Halcyon part 3
Apr. 18th, 2011 07:41 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
niyazi-a.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shadow_vectorNC-17 (FINALLY)
IDW
Drift/Wing, Topspin, Perceptor
sticky, angst
[***]
Topspin settled onto the chair, his optics doing the same quick, cool assessment Perceptor had probably done himself, hundreds of times. “Looking a lot better,” Topspin said.
Am I? Perceptor would hate to think what that meant. By contrast, Topspin looked…entirely normal, save for a paired ridged plate on his helm, apparently a local repair for the bulkhead Perceptor had seen crushing Topspin’s head into the console. “The ship is ready to go.”
“Ready, loaded.”
“Secure?”
Topspin tilted his head. “They didn’t even try to break into the module.” He gave a snort. “Believe me, I checked seven ways to Springer’s left diode. Then I felt bad for not trusting them.” His large hands pleated themselves in his lap. “This place gets to you.”
Perceptor nodded. “You’re ready to go?”
“Yeah.” Topspin looked guarded. “They said you’re not ready to travel.”
Perceptor frowned. Drift had said that, too. Meaning he was the weak one, the one who was slowing them down. “I can manage.” There was nothing he wanted more than to be away from this place.
Topspin shook his head. He handed over a datapad: Perceptor tapped it on, reading his medical specs. The specialized capacitors and the components in the heat sinks around his cortical relay were damaged. Without proper replacements…critical heat.
“It’s a risk, merely.” Stupid risk, and he knew it when he said it.
“Not going to chance it,” Topspin said. “And I’m ignoring you if you even try to pull rank on this.”
Perceptor twitched, the words rattling from his vocalizer queue. “Insubordination,” he said.
“A: Wrecker,” Topspin said, placidly. Insubordination was Wrecker stock-in-trade. “B: if anything happened to you, Drift would chop me into steel slaw.” He shrugged. “Not gonna happen.”
“Drift will go with you.” Trying not to capitulate so easily. If there was the slightest pressure gradient slip, his whole cortical system could fail. Holding them back, again. He wanted them to leave him as he should have been left in Turmoil’s ship.
Topspin shook his head. “Not leaving you alone here.” He grinned. “I trust ‘em but…not that much.” He leaned back, studying Perceptor under the rim of his helm. “Don’t think I can get it there? Window’s open. No pursuit—no chance for another ‘con strafer to get out here yet. Now’s our chance.”
And Perceptor realized he and Drift had already spoken, already made up their minds. He ground his dentae, bitterly. “Yes,” he said. It was so coldly, perfectly logical, after all. It made sense. He just…hated it. “Topspin,” he said, eager, grasping at a change of subject. “What do you think of this place?” Topspin had seen more of it than Perceptor, and with, perhaps, clearer optics than Drift.
“It’s,” Topspin shrugged. “Peaceful. I’m a Wrecker. We don’t—really—do peace.” He gave a laugh. Perceptor did not laugh back. “Probably just me,” he added, a moment later, “Not sure I’m cut out for all this peace stuff.”
Perceptor was asking himself the same thing.
[***]
Wing settled the tray of tools on the berth. “Thank you for letting me practice on you,” he said. “All of our better technicians are working on your friend’s repairs.”
“That difficult?” Drift wanted--and didn’t want--to talk about Perceptor.
Wing nodded. “They are determined to match the capabilities of Perceptor’s specifications.”
Drift felt a burst of borrowed pride at that. “Most of those he designed himself,” he said.
“They are—apparently—quite impressive. As is he.” No envy in the voice, as if that were somehow a foreign language.
“He is,” Drift said. In his way. And Wing…?
“Leaving, alas, tasks like this to the less-skilled, like me.” His grin was shy, ironic. So many flavors of smile, and Drift was amazed how fast they all came back to him. Wing picked up the microsprayer. “This should help with some of the stiffness in the new joint.”
Drift lay back, obediently, dropping his legs to one side. His face was unreadable as he retracted the skirting armor, exposing the replaced hip joint. The ship and Topspin, had departed earlier that day, the sensitive data hurtling toward Prowl. There was nothing for Drift to do but heal.
