Febrile 3

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG-13
IDW
Drift/Wing
ref sticky
part three du fail

“Need fuel,” Drift said, awkwardly hauling—or trying to—Wing’s shoulders across his chassis.  He juggled one cube of the three he’d brought over, in his hand. 

“Not hungry,” Wing said, twisting his head away, audial fins scraping on Drift’s chest. 

Drift frowned. It had been over a daycycle. Wing needed fuel.  “Drink anyway,” he said. 

“This is ridiculous,” Wing said, squirming. Drift pinned him with an arm across the chassis. 

“What’s ridiculous is you not fueling.”  He held the cube up. “Drink.”

“I don’t need fuel,” Wing said, voice querulous. He pushed against Drift’s arm.

“Right. Can’t even get my arm off you, Wing.”  Tell me another one.  “Drink.”

“No!” Wing squirmed, energon slopping over the edges of the open cube.  “See?” Wing said.  “Don’t need it.”

Yeah, that made perfect sense.  Drift sighed, fighting the urge to clamp one hand over Wing’s face, pinning the head back against his shoulder and forcing the slagging cube against the febrile mouthplates.  But that wouldn’t work here. Well, then, what else, genius? 

The perky article popped to the top of his process queue. Stupid, he thought. Ridiculous. And for good measure? No slaggin’ way.

Wing wriggled, the wings scraping hot and buzzing with distortion, over his chassis.  “I’m fine,” he whined. “Don’t want any.” 

Oh this was…beyond words.  Fine.  Chances were Wing wouldn’t even remember it.  “Really?” Drift forced himself to say, leaning forward, between Wing’s shoulder and his cheek, lifting Wing’s energon-wet hand to his mouth. “Shame to let it go to waste.”

Primus, what am I even doing?

Shut up. In the name of getting Wing better. So…you can desert him. Whatever.  Just…shut down that part of your cortex that tries to make sense of things.

Drift flicked his glossa out, against the wet fingertip, feeling the sharp burst of energon across his net, tingling and sweet.

Don’t stop now, idiot, he told himself, parting his mouthplates, hooking one finger in with his glossa, sucking the energon off it.  He felt a burn of embarrassment, that almost, but didn’t quite, drown out the sharp hiss from Wing, the way the hand went suddenly still in his.  Drift shut his optic shutters, taking another finger in, letting his glossa skate over the fine plates of the finger, until his lip plates flirted with the plate on the back of Wing’s hand. 

A strangled whimper, and when Drift cracked his optic shutters, he saw the jet’s face rapt, mouth in an aroused ‘o’, gold optics burning and hot.  The EM field flared against his chassis, cutting some of the edge of mortification. 

“I-I think I could maybe try some?” Wing offered. 

Drift drew Wing’s fingers slowly from his mouth, hiding a sly flare of his optics.  “All right.”  He held the cube up,  resting Wing’s head on his shoulder, feeling Wing’s hands cup around his, guiding the cube to his mouth.  He tipped in just a little, Wing having to butt his mouth against it, and then tipped it back, so that the jet luxuriated in the velvet tingle of the fuel over his starved systems.  “More,” Drift insisted, and Wing softened against him, hot wing panels against his chassis, head tilted obediently upward.  Drift felt something stir within him, some sort of strange tingling warmth spreading from his belly, as he watched Wing’s mouth take the cube, the glossa licking nervously at the lip plates.

No. You do not want Wing now.

Yes, he did.  And Wing wriggled down against him, systems humming contentedly with the rush of energon through his lines, the hot armor firing all of his own tactile sensors. 

“You feel nice,” Wing murmured, optics drooping closed again.

“Yeah,” Drift muttered. So do you. A little too nice. He lay the cube down, letting his palms ride down Wing’s chassis, feeling the sleek armor slide under his touch, feeling Wing arch up into the touch. A growl burbled from his vocalizer, his spike clicking to pressurize behind its housing.  Wing gave a pleasurable little hum, head lolling against Drift’s shoulder, mouth turned idly inviting a kiss.

The lipplates were hot, the mouth that parted under his scalding his glossa, sucking the coolness from him.  Drift’s hand clutched over the interface hatch, between Wing’s silver thighs, growling with want.  He pulled away from the kiss, twisting his body out from under the jet’s, his spike already anticipating the feverish valve, its desperate molten clutch.

He pushed over, mouth searching the jet’s throat, heat licking at him like flames as he levered a knee between Wing’s thighs.  Wing whimpered under his biting kiss, the optics suddenly flaring with worry, hands clutching at his upper arms.  “Drift,” Wing whispered, pleading. “S-slower?” 

Drift looked up. “What?”

