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if this is redemption, why do i bother at all?
there's nothing to mention and nothing has changed
so i'd rather be working for something than praying for the rain
so i wander on 'til someone else is saved
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Drift enters the code to his habsuite and instantly loses strength in his legs. He crashes against the door, sliding down as it opens to admit him, only just catching himself on the doorframe. He takes two deep, gasping vents to steady himself and hauls himself inside. His visual field swims, gyroscope giving nonsensical readings that only make him more dizzy and disoriented. He forces a reboot while propping himself up against the galley sink and when his optics flick on once more, the world stops swimming, still a little grey at the edges. Drift’s HUD is cluttered with temperature alerts and critical fan failure logs and subsequent attempted reboots.
He finds his supply of coolant packs by feel more than sight. He pours two of them down his throat and forces his fuel pump to overclock in an attempt to jettison the gel to where it’s most needed. Pauses. Snatches a cube of energon, pops the top, and throws that back as well for good measure. Drift taps an agitated rhythm with his finger while waiting for the diagnostic report to come back, but it’s not good news. His systems—his frame—won’t calm down enough for the coolant to have any effect. Snarling, he slams the door to his larder closed and throws himself across the room to the washracks. He punches the cold solvent on hard enough that the dial dents. He wriggles into the too-tight standard issue washracks, swords clattering against the walls, and tilts his head back into the quad-directional spray. With the pelting of solvent on metal drowning out his audials, Drift finally manages to loose some of the tension in his shoulders.
Drift, Wing’s voice echoes in his helm, coming from everywhere and nowhere, This course is not sustainable.
The tension returns as quickly as it had bled out of him. “I’m not in the mood, Wing,” he mutters aloud.
You are suffering.
“Yeah, well.” Drift increases the pressure, the solvent practically stripping his paint. Energon and oil sluice off his frame, diluted by solvent. They swirl in multi-colored eddies and flush down the drain. Drift grits his teeth around a snarl.
Your aura is in turmoil, Wing says. It has knocked a wobble into the spin of your spark.
“Well aware, thanks,” Drift growls.
The physical distress you are in will not abate until your aura has been quenched, or you have sought medical attention.
“And I’m telling you it’s fine. This is my own problem to deal with. I mean, what else were they going to do with an ex-Decepticon? I’m amazed they didn’t straight up send me on a suicide mission. I don’t actually care about killing those slaggers, Wing. It just sucks that that’s all they think I’m good for.”
He ignores the part of him that sounds like Turmoil’s sticky, staticky voice pressed against his audial or Megatron’s finger over his on the trigger of his first sniper rifle. It’s all you’ll ever be good for.
The act of killing is not what is destroying you. The denial, Drift. You need to stop ignoring the needs of your frame.
Drift’s spark jolts and shudders painfully in its casing. “Wh-what are you talking about?” Shit, the glitch in his voxcoder. Primus, like it even mattered. Like Wing didn’t already know—know nothing, because nothing was happening to him and he was fine.
Drift, please.
He turns off the solvent spray and busies himself with removing his swords and drying them out. Drift can feel the field around Wing’s greatsword, almost as potent as a Cybertronian’s electromagnetic field, letting him know his mentor is still watching. Judging. Trying to get under his plating. Like he understands anything Drift is going through.
Drift.
The greatsword clatters to the ground. “Slag, I’m sorry, mentor.” Drift rushes to pick it up, willing his fingers to stop shaking. He smooths a microfibre cloth over the perfect, shining length of the sword’s sheath. Examines it for imperfections. He rubs furiously at a nonexistent blemish. He shouldn’t have called Wing by that old name.
The crystal in the greatsword pulses, sending a warmth radiating through Drift’s plating and settling into his deepest struts. He whines plaintively, shamefully basking in the comfort his old teacher gives him. If only Wing were really here. Then Drift could just—he wouldn’t need to say anything, he could just—
You’re charged up, Drift. You need to expel it. Your frame isn’t meant to hold such a strong current this long.
