Aileron

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

R
IDW
Drift/Wing
tactile, implied sticky
no prompt. I haven't written anything all bloody week, so here's...something I threw down just to get back in the habit. Lower expectations.

Drift smirked.  “Better,” he said. 

“Is it?” Wing tried to catch Drift’s gaze, peering around his shoulder nacelle.

Drift laughed. “Oh yes.” He ran a hand down Wing’s side, then up the outstretched arm.  “I like you like this.” 

“Why?”  Wing shivered under Drift’s touch, his hands squirming together around the sword, cord wound tightly around his wrists like a bracelet of blood. 

“I like you helpless.” Drift leaned forward, twisting under the upraised arm, one palm on the floor, mouth seeking Wing’s, blocking the jet’s next question with a kiss.  And it was true.  Few things aroused Drift more than Wing, bound before him.  It wasn’t—entirely—about control.  He liked Wing unable to resist, but the idea of Wing resisting—Wing not actually wanting him—was a gaping devastating thought. It was something about being wanted, and being able to play at force like this, his need to control being welcomed, desired. 

And the trust. He’d thought of killing Wing.  Or tying him and leaving.  Briefly, he’d thought of that, but he’d found the very trust—that Wing had thought of that, too, but let himself be tied anyway, something monumental and sacred.  And while Wing played at helplessness, Drift tried on the role of being trusted. 

He leaned back, laughing as Wing followed him forward, mouth reluctant to break the kiss. “Now,” he murmured, letting Wing follow his optics as they trailed slowly up and down the jet’s frame, “What should I do with you?”

“Let me go?” Wing suggested.  “I could touch you.” 

Drift laughed. “No.”  He knew Wing’s addiction to touch, the jet’s craving for physical contact.  He let his free hand trail up one arm, fingers drawing a long, light line up the inner armor, pausing to flirt into the joint.  “I know,” Drift said. He moved in for another kiss, a promising bump of his mouth against Wing’s, before ducking back out, hand coming to cup and stroke the curves of the shoulder nacelle. He tugged at the outer wingstrut. “Open them.”

Wing squirmed, but the wings obediently unfolded, locking into position with a tremulous click. Drift gave a growl of pleasure.  He had no idea why the jet’s wing aroused him so much, whether it was the power of flight he could slide under his palms or Wing’s quiet submission.  All he knew is the spread wings drew his hands, drew his attention, like nothing else ever had. 

He moved behind the jet, kneeling, running his hands over the leading edges, his grin crystalline as Wing moaned, twitching at the contact. He could feel the EM field shimmer against him as he slid his flat palms down the wingbacks, bringing his hands closer, so that his thumbs traced the channel where the Great Sword normally lay. 

“Oh!”  Wing arched up, as though the contact hurt, optics blazing gold from his thrown back head.  Drift waited, hands still, trusting Wing to tell him if it was too much.  Wing subsided, dropping his aft back to his heels, quivering.  Drift moved his thumbs down the channel, leaning forward, nuzzling his face against the bare expanse.  He could feel Wing shiver against him, riding the very edge of intensity, where it straddled pleasure and pain. 

“Drift--!” Wing gasped, asking, invoking.

Drift’s hands moved down the panels, under the scalloped edges, and up the wing fronts, pulling himself closer, so that his own aroused EM scraped against Wing’s. Let the jet feel what he did to Drift, how aroused he was, simply by Wing’s shivering, moaning body. 

It wasn’t enough. Not yet.  He wanted Wing to overload, just from the contact. It seemed possible; he wanted to see it, to feel the jet thrash, charge dancing over his frame, spilling with pleasure simply from contact to his wings.  Drift bit one leading edge,  hard enough for Wing to wince, distracting the jet as he reached over, unlooping the wrists from the sword’s hilt, letting the hands fall forward.  And then he rocked back, grabbing both of Wing’s ankles, hauling them abruptly out from under him, dropping the jet heavily onto his chassis.  Drift covered him, his chassis on the spread wings, legs twined with Wing’s.  The jet's hands were tangled around the base of the Sword, stretched overhead. Drift laughed darkly against the jet’s audial flares, his hand stroking, touching, tugging at the white panels. 

Wing writhed, his ventilations hot pants against Drift’s legs, his shoulders twisting feebly, tugging his wrists against their bonds. His helm flipped from side to side, one cheek resting on the cool ground, his optics seeking Drift’s face.  Drift was merciless his hands relentless on the panels, feeling them warm from friction, feeling the EM field surge and fuzz and swell against his, Wing’s body sinuous, too wracked with sensation to remain still. Drift fought his own arousal, shoving it roughly down below awareness, his spike jabbing at its housing, muttering how easily he could tear open Wing’s panel now, sink his spike into the valve, how Wing wouldn’t mind, Wing wanted it, never refused Drift, how good it would feel, slick and warm and snug. 

But he wanted this more: wanted to concentrate on Wing’s responses, wanted to keep control by keeping his own desires out of the equation, letting his arousal project onto the white jet, and his trembling white wings, letting it mingle and meld with Wing’s response, until he felt his vents synchronize, his own body rocking in time to Wing’s hot squirms.  He lightened the touches of his fingers along the wings, until they just barely skimmed the surface, brushing the EM field.  Wing quivered, his entire body tensing, tightening, head tipped up, ventilations shallow, intent and focused on the gentle brushes along the sensitive metal. 

The trembling oscillation picked up, shifting into one tight rolling wave that traveled over Wing’s body. The EM field crackled and flared, Wing’s hands twisting in the binding red ropes like trapped creatures, keening. 

Drift stilled his hands, watching this slow, round ecstasy—not Wing’s usual sharp , sudden arch of bliss, but a long, languid, elongated crest of pleasure.  He pulled his arms around the white frame, holding the still shifting body beneath him, as if trying to squeeze some of the ecstasy into his own frame, take ownership of the release. 

The rolling overload ebbed, slowly, Wing sighing softly against him. Drift allowed himself a quick nuzzle into the white audial fin, wishing he had the courage to lick gently down the shape, to ask for a kiss that might be refused, a chance to show some gentleness, to offer instead of taking.

He was suddenly aware that what he’d done was the same—taking, disguised as giving. He bowed his head, helm resting on Wing’s shoulder.  And above it all he was aware that he still wanted Wing, his spike ready to take the white jet, pierce him until he cried out , clinging to Drift as though he were salvation.  He stroked an apologetic hand down Wing’s back, soothing, gentle.  Wing purred, turning his head, optics warm and open, tilting at Drift’s expression. “Drift?” 

Drift ran another hand over the white frame.  He tried to think of a way to put it into words, words he could actually make himself say.  He shrugged, giving an anemic smile.  “Nothing,” he managed. He wormed up Wing’s body, reaching to release the knot that held the jet’s wrists bound. 

Wing rolled his freed hands, plucking the loops of cord off them, loosening them, rolling to one side, considering. “Drift.  You don’t need to hold back with me. Ever.” 

Drift’s smile grew sharp. “Don’t mean that.” 

Wing reached up, a hand hot with returning power flow cupping against Drift’s helm, tugging him down, mouth finding Drift’s.  “Yes,” he murmured, “I do. I want you, Drift. All. Everything.” 

And for the first time he could remember since that first gun blast that had killed Gasket’s murderers, Drift felt humbled and afraid.