Frustration

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW/MTMTE
First Aid/Drift
sticky.
allegedly (as per usual) for this kink meme prompt.  We'll say...inspired by? Since I"m not sure it's what the OP wanted and I ported it to MTMTE instead of ongoing. Bweh I suck at this kink meme thing don't I? ;-;

“I don’t think we can thank you enough.”

Drift had probably meant that, you know, as a nice, polite thing to say. But his optics had burned, blue and intense, his head inclined, to meet First Aid’s optics, one hand squeezing the boxy armor of First Aid’s shoulder.  It was probably just courtey, good manners.  But the words burned into First Aid’s memory, sizzling their way down through his audio, to flutter around his interface systems. 

Drift was….wow. He’d never met anyone like Drift before. Beautiful and powerful and strong and just exuding some sort of animal sexiness and…really nice. 

It was the nice, First Aid thought. The smile, the kind words.  They just...did things to First Aid’s systems.  Really, really hot things. 

“Yeah, sure,” he’d croaked, as Drift had passed him down the exit ramp, the words, the smile, the touch haunting him through the entire rest of the day, buoying him through the debriefing, the hasty meal of warmed energon, and till he finally got to close a door behind him into his temporary quarters, and stretch out on a berth, exhausted. It had been a long day. A long couple of days, honestly. And he found himself curling around the memory, a source of warmth and stability. Drift, thanking him.

He felt the tension melt from his exhausted limbs.  If only Drift were here, he thought, drowsily. If only Drift were next to him on the berth. He could picture it well, remembering the white mech stretched on a medibay berth. If Drift were here, First Aid would maybe curl one arm over the broad chestplate, snuggle into the shoulder, and if that went well, you know, maybe slide one leg over the narrow, white pelvic frame, feeling with his body rather than just his medic’s hands.

And then he thought…what if? What if…what if Drift did more than just lie there, First Aid snuggled up against him? What if he bent down, lower than he had before, brushing his mouth against First Aid’s mask, sweet and gentle, begging a kiss. And what if it went further, First Aid clicking his mask aside, mouth against mouth, lip plates parting under a kiss that thrummed with want.

And what if….what if Drift pushed to his side, rising up over First Aid’s smaller frame, twining into the kiss, and then moving, slithering down First Aid’s quivering frame, planting warm yearning kisses like seeds down First Aid’s chassis, his abdomen, and then pausing, tracing elegant swirls over First Aid’s pelvic armor. And then looking up, blue optics casting light along First Aid’s frame, glowing with promise, even as he lowered his head, glossa peeping out to lick along the underside of the pelvic frame.

First Aid shivered, his hands curling around desire.

And then. And then Drift would open his interface hatch, with that sublime grace with which he did everything, and circled the spike housing. First Aid would curl his hips upward, his spike cover slipping aside, offering the spike for Drift’s warm mouth.

And then Drift’s mouth would close over the spike’s head, pausing to suck at the head, until First Aid would gasp, lifting his hips off the berth.  And then that warm pressure might slide down the spike tasting his lubricant, taking his entire spike in, the blue optics dimming with pleasure and longing as the mouth worked up and down the shaft, glossa sliding and swirling along the spike’s plating.

And First Aid’s entire body would tremble, feeling the heat and pressure of an overload building behind his interface equipment, and he was hanging just at the brink of overload, already imagining—and quivering at—the burst of transfluid, filling Drift’s mouth, the sweet explosion of the release, and Drift purring, swallowing the silver heat and—

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

The alarm jolted First Aid out of his reverie, a hard blare of sound that sliced through his arousal, turning the budding pleasure into an almost painful, burning lack, as he flopped onto the berth, cold and alone.

[***]

“I’m really sorry about this,” Drift said, smiling sheepishly as he leaned against the medibay berth, black fingers curling over the edge. “It’s really sort of embarrassing. I didn’t want to bother Ratchet about it.”

“Oh! Oh no, it’s really no problem at all,” First Aid said, pulling a stool over, feeling his facial plates heat. This was some exquisite inversion of the other night’s fantasy, his face inches from the chevroned panel of Drift’s interface hatch. The only problem was how First Aid was going to keep his composure, and his fans turned off. 