Drift sputters. Chokes out, “I am not slagging charged up.”
That would be—vile. Deviant. Unbefitting of an Autobot. A mech whose spike swelled behind his panel as he ripped the head of another from its frame couldn’t serve under Optimus Prime. Perfect shots through the spark didn’t get normal mechs wet. Pride in one’s work was natural; rubbing one’s panel under the guise of working out a dent was not.
Drift is normal.
The longer you ignore it, the worse the condition of your cabling and circuit boards. I cannot stand by and watch you burn out over misguided stubbornness.
Drift laughs, mean. “Oh yeah? Whatcha gonna do about it, old mech?” He taps the crystal with a finger—no, shit it’s a claw again, frag— “This may hold a shard of your spark crystal, but realistically, you’re no more than a voice in my head. And as soon as I leave to meditate on the roof, you’ll fade right out.”
He goes to set down the sword and Wing’s voice cracks across his mind in a frosty command: You will do no such thing.
Drift pauses. “Excuse me?”
Wing’s voice softens. Don’t make me do this, Drift. I’m begging you—take heed of the needs of your body. Please.
“I’m not your charge anymore, Wing. As always, I appreciate all you’ve done for me, but I’ll take it from here. I know what I can or can’t handle, and this—this—bug in my systems will clear on its own.”
And yet it’s only gotten worse.
Drift’s lip twitches and he bites back another snarl. Slag it, so-fucking-what if he’s been backed up? It happens! He needs time to get used to the new company. He hasn’t felt comfortable self-servicing in…in some time, but it had been the same when he joined up with the ‘Cons. How ridiculous and hedonistic that Wing should suggest he jack his problems away.
“I don’t feel like overloading. My frame will get the message eventually.”
You’re afraid of where your processor will wander if you do. Drift, if you want to exorcise that fear, first you have to admit to yourself that killing gets you—
Drift lets the greatsword slip from his grasp again. Fear and shame claw at his innards. He immediately regrets dropping the sword, but his mentor and dear friend frankly discussing his—his—his bug set off a cascade of panic responses to make it stop. Drift jerkily strides from the washracks, but only gets one pede out the door before a wave of vertigo crashes over him and he has to grip the doorframe with both hands to keep himself upright.
Stop it. This instant.
Wing’s voice. It seems to be resonating from inside Drift’s frame and rebounding off the walls of his hab. It sends a tremor down his neural circuitry to his very spark chamber. Inexplicably, he cannot take a single step forward.
We’re not finished. Come back here.
His processor accepts the commands of his mentor’s echo as if they were his own impulses. Drift has the out of body sensation of someone else piloting his frame as he turns marches back into the washracks stall. Unbidden, he crashes to his knees before Wing’s greatsword, the way he used to when—
I don’t want to do this to you, Drift, Wing sighs. Why must you always make this hard on us, little one?
“What are you…how are you…”
The same way I got you to listen when you defied me in New Crystal City. You’re especially sensitive to my aura, aren’t you?
“Yeah, but…”
Back then, Wing had spoken aloud. Imposed his presence on Drift and crowded into his space; looming like an insurmountable wall and sucking the air from his vents. His aura had crushed what little in Drift sought to rebel against his mentor. But here, Wing has no voice with which to speak. He can only communicate with Drift through Drift’s comprehension of the spiritual plane.
Wing’s voice gentles, brushing like feathers against Drift’s processor. You don’t really want to oppose me, do you, little one? Haven’t for a long while. You’d rather be good for me.
Drift’s vents hitch. Without conscious input, the calipers in his valve spasm, tightening down on nothing. His fans, already spinning moderately, click up a gear.
I understand your fears. But you have needs that are not being met. If you’re not willing to take care of yourself on your own, then I’ll just have to give you a little push.
“But I—mentor, I am taking care of it! Meditation—if I distance myself from desire—”
You are denying both your frame and your spark relief by pretending the desire does not exist. You must face it before you can meditate it away.
