Fandom: Transformers IDW AU with a dose of Bayverse and G1
Author: gatekat and ultrarodimus on LJ
Pairing:
Rating: NC-17 mech/mech
Codes: AU, Slash, Sticky
Summary:
Disclaimer: The authors are only playing with their own twisted muses. Transformers belong to Hasbro. Fandom-side, check the inspirations page (gatekat-fics .livejournal. com/290 .html). We draw from a ton of amazing stories and authors you should read.
Notes: nanoklik = 1/8 second; klik = 496 nanokliks/62 seconds; breem = 8 kliks/8.27 minutes; groon = 9 breem/1.24 hours; joor = 6 groon/7.44 hours; orn = 42 joor/13.02 days; decaorn = 32 orns/1.14 years; metacycle = 8 decaorn/9.22 years; vorn = 9 metacycles/72 decaorn/83 years; century = 96 vorns/7968 years; millennia = 1056 centuries/101,376 vorns/7,944,096 years (7.944 million years)
::text:: comm chatter
~text~ hardline/bond chatter


Hunters from the Light 12: When a Student Excels


Fifty-three vorns, six metacycles and a decaorn Drift had submitted himself to the humiliation that was Initiate training under Dai Atlas and Axe. He'd yet to be taught a single kata for the Great Sword he'd been bonded with for centuries. But last decaorn he'd nearly scored a hit on Axe with the practice short sword, and even though he came out of every orn's training exhausted, that had left him jazzed well into the night.

Wing had enjoyed both the story and the excitement immensely, and indulged Drift in many amusing stories between interfacing.

This particular orn it was Dai Atlas who was facing Drift, the blue mech's ruby optics narrowed with concentration, his swords weaving an intricate pattern in the air as they set up for another match, the ninth of eleven for the orn. Axe was leaning against the wall, along with a few other Knights, watching. Most of Wing's cadre was there, including Marwir, sneer still in place, and Wing, who offered his mate a blinding smile of support before Drift had to focus fully on what he was doing. The small gather's members had changed over the length of the orn, but there were always a few.

It wasn't a question of whether Drift was hit each orn. Even a best case would have him leave with nearly as much blue on his frame as white, something that was almost true right now. The question was whether he would finally manage, after so many vorns of trying, to land a single glancing blow against Dai Atlas. He could usually manage one or two on Wing, though he'd be streaked with a dozen lines of gold in the processes.

With a centering moment, he cycled his systems to combat readiness and settled into a defensive stance.

The Knight leader regarded him for a moment, helm cocked to the side ever so slightly. For such a big mech, he was amazingly fast and agile. On a bad orn sparring with him was like trying to hit smoke. Even on the good orns it was rather like trying to keep up with Blurr.

Icy blue optics remained open and frame relaxed. Drift had long since been beaten out of much pride here. Only determination to master the forms was left.

With no warning, Dai Atlas was moving, barely making a sound, his blades flashing. As was expected now, Drift managed to block the first strike, parry the second and third and ducked into a roll to avoid the fourth.

He came to his pedes and drove for a low cut, though his primary focus was on making it a few more exchanges without blue paint on his plating.

Dai Atlas's blade came within millimeters of Drift's spaulder. Drift had just avoided his first blue streak of the match. One of those times that Dai Atlas's sheer height worked briefly against him.

The opening was almost too much of a surprise, but Drift darted forward with a body block that he knew wouldn't do much against the giant triple changer, but would be enough of an unexpected move to get him close enough for a strike.

One practice blade lashed out again the hip near optic level while the other slashed at and connected with the inside of a blue thigh.

Dai Atlas stopped, blinking. He took a step back, looking down to inspect his leg. After a moment he turned to show off the line of yellow paint showing boldly against his deep blue thigh.

There was a brief silence from the audience. Wing's smile was nearly blinding and Drift soaked that in as a starving mecha would absorb radiation.

Red optics turned to the white grounder. A moment later a smile appeared on Dai Atlas' otherwise impassive face. "Well done."

