Cut shadows

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW SGish AU
Wing/Drift
sticky
for tf_rare_pairing  June challenge, 23 June ‘who am I?’

 

Drift shivered in the cool air of morning, his engines pinging in the damp air, sunrise sending fingers of gold over his red armor. It still felt alien, still different, even though he could barely remember the white of his old armor. 

The rising sun cut sharp shadows out of the dunes around him, lighting the edges, casting dark wells of shadow so deep they seemed to be pieces of the night torn from the sky.   He looked up, turning, his feet schussing in the heavy powder of silicate sand,  tracking the sky as it faded from orange to lilac-grey, to the star-spattered darkness of night, to the west.  He stared at the stars for a long moment, almost stunned by the reminder. Out there: other worlds.  Out there: the war he wanted to get back to.  Or had wanted to. He…didn’t know anymore.  It wasn’t just the absence of suffering—he was no coward, wanting to hide in safety.  It was that the whole war seemed empty, feeding a machine whose appetite was never sated. 

He turned away from the night sky, peering again toward the east, letting his systems depressurize with a hiss that seemed almost grating in the thick silence of the dawn.

Wing would be back soon.  He dreaded and anticipated it, as he always did with Wing, finding the jet’s voice, body, reason as erotic as he found them dangerous, the two tangling together like twisted ribbons, a jet’s spun contrails. He turned his head again, feeling the weight of the collar, the clasp resting over his Decepticon insignia that the repair technicians had so carefully, so expertly, reconstructed.  Who am I? Drift thought, looking down. An Decepticon? A slave?

The collar gave him no answers. An inert one, this time, Wing had claimed.  And thus far, it had seemed so.  Not like the immobilization collar Wing had first used on him, freezing his actuators, damping all outgoing signals from his cortex, freezing him below the collar.  He shuddered with the memory, even though Wing had explained, his voice silky and sweet, that Drift had needed it, for his own good, needed to be stopped, needed to be taught better.

This, though, was just a weight, a reminder. And in its way, as Wing had explained when he’d snapped the connector shut, planting a gentle kiss on Drift’s mouth, a reward—that he didn’t need a controlling collar anymore, that he could be trusted not to misbehave.

He wanted trust; he wanted to be trusted.  But….

As if sensing his wavering, Wing descended, a golden glimmer from the dawning sky.  Sunlight caught on his dark armor, like a comet falling from the sky, flying faster than the sound of his engines.  He transformed, landing just as the sonic boom hit, pushing against Drift, rattling the lenses of his optics, glass in his canopy.

“Drift.”  A smile, bright as the sun beside him, his face cut into sharp angles by the rising light. 

Drift nodded. He’d been trained to silence. He opened his arms, welcoming, strangely, the warmth of Wing’s flight-heated body against his, Wing allowing himself to be folded into an embrace, purring. 

“You’re glad to see me.” Wing’s own hands wrapped gently around Drift’s frame, gliding up the spinal struts, the bare, swordless channel. 

“Yes.”  He was.  Wing was everything to him. Of course, Wing had made himself that way, training Drift slowly to trust no one but him, want no one but him.

“Show me,” Wing said, tugging Drift’s hips against him. He leaned forward, his mouth, warm, sun-gilded, kissing Drift’s, the contrast between hot and cold sending shudders through both of them as they twined into the kiss.  “Show me you’re glad to see me, Drift.”

This…wasn’t hard.  Part of  him loved Wing, responded to the jet despite, or perhaps because of, how different he was from Drift’s former lovers: demanding where others had been giving, hard where others had been soft, and yet, somehow, still gentle, still solicitous, wanting Drift’s pleasure as much as his own, feeding off Drift’s panting hot desire.

Drift’s hands tugged at the wings, pleading for them to flare open again, shining dark in the sunlight, his palms tracing the planes, fingertips trailing delicate stars of touch along the struts and seams.  Wing knew Drift worshiped his wings, encouraged it, teasing him with them, punished him by withholding them just out of his reach.  Wing purred against him, dropping his head to Drift’s throat, licking and biting at the cables in turn, above the heavy collar, pleasure and pain, gentle and sharp, alternating, each feeding the other.  A paradox, a metaphor, of everything Wing was. 

