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shadow_vector2012-08-17 03:54 pm
Captured Prayer
IDW
Drift/Wing, Dai Atlas
sticky
for a kink meme request Not sure I should even bother posting this over there? My last fill apparently was EPIC flop. :(
“Get him out of here.” Dai Atlas’s voice seemed to fill the comm room, like indoor thunder. The screens shook in their mountings.
Drift glowered up at the large blue jet, defiant in front of the assembled Knights, who formed a wall of hostility before him. Only Wing looked hurt, stricken, the light in his optics guttering, sorrowful.
The Knight behind him tightened his grip on Drift’s bound upper arm, jerking him to one side. “Where to?”
“He’s my responsibility,” Wing said, voice chalky with tension. “I’ll take him.”
“He was your responsibility and we found him here, Wing.” Dai Atlas rounded on the smaller jet.
“I-I understand,” Wing said. “It was a lapse. It won’t happen again.”
“A lapse.” Fury licked off of Dai Atlas’s frame. “We don’t know what he did. He could have endangered all of us.”
“No,” Cloudburst murmured, still bent over the console. “The transmission got caught in our encryption protocols.”
“Transmission.” Dai Atlas spared a look over his shoulder, his hand reaching as though to keep Wing from leaving.
Wing wasn’t going anywhere, his worried optics darting over to Drift, looking hurt, betrayed. Drift snarled. He didn’t need the jet’s concern. He needed to leave.
“He was signaling his coordinates. For pick up.”
Hot locks spattered against Drift’s dark armor. He twisted in the Knight’s grip, defiant. “Keeping me prisoner. I have an obligation—“
Dai Atlas lashed out, the back of his hand striking hard against Drift’s helm. “Do not speak of obligation, Decepticon!” he roared.
Drift growled from pain, jerking his head to one side, energon dripping dully from his chinplate. “Silence me, then,” he said, the sibilants bubbling through the energon, the cracked mouthplate. “Or kill me.”
“Drift.” Wing stepped between them, arm raised as though to block another blow. “Dai Atlas. The lapse was mine, not Drift’s.”
“You heard him,” Dai Atlas said. “He admits his wrongdoing.”
“Wrongdoing,” Drift snarled. “I’m not ashamed.” A spray of energon at the ‘sh’.
“Drift,” Wing importuned. “Please.”
Drift glared at the folded flightpanels facing him, as Wing returned to Dai Atlas.
“If you find him worthy of punishment,” Wing said, “then you must also find me culpable.”
A pained look in Dai Atlas’s optics. “Wing.”
“I have also done wrong. I have erred. I should be punished, commensurate with Drift.”
“Commensurate,” Drift spat. “We’re not the same. Stop linking us.”
The wingpanels flinched, but the jet stood firm, helm tilted up, fearless.
A stormcloud seemed to roll over Dai Atlas’s face. “Fine.” The blue optics loured. “One more mistake—one more step out of line, Wing, and we shall take him from you.” He straightened, forcibly lowering his arm down by his side. “And that, I am aware, will be punishment enough.”
Wing twitched, as if struck. “Yes,” he said, and the helm bowed, audial flares slicing hurt arcs in the blinking lights of the comm room. He turned, optics flickering between hurt and hard, like water over stone, as he reached for Drift’s bindings. “Let’s go.”
[***]
“How could you?” Wing rounded on Drift as the doors to his quarters closed, the manacles falling free from Drift’s wrists.
“Wing.” Bald, rude disbelief. “How could I not?” He rolled his shoulder, loosening the tightened joint. “Soldier. There’s a war on. I have to get back there.”
“Drift. You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“For the very reason you’ve just proven!” Wing’s mouth quivered, almost hurt. “And besides, how could you not want to stay?”
“Because,” Drift sneered, “this is a city of cowards. You haven’t earned this, any of this. You’re like rats that have run away with something you know you don’t deserve.”
Wing went rigid, as if Drift had struck him. Worse, because they both knew that if Drift had actually tried to swing at him, the blow would never have landed. His mouth tightened, face hardening into something steely and brittle. “You are entitled to your thoughts, Drift.”
“Oh, finally,” Drift tossed his head. “Something that I’m allowed to have.”
Wing looked on the verge of striking him, before he spun on his heel, stepping to the balcony. He tapped a code and a heavy stormshutter rolled down, shutting out the ambient light. “You want,” he said, his voice a struggle with emotion. The stormshutter rang against the floor, locking into position, casting the room into shadow. “To be treated as a prisoner. I shall oblige.”
[***]
The first night, Drift shrugged, curling in a hard lump on the floor. Wing and his stupid tantrum, hurt prissy little feeling. Fine. He’d take the floor. He’d recharged in worse places. If this was the extent of the jet’s punishment? He was hardly afraid.