Wing bent over, working quietly, gaze intent, spreading the pressurized oil through the joint, pausing periodically to wipe the joint down with a small rag. The hot oil felt good--warm and slick and soothing on metal that had been grinding out against itself: Drift felt himself relax onto the berth. He let his optics travel over Wing, as the mech bent, engrossed in his task. The golden eyes were hauntingly familiar, the gentle brushes of the black fingers setting tingles across Drift’s net, down his thigh. The pinions of the shoulder nacelles were swept back, sleek against their manifolds, with just the barest edges of the folded wing panels peeking above and behind the shoulders, framing the unfamiliar sword.
“There,” Wing said, quietly, with one last swipe of the rag. “Try the joint now?”
Drift straightened the leg, then bent it, then rotated the hip. The oil spread through the gears, the action smooth and painless. “Better,” he said. He propped that foot on the berth, knee raised. “Thanks,” he added, quietly. Perceptor’s words weighed in his cortex. Be with him; be happy? Is that what Perceptor wanted? Is that what Drift wanted?
A thin line of oil slid over one of the hipskirt plates. Without thinking, Wing reached over, swabbing it with the rag, then tracing up the leg, leaning forward, an unconscious gesture of affection, to nuzzle the armor projection of Drift’s knee.
Wing stiffened, realizing his overstep, the fond smile crumbling. “I-I’m sorry,” he said. He withdrew.
Drift reached, caught his wrist, jerking him forward as he dropped his knee, pulling the red and white chassis onto his, the surprised mouth against his own. Wing made a surprised sound, muffled against Drift’s mouth, his hands indecisive between pushing away and clutching at Drift’s chassis. Drift felt his systems warm, throbbing against Wing’s frame, mapping the contours of the jet’s complicated body, shapes so different from Perceptor’s--angles and planes where Perceptor was solid and blocky, white satin compared to Perceptor’s matte red.
Wing melted against him, his mouth softening, glossa seeking Drift’s, optics lidding closed as his thigh slid over Drift’s pelvic frame. Wing broke the kiss, gently, in stages, pulling away only to dip down into it again, as if he feared that once he’d ended it, it was over forever.
Drift’s hands slid down the back, over the compact, tight folds of the wings, cupping around Wing’s pelvic frame.
“Drift,” Wing breathed, the name almost sacred in his voice, optics unlidding to golden crescents. Drift murmured against him, washed in memories. This was the past, he told himself. Over and done. But it was also here, vibrantly, vividly here: he could smell the tang of ionization from Wing’s idling nacelles, feel the comforting weight of the aerodynamic armor, taste Wing’s mouth, hear his gentle wanting whimpers. Wing was his past, but Wing was also the present, and Perceptor had pushed him to it and...he didn’t want to think. He wanted to feel, just once more, make Wing alive and real across his sensor span, as if that were the only way he’d believe Wing wasn’t a ghost.
He pulled the white jet down, into another kiss, to forestall any questions he knew he couldn’t answer, bucking his hips up, worming a hand between their bodies. Wing gave a stifled squeak, hips twitching, fingers digging into the shoulder panels as Drift opened his interface panel, fingers groping blindly over the equipment covers. The valve cover yielded with a soft click, and Drift circled it idly with one finger, feeling his own spike raging behind his own armor. He remembered so well the slick, snug pressure of Wing’s valve, but more than that: he remembered the wanton desire the jet showed, shameless, eager. He growled into Wing’s mouth, probing the one finger into the valve, tormenting them both by withholding what they both wanted. Wing rocked back trying to push himself against the finger, onto it, giving a soft, longing, impatient whimper.
Drift tilted his chin down, separating their mouths with a series of soft nips while his other hand snaked over the jet’s thigh, pulling it wider over his hips, autoreleasing his equipment. Wing gave a juddering sigh, as he settled himself onto the spike, the fine pleats of the valve spreading against the intrusion of Drift’s spike. Wing hung for a moment, quivering, his valve’s calipers adjusting down against the sudden presence. Drift sucked in a vent of air, cool and sharp, past blurring into the present, as though he’d never left, except for the aching awareness of how long it had been.
He gave an experimental push, and Wing, straddling his thighs, clamped his hands in Drift’s, spine arching, valve calipers clutching. He stilled. “Sorry!” Wing gasped, “It’s...been a long time.”
