sticky, pwp
for tformers100 Table Weather Prompt Tide

Wing sighed, vents stirring the air along Drift's thighs as he stood on the rocky promontory. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

Drift shrugged. "I guess."

Wing turned, his gold optics glowing in the darkness. "What do you see, Drift? When you look at this, what do you think? Feel?"

Drift snorted, but dutifully enough stepped closer to the edge. The planet's two moons hung like coins, round and full, over the glimmering water below. Waves crashed against the shore below, foam and white against the black strand.

"Amphibious assault," he muttered. He pointed to two spots where the serpentine surface of the ocean seemed stirred. "Shallows there, and there." He made a grunt. "Best time to assault the shore in…three cycles. When the moons are lower, the shadows will be confusing."

Wing stepped closer, one hand brushing Drift's thigh. "Not everything is a battle, Drift," he murmured.

Drift shrugged. "Look there: water on shore. Tell me that's not a fight. Tell me the ocean doesn't want to win."

"It doesn't," Wing said. "They have been doing this for millennia, Drift."

"The war's been going on for longer." No need to specify what war.

"But there is no rage, here," Wing said. "Think of it as a dance." He pointed to the moons. "They provide the music, the slow tempo of water and ground."

"Dance." A snort. "You think fighting's a dance, too."

"It's a better metaphor than war," Wing said. He leaned closer, mouthplates brushing Drift's cheek. Drift turned his head, his mouth seeking the kiss, wanting. It was reflex, desire. He told himself that he should take it because it was his to take, because the sweetness of Wing's kisses made up for—in part—the unrelenting hardness of his methods.

Wing gave a soft, throaty moan against him, arms wrapping around Drift's frame. The ground seemed to lurch under Drift, as Wing threw his weight sideways, plummeting them toward the ground. Drift clutched at Wing's body, mouth fierce and hot on Wing's, thrown headlong into trust, knowing Wing would not let them fall.

At the last instant, the nacelles burned blue hot, twin moons of their own against the silk-sheened darkness. And gravity lurched under him, Wing carrying him just over the waves, so the salty cold froth sprayed over them both.

Wing landed in the shallows, the two of them tumbling to the stony shore, the water cold and bracing over their lust-heated frames. The waves crashed over them, water and foam, hissing through their bodies. Wing writhed over Drift, one hand skillful, even in the crashing waves, opening their hatches, and Drift gasped at the cold rush of water over his interface equipment.

/This is a battle/ Wing murmured, voice a thrilling vibration over Drift's comm, as he sank his spike into Drift's valve, /This is a dance./

Drift arched up into it, all of it: the water fizzing through him, the delicate lick of the ebbing tide, the sideways slip of fine grit over his armor, and Wing's mouth, warm and pliant, on his, Wing's spike pulsing and hard within him. /Yes,/ he murmured, hands clinging to the jet's body, legs twining around Wing's thighs.

/What you see is what you are,/ Wing said, his body arching against Drift's, spike surging into the other's body, like the tide made incarnate. And Drift, looking up, could see only the two gold orbs of Wing's optics, moons of light, shining down on him.