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niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shadow_vector2011-09-21 06:58 am
- drift,
- drift/wing,
- sg,
- shibari,
- wing
Stuff of Darkness
IDW/ SG AU
Wing/Drift
Shibari, pnp
SO my internet went down last night. I do not react well cut off from my internet. >:[ Have some not-really-porn Shattered Glass AU stuff.
Wing purred. “You want to learn, don’t you, Drift?” His black armored hands slid over Drift’s red chassis, dropping one knee between Drift’s thighs. “And I,” he said, humming the words against Drift’s mouth, “want you to learn. I want to show you, Drift. I want you to know.” The last word was barely a whisper, the gold optics intense as suns into Drift’s Decepticon blue.
Drift vented an uneven gust of air, his own mouth tipping into the whisper, optics sliding closed. Wing had saved him and he owed the dark jet everything. And he wanted to learn.
The mouth was warm against his, pushing open, gently this time, not insistent or demanding as it had been before, parting his mouthplates like petals. He could feel the high thrum of the jet’s idling engines against his frame, like a gentle caress that set his sensors tingling. Wing laughed into the kiss, one thumb sliding over Drift’s cheek armor, down to his chin, until his fingers brushed the deceptively delicate collar around Drift’s throat. Just a reminder.
Not that Drift needed one.
But Wing was asking, this time. As much as he asked—wheedling, teasing, making clear what answer he wanted.
“Yes,” Drift said. He wanted to learn. He’d seen Wing’s swordwork and it was beautiful and powerful and…he wanted it. As wrong as it was, as un-Decepticon as it was to covet something, he wanted to learn that skill, that grace, with a desire that burned like etching acid.
“Good,” Wing breathed, pulling goadingly out of the kiss, his glossa flicking live current against the underside of Drift’s lip plates. He hovered over Drift for a moment, optics floating over the red frame beneath him. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured, leaning forward to plant a tender kiss on Drift’s rank crest, before moving to one of the wall-set cabinets.
He turned back, glossa flicking over his own mouthplates, considering Drift as he lay on the recharge-warmed berth. “White, I think,” he said, after a moment. One gold optic winked, as if amused. “Intensity. Purity.”
Drift tilted his head, propping up on one elbow, confused, as Wing pulled out a small spool of white cord, attaching it to his wrist.
Wing gestured him forward, toward the alcove where, every night, he bracketed his swords. “The location doesn’t matter,” Wing said, softly, pushing down on Drift’s shoulders, until the red mech eased to his knees. “But this should be special.” His hands slid almost tenderly over Drift’s shoulders, dropping to one knee, the arched greave plate balancing on the ground. He adjusted Drift’s legs, crossing one ankle over the other, pushing the heelplates into Drift’s black pelvic span.
The white cord unspooled from the roll mounted on Wing’s wrist, wrapping carefully around the ankles. The cord was silky, the touch almost like liquid over Drift’s armor. The movement slowed, periodically, like some elegant waltz-temp, as Wing flipped the rope end into a swift, tidy half-hitch. The rope wound down one ankle, up the other, the half-hitches forming neat little pearls of rope.
And then three larger loops on each side, swooping around his thighs to hold the lower leg assembly in place. Wing took care, measuring the distance between each loop, fanning them out with a fine precision. Drift looked up, only to receive a soft kiss on the cheek. He could feel something like excitement—rare, unusual—sheeting off Wing’s frame like an electromagnetic field, little almost-nervous tendrils of twitching, sensitive energy licking over him.
“A lesson,” Wing said, to his mute question.
“Trust.”
A shake of the dark helm, shifting the growing shadows of dusk. “Never trust, Drift. Not even me.”
A tendril of something like fear stirred in Drift’s tanks. But no: Wing had saved his life. If he’d intended anything awful, he’d had dozens of chances. Yes, the collars, but Wing insisted, with that soft voice that was never wrong, that the collar was for Drift’s own good. “What then?”
A soft purr. “You’ll see.”
Wing stepped around behind him, hooking his arms by the elbows. Drift let his hands get folded into his elbows, wrists against his backstruts, and Wing began another sensuous slide of rope, creating another tight sheathe of white over Drift’s red arms. It wasn’t tight enough to hurt—the rope was carefully laid along the armor, not dipping into gaps, where it could cut into fuel lines or wiring. But he found himself immobilized—the cord, one strand of which he might have snapped, turned into a thick band that barely left him rotational movement.
