Recoup

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW
Drift/Wing
sticky, very light dubcon
tformers100 table: peace, prompt: healing.  

 

 

Drift shifted restlessly on the berth in the cold, sterile medbay. He wasn’t tired, but they had insisted he ‘rest’. Rest.  Like he had time for this.  He had to get out of this place, get back to the war.  He did not need ‘rest’.  That was for the weak.  Technicians encouraged weakness. There was no war here.  Too easy to simply get lost, get soft. 

“Drift?” Wing’s head appeared in the doorway, a familiar face. Which was odd—he barely knew the jet and he’d already become the only anchor of familiarity here. 

“What?” he snapped.

Wing’s smile shriveled. “They sent me to check on you.”

“Lucky you.”

Wing’s smile stabilized, gold optics warming. “I think so.” 

‘Then you’re an idiot,’ was just on the verge of Drift’s mouth.  Wing was…infuriating. But Wing swept into the room, carrying a small tray.  He pushed up onto his elbows, eyeing the crystal tray suspiciously.  “What’s that?”

Wing perched on the side of the berth, Great Sword tilting to one side, fingers toying with the tray’s contents.  “You’ve had major systems repairs.  They should be checked over.”

“Have maintenance subroutines,” Drift said, defensive, bringing one knee up between them.

“We’re not doubting that. Just that…so many of your systems had to be upgraded that, well,” Wing laughed, sheepishly, “there’s some concern about rejection.”

Rejection.  Drift was still bridling over ‘upgrades’.  His armor and systems were some of the best in the Decepticon forces. “Show you rejection,” he muttered.

Wing laughed again, turning his face away for a moment. “I’m sure you would, Drift.”  He turned back. “But please, I won’t be long if you’ll let me…?”

There was no way he was going to be able to stop Wing.  Oh he could physically stop the jet, but that would leave him trapped in an underground city, a fugitive where everyone knew everyone else and he stood out like a beacon. Right.  He knew when he was trapped. 

“Why you, anyway,” he said. “And not a proper medic.”

“Ah, that.” Wing busied himself toying with the objects on the tray for a moment, before turning with a pressure gauge and, Drift decided, a handy lie. “We thought that perhaps you might appreciate a familiar face.” 

Right.  “You mean no one wants to put up with me.”

Wing just laughed, but it rang a bit false, for once. “You are…a challenge.”  The laugh faded. “We are out of practice with strangers,” he admitted. “And,” he said, nodding briskly, recovering himself, “I am in need of practice with this equipment.” 

Well, that boded…well. Drift watched, a bit nervous, as Wing attached pressure gauge to one of his fluid hoses, the black fingers sure and nimble enough. He’d suffered through worse medics.  In fact, Wing’s gentle touches were almost too gentle, his fingers skimming lightly over Drift’s armor, opening armor catches, sweeping over the exposed systems with a pressure scanner.  Drift shuddered, optics traveling in a hot line up Wing’s fingers, his arms, to the jet’s exotic, beautiful frame.

Wing’s optics flew to his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”  He snatched his hands back, nervously adding, “I did say I needed practice.”

Drift exhaled. “Not…that.”

Wing looked confused, his hands wringing around the scanner on his lap. “Something else?  Are you in pain?”

Drift blinked his optics in frustration, the stir of desire colliding with Wing’s strange shyness. He pushed up, studying Wing, deciding, weighing.

Why, he thought, am I even hesitating?  I want him.  I take him. It’s not that hard. It’s how it works.

But Wing…

…is no different.  Drift leaned forward, his hand seizing one of Wing’s audio fins, dragging the head closer to his, locking Wing’s surprised sound in his vocalizer, covering Wing’s mouth with his own, before he could have any more questions or doubts. He expected resistance, his mouth hard against Wing’s, his other hand wrapping around one shoulder, pulling the white armor close.

Wing didn’t fight or push back, the scanner falling from his startled hands before he melted into the harsh kiss, his mouth opening around Drift’s intrusive glossa, yielding against him, leaning forward, mutely offering more. 

Drift did not refuse offers. He lay back, pulling Wing on top of him, feeling the jet move over him, his chassis sliding over Drift’s new armor, kicking out his legs to tangle with Drift’s own.  Drift blazed with desire, arching up into the white frame over him, squeezing one of Wing’s thighs between his own, hands roaming blind over the wings, the  Great Sword’s scabbard.  Wing moaned against him, his own hands pressed flat between them, fingertips like little stars of sensation on Drift’s sensors. 

Drift raked his hands down the scabbard.  Wing arched up, tearing his mouth from the kiss, gasping, hands clutching on Drift’s armor.  Drift growled, possessively, curling upward to sink his dentae into the exposed throat, laughing as Wing juddered against him. 

