Leash

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG-13
IDW SG AU
Drift/Wing, Axe, OCs
no warnings
for tformers100 table war prompt surrender

The sullen glow in the blue optics amused Wing. A good sign.  Progress, growth, change. So much more fun than the sweet, innocent light he remembered when he’d first found the Decepticon, although he still cherished that, too, those little flashes of innocence and shock.

But this was its own pleasure, a delectable defiance, as Drift recoiled, bodily.  Wing grinned. “Is there something the matter, Drift?”

The mouth flattened. “Leash.”

“Yes. Your leash.”  A curl of the smile.  “Don’t you like it? It’s actually very pretty.” Wing held it so that the gems glittered in the light. 

“Don’t care if it’s pretty,” Drift muttered.

A sympathetic cluck, and Wing tilted the other’s head up to meet his. “You don’t think you need a leash.”

A firm, short headshake, relapsing into a sullen silence.

“You do,” Wing whispered, leaning in to place a kiss on the burning-hot crest of the other’s helm. Poor Drift. So much to learn.  And so exquisitely much to give.  He dropped to one knee, his hand still curled affectionately over the helm, tracing one thumb down one of the long tapered finials. “You admit you need the collar, yes?”

A flash of mortification, the optic shutters blinking too rapidly.  It was all the answer Wing needed: Drift knew he needed the collar, knew he didn’t have the self-control, the literal knowledge of himself. 

Wing tipped the helm back by his mouth against the crest, dropping his mouth to the flat frown, in a gentle , chaste kiss.  “Trust me. I know what you need.” He felt the lips tremble beneath his, tempting his glossa’s gentle flick.  He pushed into a kiss for a moment, before pulling away, abruptly. “Come now, Drift. They’re waiting for us.”  His hand slicked over the finials, down to the throat, snapping the leash into the collar’s control socket as he stepped away.

He paused to admire the effect, twisting the leash in the light. “Ohhhhh,” he purred. “Magnificent, Drift.  Truly.”   He didn’t lie: Drift was glorious like this: abject and defiant, chained and free.  “So tempting,” he murmured, his voice like warmed oil. “So tempting, Drift. You have no idea.” 

He tugged on the leash, a gentle, testing motion, shivering with pleasure at the hard humiliation on the other’s face. So beautiful and it had been so long since he’d had someone to tame.  One of the few down sides of their underground city, their hidden, decadent existence.  Oh, the others bought slaves of other races, keeping the surface traders happy, but Wing found they lacked…everything he needed.  Too little spirit or too little intelligence and always, always, too breakable.  But another Cybertronian. Oh, it was a treasure, one he enjoyed thoroughly.

And was intending to flaunt.  Thoroughly.

[***]

Drift growled. He hated the leash, hated the smug, smirking looks others cast at him, letting their optics linger, graze over his frame.  He could hear them, practically, murmuring as he walked by, laughing at him. It burned like gasoline on his frame, heating his systems.

Wing led him, the glittering leash dangling from his wrist, practically glowing, and Drift caught an edge of his smirk—so certain he had Drift under his control.

Drift stopped, planting his feet. “No.”  This had gone far enough. He had his limits.  And Wing was always saying he would help Drift find them, right? Here it was.  “No.”

He’d thought his defiance would make Wing angry, was hungering for a cross, vexed expression, wanting to injure Wing for all the indignities, small and large, he’d suffered at his hands. Instead he saw an almost delighted gleam in the jet’s gold optics, as though his disobedience was exactly what Wing wanted.

“No?”  Wing’s mouth curled, curious, as though savoring the word. 

“No.”  Drift’s optics flew around him, catching the curious gazes of passersby, taking strength from them. He couldn’t back down now.  He snatched at the leash, trying to tear it off. 

Wing’s smile broadened. “Bold thing, aren’t you?”  He held up his end of the lead, looped around his wrist, and rolled one of the gems over his thumb.

Drift snarled, feeling a sudden buzz through his frame. Cyberdrenaline, he thought. Cyberdrenaline, pounding through his systems. That’s why everything suddenly seemed so loud, so bright, so close, as if the simple act of moving was almost too much to bear.

