To the Hilt

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW/AHM at some point, meh issue 8 let's say
Drift/Perceptor
sticky, bondage-ish (restraint), dubious use of sword, and some hilariously bad roleplaying.
A/N I was actually going to post some pretty distressing Deadlock/Turmoil but wtf, self, it's Valentine's Day?  So instead, this!
For a kink meme req for, um, the hilt.  And I normally write these two a bit darker but for some reason, Drift apparently had an attack of the sillies.  It happens to the best of us. ^_^  

 

 

Perceptor shifted his elbow, swinging the rifle’s sight in a smooth arc, cutting the city beneath him into a precise, narrow slice. Hunting.  Other sentries were on duty, but…they might miss something.  And he had a higher vantage, and a better field of vision to the approach.   The plascrete was growing warm under his belly, his bent right thigh pressing into the rooftop’s gritty surface for balance. 

A scraping sound, a footstep behind him, not trying to be subtle. 

“You’re off duty.”  Drift’s voice floated gently, like the footstep, announcing his presence without being too jarring.

Perceptor grunted.  Didn’t matter. Off duty, on duty.  As long as there were enemy out there, he could do this. 

A flash of white by his right side as Drift dropped to one knee.  “You’re off duty,” he repeated. Perceptor twitched one shoulder in a shrug. 

Drift moved, and a black mass came to block Perceptor’s rifle sight.  Perceptor gave a warning sound. 

“Off,” Drift said, closing his other hand around the barrel, lifting it, “duty.”

“Others,” Perceptor began, clutching at the gun, as Drift folded the bipod flat. 

“Others are on duty,” Drift explained, patiently. “And you’re no good to anyone strung out.”

“Nothing better to do,” Perceptor murmured.  His optics followed as Drift lifted the rifle away, laying it on the far side of his own body.

Drift grinned. “I’ve got something better for you to do.”  He rolled forward onto Perceptor’s back, pressing him into the roof top, hands curling over the shoulder panels.

Perceptor frowned, twitching his shoulder away. “Not now.”  He reached for the gun, Drift’s weight dragging at him. 

The smile faded—Perceptor could almost hear it. Drift did not like to be denied.  Perceptor didn’t care. 

Drift curled one arm under Perceptor’s, pressing his weight down, sliding his legs between Perceptor’s, half for the feel of armor against armor, half for the leverage.  “Off,” Drift repeated, one last time, using his hand to tug Perceptor’s head to one side, “duty.”  He lowered his mouth onto Perceptor’s neck, rubbing at the black cabling with his mouth plates. 

“Drift,” Perceptor said, sharply. He winced as Drift bit down, the hand suddenly digging into the join of his arm to his chassis. Drift moved on top of him, one thigh curling over his hip, the armor satiny over the battered black of his pelvic frame, warm in contrast to the night.  If Drift wanted his attention, he certainly had it, his sensornet jarring online.

“You,” Drift murmured, lifting his head, “are going to relax.”

“Or?” Perceptor shivered, almost in spite of himself, as Drift nuzzled down his neck cabling again. 

“There is no ‘or’,” Drift said, idly stroking one hand down Perceptor’s side, tracing the chassis’ angle into the waist.  “I don’t remember giving you any choice in the matter.”

Despite himself, Perceptor’s systems lit with pleasure, a combination of Drift’s husky voice and the feel of that familiar, wanted body against his.  “Give…me?” he asked, pushing, his ventilation catching, giving into arousal. He could feel Drift’s mouth smile against his throat, the white helm glossing over his black audio pickups.

“Give you,” Drift whispered.  Perceptor quivered beneath him, as Drift’s hand reached, gently, knowingly, to stroke the lens of his scope. 

“Your methods,” he murmured, hands clutching helplessly at the grit on the rooftop, “are unfair.”

Drift purred against him. “It’s war, Perceptor.  Fairness is something losers whine about.”  His fingers did another lap of the scope, flirting with the mounting, pulling most of the sting from the words.

Most.

He arched up, pushing his palms into the rooftop, lifting Drift’s weight. “Drift,” he said.

“Perceptor,” Drift mimicked, rolling to keep his weight on top of the larger red mass beneath him.  “Going to have to try harder than that.”

Oh?  Perceptor felt an unfamiliar smile flicker over his mouth. “Am I?”

