“Stairs,” Drift said.
Wing smiled, as if at a joke, turning, beckoning in the doorway. “Exactly.”
It wasn’t something Drift could resist, even if he’d wanted to. Just…Wing seemed to exude desire, almost unconsciously. Drift felt…led, really, tugged by a leash of want, as he moved to Wing again, his arms finding the other’s lithe waist.
Wing purred, tipping Drift’s face toward his. “You’re eager today.”
“Something wrong with it?” Was it obvious? He was beginning to feel nearly feverish, Wing’s body close to his, his interface systems burning with want. His mind kept flashing back to the museum, the sculptures of mechs in ecstasy, as though it were something beautiful.
No. He’d interfaced before and it had never been like that. Always one mech using another for his own pleasure, always taking, never giving.
His hands roamed Wing’s back, slipping between the flightpanels and Wing’s spine struts, stirring the warmth and charge with delicate fingers.
“Not at all,” Wing murmured, leading him backward, toward the berth. It was his turn to seek out Drift’s throat, his lip plates like satin against the rough cabling. Drift moaned, his valve giving that curious, wanting flutter again, hands clutching for balance. “So,” Wing breathed, “what do you want to do?”
Drift froze. Because he knew what he wanted, what his body wanted, but he…he couldn’t say that. “You,” he managed, stiffly, feeling his valve burn with need.
“You have me,” Wing said, pulling him down onto the berth. Drift stretched obediently alongside Wing, one thigh thrown over the other’s hips. His hands clung to Wing’s body, as the jet twisted sinuously against him.
Drift growled, knowing the words wouldn’t come, feeling his face heat with shame. You didn’t ask to be spiked. You didn’t want it. Interfacing was dominance, and you didn’t want to be weak. You didn’t want to take it, get the reputation for liking it. He ground himself against Wing’s thigh again, wanting, but not being able to explain.
Wing’s hand slid between them, finding the edge of the interface hatch, fingertips teasing at the catch as Drift pressed into the touch, nearly whimpering. Oh Primus, please figure it out. Please don’t make me say it.
Wing chirred, as the hatch released, his palm covering Drift’s equipment covers, searching downward. Drift tilted into it, trying to direct his hand to the leaking valve, wanting and ashamed.
He saw the furrow of the supraorbital ridges, as Wing’s fingers felt the wetness, moving to circle the valve. Drift whimpered as the valve cover released, twitching. Wing gave a quiet, almost reassuring sigh, circling the valve’s rim, in gentle, delicate touches, his optics on Drift’s face, watching.
Drift shuddered, feeling a new surge of wetness from his valve, the calipers shifting and settling. Wing shuttered his optics for a moment, as though concentrating, and Drift felt one of the jet’s fingers slip inside, just a little, enough to waken the sensormesh’s contacts. Drift gasped, going rigid, unmoving, rapt by the slight wiggle of the one little finger.
“Yes?” Wing asked. Frag. Not the time to be polite! Drift squirmed, trying to answer physically, pushing his body onto the finger.
Wing rocked closer, sliding his thigh over Drift’s, leaning in for a lingering kiss. Drift shivered, feeling liquid and weak, wanting nothing more than to lie there, let Wing explore. It was…strange and he felt almost a knot in his belly, something like fear. He didn’t just…lie there. He didn’t just expect and enjoy.
But he was, feeling a yearning whimper bubble from his vocalizer, his hips pushing into Wing’s touch, as Wing grew bolder, curling the finger back and up, sliding against the mesh. He felt the pressure building, energy swirling through his systems, like bright embers, blazing up.
Wing purred, his wing panels riffling like they did when he was aroused, as the magnetic fields pushed them apart, moving the hand against Drift with a purpose now, sliding another digit in alongside the first, stretching and pushing at the lining.
Drift arched up, tearing himself from the kiss, hips trembling from the effort to restrain himself, but it felt just…so damn good. “Don’t stop,” he hissed, optics staring wide at the ceiling, feeling his valve calipers begin to fire, the tightness in his belly beginning to crest. Images from the museum spun in his mind, dizzying him with lust.