The comm room had been his only idea, though, when it became apparent, even to him, that he wouldn’t be able to ‘win’ his freedom on Wing’s terms. Megatron had always said that the dispossessed, the downtrodden, had a right to subvert the law, to utilize deception. “Laws can merely be reins by which our puppet masters control us,” Megatron had said. And of course, the only way to freedom was to cut those strings.
Another plan. He needed another plan.
Drift rolled to his back, staring up at the ceiling, the complicated, decorative plates of the ceiling tiles. Everything here was needlessly pretty: the ceiling presented an ornate collage of textures and lines, as though functionality had simply burst its boundaries in a paroxysm of joy.
No, don’t get distracted. A plan. A way out of this place. It was nothing but a prison, a pretty crystal cage.
The commroom was off limits. They’d have taken even more countermeasures this time.
No ships that he’d seen, except at the slaver’s base. No, there had to be something. There had to be…his pod? Comm in his pod, perhaps. All right. He could salvage something. He just needed to get out…of…here.
[***]
“Online,” Wing’s voice was sharp, cutting through his recharge. Drift onlined quickly—a force of habit. Mechs who were slow to wake often woke to find their lines cut. Still, he blinked blearily at the sudden light.
“What?” he muttered.
A cube was thrust onto his chassis. “Fuel.”
Drift struggled to sit up, confused. “Yeah, know what it is.”
“Drink it.”
Drift felt his mouth curl. “Going to keep this act up, huh?”
“Act?” the gold optics glittered, cold and hard. “This is what you wanted, right?”
“What I want is my freedom.”
The optics narrowed. The effect was striking, almost marring his beautiful face. “You cannot have it. Therefore prisoner, yes?”
“Fine.” Drift’s optics narrowed in return, snapping the seal on the cube with one practiced flick of a finger. “You’ll get bored of this sooner than I will.”
Wing’s mouth twitched. “And if I do? You will still be a prisoner.” Hammering the word at him, like a thorn he pulled from his own flesh turned against Drift.
Drift felt his smirk crumple into a glower, the energon almost sour on his glossa. Fine. If that’s how Wing wanted it?
[***]
It hurt, Wing thought. It hurt that Drift resisted everything. How could he not see Crystal City as the apotheosis of everything he’d professed to wanting? How could he want to leave?
Was…I not enough?
That was at the heart of the green-fire heat of his anger. That Drift would reject the city, reject him. It was…
…Wing had never wanted anything before, hadn’t allowed himself to covet, feeling that he deserved nothing beyond what was freely given. But Drift, there, on the cliffs—it was as if Prima had opened his hand, laying this blessing before Wing, telling him it was all right to want, so long as he earned.
And he had tried to earn Drift’s affections.
And.
Failed.
He willed himself to suffer, to try and accept it. Drift wanted a jailer; he would try to become that.
And so he spoke only in short phrases, only when necessary, though his throat burned with words. And he continued sparring with Drift, only as something to do, to pass the time. The matches, which had once brought him such pleasure, skill matching against skill, watching Drift’s improvements, steady and incremental, now only seemed to lay more of a wall between them.
Had Drift resented, all along, these matches? Had he really viewed them as punishments, humiliations?
The idea shocked Wing: he was no torturer. He was trying to help Drift, to save him.
Days went by, wrapped in darkness, smothered in discontent, while they spoke only in short barks, moving only to swipe at each other, recharging in a sort of sullen unhappiness. Wing hated it, with a depth of hate he had hoped he had moved beyond. And more than that, he hated that he couldn’t seem to break it, that every day the wall seemed higher and higher between them.
He gave a disconsolate sigh, lying on his berth, swathed in nightcycle. He missed, idly, the freedom of his balcony, which brought him wafted light and sound and busy-ness of the City outside, at all hours. With the stormshutter down, his quarters seemed like a tomb, the air unwholesome and unpleasant.
A whimper, almost an answer, from the floor to his left. He stiffened at the sound, even as his spark seemed…plucked by the naked emotion. He moved silently, rolling to his elbow, forearm blade flat on the berth’s cool surface.
Drift lay in a heap on the floor, a twist of limbs, one leg servo twitching, his ventilation systems shuddering under an increased load. Some old nightmare, he thought, watching the groundframe, as he shifted on the floor, snared in some memory purge of a hateful past.
Wing could almost trace the vision, in the microfired motions—a hand twitch here, the finger jumping against an imaginary trigger, a twitch of the waist as he ducked something.
As he watched, the body bucked up, as though seized by an enormous hand, the optics flying open, at first blank and wild, the mouth stretched in a cry of terror.
“Drift, are you--?” Wing leaned over, reaching one hand, unsure of its welcome, to the other mech. He could feel the stress-heat roiling off the dark frame.
The optics snapped to, the mouth forcing itself from the worried ‘o’ to a flat line of control. “I’m fine.” The EM field flared toward Wing, as though seeking comfort, before whipping back, as though by a strong wind.
