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shadow_vector2011-04-06 06:55 am
Taking
IDW
Wing/Drift
sticky, totally missed opportunity for knifeplay, drunk!Wing
Wing staggered to his feet, swaying unevenly. His wing were half-unfurled. Frag, even his smile was a little crooked as he grinned down at Drift. “My turn?” He downed the small shot of the bright blue high grade with a wobbly gusto, optics shuttering momentarily as it hit his systems.
Drift nodded, handing him one of the throwing knives. Quite a little surprise finding those in the drawer under Wing’s berth. Even more surprising—and entertaining—had been Wing’s almost embarrassed demurral.
“Th-they are a blade weapon,” the jet had stammered. “I merely want to excel in the…in the form.” The way he had dropped his gaze had said otherwise. Which meant, of course, that Drift had to pry. Anything that got him under the white jet’s armor, anything that made him feel less helplessly, one-sidedly adrift in this…whatever it was between them, he would grab onto.
And in this case, he’d grabbed onto the bottle of high-grade as well, and introduced Wing to a, well, a variant of an old Decepticon game. Which Wing was soundly beating him at.
“I have,” Wing wobbled, optics wide with alarm, “entirely forgotten the score.”
“One hundred and forty seven to one,” Drift said, coolly. He didn’t mind losing so terribly—he’d never thrown a knife before in his life, and besides, that was not the mission objective. The mission objective was getting Wing hellaciously overcharged. Success. The awkward discomfort was a plus, one that Drift could really get attached to.
“One hundred and forty seven?” Wing blinked, the blade slack between his thumb and fingers. “Are…uh…should we continue?”
Drift shrugged, masking a grin. “Why not?”
Wing bit his lower lip plate. “If…if you’re all right with it?”
Drift cocked his head at the target. “Go for it.”
Wing cast him one last, worried look before turning back to the target, the knife’s blade pinched between his thumb and finger. He took his stance—left leg forward, right back, optics focused on the thin metal of the target. It said something that even staggering drunk, Wing’s technique was careful, faultless, just the way that Drift knew he’d been himself—firing a pistol with an ease born of so long practice that it was core deep.
It didn’t hurt, either, that Wing’s technique was beautiful, the way the arm swung back, the small red, bladelike stabilizer on his forearm sliding back along his upper arm before whipping forward, the blade releasing in the top half of the arc, in a slow spin to its target. The only misses Wing had had—all three of them—had been rotational, the hilt of the blade, or its side, thunking dead center on target, with force enough to dent the metal.
The blade landed, solidly, into the target.
“One forty eight,” Drift said. “Two more and you win.”
The gold optics glowed. “Win?” Wing grinned. “I think I like this game.”
Drift fought a laugh. “Haven’t won yet.” He managed to summon a convincingly surly growl, his own share of the high grade making him loose and warm and fuzzy, and the tipsy consternation on the jet’s face was…intoxicating in its own right. “Go on.”
Wing gave his second of five throws. “One forty nine,” Drift reported. “One more.” Wing nodded, retrieving another knife. “Nervous?” Drift asked, optics glinting. Oh he knew this trick so well: the best way to make someone tense is to ask if they were.
“N-no?” Ha. Right. Drift leaned back against the wall of the small range, observing.
Wing took his stance, hefting the blade. He measured the distance to the target, raised his throwing hand…paused. Drift buried his laugh behind a fist. “Everything all right, Wing?”
“I…yes. Everything’s fine.” Another attempt at stance, range, position. Another freeze.
“This one wins it,” Drift offered helpfully. Oh this should be criminal, he thought. And he should feel mean, but how often did he get to see Wing flustered like this?
“I know,” Wing said. He flared and resettled his wing panels. Also, Drift thought, worth the price of admission.
Drift rolled to his feet. “I know what you need.” This wasn’t exactly mercy, and was more or less entirely powered by the same high grade that was making Wing so tipsy. Drift was drunk, too; his just looked different, made him less guarded. He cupped Wing’s jaw in one hand, pulling the face toward his, mouth seeking Wing’s. They kissed for a long moment, Wing’s body rocking against his. Drift—with regret—pulled away. “For luck.”
“Luck,” Wing echoed, optics still dim and lidded from the kiss, his EM field flaring hard and urgent against Drift’s.
Drift smirked, raising the hand that held—limply—the throwing knife. He nuzzled the edge of Wing’s thumb. “Let’s see what you got, Wing?” he murmured into the black metal. Wing gave a gratifying shiver of arousal, his optics whirring to focus on the mouth brushing against his thumb.
