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Completing a Hellscrub together was not exactly what the Drifter envisioned when his ladies had suggested he spend more quality time with Amir. It’s not that he doesn’t like doing fieldwork with the guy, quite the opposite, actually.
Amir is… incredibly vocal in everything he does, rambling out killer one-liners from movies the Drifter has never seen, laughing with genuine revelry at each well-placed shield and perfectly-timed evasion. What really gets him are the noises Amir makes, little groans when he slams down a heavy melee combo, startled gasps when he barely escapes the clawing hands of techrot creatures. And the way he pants, taking a few seconds to catch his breath after each sprint, directly into the mic of his headset.
It’s cute that running leaves him breathless, the parts of him that are still human just a touch out of synch with the parts that are infested. Drifter’s never had any issues adjusting to the speed, not when he can transfer into Gauss in both body and mind, the meaty metal shell of the Warframe a protective barrier from most human physical responses.
“Hey, Marty,” Amir huffs into his mic, the nickname never failing to make Drifter crack half a smile, “only one scrubber left, about…. six-hundred meters out.”
“On it,” he answers, stowing his scythe and crouching to ready himself, but Amir’s voice stops him.
“Waitaminute,” he rushes out frantically, “what if we raced?”
Ohohoh, a race? Amir is fast, he’ll give him that, but there are still those few little limitations that make him pant and heave, that slow him down and hold him back from ever really catching up to the Drifter, let alone outrunning him.
“You wanna race me, Sparky?” He asks, trying not to sound too teasing, too condescending. He knows Amir can be tender about his speed.
“Mhm, we’ve never done it before,” he explains and Drifter can hear the way he shrugs, purses his lips into that endearing pout.
There’s… plenty they haven’t done before, at least not without the girls around. It isn’t that Drifter doesn’t like Amir like that, it’s just easier for him to be vulnerable when Wayfinder is there to be his tether, when Eleanor is picking away at his mind and massaging all the parts that make him want to bolt into blissed-out jelly.
“You got a race, then,” Drifter finally agrees, unable to keep the smirk off his face, “I’ll give you a head start while I deal with this— ugh, fucking Babau.”
He’d been too wrapped up in listening to Amir to notice the pustules of rot creeping up the scrubber’s backside, and now the thing wants to have a conversation, as his partner had so accurately described it before.
Drifter is half expecting Amir to scoff at him, insist he doesn’t need a head start, but it seems like the protoframe is going to utilize the advantage. It’s too cute how Amir doesn’t get jealous about much, not about his relationship with Wayfinder or Eleanor, not about being made to watch sometimes because the girls think the way he wriggles and whines for them is addictive, but about his speed.
His competitive little speedster, Drifter thinks, grin broadening as he plunges the glowing end of Hate through the Babau’s squirmy catlike head.
Amir had been a little further back in the pit than him and Drifter can smell him coming before he sees him, the thick scent of ozone rushing past him like a cold draft. Such a tease, intentionally setting his course to pass him by, and fuck, does Drifter love to watch him go.
The Babau rears back its split head, lunging at him in one final feeble attempt before facing the business end of his scythe a second time. Drifter needs this thing to die already, he hadn’t intended to give Amir quite this generous of a head start. Thankfully, he’s just as quick on Gauss’ feet in combat as he is in getting distance, zipping around with another blow to cleanly sever the Babau’s head from its tentacle-infested body.
As soon as it dies, he takes off, zipping up the makeshift pathway out of the pit. He has to reorient himself around a corner, perhaps the singular drawback to utilizing his favorite Warframe, getting a straight shot down the alleyway teeming with techrot.
The Drifter is no cheater, following Amir’s route faithfully without taking any shortcuts. It isn’t like he needed them; he’ll win, and he’ll have to deal with Amir’s pouty puppy-dog expression all night as a result of it.
Gauss skids to a halt as Drifter sets him up to take another tight corner, and he weighs the pros and cons of winning their little race. On one hand, bragging rights, a chance to show off, and hopefully impress their boyfriend; on the other, potentially damaging Amir’s confidence and facing the wrath of the Wayfinder and Eleanor for being too competitive.
If only there were some way he could win the race but still make Amir feel good about himself in return… It’s not like he’s going to throw it or anything, just… Bend the rules a little so everyone’s a winner in the end.
Another alleyway, another corner, ducking through the front entrance of a shop and speeding out the back, hot on Amir’s heels. The next scrubber is already in sight and the Drifter is barely breaking a sweat, scanning the techrot-infested hallway in search of Amir.
