Fandom: Transformers IDW AU with a dose of Bayverse and G1
Author: gatekat
Pairing: Drift/Mirage, Mirage/Prowl
Rating: NC-17 mecha/mecha
Codes: AU, Slash, Sticky, PnP
Summary: Drift is a pawn in a game of many masters, all of whom he is determined to reject. Yet there is one mecha he had never been able to reject fully, and he hasn't even tried in a very long time.
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: Yes, I'm doing that evil thing and changing the definitions of my time units.
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; vorn = 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

Pic that goes with this chapter: ( alteride .deviantart .com/art/Hunters-from-the-Light-tser-1-263495821 )

Hunters from the Light 01: Drift

Mirage snapped out of recharge at the roar near his audio. He was fully on line, noted the bright glow of the Great Sword's crystal and pressed close to his lover's chest by the time the sound of denial and grief reached half way to a keen. Arms reached around to embrace the gleaming, angular white armor as Drift began to shake, still deep in recharge and unable to bring himself out.

With a soft vent of air Mirage gently slid open one of Drift's dataports and plugged in. At first he simply drifted at the top levels of the warrior's processors, taking in his true state of awareness, defenses and just what was playing to his processors to create such a physical reaction.

Flashes of memories and not memories jumbled into a dream of sorts. Wing's kiss and parting touch. Wing's death. Drift's death. Dai Atlas and Axe gray and gone. New Crystal City in smoldering ruins. Decepticon corpses scattered among the fallen Knights and citizens.

It was all familiar to the noble Autobot. A sequence he'd comforted Drift from too many times.

Less familiar images of battles, mostly hard ones with heavy kill rates. If it weren't for the fact that most opponents were Decepticons, Mirage would have assumed they were memories from Deadlock.

Wherever they came from, it was all about death. Something Drift was more comfortable with than pleasure and full tanks.

With a soft sigh to himself, Mirage gently nudged the memory replays towards more pleasant ones. First of sparing with Wing and himself. Then of interfacing that inevitably followed.

It would leave Drift with a level of desire that often turned to violent interfacing when he powered up, but it was easier to deal with than a Drift waking from reminders that Wing was dead and gone.

With his recharge settled and drifting towards cycling up Mirage backed out of Drift's systems as silently as he'd entered and unplugged himself. He had just long enough to be prepared for his lover's mood. Even if it wasn't much of an act to be completely submissive, to bare his valve and ask nothing but to be used for his mate's pleasure, it was no longer part of his primary function.

Yet there were times when it was useful. Drift wasn't the only mecha who could be calmed quickly by submission in the berth.

The rumbling growl of Drift's powerful, high-efficiency engine was the first indication of the mecha coming out of recharge. Then his EM field extended, seeking to know whose warmth was so close. Mirage responded in kind, knowing full well that Drift was a mecha that attacked first and sorted things out later if he was unsure of his safety. It wasn't long before the exotic white armor moved, rolling forward to pin Mirage on his back.

Fields flared and mingled, need on one side, willing compliance on the other as Mirage slid his legs apart and lifted his knees to rub his thighs against Drift's hips. Inviting, welcoming, warm, slick and compliant.

Blue optics dimmed as they looked down into bright golden ones. Strong black fingers tightened around slender light blue wrists as a spike cover snapped open.

Mirage rolled his hips to place his valve entrance at just the right angle for the thrust and bit back a moan of mixed pleasure and pain as the fully pressurized spike stretched his unprepared and not quite slick enough valve. The noble was simply glad that Drift wasn't truly sadistic. There was a line between not caring and enjoying causing pain that the white mecha had yet to try to cross with him.

All Mirage had to do was hold relatively still, remain pliant for the short time it took Drift to thrust and grunt his way to an overload and wait for the white mecha to come fully to himself. It was simple with all the protocols and modifications Mirage had to survive deep cover among the Decepticons. Simply turn off anything but the most basic pressure sensors and relax.

It was much easier than with most Decepticons; Drift was much, much more pleasant to look to begin with. Even grunting and lost in the half-awareness of his aggression he was an elegant and exotic construction.

