The strength of his arousal, of the flare of possessive lust that fires through his relays as he drinks in that answering growl surprises even himself. He's missed Drift so much. Missed touching, being touched. Missed the hot glint of those blue optics fixed upon him. Missed the feel of Drift's strong hands floating across his plating. The scent of the oil Drift uses to hone the blades. The familiar hiss of pistons firing. The sweep of that audial flare. The severe draw of Drift's mouth against his own.
Perceptor nips roughly at Drift's lips, working his way down the white jaw to the cheek guard, his fingertips curling in to press Drift's head to one side as Perceptor begins kissing his way to the tempting flash of the swordsmech's vulnerable throat. He cants one hip, grinding his thigh against Drift's, foot dragging forward just to feel that plate scrape across his treads. His whole body quivers faintly from the low rumble of his powerplant, thrumming through his chassis with undisguised want.
The temptation proves too much for him, and as his mouth closes over one pliable conduit of Drift's throat, he bites down, sucking hard as he drags his hand down Drift's hip to rake his fingertips along the under surface of that short scabbard.
Drift quivers, momentarily overwhelmed by the larger mech, the way Perceptor's body, his EM field, just enveloped him. He kisses back, mouth fierce against Perceptor's, turning to lick at the palm that turned his head, exposing his throat. He finds his weight pressing against Perceptor, leaning into him, his hands roaming over the coolant hoses, fingertips tracing down the backs of the long thighs, memory and present cascading together, a frothy foam of sensation.
And the engines: He's missed the rev of the powerful tank engines, the way vibration traveled through their conjoined frames, the way the sound seemed to lick at his audio.
He gasps as Perceptor bends, the large frame bowing over him, the dentae sinking into his throat cabling, throwing pain like sparkling stars through his sensornet.
He bends his knees, pulling his weight back, lowering to the floor.
Between the slide of Drift's glossa against his sensitive hand, and the scrape of Drift's too-knowing fingers against his coolant hoses and hips, Perceptor finds himself grateful that Drift has the presence of mind to begin shifting them downward. His own knees weaken as deep tremors of pleasure roll through his systems, and he finds himself needing the weight of Drift's frame pressing against him to keep him as upright as he is.
He answers that soft gasp with another low rumble of his own, folding his knees to follow Drift downward, his hands curled into blunt claws that he rakes downward from Drift's shoulder, and upward from his hip. He wants so hard, hungers so much. Little flickers of static leap between their frames from his amped EM field as he worries that conduit between his lips.
He shifts, pulling Drift against him hard as he angles their bodies downward, compensating for the length of the Greatsword still clamped securely to his lover's back. Perceptor doesn't want to take the time for Drift to remove it, wants, actually, the comfort of seeing it there when his optics unshutter and his gaze roams; it's so much a piece of Drift that the Greatsword's presence seems to make the fantasy more real, somehow. He can trust what his hands tell him as they clutch Drift's shoulders and guide them both back to the floor until he has to prop his weight on his elbows, lest he smother his lover under his needy frame. He can believe the evidence of his own systems as they shiver and twitch at each fluttering touch and rougher scrape and aching grasp of those desperately missed hands upon his plating.
The flare of Drift's field washing against his pulls a low moan from him, and he finally releases that bit of throat cabling to lick gently up to the angle of Drift's jaw before slowly nuzzling the sweep of one audial flare. He doesn't een realize how hard he is trembling, too lost in the pure sensation of that familiar, beloved plating sliding against his own.
Perceptor need not have wasted any concern: Drift wouldn't mind being compressed beneath the larger mech's frame. He gives a half-growl at the mouth worrying the power conduit in his throat, his own hands gripping more fiercely, static jumping from his fingertips to the gaps in the red armor, his knees coming up around Perceptor's thigh, squeezing the long limb against him.
It has been too long and he'd been a fool to leave this. But duty had nagged at him--in a way he knew Perceptor never would--until he'd succumbed, writing this off as selfishness, as an indulgence he hadn't earned.
