shadow_vector | Wingspan

NC-17
IDW
Drift/Wing
sticky, minor bondage, possible consent issues if you’re really, really sensitive, wing porn
for tf_rare_pairing request 'drift/wing, sore wings' kind of.
And no, I really have no excuse for writing so much porn for this pairing. ;_;

Drift had taken to toying with the silky black cord that Wing had used to bind him. He’d kept it in a storage compartment, taking it out at odd moments, to contemplate, to remember the moment, to occupy himself while Wing was doing something ‘more important’. And sometimes he found himself thinking back not to his black cord, but Wing’s red one, the way the white mech had writhed, twisted sensually, moaning, whimpering, optics dim. Turned inward, on that line between pain and rapture.

And Drift hadn’t been allowed to touch.

The idea had grown from a denial—which Drift, traditionally, did not take well—to a borderline obsession, and Drift had found himself toying with his black rope with…a certain intent. And he found himself wondering, trying little tosses of the rope, loops to capture…perhaps…a black wrist.

He sat on the inside of the door to Wing’s quarters, hearing approaching footsteps. Well, Drift? He felt a smile, lopsided, curve over his mouth, pressing his spaulders against the wall, a loose coil of rope in his right hand.

The door whooshed open.

“I am so sorry!” Wing said. “Normally, those meetings don’t last anywhere nea--?!” He caught himself, entirely unprepared—for once, Drift exulted—at the black loop that snapped around his wrist. The startled confusion on his face set Drift’s systems racing, the grin anchoring itself in triumph across his mouth as he whipped around to snare the other wrist as well, sliding them tight, holding onto the long ends like a leash. “Drift?” Wing asked, pulling gently at his wrists.

“Wing?” Drift echoed, an unaccustomed lightness in his tone. He tugged on the rope, leading Wing farther into the room.

“This? I am…bound?” He was struggling with composure, unsure as to what his response should be, but when Drift jerked him closer, yanking on the rope, he could feel the aroused thrum of Wing’s EM field against his own.

“You are,” Drift said. And no more. He looked around for a place to anchor the rope. He wanted his hands free—and Wing’s not. His optic caught one of the high brackets on the wall, a relic of some former use. That would do. He strode over, feeling a fierce joy at the awkward steps Wing had to take to keep from stumbling, his gait hampered by his immobilized hands.

“Am I being punished?” Wing, still trying to feel his way around this.

Drift tossed the rope over the bracket, catching the falling end, reeling Wing closer to the wall with it. Wing’s arms were jerked over his head. The white jet struggled, pulling down on his arms. Drift snorted. Simple pulley mechanism—his force won. “Perhaps.” He secured the rope in a knot.

“For what?” Wing peered at him from between his upraised arms, his shoulder nacelles tilting toward the ceiling.

Drift’s optics glinted. “You’ll tell me in the morning,” he said, wryly. Echoing the words Wing had said to him before his vigil. He stepped back, letting Wing twist to follow his movements, stepping around Wing’s body, his own gaze wandering up and down the exposed, vulnerable frame, that shivered in reaction to his words.

“Drift,” Wing said, softly, pleadingly, his voice enflaming Drift.

Drift laughed, reaching in, slicking a hand over the exposed rib struts. Wing’s protest died into a squeak. “Mine,” Drift murmured, testing the word, the idea. Wing, tied, his.

Drift stepped around Wing, pinning the jet’s hips against his, his hands wrapping around the narrow waist, riding up the chassis. The wings shivered against him, the Great Sword a cool solid mass between them. Drift’s mouth found Wing’s shoulder, nuzzling possessively into the white armor. Wing twisted, whimpering at Drift’s roving touch.

Drift released his grip, reaching gently for the Great Sword’s attachments. “You don’t need this,” he purred, feeling Wing’s trembling resistance as he lifted the blade.

