Febrile 4

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW
Drift/Wing
eh, let's finish this. Whole thing's about 6K words.  So it doesn't fill the prompt, but at least you can see I tried?

‘Tell your lover how you feel.  It’s all right to be nervous! Consider that your nerves may be charming to your partner, a sign of how deeply you feel!’

Ugh. Seriously. This article should be weaponized. Drift was sorely tempted to throw the datapad across the room. Why the slag was Wing even reading this tripe?  Giving Drift even the vaguest indication that he was willing to interface—like…sitting down within arm’s reach, really—was more than enough. Wing didn’t need any tricks, especially not stupid ones.

Why would he think he even did, though?  Was…did Wing really think he needed them?  Drift looked down, where Wing had curled himself against Drift’s leg, the white planes of his audial flares on Drift’s hip, arms wrapped over one thigh.  He lowered one hand, awkwardly, brushing over the jutting shoulder.  ‘Affectionate touching is a great way to speak without words!’  the text of the article bounced up to him. Frag. Stupid thing. He slapped it down on the berth, determined to ignore it. Mechs who took advice from anything that sounded that…fraggin’ exclamatory deserved all the bad they got.

But Wing? Didn’t. Didn’t deserve Drift: could do so much better than him.

He ran a thumb along the contour edge of the flare. How did he feel, anyway?

“Stupid,” he said, quietly. “If it was dangerous, should’ve let me go and die anyway.  Solve a lot of your problems.” 

In his recharge, Wing murmured, arms tightening around the thigh. 

Drift’s mouth quirked.  “Never think about the consequences, because normally…just me that gets hurt if things blow up.”  Like Turmoil.  He could handle that.   “You’re not supposed to come after me, Wing.  You’re not supposed to care.”

And Drift realized…he wasn’t supposed to care either.  He should have been able to leave Wing, walk right on by him, braving the storm himself. But the white frame, the limp vibration of the outstretched wing as the howling winds scraped across it seemed to jab at him, like some tight vine digging in roots.

“What are you doing to me?” he said, his voice almost quavering, the hand, palm flat, stilling on the white flare.

Wing said nothing, sighing gently against Drift’s hip.

[***]

It was probably a bad sign, Drift thought, that Wing was sleeping so much.  The artificial city’s artificial lights signaled daytime outside, and he pushed off the berth to activate the light/sound dampeners.  Shadows enveloped the white frame again, Wing giving a soft releasing whimper as the light was cut.  More sleeping. 

Wing squirmed on the berth, one hand sliding up his rib strut.  Drift’s optics tracked the motion, imagining the sleek armor, the angles and planes, as Wing gave a high quiet sigh of something like pleasure. 

Which sound Drift did not need.  His spike surged to readiness. No. 

He snarled, snatching up the datapad, stepping across the barrier onto the landing ledge.  He needed to get away from the temptation, the sinuous body that called to his hands, that soft, yearning mouth. 

No. Concentrate. Read something.

He flicked the pad back on and the same stupid article came up.    

Stupid article.  Stupid Wing looking for him in the middle of a stupid mach storm. Should have just—

--what?  Should have just left Drift out there to die? 

Frag.  Drift glowered through the barrier at the prone white form.  As he watched, Wing rolled to one side, optics glowing online,  searching the room, buzzing in and out of focus. “Drift?” Wing swung his legs forward, over the edge of the berth, struggling to stand. “Where are you?” 

Drift cocked his head. The barrier wasn’t perfect—he was clearly silhouetted. But Wing was looking right at him and not seeing him. 

“Drift?  Please.  It’s not safe.”  Wing struggled to stand, wobbling on underpowered servos, his balance gyros glitching.  “I know you don’t like it here. Please. We can talk about this.” 

Drift’s optic shutters closed over a sudden pain.  No, he hated it here, hated everything about this place.  But Wing’s pleading voice, the way that, even caught in a hallucination, he was trying to protect Drift, burned something in his spark.  “Right here,” he said, stepping through the barrier, wincing at the sound of his own voice, harsh and raw compared to Wing’s musical gentleness.

“Drift?”  The optics tilted, unseeing.  “It’s dangerous. You’ll die if you stay out here.”  He took a step forward, before the servos failed.  Drift rushed forward, barely catching him before he hit the ground.