Drift’s hand slid between them, the palm missing the wing already, even while wanting this: even while sliding down the jet’s ventral plating, seeking the interface hatch.  He traced the panel, reverently, fingertips curling into light brushes, tipping his head back in shared delight as he heard Wing moan into his throat.

He opened the panel, pushing it gently aside, caressing the interior metal, stroking it free of excess charge.  The heel of his hand bumped the spike cover, fingertips reaching to cup the valve. He could feel the heat and prickle of desire through the thin metal. Wing rocked his hips forward, into the touch, giving a soft growl of pleasure.  Drift’s other hand clung to the wing, leaning over the jet’s shoulder to kiss at it, run his mouth over the leading edge, his optics dimming with desire, his spike grumbling its readiness. 

“Yes,” Wing breathed, the word blazing across Drift’s net.  “More.”

More and always more. Wing was insatiable, and sometimes Drift thought the jet wouldn’t be satisfied until Drift had given him…everything, holding nothing back.  His spike released itself, wanting Wing, not caring about morality, or politics or cause or anything other than the sleek tight valve that Wing offered, lifting his thigh, wrapping it around Drift’s hip, sliding it under the scabbard he had just allowed Drift to get installed.  Drift couldn’t resist, rocking back and then forward to slide the spike in, seating it in the delicious, yielding, responsive warmth, quivering as calipers cycled down against it. 

Wing curled against him, clinging to his frame, whimpering, wanton, as Drift thrust into him, burying his face in Drift’s shoulder.  Drift gave a quiet groan, rocking forward again, then back, taking a slow, smooth tempo, maddening them both, building charge slowly, languorously.

“Yes,” Wing repeated, murmuring the word, over and over, that word, like a charm or spell between them, breathing the word into Drift’s throat, his cheek, and finally, against his mouth, kissing the word between them as Drift’s slow movements, the long, slow drag of spike against valve. Wing balancing, wrapped around Drift, crested them both to overload, his hands clawing, clinging, down Drift’s body, writing pleasure in the characters of pain. “Yes, oh yes.” 

Drift trembled in ecstasy, feeling the hot rush of his transfluid from his spike, charge dancing between them, over them, little white sparks against the dawning day.  The stars had all faded now, the indigo receding, pushed off the world by a blanket of blue and white and gold.  Shadows softened, diffracted, and Wing’s optics seemed glows of the golden sun, piercing, yet warming. “Mine,” Wing murmured, tilting his head up, planting a tender kiss on Drift’s rank crest.  “Mine.”  His hand came down, stroking the collar around Drift’s neck. 

Who am I?  Not a Decepticon, surely not.  They fought for freedom.  He…wanted nothing more than this—held, taken, owned.  Who was he? 

Wing’s.

 

Comments

[mieka-writes.livejournal.com]

somehow.. I think Drift is more free now than ever...

[http://users.livejournal.com/__wilderness__/]

Oh yes. That... was a perfect representation of what they could be like in SG. And that last line is a killer.

[silaphet.livejournal.com]

it's painful how much i worship your heavily atmospheric pieces. But a pain i crave. elegant eroticism, thank you.

[not-your-gun.livejournal.com]

Mmmmm....

All I can say is 'Yes.' And 'More.'

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

oh wow... I... but... that is... guh... unf.

oh fuckdamn. This... I want more. You have no idea how much I covet this. (not to mention how much the evil scientist in my head is making grabby hands... >_> )

Wing is... deliciously dark and yet so light at the same time... Like one of those kids you hear about on the news... the ones born without a conscience... They can giggle and smile while they're pulling the wings off a bird. It's... creepy and wow. me likie.

omg, I'm a twisted freak...

[xxsomeoneelsexx.livejournal.com]

I can't decide whether I want someone to swoop in and save Drift, or just let Wing have him forever and ever and pet him and own him and do creepy things to him. My brain is running in little circles trying to figure it out. D:

Oh, and this phrase--writing pleasure in the characters of pain--amazing *____*

[abarai-san.livejournal.com]

This is the PERFECT take on SG WingXDrift. I especially like you cow crafted Wing's mannerism to be almost the same, yet with an underlying darkness... Am I making any sense? @.@ he's like a more serious version of APH Russia in my head. Yandere and all.

[prowl.livejournal.com]

I don't really know either of the characters but this is amazing.

[akufu.livejournal.com]

SG Wing is... scary really Ö____ö
I wonder how SG Deadlock would have been...