Warmth

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

Warmth
R
Wing/Drift
IDW, Spoilers (I guess) for Transformers: Drift, takes place mid issue 4.
pnp interfacing
So, you know how just the other day you were saying, why isn't there any more Drift/Wing porn out there? Oh, wait, that was just me.  Oh well. Never mind, here it is anyway. :(
 

 

Drift slumped onto the battered metal of the hostel’s berth.  A berth, that was one thing, right?  And privacy, that was another, away from the malevolent gazes of the assorted populace of the Bar-Ascani spaceport. Cybertronians were…not beloved by the rest of the sentient universe.  Not that Drift blamed them. Right now, Cybertronians weren’t his favorite race either. 

And a third: he was exhausted.  Tired of moving, with no real place to go.  Running but unsure, because he never allowed himself to stop and ask, if he were running toward or running away something.

Not that he was ready to have those thoughts yet.  But he needed, wanted, desperately, if only for one night, to stop. 

Not that this place was…safe.  Safe.  Right. New Crystal City hadn’t been safe.  There was no place that was safe.  There were only areas that had greater and lesser probabilities and vectors of attack.

This one—the one door. Narrow, which was good: a bottleneck if need be.  And the frame was solid, reinforced.  Other than that, there was a small beryllium window to his right, barely large enough for a head, a silver-clear pane between himself and the radioactive gases that burst at regular intervals into the alley.  As good as he was likely to get.  He barely noticed the squalor—the built-up bits of metal, smears of grease and other fluids gone rancid on the walls, on the berth itself. This was nothing: he’d recharged in worse conditions in Kaon.

And he found himself curling into that long-ago posture, back wedged into the corner, knees drawn up, arms resting on his legs.  His hip scabbards bumped awkwardly as he pulled into position, and the heavy sheathe of the Great Sword an awkward weight behind him.  Something he still wasn’t—probably never would—be used to.  But he leaned back into it, pressing the sheath against his back struts, taking some paradoxical comfort in the discomfort as his optics dimmed, his systems pulling him into recharge.

[***]

“Drift.” The whisper was as warm as the sun, and a touch, light as a breeze, dusted over his hand. 

Drift blinked, sluggish, drained, his optics onlining slowly. He had a brief thought that he should online faster, that in his Kaon days, he’d be awake and running by now, but…the voice seemed to summon him from somewhere deeper, beyond sleep. And it seemed achingly familiar. 

His optics caught a golden glow, and the white figure kneeling in front of him on the berth, almost luminescent in the darkness.

“Wing? But how are you--?”

A finger on his lips, warm and real, that moved to cup his chin. And he felt like a sparkling again, a ragged scrap huddled in filth in a Kaon lower-zone alley, who had never seen such brightness.  His vents hitched and the question died in his vocalizer. He didn’t want to ask, he didn’t want to know.  He didn’t want to do anything that would dispel this…magic, hallucination, visitation, whatever it was. He tilted his head and Wing’s hand was solid and smooth, sliding over his cheek, then the heavy lamellar over his jaw.

“So serious,” Wing murmured. “Always so serious.”  There was laughter in his voice, fondness that Drift hadn’t heard before, but hearing it now, realized had been there all along.

“Not much to smile about,” Drift said, turning his blue optics to Wing’s face, the mouth he had kissed that once, only that once.

“The whole world,” Wing said.  “If you don’t smile,” he leaned in, his voice growing intense, earnest, “the weight of the world will crush you.”  His mouth brushed Drift’s, one hand glossing over Drift’s spaulder. 

Drift found himself tipping his chin, pushing into a kiss, his body trembling at the contact, his own hands reaching hesitantly for Wing’s shoulders. 

He felt the mouth smile against his, arms pulling him away from the wall, stretching him along the berth, Drift’s limbs hesitant.  He wanted, but he was still half-convinced this was some…madness or something that if he vented too deeply or moved too abruptly, would shimmer and shatter and disappear. So he let the white, glowing hands stroke along his armor, down his thighs, up to flirt with the scabbards of his short knives, letting one wrist dip to glide suggestively over his pelvic span, while his own hands, still half-convinced he was creating sensation from half-memory, explored the fine swoops of Wing’s back. 

“It’s hard for you to accept things, isn’t it?” Wing asked, pulling his mouth from Drift’s, ducking in for another coy kiss, nipping at his lower lip-plate.

Yes.  It was hard to accept that Wing was here. Wing was—he shuddered, half from the action of the white hands over his rib struts, half from the memory—dead. He’d seen his body, lain against the still, cool corpse until the sun rose, as if hoping that the sunrise would kindle again those golden optics. 