Wing merely leaned closer, nipping at the bevel of one of Drift’s spaulders, his optics smoldering, focused on Drift’s face as the overload seized him, his body thrashing against the berth, Wing’s hand riding his pelvic armor, his EM field almost a hard burst against Drift’s as he felt his calipers clamp down on the fingers, fluid gushing. Drift stared at the ceiling, blind, for a long moment, feeling the overload rip through him, like fire and pleasure and sound all at once.
He expected the heat, the need, to fade. Because that’s all it was, right? Just some mechanical glitch, current needing to reset itself.
But it didn’t—he ached with need, whining as Wing slowly pulled his fingers from his valve, his own hand reaching for the jet’s wrist. He wanted more, needed more.
Wing’s optics tilted. “Drift. Are you unwell?”
“No. Yeah.” He frowned, shaking his head. “Don’t know.”
“What happened? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He thought back to the museum, to earlier. No. Oh no. What…was in those things he’d eaten? “No. No, no, no.” He scrubbed a palm over his face, smelling the salt tang of his desire on his hand, feeling his valve tingle with renewed need.
“Drift?” Wing’s palm on his chassis, slick with Drift’s fluids. “Drift? Talk to me.”
His frown edged into panic. “I…ate….”
“You ate.” Wing’s optics followed Drift’s over to the small cabinet, then flared wide. “Oh.”
Oh. Yeah. Oh. Frag. Drift squirmed on the berth, under the weight of embarrassment. “Hungry,” he said, lamely.
“But that’s not—you know.” Wing gave an apologetic grimace. “Oh. Drift. I’m so sorry.”
That…didn’t help. It made it worse, somehow. Drift groaned, feeling his systems cycle higher, like heat, swirling around him. “I need….”
“Yes,” Wing said. “I know.” He leaned closer, planting a chaste kiss on Drift’s mouthplates. “We’ll get through this. It’ll pass. We’ll take care of it.”
“Wing…,”almost a bleat, helpless.
Wing pushed off Drift’s chassis, leaving a trail of kisses down his chestplating, wriggling onto his knees beside Drift, until his mouth found the heated, wanting valve.
“Wing!” A cry this time, his entire body arching up at the electric contact of Wing’s glossa on the hypercharged mesh of his valve’s lining. Wing pulled back, the glossa swirling around the valve’s rim, before dipping in again. Drift’s hands clutched into helpless fists, his entire body writhing with want. His valve cycled, calipers and sensormesh shiveringly alive under Wing’s touch. Lust ran like fire through his fuel lines. His entire body burned, hands clutching, desperate for contact.
He thrashed, catching one of Wing’s ankles, squeezing for a klik into the gyro before hauling it over, biting into the white armor. He could taste the fine oil Wing used, sweet and tangy, feel the silky finish of the brushed metal mechanisms under the armor against his glossa.
Wing shifted his weight, sliding closer to Drift, still crouching over his body, sighing against Drift’s interface equipment. Drift could feel the warm weight of Wing’s chassis on him, the bulge of his chestplate against Drift’s abdominal armor, the silky slide of Wing’s audial flares against his parted thighs, the soft puffs of air on him, and that glossa maddening, teasing, coaxing.
He burbled some cry into Wing’s ankle, wanting more, hands clawing at Wing’s hips, thighs, desperate for the interface hatch. He sucked in a sharp, cool vent of air as Wing’s spike released, rigid and eager. Drift couldn’t tear his optics away, feeling the slide of the aroused tip against his shoulder. His ventilation came in short, shallow pants, and he found himself worming his shoulders over, craning his neck, to touch his glossa to the spike’s underside.
Wing, above him, against him, gave a soft moan, lifting his hips, raising his spike, and Drift’s glossa traced the line down the underside channel, curling around the head, before taking it into his mouth.