He felt the vibration of Drift’s laugh against his backframe. Another unfamiliar sensation, one he’d give…anything to feel more of. It wasn’t often Drift got in these moods.  He swung his right elbow, hard and high, in an arc, throwing his entire body into the gesture. 

He felt a surge of triumph, a delighted growl, as Drift’s arms clamped around his chassis, taking the weight, falling onto his back with Perceptor laying, belly up, on top of him, Perceptor’s own motion turned against him.  Another laugh, edging on feral. “It’s like you’re surrendering,” Drift said, releasing the grip his hands had made, letting them ride up and down Perceptor’s ventral span. Perceptor’s hips bucked as the strong fingers raked over his interface hatch, black on black, hard metal warm and smooth.

Perceptor spraddled his feet on either side of Drift’s legs, one heel brushing one of Drift’s scabbards.  Drift crowed, reaching further under the black plate of Perceptor’s pelvic arch, thinking he’d won a surrender. Not quite.

Perceptor drove his heels into the rooftop, lifting his weight, tipping it into his shoulders on Drift’s chassis. Drift growled, shifting one arm to bar across Perceptor’s throat, the other clamping over the pelvic armor. Perceptor gasped at the hard contact on his interface hatch—little dark stars exploding across his net. “That all you got?” 

Perceptor’s hands closed over Drift’s as he considered his next move.  He dropped down, and then flung his legs, using the momentum of the long lever and their mass, to torque him out of Drift’s grip. He pushed up just as Drift rolled after him—past him—lunging for the edge of the rooftop and Perceptor just saw one flash of dark silver in the dim light as his sniper rifle tumbled off the edge, kicked off by his careless foot.

Perceptor froze.  Drift landed heavily, belly on the rooftop, hanging over. 

A dark laugh from Drift, floating up from the gaping air around the buiilding, the white shoulders twitching, as he wriggled back, pressing one  palm flat on the edge of the roof, pushing away from the edge, holding Perceptor’s rifle, by the barrel, in his other hand. His blue optics gleamed with triumph.  He rolled to a crouch, holding the rifle like a talisman. “Look what I have, Perceptor,” he sang. 

“Mine,” Perceptor said, reaching for it.  Mistake to have put it down, taken his hands off it. 

“Looks like it’s mine, actually.” 

“Give it back.”  He tried—and failed abjectly—to sound commanding.

Drift cocked his head. “Maybe later. If you’ve earned it.”

“I need it.”

Drift’s grin grew sharper. “I know what you really need.” Perceptor made a feint for the rifle. Drift jerked it away easily, wagging a finger at him. “Don’t think I won’t throw it over the ledge if you cross me, Perceptor.” 

Perceptor didn’t doubt it.  He glared.  “Give it back.”

“No.” Drift’s optics glinted, amused.  “In fact…kneel.”

“What?”

Drift pointed the rifle at him. “You heard me. On your knees, Autobot.” Something dark flickered around the corners of his smile.

Perceptor frowned, but there was something behind Drift’s smile he didn’t question.  He lowered himself slowly, optics on Drift, on his rifle—his gun, with Drift’s smaller, strong hands curled around the handgrip, finger flirting with the triggerwell.

The optics blazed.  “Hands, too.” 

“Hands.”

The rifle’s black eye moved. “Behind your head.”

Perceptor moved his hands slowly, folding the elbows, resting his palms behind his black helm.  Like a prisoner. Exactly like a prisoner, he thought.  He twitched, as Drift moved off to his right, resisting the urge to turn his head.  He waited, tracking Drift’s movement behind him through an audio triangulation. Drift stopped for a long moment behind him, and Perceptor could swear he felt the rifle’s bore hover a fingerspan from his helm. Silence. And then Drift moved around to his left, stroking the gun’s barrel, its darkness in contrast to his white armor, the red bands of his wrists.

“You know,” Drift said, conversationally, “I don’t think you believe I know what I’m doing with one of these.” 

“I’m sure you’re good.”  Insincere.  Drift handled swords.  He was unmatched in close quarters combat. 

Drift snorted. “Right.”  He pointed to a faint light from an old signal tower.  “Might take me two shots.” He shrugged. “You know, not my gun and all.”  He raised it to his shoulder.  Perceptor sucked in a vent of air. His rifle. HIS rifle, and Drift’s cheek laid across the stock, Drift’s optic lining up a shot through the laser sight, his finger curling lightly over the trigger, his other hand flirting with the rarely-used bipod.