“Drift!” Wing managed, barely.  “We should not….”

Drift released the cable he’d bitten down on. “We should,” he countered, with his own, inexorable logic.  His hands moved to Wing’s hips, flattening down on the pelvic span, as he ground his own armor up against it. Behind it, his spike raged with want.

“We could get caught,” Wing whispered.

Drift felt a lopsided grin spread over his face. That was not a ‘no.’ At all. And, “You, of all mechs, afraid of getting caught?”  Right.  Wandering planetside, alone?  Planning on attacking a ship by himself?  “We could. But I don’t care.”  He wriggled his hips down, one hand sliding around the jet’s side to the gap he made in their bodies.  “And neither should you.”

Wing squeaked as Drift’s hand closed over his interface hatch, going rigid, tense, his ventilations sharp and shallow.  Drift squeezed the panel, rubbing it roughly, grinning as Wing twitched and moaned softly over him.  Yes. This was what he wanted—control and desire. And more than that—someone like Wing desiring and controlled. 

“Drift,” Wing began, gasping as Drift snapped open the hatch, his hand reaching for Wing’s spike, squeezing it in his palm while his fingertips searched lower for the valve.  “I…we…!”

Drift stroked the spike, letting his fingertips graze down over the valve’s rim. “Do you want me to stop, Wing?” he purred, his voice like dark silk. “Do you?” 

Wing hesitated, shivering over Drift. “I--?”

“Do you?” Drift repeated, twisting his hand as it slid up the spike.  Wing’s optics dimmed, his hips sliding into the gesture, unconsciously.

“No,” Wing breathed. 

Drift grinned. “What don’t you want me to do?” he murmured, coaxingly. “Say it.”

“Please,” Wing said, gold optics ablaze with embarrassment. “Don’t stop. I don’t want you to stop.” His optics shuttered, a vibration running the length of his frame, as though the admission wrung something from him, the pinions of his nacelles flaring.  He was…exquisite to watch, and his tremulous desire was intoxicating to Drift.

And he wanted to throw Wing down on the berth, tear open his own panel, and plunge his spike into the eager valve, whose heat he could feel with every downstroke on the spike.  But he restrained himself, measuring out his satisfaction, because even more than that he wanted this strange, new thing—Wing’s exquisitely willing,  visible desires, readable on every line and quiver of his face, every twitch of a wing.  He pulled Wing’s face down to his again, possessive and fierce, tasting the soft whimpering sounds as his hand continued to work along the length of the spike, twisting, teasing, leading it inexorably to climax, his whole frame feeling Wing’s desire trembling and twitching against him.

Wing gave a cry, the sound rippling from his vocalizer, trapped by Drift’s kiss, hands frantically seeking hold on Drift’s armor as his frame jolted suddenly, the sharp crack of charge snapping over Drift’s hand across the spike’s nodes. 

Wing curled down, awkwardly, after a moment, still trembling, his overload a crackling heat between them, his spilled transfluid silver and slick between their bodies.  And Drift drank in this shyness, as hungrily as he had Wing’s wanton desire, pulling his hand from between them to wrap it around Wing’s hip, pressing them together, Wing’s hypercharged spike between them, causing Wing to gasp in a last shock of spilled desire. 

“I’m-I’m sorry,” Wing began, his hands suddenly awkward on Drift’s frame. “I…that…,” his gold optics were importunate, and Drift found he liked this—Wing, finally ruffled, finally without that smooth gloss of courtesy and manners, finally, he felt, real.  But still Wing—gentle and warm and open.  And Drift heard an unfamiliar sound from his own vocalizer, a laugh, raw and awkward itself, unconfident, too new, but a laugh without bitterness, a sound of something like happiness as he pulled Wing’s shoulders back down towards his, feeling Wing’s helm nestle in against his as though it had belonged there all along, as though they fitted, something fierce and sweet and meant to be. 

 

Comments

[gatekat.livejournal.com]

Such delicious smut between these two. I love this one, how unfamiliar it is to both of them despite Drift beginning with the intention to take what he wants.

[chibirisuchan.livejournal.com]

sooo cuuuuuuuute. <33333

And I think the Drift-as-succubus theory really is making more sense all the time... :D Not feeling so good? Pounce on the nearest available Wing and get yourself all revved up. The best battery rechargers blush, after all. :3

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

Driftlock is so deliciously... hard. And Wing is just lovely in his awkwardness. So much love for this.

[anavidbookworm.livejournal.com]

Good things always happen to the open and honest even if they don't see them as good things initially. This was very enjoyable and rather sweet too.