Spark's Glow

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

Title: Spark's Glow
Rating: R?
Fandom: Transformers, IDW
Characters: Drift/Wing
Warnings: uh, robot vampire, sparksex (kind of)
Notes: I was at a session today about vampires in popular culture and the connection between vampires and the erotic.  Fic ensued. For fan_flashworks prompt 'genre' and tf_speedwritingprompt

It was his penance, and he did not begrudge Wing an iota of it. Wing had freed him, had given him the first taste of life, living, freedom.

It was only fair Drift return the favor.

He shivered as the cool night air hit the newly exposed metal, as his chest armor slid aside.  Wing’s optics glowed over his chassis—he felt the other’s cool hands on his rib struts, stroking at the retracting plates, hiding his eagerness.

Not hiding it, really. Just controlling it, as Wing controlled everything, parceling out his desire, his need, drawing it out.  “Beautiful,” Wing whispered, the word shimmering over Drift’s sensor net, the compliment open and sincere.  Drift’s own hands clutched at the nacelles of Wing’s shoulders, thumb and finger sliding along the blades of the pinions, fingertips stroking the engine manifolds.  Wing gave a pleased little chirr, dipping his helm down, brushing his mouthplates over the edges of the retracted armor.

Drift’s vents came in short, hot little gasps, barely moving, as Wing’s glossa blazed a hot trail over the armor edges, then down over the exposed circuitry, the control lines, the power couplings, and then, finally, over the shape of the spark chamber itself. 

Wing purred, his nasal sliding over the chamber’s shape, a vent of hot air tickling the exposed circuits.  He went slowly, with this, always slowly, carefully, wanting to draw it out, make it pleasurable.

Maybe it tasted better this way. 

Drift could feel the jet’s body against his, the chassis between his thighs, the warm, steady vibration of the jet’s idling engine against his.  Twin flares of amber, as Wing looked up, over the exposed components. Drift managed a smile, one that found a match on Wing’s face, as the jet’s hands slid down his ribs, and back up, thumbs caressing the edges of the chamber.

Drift whimpered, the touches sending velvety fire over his sensor net, his frame echoing the touches in soft quivers under Wing’s body.

“Ready?”

Drift nodded, his own hands moving to stroke up Wing’s shoulders, brushing the audial flares. Accepting, wanting.  He cycled a slow vent, sending the command to open his spark chamber.  The space between them filled with a liquid blue light, his spark’s energy bright and lambent. 

Wing gave a melodic sigh, mesmerized for a long moment by the sight, the sparklight dancing beneath him. “Beautiful,” Wing repeated, and bent his head, lower, as if bathing his face in the glow. It dimmed the gold of his optics, his helm becoming a screen against which the sparklight flickered and spun like flames.  And he opened his mouth, glossa careful and slow on the outermost edges of the spark’s aura. 

Drift arched up, biting down a cry of ecstasy, as the glossa’s light contact set every circuit singing. His entire body seemed filled with sensation, music, color, and he felt his optics dim, focusing on his sensor net as Wing bent lower still, opening his mouthplates further, and Drift felt the familiar, terrifying pull against his spark, as Wing drank in the edges of the energy. 

Wing gave an aroused sound, tasting Drift’s fear, like some exquisite seasoning, and under that, the trust that let Drift do this: expose himself, willingly and utterly, to Wing, for the jet to feed on.

It was how it had to be. Wing had given his life for Drift, and this was Drift’s payment: that his own substance be used to keep Wing alive, his own energy in Wing’s circuitry.  And Wing made it pleasurable: perhaps a predatory’s cunning, but perhaps, and Drift held to that hope, it was more than that, that his desire, his willingness mattered. 

Another flick of the glossa, deeper in, teasing and tasting.  Careful, as Wing always was, knowing Drift was risking death, trusting him not to go too far, not to disrupt the spark’s central gyre.

Drift bent his legs, thighs forming a cradle around Wing’s body, feeling the trembling joy in the other’s frame, the hunger, carefully controlled, but still exulting in feeding.  He clamped his optic shutters closed, mouth parted in an aborted cry, rigid and still under Wing’s careful feeding, sensation stirring, swirling through him, building to a polyphonic ecstasy thrumming through his body, every circuit, every wire alive and awake. 

An overload, a release of energy, fear, color, light, sound, rushed through him, like a foaming cascade pouring over him, frothing into the most minute parts of his frame, sweet and sharp simultaneously. And Wing sang a note, resonant, catching the tone from Drift’s spark.  Current lanced between them, binding them through a hundred thousand tiny contacts, Drift’s overload transferring into Wing’s own systems. 

Drift’s systems released, still humming at a lower volume, and the long-suspended vent of air skirled between them.  Wing looked up, optics lidded and drowsy, sated with bliss.  The blue gold lit his face, catching the beautiful lines, the elegant arched shapes of his mouth, his cheek armor, the sweep of his helm, exotic and alien, bathing in the light of Drift’s spark, terrifying and enthralling. 

“I love you,” Wing said, half-sang, his voice still in the resonant harmony of Drift’s spark, and the words seemed to resonate in the deepest recesses of the spark’s energy.  “All of you.” He pushed forward, and his mouth found Drift’s.  Drift could taste the last ionized tingle of his spark energy in the seams of Wing’s mouth, and he knew Wing meant everything, every thought, every sensation. When he fed on Drift’s spark, he could taste everything Drift was and felt and thought. It was a bond deeper than anything Drift could have imagined.  He folded one arm over Wing’s back, his chassis armor sliding back into place, by now silken and practiced, his glossa probing for Wing’s, hunting for the last vestiges of desire. 

“I wish,” Wing murmured, “I wish I were truly alive so I could show you.”  He had no spark: he’d shown Drift his dark, hollow, horrible spark chamber, ruptured and charred from Braid’s attack.  He was dead, but not, living on borrowed energy, taken emotion.  That it was willingly given, Drift hoped, counted for something:  Wing did not need to hunt, to force, to prey upon the unwilling.

Not as long as Drift lived.

Drift could feel the jet’s honest pain, sharper and blacker edged than Wing's initial loathing at what he had to do to survive.  Their first feeding had been fraught with terror for them both, clumsiness and fear, rejection and dancing on the edge of trust. Now, it had become a communion, sweet and bittersweet by turns, and he clung to Wing, fiercely as though trying to crush his own regret at what might have been between their bodies.

Comments

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

*shivers with delight and awe* this is beautiful and lovely... Please tell me there may be more of this verse later?