And Wing’s hand hung stretched between them, untaken.
…I’m not.
[***]
Another day, another of the soured sparring matches. It seemed strange, but compared to now, how it had been before had been almost…fun. A contest and a frustrating one, but Wing’s smiles, his liberally dispensed praise had made it seem more like coaching. But now, it was just brutal, cold, humiliating, without the sweet smiles and praise to blunt the edges of Drift’s failures.
It was…misery. And more than that, Drift felt the pent up tension of another frustration—his body so used to Wing, deprived of that, and being so close to it: touching, constantly, the sleek body he’d once felt writhing in ecstasy beneath him, now forbidding and cold. The optics, too, were hard, the mouth set in a thin line that did violence to its lush curves.
Drift flung himself at Wing, as though to swing at the jet’s head, at the last moment shifting his strike to an anklesweep. Wing fell, but caught himself on one palm, rolling swiftly to his feet, the gold of his optics warm and liquid. “Excellent strike,” he said, before he caught himself, the hardness slamming down over his face, cutting off the praise. Only the optics burned, the soft brightness coruscating with emotion.
And that cut Drift deeper than anything, the knowledge, keen and stinging, that Wing hated this too, felt the loss and struggled with it.
When he launched his next attack, he let his hands slide down Wing’s thigh, fingers curling around the chamfered edges, feeling the silky metal, and the stir of electrons.
Wing’s frown twitched, resettled, as he stepped away. “Losing focus,” he said, tossing his head, as though shaking off some annoyance.
Another attack, this one a feint, Drift’s hands going for the wingpanels, sliding up the folded channels where he knew Wing was most sensitive. Another gratifying slip of the mask, and Drift could feel the EM field flare against him, plush and wanting.
Another clampdown, Wing seizing his arm, using it as a lever to throw him across the room. Drift laughed, as he rolled out of the crash, one hand brushing bruised rib struts, catching the glimmer of concern in Wing’s optics. “Don’t worry,” he goaded. “I’m fine.”
“Why would I worry?” Wing countered, without any real heat. “Prisoner, aren’t you?”
“Like you’re any better,” Drift muttered.
“What?” Wing looked taken aback.
“You. You’re not any more free than I am. Tell me you don’t find these rules constricting.”
Some cross between anger and hurt, real and sharp, flashed over Wing’s face, and this time, he stepped to attack. Drift swept in from the side. Wing pivoted on one foot, taking the blow, and carrying the momentum to toss Drift down. Drift was ready for it, this time, hooking his hands around the small ailerons on Wing’s forearms, using them to haul the jet down on top of him.
The two lay for a long moment, heaving with exertion and repressed want, Drift’s hands still gripping the red armor.
Until he bucked his head off the ground to touch his mouth to Wing’s. He heard the startled cry, felt its muffled vibrations against his lip plates. And then felt their EM fields blaze together, raging like wildfire for the long absence. It was chemical, it was physical, it was beyond anything Drift had ever known.
And he couldn’t let it go. Not this time.
His hands moved, seeking out that gap between the wingpanels and Wing’s back, feeling the plush velvet of magnetized metal under his palms, the small overlapping plates sliding under his touch.
“Drift,” Wing said, pulling away from the kiss, but he seemed puzzled, if anything, fighting his own want.
“Don’t talk,” Drift said, rolling both their weights to one side, sliding one thigh over Wing’s hips. “Just let me….” The sentence trailed off, because he lacked words. But his body knew what to do, sliding his pelvic span over Wing’s, to feel a matching heat against his, one hand curling down Wing’s aft, the other pinning the jet’s chassis to him, mouthplates nipping the jet’s throat which tilted up and open under his touch.
He sucked in a vent of air, redolent of Wing—his oil, his systems, his metal, warm and arousing, like breathing in his very essence. He slithered against Wing, giving a throaty growl as he felt the jet’s hands begin to slide over his own armor, tracing the gold flares of his chassis, taking advantage of his legs between Drift’s thighs.
Drift felt a possessive heat seize him, hands tugging on the wings, spreading one out. He wanted to touch all of Wing at once, to make up for the lack with a surfeit. He pushed up, sliding his hip over Wing’s, settling himself straddling the jet’s aft, pressing Wing’s belly into the floor. Wing’s back lay spread before him, wings opened. Above, he could see Wing’s face, half turned, optics gold and curious, one hand curled on the practice room’s floor.
He wanted to touch, and he’d refused that desire for too long: he let his hands roam over the back plates, feathering down the wings, sliding up the Great Sword’s channel, feeling the quiver of the wings, the swirl of the EM field as he stirred through it, and the squirm of Wing’s hips under his, against his inner thighs.
“Someone could come in,” Wing breathed.
