Had We But World Enough, and....

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW
Wing/Drift
sticky
Long, rough day and I wanted to write some cuddlesmut to cheer myself up.

Drift was twitching in his recharge, the sounds and the movements pulling Wing awake. He dimmed his optics, a soft gold glow, as he looked over at the other mech.  Drift tossed, restlessly, onto his belly, spaulders jutting into the air, one leg giving tiny jumps, small sounds, like yelps, from his vocalizer.

Wing knitted his browridges, leaning over to stroke a smoothing hand down the other’s arm.  Drift flinched at the touch, pressing himself flatter against the berth, almost as though trying to hide.  His entire frame trembled. Some memory purge, Wing thought, deep and disturbing, of battles or his struggles before the war, hidden in the gutters.

“Drift,” he whispered, skating his hand down the arm, to rest on the back of Drift’s hand.  The fingers spread, interlocking with his own in a tight, needy squeeze he knew Drift would never admit to while awake. 

Wing moved, rolling against the other mech, pressing his chassis against the backstruts, angling his shoulders between the spaulders. His systems hummed, deep and steady, against Drift, and he felt the agitated, ragged EM field start to soothe itself. He sighed, curling over the other mech, nuzzling against the cheek armor, aware, acutely, of the body beneath him—the rebuilt chassis, over the strange straight sharp lines of the Decepticon lower body.  His own armor, ornate with projections, planes, and angles, seemed to slide over the blocky shapes. 

A soft grunt, and he saw the slit of a blue optic peering at him.  Another gentle nuzzle against the cheek armor. Wing loved Drift’s face, asleep, when the lines smoothed, the hardness left the mouth, and now, half-drowsed, it was still that way, soft and open and beautiful.  “Hi there,” Wing whispered, arching slowly against Drift’s body. He hadn’t intended to wake Drift, but waking him from a bad purge to an embrace…? Surely there were worse things.

A grunt in return, but the body underneath him responded, almost pushing up into his, wanting contact.

“You’re beautiful,” Wing murmured, slicking his free hand down Drift’s exposed side.

A squirm, gratified but awkward, and a flare of arousal along the EM field.  Wing grinned, dipping down for a sidelong kiss.  “And I want you.”

Another squirm, the hips bucking up against his. An invitation? Perhaps.  Wing slipped his hand down between them, unsheathing his spike, sliding his hand gently between Drift’s thighs, gliding over his valve cover until it irised open, quick and needy.

He pushed in, the valve’s lining spreading against the intrusion of his spike, calipers fluttering against him, half-alarmed from ancient memories, and Wing paused, humming against him. There were times he needed to be rough with Drift, to push him forcibly past his limits, as though violence and force were the only languages Drift spoke, but this was not one of those times. This called for gentleness, kindness, slow steps, halting phrases in a new dialect.

Drift ex-vented, deep and shuddering, and Wing began to move, belly to back, rocking his hips in a slow, almost tidal rhythm, ebbing and surging, his spike sliding smooth and slow, riding on the slickness of lubricant, into the valve.  Drift moaned, turning his face to the berth even as he angled up his hips, opening further. Wing could feel the thrum of his engine against his own chassis, the armor shifting under him, the EM field building slowly between them.  Wing purred against him, Drift’s hand tightening against his own. 

A juddering breath. “Don’t have to go slow,” Drift said. “I can handle it.”

 “It’s not about ‘handlin’, Drift,” Wing said, almost sadly.  “It’s about pleasure.” 

A strange squirm underneath him.

“This, Drift,” Wing said, continuing his slow, steady rock. “Does it feel good?”

The shoulders moved beneath him and he heard a grudging, muffled ‘yes’.

“Then let it feel good.” He continued, sighing his own contentment. “It’s not about taking, but giving.” He wasn’t sure he was explaining it clearly, translating into words that Drift might not understand. He was so used to this being about lust, about physical want, about racing to the physical release of the overload.  The idea that it could be about sharing, about giving someone joy, pleasure, delight, seemed as alien to him as anything else here in Crystal City. “Let me give you this.”

Drift shivered beneath him, tilting his head up, sleeking his helm against Wing’s, a mute, hesitant assent.

They lay like that, entangled, rocking against each other in a sighing silence, for cycles, pleasure lifting them up like a beautiful, tingling tide. No haste, no rush, no need or want for anything more, just their bodies in contact, this sweet, intimate union, until the city stirred to life around them, and they slowed, both dropping into a tender, beautiful, recharge.

Comments

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

*wibbles*

This is lovely!

[darkeyes-17.livejournal.com]

*dies* Naw...so sweet. I so loved this. Especially with Wing's assurances of 'not about taking, but of giving and pleasure.'

[tainry.livejournal.com]

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!
I love how the snuggles in these stories are always so immersed in the specifics of the characters; in how they are alone and together, and their pasts and present.
<333

[silaphet.livejournal.com]

cathartic. No past, no future, just Drift’s surrender, sinking into the healing moment. immersed in undulating waves of the Now. a baptism to be born anew. you inspire. i adore.

[acidgreenflames.livejournal.com]

Oh Wing you are so sweet! Lovely story.

[ladyofdragons.livejournal.com]

I don't know why exactly but this is one of my favorite fics of this pairing. Maybe because it's not about overload. Or because Drift receiving is less common. Or the lovely way you explore the characters as hurt/comfort combines with gentle sensuality.

I'm not sure how many times I've come back to reread this (I've lost track) but this comment is long overdue. ;)