With a deep, hard thrust that arched Drift's backstrut and grunt by Mirage's audio, the rush of transfluid signaled Mirage to cautiously turn the sensors back on. Heat, slickness and the stretch that usually meant pleasure easily overrode the lingering discomfort of Drift's entry. Mirage cycled his valve walls, questioning if Drift was done or if there would be a second round.

A low, soft chuckle echoed by Mirage's audio. "You could make a mecha think you get off on having it rough."

"If I got off on it, I wouldn't be interested you continuing," Mirage pointed out tolerantly.

"Mmm, three joor until my next shift, I think I can oblige you," Drift purred in amusement.

His finish and poise flawless, Mirage stood at the door to the SIC's office and pinged for admittance. Formality and appearances; this was the world he had been created for. Yet he had also been created to lead his cadre while he served his House Lord and his Prime.

The door slid open and he maintained his poise as he stepped in. It would not due for anyone to perceive the truth for his coming. Prowl, likewise, maintained a completely professional demeanor as Mirage stepped inside his office and the door slid closed, then clicked to a command-level lock that only a handful of mechas could override or hack.

Only then, secure and alone, did either mecha relax their stance. Without a word Prowl slid his chair back and opened his arms. Equally silent, Mirage melted against the larger, heavier armored mecha as he straddled Prowl's lap.

EM fields extended and caressed, welcoming and gentle as they mingled and then meshed.

A soft sound of pleasured relief escaped one of the mechas as the constructs and mangled ways the outside required of them slid away.

A data cable was offered. Fingers caressed each other lightly as the cable was handed over. Two sets of golden optics dimmed slightly as the connection was made and familiar processors brushed against each other for the first time in too long even though it had only been a few orns.

~I will protect you from these missions, my bonded,~ Prowl whispered. ~Merely tell me you wish it and it will be done.~

~We are too few, my sweet,~ Mirage replied even as he moaned on another level to feel the care his bonded, his servant and property, had for him. It was so much more than he'd ever dared hope for from the arranged bonding. ~Too many need to be watched.~

~I will find a way,~ Prowl countered, aching to have their true status acknowledge by more than the Prime and CMO. ~I miss you, my lovely Mirage. You should not be abused this way.~

~Commander Jazz...~ was all Mirage could say in reply. A perfect summary of everything that stood in their way. One of the very few mechas who could argue Prowl to a standstill and the one mecha who would not simply accept loosing Mirage's abilities in keeping their own in check.

~I will find a way,~ Prowl insisted, even if he didn't know how yet. He shifted his focus to their duty. ~Does Drift require an edit?~

~Not yet,~ Mirage relaxed, enjoying the warmth and closeness of the other half of his spark. ~What troubles him is from the artifact. The Great Sword wants something. He simply has not realized it yet. I do not know what, though I am sure it has to do with Wing and the Knights.~

Prowl hummed softly in acknowledgement as his battle computer began to take that information in and analyze it.

~You have done well as always, master,~ he said as his hands stroked down the elegant blue and white back. ~Allow me to sooth the abuse you suffered in your service.~

~Yes,~ Mirage relaxed into his bonded's attentions without reservations. Prowl had been created for him, to serve him as the perfect organizer. He had acquired so much more in the elegant Praxian frame. Prowl had become a mecha that adored him, an eager berthmate, a guardian willing to fight to protect him both physically and politically, a brilliant strategist and safe confidant.

It was a private joke, and something of a stress for Prowl, that their ranks in the outside world were now reversed. It still made Prowl's spark quiver uneasily to give Mirage orders as a proper SIC should.

It was only moments before the gentle pulses of energy from Prowl, mixed with talented fingers along Mirage's back, drove the noble first creation to forget about everything but how lucky he was to have this mecha as his own.

Drift's optics snapped on line, giving an unearthly blue glow to the otherwise dark room. He reached for Too Pure For This World before his processors had come fully on line, his hands wrapped around the familiar Great Sword with its glowing blue stone.