A moment of dislocation: he didn’t do this. Deadlock didn’t let anyone touch his valve, willingly, wanting it, and he didn’t suck spike. They were weakness, subordination, surrender. Deadlock just…didn’t.
But he was here, Wing’s mouth a maddening presence against his valve, Wing’s hands stroking down his unresisting thighs, pulling them apart. And he was here, Wing’s spike in his mouth, the sharp tang of lubricant bursting like a bright color over his glossa, the texture strange and alluring, filling his mouth, lipplates parted around its girth, and he…wanted more.
He moaned against the spike, his own hands clinging to Wing’s hips above him, optics fixed on the elegant lines of the backs of Wing’s thighs, the beveled edge of the armor, and the furtive little peek at the mechanisms underneath.
He wanted. He lusted. His glossa moved against the spike, exploring it, the feel of the metal, the complicated pattern of the plates, the taste of it. It tasted clean and pure, like Wing. He gave a sighing moan, hands clawing at Wing’s hips, and Wing began to move, slowly, in a small little push, rocking his spike in Drift’s mouth.
It was…beyond his ability to describe, the spike’s magnets sending velvety tingles of charge through his mouth, his glossa prickling against it, feeling it slide and press through his oral cavity. It should feel humiliating, degrading, horrible; instead it felt…good. Right. Pleasurable.
It was Wing’s gentleness, he thought. He’d been forced, more than once, in the gutters, in the Decepticons, but it had always been ugly: brutal and painful and revolting. This was…it was different. Gentle and pleasurable and he wanted it. Wanted more, tipping his head up to take in more of the spike, imagining the release of the overload as something like bliss he could taste.
And his own body writhed with pleasure, from his mouth, from his valve—Wing’s glossa flicking against the sensormesh, his calipers fluttering and taut. It was almost too much, right here, pleasure from two sources, like ripples of sensation that crossed, meshed and built up resonance over his entire EM field.
His valve clutched, suddenly, clamping down on nothing, the overload racing up his body like liquid fire, blazing with color and sound, dizzying and sweet. And just when it was beginning to ebb, his hips sagging back to the berth, Wing gave one sharp little thrust into his mouth, Wing’s head lifting from Drift’s thighs in a cry as Drift found his mouth filled with fluid, hot and sweet and tasting of pure desire. He swallowed, almost simply to feel the waves of it, to prolong the moment, feeling Wing shuddering above him. It was something new to him, to take such physical gratification in someone else’s response, to enjoy their pleasure almost more than his own. It was new and different, intoxicating and strong.
And the ache faded this time, sated, as though the chemicals in the candies had worn themselves out. Drift sighed, releasing the spike as Wing shifted his hips, with one last, lingering lick at the head, melting against the berth, his arms full of Wing’s hips, his mouth still redolent of Wing’s overload, his own overload throbbing pleasantly through him. He felt filled and sated and limp, wanting nothing more than to blur the colors of this moment into soft pastels, prolonging it, stretching it out into a blissful languor.
Wing moved, his chassis slithering on Drift’s armor. Drift frowned as the hips slipped his grasp, wanting them back, until Wing’s face filled his field of vision, his mouth glossy and slick with Drift’s fluids curled into a drowsy smile. “Better?” he asked.
Drift’s mouth quirked, and he felt himself still teetering on the brink of some new territory, as he bumped his head up, seeking Wing’s mouth, tasting himself in Wing’s kiss. He didn’t trust his voice, letting his mouth, his body, curling around Wing’s, rolling them both over to one side, do the speaking for him.
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It was amazing @,,,,@"
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This was not just so freaking hot on every level, but so sweet as well. I love watching Drift become more Drift and less like Deadlock in a way, and him discovering that a consensual interface can be pleasurable is a good thing. And enjoying one's partners pleasure too...bah it was just awesome! <3
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Oh my, so many lovely, lovely images in this! "...the sharp tang of lubricant bursting like a bright color over his glossa..." and "He swallowed, almost simply to feel the waves of it, to prolong the moment..." are just two of the ones I loved more!
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