But Wing’s smile promised otherwise, sharp-edged and beautiful.  He leaned forward, sliding one finger up Drift’s arm, chuckling as Drift gasped, the heightened sensor feed turning the gentle touch into a razor of pleasure.  Drift tried to snatch himself away, but Wing caught him, jerking him close, and even that was a tight, elegant gesture. “As I said, you do need a leash.”  A patient smile. 

“The leash.”

A knowing nod, as if pleased Drift had caught on so quickly. “So clever.”  He tweaked a projection of Drift’s elbow armor.  Drift felt a scintillant rush over his net, almost rocking him back on his feet. He had no choice but to roll forward as Wing moved him forward.

“Where are we going?” Sullen, but following, the very air seeming to froth against his armor, flirt around the edges of his armor.

“To meet some friends,” Wing said, mildly. “I crave…companionship.”

For some reason it stung, to be considered so beneath him that he wasn’t fit company. And part of Drift wanted to rebel, further, insist on his worthiness—but Drift could no longer tell if that was a last, sturdy tendril of Decepticon faith or yet another tangled snare set by Wing, to lead him further down that path.

He followed, cocooned in dark thoughts, battered by his own interface array, which seemed turned to enmity against him, not even noticing they’d joined others, outside the gate of one of the large parks.  Axe stepped close, giving Wing a smile, and Drift a look, long, lingering, curious his shadow high and massy.  “Such a strange design.” 

“Evolution,” another mech, a biwheel, suggested, joining him, until the others had made nearly a circle around Drift. He writhed, their gazes like velvet against his hyperaware sensors.  He hated being the center of attention: he’d always preferred to do his work in teams, unnoticed and quiet 

A smug laugh from another, cutting, and derisive. “Proof that not all evolution is progress.” 

“I wouldn’t say that.” Axe stepped to the side, studying Drift’s armor, one hand reaching, almost brushing the deep spaulder. Drift could feel the EM against his, warm and wriggling and alive. 

“You may,” Wing inclined his head, in a gracious nod, giving the right to touch Drift like a favor

Drift flinched at the touch, his high-rheo’d sensors turning the contact into a firestorm of sensation, a mewl of pain and desire bubbling from his vocalizer, knees nearly buckling.

“Oh.” Axe stepped back, lifting his hand, as though that would be a mercy, surprised yet gratified. “I hadn’t guessed.

“Drift,” Wing said, bowing his head as though humble, “is a work in progress.”  He stepped forward, his thumb tracing a gentle arc over Drift’s cheek, optics glowing with that dangerous kindness Drift was learning to fear as much as want.

Looking up, he saw envy in the gazes of the others writ large and naked on their face. And he saw a swell of pride animate Wing’s frame, perk his shoulder spires, flare his pinions.  He felt a strange surge of emotion, that Wing was proud of him.  He wanted to hate him, wanted to rebel, humiliate Wing and shred his illusion of control, but…something in the glow of pride against him quelled him more effectively than any leash. He’d done his part in the Autobots, never sought attention for himself, thinking it was vanity, selfishness, greed, but here, Wing wanted him.  Him. And it confounded him.

“Shall we?” Another of the mechs gestured toward the ornate, wrought metal gates of the park.  There were no paths, just an endless swirl of fine sand in a range of pastel pearlescent colors: pinks and oranges, lilacs and golds—all the colors, Drift realized, of a sunrise.

He followed them, lost in thought, optics caught in the glittering flashes of the jeweled leash, the high-rheo of his sensor array making every movement aswim with sensation, his cooling fans buzzing on to try to compensate for the excess load.

They settled on a cluster of benches, swirls of glowing white, Wing tugging on the leash, guiding Drift to the ground beside him. Drift glowered, dancing on the edge of pain at the sand’s sensual kisses under his footplates, the warm swirl of the air flirting around his armor seams. 

“Down,” Wing said, arching one supraorbital ridge.  Drift snarled, optics lancing to Wing’s thumb moving to the decorative button on the leash’s handle.  He felt the sensors rheo higher, his entire body trembling with sensation, pleasure turned into a weapon, like a sword turned in his hands. He dropped to his knees, hands clutching at anything to struggle to stay upright, even as the contact sent scalding rivers of pleasure through his palms, up his shins.  And atop it all he felt the hot shame of the witnesses, watching, aroused and intrigued.  Wanting his obedience and resistance, finding either to be an enjoyable spectacle.

