Healing pt 2

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

M
IDW
Drift/Wing
spark
continuation of this.

Drift woke, Wing still in the light, but tenuous recharge of the ill. Heat from the jet’s autorepair systems washed over his chassis.  Wing’s mouth pinched, in his sleep, as though trying to squeeze out discomfort, his limbs twitching.

Drift frowned, reaching one hand over, slowly, gently, to brush down the bare titanium of the chassis frame. Electricity crackled against his fingertips, prickling through gaps in his armor.  Wing whimpered, turning into the touch.  Drift hesitated, but moved his hand back, stroking down the frame, then up, then out along the engine mount and down the far arm. 

Another whimper, and he could feel charge eddy under his touch, snapping, pushing and pulling with their strange forces. 

The optics warmed on, gold leaking around the half-closed shutters.  Drift froze. “Sorry.”

“No,” Wing murmured, “please. It feels good.”

Drift could never refuse Wing—the jet was his one gaping weakness.  He gave a solemn nod, pushing up to half-kneel on the metal berth, both hands gliding over the frame, the exposed mechanisms, the bulges of gyros, the long straight struts.  Wing was beautiful, even like this, even bare of armor. The tension left the mouth, the lip plates softening, parting, the neck servos releasing. 

Drift felt current push in front of his palms, intangible fluff, could feel the smoother run of power down the lines.  He moved lower, hands lingering over the hips, thumbs sliding along the join of the thighs. It was too much to go any further that way, so he shifted again, stroking the long thighs, fingers bladed, exploring the limbs, the transformation plates. Wing began moving, gently, on the berth, sighing, twisting into the touches.  The bare hands curled, gentle, kneading gestures, against the stark metal berth.

A soft sound, half-growl, half-hum, bubbled from Drift’s own vocalizer, a counterpoint to the quiet melody of Wing’s sighs.  In spite of himself, he felt a light, almost frothy arousal, as though the excess charge was filling him, tingling along his circuits, taking what Wing no longer needed.  It was symbolic as much as sensual, and Wing’s response, the unmistakable flare of arousal, fueled his own want.  He crawled forward, letting one hand trail up the body, hovering over Wing’s face for a long moment, as though drinking in the gold optics, the parted lip plates. 

He bowed into the kiss, rubbing his own mouth plates along Wing’s, the nasal of his helm bumping the small shape of the jet’s nasal strut.  Wing gave a quiet cry, tipping his face upward, inviting the kiss, lip plates warm and inviting.

“Don’t want to hurt you,” Drift said, feeling the surge of desire through his interface equipment, acutely aware of their position, of his close proximity to Wing’s body. 

“I know.” A skeletal hand came up, stroking the cheek armor, sliding down the chin, jumping to the chassis.  The gold optics flicked up. “We could…?”

Drift blinked, as the realization slowly sank into him—what Wing was offering.  “Wing. I….”

“Do you want to?”

Yes.  More than he had ever wanted anything, though he hadn’t even dared entertain the thought until Wing brought it up. He said nothing, but the answer must have been in his optics, in every quivering line of his frame.  Wing  curled up, off the berth, long bare arms wrapping around Drift’s neck, his mouth finding Drift’s, pieces fitting against each other as something meant to be.  Drift felt the thin armor of the jet’s spark chamber against his, the magnetic, electric pull of the spark almost palpable against his armor.

“Wing,” he croaked, one hand cupping around the smaller frame. 

“…because I want to,” Wing whispered, the words vibrating against Drift’s mouth, through his EM field.

Drift swore, feeling the last of his resistance crumble.  It sounded like a groan, as he lowered Wing back to the berth. He dropped to one elbow, his finger circling the jet’s spark chamber armor.  Wing gave a smile, almost nervous, as he retracted the covering armor plate.  The orb of the chamber seemed to throb against his hand, his palm resting reverently on the burnished surface.

He looked up, Wing smiling back down at him, smaller framed hands stroking comfortingly along his shoulders.  His fingers stroked the chamber, longingly. Wing purred, optic shutters lowering in concentration, and the chamber spiraled its armored iris open, like a flower blooming. 

Light spilled, white-blue and gold, between them, turning the light of the repair bay into something like dusk, flaming out along Drift’s chassis.  It seemed alive somehow, twisting and flickering, dancing between them, casting tendrils of color and sensation out at Drift’s frame, coaxing, tempting, inviting.

He stroked it with his fingers, feeling the light lick along his armor, warm, welcoming, want and love made tangible, visible. Wing purred beneath him, smile turning beatific, patient, waiting for Drift to work up the courage to reveal his own. Drift took a shuddering vent, closing his optics, turning inward, sending a query for the command to open his own armor. 

The chamber itself nearly pulled itself open, the shielded petals pushing open, the proximity of Wing’s spark calling to it. His sparklight, red and lambent, poured down, without control, just pure want and longing. 

Wing moaned, arching upward, small hands hooking around Drift’s shoulders. Compared to Wing’s delicate control, the way the sparklight licked and teased, Drift’s was a solid pour, heavy and rich.  The hands tugged downward, locking Drift’s mouth against his, just as their spark energy danced and spun around each other, color and sensation like a wildfire blazing in the narrow space, immolating everything that seemed to stand between them, all hesitation, all doubt, guilt, and distance. 

Drift heard a high keen, realizing only dimly that it was his own, as the sparkflares tangled into each other joining like and intricate knot. He lost the line between them, the join of their bodies, mouths, hands, seeming to melt together, and he was touching and being touched, kissing, and feeling his own mouth.

And beyond that, the gold glow, serenity given color and shape: the essence of Wing, a tone and sound, a texture, like light made velvet, plush and silky. It wasn’t like a physical overload, hard, electric, intense, but something soft and powerful, like being pulled underwater, surrounded by a rolling wave of ecstasy itself, of Wing.  What more could one ask for, what greater bliss, than to be subsumed in the presence of one’s beloved? 

He came to himself, with a long, slow cry of regret, his awareness receding into his own frame, exhausted, sated, on the verge of too much, settling again into his own frame. Which felt, for the first time, confining, too narrow, too heavy after the dancing light of their sparks.  Wing smiled up at him, his own spark armor irising closed, languorously, as though as resistant as Drift felt to ending the moment.

Drift’s mouth moved, wordless, knowing there was something he should say, the moment stretching, scratching and long between them.  “I….” He faltered.

“Perceptor will be angry,” Wing said, quickly, the optic shutters flicking down for the briefest instant. 

And Drift realized that Wing felt just as tremulously wanting, missing the easy, simple bond of their sparks. Wing was at a loss for words too, aching at their inadequacy, the dreaded separation seeming to fall between them like a curtain less solid than their bodies but even more resistant.

“No,” Drift said, falling almost gratefully into the role, placing himself down next to Wing, “he won’t.”  He pressed himself against the titanium frame: it only looked frail—in reality it was stronger than armor, having to support a mech’s entire weight and movement.  “Please,” he heard himself whisper, in the fading vulnerability, “don’t regret this.”

Comments

[velvet-infinity.livejournal.com]

Good. Now we throw Perceptor into the mix and we see how they work it out.