He’d half-expected the protoframe to actually beat him, considering the longer than intended head start, but his favorite tech nerd is nowhere to be seen. The Drifter pivots to avoid crashing directly into the Hellscrubber, the frame taking a nasty tumble that he knows he’ll be paying the Helminth for later, but it’s far from his primary concern.
Should he hide out for a bit and wait, or double back on the route to give Amir a chance to catch up? A pang of worry floods him, carrying with it thoughts of Amir skewered on tendrils of wire-flesh, legs crushed beneath a mountain of corrupted monitors. For someone so unaccustomed to combat, Amir’s done a great job of not getting himself gruesomely killed so far; surely he couldn’t be in any real danger.
Still, he can’t stop the restless bounce of Gauss’ leg or the growing concern that nags at the back of his head. Something terrible happened to him because you got a big head, had to take him up on a race you knew you’d win—
The Drifter had been able to sidestep the scrubber, but Amir isn’t so lucky. He does manage to throw up a shield just in time, protecting him from a majority of the impact and subsequently smashing the scrubber to bits.
“Owowowow,” Amir groans, flapping his hands around to dispel the residual electric shocks. Just like earlier, he has to catch his breath, chest heaving as he pushes his hair back with his glasses as a makeshift headband.
Within the little window of time it takes for Amir to compose himself, the Drifter slips quietly out of transference, leaving Gauss to stand aimlessly in a shady corner. It reminds him of an Old Earth story the Wayfinder had told him when they were small; the arrogant fast animal stopping for a break, inadvertently letting the clever but slow animal catch up. Instead, he’d been worrying himself ragged waiting for Amir, more lovesick than cocky.
The Drifter creeps up on him while he’s still gathering his bearings, bracketing Amir against the jagged remnants of the Hellscrubber.
“Thought you won for a second there, didn’t you?” He asks, trying to keep his tone light and teasing.
“Well, didya’ touch it?” Amir shoots back, turning his head over his shoulder to look at him and that smirk is dangerous.
“What?”
“The Hellscrubber. Did you touch it before I showed up and Amired it to death?”
“No, I—“ he starts, tempted to explain his worries, biting them back instinctively.
“Then you didn’t win, spaceboy,” Amir gloats, even has the nerve to stick that pretty pink tongue out at him.
Void, he’s too much, in all the best ways. The Drifter grabs him by the collar right where armor meets flesh and spins him around, dragging-shoving him back into the nearest, least-dirty tile wall he can find.
“You don’t make the rules here,” he hisses out, and the way Amir yelps might actually be too much for him after all, “I beat you, fair and square.”
“Heyheyhey, don’t hate the player, hate the game,” Amir huffs, trying halfheartedly to shake the Drifter off, but it’s no use.
Void-touched hands trace down the protoframe’s chest, pressing him back against the wall, feeling the strength of his still-racing heartbeat.
“And you just love to play, don’t you, Sparky?” The Drifter’s voice is low, tinged with danger that makes Amir shiver, lips close to his ear. Close enough that he could latch on and bite.
So, he does, teeth nipping at Amir’s lobe, sliding a muscular thigh in between the other man’s legs. The Drifter isn’t shy enough to hide how turned on messing with their speedster has him, caging him impossibly further against the wall.
“How about a rematch?” He suggests, moving from his ear down to the little spot of soft skin just beneath it. “We play by my rules, this time.”
“Yessir,” Amir gasps out, and the Drifter isn’t sure whether it’s one of those Amir-isms or if he’d actually meant to call him sir, but he revels in it all the same.
He drags his teeth down the side of his neck, feeling Amir’s racing pulse, stopping when the tender flesh turns to swordsteel beneath his lips. The Drifter rocks his hips into Amir’s, cautious of the surprisingly sharp protruding bulge of his armor.
“Show me how to get this thing off you, sweetheart?” He asks, leaning back to give Amir the tiniest sliver of wiggle room.
The Drifter is usually very occupied with either of their girls by the time the clothes and armor start coming off, and Eleanor’s trappings are much easier to tear away. Amir is quick to bridge the knowledge gap, hands all but flying downwards to pry open the closures of what little armor he can remove. He tosses the protective codpiece aside, managing to cast a small shield over it to keep it out of harm’s way before the Drifter is pressing into him again, cloth and leather sliding against bare skin.
He’s seen Amir before, of course, loves the way he looks hilted between the Wayfinder’s thick thighs, straining under Eleanor’s expert hands, but this is his first real opportunity for an up-close inspection.
“Look how eager you are,” he groans, the friction delicious even through his clothes, attention captured by the intricacies of Amir’s anatomy.