“I’m right here,” he repeated, tilting the jet’s chin toward him, his other hand hard around the back. “I’m right here.”  Heat poured off Wing in waves.  Drift felt a skirl of something like panic at Wing’s confusion.  He hefted the jet in one arm, swinging him with the same brutal efficiency he’d used under Turmoil’s command, dragging Wing into the maintenance facility.  He slapped the dials of the washrack on cool, before stepping under the spray, dragging Wing with him. 

The cleanser hissed around them, glossing over Wing’s body, seeping, Drift hoped, under the armor, cooling the systems beneath.  Wing gasped, clinging against Drift, but his optics cleared with recognition.  “You’re here,” Wing exclaimed, his hands clutching at Drift’s helm, pulling him into a sudden startled kiss, the hot mouth a sharp contrast to the cool cleanser raining over both of them, swallowing any words Drift might have said.

His own hands tightened around the jet’s chassis, unable to resist temptation at least that far.  The wings spread, opening to the cleanserfall, Wing’s body sliding slick and wet over against Drift’s.  Drift growled, pushing away. “No. Too much, remember?”

“No,” Wing murmured, nipping at Drift’s mouth. “Please. I want you.”  And his voice, and his hands, and his body importuned Drift, begging, wanting.  Drift wasn’t used to this, either: being wanted.

Drift dropped his weight, pulling Wing down with him to the floor of the washrack, cleanser sheeting over them, his mouth locked with Wing’s.  He forced restraint, dragging his hand slowly down the white frame, rising up on his knees over the jet.  Drift opened the interface hatch, cascading the cleanser off his hand into the newly-exposed components. Wing shuddered underneath him, the mouth pushing fiercely against his. Drift’s sensor net blazed on, wanting nothing more than to sink himself into the jet’s body.

But no. He wasn’t going to get rejected again.  He let his fingers circle the valve cover, feeling the cool liquid sluice over the hot metal, Wing shivering, gasping at the contact.  He gave an aroused growl as Wing squirmed into the touch, the optics flaring up at Drift. His own ventilation hissed from the force of restraining himself as the valve cover snicked aside.  Drift raised his head, hovering to watch Wing’s face as he circled the valve’s rim, dipping one finger into the valve.  It was hot, the calipers heat-clamped, tight around his finger.  His spike wouldn’t have fit in here anyway.  He wormed the finger into the valve, Wing squeaking and jolting under him. 

Drift shifted his position off to one side, straddling one of Wing’s thighs, his own hatch snapping open. 

Wing squeaked, as Drift twisted his finger in the valve, hips rocking up against him, hands slipping over Drift’s arms.  Drift grinned, isolating one of the sensor nodes in the valve’s lining, rolling it against the calipers with one finger.  “Oh!” Wing exclaimed, optics flaring wild and wide.  “Drift…!” 

“Yes,” Drift said, hearing a teasing note in his own voice.  He wriggled the finger, almost laughing with a fierce joy as Wing cried out.  He clamped Wing’s thigh between his, his spike jutting between them like a private joke.  He ground his body against the thigh, spike sliding on Wing’s hot armor.  “Your turn,” Drift said, gritting his dentae, pushing another finger in beside the first, in the scalding valve. “Sing for me.” 

Wing did: a moan rising to a sharp wailing ululation in tempo with Drift’s fingers, his heat-tightened valve calipers twitching and squeezing erratically around them. Drift’s grin took a feral edge, his own hips thrusting harder, more insistently, against Wing’s body, lubricant smearing between them, cleanser raining down over them, heat sheeting of the jet’s frame even as he twisted and clutched at Drift.

Wing keened, his valve crackling over Drift’s fingers, overload wracking him, as heat washed over him.  Cleanser steamed from the white frame, the body bucking and writhing against Drift, Wing’s mouth stretched in an ecstatic shape.  And then the hands closed around Drift’s helm, hauling him into a fierce, wanting kiss, burying the last of Wing’s keening note against Drift’s mouth. 

Wing dropped back, spent, optics gold and clear, heat shedding from his body.  “Thank you. For staying with me. For bringing me back.” And there was no blame for the escape, no anger, no recrimination that without Drift, Wing wouldn’t have been out in the storm himself. Every moment of Wing’s suffering was tied to Drift.