He bent closer, examining the warped metal. It wouldn’t take much to fix: a dent pull and then rasping off the rough edge.  He slipped a finger over the panel’s edge, feeling for damage on the lines underneath.

Drift twitched.

“…sorry!”

Drift gave a sheepish grin. “No, I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting it.” 

“I’ll try to be more careful,” First Aid said, clutching at his hand as though it had transgressed.   

“Don’t worry about it,” Drift said. “Really. Do what you need to do. It, uh, it didn’t hurt or anything.”  The blue optics flicked aside and First Aid felt his spark seem to pulse hard in its casing. 

“Okay.”  He reached for the dent puller, hesitating before placing it against the crumpled metal. The angle really wasn’t quite right for a straight pull. If only Drift…

Drift seemed to pick up on the concept, shifting his weight, spreading his thigh open. “Better?”

Oh. Frag.  Yeah. Better. First Aid felt his systems heat, resisting the urge to run his hands down the exposed inner thigh.  Right. Dent pull. Professional. Got it.

First Aid wrapped his hand around the dent puller, bracing his other hand, as neutrally as he could manage, around the red arch of Drift’s cuisse. And. Pulled.

The metal popped back into shape with a satisfying sound, Drift giving a soft sort of ‘ah’ of relief. He looked up. “Good?”

Drift nodded.  “Thanks.”

First Aid’s thumb released the dent puller. “Let me work on the rough edge.”

“You don’t have to. I can deal with a  few burrs.”

“…I’d like to, though.” The idea of someone walking around with an injury bugged him on a personal level.  “Besides, they could damage some of your fuel lines and circuits. And it won’t take but a klik.”  He hadn’t realized how he’d kept his grip on Drift’s thigh armor—he pulled away, abruptly, apologetically, even as he reached for the small buffer. 

“I don’t think you’re going to give me much choice,” Drift said, the word carried on a laugh.

“Not really.”  First Aid warmed at the laugh. Drift was just…impossibly nice.  Right. Focus. Fo. Cus. 

He flicked the buffer on, glad for the buzz of its little motor masking the sound of his cooling fans as he leaned in. There was no other way to go about it: his hand curled around the armor, feeling for the rough edges, running a thumb along the chamfers before applying the buffer. 

A sharp intake of air, above him, and First Aid saw the black hands curl around the berth edge. And a soft, near moan, and a ripple of the EM field against him. 

Distracting! No. Do not get distracted. First Aid cycled a vent of air, concentrating on tracing the line the buffer made on the metal plate.  It was soothing—as long as he could tune out the rippling EM field against his side, the proximity of Drift’s pelvic span to his cheek. He wanted to lean over, rest his cheek on the jut of the pelvic armor, knowing there would only be one panel of metal between him and Drift’s equipment.

He shut the buffer off, one finger sliding over the smoothed edge. Better. 

“Done?” Drift said, shifting his weight, turning the thigh in.

First Aid stopped him with a shake of the head. “Want to wash out the metal dust, at least.” 

Drift watched him as he got a microsprayer, curious. It made First Aid wonder what Drift had seen of medicine that this whole process—grinding down jagged metal edges, washing the cables—was foreign. It determined him to do a good job. 

Drift made a soft sound, like ‘mnph’ as the cold liquid sluiced over his armor plate, down the internal mechanisms.  First Aid caught the sound, feeling it spin through his systems, hot and arousing. He forced his attention back, slathering one finger with antiseptic nanites. He held it up. “Just something to help the damaged cables heal. It, uh, it might sting.”

The distant, sort of dreamy look left Drift’s face, replaced by the smile. “I can handle it.”

First Aid drank in the look, the smile, the glow of the blue optics, before shaking it off, and reaching that one finger in the gap behind the armor, spreading the nanite gel, trying really, really hard to ignore the fact that his hand was in Drift’s thigh, that his cheek was so close…

He gave into temptation, pressing his cheek against the interface hatch. Just pushing that far, just that much, letting his imagination dizzy himself with what lay under the white enamel. 

