Sursum part 4

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

R
IDW
Drift/Wing
pnp interfacing

 

“So,” Wing said, dropping onto the berth, resting his head on Drift's upraised hip. “Did you have a good day?”  He was grinning, but Drift could see—or thought he could—the tension in the face, the plating around the optics taut. 

And for him.  For rescuing him. 

“Yeah,” he managed.  He reached one hand down, stroking the jet's shoulder.  Should he tell him about Cloudburst?  No.  Ridiculous.  Cloudburst hadn't meant anything—just pulling him back from falling over.  He was reading too much into it.  And why bother Wing?  The white jet had enough on his mind. 

Wing purred, taking the touch as an invitation, slithering up Drift's side, letting Drift's hand ride the motion, lower and lower until it glossed his white hip.  His lip plates flirted with Drift's, gentle, and wanting.  Vision, ideals, honor.  Cloudburst's words echoed in Drift's head, things he'd thought as Wing's province alone, or...this whole place's.  But not his. 

Wing pulled away, optics tilted with concern. “I-is everything all right?  Did something happen?”

Drift realized he'd not been responding, his mouth cold and unmoving under Wing's, distracted, wrapped inside himself.  That wasn't fair.  Honor.  Ideals.  Vision. 

A stupid place to start, but a small enough one, he hoped. “Nothing happened,” he said, hooking his arm around Wing's chassis, hauling him over, pressing the white body against his.  He twined his legs over Wing's, feeling the jet melt against him. Wing had given so much for him, for his beliefs.  Wing was facing some punishment for holding true to what he believed, and still found energy, emotion, time to worry about Drift.  Wing would endure for what he believed in.  And Drift didn't have that. But he wanted it.  He wanted that conviction, that strength that masqueraded as softness. 

He let his hand gloss over Wing's torso, tracing the seams of the interface hatch in an open message, something burning in his chassis, bright and clean, as the lines of worry smoothed from Wing's face, replaced by a smile of eager arousal. 

“Flying?” Wing whispered. 

“No,” Drift said, opening the hatch gently, his fingers stroking the panel just to watch Wing shudder, “I want to show you something.”  Who I am, what I know.  A poor recompense, but laying himself open before Wing was the best he could offer.

[***]

The echo of Wing's cry had faded from Drift's audio, the trembling wracking of the frame against him had stilled, and Wing had wormed his way up the berth, cradling Drift's helm against his belly, curled protectively around Drift's head, as if he could somehow shield Drift from his own memories. 

He had shown Wing his first combat—the fierce burn of pride, the almost palpable web of purpose and loyalty between him and the other Decepticons, the bright phosphorus flare of the surety of his purpose: they were winning, they were changing Cybertron. 

And Wing had taken the memory, like a fire raging over him, twitching and whimpering with each death, each mech who fell—with a burst of satisfaction—before Drift's guns.  Drift felt Wing's exhilarated acceptance at parts of the memory, then the confused hesitation of others—killing ought not bring such joy.  But he'd pressed on, feeding the memory, feeding pulses through his sensornet, pushing Wing to overload as relentlessly as he had pursued his enemies. 

And Wing had yielded, dropping his resistance, and Wing had accepted, half curious, half swept away by emotions he’d never felt.

Wing had screamed, in desire and pain, confusion and emotion, clutching at Drift as though to save them both from drowning, his systems burning hot, overprocessing, before he'd slumped into this protective recharge.

Drift shifted, placing one hand on the white hip, letting himself sink into the comfort of the contact, and the notion that while Wing hadn't...understood, he hadn't judged, had felt his judgment blasted away. And Drift?  Had taken the risk, bared himself before Wing.  Honor.  Ideals.  He had shown what he knew of them, and felt the answering surges from Wing's own net, like calling to like, something buried deep under the surface, silted over, clouded, weighted down by the past, beginning to tear itself free. 

And Wing's protective curl felt, somehow, suddenly less like captivity.  “Cloudburst,” he murmured, “kissed me.”  It felt...painful but raw.   

Wing stirred around him, one hand brushing his cheilic plating.  “Mmmmm,” the jet said, drowsily. “You should enjoy each other.”  And he curled closer, planting a kiss on Drift's helm, exactly where Cloudburst's mouth had moved, solicitous and tender.

 

 

Comments

[silaphet.livejournal.com]

does "cheilic" refer to the lips/labial region? 'key-lic'? related to the word cheilosis? *love your vocab! fun to say pretty words*

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

I love how Wing is so... open and uncomplicated. And accepting. He's like a deep painting thaw draws the viewer in, one small step at a time, until, suddenly, you find yourself wholly immersed. So lovely.

[playswithworms.livejournal.com]

Somehow I missed the start of this one - must read backwards! :D

I am waving my arms around in a complicated, happy pattern that is trying to explain why I like this so much ^_^

[gwenithcoy.livejournal.com]

This just keeps getting better and better! Love these intimate moments between these two. And Wing at the end....wow. Love it!