Truth or Dare

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW
Drift/Wing
sticky, unrepentant smut, misuse of 'truth or dare' for lascivious purposes. 
A/N: wrote this yesterday afternoon in a fit of Teh Boredomz.  Everything I SHOULD be updating is on my laptop, which is at home and I am not and won't be until...agonizingly late today. /cries Also, doesn't fit any prompt at all. Just...PWP. Sorry.



Another one of Wing’s little training games.  The white jet treated all of it like some sort of game, nothing too serious, which Drift would have resented if Wing weren’t…so damn good at fighting.  Drift had raged but the thought had slowly taken root: perhaps there was a connection between Wing’s easy skill and his playfulness.

“If,” Wing had explained, holding one of the special paint-edged blades, hilt first, towards Drift, “one scores a mark on the other, he can be challenged to tell a truth or perform a dare.”

Truth? This is idiotic.

Wing indicated the practice weapon. “It’s designed to release paint only upon physical contact.  So there will be a visible mark.  You need not strike attempting to injure.” He winked. “Control, Drift.” He’d spent the last three days teasing Drift about overcommitting to a blow, throwing everything behind even a feint. 

“I dare you to let me go,” Drift said, flatly.

Wing smiled, indulgently. “The dares—and the truths—have to be within the other’s power, Drift.” 

Drift was about to argue, but it occurred to him he might…have some fun with this.  A little payback.  He grinned. “All right.”

They swung into action, and for a while the only contact was blade against blade, one’s attack meeting, instantly, a parry or block by the other, the battered practice steels hissing against each other.  Until Wing gave a laugh, the kind that wrinkled his nasal structure, and flicked his wrist, and suddenly, a yellow line seemed to…appear on Drift’s forearm.

“Hit,” Wing said, unnecessarily.  Drift glowered.  “Now, Drift. Truth? Or dare?”

“Truth,” Drift snapped, wiping the yellow line from his arm. 

Wing tilted his head.  “I’ll start with an easy one,” he said, smugly. Sure that he’d have other opportunities.  Probably true.  That thought did not make Drift feel any better.  “The last thing that made you happy.” 

Drift faltered. That was easy?  “Why?”

Wing smiled. “That isn’t part of the game, Drift. You don’t get to ask why. But.” Wing toyed with his blade. “You seem so unhappy here and I just…wanted to know how to change that.”

Oh.  Drift dropped his own gaze. “I, uh.” He thought. “Watching you land, this morning.”

Wing blinked. “Land?”  Wing had taken a courier job, leaving Drift, as always, locked in his quarters.  “Why?”

Drift’s mouth twitched. “That’s not part of the game, Wing,” he parroted back. 

Wing blinked, then laughed. “Yes, I guess you’re right. Well,” he gave an abashed nod. “Thank you, Drift,” he murmured, wings riffling shyly. 

Drift lifted his own blade, self-conscious at the blurted admission, glad he hadn’t had to explain the fierce possessive joy he took in watching Wing fly, and the selfish pride in Wing returning. To him. No, not to him, to Wing’s own quarters. But for those split seconds…Drift allowed himself to pretend.

Their blades swung again, a long melee, and they went round after round, Wing winning, the jet pulling more and more of these embarrassing admissions from him.  Until, luck or chance, Drift couldn’t say, but his blade flicked in, under Wing’s guard, scoring a blue line over the thigh. 

“Good one!” Wing cheered, straightening up from his battle crouch.

“Luck,” Drift muttered.  But still, a hit.  On Wing. He’d never taken so much pride in a damn line of blue paint before.

“Well?”

Drift blinked, his plan entirely gone from his head at the amount of work it had taken to get that one—one—hit on Wing.  “Truth or dare,” he muttered.

Wing smiled. “Truth.”

Ah. Drift remembered.  “All right.” He stepped close, dropping his voice to a bare murmur. “All right, what’s the kinkiest, filthiest, most perverted thing you’ve ever wanted to do?”

Wing’s mouth opened, but only a strange, shy, strangled sound came out, and Drift could feel the sudden push of heat sinks firing on.  He fought a laugh.

“I-is it too late to change to ‘dare’?” Wing managed. 

Drift bit down on his mouthplates, stifling a chortle. “Not at all.” He waited. “So, you are changing to ‘dare’?” he clarified.

Wing nodded. “Yes. I think that might be…better.”

Oh, Wing, how little you know me. And after all this time.  I’m…almost hurt. “All right.  Your dare is…to do that thing.”

Wing sucked in a vent of air, the practice steel falling from limp fingers. “What?”

Drift smirked. “That’s your dare.  That filthy thing you didn’t want to tell me.  Do it.”

“Drift, I—“

“Is it in your power to do?” Drift challenged. See? I’ve been paying attention to your stupid rules.

“Yes, but…I…,” Wing faltered. Drift fed on his mortification.  “I need a partner.”

“Will I do?” 

[***]

Drift screamed until his vocalizer emptied of charge, his palms slapping flat and stingingly hard against the berth, as the overload punched through him.  Wing straddled his hips, Drift’s spike buried in the quivering valve.  He hadn’t known what he was expecting, other than…not this.

Drift forced himself calm, his breathing deeper, more even. “That…wasn’t all that kinky,” he gasped.  Intense, yes.  As in, he’d had an arm shot off and not screamed that loudly.  But still.  In the grand scheme, having a mech lie still on the berth while you got him off solely by working the calipers of your valve against him?  Not exactly worth Wing’s mortification. 

