Immanence part one

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW
Drift/Wing, Dai Atlas, Axe
sticky
sorta maybe kinda a kink meme fill (the first part) here.

“You look ridiculous,” Drift glowered, arms folded across his chassis, slumped in a corner while a gaggle of mechs bustled around Wing.  Or what used to be Wing, but was now Wing covered in swirls and dots of paint, and gold, bejeweled wing-stalls that traced over his outspread wings. A mech gestured Wing to bend down, lifting an equally ornate gold wire coronet to Wing’s head.

Wing laughed. “Probably so! It is the ritual, though. Besides.”  He shifted his stance and jewels dangling from the wing stalls clattered and tinkled, “it’s fun.” 

One of the mechs around Wing shot Drift a look. Yeah, he knew that look, remembered that sort of supercilious sneer from the few times he’d ventured above the gutters.  He sneered back.

“Ah lad,” Axe boomed from the doorway, where he’d been watching, “Wait till you see him in the light.”  The large mech grinned, unfazed by Drift’s dark look.  “Wing, we’re almost ready for you.”

Wing nodded, setting off another tinkling cascade of sound. “You’ll show Drift around?”

Great. So he was going to be handed off for this stupid pageant like some burden. Wonderful. He’d planned on taking advantage of the whole bustle to try to find a way out of the city, but with Axe following him around?

“I don’t need him,” he blurted, just as Axe stepped closer, clapping a hand on Drift’s shoulder. “I’d be glad to.”

The mechs around Wing stepped back, each of them giving a sort of space where they could admire their handiwork.  Every inch of Wing’s armor was decorated, somehow, either with whorls of gold and silver paint or set with flat-backed gems or wrapped with wire. He was almost unrecognizable, except for that bright smile, the golden glow of his optics as he stepped out of their circle and moved toward Drift. “I hope you enjoy it. It’s one of the ancient rituals of Cybertron, part of our history.” He stressed the pronoun ‘our’.

Drift’s optics flicked to the side. “Don’t have much choice, do I?”

“Ah lad,” Axe said, chuckling, “Life is so much easier when you stop making it hard for yourself.”

[***]

 “Wing was so excited that you’d come to this, Drift.”  Axe reached over his shoulder, snagging two small green-filled vials from a passing server. He pressed it into Drift’s hand.

“Don’t have much choice,” Drift said, frowning sourly into the small glass.

Axe laughed, as though it were a joke. “Don’t ever tell him I told, but he wants you to be a little impressed.”

Impressed? Right. All this wealth and splendor and for what? One day a year. One big pageant thing.

Axe caught him looking around, and his face must have been unguarded and bitter. “With him, Drift.” 

“Me.” Flat disbelief. Were they talking about the same Wing? The one who threw Drift around like a sack of old cogs every day for fun? 

Axe gave a strange, lopsided smile, and held his vial out for a toast. “He wants you to find him beautiful, Drift.”

Drift’s bitterness crumbled, and he stood, for a long moment, clutching his glass, his spark giving a sharp, sudden pang.  Wing was.  It wasn’t even up for debate. Even bitter and hardened as Drift was, he wasn’t entirely blind.

He ducked his head after a moment, feeling the weight of Axe’s gaze on him, and took a sip from the green liquid. It was tart and sharp, sliding down like quicksilver. He looked up to Axe’s tolerant, half-sided smile, and a pat on his shoulder that he would have shaken off if a burst of music hadn’t interrupted.  

“Drink up,” Axe said, swallowing his own in one neat little gulp, reaching out for Drift’s glass.  Drift was already feeling it, a warm sort of glow spreading through his chassis, as though his spark was heating.  Mechs around them were doing the same, handing the glasses back to smaller passing ground mechs holding trays, slicing deftly through the crowds. 

“Do you know the story?” Axe leaned over, his gold crest catching in the light, as the first banners of the procession moved in front of them, glittering and flapping. 