He had earned it, or at least, Perceptor had earned it, earned any pleasure he could grasp. And that was what fired over Drift's net, making him turn his head to seek the mouth again for a deep, gentle kiss, optics half-lidded and wanting. Everything he'd wanted and more than he deserved right here.
Every tiny spark, each minute scrape of plating, draws another little tremble from Perceptor as the sensations continue building within his starved tactile relays. The simple comfort of touch, of trust, and the heat of the passion he's denied himself arc from system to system. It's like liquid fire coursing through his fuel lines as he shifts to allow Drift's knees to clutch his thigh. He can feel the want, the desire, like waves of heat shimmering in the space between them, and it wrenches a soft whimper from deep within as he turns into that kiss.
He shifts, hands coming up to cradle Drift's helm between them, the pads of his thumbs stroking up white cheek guards. As his hips settle to rest upon Drift's, Perceptor has to spare a flicker of processing power to cycle his cooling fans up a notch; he's on fire from within, his lines coursing with the shocks of spilled current and his fuel and coolant pumps both hammering with strain.
He... he won't last long. It's been too long, and he's wanted this just too much. He's trembling with the effort to hold himself together even now, when all he wishes is that he could pour himself into Drift's plating and never, ever leave. It frightens him, a little, to want this much, to need this strongly, and he moans softly into the kiss as he flicks his glossa, tasting Drift again and again.
The heat from Perceptor's venting system washes over Drift like another caress, eddying and flowing with his own. His hands remember this frame, every contour, every seam and he lets his fingers make it more real, as though drawing Perceptor into existence.
Sparks crackle between them, a bluish hazy fuzz that builds and surges, feeding on their desire. He moans into the kiss, safe, cocooned in his small room buried in the back of the base, but even so, he bites down on the sound, as though admitting to pleasure would open himself up to ridicule or rejection. He loves the weight of Perceptor on top of him, loves the trembling want. It's Perceptor's, but it's his, one of the few things Drift dares claim, that he could cause such want and pleasure in another.
He tears his mouth from the kiss, moan dying to a growl as he seeks the throat, his cheek armor brushing over the scope. He's at the verge, his own hands, body, fierce with need.
Even though the sound is quiet and abruptly censored, that soft moan sends a jagged knife of hot desire through Perceptor's systems. Drift has always been more guarded than he in these moments, too many years of want coding as a weakness drilled into his core to allow him to freely utter the softer sounds. Growls and feral hisses aplenty, but these more wanton utterances of desire and appreciation are rare specimens indeed, and Perceptor sharply arches against Drift as it stabs little blades of current though his pleasure receptors.
Too much, it's all too much, and he willingly, gratefully, tips his chin, baring his throat to Drift's greedy mouth, choking out a desperate plea as he feels the fierce rumble of that growl against the sensitive conduits there. It's the scrape of Drift's cheek guard over the hyper-sensitized barrel of his scope, and the hungry draw of lips and denta against his throat that shove him over the edge.
Current flares, his hoarse cry of abandon dying into crackled static as he grinds himself down against Drift, head thrown back, optics staring blindly as the overload tears through his every system. He doesn't even have room for thought, every mote of his existence drowned in utter sensation and the security of being in Drift's arms. The force of it is almost pain, and he clutches to his lover's body as his field crashes like a wave over them both, and his climax flings him into the throes of the most exquisite ecstasy.
Perceptor nips roughly at Drift's lips, working his way down the white jaw to the cheek guard, his fingertips curling in to press Drift's head to one side as Perceptor begins kissing his way to the tempting flash of the swordsmech's vulnerable throat. He cants one hip, grinding his thigh against Drift's, foot dragging forward just to feel that plate scrape across his treads. His whole body quivers faintly from the low rumble of his powerplant, thrumming through his chassis with undisguised want.
The temptation proves too much for him, and as his mouth closes over one pliable conduit of Drift's throat, he bites down, sucking hard as he drags his hand down Drift's hip to rake his fingertips along the under surface of that short scabbard.
Mine!
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And the engines: He's missed the rev of the powerful tank engines, the way vibration traveled through their conjoined frames, the way the sound seemed to lick at his audio.
