Storm Surge

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW SG AU
Wing/Drift
sticky, for tformers100 table weather prompt storm

Drift stood beside Wing, rain lashing at his armor as the night finally swallowed the horizon. Wing had been watching for cycles, taking Drift up an exit tunnel far to the north, exiting by a shore, almost transfixed by the way the wind and rain whipped the waves into a frantic stagger.  Wind screamed over his audio, pummeling the greenish beachgrasses flat, gusting through gaps in his armor.

//It’s beautiful, isn’t it?// Wing’s voice was silky and warm over the  comm line, giving him permission to speak.

He didn’t know what to say. //What?//

//This. The storm, the power of nature.  The raw violence. It’s…breathtaking.//

Drift said nothing, turning his gaze back to the storm, trying to see it as Wing did.  He felt a hand slide in his own, palm rainslicked and warm against his.  He parted his fingers, feeling Wing’s lace with his.

//We never had this on Cybertron,// Wing continued. //Weather like this.  Everything was too controlled, too tame.//

//Wouldn’t know,// Drift ventured.  He half expected a rebuke—he hadn’t been asked for an answer, given permission to speak.

The fingers tightened into his, but he couldn’t sense any threat or admonition. //In the gutters, yes,// Wing mused. //No change down there at all, was there?//

Drift shook his head, feeling water drip from the control box on his collar down under his chassis plating. Every day down there was ruthlessly, grindingly, the same. Even day and night there was no change, always that amber-limned emergency-lighting darkness that made faces sallow and sickly.  Except the few cases where the lights had been pillaged for glass or filaments. Those places strobed bright white sparklight to absolute black so thick it felt like a blanket.

Lightning cracked overhead, a blinding white claw that seemed to tear a jagged rend in the sky, so unlike the sparklight of the gutters. 

Wing turned on one footplate, stepping in close to Drift.  Falling rain made a series of lines, like static, between their faces, lit blue and gold from their optics.  He felt Wing’s attention, warmer than the pelting rain, on his face, searching for something, while the hand in his pulled him gently closer. Their mouths touched, the rain-cooled metal of their lipplates warming under the contact, water dripping over their optics, into the small gap between them. //I want you,// Wing said, his voice sultry over the comm, as his glossa probed into Drift’s mouth.  He freed his hands, letting them slide around Drift’s waist, fingertips barely heavier than the rain against the black and white metal. 

Drift’s hands found Wing’s frame, sliding up under the wingpanels, to the air in the narrow space between  the wings and his backstruts, warmed by Wing’s systems, safe from the storm.  He felt desire rise in him, organic, not started from the collar, not anything other than Wing, his nearness, and the tactile rush of the rain.  He tilted into Wing’s touch, feeling one stabilizer slide against his thigh, as Wing bent his knees, drawing Drift down on top of him.

Thunder rumbled, seeming to shake the wet sandy ground beneath them even as Drift’s knees sank into the sodden surface, his mouth still on Wing’s, bucking his hips up just enough to clear space between their bodies for one hand to release their equipment, while the other braced itself by Wing’s shoulder as the wind screamed around them.

A gust of wind, the rain slamming into him like bullets of water, a thousand hard impacts on his backstruts, the backs of his legs, dripping down the finials of his helm as he broke the kiss, to watch the same rain fall on Wing’s face, splashing on the wide gold optics, the way the rain runneled along a channel on his helm’s crest.  Even half in shadows, even assaulted by the storm, he was beautiful, and Drift joined their bodies with a smooth slide, his hips finding their homes atop Wing’s. 

//Yes,// Wing said, his mouth shaping the word, even as the storm tore the sound away. //Can you feel it, Drift?  Can you feel the storm?//

Drift moaned, knowing Wing would feel the sound vibrate against his chassis, trembling as the valve calipers cinched over his spike.

//Show me you feel it, Drift.  Show me the storm.//

Drift growled, one sand-muddy hand gripping over the white nacelle, captivated as the dirt spread over the armor, washing away while Wing squirmed impatiently under him.

It was the only defiance he allowed himself, this hesitation, this pause, letting tension, desire, build between them.  And Wing knew it was a small defiance, only.  In another mood, he might have stopped Drift, activated the collar. And something electric sang between them, carried in the ions of the storm-charged air—that knowledge, and Drift’s recognition that he was being let something slide, and that because Wing found the movement—the staining and the washing off—as erotic as he did.

Drift pushed forward, grinding his pelvic  frame over Wing’s, his spike riding against the ceiling of Wing’s valve.  The jet gave a pleased, aroused chirr, answering Drift’s growl with arousal, like a spark on dry tinder.

Drift dropped his head down, dentae finding an exposed cable. A growl thrummed through him as Wing tilted his chin up, exposing more.

Rain whipped at his back, goading him, driving him like an animal, cold knives of water slitting into seams in his armor, and he let it take him over, as though the darkness and violence of the storm itself possessed him, the wind setting the rhythm of his body against Wing’s,  the rain’s harsh touch guiding his hard caresses as the jet’s dark armor seemed to become like the storm itself, or the land below the storm and he was the air and the water, the planet’s cleansing, dispassionate fury.

He wasn’t violent. He wasn’t…like this. He was a good Decepticon, loyal and kind.  He didn’t…do this, interface on command, bite a mech’s throat until energon seeped sweet and sharp on his glossa, mixed with the cold grey taste of the rain. His body strained, driving against Wing’s, the rain slick and slippery between them, like cool fingers riding over them, hissing over their audios like a siren song of static.

 He didn’t do this. But he was doing it, and a feral heat ignited over his spark, something wild, violent as the wind chopping at the waves, flattening the grasses, spewing the sand against them as  his spike heated in the valve, friction and force, anger and longing, freedom and captivity.  And Wing was the shore and he was the waves beating against it, helpless and furious, rapt in his own need to surge, to push, to batter against.

His cry was lost in the roar of the storm, a half-sobbing surrender to t he forces that seemed to own him, drive him, tear him out of himself.

Wing clutched against him, the hot spill of fluid in his valve a shocking contrast to the cold of the ground, the chill of the rain and wind, his fingers, strong and sure, curling around Drift’s backstruts, mouth parted in ecstasy, open to the rain, to the storm, open as Drift never was…or never had been until now. 

Wing gave a soft shudder, the hands releasing, stroking down Drift’s spine, flirting with the scale armor of his torso.  //You see, now,// he murmured, his voice sated and lush. //You understand.//

Drift lifted his head from Wing’s throat, the other mech’s energon pink and tingling on his lipplates, washing off slowly from the kiss of the rain. He shaped the word. “Yes.”

Comments

[snowcouger.livejournal.com]

... I believe I need a cold shower now. And a mop for the puddle of drool under my chair.

So much love for SG universe.

[ultrarodimus.livejournal.com]

SG Wing is HOT ^_^

*melts into a puddle*

[silaphet.livejournal.com]

raw electric sensual tempestuous abandon. Masterful use of the elements. i love rain. Joy, sorrow, love, hate, lust, apathy, Rain makes everything moreso & i could live in this soul-capturing fic forever.