Even after all this time, Drift only then relaxed. It was painfully clear he wasn't entirely sure what he'd get for finally managing the strike; praise or a real beating. Still, he somehow managed not to stumble over the response that while ritual, was also honest in his respect for his teachers, official and otherwise.

"I learned from the best."

Dai Atlas shifted one sword to the other hand, reaching over to give Drift an approving clap on the shoulder. Coming from such a big mech, it almost staggered the white grounder. The smile showed considerable pride.

After the final match, rather than setting Drift to working on his katas for another few joors, Dai Atlas stretched out a wing, nudging Drift toward the edge of the sparring ring. "This time, I'll let you out early." The big mech smiled proudly down at the white grounder. "You did very well."

Wing bounced over, optics glowing a bright golden, catching hold of the least blue part of Drift's arm he could find and tugged. "Quick, before he changes his processor," the jet stage-whispered with a glazing grin.

"Thank you," Drift managed before allowing Wing to pull him away.

The blue mech snorted, miming an affectionate swat at the white jet. Wing ducked easily, dancing out of range as he dragged Drift out the door.

"So what kind of celebration do you have in mind?" Drift grinned at his mate.

Wing grinned. "I know where to get the best energon sweets, and some really good high grade." His wings fluttered. "You just landed your first hit, and on Dai Atlas."

Drift's engine rumbled into a purr, deep, resonant and purr of seductive pride. "It was bound to happen," he verbally brushed it off even as his field crackled with the growing realization of the accomplishment.

"It took me forever to land my first hit on him, and he's my creator," Wing replied. "I got Axe more than I got Dai Atlas. To hit him before landing a hit on Axe is quite an accomplishment."

"Or some serious luck," Drift countered, still playful. "He left himself wide open for a nanoklik."

Wing laughed. "That's what he gets for sparring with Axe almost all the time... He needs more time sparring against smaller mechs. We might not have his height or bulk, but we small mechs can be very sneaky." A gold optic winked cheekily.

"And we're faster than he expects," Drift laughed easily, catching Wing for a lingering kiss before letting him go to lead the way to the goodies that would fuel their celebration. "What do you think of seeing how he fairs against us both sometime?"

It wouldn't occur to Drift for some time how easily he laughed now.

Golden optics brightened at that. "I would love to see him take on the both of us! Between the two of us, we should be able to give him one Pit of a fight." The jet bounced a bit on his pedes, tilting his head to regard the amount of blue paint covering his mate's frame.

"You're going to enjoy getting this off me," Drift deadpanned the demand and promise.

The smile widened, optics sparkling. "I know I am," he purred in response as he tugged his love towards the Citadel's main gate.

The sight made Drift baulk slightly, then he shrugged to himself. It wasn't as if his training was a secret. He was marked as an Initiate. No one should be surprised that his trainers regularly mopped the floor with him.

The only residents of the city who gave Drift any odd looks were the youngest, who rarely saw Initiates of the Circle. The older mechs and femmes had seen many young Knights-to-be covered in paint from their training sessions, and barely gave the normally white mech a glance as he was half-dragged, half-led by the beaming Knight with flawless paint. Really, most were more curious about the jet that wasn't flying, but the why there was readily apparent.

By the time they reached a small shop on the edge of one of the city's larger crystal gardens Drift had completely relaxed at being in public and showing his training status.

"Wing! It's good to see you," an older mecha of rich browns and swirled with a sandy tan that sparkled showed clear delight at seeing the jet. "What are we celebrating, to drag your mate out without cleaning him up first?"

"Windstorm!" Wing freed one hand to wave. "Drift scored his first hit in his training, and against Dai Atlas himself!" He quickly dragged Drift over to the table the other mech occupied, pushing the usually white mech into a chair.

"Good work," Windstorm reached over to thump Drift's forearm. "That's quite an achievement at your age."

Drift snorted but didn't actually object. His attention was on Wing, and taking in the delicious smells of so many varieties of energon and confections. High grade strong enough to drop him was easy to come by in the Citadel, after all, it was the standard grade for the higher performance frames, and the Knights had many fliers. But crafted energon was very much a treat he rarely afforded himself.