“Slower. Could you?” The beautiful mouth pinched down, optics furrowing. “Please?”

Drift’s hand froze over the interface hatch’s release, feeling the sudden cold burst of rejection. He pushed off. “Never mind.” 

“Drift?” Wing sounded distressed. “Please. I want you. Just…too much?”

Too much was still rejection, Drift thought, frowning, as he levered himself off the jet’s weight, flopping down, back to the jet.  “Get some recharge,” he muttered, feeling the howling protest of his spike as he curled on his side, Wing’s fever boiling against his back, no match for the shame and frustration that scalded him from within.

 

[***]

Wing was getting worse, murmuring half-words, optics never fully unshuttering. The wings had spread themselves open, to vent heat through the surface area. The legs tossed, restlessly, the ventilation systems panting. 

Drift lay a damp rag over Wing’s chassis, swabbing it gingerly along the white span. Wing shifted beneath him.  All previous thoughts of thwarted lust were smothered in something half like concern.  Wing’s brow furrowed, querulous, his optic shutters flicking half-open, disturbed, restless, his hands opening and closing helplessly. “Come on,” Drift whispered, urgently, swabbing down the lighter armor of the thighs, and trying desperately hard not to think…certain thoughts, “cool down.” 

Wing whimpered, face turning toward Drift’s voice, making a wordless sound. 

“What?” Drift muttered. “You need to cool down.”  He reached over for the basin he’d brought from the maintenance facility, rewetting the cloth.  The water was evaporating fast off the chassis and thighs.  He moved to swab the inside of Wing’s arm. 

He worked his way down the arm, swiping over the hot fingers, as they curled around his.  “Cool down,” he repeated like some magic spell or chant.  “Come on, Wing.  Just…cycle over. Cool down.” 

The optic shutters cracked—twin lines of gold. “I like your voice,” Wing said, his own cracking, low on charge. 

Drift snorted. His voice was…awful. Rough, raw, used to shouting orders over the din of combat.  “Know you’re sick now,” he said, reaching to rewet the rag. 

A hot hand on his hip. “Can you sing to me? I’d really like it.” 

Sing.  Drift turned, glaring. “I don’t sing.” Fever was scrambling Wing’s cortex. 

“Could you? For me?” 

Drift growled. “Don’t know any stupid songs.”   He knew a few fairly bawdy drinking songs. That was about it.  Or, if he really thought of it, a few commercial jingles they used to hear wafting like echoes from another world, down into the gutters.  Correction. The only songs he did know were stupid.

“Could you try?” The hand slid up from his hip around his waist, seeming to cast sparks over his sensornet. “I like your voice. Even if it’s not a song or anything.” 

Drift glowered for a long moment wringing out the rag.  No one had ever complimented him on anything like this. What he could do, yes, but not what he was.  “I don’t sing.”  He turned back to Wing.  “Lie down.” 

“Then don’t sing.  Just…talk.”  Wing pulled himself  up, hand hooked around Drift’s waist. Drift pushed him back.

“Lie down.”

A flare of a cheeky grin that faded far too fast for Drift’s liking. “I will if you sing.”

Drift splayed a palm on Wing’s chassis, pushing him back.  He could feel the whirling surge of the spark through the metal armor, the resistance of Wing’s shoulders against the berth. “No.” 

“Please?”  And the teasing tone crumbled into something almost piteous, a plea for some tiny bit of comfort, and Drift felt small and mean for even thinking about rejecting it. 

“Don’t sing,” Drift muttered, even as he felt himself draw out the syllables. And he didn’t sing, since he knew no songs with words, but he let his vocalizer buzz, shaping loose notes, letting them rise and fall in some melodic echo of the rag he swiped over Wing’s chassis.

Primus this felt stupid.  But Wing’s joints released, sagging gratefully down onto the berth again, optics dipping closed.  Even the hand that held onto Drift slowly opened, falling aside, as Drift half-hummed his way through a tuneless song.

Stupid, and he’d kill anyone who witnessed it with his bare hands, but looking at the tight lines of worry soothe on the jet’s face…it was worth it. 

Comments

[velvet-infinity.livejournal.com]

I got goosebumps. Can't wait for more!

[silaphet.livejournal.com]

You are amazing & this is so NOT a failure. i abhor Cosmo-ishness & was really worried where the f*** you were going with that, but you totally Saved. Drift's conflicting thoughts/emotions & recalcitrance keep the story grounded for me.

[gwenithcoy.livejournal.com]

I love Drift's burning embarrassment and awkwardness! This is just too wonderful!

[playswithworms.livejournal.com]

Aw, derpy!Drift is <3
I'm starting to really worry about Wing though...