The riflefire cracked the air and the distant light exploded in a shower of sparks.  Perceptor jolted, watching the muzzle buck in Drift’s hands, the stock slamming back into his arm, how easily Drift rocked to take the recoil.  Drift shrugged again, lowering the rifle, caressing the warmed barrel with his left hand. “Or maybe just the one.”

“Give away our position,” Perceptor said, quietly, trying not to look at the rifle, or notice the way his ventilation caught. 

Drift turned.  “Open space, big city. Echoes mislead.” He nodded. “Trust me.”  His hands curled over the rifle as he swaggered back, hip scabbards echoing the move in white waves.  “Now, you.” 

Perceptor tilted his head up as Drift approached, torn between watching his rifle and Drift’s face.  Drift bent over abruptly, jerking Perceptor’s helm back, hand over Perceptor’s interlaced fingers, his mouth hungry against Perceptor’s, glossa intruding, forceful.  Perceptor heard the growl in Drift’s throat.

Drift jerked back, ventilation ragged, EM field buzzing, clinging to Perceptor’s, while Perceptor himself suppressed a shiver of desire, forcing his optics not to droop closed. Drift bit his lower lip plate, contemplating, optics ranging over Perceptor, kneeling, hands locked obediently behind his head, unmoving.  Whatever he read in that drew a quiver from his frame.  “You,” he repeated, as if focusing himself.  He shook himself, circling Perceptor again, and Perceptor could feel the hot gaze like a laser sight, run over his frame, silver thighs folded over his red calves, the vulnerability of his chassis, arms upraised, their thinner armor exposed, almost begging to be taken advantage of. 

Drift crossed around behind him again, scuffing on the debris scattered on the rooftop.  Perceptor felt his approach, the EM field pushing against his back.  “Hands,” Drift said, quietly, “up.”  Perceptor raised them, unsteadily.  “Never,” Drift murmured, and his voice was softer now, “never interlace your fingers.  It takes that much longer to move them.”  And his voice was gentle, a veteran dispensing advice, but his hands were cold, hard, and Perceptor felt something tighten around his narrow wrists, thin and sharp. 

Drift gave a snort of satisfaction.  He tugged on something—a wire, Perceptor realized, binding his wrists together. “Back,” he said, jerking on it, until Perceptor fell back, awkwardly, hips falling back over his heels, knees jutting awkwardly into the sky.  Perceptor tilted his head back, up, as it crunched against the roof’s surface, just as Drift jerked one of his short blades from its scabbard, sinking it through a loop in the wire, pinning Perceptor’s arms over his head.

Drift stood back, hands on hips, surveying, fingers curling over the scabbards of his short swords.  He nodded, propping the rifle carefully against a small projection, before straddling down over one of Perceptor’s legs, pushing the knee flat, pushing his own knee between the silver thighs.  “Well,” he murmured, pleased with himself.  The Great Sword’s jeweled  hilt seemed to flare in the darkness over his head.

“Well,” Perceptor echoed, tilting his face down.  He tugged at the wire, wincing as it bit into his wrists. 

“Careful,” Drift warned, halfway sincere, halfway teasing. He bent forward, mouth meeting Perceptor’s again, raising his hips, one hand on his interface hatch.  He broke the kiss. “So, little prisoner.  What shall I do with you now?” 

“Let me go.”

Drift shook his head. “Now, now, Autobot.  We don’t do that, do we?” He dipped his face in, sliding his armored helm against Perceptor’s, letting his mouth find the throat again.  “You know better.” The words tickled against Perceptor’s throat, causing his breath to hitch, as Drift lowered his hips.  Perceptor felt the hot stab of Drift’s spike against his night-chilled thigh, rigid with arousal, slick with lubricant. Drift growled, hands clutching at Perceptor’s arms. 

Drift let his optics shutter, briefly, riding his pelvic span along Perceptor’s thigh, compressing his spike between their frames, hissing with pleasure.  The spike jabbed into the jut of Perceptor’s hip, causing him to whimper, half frowning with denied desire. 

“What?” Drift purred, jolting to a stop.  “Want something?” 

Perceptor shook his head. 

“Not even your freedom, little Autobot?” 

Perceptor stretched his legs down, pinching one of Drift’s between them. “Not so little.”  He was, after all, taller than Drift. 