“Do you want to make it stop, Drift?”  Wing leaned over, his EM field brushing like long cilia along Drift’s.  “Do you want control?”

He tried to curse, but it came out a high, needy whimper that seemed to call forth a gratifying glow in Wing’s optics.

Wing’s mouth spread into his arch, elegant smile. “Kiss me.”

Drift recoiled, or tried to, hating the idea that to make it stop, to gain himself, he had to obey, to act as though he desired the pleasure coursing like silk acid through his systems.  He steeled himself, pushing forward, his knees sinking into the graphite-soft colored sand, feeling his mouth curl in defiance even as he pressed it against Wing’s.

The kiss was electric, stunning them both, mouths losing their pretenses, sinking into yielding and desire and Drift felt one of his hands curl around the jet’s audial flares, prolonging the contact, his entire body arching into the kiss.  The witnesses didn’t matter anymore, the submission, the obedience, only the sweet contact of their mouths, channeling the intensity of desire between them.

The edge of it ebbed: Wing, true to his promise, lowering the rheo on his sensor array, and Drift felt himself collapse, grateful, heated systems over the jet’s cool thighs, giving a long sighing gasp of relief. The stroking of Wing’s hand over his helm wasn’t a sharp blade of sensation, but a slow, soft, soothing gesture, sweeping away the discomfort, smoothing down his ragged EM field.  He could still feel the optics of the others on his back, but they receded, not mattering, and all that mattered was the blessed solace of the touch against his helm, down over his audio, and flirting with his throat: Wing’s fingers fascinated by the line between the throbbing energy cable in his throat and the solid line of the collar. Duality: Life and control, will and restraint, desire and bondage, the fingers sweeping in a gentle, regular tempo, lulling him deep and under, under and deep.

[***]

“I know.” Wing’s voice, pitched soft, with a gingery, amused tone, seemed to penetrate slowly through the warm blackness that surrounded Drift. “I almost don’t want to move.”

Drift clawed toward wakefulness, becoming aware of the softness under his right side, shoulder to hip, and a sweet tang of fresh lubricating oil on his olfactory sensors.  He groaned, pushing up, realizing he’d fallen into recharge, and fallen slowly down Wing’s body, to lie curled around the jet’s ankle, face pressed against the high elegant arch of the jet’s foot. He blinked, slowly, struggling awake, frowning.

The underground city was wrapped in false night, the rotation of light and dark that mimicked Cybertron’s daycycles, lights glittering over a nightscape that changed the park into a series of velvety petals, as though the night had folded up like a flower.

Wing moved above him, one hand soothing his shoulder, and Drift heard the others murmur, moving off, until it was just he and Wing in the alcove, lit only by a wan glow from the white bench.  Wing beckoned him, and Drift rose, settling himself onto the bench beside Wing.  Wing chirred, leaning against him, the leash dangling slack, glittering between them, catching the light of the false night.

“One day,” Wing sighed, shifting, to rest his leg over Drift’s thigh, the red stabilizer slicing the air between them, “you’ll understand.”  He reached for Drift’s hand, palm spread, the leash’s control buttons resting between them, as much a promise as a threat.

Drift shuddered, the evening’s coolness washing against his sleep-warmed systems, turning into Wing’s touch, defiance leeched from him, wanting nothing more than Wing pressed against him, to be allowed to be an equal, at least for a moment. “Don’t know what you want from me,” he whispered, the words caught in the heavy air between them.

Wing turned, the gold optics warm suns between them. “Defiance, obedience, fight, surrender.” Wing smiled, tilting to plant a kiss on Drift’s cheek, resting it there until Drift turned his face, their mouths meeting, lip-plates coy and teasing. “Everything. Until there’s nothing left.”

And in the sweet-scented breeze of the underground city, his words carried on the fur of the night were the most desired, wanted, and dangerous words in Drift’s world.

Comments

[ultrarodimus.livejournal.com]

*squirms* Damn, SG Wing is hot. I'm going to be reading and rereading this over and over for the rest of the night.

And he's managed to wriggle his way into my headspace, though in there he's more playful than he is in your headspace...

Poor Drift, being paraded around on a leash.