Drift shook his head, blinking. Whatever was in that green glass was…strong.  He had no idea what Axe was even talking about, but he really didn’t want to ask right now. He just wanted his head to stop spinning. 

Axe’s hand descended on his shoulder, companionably. “It’s the story of our making, our descent from Primus.” 

“The guiding hand,” Drift managed, steadying himself.  He could see five mechs ascending a dais, cloaked in some bright fabric. He knew this story. Bits of it, anyway, little scraps that desperate soldiers murmured when they believed faith would save them.

Axe beamed at him, fingers curling over his spaulder.  “Ours is a bit different from what you might know.”  He gestured as Dai Atlas, his body glistening iridescent silver and gold, in the part of Primus.  Drift shrugged, his head spinning again, and everything seemed to swirl into a blur of noise and color, Axe’s voice a steadying drone beside him.

Until Wing stepped forward, throwing off his cloak.

And he didn’t look ridiculous any more.  He looked….

…resplendent. Drift had heard the word somewhere, ages ago probably in one of Megatron’s speeches, but he’d never really seen it until today. Wing seemed to be the only thing in focus, bright white and so dazzling that it hurt to look at him, even though Drift could not tear his gaze away.

Mortilus, he figured, or maybe Axe told him. Somehow, the word seeped to his awareness. But Mortilus was…

And as he watched, the Knights on the stage began an intricate pantomime, swords flashing in the light, as the others lunged at Wing. 

Wing countered easily, and Drift, for the first time, got to see the jet’s skill exercised on someone else. And he was so graceful, each movement precise and compact, that it took Drift’s breath away. 

Even when he ‘fell’ in the fight, Mortilus, defeated, it was beautiful, his body collapsing in a shimmer of light and color. 

“In our version,” Axe whispered, his EM field tingling against Drift’s side, “Mortilus, the death bringer, having suffered his own demesne, is reborn.”  As Drift watched, Wing stirred on the dais, jewels ringing in the almost silence of the audience, rapt with belief.  “The three fought in an intricate dance in life, and as the others give their lives for us—Epistemus our brain modules, Adaptus our transformation cog, Mortilus became….”

“The spark.”  Knowledge, Change and the power of life and death. It was some parable he could barely get his mind around.

Wing was blinding, in the bright light, the paint on his armor seeming to shimmer alive, and Drift seemed to feel the same shivering movement over his spark.  “He’s….” He spread his hands, wordless. He should want to leave, he should deride this ceremony for being venal and ludicrous, garish and showy and stupid, but instead, all he could think of was what it might be to be close to Wing right now, like a creature longing to be too near a sun.

“I think,” Axe said, leaning over, his voice quiet and conspiratorial, “he’d like it if you told him that.”  And Axe stepped away into the crowd, leaving Drift reeling with indecision. 

[***]

He stumbled toward the stage, clumsy with the intoxicant and his own awkwardness. He had no idea what he was going to do, other than ‘find Wing’ and be near him somehow.  The crowd seemed not to notice him and he had a fleeting thought that he should be moving the other way, toward the fringes, to find an exit, but that thought was half-hearted and black and dry, while the thought of Wing was spark-full and rich and lush.

“Wing,” he murmured, just to hear the sound of the word, feel the shape of it in his vocalizer.  “Wing.”

A mech caught him as he tripped over another’s foot, pulling him back to his feet. “Wing?” the mech echoed, his optics chasing down Drift’s frame, flaring as he recognized the Decepticon logo. “Yes. I’ll fetch him.”  The mech guided him up a small rise of stairs, into a shadowy vestibule. “Wait here.”

Drift nodded, limply, settling himself in the quiet room. Away from the noise and bustle of the crowd, the worst of the lightheadedness seemed to recede, but the desire, the longing for Wing, didn’t, burning, if anything, sharper and clearer.

The room smelled of clean oil and something sweet, the silence a welcome sort of muffling, that even dampened his footsteps as he shifted around the small space, barely large enough to move. It reminded him of a prison cell, but vaguely not. Nothing felt trapped here, confined.  Instead it felt safe and small and close, the kind of place he’d have killed for in the gutters.