“For all the good it does you.” Drift jerked his hips, jabbing the spike against Perceptor’s hip again to punctuate the words, “Little. Autobot.”  He grinned, and the lust in his optics kindled against Perceptor’s.  In spite of himself, Perceptor squirmed, feeling the roof gritty and crunch beneath him, Drift warm and demanding above him.   “Tell me,” Drift murmured, “one good reason I shouldn’t just…take you.” 

Obvious.  Perceptor wanted him to.  “Won’t let you.”

“Oh?”  Drift bit his mouthplate.  “Shall we see about that?”

Perceptor jutted his chin, defiant, his reticle optic fixing on Drift’s face. “You can try.”

“Well.” Drift chuckled. “Thank you for the permission.”  He leaned forward, biting Perceptor’s lower mouthplate. “Prisoner.”  He raked his hands down Perceptor’s exposed chassis, sinking his dentae into a control cable. Perceptor gasped, fighting Drift’s weight to get his feet under him.

They struggled—well, Perceptor writhed, his arms pinned, until his shoulder servos strained at the sockets—Drift riding him easily, forcing himself between Perceptor’s legs, finally stopping Perceptor by nuzzling his helm along the red scope. Perceptor quivered, anticipating pain that never came. Drift gave a triumphant growl, hand closing over the catch of the interface hatch.  “Didn’t have to try very hard, Autobot,” he snickered.

Perceptor aimed a knee at his side. 

Drift laughed. “Feisty tonight, are we?” He wriggled down, shoving Perceptor’s knees apart with his broad, heavy shoulder panels.  Drift ducked his head down, flicking the manual release with one sure, quick finger, lowering his mouth, warm and demanding, to Perceptor’s equipment covers.  Perceptor fought a moan, feeling the tingling pressure of a glossa slowly, deliberately, circling the rim of his valve.  His hips twitched, into, and away from, the movement somehow both at once, feeling a rush of heat and motion as the valve cycled readiness.  Drift gave a contented murmur, almost a chirr, catching the valve’s rim between his mouthplates.  Perceptor’s frame bucked, and he jerked frantically against the wires that bound his wrists, his ventilation coming in great heaves, legs weakly kicking, but captivated by the white helm between his thighs.

Drift raised his head, his blue optics gazing over Perceptor’s reinforced chassis, lidded and dreamlike.  “Surrender yet?”

Perceptor felt a whine build in his vocalizer. “To what?” he managed. 

Drift clicked, disappointed, the spires of his helm moving as he shook his head.  He dropped his head, sliding his cheek armor against Perceptor's inner thigh, probing his glossa into the valve, flicking it over an anterior cluster.  His hands tightened around Perceptor’s thigh at a wash of thin lubricating fluid.  “Better,” he murmured, pushing up in one swift movement to drive his spike into the valve. 

Perceptor groaned, the spike seating hot into his valve, their lubricants mixing as Drift jerked his hips forward, jamming the tip of his spike against the top node.   Drift’s expression was somewhere between a snarl and a satisfied smile, hovering over Perceptor’s face.  Drift’s hands braced on Perceptor’s shoulders, fingers curling over the planes of the armor, giving a high-angle to thrust his hips against Perceptor’s, his optics blazing and hungry, feeding on Perceptor’s face, which fought to stay neutral, fought not to move.

And lost.

He could feel the rise of friction, like a rich, tingling heat spreading from his interface array, washing over his entire net, drowning the pain from his bound wrists, the roughness of the roof digging into his spinal struts.  And Drift’s hard, strong fingers were little pulses of sensation on his shoulders echoing the throb from his scope from Drift’s rubbing against it, and the blue optics devouring his expression and the mouth he found he desperately wanted to kiss. 

Drift’s tempo picked up, optics blazing, thrusting in sharp jabs, withdrawing slowly, thrusting again, the movement signaled by the rise and fall of his white scabbards, like flags. Friction built, sending resonance waves cascading over others, tumbling sensations of pleasure, prickles of electricity, colors, white and blue and the dark velvet of the night pouring over Perceptor.

Perceptor gave a sharp, short moan.  A black hand descended over his mouth, Drift dropping to his elbow, stopping abruptly.

“Shhhhhh,” Drift whispered, optics glinting. “You’re the one who doesn’t want to give away our position.”

Perceptor whimpered behind the black fingers, squirming his hips.  Drift shook his head. “No noise.”  Perceptor panted, gusts of air bursting against Drift’s chassis, his optics wide, almost pleading.  Drift grinned, almost winking. “Bad prisoner.”  He jerked back, unseating his spike, throwing one leg over Perceptor’s thigh, rising to his hands and knees, still covering Perceptor’s mouth.  Drift looked down their bodies, at the way Perceptor’s thighs were sprawled open to the night, the cool air glistening off the slick lubricant, at his own turgid spike and then…he gave a throaty laugh. 