The white jet snuck a quick kiss, humming happily, before bouncing over to the counter. He returned with cubes of jet and grounder high grade, as well as a tray piled high with exquisitely-crafted energon confections in pretty much every color of the spectrum. Even some high-grade jellies that were vanishingly rare outside of the city, and even occasionally hard to come by in the city.

Drift's icy blue optics flashed in bright surprise, locking onto the jellies before darkening with a desire that more than bordered on sensual.

Wing winked at him as he placed the tray on the table, passing out the beverages. "Don't eat them all at once," he purred to Drift, startling the mech slightly.

"I don't plan to eat them alone either," Drift purred back, his flied reaching out to lick at Wing's, sharing the memory and context of the last time he saw a jelly. In a move that even a decade before would have been unthinkable, Drift picked one of the delicate jellies and gently pressed it against Wing's lip plates.

White lip plates parted, daintily accepting the jelly. The tip of his glossa flicked against Drift's fingers, the white jet purring softly. Wing's optics glowed warmly at the show of generosity, but also of a trust that had taken his Drift centuries to achieve. It was a trust that there would be more, trust that giving did not take away from himself.

It was a lesson that was nearly instinctive for Wing, it was simply part of his nature. Yet he knew many Knights that struggled with the concept long after their Initiate training. Perhaps next decaorn Drift wouldn't share as readily, but to Wing, it was a nearly unimaginably large leap for his mate.

Wing made a show of savoring the treat, then leaned over and snuck a kiss, sharing the jelly with his mate. Neither noticed the amused look from Windstorm or the occasional glances from other patrons of the shop.

"There are other kinds of confections here you haven't tried yet," Wing purred as he broke the kiss. One golden optic winked. "And all the leftovers we can take back with us, for later."

"Any that really need to be savored fresh?" Drift asked, one finger leaving a faint trail of blue down Wing's chest, directly over the seam.

Wing contemplated the pile for a moment before picking out a sparkling white confection, exquisitely carved, and offered it to his blue-paint-covered mate. "This is one that is as its very best when fresh," he purred.

Drift delicately licked it, just barely sliding his glossa against Wing's fingers, before he leaned forward to take the delicacy into his mouth, along with two of Wing's fingers. His glossa caressed the digits before plucking the treat from them.

The blue-streaked frame shivered in ecstasy as he slowly melted in his mouth, the crisp exterior breaking at calculated points to drip its potent high-grade center on Drift's glossa a bit at a time.

Wing purred, his optics fixed on Drift's lips. One fingertip glided slowly over Drift's lower lip plate after it was released. A moment later the white mech grinned, fishing out another kind of confection and a container of light, sweet oil from the pile. The look in his optics hinted that the oil was going to have more than one use once they got back to their quarters.

While Drift remained silent, visibly savoring the confection with a patience that he simply hadn't possessed a few vorns before, his field vibrated eagerly in reply. Drawing on an ancient memory and a sense of what was best from Too Pure For This World, Drift selected a confection cube of rich purple and blue. He offered it to Wing's lips, watching with a new kind of fascination for the activity.

Wing tilted his helm, pressing his lips to the base of Drift's thumb, sliding them along the digit until he reached the offered confection, his glossa flirting with the pads of Drift's fingertips before delicately taking the confection, purring softly at the rich flavor.

Golden optics gleamed. Wing picked up one of the high-grade jellies, dipping it into the light oil before presenting it to his mate. The jelly combined with the oil was pretty much guaranteed to make any mech melt from the sheer bliss.

Drift, contrary mecha that he was, vibrated in a respectable imitation of his mate in a good mood. With a low, passionate moan Drift leaned forward to pull Wing against him in a kiss, ending up all but in the jet's lap to give his hands access to folded wings.

Wing let out a low, throaty moan of his own, pulling Drift closer, his wings opening slightly from where they folded tight to his back, loosening enough to give Drift better access. The normally white mech's lips tasted of oil and the sweet confections, and Wing purred into the kiss.