But he knew that wasn’t quite what Wing meant. “Yes,” he admitted, quietly.

“There are enough things to fight,” Wing said. “Don’t waste your effort fighting reality.” He tilted his head, nuzzling into Drift’s throat.  “You’ll always lose.”

Drift shuddered, a mournful cry welling in his throat, but soothed away, gently, gently, by the white hands.  He didn’t know what to say, but he knew what he wanted, what he wouldn’t fight anymore.  He pulled Wing against him—Wing was real enough, solid enough, and he wouldn’t question the opportunity.  One hand lifted Wing’s face toward his, locking their mouths together, pulling Wing’s body, warm and vibratingly alive, on top of him, the weight on his frame soothing him, centering him.  He could not accept, but he could take. 

And Wing yielded on top of him, murmuring with a kind of delight as Drift’s hand traced the lines of his interface hatch, his body riding Drift’s as easily as he had in life, his hands smoothing Drift’s shoulders, down the ribs, reaching blind. Don’t analyze, Drift told himself, don’t think.  Just do.  Just feel.  And the words felt like Wing’s voice inside him, resonating, vibrating through dormant systems, calling them awake.

Drift’s hand opened the hatch with a sort of reverence, something he hadn’t earned, didn’t deserve, but felt Wing’s warm hand on his, mirroring his gesture. There was a moment of fumbling, their thumbs bumping awkwardly between them as they connected the primary cables. 

Wing’s datastream was high and fast, light and tripping, just like him, Drift thought, while Drift’s was a hard, sharp pulse.  Wing shivered over him, arching his head up, enthralled, golden optics dimming with pleasure.  Drift growled with desire, their currents dancing, oscillating around each other.  “More,” he said, insistently. “I want more.” 

Wing quivered, hanging over Drift until Drift curled his spinal strut, resisting the flatness of the Great Sword’s sheath between his shoulders, nipping at Wing’s throat.  “More,” he murmured, pushing the word into the cable between his dentae.

“Yes!” Wing cried, his hands finding Drift’s, palm against palm.  Cables slipped from the undersides of their wrists, fine tendrils of cybersensate cable, twisting, twining against each other in a net of fine silver binding their wrists.  The cybernanites sang in harmonics to the main datastreams, sending intricate counterpoints of electricity and sensation swirling over their nets, connecting their systems at a base level, till they resonated as one. 

Drift forced his optics to stay online, trying to capture, memorize as much of Wing and his ecstasy as he could, knowing, at some level, through both their systems, that this was a rare and precious moment, a kind of miracle he might never have again.  He had so few beautiful moments, that at least he recognized one when it presented itself, feeling a precious agony as their datastreams built to a blinding crescendo.

His body juddered in release, Wing’s writhing and shivering in time against him.   His optic field flashed white, and blank from the overload.  He buried a growl in Wing’s throat, and the world was white and warm and beautiful.

[***]

“I don’t understand,” Drift murmured, floating in a warm, unfamiliar haze.  Kaon seemed very far away from him right now, and the tawdry berth in the backwater Bar-Ascani hostel seemed as insubstantial as a dream. 

“Understanding is another constant fight against reality.”  Wing’s optics lidded with poignant regret as their wrist cables detangled, leaving their wrists prickling and tender.  He lifted one of Drift’s hands up to his mouth, flicking his glossa in the wrist in a gentle kiss, as if sealing a bond.  He lifted his head. “Smile for me, Drift?”  A request Drift could not refuse, did not want to.  It wasn’t much of a smile, a ghost of his former smug smirk, something shy and lopsided, newborn and wobbly.

Wing smiled down at him, as if kindled by Drift’s, sliding over Drift’s chassis, nestling in behind Drift’s back, arms twining around Drift’s body, nuzzling his face in the join of his shoulder. “You should smile more,” Wing murmured, dreamily.  “But now, you should sleep.”

No. Sleep was the last thing Drift wanted to do right now. He was bubbling with questions, emotions, turbulent with things he hardly knew how to put into words.  “Wing--,”

“Sleep, Drift,” Wing said. 

But you’ll be gone when I wake, Drift thought with a hollow despair, but Wing’s words had the force of a command, pulling him under,  into sleep, warm and comforting such as he had never known.

And when he woke, Wing was gone, but the Great Sword’s sheath was a warm, comforting weight against his back.

 

 

 

Comments

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

I know! That was one of those things I didn't have planned that just sort of happened. (Wait, that makes it sound like I plan these things beyond umm 'pnp, hostel, wing tops, sword'. o_O