His free hand snatched at his scabbard, pulling the second sword from its sheath.

He flashed the blade in front of Perceptor’s face, laughing at the way the optics tracked the sharpened edge.  “Afraid?” he goaded.

Perceptor shook his head. 

“Lying?” The blade came to rest under Drift’s fingers, along Perceptor’s throat.  Perceptor could feel the cold kiss of the steel against his exposed cabling.  Perceptor shook his head again.  He knew Drift wouldn’t hurt him.  Not…beyond what he could take.

Drift gave a growling sound, pulling his hand off Perceptor’s mouth only to cover it with his own, his glossa demanding, probing at Perceptor’s mouth, tangling with his own glossa.

Drift pulled back abruptly, after one sharp bite on Perceptor’s lower lip. “Good,” he breathed, for a moment his face open and earnest, before the hard smile regrew on his lips, his optics narrowing.  “Now,” he said, “I get to watch you.”  His palm re-covered Perceptor’s mouth, shaking his head warningly, his other hand reaching back, tracing the cool metal of the sword’s pommel along Perceptor’s chassis, down his ventral casing, over the blocky swell of his pelvic frame to hover, a cold, hard presence whose lack of EM made it alien, obvious, at the mouth of his valve.

He grinned, the tip of his glossa flicking against his lips, optics locked with Perceptor’s as he pushed the hilt in. Slowly, gently, letting Perceptor feel the coldness, the inexorable hardness, the strange shape.  Perceptor stiffened, optics wide, venting shallowly.  His hands curled helplessly in their bonds, as he whimpered.  It was…cold. And inflexible, unlike a spike, a rigid alien presence. 

Drift hissed with pleasure as the hilt struck against the rim of Perceptor’s valve, stretching the length of the lining.  Perceptor trembled, feeling the cold steel inside him, biting on a moan as Drift turned his wrist, rotating the hilt’s shape inside him, as the metal skimmed over tension-tight sensor nodes.

“Yes?” Drift whispered.  “You going to behave now, prisoner?”

Perceptor blinked, nodding slowly. 

“Good.” Drift pulled the hilt out, pushing it in again, a bit faster this time, experimentally.  Perceptor squeaked. “Now listen, prisoner.”  Drift bent to lick a long line from Perceptor’s shoulder up his throat.  “You’re going to overload for me. Yes?”  He waited.  Perceptor nodded, slowly.  “And,” he said.  “You’re not going to make any noise, right?” Perceptor started to nod, stopped, blinking, shook his head, confused by the question. 

Drift laughed, suddenly, a peal of real, genuine laughter, burying his face against Perceptor’s chest, his shoulders shaking.  “Try again,” he said, his voice muffled. He pushed himself back up, fighting a smile, optics twinkling.  “No noise,” he said, mastering his voice.  “Nod.”  Perceptor nodded. “Good.”  The smile still glinted from his optics. 

Perceptor felt the hand holding the sword tighten, shifting its grip. His ventilation was sharp, shallow, as if holding himself back, trying to pull away.  And Drift crouched over him, one hand over his mouth, as the other began rocking the hilt in him.  Perceptor felt his optics widen, his hands twinging at the wire that bound them, finally wrapping around that blade, half sunk in the rooftop, grasping after some stability. Drift licked his lip plates, slowly, curving his spine to look down Perceptor’s body, his helm turning its white expanse, Great Sword a solid, straight bar over his frame.  Perceptor tried to follow his gaze, but Drift’s black fingers blocked his view.  He felt a whimper build in his throat, despite Drift’s warning, as the hilt thrust in, the guard thunking against the rim, hilt stretching at his lining, the coldness warming, slowly, his valve constantly, restlessly trying to caliper down on its shape, causing a frustrating feedback loop that had Perceptor gasping through Drift’s fingers, his hips rocking up into the thrusts, his shoulders trembling, tension building over his thighs. 

Drift’s gaze flicked back up to his face, and stayed there, his ventilations synching with Perceptor’s own, his mouth parted, rocking forward.  Perceptor’s gaze fixed on Drift’s shoulder, the one that moved, tilting and twisting with the movement of the cold metal in his valve, telegraphing the motion as the overload built, inexorable, like a hard wall of force or feedback, rushing at him. 

