Before the Dawn

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW
Drift/Wing
sticky, oh yeah, and angst, and very, very purple prose.
ravynfyre 's prompt:Post Drift returning to NCC to warn them about the aliens and Decepticons... After they see to Drift's armor... Wing comes to see Drift... "Brightly dawning will the morning come, but tonight, the shadows belong to us. 

 

Wing waited, though it was an agony to wait. He could almost feel time slipping past him, like standing in the middle of a sandstorm—the fine grit blowing past him, through him, leaving him behind.  Tomorrow it ended. He knew it would only end the one way.  And he felt a strange nervous exhilaration coursing through his systems.  This was what he’d waited for, his whole life.  This was what he wanted.

The medics finally left, giving Wing barely a passing glance as they passed where he leaned against the wall, trying to force himself still.  Now, he told himself, but still waited.  Now.  Time is threading past you.

A shadow in the doorframe, and Drift was there, his blue optics glowing through the gloom.

“Drift,” Wing said, his voice barely louder than a breeze.  The blue optics found him, from the darkness.  Wing stepped forward into the faint light spilling from the room behind Drift, out of which he carved such a complicated silhouette. Wing smiled. Everything about Drift was complicated. 

“You should be recharging,” Drift said. “Battle tomorrow.” 

“So should you.”  Wing's optics studied this new face, new armor.  It was, he thought, beautiful.  White and sleek, the short blade scabbards compact against lean but powerful haunches. 

“They sent you to guard me,” Drift said, the corners of his mouth—still his mouth, undeniably—tugging downward.  “In case I bailed tonight.”

Wing shook his head. “They didn't send me.”  He stepped past Drift into the room, his gaze hungry, memorizing the new armor, the shapes and swoops of a new armature.  His palms throbbed with the want to touch.  Not because Drift was beautiful—he had wanted, had almost resonated with the other mech since the moment he'd seen him on the cliffside, when Drift's face was a perpetual snarl, his armor battered and worn.  A frame used to war.

And Wing had wanted that, too. 

Drift turned, uncertain, watching Wing, almost warily.  “Then, why?”

Wing turned, palms spread open, achingly empty.  “I came...for you.”  The smile ebbed from his face at the raw honesty, at the sudden comprehension then incomprehension in Drift's face. Doubting that anyone would want him. 

“You don't,” Drift said, dropping his optics, trying to crush a hope that had briefly bloomed between them.  And suddenly Wing realized that while he had been memorizing, longing, studying Drift's new frame, the other mech had been doing the same to him. All along.  From the moment the blast had scorched his garments off him there'd been that intense, unacknowledged desire between them,

“I do,” Wing said, stepping closer, reaching one hand toward Drift's shoulder, but afraid to make the first contact, letting it hover in the air between them like a wish. 

Drift stared at the hand for a moment, as if ranging an enemy fortification, before his gaze leapt to Wing's face.  Wing's smile was tremulous, shy.  And perhaps if it had been Wing's usual smile—cocky, teasing—nothing would have happened, and they would have stepped away in their own bubbles of ego, but Drift seemed to shudder at Wing's sudden shyness, before closing the gap between them.  His mouth was hard and demanding on Wing's, which yielded under his in a wanted surrender.

Wing's hand  found the shoulder, his other sliding around Drift's waist, almost hesitant, not pulling Drift toward him, but simply...feeling him, skimming his hands over the new armor with the reverence of a sacrament.  Drift's hands were not so gentle, awkward against Wing's folded wing panels, the tips of his fingers flirting with the Great Sword's heavy sheath. He stepped one leg between Wing's, both of them shivering at the contact of their thigh armor. 

Wing's knees buckled, and he sank toward the floor, taking Drift with him, their chassis sliding together, mouths gentle and fierce. Wing's glossa brushed Drift's, and Drift responded with a soft growl, pushing against him hungrily, possessively.  Their ventilations cycled fast and deep, swelling like a tide. A soft moan passed between them, as if from both of them, cut short by the sound of footsteps. 

Drift tore himself away, though his optics raced over Wing's face, taking in the lust-parted lips, the lidded, golden optics. “The door,” he muttered. “Should probably get the door.” 

Wing's mouth curved into a gentle smile, his hands reluctant to release contact.  “The berth, too, maybe,” he managed, as Drift pulled away. 

Drift rose to his feet, optics not leaving the spectacle of Wing, kneeling before him, almost rocking with the force of his desire.  Wing stood, unsteadily for once, as Drift coded the door closed, and caught at Drift's fingers, twining them with his own, leading him to the cold metal of the berth.  Drift studied Wing's broad back, the intricate folds and panels of the wings, the sword nestled between them.   He tugged his hand free, only to wrap both his arms around Wing, just as they reached the berth, just as Wing's knee spires bumped the metal, tugging the flyer back against him, feeling the vibration of the frame, the sleek wings and the sheath between them.  Wing tilted his head back, his body back, leaning into Drift's arms, trusting the other with his weight, like a symbol of trusting him with his desire.  Wing's hands found Drift's, his fingertips little stars of bright sensation on Drift's forearms. 

He dipped his head to taste Wing's throat, tilted to one side in surrender, the sword bumping at him. 

“I should...the Sword,” Wing murmured weakly, one hand breaking contact, reaching for the Sword's release. 

“No,” Drift said.  The sword was part of Wing and...he wanted it.  It was only fitting, somehow, that the sword stay, warming between them, the blue crystal in its hilt dancing with light.  He rubbed the heavy armor of his new helm against the sword, feeling instead of simple cold metal, something like the essence of Wing, caught and held by the sword through hours of practice, a vessel of devotion. It was pure and gentle and strong, and everything he associated with Wing. 

