Wholeness

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG-13
IDW
Drift/Wing
for tformers100  table: peace prompt: wholeness

 

Wing fought the urge to flinch. Next to him, half on top of him, Drift was deep in recharge, in the thrall of some terrible memory purge, limbs twitching, optic shutters fluttering, small, strangled sounds escaping his vocalizer. Drift fell into this every night cycle, it seemed--this pattern where he’d fall asleep, clutching at Wing as though Wing were salvation. Then the grip would loosen, Drift begin this cycle of nightmares, and end with him flinging himself away from Wing’s touch.  Drift’s suffering...hurt.  The helplessness hurt, the inability to do anything, say anything, to comfort him. Wing knew that any gesture he made would be rebuffed or misconstrued, any touch to soothe read either as an attack or a chink into what Drift considered his weakness. 

Weakness. Drift was the least weak mech Wing knew.  Just from the bits of his story he’d let slip, Wing couldn’t do anything but respect Drift, what he’d seen, been through, fought through.  The only weakness Drift had was in holding himself too rigid, too hard, too tightly, like a brittle wire under tension--something was bound to snap, the contrary weakness of strength clutched too tightly. 

Drift whimpered, sliding off Wing’s body, one hand trailing limp and numb over Wing’s chassis. His face tilted up, caught against one of Wing’s shoulder pinions.  It dismayed Wing how tense Drift looked, even in recharge.  Moreso than awake, as though when online he exerted some force, some control, over even his facial expressions, compressing everything to that thin, hard smirk. The only times Drift’s face lost this tension were during interfacing, or when practicing with the sword. Not all the time, with the blades, but sometimes, and sometimes even for a fraction of a klik, his face would lose that hardness, his frame lose some of the tension, becoming relaxed, even daring to be happy. Or the nearest thing to it: shedding the past’s guilts and the future’s worries and just being present in himself. 

Wing wished Drift thought that was good enough. That he was good enough.  That he felt whole, complete. 

He risked a movement, sweeping his hand over his chassis, sliding it in a gentle line along Drift’s cheek armor, a ghost’s touch.   

Drift made a soft sort of sound, as though hope were trying to be born, before being quashed under sense.  One of his hands curled around Wing’s chassis, gently, without possession. 

Wing lowered his head, peeling his shoulder off the berth, running a thumb over the cheek itself, letting it glide closer to the fretful mouth, the worried divot between the optics, half hidden under his helm. Drift twitched, optic shutters flicking, giving an irked sound. Wing curled lower, brushing his helm’s nasal against Drift’s helm. “Drift,” he breathed, letting the word float like gossamer between them. Maybe it would work; maybe it would break the cycle. “Drift.”   

Drift shocked awake, arms flailing wide, as though lashing against attackers, the optics blazing on, sudden and blue.  He looked at Wing for a klik, mouth open, wordless, before lunging forward across Wing’s body, attacking Wing’s mouth with a fierce kiss, hand clutching at the shoulder nacelle. Wing dropped back against the berth, opening himself to Drift’s mouth, feeling the body slide, feral and hot, over his own armor. 

Drift growled, tearing his mouth from Wing’s looking down the length of their bodies, optics blazing blue into the darkness.  Wanting, owning, needing to possess Wing. As though he himself was not enough. 

“Drift,” Wing murmured, raising one hand to stroke along the deep spaulder.   

The optics snapped to his face. “Deadlock.” The hand curled harder over his shoulder, the weight shifting, one dark knee pushing between Wing’s white thighs.   

“That’s not who you are,” Wing murmured. You are Drift; it is enough.   

“You don’t know that.”  There was some struggle behind his gaze, but the mouth was hard, tense. 

“I do know that.”  Wing moved his arms to wrap around Drift’s back, pulling him into a gentle embrace, as if trying to reassure him of his wholeness, his boundaries. 

Drift snatched a hand, pushing it down onto the berth.  “You don’t.”  He pushed his chassis into Wing’s.   

Wing could sense the edge of something sharp and dark and dangerous in Drift’s voice.  “What do you need?” Not in challenge, nothing but offering: whatever Drift wanted, or needed.  He more than half suspected that Drift did not know the answer to that question himself—another lack, another gap. 

Drift growled, something inside him thwarted, wanting to force, to take, to conquer. “Fight me,” he hissed. 

“Don’t we do that enough during the day?” Wing’s kept his voice light, though he shifted his hands, ready to move if he needed to.   

He really hoped he didn’t need to.  You don’t need this, Drift.  You don’t need an enemy to know yourself.  You don’t need to find your boundaries through bruises. 

Drift snarled, rearing back to launch a blow at Wing’s face. Wing blocked it, with his free hand. Drift swung again, releasing Wing’s other hand. Wing flung his hips to one side, throwing Drift off balance.  The blow skimmed Wing’s shoulder, as Wing flipped Drift, landing on top of him, their legs still intertwined. “Drift,” Wing said, locking his thighs around Drift’s, “I don’t want to fight you.” 

Drift jammed his spaulder at Wing’s helm the white metal clanging together.  Wing moved, limbs hard against Drift’s. Drift flung himself upward, trying to dislodge the jet’s weight.  Wing’s optics glowed, gold and sharp, like blades of sunlight. He covered Drift’s mouth with his own, matching force with force, his lip components hard against Drift’s, glossa probing in.  Drift twisted, biting at Wing, growling, struggling to free his hands.  Wing tore his mouth away, mouth parted, panting down at Drift.   

“Then what do you want?” Drift muttered, his EM field buzzing against Wing’s, violence shimmering toward arousal.   

Warm air gusted down on Drift’s pinned body, Wing struggling for some kind of control--not against Drift, but himself. “You,” he said, simply. “Free of this pain.” He released Drift’s wrists almost sheepishly. 

Drift’s snarl died before the raw honesty of Wing’s words. Wing’s mouth curved into a lopsided smile, almost embarrassed.  Drift’s own hands came up, tentative, around Wing’s chassis, resting lightly on the rib struts, almost as if afraid to touch.  And the violence that had erupted through him from his awakening had dissipated, evaporated, somehow, and he lay under Wing, almost ashamed.   

Wing seemed embarrassed as well, by his own admission, by his own strange arousal at the force of pinning Drift down.  “I am...sorry,” he murmured, moving to lift his body off of Drift’s.  This was also, he realized, a way Drift tried to draw his boundaries—through interfacing, arousal, which in Drift’s mind were inextricable from control. 

“No,” Drift whispered, fingertips curling into Wing’s body, importunate. “Stay.” 

“Drift, I...shouldn’t.”  Only then did Drift feel the hard flare of the EM field against him, realizing he’d awakened Wing’s desire and the jet was trying, forcibly, to lull it to rest.   

“Stay,” Drift said. He tilted his chin, his mouth meeting Wing’s in a kiss that quickly kindled a heat between them, and his hips surged under the white jet’s, dark against light, needing against wanting, force against yielding.  Wing gasped into the kiss, his sensornet flooded with stimuli: Drift’s heat, the blue glow of his optics, the hands just riding the sensitive seams in his armor.  Drift, pulsing with life.  Wing’s optics drooped closed as he pushed into the kiss, allowing himself to become...a little more demanding, a little harder. And Drift didn’t yield before him, but their mouths met like twin flames, their bodies fitting into each other as equals, evenly matched.