It felt like his whole body was shaking, as though the world itself was a quivering, colored mass of sensation rising and ebbing in volume and force as his hips rolled into Drift’s thrusts, almost detached, wanton, and completely alien to Perceptor, given over to some inward lust. 

His body went rigid, spinal strut arching off the ground, throwing his head back, squeezing the blade that pinned his wrists so hard he felt the steel bite into his palms.  A sound tore through his vocalizer, despite his effort to silence it, a primal sound of wild release, his mouth tearing free from Drift’s fingers. 

He collapsed back onto the rooftop, vents heaving, optics cycling down, sensornet detonating with color and sound, bursts of electrical pleasure—and something more—flashing over him as his audios filled with the echo of his howl. He became aware of Drift, still, unmoving, over him, expression unreadable.  He tilted his chin down.  “What?” he croaked. 

“Whoa,” Drift murmured, optics wide.  “That was…loud.”  His face split into a wide smile. “Think you did more than just give away our position.”

Perceptor ground his optics closed. “Not my fault,” he said, mortified.  Everyone was going to know.  Everyone.  Frag. 

Drift sat back on his heels, stowing his equipment with one hand, gently, gently withdrawing the sword with the other, watching Perceptor’s face for feedback.  Perceptor’s vents caught, his hips rising one more time, twitching as the bulk rode one last time over his sensor nodes, almost whining with release.  Drift held the hilt up, catching Perceptor’s gaze, tracing the length of the hilt with one finger, before licking his way slowly up the hilt, letting his optics droop closed. Perceptor shivered, blinking slowly, and when he opened his optics again, Drift was grinning at him, glossa still trailing up the hilt. 

Drift rocked forward, hand sliding the blade in its scabbard.  “We’ll tell them,” he murmured, ducking his head down for a kiss, letting Perceptor taste his own fluids on Drift’s mouth, “it was the Swarm.”

 

Comments

[oni-gil.livejournal.com]

I know I NEVER comment but this one just begs me to and I have some time to spare. D'AWW. And UNF. Both sweet and sexy, the perfect combination.

(*snort* And you were going to stop writing these two?)

[ex-naggingf.livejournal.com]

What a great story to wake up to on Valentine's Day. I'll be reading it all day at work on my Droid ^_^

ps- you can NEVER stop writing these two!!!

[scarredbutalive.livejournal.com]

woa:D Veery nice indeed. But it got me thinking. I think that I have seen a picture of this somewhere. Percy on his back with hands tied to a blade in the ground and Drift above him. Or was that just a nice dream I had once?;D

[femme4jack.livejournal.com]

alkjsdaf;ihgajasdf and aslkjasdklfjasg;ghapwwiej

Guh

*thud*

[sister-dear.livejournal.com]

I think I like this so-called "bad" roleplay more than how "good" roleplay often reads. XD I like that you can tell that they're both enjoying themselves.

"Didn't have to try very hard, Autobot." Lol.

[sasuke-emosauce.livejournal.com]

eeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Oh Primus...I was so hoping you would write this exact thing one day. I can die happy now.



where could I find that picture you mentioned up above?

[eerian_sadow]

hot damn.

that... yeah. that's pretty much it. hot damn. *thumbs up*

[eaten-by-bears.livejournal.com]

That was so cute. I love how caught up in it they get.

[swindleslog.livejournal.com]

That started out adorable and moved into something mildly kinky. Hot as that was, my favourite bit was the beginning when they were wrassling. That was just cute. Perceptor may be taller, but Drift has moxy and bronco riding skills, apparently.

[ithilgwath.livejournal.com]

hnnnng that was so damn hot. guh. I apparently need a cool down before I go to the gym now because WOW my heart is pumping with the unf!

And I laughed hard right along with Drift when Perceptor didn't know whether to nod or not. It was really cute, to boot.

[kyme.livejournal.com]

...Oh God. ....This is awesome bb. <3 and lol, fail!roleplay. XD Percy you so cute.

[tainry.livejournal.com]

The
sword
hilt
...



aklghalsdkghal;kghalghalghalghaslfhasdfhasdfhas!!!!!!!!!!
Ahahaha, yes, Perce, you need to rest, too. And, er, release some tension.
Also LOL on v loud overload. XDDD

[birdiebot.livejournal.com]

/dead *awesome*