Drift ran one hand down the broad open channel in the white back. “Drift--!” Wing began, his ventilations ragged, shallow, as he twisted from side-to-side, shoulders rolling, nervous at the sudden emptiness, lack of weight between them. Drift grinned, ducking under the jet’s upraised arm, planting a sudden, hard kiss on the parted lip plates.

“I’ll take good care of it,” he murmured, pulling away, letting his optics blaze over Wing’s face, for a moment, drinking in Wing’s breathless excitement, the tinge of something not quite like fear in his optics.

Drift carried the Sword to its bracket, letting Wing watch him place it carefully in its brackets, feeling the golden optics on him, tracing over his frame. He turned, quickly, catching Wing’s gaze, and the mortified way Wing jerked his head aside, as though he hadn’t been staring. Drift purred, folding his arms around Wing’s body again, before letting his hands ride up the exposed rib struts, up the arms, fingertips teasing into the seams of the armor.

Wing made a soft noise in his throat, squirming against Drift’s body, his wings shifting restlessly. Almost like a hint. Drift’s hands came down, stroking the wings, tugging them open, exploring first with his hands and optics, then…after a moment’s thought…with his mouth, blazing a hot trail with his glossa over an edge, nipping at a seam. Wing whimpered, writhing, his hands curling on each other far above his head. Drift turned his attention to the nacelles, gliding his fingertips over the manifolds, smirking as Wing’s knees seemed to buckle, ex-venting in a rush.

“Want something?” he murmured, moving his mouth up a ridgespine of one nacelle.

“I’m fine,” Wing said, quickly, before his vents hitched again.

“Wasn’t what I asked, Wing,” Drift chided, stepping around to the front. He tipped the chin up, gazes meeting. It changed something—everything and nothing—Wing immobilized like this. He pulled Wing roughly against him, mouth hard with desire against Wing’s yielding lip-plates. His hands blazed down Wing’s body, and Wing responded, squirming against him, thighs sliding around one of his legs, mouth chasing Drift’s. When Drift pulled away, Wing’s gaze was heavy-lidded with desire, spinal struts arching closer, mutely begging for contact.

Drift grinned, triumphantly, at Wing’s wantonness. He moved to nip the underside of Wing’s arm, chuckling into the thinner armor as Wing gasped, his entire body twitching, as if alive with raw current. He worked his way down the exposed side, his mouth blazing a trail of kisses and licks and nips. Wing twisted, quivering, gasping, at Drift’s downward progress, Drift’s hands and mouth exploring, learning the plates of Wing’s armor, the shapes, the different textures. He pressed his face into Wing’s white waist for a long moment, his hands riding over the pelvic armor, wrapping around Wing’s hips, before each slid down the back of a thigh until the tips of his fingers flirted with the gaps in the backs of Wing’s knees.

Wing squirmed, and Drift could feel the shudder of desire through the plates of Wing’s belly, the pelvic armor bumping against his audio. Drift rested on one knee, tipping his head back, his gaze traveling up Wing’s chassis, a long, slow tour of the changed contours, to Wing’s face, open, desiring, lips parted, optics burning with longing. Drift nuzzled the pelvic span, optics locked with Wing’s. The jet moaned, his entire body undulating into the touch.

This was, and he couldn’t describe how or why, somehow more erotic than simply taking Wing. Drift’s systems were ablaze, almost dizzied with input, as he found himself opening the hatch, pausing to lick along the hatch’s interior metal, before turning his attention to Wing’s equipment.

Wing’s spike, silver, swirled and alien, jabbed the air, glossy with lubricant. Drift held Wing’s gaze, dipping himself down to run his glossa in a long, slow line along the underside of the spike. He’d braced for..something unpleasant, but the lubricant tasted sweet and cool, and the spike’s metal was smooth under his glossa. Wing had gone rigid, so tense he seemed to vibrate, pushing up onto his toe plates, arms stiff and forceful over his head. Drift growled and after another pause, took the spike’s head into his mouth. Wing sucked in a hard in-vent.