Right. It was probably getting a bit, you know, weird, his finger idly stroking the power cables of Drift’s thigh, mask on his pelvic armor.  What if Ratchet walked in?

First Aid pulled back. “O-okay. Uh. That should do it. If it bothers you or anything, you know, you can come back.” He looked up, grateful for the mask so he didn’t have to school his face into a bland expression. Still, he worried there might be a quaver in his voice. “Or, you know, comm me if it’s after hours.”

Wait. That came out…wrong. Really wrong. Like, creepy hit-on wrong.  He backed up, clutching the tube of nanite, stammering, stepping backward until his heel caught one of the tool-tables’ wheels, sending it crashing over in a clatter of flying metal. 

Drift looked at him, weirdly.  Like he wasn’t sure if he should laugh or be upset. “I—you want help?” he asked, as First Aid scrambled to his knees, trying to gather up all the tools.

“No! No, I got it.” He withered inside, any thought he might have had that Drift liked him, thought of him as competent and cool just…lying in shards among the scattered tools.

[***]

But just because Drift probably didn’t want anything to do with First Aid didn’t mean that First Aid’s systems listened, or cared. He wanted Drift. Possibly more than ever.  Every night, another fantasy, another half-dream: sometimes, the white mech just appeared, slamming First Aid against the wall, his mouth fierce and hot on the nurse’s throat cables, hand roaming possessively over the boxy frame. Sometimes Drift would curl against First Aid and they’d twine together, gently, sweetly. Sometimes, Drift would pin him down, growling his want, sometimes, he'd let First Aid use his swords against him, whimpering deliciously, that sound First Aid had heard in the Medibay, at each cut, at each gentle suck on the wound.

It all added up to one very overstressed nurse.  Who found himself, on a break in his shift, unable to think straight.  Why? Because Drift had commed the Medibay, and he’d heard that voice, just the voice, that seemed to pour like warm oil right through him. 

He had to take care of this, or he wasn’t going to make it through the rest of his shift. All the medical texts said it was impossible for a mech to die from lack of interfacing, but right now? He was inclined to think maybe they were wrong.

First Aid moved down one of the disused corridors of the ship, turning at the first unlocked door. Some sort of storage room, filled with lumps and bulks of…something, dark shadows against the darkness. He didn’t care what. He just wanted privacy.

Right. He found something with square edges, hard and solid, enough to take his weight.  He flopped on it, unceremoniously. He’d never get what he wanted, so might as well, you know just get it over with so he could concentrate.

Just get it done, get back to work. Right. So, what now? He sucked a vent of air, clicking open his interface hatch. Forget about a pretty lead up. Normally he tried to spin some story, some semi-plausible starting off point. This time, no. Just…Drift, pushing him back against the crate, fingers hard on his interface hatch, pulling it open. Because Drift would be impatient, too, and want to get to it, the ferocious, needy interfacing of partners well over the sweet, hesitating initial phases.

That was hot just to think about: that Drift and he would be so familiar with each other. And Drift would be rigid with need, his spike insistent inside First Aid’s valve, his blue optics blazing down, taking in First Aid sprawled and wanton on the crate.  And Drift’s hands would be…on him, somewhere. On his upraised knee, on his hip, bracing him, as he began thrusting roughly against him.

But that wouldn’t be enough for Drift, First Aid thought, his fingers slipping between his thighs, probing into his valve, feeling the slick, yielding heat of the aroused mesh against his fingers.   And that was what he liked: Drift was a demanding partner, insisting on First Aid’s pleasure.

First Aid’s heel hooked on the crate’s edge, two fingers tracing an arc around the valve rim, while another probed inside. Drift would say, in a husky growl, ‘more’, snatching at one of First Aid’s hands guiding it to the medic’s own spike.

Oh, frag.  First Aid’s hand began stroking his spike, while his other hand probed at his valve.  His fans kicked on, barely covering the wet sounds of his working hands, his mind busy in the fantasy of Drift’s  spike impatient in his valve, Drift’s optics watching his hand on his spike, making it almost a race who would get off first.