Part of Drift quailed, knowing without asking how long it had been, guessing that Wing had taken no partners since he’d left. His hands squeezed Wing’s hands, fingers interlacing. “I...thought you were dead,” he murmured. An excuse, an apology for not being able to hold the same standard, feeling suddenly filthy, impure, next to Wing.
“Don’t,” Wing whispered, curling back down, separating one hand from Drift’s to stroke along Drift’s helm. “The past doesn’t matter anymore,” he said, as much wishing as asserting, bending lower to bury his face in Drift’s throat, the panels of his helm sliding against the spaulder.
Drift didn’t want to argue--for too many reasons. He pushed up, against Wing, pressing their bodies together, a feral sound boiling in his vocalizer. He thrust into Wing, slow and long, feeling the valve release and open again, feeling Wing shudder against him. He hated the thought that Wing had refused any lover after him, at the same time some dark part of him thrilled to the idea: Wing, untouched, no smudges of other hands, other mouths, on that white armor.
His tempo increased, desire pouring like a torrent into its old channels, bracing one foot on the berth, knee between the parted thighs, leveraging himself up, driving his spike deep. Wing moaned against him, mouth hot and desperate against Drift’s throat, hands gripping, stroking, exploring, re-introducing themselves to Drift’s body.
The overload hit all too fast, and hard for all of that, intensity on the rawest edge of pain, shocking through his systems like crystalline fire. Wing keened into Drift’s body, his frame thrashing against Drift’s rigidity, subsiding into soft waves of motion, ebbing desire, the heat of his mouth cooling, softening, as Wing lifted his head to nuzzle Drift’s helm, his lips, gentle and vague, brushing over Drift’s cheek.
Drift didn’t know what to think, didn’t want to think, wanting only to hold the jet’s body against his, hold onto this long moment of sweet pleasure, holding onto Wing’s shivering ecstasy as a shield against the future he didn’t want to face.
IDW
Drift/Wing, Topspin, Perceptor
sticky, angst
[***]
Topspin settled onto the chair, his optics doing the same quick, cool assessment Perceptor had probably done himself, hundreds of times. “Looking a lot better,” Topspin said.
Am I? Perceptor would hate to think what that meant. By contrast, Topspin looked…entirely normal, save for a paired ridged plate on his helm, apparently a local repair for the bulkhead Perceptor had seen crushing Topspin’s head into the console. “The ship is ready to go.”
“Ready, loaded.”
“Secure?”
Topspin tilted his head. “They didn’t even try to break into the module.” He gave a snort. “Believe me, I checked seven ways to Springer’s left diode. Then I felt bad for not trusting them.” His large hands pleated themselves in his lap. “This place gets to you.”
Perceptor nodded. “You’re ready to go?”
“Yeah.” Topspin looked guarded. “They said you’re not ready to travel.”
Perceptor frowned. Drift had said that, too. Meaning he was the weak one, the one who was slowing them down. “I can manage.” There was nothing he wanted more than to be away from this place.
Topspin shook his head. He handed over a datapad: Perceptor tapped it on, reading his medical specs. The specialized capacitors and the components in the heat sinks around his cortical relay were damaged. Without proper replacements…critical heat.
“It’s a risk, merely.” Stupid risk, and he knew it when he said it.
“Not going to chance it,” Topspin said. “And I’m ignoring you if you even try to pull rank on this.”
Perceptor twitched, the words rattling from his vocalizer queue. “Insubordination,” he said.
“A: Wrecker,” Topspin said, placidly. Insubordination was Wrecker stock-in-trade. “B: if anything happened to you, Drift would chop me into steel slaw.” He shrugged. “Not gonna happen.”
“Drift will go with you.” Trying not to capitulate so easily. If there was the slightest pressure gradient slip, his whole cortical system could fail. Holding them back, again. He wanted them to leave him as he should have been left in Turmoil’s ship.
Topspin shook his head. “Not leaving you alone here.” He grinned. “I trust ‘em but…not that much.” He leaned back, studying Perceptor under the rim of his helm. “Don’t think I can get it there? Window’s open. No pursuit—no chance for another ‘con strafer to get out here yet. Now’s our chance.”
