Lesson

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

R
IDW
tactile, possibly disturbing clumsy sexual naivete
Wing/Drift

prompt by ravynfyre : Wing/Drift dominance play - "Not all lessons need be struck home with pain." (As you can see, I write *willingly* to prompts for this pairing, so any ideas, chuck 'em at me and I'll do my best! ^_^  (hell I write to prompts for anyone, honestly!)

 

Drift groaned, feeling the cool metal of a repair berth underneath him. Again.  His right hand felt on fire, too new circuitry picking up too much stimulus, new actuators stiff and painful.  His other fist balled in frustration. Again.  Again and again and again.  He was never going to defeat Wing. 

If only, he thought, I had a gun. One gun and I’d take out Wing and all of them. That smug pontificating Dai Atlas first of all. 

It galled him that Wing could defeat him so easily. Half the time, Wing didn’t even touch him—just let Drift wear himself out, dodging with such ease it felt sometimes like mockery, until Drift grew angry, careless, sloppy, and stumbled or lashed out. 

It was…beyond humiliating.  Especially for someone who had held his rank.  What Turmoil would say if he saw Deadlock now, Drift thought.  It wasn’t much of a question: he knew the answer. Weak.  Turmoil would think he was weak and pathetic, and would doubtless tilt his visored optics to one side and murmur something, pointedly, about his ‘lack of control.’ 

Drift stared at his new hand—this time, he’d swung too hard, too wildly, and crushed his fist against a doorjamb, with force enough to shatter the knuckles into the palm plates.  A full replacement gleamed, taunting him with its newness.

Approaching footsteps.  Drift raised his head, then sat up, scooting back along the berth to rest his shoulders against the top frame.  Wing.  Great. 

Wing smiled, perching on the edge of the berth as though he belonged there, was welcome there.  “How did the repairs go?” 

Humiliating, Drift thought. “Fine.”  He tried to tuck his hand away.  Wing saw the gesture, his optics softening. 

Wing held out a cube. “I brought you this.  Repairs use a lot of fuel.” 

Drift frowned, “I’m fine.” 

Wing tilted his head. “I didn’t say you weren’t.  Is it so hard to take any help?”

“I don’t need any ‘help’.” 

“Everyone needs something from others, Drift.  We can’t survive on our own.”

A vision of Cybertron flashed back to Drift, dark, muddy colored, almost polluting the stark white of Crystal City.  Gasket and he and the others, joining forces.  Strength in numbers.  “Did well enough,” he lied. 

Wing didn’t call him on the lie, merely held out the cube again. “Besides.  I didn’t say you needed help. I was merely offering.  It’s yours to accept or refuse.”  He grinned. “You’re in control.” 

Drift glared, but reached for the cube. A wince creased his face as the too-new servos fired out of time, poorly calibrated. The cube shook, nearly spilling.  Not in control, he thought, angrily.  Clumsy and untrained.  Useless.  Weak.

Wing reached to steady the cube automatically, his hands closing over Drift’s fingers, raising it to his mouth.  Drift had no choice but to drink, the energon lapping against his lips. He fumed at the treatment, as though he were some...invalid.  Wing smiled encouragingly at him over the lip of the cube as he lowered it, then reached forward with one thumb, wiping a droplet off Drift’s mouth.  Drift bridled, but he could feel the warm rush of energon through his systems, setting him alive, his autorepair tingling gratefully.  Traitor, he thought. 

“Thank you,” he managed, surlily, ill-tempered, aware that this was another part of Wing’s training.  Training him to be weak.

“You’re welcome,” Wing said graciously, as though Drift had been sincere.  He lay the cube aside, keeping hold of Drift’s repaired hand with his other.  He began stroking it, dropping his gaze, turning it over in his hands, examining the repairs.  “Nicely done,” he said.

Drift shrugged. “I guess your repair technicians know what they’re doing.” 

Wing shrugged back, mockingly, his folded wing twitching behind one shoulder, as if amused.  He ran his fingertips  over the palm, then traced the exposed cylinders of the knuckles.  “Calibrating this kind of repair,” he said, so softly that his voice seemed almost a hum in the air, “is the hardest part, isn’t it?”

Drift tugged at his hand.  Wing’s other hand closed over his wrist, not forcefully, but trapping him, making him pulling away with that much force a rudeness.  Wing looked up.  “So, Drift,” he said.  “Tell me about Cybertron.” 

Cybertron.  Drift stiffened. “I haven’t been there recently.” Understatement. 

“I meant the Cybertron you knew.”  Wing’s thumbs pushed semi-circles over Drift’s palm, sending a strange tremor through his body. 