Across the table, Windstorm watched appreciatively, collecting a smile pile of the confections he preferred from the pile, knowing the rest would be taken back to the Citadel with the pair once someone asked them to get a room. Twitching his own wings, Windstorm shifted, his optics fixed on the show. He sure wasn't going to be the one to interrupt them. Wing had always been sensuality personified, and from the look of things his mate was a mecha of hot passions.

Black fingers traced with blue found their way into wing joints as the confection was shared in a passionate kiss that didn't seem to end.

A soft whine came from Drift, a quiet plea for more.

Wing's wings flared out, twitching eagerly. His nacelles hummed with power. At this rate no one was going to have to tell them to get a room; the jet was very tempted to subspace the tray of confections (he'd bring the tray back later), wrap his arms around his mate, and fly them back to the Citadel and their quarters.

The jet's purr increased in volume while deepening in pitch, his field licking at his mate's, glossa gliding against Drift's. The grounder shivered in pleasure and moaned into the kiss shamelessly. His fingers dug into wing joints, stroking and pressing while his hips rocked lightly against Wing's.

The kiss suddenly broke and Drift's helm ducked down so he could suck on a primary control cable.

Wing freed one hand to cover the oil as carefully as he could, subspacing the tray of confections. Nipping gently at his lover's helm and being glad he'd already paid for the tray of sweets, he nudged Drift until the blue-splotched mech awkwardly got to his feet, then wrapped his arms tightly around Drift's frame. Windstorm helpfully steered them outside, stepping back with a grin as Wing's nacelles revved to full power, lifting both mechs off the ground.

The white jet spared enough attention to get himself and his mate safely back to their quarters before giving himself over to Drift's touch. The mixture of shock and pleasure forced him to stagger a step back to find the wall when Drift suddenly dropped to one knee to kiss Wing's spike cover, his field flaring hot with a single clear message: give.

Wing braced himself against the wall, not wanting to fall over on top of his mate. His valve cover promptly slid open, his spike already pressurizing. Reaching down, Wing stroked and caressed the seams of Drift's helm, his fingertips gliding up the sleek, sensitive audial finials to knead the very tips.

With the last bit of processor space he had to spare, he leaned over sideways to un-subspace the tray of treats onto one of the tables dotting the rooms. Better to do it now than forget later, when he had plans for some of those treats.

Then it was all he could do to relish the rare treat of Drift's mouth and glossa on his spike. Soft kisses on the underside on the way up, nibbling licks to the sides on the way down, and fingers teasing the sensor nodes at the base where housing met plating.

Wing's whole body quivered, from pedes to helm crest, wings stretched out to their full span. Golden optics were almost unseeing, half-lidded with utter bliss. His hands glided over Drift's helm and down the back of his neck, the jet leaning forward so that Drift's spaulders were well within reach.

With a knowing smile, Drift lapped a circle around the soft metal head, then lowered his helm so his lips just kissed the tip. His entire field and frame projected what he was about to do, yet he paused right there, his lip plates parted and light gusts of warm air coming out to ghost across the tip of Wing's spike.

Wing's hips jerked, the jet letting out a keening moan. Black fingers tightened briefly on Drift's helm finials, dropping to claw lightly at blue-drenched spaulders. Wing panted heavily, all vents open, trying to cool his systems. He jerked again as Drift hummed and lowered his mouth to fully engulf the head, but went no further down. His glossa snaked around the head, teasing sensor clusters and the slit of a hole transfluid came out of.

Slowly, every so excruciatingly slowly, Drift took in a bit more of the spike with each carefully measured bob of his helm, each time giving himself an opportunity to explore before repeating the cycle.

Wing was writhing against him, doing everything he could to try and hold still. But it was not working. Holding still was not in his nature. Drift's hands grasped Wing's hips, pinning him to the wall. The jet needed the support; his knee joints were wobbling and threatening to give way. His keen never ceased, rising and falling in time to Drift's movements.

The smug pleasure-approval from Drift was nearly as enticing as mouth around his spike ... and then Drift sucked while his lip plates were brushing against the housing.

Wing's keen turned into a near-shriek, his nacelles revving nearly high enough for takeoff as overload crashed through him. His back arched, body locking up briefly, jerking, the current snapping over his frame and jumping off onto Drift while hot, viscous transfluid pumped into the grounder's intake to slide easily down into his primary tank.