“So?” Drift shrugged it off. Let them. Let them see this. It could hardly make them think less of him.
As much as he wanted to just take Wing, as much as he knew Wing would comply, he determined to hold himself off. This was going to last—he was going to pull every last iota of pleasure out of this. So he grazed his fingers along the leading edges of the wings, letting them caress the scalloped ends before sliding his palms over the arched planes, moving upward, leaning forward to plant a nipping kiss on Wing’s audio.
And then back down, repeating the labyrinth of touches. There was no sound between them but the shifting of Wing’s body under Drift’s touch, the soft sighs of Wing’s cooling system, and the silken slide of Drift’s hands over Wing’s armor. He felt his own desire kindle, hot and steady, his spike tingling with readiness.
Drift shifted his legs, pushing Wing’s thighs apart, one hand reaching to release their interface hatches, as he lay himself down on the back, grinding himself into the spread wings, his own ventilation hot and thick with need against Wing’s shoulder. “Yes?” he asked, voice rough, his spike sliding against Wing’s covered valve, leaving a hot smear of lubricant.
Wing gave a soft moan, craning his head, optic catching Drift’s as his valve cover clicked aside in answer. They both seemed to know what the question was really asking—not just about this, but everything between them.
Drift edged his spike inside, almost reverently, luxuriating in the feel of his upper thigh against Wing’s, the aft against his belly, the calipers squeezing against him. He rested his weight on Wing’s back, clinging almost childishly to the wingpanels, pressing his face against the jut of Wing’s shoulder nacelle, smelling of bright ozone as he curled himself against Wing, his spike moving slowly in the valve.
Wing’s body shivered under his, impatient with desire, his EM field whipping over Drift’s as he moved against him. It was slow and sweet, the sensations washing over them both, like a river carving a channel over time, a slow erosion of the distance between them as Wing began arching his spine up, inviting more. Drift’s hand found Wing’s, his palm covering the jet’s, fingers lacing between fingers as he wormed up, cheek against cheek, their breath intermingling, optics finding each other, full and huge and intimate. The lens, a beautiful amber, the fine filaments lacy and entrancing, captivated him, drawing him into Wing the same way the building overload between them knitted them together.
His ventilation caught, his body curling against Wing’s, the overload shuddering from him in a scalding spill of desire. His hand squeezed Wing’s, mashing it against the floor, feeling ever micron of contact between their bodies as Wing reacted, the optic flaring wider, the wings beneath him flaring wider, fuzzing with excess charge. It felt…delicious, warm and accepting, and for a bright, vivid moment Wing was his world, ground and sky, and Wing’s pleasure was his, sweet and beautiful.
The release throbbed between them still, ebbing waves of crystal-sparkled sensation and Wing shifted, straining for a kiss. Drift lifted his weight, letting Wing turn, their bodies sliding over each other like well-machined parts, offering his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, the words simply an inchoate ache he couldn’t put into words. He wasn’t sorry for what he’d done. He was sorry for what had happened between them.
“I’m sorry you’re unhappy here,” Wing said, pulling away from the kiss, one hand stroking soothingly over Drift’s shoulder, tentative and shy as though not sure he had the right. “I’d thought I could be enough.”
He could, he was. Wing was the only thing keeping him here, more than Wing’s silly challenge. That he could slip easily, or cheat—one blade in this sparring and it would be over, Wing lying in a pool of blood energon on the ground. But Wing kept him back from that, too, blunting the edge of his violence, melting the hardness of his hatred. Somehow.
Wing, dying, would hurt. And he didn’t know how to handle that. It had been so long—millenia—since he’d cared about someone, since the thought of death stirred anything like pain in him. But Wing would…hurt. More than this coldness that had been between them. “Not unhappy,” he murmured, pulling himself against the jet, to smell the bright clean scent of his nacelles.
And that was as far as he could go. He couldn’t be happy, here torn between obligation and the first real want he’d ever had. He knew it couldn’t last. And so each hard moment had been squandered, and each moment like this glittered like a light too bright.
Wing’s arms folded around him, the touch non-sexual, comforting, drawing him in as his shoulders jerked in a strangled sob. And he crooned some shapeless word of comfort, holding Drift while the shadows stretched like fingers of regret across the floor.
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*way better than my stupid thing I wrote for you...*
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...functionality had simply burst its boundaries in a paroxysm of joy.
::has joyful paroxysm::
It's an interesting waypoint, as pl2363 says, between Deadlock and Drift. I always like to imagine his time with Wing had lasted years, not days or weeks. ^^; I'm interested in the idea that Deadlock, at this point in his canon, anyway, was still quoting Megatron's early works to himself. As though the enjoyment of carnage for carnage's sake he seemed to display was...I dunno. Maybe just that? A display? Or maybe I'm just looking for more layers, to make the underlying structures make sense. Because that damn spotlight was too short! Augh! XD
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