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niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shadow_vector2011-07-13 08:15 am
- drift,
- drift/wing,
- febrile,
- sticky,
- wing
Febrile part 1
IDW
Drift/Wing
sticky
Oh LORDY, people, I have failed abjectly at a kink meme fill. I've been staring at this for DAYS and...it's irredeemable. It doesn't even hit half the kinks. And it's quite a bit h/c which was NOT a requested kink. Exhibit A part one of my fail.
Drift snarled, sinking his dentae into the mesh cable of Wing’s throat. He could feel the push of the mesh against his mouth, the pulsing of the energon current, just micrometers away. His spike drove itself into Wing’s valve, heat and pressure and friction, his pelvic armor grinding against Wing’s white. He reached down, hooking one of the jet’s knees, hauling it up to his shoulder, pushing deeper in, goaded by the rising pants of Wing’s ventilation system, the hands that clawed at his shoulders, the mouth that nipped, frantically, at his audio.
He could feel the overload charge building across his system, the high tight knot of energy in the capacitor at the base of his spike sparking over his net, his entire body microtwitching with the spillover current.
The overload ripped through him like a detonation, transfluid bursting hot and sharp down his spike’s channels, as the overload charge ran through his circuitry, tearing a gravelly cry from his throat, that he bit into Wing’s cable, until the cable gave, and the sweet tang of energon flooded his mouth. Wing’s ecstasy mixed with pain, his body shuddering against Drift’s, clinging to the white armor as though to salvation itself.
Drift released the tension, Wing’s hips, which had been jammed up off the berth by the violence of his thrusts, eased back down. Drift licked along the hose, giving small, satisfied grunts as Wing shivered against him, adding hot shocks of pain over Wing’s net, shimmering through his ecstasy.
Wing let his arms fold around the chassis, clinging to Drift, nuzzling against the audio until Drift raised his head. Wing smiled, turning his helm to meet Drift’s lips with his own, glossa flicking out to taste the energon glistening purple pink on the titanium plating. His gold optics glowed warm acceptance, his EM field like velvet waves brushing over Drift, luring him like a siren’s call, into a rich, deep recharge, spike still hot and sheathed in Wing’s willing body.
[***]
Drift’s second foot hit the floor in silence, and he carefully levered his weight off the berth. His Decepticon combat frame wasn’t designed for stealth—the silenced piston housings and EM dampeners were upgrades for mechs with different functional modalities. Like Turmoil who could move in an eerie, empty silence.
The plan—such as it was—had worked. Wing had fallen into an exhausted, sated recharge, Drift’s transfluid still streaking silver and sticky over the silver thighs. He was a deep sleeper to begin with, Drift had learned, and never deeper than after having a few rounds of interfacing.
It…wasn’t a task Drift had particularly minded. Wing was beautiful and sensual and open, and taking him, again and again, still sometimes felt like a luxury he didn’t deserve.
Not sometimes. All the time.
But.
The war. He had to get back to the war. This had been nice—perhaps a shore leave he hadn’t earned—but it was over. He had to go. And he couldn’t leave on Wing’s terms? But he could leave on his own. And tonight? He’d allowed himself one last indulgence in that warm, willing body.
He crept to the door, coding it with quiet fingers, muffling the chime of acknowledgement with the palm of one hand as the door cycled open. Drift knew his way out of Wing’s building—the walking way, the groundframe way, that was—and struck out on the polished smooth streets, squaring his shoulders, meeting gazes coolly, with all the long-unpracticed memory of a mech who had tried this trick countless times before. I belong here. I have a right to be here.
He didn’t, either one. He was faking his way, entirely. But he was faking his way, at least, to the exit, leaving this place he hadn’t earned, didn’t deserve. He nodded at a mech who met his gaze, aiming solidly in one direction. There was an exit to the surface. He…just had to find it.
[***]
Drift was frustrated. He knew an exit existed. He’d gotten underground to the city itself somehow. He’d just been…near dead at the time. But it had to exist.
He’d wandered for hours, the perimeter of one level, then trying to find the lift tube to another level, beginning to growl with failure, aware of the racing time. Even more aware when he heard Wing’s voice, frantic, over the comm channel. “Drift!” Wing had said. “Where are you? This isn’t funny.” He’d sounded surprised at first, then worried as Drift didn’t answer.
Then the voice got distant, disappearing altogether. Good, Drift thought. He gave up. Faster than Drift figured. Then again, living here, smothered in peace, it made sense that mechs got weak. It was small consolation as he headed up another level, determined to find the exit to the surface.
There. Finally. A large set of blast doors cut into the red-brown rock, a keypad right beside it, coded to open. Huh. Well, Drift wasn’t one to worry too much about good luck: no time wasted having to hack the code. He tapped the enter, bouncing with tension as the doors began their slow, regal roll back along their tracks. The surface. And then the ship. He’d get one, somehow. More planning than last time, perhaps. But he knew those slavers had a ship that would take him offplanet, and, well, he wouldn’t say no to a little payback.
He raced up the stairs, swearing he could taste freedom, waiting for the bright blaze of sunlight to burst across him. He never thought he’d look forward to planet-light but the underground lighting was…oppressive somehow. Even worse than a spaceship. Ships were false envelopes of safety. A city underground was like a tomb and way too much like the gutters. Sure, it was clean and bright, but still. Underground. The mass of everything above you, pressing down.
And it must be morning, by his chrono. Just a matter of another turn, another flight of steps….
Sound burst on his audio, a wild, shrieking roar of air, ions biting at his armor like acid. The sky wasn’t warm gold but an ominous purple black, and low and moving, as if pieces of it were tearing themselves off and flinging themselves at the ground.
It was hell, a sonic roar that shook him down to his base servos, flickering his vision with static, cutting his audio in and out. Some kind of storm, the worst he’d ever seen, like the Devastator Winds they used to talk about back in the gutters. He wasn’t going anywhere in this.
He tried, anyway, staggering forward, trying to get a directional lock on…anything. Nothing, no. Everything a scream of static, cutting around his armor, in the gaps, like thousands of tiny scalpels raking at him inside and out.
And there, a patch of white in the dun ground.
Wing.
Face down, one wing spread, vibrating in the tearing winds.
He’d come out here, looking for Drift. And Drift remembered the strange way the last hails on the channel had seemed to cut with static and…here. The picture was all too clear.
Drift swore, curses so vile they rattled his own audio over the storm’s violence.
He bent, scooping up Wing’s prostrate form, and turned back to the stairs.
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I like the last scene which has that action/mission feel. The ending was nice in that way that it's not predictable on first read, but seems obvious in retrospect, which I guess means characterization and foreshadowing, etc. is right on.
It all kinda makes me want to know more about the characters.
When you re-read the first scene, and the paragraph starting 'Wing let his arms fold...', does it seems like the POV shifts? It did for me, but I'm not sure what the intent was.
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I love the feral feel of the opening. Very hot and rough and rowrf. And I am seriously looking forward to some sweet, sweet h/c. You are pushing all my happy buttons here. Thank you.
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the one thing to get Drift to go back..
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(still would love to read this on~!)
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