“Drift?” A voice behind him, in the doorway. He didn’t need to turn to know it was Wing.  Even his voice seemed magnificent, now, some trick of acoustics or effect of the drink, but when Drift turned, Wing was there, resplendent in his jewelry that Drift had called ‘ridiculous’, ornate and decorated in paint and jewels. It was too much—Wing was beautiful enough without those gewgaws—but the excess seemed to point to that fact of how unnecessary any of it was. 

He didn’t’ trust himself to words, barely trusting himself to walk, but his feet guided him, sure and steady like something meant to be, and he closed the small distance between them, pulling Wing into a nearly frantic kiss.

There was a startled ‘oh!’ from the jet, which parted his mouthplates, the sound becoming just a note of longing between them. Drift wanted this as he’d wanted nothing else in his life: his hands stroked over Wing’s body, almost maddened by the intricate jewelry, the brush of a jeweled tassel against his cheek as they kissed. “I want you,” he said, only he knowing how much of an admission that was, for that sullen hardness between them to fall.

“Yes,” Wing said the word an offering, and he tipped his head back for a kiss.

Drift ducked down, burying himself in the exposed throat, the smell of it, the sleek contact of cables under his eager mouth, his hands grasping at the wings.

Wing trembled against him, and then pulled away. “The door,” he managed, his vents rough with desire. “I should…”

Drift nodded, loosening his grip to let Wing turn away to secure the door, but the turn of the back, jeweled and vulnerable and beautiful, was too much for him not to take advantage of. As Wing closed the door, he wrapped himself  around the jet, pressing his chassis against the ornately painted back, the stretched wings warm and alive against him, under the ornate swirls of the wing stalls.  He shifted back a klik, pulling Wing away from the door, one hand flipping up the white skirting panel before pressing close again, pushing his pelvic armor against the jet’s aft.

Wing rocked back against him, wings shivering in their stalls. 

“Beautiful,” Drift murmured, in a daze, the sentence finishing at last. The word he’d come here to say, the word it was desperately important for Wing to hear.  

 Wing squirmed against him, arching his spinal struts, sliding his interface hatch against Drift’s in open invitation.

Drift’s grin of triumph was buried in the back of Wing’s neck, his mouth hungry to touch the jet, as one hand slid between Wing’s thighs to release their interface equipment.   His spike jutted between their legs, and he caught Wing’s sudden glance down, feeling the lubricant slickness on his inner thighs, and then the sudden sharp vent of air as Wing saw the spike, a quiver of eagerness running through him.

It was wrong and exquisitely, perfectly right for their first time to be like this: Wing, jeweled and distant, rich and beautiful, and Drift, barely restrained in his need, hands trembling and eager, touching a thing more beautiful than he could imagine existing. 

“Careful!” Wing whispered as Drift nosed his spike toward the valve.

Drift gave a quiet, rough laugh, curling his hips forward to sink his spike in the valve’s warm depths.  He clutched at Wing’s body, under the wings, just feeling, for a moment, his frame against Wing’s, his spike sunk deep into Wing’s valve, filling the warm snugness.

He stayed still long enough for the moment to rise against him, as the calipers of the valve spiraled down against him, sending ripples of pleasure through him until he could no longer stand to stay still.  He began thrusting into the valve, long, sharp strokes, tugging Wing’s hips against him.  The jewels clattered and tinkled from the motion, in a gentle chiming that merely inflamed Drift’s desire.  He sped up, driving toward release, Wing shifting his feet backwards, arching his back, deepening the angle. Drift gave a quiet growl, satisfied and aroused, optics half-lidded, lost in the tingling heat and pressure and slide of his spike in the slick valve.  “Beautiful,” he whispered, almost an accusation as much as a word lambent with desire and possession.

Wing didn’t respond, at least not with words, giving a series of sharp, short little whimpering moans in tempo with Drift’s increasingly demanding thrusts.