“I’ll be fine, just—”
A warm wash of dizziness overcomes him again, and Drift’s hand ghosts over his interface array in the barest of caresses. Under his paneling, his spike strains to extend, knocking against its housing. A moisture alert pops up on his HUD for his valve. Drift snatches his hand away. “No! I’m not doing this!”
He throws up a bunch of permissions locks in his processor, adding a lockout timer on his spike paneling that neither of them will be able to brute force. He bares his fangs at Wing’s greatsword in a fierce smile. “If you know your way around chastity coding, then be my guest. Try it.”
Drift palms his interface array with a kind of sick joy, scratching his claws against his spike housing in formless patterns and shivering. He mimes fisting his spike. “You can’t, can you? I guess I’ll just have to keep doing things my way.”
He makes as if to stand up from his kneeling position. He gets one knee propped up before promptly crashing down on his hands and knees. This vertigo overcomes him completely and doesn’t wash away like it had before. Drift’s visual feed doubles and his processor feels buoyant and directionless. It’s almost like being high as balls, except his awareness settles back in even as the floating, out-of-body sensation does not. He sits back and braces himself against the wall.
Little one… Wing’s voice sighs across his mind. I am not your enemy.
Drift’s valve panel clicks to unlock and before Drift can yelp in protest, it tucks itself away, exposing his sensitized valvemesh to the open air. Drift shudders and slams his optics offline.
Drift…
“Fuck off,” he whimpers.
You’re so wet, Wing says. Wet, and your mesh swollen up from the excess charge.
“Primus, Wing!” Drift chokes out.
Even your clit is overbright and pulsing… Oh, my Drift. You need to come, don’t you?
“Don’t—don’t talk like that—that organic slang—”
You liked it before. I remember it used to get you so worked up you’d practically scrape your array against my pede in desperation.
“Th-that was—! That was a long time ago…”
Open your eyes again. For me?
“Shut up,” Drift mumbles, but obediently onlines his optics. He tips his head back and stares determinedly at the ceiling. He can feel the slow creep of rapidly cooling lubricant dripping from his valve. He knows he’s wet. Painfully so. His anterior node throbs angrily, reminding him that he hasn’t done anything to relieve the stress on his frame since Wing interrupted his usual routine. He means it to come out accusing, but he sounds miserable when he mumbles, “Wing, it hurts.”
I know, dearest. I know.
Drift’s hand slides down his thigh. Drift makes a binary cry of alarm, but Wing doesn’t compel him to rub his node or finger his valve. He uses Drift’s fingers to spread the rubbery cushion of his valve rim wide.
Look, Drift.
Drift’s optics slowly shift down until he can see his reflection in the warped metal of the wall across from him. His pathetic, pained expression. The heat shimmering from his vents. His legs thrown askew. And a plump, needy valve spread open, as if begging any passing spike to plug it up and give it some relief. His nodes both outside and in are bleached of color from the intense charge running through them, hungry spots of white that demand to be caressed. He looks like he’s been drugged with interfacing promoters. He looks like a whore.
Always such a mess, Wing whispers.
Drift whines.
But you’re my mess. Come now, little one. Fall apart for me.
“Mentor,” Drift mumbles. “I can’t.”
You can.
“Nnn…” Drift protests. He squirms against Wing’s hold over his processor. “Can’t. Not without you.”
Is this the part where he admits he hasn’t gotten off from his valve since he left New Crystal City? Surely Wing knows that. His greatsword has never left Drift’s side. Surely he’s watched over Drift all those nights that he rolled onto his abdomen, fist around his spike, raising his hips and begging—begging—
“Haven’t done it without you before,” he chokes out. “I don’t think I know how.”
Oh, my student…
Drift’s hand disappears from his valve and his engine gives a sawed-off rev of frustration. He watches as his hand reaches for Wing’s greatsword, abandoned at his side. His optics reflect with a flash across the sheath as he lifts it and places it between his thighs.