It wasn’t…bad. Possibly Wing’s rigid immobility. Possibly the control he had—Wing tied, incapable of touching. He’d thought, he’d always seen, this as degrading, humiliating, what conquerors took from conquests, but here, this, seemed to have the power dynamic reversed, inverted, Wing the one trembling, quivering at the tiniest gesture, the smallest adjustment of Drift’s mouth or glossa, Drift utterly, completely in control.

Of course, Drift had no technique, and nothing to guide him but Wing’s whimpers and twitches and his own curiosity, letting his glossa probe at the spike’s unusual construction, his mouthplates squeezing and releasing slowly, testing Wing’s response. He skirted one hand between Wing’s thighs, circling the rim of the valve. That…he was more familiar with, he thought, probing two fingers beyond the valve’s rim, feeling the hard jolt through Wing’s body, the shifting balance as Wing fought his bonds with some frantic force. Hot air from Wing’s cooling system gusted over him as he got a rhythm, curling and uncurling his two fingers in a slow ‘come here’ gesture, dragging over the valve’s anterior nodes, his glossa setting the same tempo, riding over the channels of the spike.

He glanced up, Wing seemingly in delirium, head rolling, optics wild and unfocussed, his entire concentration given over to Drift’s control, his fingers, his mouth. Drift’s own interface systems seemed distant, less vivid, less enthralling than Wing’s open, vulnerable desire, his own attention keyed in to Wing’s responses, projecting himself onto, into Wing’s body.

Wing’s whimpering gave way to panting, his body twisting, alternating from sagging against the binding and rigid tension held in place both times by Drift’s other, inexorable hand.

“Drift!” Wing cried out, halfway between a summoning and a warning, an instant before his valve shuddered, squeezing against the intruding fingers, fluid gushing hot as embarrassment over Drift’s hand. A half-klik later, the spike seemed to jolt in Drift’s mouth, filling it with a silver sweet rush of transfluid.

Wing panted above him as Drift swallowed, a bit clumsily, licking his way down to release the spike first. Hot fluid dripped off his wrist from Wing’s valve as he eased his hand away, pushing from his knee to stand. Wing’s post-coital languor was…beautiful, the shivering limbs, the optics heavy-lidded and pleading, his EM an electric fuzz that flared against Drift. “Well,” Drift said, voice husky from his own lust, thick with the taste of Wing’s overload, “shall I untie you?” He reached a hand up one of Wing’s arms, fingertips toying with the black knot.

Wing’s fingers caught Drift’s hand, clutching, desperate, his mouth finding Drift’s, parting Drift’s mouthplates with his own, tasting himself on Drift’s glossa. Drift pulled away, teasing. Wing’s systems whined against him. “I want to touch you,” Wing breathed, optics dim, as though this admission were somehow shocking, wrong, admitting to weakness. “Please.”

Drift laughed at the appended 'please', somewhere between begging and courtesy. His free hand pulled Wing’s body against his, catching Wing’s spike between their frames. The jet groaned, hips pushing almost involuntarily into the pressure, already aroused, already wanting more. “You are touching me,” Drift goaded.

Wing writhed his body against Drift’s, wings flaring for balance, rocking his spike between them. “Please. More? I want to touch you.” His strong, swordsman’s hands kneaded at Drift’s.

Drift stepped back, out of Wing’s reach, only his hand still trapped by Wing, nimbly evading the ankle that tried to hook his own, drag him closer. Wing whined with want. “So,” Drift said, “Are you being punished?”

Wing hesitated, face cycling through a host of emotions, responses. The ventilations eased slightly, from desperate pants to slow, even vents. “You’ll have to try harder than this,” he said, voice husky and dark, optics flaring with a defiant desire, “Decepticon.”

[***]

Drift licked his way up Wing’s thigh, tracing a line of energon, sweet and effervescent on his glossa. Wing shivered, rocking helplessly into the sensation—Drift’s mouth, hot and wanting, against his armor. “Trying hard enough?” Drift asked, voice gruff, raw with energon and a certain darkness. He held one of Wings many, many blades in one hand—a small dagger, barely larger than his palm, but wickedly sharp, capable of slicing quick nicks through an energon line almost painlessly.