Drift stopped abruptly, clapping a hand over Wing’s mouth, pulling the jet’s back against his belly. 

“Quiet,” he hissed, his own cooling systems venting in quiet gusts of air between their bodies. They froze, Wing trembling against him, listening to the muffled thuds of footsteps outside, and a voice calling ‘Wing? Wing? You’re needed soon.’ 

Wing shifted, his mouth moving under Drift’s fingers.  Drift began moving, slowly, dragging his spike in and out of the valve, enough to deprive Wing of words, the jet trembling and shivering against him. 

The footsteps, and the voice, receded.  Drift picked up his pace again, releasing his hand from Wing’s mouth. “Quickly,” Wing said, his voice pleading, desperate, torn between two desires, but choosing this, wanting to stay here, wanting Drift to keep driving into him, the Decepticon’s mouth biting down on his collar armor. He could feel the overload coming, as though from a distance, roaring at him all the more forcefully for the delay. His hips pistoned against Wing, the raised skirting panel scraping his belly, his thighs sliding against Wing’s, hands desperate on the jet.  The jewelry clattered and clashed, losing all rhythm, to a frantic, trembling crescendo of noise. 

Wing arched up, a sharp, short little cry bursting from his vocalilzer just as Drift’s spike jolted in his valve, a scalding liquid burst of transfluid filling his valve. Drift drove himself in, so deep that he took most of Wing’s weight, the jet impaled on his spike.

Wing softened against him, the spinal struts releasing into a quivering tenderness, and Drift released the sharp bite, licking almost apologetically at the collar armor he’d nipped, hot transfluid slicking down their thighs. “Drift,” Wing whispered, his voice tremulous, his hands coming to rest on Drift’s, wrapped around his body. 

Drift couldn’t think, couldn’t move, for a long moment, just rapt in the pleasure beyond what he’d known before.  He was hardly a virgin but he’d never felt anything like this almost jelly-like quiver around his spark as he held Wing, and the spiking felt less like a conquest than some sort of sacrament. He wanted words to come, to find some way to express this. Maybe Wing would understand, maybe he wouldn’t, but he wanted to try.  “Wing. I—“

The door snapped open before them, and the space beyond it was filled, abruptly, with blue and gold and a dour frown.  “Wing!” Dai Atlas drowned out whatever words Drift might have come up with. “What is the meaning of this?”

Wing started, rigid, in Drift’s arms, the gems rattling, a quick clatter of alarm. “Dai Atlas. I was….”

“You were dallying with this…,” a snarl, “Decepticon.”

Drift growled, jerking his spike forcefully from Wing’s valve, hard enough to cause Wing to yelp, the tender mood shredded and jagged, mocking him with memory. Softness. Weakness. Pathetic.

“Dai Atlas,” Wing said, sheepishly swiping at his thighs, smearing the silver trail of transfluid ineffectually. “It was an act of pleasu—“

“Rutting,” Dai Atlas said, coldly.  “Base rutting.  And in this.” He pinched one of the wing stalls with distaste. “Defilement. Desecration.”

“Dai Atlas,” Wing began again, cut off by Drift, shoving him aside.

“I don’t need you to defend me, Wing,” he snapped, more stung by Wing’s worried calmness than Dai Atlas’s judgment.  But he should have known better: Wing wouldn’t stand up for him. Wing was probably glad they’d been caught, Drift shamed, weak. 

Drift bent, slamming his interface hatch closed, and shoved his way past Dai Atlas, moving him bodily.

“Drift!” Wing cried out, trying to pass Dai Atlas himself,  before his wing was gripped, painfully, by the Circle’s leader. “Where are you going?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Dai Atlas said, darkly.

Drift certainly wasn’t, stumbling out of the vestibule into the too-bright lights of the street outside, wanting for the first time in his life the anonymous darkness of the gutters.

Comments

[skyure.livejournal.com]

!

THIS is great. I like it. I can really imagine how Wing looks with all the jewelry, being thrust into by Drift.

More parts to come, I hope?