He gasps as Perceptor bends, the large frame bowing over him, the dentae sinking into his throat cabling, throwing pain like sparkling stars through his sensornet.
He bends his knees, pulling his weight back, lowering to the floor.
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He answers that soft gasp with another low rumble of his own, folding his knees to follow Drift downward, his hands curled into blunt claws that he rakes downward from Drift's shoulder, and upward from his hip. He wants so hard, hungers so much. Little flickers of static leap between their frames from his amped EM field as he worries that conduit between his lips.
He shifts, pulling Drift against him hard as he angles their bodies downward, compensating for the length of the Greatsword still clamped securely to his lover's back. Perceptor doesn't want to take the time for Drift to remove it, wants, actually, the comfort of seeing it there when his optics unshutter and his gaze roams; it's so much a piece of Drift that the Greatsword's presence seems to make the fantasy more real, somehow. He can trust what his hands tell him as they clutch Drift's shoulders and guide them both back to the floor until he has to prop his weight on his elbows, lest he smother his lover under his needy frame. He can believe the evidence of his own systems as they shiver and twitch at each fluttering touch and rougher scrape and aching grasp of those desperately missed hands upon his plating.
The flare of Drift's field washing against his pulls a low moan from him, and he finally releases that bit of throat cabling to lick gently up to the angle of Drift's jaw before slowly nuzzling the sweep of one audial flare. He doesn't een realize how hard he is trembling, too lost in the pure sensation of that familiar, beloved plating sliding against his own.
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It has been too long and he'd been a fool to leave this. But duty had nagged at him--in a way he knew Perceptor never would--until he'd succumbed, writing this off as selfishness, as an indulgence he hadn't earned.
He had earned it, or at least, Perceptor had earned it, earned any pleasure he could grasp. And that was what fired over Drift's net, making him turn his head to seek the mouth again for a deep, gentle kiss, optics half-lidded and wanting. Everything he'd wanted and more than he deserved right here.
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He shifts, hands coming up to cradle Drift's helm between them, the pads of his thumbs stroking up white cheek guards. As his hips settle to rest upon Drift's, Perceptor has to spare a flicker of processing power to cycle his cooling fans up a notch; he's on fire from within, his lines coursing with the shocks of spilled current and his fuel and coolant pumps both hammering with strain.
He... he won't last long. It's been too long, and he's wanted this just too much. He's trembling with the effort to hold himself together even now, when all he wishes is that he could pour himself into Drift's plating and never, ever leave. It frightens him, a little, to want this much, to need this strongly, and he moans softly into the kiss as he flicks his glossa, tasting Drift again and again.
Reply
Sparks crackle between them, a bluish hazy fuzz that builds and surges, feeding on their desire. He moans into the kiss, safe, cocooned in his small room buried in the back of the base, but even so, he bites down on the sound, as though admitting to pleasure would open himself up to ridicule or rejection. He loves the weight of Perceptor on top of him, loves the trembling want. It's Perceptor's, but it's his, one of the few things Drift dares claim, that he could cause such want and pleasure in another.
He tears his mouth from the kiss, moan dying to a growl as he seeks the throat, his cheek armor brushing over the scope. He's at the verge, his own hands, body, fierce with need.
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Too much, it's all too much, and he willingly, gratefully, tips his chin, baring his throat to Drift's greedy mouth, choking out a desperate plea as he feels the fierce rumble of that growl against the sensitive conduits there. It's the scrape of Drift's cheek guard over the hyper-sensitized barrel of his scope, and the hungry draw of lips and denta against his throat that shove him over the edge.
Current flares, his hoarse cry of abandon dying into crackled static as he grinds himself down against Drift, head thrown back, optics staring blindly as the overload tears through his every system. He doesn't even have room for thought, every mote of his existence drowned in utter sensation and the security of being in Drift's arms. The force of it is almost pain, and he clutches to his lover's body as his field crashes like a wave over them both, and his climax flings him into the throes of the most exquisite ecstasy.
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