And Perceptor realized he and Drift had already spoken, already made up their minds. He ground his dentae, bitterly. “Yes,” he said. It was so coldly, perfectly logical, after all. It made sense. He just…hated it. “Topspin,” he said, eager, grasping at a change of subject. “What do you think of this place?” Topspin had seen more of it than Perceptor, and with, perhaps, clearer optics than Drift.
“It’s,” Topspin shrugged. “Peaceful. I’m a Wrecker. We don’t—really—do peace.” He gave a laugh. Perceptor did not laugh back. “Probably just me,” he added, a moment later, “Not sure I’m cut out for all this peace stuff.”
Perceptor was asking himself the same thing.
[***]
Wing settled the tray of tools on the berth. “Thank you for letting me practice on you,” he said. “All of our better technicians are working on your friend’s repairs.”
“That difficult?” Drift wanted--and didn’t want--to talk about Perceptor.
Wing nodded. “They are determined to match the capabilities of Perceptor’s specifications.”
Drift felt a burst of borrowed pride at that. “Most of those he designed himself,” he said.
“They are—apparently—quite impressive. As is he.” No envy in the voice, as if that were somehow a foreign language.
“He is,” Drift said. In his way. And Wing…?
“Leaving, alas, tasks like this to the less-skilled, like me.” His grin was shy, ironic. So many flavors of smile, and Drift was amazed how fast they all came back to him. Wing picked up the microsprayer. “This should help with some of the stiffness in the new joint.”
Drift lay back, obediently, dropping his legs to one side. His face was unreadable as he retracted the skirting armor, exposing the replaced hip joint. The ship and Topspin, had departed earlier that day, the sensitive data hurtling toward Prowl. There was nothing for Drift to do but heal.
Wing bent over, working quietly, gaze intent, spreading the pressurized oil through the joint, pausing periodically to wipe the joint down with a small rag. The hot oil felt good--warm and slick and soothing on metal that had been grinding out against itself: Drift felt himself relax onto the berth. He let his optics travel over Wing, as the mech bent, engrossed in his task. The golden eyes were hauntingly familiar, the gentle brushes of the black fingers setting tingles across Drift’s net, down his thigh. The pinions of the shoulder nacelles were swept back, sleek against their manifolds, with just the barest edges of the folded wing panels peeking above and behind the shoulders, framing the unfamiliar sword.
“There,” Wing said, quietly, with one last swipe of the rag. “Try the joint now?”
Drift straightened the leg, then bent it, then rotated the hip. The oil spread through the gears, the action smooth and painless. “Better,” he said. He propped that foot on the berth, knee raised. “Thanks,” he added, quietly. Perceptor’s words weighed in his cortex. Be with him; be happy? Is that what Perceptor wanted? Is that what Drift wanted?
A thin line of oil slid over one of the hipskirt plates. Without thinking, Wing reached over, swabbing it with the rag, then tracing up the leg, leaning forward, an unconscious gesture of affection, to nuzzle the armor projection of Drift’s knee.
Wing stiffened, realizing his overstep, the fond smile crumbling. “I-I’m sorry,” he said. He withdrew.
Drift reached, caught his wrist, jerking him forward as he dropped his knee, pulling the red and white chassis onto his, the surprised mouth against his own. Wing made a surprised sound, muffled against Drift’s mouth, his hands indecisive between pushing away and clutching at Drift’s chassis. Drift felt his systems warm, throbbing against Wing’s frame, mapping the contours of the jet’s complicated body, shapes so different from Perceptor’s--angles and planes where Perceptor was solid and blocky, white satin compared to Perceptor’s matte red.
Wing melted against him, his mouth softening, glossa seeking Drift’s, optics lidding closed as his thigh slid over Drift’s pelvic frame. Wing broke the kiss, gently, in stages, pulling away only to dip down into it again, as if he feared that once he’d ended it, it was over forever.
Drift’s hands slid down the back, over the compact, tight folds of the wings, cupping around Wing’s pelvic frame.