Drift dropped one hand to Wing's belly, silking over the armor, flicking into the join between thigh and body, growling at Wing's shuddering moan. The fact that Wing wanted him—the fact that anyone wanted him any way but dead—was a source of blazing heat, like the light of a sun warming his systems.  His fingers explored, blind, awkward, for Wing's interface hatch, guided only by the quivers and jolts of the body within his arms. 

“I want you,” he managed, a statement and a question, offering, holding out for Wing to reject or accept. 

Wing's vents came in gulping heaves, as his hand joined Drift's, lowering it, guiding it down over the swell of his armor, ducking to one side to release the panel. 

Drift felt a feral growl in his throat, his fingers sliding on the sensitive metal under the panel, learning the feel of Wing's body, and Wing's exquisite sensation.  As in everything, Wing was...wide open, hiding nothing, as if shame were somehow alien to him, as if the only thing that existed, the only thing that mattered, was joy and pleasure. 

He found the spike's housing, rubbing a rough circle until the cover released, with a cry from Wing, and the spike jutted into Drift's hand.  He could feel the vibration of Wing's thighs against him, the frame arched onto his, utterly yielding to him, his desires, his wants.  His own spike seemed to snarl in readiness, wanting to throw Wing down, take him with all the violence of Drift's conflicting emotions—longing, lust, desire, darkness, and the terrible weight of time. 

He slid his hand tenderly up the spike, his breath catching with Wing's, and then down, almost dizzy with Wing's open want, driven almost mad by the soft mews that escaped the other's vocalizer, the shivering weight on his chassis, the wings, the sword hard and yet yielding against the new planes of his armor.  He continued to toy with the spike, in slow, gentle strokes, fighting his own lust, feeding on Wing's surging desire, his sensornet acute with stimuli: Wing’s touch, Wing’s voice, Wing’s scent, the taste of Wing’s mouth, Wing’s desire—as if everything in the world had narrowed down to Wing. 

Until finally, he could stand it no more, and he released the spike, released Wing, pushing the white and red armor toward the berth.  Wing twisted as he moved to rest on his back, optics open and yearning, as though starved for the sight of Drift.  The hands reached up, one brushing against  Drift's cheek as Drift knelt between Wing's thighs.  Drift could see Wing's mouth move, trying to summon words, but for once...for once, at a loss. 

He grinned though it wasn’t a good one, nothing like Wing’s incandescent smile, bending, covering the mouth with his own with more confidence now, feeling the eager response and the relief from needing to speak. And he knew, he knew, that Wing wanted him, wanted this, could feel it in the gold glow of the optics, in the sweet pressure and tingle of Wing's glossa teasing at his.

Drift raised his hips, one hand bracing against the berth, the other scrabbling at his own interface hatch, releasing his own spike. His hips lowered down, hovering, suddenly uncertain, between Wing's, until the other bucked his own body up against the spike's underside.  He jolted, and pushed back, then swept forward, sheathing his spike in Wing's valve in one forceful, smooth motion. It lacked Wing's delicacy and finesse, perhaps; the motion was all Drift was—purity and intensity and directness even to the point of pain—and Wing cried out as Drift entered him, filled him, as if something he'd never expected to happen had happened, as if some lost piece of himself were suddenly snapped into place.

He tore his mouth from Wing's even though part of him raged at the act, at the loss of that eager mouth against his, propping onto his arms, feeding on the open show of Wing's desires, the play of sensation and want a constant show on the jet's face. He took in the golden glow from the optics, the heavy white and red helm's intricate, alien contours—not so alien now—and above that the straight, dark line of the Great Sword's haft, a promise of violence, of control, a sign of what Wing was. 

They said nothing—beyond words—their bodies merely surging together, hands searching, exploring each other's frames, reveling in the newness as much as regretting it had taken so long.  Wing's hands tugged at Drift's hips, encouraging, wanting, goading him to give in.  But Drift's desire was a wild, feral thing—always was, always had been—and almost too soon he felt himself thrust in, hard, deep, almost heedless of Wing, ridden by his own lust, giving over to release with a half-strangled cry. 

Wing keened beneath him, hands clutching over the white shoulders, as if grabbing Drift were the only thing keeping him from flying apart, his mouth stretched in a sort of soundless scream, optics flicking closed as Drift's overload pushed him over into his own. 

They hung for a long moment, the overload shimmering between them, over them, their EM fields a tangled net of stars, Drift's spike throbbing and hot and sharp against Wing's valve, the urgent heat of his fluid spilling between them. 

Wing released with a  sigh, like a pneumatic releasing, his optics opening, slowly, to see Drift, staring down at him as though he was some treasure, some rare jewel or crystal.

Drift suddenly felt stupid, for the reverence, for being caught at it.  He ducked his head, shifting his weight to withdraw his spike.

Wing's heel hooked around the backs of Drift's thighs, blocking the motion, forcing him to stay through the exquisite fade of the overload, bodies locked together, Wing's valve tremulous and quivering against him.  “Do not,” he said, and his voice was warm and rich and husky, “deny yourself any moment of pleasure, Drift. Ever.” 

And it sounded like a portent. And Drift folded his arms, dropping onto Wing's chassis, burying his face in the other's throat, all of the loss of the morrow sweeping over him, all the regret, all the horror at his own betrayal, all the pain he could feel, had ever felt,  and the realization of what he could have had, blending with his fading desire.

And Wing held him while he wept.

 

Comments

[chibirisuchan.livejournal.com]

oh man, whiplash from "d'awwww! ^_____^" to "awwwww! ;____;" in such a short space! *goes back to denial-land and reads the part before the end...*

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

Yeah the end hit kind of hard in this one, but the story has a canon timeframe. :C

One day I will write stupid amounts of AU happy smut for them where they boink their way across the galaxy, spreading peace. And...robot boinking.