“...Mentor?”
Hush, little one. Mentor will bring you to completion.
“W-wait,” Drift says, optical apertures widening as his round thighs begin to turn in, trapping the sword and pushing it into the crux of his hips and flat against his—
Drift yelps at the cool touch of metal against his hot, oversensitive node.
“No. Hold on. This, this isn’t right. Your greatsword—”
It is part of me.
“It’s sacred,” Drift grits out, processor going haywire trying to resist pulling it any closer. “This is wrong, dirty—”
My Drift…none of you is dirty. I welcome the softness of your valve against my metal. It has been so long since I’ve felt it. Lover, your node is aching.
Drift can feel it too. It throbs in time with the spin of his spark, sending frissons of pleasure through his array and driving him absolutely crazy.
Have I not touched you everywhere? Wing continues. Have I not slid inside your frame, again and again? I have worshipped every inch of your metal in life; in death I wish to see you preserved. My spark is calling to yours—can’t you hear it?
“Stop, stop…” Drift pants, but in vain. The hilt of the greatsword clatters against his chest and the field emanating from its crystal tangles in the waves of energy from his spark. Wing is in him. He feels the massive presence of his mentor-lover over his shoulder, reaching down. Wing touches him with a reverence Drift has not experienced before or since in his functioning. Drift lets out a long whine, weakening. His hip servos spasm from the strain of being held taut, and Drift gives an aborted buck up against Wing’s greatsword, tearing a short, binary cry from his voxcoder.
That’s it, little one. Just so.
Wing’s control strokes at Drift’s mind like a heavy hand petting him into submission. His resistance spiderwebs with cracks and then shatters, letting Wing flood in. Wing moves him like a puppet; like a toy. Drift bucks up again, and then again, settling into a smooth rhythm of rutting his array against the sword.
It feels. So. Fucking. Good.
Drift’s vents pour steam and his mouth hangs agape to pant and drool, desperately dumping heat from every orifice. His anterior node is a bright star of sensation, sending shockwaves of pleasure through his lines. Drift—ever a greedy Dead-Ender at spark—devours it like his last meal. He had forgotten this intense peak of desire; had forgotten that the tiny nub beneath sealed panels held within it magnitudes greater gratification than his spike.
His grip on the sword becomes ironclad. He forces it harder against his array, until the sopping rim of his valve engulfs either side in a wet, open-mouthed kiss. With every rut, the rim of his valve smears lubricant along the once-unsullied length of Wing’s sheath. Drift’s mind wanders, dazed, watching his own perverted humping with a kind of wonder. He is reminded of lapping and slurping along Wing’s spike; of wrapping his lips around its girth, sliding up and down.
“Wing,” Drift croaks. “Miss your spike. Miss you.”
I am here, lover.
“Need you to fuck me. Slag, I can’t—can’t live without it, Wing, I need—”
Shhh. You’re doing so well. There is no need to be frightened of the pleasure. Let it burn you up.
Drift moans wantonly and throws his head back.
It’s not what he’s used to, but—but it’s good. It’s filthy—rubbing all over this sword that Wing has killed mechs with, that Drift has killed mechs with, as if he can still feel the flecks of energon spilled over it. This killing tool—now Wing uses it to bring him to overload. And Drift revels in it.
He’s failed Wing. He is still the same feral stinking of bloodlust that Wing tried to rehabilitate. He loves the pull of his wires and his hydraulics in battle; the fluid snap of his tactical matrix as it identifies and disposes of threats with combat routines so beautiful it makes Drift feel as if he’s dancing. He is a warrior. The part of him that longs to slit open the lines of his enemies will never be domesticated.
“S-s-sorry, Wing,” Drift moans. “Can’t he-elp it. I’m a bad, bad boy…”
Wing hums. Without judgment: Tell me?