“Please,” Wing murmured, head bowed between his bound arms. “I want to touch you.” He’d been saying this for the last hour, pleading, begging, nearly sobbing in desperation, one wish, one want. “Why won’t you let me touch you?”

You do. You do, Drift thought. In every way that matters, in ways I never thought possible. This is the only control I have. The only limit I can find. He nuzzled into the hip joint, glossa probing for the line he’d nicked, for the source. Wing gave a whimpering growl, writhing against him.

Drift surged to his feet, pulling the jet’s frame against his, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, mouth meeting mouth. Wing’s mouth was cool at first, vented from the air he had been panting, but warmed swiftly, mobile, soft against Drift’s, eager, seeking through Drift’s mouth for the taste of his own energon.

Drift pulled back, his hands cupping Wing’s face, the lidded golden optics, the full mouth, the high, arched cheekstruts. Beautiful in ways Drift couldn’t describe: not just the lines, the design, but the source that animated them. And…his. At least right now, bound, helpless, begging to touch him. Begging not to be cut down, not to have his pain end, but to be able to lay his hands—wanting, craving—on Drift. Being wanted, desired, was new to him. Drift was used to being ignored, or hated, used to cold, almost anonymous interfacing, barely touching, barely looking.

His gaze fed upon Wing. And he knew he’d never be like Wing, always too selfish, always wanting to be looked at, wanting to be touched, and wanted and desired.

“Your wings,” he whispered. “I want to see them.”

Wing turned his head, brushing his cheek against one of Drift’s hands. Drift let his thumb slide over the smooth metal, tracing the join of the helm, as Wing obediently flared his wings behind him, locking them out.

Drift had the usual grounder’s strange fascination with wings, the sleek planes that allowed a mech—a creature of metal and cables and wires—to slice the air, defiant of gravity. Wing’s were sleek and compact, like him, the plates sliding together behind his shoulders. So unlike the wings of flyers Drift remembered—solid panels, massy and wide. Wing’s were small, compact, an intricate profile in the air. Drift’s optics traveled over them, hungry, wanting, his ventilation hushed in something like reverence, while before him, Wing’s head was low, obedient.

Drift’s hands moved, almost of their own accord, without will, the dagger still tucked against his wrist, under Wing’s upraised arms to stroke the spread panels, fingers riding along the grooves between the plates, palms cupping over the white metal. Wing fell against him, limp, shivering. “Sensitive,” Drift observed.

“They have to be,” Wing whispered. “Air currents, temperature, shear, everything that affects flight performance.”

Drift grunted, his mind spinning at the thought of such sensitivity—exquisite but also dangerous. Fragile. And for some reason, even though Deadlock’s cortex rebelled, all the more beautiful for their sensitivity.

Drift crossed around behind Wing, letting one hand trail over the red and white chassis, his other groping boldly over a wing, until he stood behind Wing, between the spread panels.

He slapped the dagger against his thigh, letting its magnet adhere it to his dark metal, before letting his hands travel in tandem over the wings, broad sweeps of each panel, finger-tip traces along the scalloped edge. Wing shivered, shuddered, panted against him.

“I wonder,” Drift said, idly, sweeping his hands under the wings, chuckling at Wing’s whine, the shoulder nacelles flaring in frustration. “I wonder if it’s possible to get you off this way.”

“Drift,” Wing whimpered. The wings vibrated.

Drift jerked Wing back, the length of the bonds lifting Wing onto an unstable balance on his toe plates. Drift’s engines revved against the backspan. “Don’t tell me,” he murmured. He ran his hands over the wings again, gently, the lightest touch he could manage, and then harder, pushing his palms into the metal, feeling the wings give and resist. Wing, trembling with desire, hooked his ankles around Drift’s, pushing his weight into Drift, using the leverage to squirm his hips against Drift.