“Not done, yet,” Wing whispered.  And the valve clenched over his spike again, rippling the calipers up the length of his spike, then down, gently, then firmly, changing pressure, changing tempo, the only thing not moving was the lowest set of calipers, locked around the base of Drift’s spike, as if anchoring it in position. Drift groaned, his spike already at half the required charge, head dropping back against the berth as Wing began another round. Their bodies were immobile, save for the hum of their ventilation systems, the occasional sigh or half-whimper from one of them, until a second overload slammed over Drift’s sensornet, another burst of transfluid releasing into the jet’s valve.

And that’s when it hit Drift.  The base calipers.  The fluid.  Wing was…holding it all inside.  And—Drift quivered—apparently going for a third.

And a fourth, and fifth.  And…possibly a sixth, but by that point Drift had lost the ability to count, thrashing on the berth, feet gouging into the metal, shoulders restless, frantic, palms skittering for a non-existent grip.  He’d given up on coherence, his vocalizer running at a grunting growl, in tempo with the careful, responsive ripples against his spike. He could feel the pressure of the fluid—his own transfluid, against his spike’s sensor nodes. Wing himself was panting, whimpering, head thrown back. 

Their hands found each other, fingers laced into fingers, squeezing hard enough to hurt, Wing’s moans rising in little, fluttering sighs, optics dim, focused inwardly, lips parted.  Drift’s sensornet felt raw, blazing with lust, a rising and falling charge racing through him, as Wing’s valve worked along his spike, kneading the pressure into him, Wing’s valve lining stretched, filled with fluid. 

Wing cried out, a harsh, high sound, as the lower caliper seal broke, a dam failing, releasing the fluid of six overloads gushing over Drift’s spike, his thighs, dripping over his valve in long silver streaks. The jet’s wings flared, body arching in ecstasy.

Wing sagged back, falling heavily against Drift’s upraised knees, his fingers slowly releasing from Drift’s. Not pulling away, but releasing the high end of their grip. He shuddered, valve clutching at the spike weakly, his entire frame drained of energy.

Drift boosted his knees, rocking Wing forward, catching him into an embrace, their bodies still joined.  Wing  buried his face in Drift’s shoulder. Embarrassed, Drift realized.  Drift slipped one finger between them, coming up silver, painting a hot stripe across Wing’s arm. 

“Oh look. Another hit,” he murmured. 

Wing raised his head, drowsily.  “Drift--,” he began, looking stiff, mortified, weary. 

“Truth.” Drift pushed on.  “Why do you think that was so…bad?”

“It’s messy.” Wing whispered the words, like a confession of some cardinal sin.  “And…it’s entirely selfish of me.”  He ducked his head. “All I think about is what I feel, what I want. And…,” his arms crept around Drift’s shoulders. “It’s not right.”

Drift laughed softly, wrapping his own arms around Wing, fingertips brushing the channel where the Great Sword usually lay.  Part of him wanted to mock Wing for being so naïve, so…strangely pure, while another part wanted to wrap around him like a shield, and keep him innocent and selfless forever. “Hey, Wing,” he murmured, gently, moving one knee to wrap over the jet’s body, “Not sure if you noticed, but…obviously, I enjoyed it.”

“But—“

Drift had no skill with words. Nothing like Wing.  So he shut down the argument the only way he knew how: covering the jet’s mouth with his own.

Comments

[femme4jack.livejournal.com]

Um, I'm going back to bed now, or maybe a shower. A hot, steamy shower. *whimpers*

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

One of the things I both find particularly fascinating about this piece, and deeply love, is that even *this* is about control for Wing. Even his "dirtiest fantasy" is about imposing some measure of control over himself, discipline. It's so very... Wing. And very hot.

And even as distressed as he was about having the parameters changed - by his own choice, even! - I get the impression that it was somehow easier to *do* than to *confess*?

Man, I love these two together. Wing is so incredibly adorkable in his shy, sheltered way.

[sasuke-emosauce.livejournal.com]

he’d had an arm shot off and not screamed that loudly. Sweet Primus. This is amazingly intense.

The beginning reminded me of how my sensei would make us spar using practice knives with lipstick on the edges...

[gatekat.livejournal.com]

Wow. Sneaky Drift, adorable, embarrassed Wing, incredibly hot sex.
I loved watching Drift work for his prize, and such a prize.

[toyzintheattik.livejournal.com]

I love the playful hotness of this. Very fun and clever! ^^ You write these two so well.

[ex-naggingf.livejournal.com]

So f...ing hot. I almost bought the IDW Drift issue yesterday, because of how you write these two.

One of the things I've noticed about your writing and I love, is that you don't use frequently-used clichés. An example "palms skittering for a non-existent grip"... I've seen people write "scrabbling for purchase" so many times it hurts.

[silaphet.livejournal.com]

hell yes, hadn't read this one yet & it's a new fav. You know it was good interfacing when you need a new mattress afterwards *happy sigh*

[ithilgwath.livejournal.com]

....right. I'ma go take a shower now. Cold one. Whew! Yeah. Cold shower. Mm-hm.


damn that was hot. And adorable. Wing's so sweet and cute.

[darkeyes-17.livejournal.com]

Glad I found this. So wonerfully sticky and hot. Amazingly kinky.