“I l-liked it,” Drift hiccups. “I liked killing those ‘Cons. Felt so good. Satisfying. Was so easy; they didn’t even suffer.” He lets out a wild laugh. “Wanted, wanted to pull out my spike and come all over their corpses. Smear their energon over my thighs before their metal cools. Could’ve—” He breaks off with a groan. “Could’ve cracked their chassis in two, rutted into their spark chamber. See if it tingles over my spike.”
He breaks off in giggles. His HUD flashes with angry warnings—too hot, too quick—and the level of his charge is almost critical. He won’t be able to reabsorb this. It would fry him alive.
“Sorry, mentor,” Drift says, gleeful in his apology. “I’m still the filthy little pervert I always was. I don’t wanna change, love it, love how it feels—”
—Love my sword between your thighs, a piece of me sharing in your bliss?
Drift groans in response.
Oh, my Drift. Always so hungry. Could be my leg you’re humping, desperate for even the barest strip of my warm metal to rub against. Or perhaps I’m fingering you, torturing you with the slide of my palm across your valve without ever sinking in. Or maybe it’s even my spike—you on top, teasing me with the wet slide of your mesh, so puffy I can feel it even from the outside. Before you ride me until we both scream.
!!Kzzhrkt? Drift lets out a bitten-off, wordless screech, the images generating in his processor one after another. Wing, Wing…his mentor, his lover…the overwhelming compassion he showed Drift, through the steady and merciless process of training Drift’s mind and body. The fantasy twists; filling with white and red plating, with massive jet turbines. Wing, holding him down. Wing, taking him apart. Wing, teaching him to serve, and serving him in return. Wing, elegant and efficient in battle, painted in organic lifefluid and energon; like a winged, avenging herald of Primus.
“Lover!” Drift wails. “Please, please, please—need you, need it—c’mon, please—”
Anything, Wing swears. My devotion to you knows no bounds.
The crystal in his sword pulses with energy once more, this time the memory-echo of Wing’s own overloads at Drift’s hand, layered over each other in a symphony of bliss. Drift lets out a tortured howl as his spark responds, and humps desperately against the greatsword’s sheath until his frame tips into overclock and his overload tears through his frame, blowing fuses and short-circuiting his processor, knocking him out.
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Drift’s sensitive audials return stimuli first of his senses. Solvent hisses and evaporates where it meets his frame on the washracks floor. His plating ticks all over as his metal cools, and his fans are still spun up, but no longer screaming in an agonized attempt to dispel heat. He onlines his optics to find he is still gripping Wing’s greatsword close to his chest.
Drift feels pleasantly wrung out and empty. His systems hum away at higher efficiency than usual. His self-repair has started to work on some code fixes he had unknowingly put off, as well as running diagnostics on his burnt wires and fuses. His interfacing array is warm but cooling down, occasionally sending twinges of the fading power surge through his frame. Wing’s greatsword is sticky where it meets his valve.
Drift pulls it away, shuddering as he does, and gets to his feet.
“Wing?” He calls.
Drift, Wing’s voice in his head is warm but faint.
“Are you tired, old mech?” Drift teases.
He swears he can hear the flutter of Wing’s laughter.
I am glad you are well, Wing says.
Drift sucks in a vent, but the crush of shame does not come to bring him to his knees. He feels it licking at his pedes, but it is more akin to embarrassment than anything else.
“I’m in your debt,” Drift says. “Again. Will we never be equals?”
Heh, Wing says. Don’t think of it as a lesson. Think of it as a favor to my best student. And I have always thought of you as my equal.
Drift’s expression softens. “I know. I value that more than you can ever know. Rest now, mentor. I will carry us both onwards.”
Very well, Wing says. Rest comes easy to me, when I am with you…
His voice faded, and Drift was once again alone with a sword and its unnaturally warm gem. He lifted the crystal to his lips and pressed a long, lingering kiss to its surface.
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so we don't eat until your father's at the table
we don't drink until the devil's turned to dust
and never once has any man i've met been able to love
so if i were you, my friend, learn to have just a little bit of trust