“Oh.”  Drift blinked, shifting uncomfortably, bringing one knee up like a barrier between them.  “It was ugly. Corrupt.  No one cared if you lived or died. Not even you sometimes.”

Wing nodded, his fingers caressing the hand, pressing it between his palms for a moment, so that Drift could feel the sensor contact charge travel through his own palm tactile array. “Mmmm.  Must be hard to care about someone else like that, when you’re not even sure you care about yourself.”  He glanced up as if for confirmation. 

Drift looked away. “We did,” he argued.  “Because we had to trust each other.” 

“Ah.” Wing accepted the correction gracefully, sliding one hand up Drift’s forearm.  Drift shivered. 

“What are you doing?” Drift asked.

Wing looked surprised. “I’m touching you.” As if it should be obvious.  “Does it hurt? I can get a technician in here…?” Half taunting, but half in earnest. 

Drift frowned. “No,” he said.  It didn’t hurt.  He just…didn’t know what to do with what he was feeling.

Wing smiled, gently, twining the fingers of one hand through Drift’s, letting his other wander up Drift’s arm.  “It,” he said, his voice suddenly coaxing, “is supposed to feel good.”

Drift squirmed, as much at the tone of Wing’s voice as the delicate touches on his armor. “Why?” 

Wing gave a small chuff of laughter. “Generally, tactile contact can be pleasurable. It has something to do with pressure plates and electromagnetic charge and—“

Drift growled. “Not that.” 

Wing’s grin spread to his optics. “I know.” He stopped his exploration of Drift’s arm, moving to loop an arm around Drift’s bent leg, resting his chin on Drift’s knee plate.  He considered Drift from this vantage, his other hand tracing a seam up Drift’s thigh.  “Why would I want to?”  Drift shuddered under the touch, sucking in a ragged in-vent. “Because I want to?” His fingers swept over the top of Drift’s thigh, flirting with the small gap between the armor and his heavy pelvic frame. 

Drift’s hands clenched on the berth, the new one stiff and tight, but he didn’t feel the pain over the flood of exquisite feedback racing up his sensornet. 

“And,” Wing added, leaning over, the lights glossing over his spotless white armor, “because you want me to?”  The hand left his leg, coming forward to brush Drift’s cheek, trace the line of his jaw.  Drift felt a sound try to bubble in his chassis, almost a whine of pure desire, his optics focused on Wing’s other arm, wrapped around his thigh.

Wing purred, the nacelles on his shoulders thrumming, boosting his EM field into a velvety pressure against Drift’s.  Wing tipped Drift’s face toward his, golden optics seeking blue.  “Say the word and I’ll stop, Drift.”  

Drift shuddered, trying to drop his gaze, but Wing’s fingers dug into the underside of his jaw, keeping their faces locked.  Drift blinked, a brief respite from that golden gaze that seemed to see right through him, and set fire to everything as it passed.  He sensed movement, the EM field flaring against his, and then a gentle pressure on his mouth, two lip plates catching his, pinching delicately.  He gasped, parting his lips, and the mouth moved again, covering his, and he felt the tingling tickle of current from Wing’s glossa on the rim of his mouth plates, just on the edges, intruding no farther in. Yet. 

Wing pulled away, slightly, so slightly that when he spoke, his lips brushed Drift’s, his optics boring into Drift’s like a noonday sun on a sea.  “Life,” he murmured, “Is not merely about food, or freedom or safety.” He traced Drift’s mouth with his glossa, live current racing in a circuit around Drift’s lip plates,  before continuing, “It is about joy. The sheer jubilance of being alive, of what we are capable of thinking and feeling and doing.”

Drift’s optics darkened, disbelieving.

Wing flirted his glossa in Drift’s mouth. “Not every lesson is learned in pain, Drift,” he said, trailing one hand up Drift’s chassis. Drift pushed a moan that sprung, unheeded, unexpected, from his vocalizer, into Wing’s gentle kiss.

His own hands came up, both new, but one painfully so, and bold and reckless as he always was, reaching blindly for Wing’s body, catching the shapes of the folded wings, pulling them toward him like handles, pulling Wing’s body down to meet his. 

Wing sighed against him, settling his frame on top of Drift’s, straddling the torso, his knees and their sharp stabilizers pinning Drift in.  Drift could feel the weight of the thighs, and the cool straight sweep of their lines, on his lower chassis, along his rib struts, and the hands, warm and fuzzed with current they had already collected, stroking gently over his chassis. Their mouths were still locked in the mild kiss, Wing, as ever, not intruding.