“What… what’retherulesthistime?” Amir rushes out, breathing labored, trying to resist the urge to literally hump the Drifter’s leg like a dog—
“First one to the finish line loses,” he states, one hand finding Amir’s hip, the other wrapping around the thick length of him, thumb stroking over the tip, “can’t say I like your odds, Sparky.”
Amir whines, half in pleasure and half in protest, batting the Drifter’s venturing hand away from him despite how badly he wants to thrust into it.
“No fair,” he whines out again, “not fair if you’re covered up—“
The hand Amir had rejected bolts up to grab him by the hair, not caring if any of that sticky, blue-tinted precum dirties his dark locks.
“Still so competitive, even when I’m trying to get you off, huh?” The Drifter hisses, almost under his breath, giving him one last rough tug to pull him in for a kiss.
Their lips meet and it’s positively electrifying; Amir is all pent-up energy and sparks, bouncing and refracting off the Drifter’s smooth, glassy Void. He nips at his lower lip and Amir moans, hands searching around his waistline to find the Drifter’s belt.
In true Amir fashion, he’s remarkably quick and clever about it, deftly unlatching the buckle and yanking the leather band free. His next goal is getting the button undone and the zipper down, and the Drifter lets him do it as he breaks from their kiss.
He doesn’t waste any time in wrapping one
hand around them both. The Drifter isn’t quite able to make his fingers touch, but each stroke feels blissful— Amir’s thick, tapered length so slick with arousal, so beautifully foreign compared to his own.
Everything about him is beautiful, really. The way his cheeks darken with blush, the way his full lips part around whines and pants, the way his eyes roll back when the Drifter squeezes him just right.
“That’s a good boy,” he purrs, and Amir actually bucks his hips up at the note of praise, fucking into his hand, grinding up against him, “you want it faster, pup?”
The Drifter knows it isn’t entirely fair to play that card, how helpless and desperate it makes him when their girls indulge in it. The little petname alone conjures the most delicious memories; the Wayfinder tugging at Amir’s leash while he mounts her, Eleanor’s hands in his hair and legs up over his shoulders, both of them moaning out what a good, sweet, obedient puppy he is.
“Pleasepleaseplease,” Amir begs, and fuck, he’s such a mess, tongue lolling out and panting, his eyes barely able to stay open.
The Drifter gives him what the wants without a moment’s hesitation. Even without the aid of Gauss, he’s as unnaturally fast as Amir is, picking up the pace of his firm strokes. The shift in speed has his lover’s knees buckling and the Drifter is quick to catch him, maneuvering them both into a heap on the ground. Void, he’d give anything to be inside him like this, bend him in half and take him right here in this shady back alley, but the Drifter knows neither of them could stand the preparation.
Instead, he opts for the next best thing, pressing into Amir’s mind just a little as he maintains his pace, thrusting and stroking and squeezing them together. That tiny breach of his consciousness sends the Drifter spiraling, the good kind of spiral, where all he can do is sink into the pleasure bouncing back and forth between them, pouring into him with each movement.
The competition is all but forgotten as Amir scrambles for something to grab, hands fisting in the front of the Drifter’s shirt, moaning without shame as his hips buck and his cock throbs and he’s coming, electric shocks radiating from his core to the tips of his fingers.
He strokes Amir through it, crooning praises against his ear, abandoning his own need to lock his fingers in a tight circle around the swollen base of his lover’s length. The Drifter can’t help the grin that spreads across his face, watching Amir writhe and tremble, ruined underneath him.
Breathless and sated, Amir gazes vaguely upwards, his head cloudy and nerves still buzzing with little aftershocks of pleasure. The Drifter indulges in it for a few moments before withdrawing from his mind, his hands and body soon following suit.
“Looks like you lost after all,” he hums, enjoying Amir’s blissfully fucked-out expression, licking the traces of almost-fluorescent cum from his thin fingers.
“F-Fastest handy of my life,” Amir sighs, shaking his head a little as if it would actually help clear away the thick fog of pleasure.
“That’s kinda our thing, isn’t it?” The Drifter smirks, reaching for the plating Amir had discarded earlier to slot it back into place even though he’s still a mess, thighs still soaked in the slickness of his release—
“Iguessso,” the protoframe babbles, trembling at the slightly-uncomfortable sensation, helping the Drifter snap the pieces of him together, “but don’t… don’t you want to, y’know…?”
Aw, what a cutie he is, so considerate. The Drifter almost feels bad for teasing him, almost regrets the grin, the laugh that escapes him as he refastens his own belt. Almost pulls him in for a sweet, slow, delicious kiss when he tugs Amir to his feet. Almost.
“Beating you is all the satisfaction I need, sweetheart.”