"What is it, Drift?" the cultured voice of his current lover, a mecha he would never have been able to see, much less touch before the war, rolled over him.

"Just more memory glitches," he grumbled even as he held tight to Too Pure For This World, knowing the semi-sentient sword wanted something. Wanted him to follow, to carry it where it wanted to go. After all the millennia he'd carried it, cared for it, learned from it, he knew full well it wasn't going to let up until he complied.

"This one was different," Mirage put a delicate hand on his shoulder.

Drift couldn't help but compare them at the touch. Drift was forged and reforeged for power, for strength and toughness to survive in harsh conditions. As elegant and exotic as Drift looked, underneath the gleaming white armor and training of New Crystal City he was still a street fighter forged in war. Mirage was natural elegance, natural grace, all speed and agility ... he forced his thoughts to stop there, before he named why he kept Mirage close and tolerated the noble's attitude.

"Different?" No, it hadn't been that different. Wing's death. His spark split between the sword he'd been bound to in functioning and the Well where Primus would make him whole. The longing, pain and blinding grief as he started at Drift's shattered and dismembered frame, long gray in deactivation at the edge of a razed New Crystal City. Dai Altas's much larger frame not far away. How wrong the rage had felt as he'd been pulled away from his mate and his creator's remains. The familiar coldness that closed around his spark that felt so alien.

Half real memory, half things that had never happened.

Mirage vented softly.

"You cried your own designation, that you were deactivated," he murmured. "Your sword glowed as well." He paused at the stiffness in Drift's frame. "What does it want?"

"It?" Drift growled at him.

"The sword," Mirage met his optics coolly, unafraid. "It's doing this to you. It wants something and it won't give up until you capitulate."

"It's a sword," Drift snarled, denying the truth they both knew.

"It's a sword with enough spark energy to read alive and a long history of being classified as semi-sentient," Mirage pointed out. He arched an optic ridge at Drift's blank stare. "You didn't know."

"Just a sword," Drift muttered, looking away, though it was still clutched in his hands.

"It is a Great Sword, Drift," Mirage murmured, molding himself against Drift's back. "I know a great deal about their history and legends."

"You what?" he twisted around to glare. "You never said anything."

"You never asked," Mirage shrugged.

Drift growled at him and pulled away to stand. There was no point in denying it. As much as he hated it, his lover was correct. Too Pure For This World would win. It always won.

Just like the mecha whom it really belonged to.

The cover of darkness isn't Drift's element. Predominantly bright white no matter his alt and always the kind to charge into battle with little concern for tactics until he was fighting one-on-one, Drift detests those who hide in the shadows, thinking they are cowards.

Frequently he's right.

Occasionally he has doubts.

This meeting is one of those. He's not sure who or what he's traveling to meet, only that Too Pure For This World won't let him rest until he takes the blade where it wishes to go. Yet what could possibly compel Wing's sword to have him travel in the night? No one Wing would be drawn to would be a coward. A killer, yes. Insane, too often. Trouble, without a doubt.

But a coward? No. Drift couldn't accept that.

Dawn is less than a breem away when Drift picked up the first signature, still well ahead of him. Neutral, or at least without any faction modifier to their transponder that Drift knew.

Within a klik he could pick up seven. Half a klik later a microbot was added to the list.

A breem and a half and he'd be on them, less if they chose to greet him.

Driving over ragged badlands, Drift noted that while they moved, it wasn't far. Setting up in a formation of sorts to greet him. How they intended to greet him was now the question.

Not one took to the air.

Drift continued, cautious but completely unwilling to change his approach now. He would face this group head on, just as he had faced every other.

A small rise, only a couple times Drift's height, was ahead. With the sun rising behind it, it was the perfect place to attack from and the signals were right on top of it.

He slowed and transformed, his sensors locked on the eight signals he was aware of and searching for more.

These were not the first to hunt him. They would not be the last.

This group would learn like all the others that it did not pay to hunt...

"Drift," a familiar yet impossible voice breathed his designation from above, drawing his optics to the not-right but very real frame of a mecha that couldn't be there.