But Drift wanted him to—his hands clutched around Wing’s upper arms, pulling him down against him, tilting his chin up, forcing into the kiss, his own glossa invasive, determined.  Wing made a yearning sound in his throat, the vibrations tripping along Drift’s mouth, and for a moment, he returned the kiss, ferocity for ferocity,  and their mouths bruised at each other, glossas vying for some dominance, before Wing tore his face away, his ventilation ragged and deep, and when he looked at Drift, his mouth was parted, his optics glowing and hazy with  a desire he didn’t entirely control.

His optics glided over Drift’s frame, taking him in, as if feeding on the sight, the glow kindling brighter, and Drift could swear he felt the gaze like a third, ghostly hand riding over his lines and contours.  Drift clawed for Wing’s interface hatch, blind with need, only to have his hand brushed away, gently, but forcefully. 

His optics flew open, to see something he couldn’t read playing across Wing’s face.  “No,” Wing said, finally, and his hand tightened around Drift’s wrist, pushing it flat to the berth.  

I am not going to ask, Drift told himself.  I am not going to beg.  I am not…here for this.  I have a fight to win, and a war to get back to. “Fine,” he muttered, curling to that side, pushing Wing off him. 

Wing hesitated, the strange expression resolving again into a smile, as if it had just decided what it wanted to be, and he shifted his weight, letting Drift move under him, before leaning down, dropping the weight of his chassis on Drift’s upraised shoulder.  “I can work with this,” he said, his voice deep and heavy with desire, tracing his free hand over Drift’s back kibble, squeezing Drift’s hips between his thighs. “It’s so like you, Drift, to be so caught up that you leave yourself,” he paused, rubbing the web of his thumb and fingers around the back of Drift’s neck, just under the rise of his helm, “entirely vulnerable.” 

“Is that what this is?” Drift managed, unsteadily, trying to move but finding his upper arm pinned by the clamped legs against his chassis, “another attack?”

He felt a hot pressure along the top of his spaulder. “Isn’t everything an attack, to you?”

Drift thrashed, trying to heave the weight ungracefully off his body, but Wing had most of his mass above his center of gravity, riding over the movements easily, letting Drift flop back down onto his back before catching his mouth in a kiss that was wild and yet, somehow, gentle, teasing and earnest, and everything he’d learned to associate with Wing.

Their armor pressed together, panels sliding over one another, Wing’s nacelles warm and throbbing against Drift’s shoulders, his hips, sleek and white, rocking against Drift’s frame in some primal tempo.  “Let me,” Wing murmured, barely lifting his mouth from Drift’s.  “Let me….” He didn’t finish the request, his hands insistent, demanding on Drift’s armor, dragging at the seams, flicking into the systems in the gaps. 

Drift had no choice, his body betraying him for the rise of sensation, surging and ebbing under Wing’s touch, his mouth seeking, hungrily, desperately, some satiation in Wing’s.  He could feel the charge rise against him, Wing’s fingertips taking on the heavy staticky buzz of electricity, could feel the impossibly delicate ripple of energy over his field, magnified, stirred by the swirl of Wing’s nacelles.  But most of all, above all, he felt Wing’s golden gaze, aroused, eager, wanting and needing this from him.  The joy of being alive, the joy of wanting and lust and the fierce bliss of tangling another’s pleasure with one’s own.

And as the overload hit him, the charge reaching the critical voltage to fire through his systems, his optics locking on Wing’s parted-lipped face, optics lidded with desire, and in those golden optics he saw, he felt something Wing never spoke. 

That under the laughter and the taunting and the play, Wing was desperately, desperately alone. 

 

Comments

[chibirisuchan.livejournal.com]

oooh, and you're taking prompts?

I don't know whether these legendary swords of theirs are made of metal or (for maximum weeaboo) are lightsaber analogues or what, but if they're made of metal, howsabout Wing teaching Drift about the proper way to sharpen things?

hands rubbing back-and-forth-back-and-forth over metal, sparks glittering everywhere, getting into just the right rhythm for merciless teasing, seeing how *cough* long he can tease before getting pounced... XD

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

Ummm, I'll just be over here fanning myself thinking of that. (Knifekink? ME?!?!)

Would sticky work for you for that? For you know, maximum, umm...blade sharpeny goodness?

[chibirisuchan.livejournal.com]

^____^ I'm happy with any sort of mechanics you want to think up. (speaking of which, the music-as-sex version was also quite awesome! Probably not technically viable for this prompt, of course. Just sayin' I'm cool with any kind of connectors you like.)