A moment later, Wing slumped over, barely managing to catch himself. Steam curled from his vents as his engine purred and nacelles slowly powered down.

Slowly, gently, Drift drew his helm back, licking Wing's spike clean as he went. All his systems were purring except for his spike, which was complaining very loudly about being ignored.

Drift maintained every intention of continuing to ignore it until his mate had recovered enough to be more than a pliant valve. It took a couple of kliks for Wing to get his body to cooperate and find his knee joints again. Straightening, he gave Drift a blinding grin, gently tweaking the tip of one of Drift's audial finials.

A low rumble of approval greeted the action and Drift stood into Wing's embrace and a kiss that left moth their fans picking up speed again.

One audial flare flicked toward the berth suggestively, Wing humming eagerly into the kiss. Shifting slightly, he lifted one leg, trailing the tip of his toeplate along Drift's shin.
It was all the encouragement Drift needed. With a needy growl of his engine, the grounder twisted to sweep Wing in his arms and carried him to the berth.

Wing snuggled into Drift's chest, purring, tilting his helm to nip and nuzzle at the white grounder's throat. His turbines were already revving in response, vibrating against Drift's chestplate and responding quickly to the change in pitch Drift's engine gave as his spark chamber was vibrated.

Slender wings spread out for balance, display and to be fondled as Wing was spread out on his back, Drift looming over him with enough arousal in his systems to set off a cadre.

"My mate," Drift growled and he lowered himself over his lover for a kiss. One knee rubbed between Wing's as Drift's spike slid free of its housing.

"Yours," Wing purred in response, eagerly returning the kiss, wrapping his arms around Drift. The jet's legs parted willingly, his valve cover already open, lubricant seeping out to drip onto the berth. His field mingled with Drift's, expressing the white jet's own arousal and his love for Drift.

That emotion, the desire, was almost too much for Drift. His entire frame shuddered as he briefly contemplated changing plans. But the scent of lubricant and his spike's desire for release chased the thoughts away. He'd submitted once already. It was his turn to take.

With a low growl Drift drove his hips forward, sinking into his lover fully, grinding his spike housing against the soft, sensor rich platelets encompassing Wing's valve entrance.

Wing's back arched at the penetration, pressing into contact, his legs wrapping around Drift's waist. Gold optics flared brightly, black fingers hooking into Drift's back armor, pulling him closer. Their mouths met in a fierce exchange of the passion that hadn't dimmed in the least over the decades they'd been together.

Moaning, his engine roaring, Drift allowed his body to go on an autopilot of sorts, driving their pleasure higher fast.

Wing rolled his hips into each thrust, moaning softly. His nacelles revved, matching the roar of Drift's engine. Dark hands clawed lightly at Drift's back before one made its way up to a blue-smeared white spaulder, going straight for the sensitive sensor nodes around the wheel well. The other hand ran down Drift's back to his hip, flirting with the seams there.

Drift's roar became a near-scream as his overclocked and over aroused systems took the stimulation as too much. Strong hands closed around Wing's shoulders as his back arched up, driving his hips flush against Wing's. Each little roll of hips and burst of transfluid along the sensor lined tube in his spike dragged a grunt from him.

Wing's valve tightened around Drift's spike as the grounder's overload triggered the jet's. The jet writhed against Drift, steam rising from his vents and armor seams, curling around Drift's armor as Wing keened, throwing back his helm.

They held there, locked in the blissful embrace as electricity ran rampant in their systems, protocols translating the shorts and jolts as intense pleasure, as was the near-dangerous levels of heat.

Slowly they relaxed, Drift sprawling on top of Wing as they gasped for enough air to cool their systems. Armor clicked and popped as it cooled and settled back into place.

"Love you," Drift mumbled, nuzzling Wing's throat.

Wing was purring contentedly, his nacelles settling back to a lazy idle. Warm, half-lidded golden optics watched Drift, one hand gently stroking Drift's back.

"Love you, too," the jet replied softly.