“Back,” Wing whispered, tugging on one spaulder, tipping Drift back until his bound elbows hit the ground. Wing gave a pleased chirr as Drift’s spinal struts arched up, and the hydraulics of his thighs hissing with release. “Beautiful.”
Drift’s optics searched for Wing, the angle—nearly on the ground, halfway upside down—hard to process. But Wing’s excitement was strangely, plushly contagious. He found his own ventilations catching, sharp and shallow, as Wing settled down behind him. Wing’s shins loomed large in Drift’s field of vision, and above that, the gold glow of the optics from the darkness.
“Now…?” Drift’s vocalizer was stretched from the uptilt of his head, his throat laid bare, the small control box of the collar buzzing against the vocalizer’s emitter.
“Wait,” Wing said. The shadows folded over them, the false night of the city settling in through the two high windows on the sides of the narrow niche. And the pain began to swell, as if it were coming from the shadows, but somehow summoned from the deepest part of Drift’s circuitry. Wing, above him, sat perfectly silent, perfectly still, optics glowing all the brighter as the gathering dusk seemed to embrace him, cloak him entirely.
A soft moan escaped Drift’s vocalizer, tickling against his throat, dispelling, momentarily, the heavy fog of pain. It regathered, settling over his frame, sharp and blunt both at once.
“Stay with it,” Wing said, his voice a soft music floating from the darkness, the sounds vibrating among the pain. Drift cycled a vent, the sound ragged, optics fluttering. A soft hum from Wing, a satisfied sound that soothed the roughest edges of the pain.
He squeezed his optics shut, trying not to wince as the pain crested against him.
Movement, above him and he felt a touch on his chassis. The touch was almost startlingly cool—it was only then that he realized how hot his systems were running. He’d built a cloud of heat around him unmoved by the night’s stillness until Wing’s touch stirred the air.
Reaching, he realized, for one of his hardline connection cables.
“I shouldn’t,” Wing whispered, his voice bubbling with amusement, “be doing this.” His fingers slid, cool and gentle, along the cable, unspooling it, fingertips cupping around the connector. Drift whimpered, seeing the silver-white of his connector in the dark hand, the pain like a dark fog reaching for him as Wing tugged one of his own hardline cables, matching the prongs, twisting them together. They gasped, systems snapping synchronized. Drift could feel Wing’s presence as though his volume doubled, the pain on the verge of overwhelming him cascading over into a new system. And he felt Wing’s cool desire wash against his, quenching his pain, turning it from the agony of helpless, trapped struts, overheating circuitry, cramped fuel lines, to a kind of raw, elegant pleasure.
And his pain became some beautiful weight, something to take, to study. Each spike of pain was a spark of light, a gleaming facet, alternating with rich, jeweled depths. And it wasn’t about endurance, any longer, but sinking into it. Not fighting, not resisting, but letting it blossom under him, a dark, roiling blanket, not him, and yet his.
Drift groped, immobilized, for the lesson. Wing would not, could not, help him in this. And the answer rose from the wine-dark tumult, a pulsing hum of words that seemed the harmony of reality: you are alone, even together. Joined, still separated. Even from yourself. Even from this shell you think you are. The paradox of pain and pleasure, the erasure of me and he, then the blurring of me, dissolving like ink in water until there is only…sensation and the thing that senses. No past, no history. There is suffering, but it is only suffering when the mind stirs up the label.
Soft, floating awareness, then, spreading over the well of pain, and an effort, harder than any physical move Drift had ever made, to release the label, release the idea that here was a self, in pain. And beneath that he could sense Wing’s approbation. He had felt, he had known, he had understood. Drift had grasped at the right truth, even while letting go.
Wing was with him, supporting him, mingling with the pain. Not taking it away, but transmuting it, the way a prism split light, taking its hard brightness and parting it into a spectrum of sensation. And the cords bound him, forced him to himself, to this position, to this pose, this body that arched into a sudden ecstasy in a burst of light that unmade the darkness…but he was free.
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Is it wrong that I like evil!Wing better than normal!Wing?
And I will never be able to hear 'wine-dark' without thinking of the Illiad.
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no other words...
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And this... the depths of sensation and imagery that you plumb... damn. I really don't have adequate words to describe the lovely impact this has.
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Beautiful. So well written.
And so very very true, that freedom can be found in such a thing, that you managed to convey that, and in such a wonderful way, I can find no words to fully describe it.