“Drift,” Wing breathed, the name almost sacred in his voice, optics unlidding to golden crescents. Drift murmured against him, washed in memories. This was the past, he told himself. Over and done. But it was also here, vibrantly, vividly here: he could smell the tang of ionization from Wing’s idling nacelles, feel the comforting weight of the aerodynamic armor, taste Wing’s mouth, hear his gentle wanting whimpers. Wing was his past, but Wing was also the present, and Perceptor had pushed him to it and...he didn’t want to think. He wanted to feel, just once more, make Wing alive and real across his sensor span, as if that were the only way he’d believe Wing wasn’t a ghost.
He pulled the white jet down, into another kiss, to forestall any questions he knew he couldn’t answer, bucking his hips up, worming a hand between their bodies. Wing gave a stifled squeak, hips twitching, fingers digging into the shoulder panels as Drift opened his interface panel, fingers groping blindly over the equipment covers. The valve cover yielded with a soft click, and Drift circled it idly with one finger, feeling his own spike raging behind his own armor. He remembered so well the slick, snug pressure of Wing’s valve, but more than that: he remembered the wanton desire the jet showed, shameless, eager. He growled into Wing’s mouth, probing the one finger into the valve, tormenting them both by withholding what they both wanted. Wing rocked back trying to push himself against the finger, onto it, giving a soft, longing, impatient whimper.
Drift tilted his chin down, separating their mouths with a series of soft nips while his other hand snaked over the jet’s thigh, pulling it wider over his hips, autoreleasing his equipment. Wing gave a juddering sigh, as he settled himself onto the spike, the fine pleats of the valve spreading against the intrusion of Drift’s spike. Wing hung for a moment, quivering, his valve’s calipers adjusting down against the sudden presence. Drift sucked in a vent of air, cool and sharp, past blurring into the present, as though he’d never left, except for the aching awareness of how long it had been.
He gave an experimental push, and Wing, straddling his thighs, clamped his hands in Drift’s, spine arching, valve calipers clutching. He stilled. “Sorry!” Wing gasped, “It’s...been a long time.”
Part of Drift quailed, knowing without asking how long it had been, guessing that Wing had taken no partners since he’d left. His hands squeezed Wing’s hands, fingers interlacing. “I...thought you were dead,” he murmured. An excuse, an apology for not being able to hold the same standard, feeling suddenly filthy, impure, next to Wing.
“Don’t,” Wing whispered, curling back down, separating one hand from Drift’s to stroke along Drift’s helm. “The past doesn’t matter anymore,” he said, as much wishing as asserting, bending lower to bury his face in Drift’s throat, the panels of his helm sliding against the spaulder.
Drift didn’t want to argue--for too many reasons. He pushed up, against Wing, pressing their bodies together, a feral sound boiling in his vocalizer. He thrust into Wing, slow and long, feeling the valve release and open again, feeling Wing shudder against him. He hated the thought that Wing had refused any lover after him, at the same time some dark part of him thrilled to the idea: Wing, untouched, no smudges of other hands, other mouths, on that white armor.
His tempo increased, desire pouring like a torrent into its old channels, bracing one foot on the berth, knee between the parted thighs, leveraging himself up, driving his spike deep. Wing moaned against him, mouth hot and desperate against Drift’s throat, hands gripping, stroking, exploring, re-introducing themselves to Drift’s body.
The overload hit all too fast, and hard for all of that, intensity on the rawest edge of pain, shocking through his systems like crystalline fire. Wing keened into Drift’s body, his frame thrashing against Drift’s rigidity, subsiding into soft waves of motion, ebbing desire, the heat of his mouth cooling, softening, as Wing lifted his head to nuzzle Drift’s helm, his lips, gentle and vague, brushing over Drift’s cheek.
Drift didn’t know what to think, didn’t want to think, wanting only to hold the jet’s body against his, hold onto this long moment of sweet pleasure, holding onto Wing’s shivering ecstasy as a shield against the future he didn’t want to face.
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no subject
Date: 2011-04-18 12:22 pm (UTC)Now all we need is Turmoil and we have all of Drift's important 'lovers' in one place.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-18 04:21 pm (UTC)Oh gods, no, please no. I don't want Turmoil anywhere NEAR NCC or Wing, unless it's dead as dead can be. Just the thought of Turmoil getting his hands on Wing makes me cry.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-18 07:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-18 08:09 pm (UTC)here's a question: when someone says, "seeing kumquat would upset me and make me cry," why do you then make it a point to show them kumquat?