Drift licked the last of the heat from Wing’s mouth, as if that could erase the pain.  “Didn’t want you hurt.”  He wanted to leave, to get back to the war, where at least he fit in. But he’d never wanted Wing to get hurt. Not his fault.  And he realized, as he said it, how…stupid and impossible it was.  And how confused he had become.  Part of him longed for that clarity, that had let him coolly look down Turmoil’s cannon barrel,  lock down Turmoil’s ship, slipping away with almost mocking ease.  Wing had confused…everything.

“I was so worried,” Wing murmured.  His hand stroked Drift’s cheekplate, optics tilting with worry at the taut expression on Drift’s face. 

“Not worth it,” Drift said, leaning down, nuzzling gently against Wing’s audial flare, edging his still pressurized spike gently off the thigh plate.

“You are,” Wing said, tugging Drift into a gentle hug, his frame finally—finally—cooling. Drift’s hand was still pinched in Wing’s valve, the calipers cycling gently around it, loosening, and Wing’s hips tipped up in promise and invitation.  Wing’s voice dropped to a whisper, a filament of sound. “You are.”

[epilogue]

“This.”  Drift dropped the datapad on the berth between them, like an accusation.

“It’s…a datapad?” Wing blinked, looking up from where he was buffing off the excess enamel.  It was achingly good to see the white white again and the red bright and gleaming, not dulled and stripped by the mach storm winds. 

“That article.” 

“Oh.”  The rag stilled.  “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Wasn’t very well secured,” Drift countered. “Manipulating me?”

“No! It’s not like that.”  The rag wrung in Wing’s hands. “I…you’re not very good at subtle cues. I thought it would help.”

“Help what?”

“Help…,” Wing squirmed. “Help me.  I want you to be happy here, Drift. That’s…you know that. But I want it to be…with…me.”  The gold optics dropped to the floor, fingers tangling in the rag. 

It was…so stupid and so ridiculous that Drift threw his head back, laughing.  “So…you think ‘tricks’ are better?” 

“I’m sorry. It was wrong of me.”  The head bowed, quiet. 

“No. It’s just that….these things. They’re…they’re ridiculous, what they advise.”  Singing, fingers. Random groping.  Talking about feelings.

Wing tilted his face up. “But they worked.”

“Worked?” Drift growled, lunging forward, pushing Wing back against the berth. “I’ll show you what works.”  His mouth found Wing’s, the kiss feral, hard, Wing’s mouth cool and inviting, opening under his, Wing’s hands coming to his ribstruts. 

“Will you now?” Wing drawled, at a break in the kiss.

“Now,” Drift growled, his hand raking the jet’s interface hatch as Wing arched up against his touch. “And without any stupid advice column.” 

Wing laughed. “You really hate that thing.”

“Stupid thing. Glad you don’t remember any of it.”

Wing’s hand curled around Drift’s helm, teasing one audial finial, his leg hooking around Drift’s thigh. “Don’t I…?”

 

Comments

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

shoooowweeerrrr scene.... *melts*


okay, you know the bad thing? Now, when my laptop starts running hot? The only thing I'm going to be able to think about is how it just needs a good, hard overload to blow off the excess charge and reset again. >_>


Oh yeah, I am totally not right. And this whole thing was stupidly hot and cute.

[eerian_sadow]

you know, this may not have been the kink meme fill you had planned to write, but it's delightful and i think it fills the prompt just fine. ^__^

i loved it. the story conveyed so much feeling, from frustration to hurt to anger to that shy, tender almost-love that i was just delightful to read. <3 and then that shower scene was just hot. <3<3

nice work, dear.

[velvet-infinity.livejournal.com]

Urgh! This was REALLY good. And hot. Now we need to add Perceptor and we have my favorite threesome!!! XD

[playswithworms.livejournal.com]

Hmm, brings whole new meaning to the term "feed a fever" :D

Talking about feelings psssh. "This article should be weaponized." Oh Drift XD

[mieka-writes.livejournal.com]

heh.. way to cute.. and even Wing hates the advice column.. good to know

why am I getting mental pictures of them reading it together ad Drift being caustic and sending Wing into giggle fits