First Aid moaned softly, feeling the charge building over his systems, that heavy, prickling warmth, insistent and quivery and delicious.  “….drift,” he breathed, imagining the fierce but gentle blue optics above him, the powerful hands on his hips, the spike’s long slides in his valve.  He was close. Really close. So very, very close. “Drift…!” 

“What?”

First Aid yelped, his startled hand squeezing too hard against his spike, as he registered the voice coming from his right and the sudden twin glow of blue optics.  “DRIFT!”  He tried to scramble backwards, cover his interface equipment and clutch for some reasonable excuse, all at the same time, and failing at all of them.

Drift rose from where he’d apparently been seated on the floor. This whole time. “You…all right?” 

“Yes! I’m fine! I mean….” He didn’t know what he meant other than right now he kinda wanted to die of embarrassment.  “Look. I just…wow. I’m really sorry.”

The optics approached, head tilted. He could see the optical filters adjusting for the darkness. In a klik, Drift would see everything. “Sorry for what?”

Yeah how to put this into words? Good question. “For, uh, I mean, someone like you would never want to be with, you know, a failure like me.” Oh Primus that hurt to say, however much it was true. It hurt more than the stinging of his spike. 

“You’re not a failure,” Drift said. “You saved all of us back there at Delphi.”  A shrug. “If anything, I was the one who was a failure back there.”

“No!” First Aid struggled to sit up, optics tilted with worry. “You weren’t. You saved Ratchet, for one thing, and—“

A grin. “That’s my point.”  

And then a long awkward moment where First Aid was aware he was still lying there exposed, and Drift was standing…looking at him. “So what are you doing here?” First Aid blurted, in some probably ludicrous attempt to take control of the situation. It’s what Ratchet told him to do, with some of the more fractious charges:  ask a question, put yourself in the position of authority.

“Trying to get away, collect my thoughts.” Another sheepish half-shrug. “Sometimes I think if I concentrate hard enough, feel hard enough, I can, you know, feel them. The Knights.”  The blue optics flicked aside. “Probably sounds stupid.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid.” He didn’t think Drift could do anything stupid. Ever.  And it sounded a lot less stupid than what First Aid had been doing. Which reminded him…he tried to close his legs, sliding his hands away from his interface equipment.

A hand stopped him, a gentle touch on his knee as he tried to raise it between them, hiding the shameful evidence of his slick valve, his erect spike.  “Me?” There was no mockery in the question, just the word, and almost a plaintive, surprised note. 

First Aid tried to come up with words, but a burning knot of mortification seemed to block his vocalizer, so he managed, only, a weak nod.

“First Aid,” Drift said, sadly, “You could do a lot better than me.”

“No,” First Aid said, feeling his optics blaze. “No, I couldn’t. And not just me. I mean, you.”  And he should shut up because that made no sense.  How come things made sense inside his head but never outside his mouth?

Drift’s mouth pulled to one side and then he bent over. First Aid could feel the EM field against his, warm and fuzzing, the blue glow of the optics cycled down to lowlight filling his field of vision, and then the mouth on his. 

His hands were sticky with his own fluids, but he wrapped them around Drift’s shoulders, arching his chassis shyly off the crate, pressing himself against the swordsmech’s powerful frame.  Drift’s pelvic armor, those white chevrons of his interface hatch, rubbed over First Aid’s exposed spike and he could feel the heat building behind it, the kiss less gentle, less innocent now.

“Next time,” Drift murmured, pulling away from the kiss, one hand slithering between their bodies to release his own interface equipment, his voice, the body against his, everything, just…overwhelming First Aid to the point where he was glad he had the solid crate to support him, “just ask.”

Comments

[darkdanc3r.livejournal.com]

Oh... oh Aid. I've so been there. Maybe not to the point of masturbating in a closet... or trying to buff out someone's rough edges... but definitely the 'hopelessly in lust, can't get them out of your head' thing.

This was great. So easy to see Aid's frustration and lust... and then the ending. Excellent stopping point. Smut is fun, but so is an artistically done fade out.