Drift growled, biting the top edge of one wing, hands gripping around Wing’s chassis, taking more of his weight. “Want me?” he growled.

“Yes!” Wing’s head whipped from side to side, audio fins slicked flat against his head, glints of gold from his optics earnest over his shoulders. “Please.”

Drift slid one hand down between Wing’s parted thighs. Wing squirmed, trying to ease his spike out of Drift’s hand.

“No, please,” Wing’s voice was meek, pleading. “Take me. I want to feel you--,” he cut himself off, twisting his bound wrists futilely.

“Feel me,” Drift prompted. He’d learned there were edges Wing wanted to be pushed over. Not shame, not embarrassment, but a thrill of transgressing someone else’s boundaries.

“Feel you take me.” Wing shivered. “Overload in me. Please.”

Drift snorted. Wing was asking—begging—to be used, taken, in a way that would have gotten him…destroyed in the Decepticons. But somehow this wasn’t weakness, but had a kind of sacred weight to it, offering himself, the strange strength of placing someone else’s pleasure as your desire, offering what normally had to be taken.

Drift rocked his pelvic frame back, snaking one hand between them to release his spike, pushing into the valve. Wing cried out, his shoulder actuators firing, twisting in his bonds. His wings riffled. Drift stopped. “Keep them out, Wing.”

“I—?”

“The wings. Keep them open.” The wings straightened, tremulously. Drift rewarded Wing by a slow, dragging thrust. Drift heaved up Wing’s legs, locking the thighs around his hips, before moving his hands to grip over the wings again, sinking his dentae into the wing’s leading edge. Wing moaned, head lolling, as Drift ran his hands possessively over the wings, thrusting his spike into the valve. He was readier than he wanted to admit, the spectacle of Wing’s submission, the wings spread obediently, the valve slick and yielding against his spike, the soft whimpers, and the aftertaste of Wing’s energon assailed his senses across his input span.

Wing cried out, his valve clenching against Drift, his thighs gripping over Drift’s dark hips, hands twisting in their bonds. His wings shocked against Drift, the charge of the overload shimmering over the curved spans, a velvety flare against Drift’s chassis, his glossa. Drift continued, driven by lust, maddened by Wing’s response, one hand on the wings, the other gripping over a thigh.

Drift snarled, sinking his dentae into the wing, biting hard enough to dent the metal, Wing gasping, his valve rippling against Drift as he thrust in once, twice, hard and deep, releasing all of his pent-up desire in an overload that blanked his systems, charge battering against the sensitive wingspan.

Wing’s vents heaved, his entire body shaking, wings rigid, as Drift relaxed against him, the hard grip on his wing and thigh softening. Drift allowed himself, now, Wing wrung out with lust, turned away, bound, quivering, to have a moment of weakness, to nuzzle against the neck, pressing the bare channel of the Great Sword’s sheath against his chassis, feeling the hard throb of his spark through the barriers and baffles of metal. For a long moment he held Wing, Wing lay carefully still, sinking into the embrace, not calling attention to what it was, to the vulnerability of Drift’s mute admission.

Drift growled at himself, pushing back, pulling his spike out of Wing’s valve, feeling the trickle of friction-heated fluid down the metal. Wing responded, unhooking his ankles from behind Drift’s hips, easing himself to the ground.

Drift pulled the blade off his leg, reaching up to cut the cord that bound Wing’s wrists. Wing tore his arms apart, still quivering, letting his weight sink back into his legs, his feet, unsteady. “May I retract them now?” he asked, half-turned, fingers plucking black cord from his wrists.

“Yeah,” Drift croaked, suddenly embarrassed, as Wing turned, thighs smeared with transfluid and energon from the nick he’d cut, wings trembling as they folded themselves back against Wing’s spine.

“I,” Wing said, his voice like dark velvet, “do not think you are punishing me.”

Wingspan

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