“Yes,” Wing said, unsteadily. “I’ll do my best.” So like Wing that that was one of the phrases he’d said so many times it was muscle-memory deep, like his knife throwing. Drift stepped aside, as Wing took his stance a third time. This time, left hand pointed like a target sight, he whipped the blade downrange. Drift didn’t have to turn to look to know it had hit its mark—the metal gave the same sharp thunk it had the other one hundred and forty nine times. Wing’s optics were still lidded with arousal. “So,” he said, voice husky, raw from the high grade, “what do I win?”
Drift held his hands out in a showy shrug. “The glory of defeating a Decepticon in combat?” Like he didn’t have enough of that during the day. He smiled wryly. Laying out the bait.
Which Wing took. “Better idea,” Wing said, snatching at Drift’s hand, jerking him close. Their chassis clunked together. Wing’s grin grew possessive, helm tilting down, resting his crest against Drift’s. “You.”
“Me.” Drift tilted his head up, mouth meeting Wing’s. He smiled into the kiss, Wing’s hands insistent, groping at him. It felt…weird to be wanted, desired like this, and he was overcharged enough that he let his body twist into Wing’s touch. “What are you going to do with me?” He let a teasing tone creep into his voice.
Wing purred against him, hands raking up Drift’s back. Drift arched into it, his own hands curling over the nacelles. The gold optics tilted, measuring. “I could tie you?” He shook his head. “No.” He leaned in, glossa hot and tingling on Drift’s audio. “I want to take you,” he whispered, asking permission, his hands dropping to Drift’s hips, overcharged weight leaning into the touch.
Drift, loose and warm from the high grade, rolled his hips against the hands. “Then take me.” He felt a clutch of something like fear near his spark. Not for Wing—Wing wouldn’t hurt him, Wing was vibrating against him, waiting for his assent. Old memories, old ghosts, dispelling like cobwebs.
Wing treated it as a sacred thing, nuzzling against Drift’s throat, drawing Drift down to the floor, leaning over him, crest against Drift’s, his pelvic frame sliding urgently over Drift’s. Drift grinned up at him, letting himself be drawn down, laid down, locking his hands over the white hipframe, grinding their bodies together. Wing whimpered, squirming back. Drift slipped his hand between them, releasing his hatch before flipping his palm to slide it up and under Wing’s. Wing shuddered, optics dimming with desire.
Drift teased a finger along the hatch’s seam, Wing going rigid above him, lips parted, ventilation hoarse and ragged. Drift pushed up, nipping along Wing’s jaw, distracting him as he hit the manual release, reaching for the spike.
“AH!” Wing cried out, Drift’s hand squeezing around the silver metal. Drift purred, stroking the spike, sliding one thigh aside, guiding the spike to the mouth of his valve.
Wing quivered, optics flicking down their bodies, catching the silver gleam of his spike in Drift’s black fingers, Drift’s parted thighs. He looked up, optics lidded, enthralled with lust, easing his hips down. His spike inched into Drift, his frame trembling with barely-restrained desire. Drift groaned, bucking his hips up, sinking the spike home. They both hung for a moment, barely venting, twitching against each other.
Wing cycled a deep vent, reverent, moving gently against Drift. He braced himself over Drift, optics like warm honey pouring over Drift. Drift’s hands clutched over Wing’s shoulders, communicating his desire through the force of his fingers, digging in until the metal squeaked under his touch. Wing’s tempo picked up, his body rocking against Drift’s, thrusting more sharply, his vents gusting hot against Drift’s chassis.
Wing bent at his elbows dropping his frame against Drift’s, burying his face in Drift’s shoulder, nipping at the exposed cables, down the plates of the heavy chassis, his body bowed over Drift’s, his wings fluttering out of their tight tuck, flaring with each thrust. Drift dropped his head back, groaning at the silky slide of the spike inside him, friction heating between them, charge sending gossamer stars over his sensor net. He trusted Wing, but more than that, wanted Wing, wanted Wing’s desire.
“Drift--!” Wing cried out, his body jolting rigid, wings flaring wide, as the spike crackled into overload. His hands clutched over Drift’s shoulders, body arching up into it, tearing free of Drift’s hands. Drift shuddered, hips bucking against Wing’s pelvic frame, before rolling down, wide and limp.
Wing collapsed down onto Drift’s chassis, aftershocks trembling over his servos, his sensornet prickling as current raced over his frame, flirting and blending with Drift’s own, sharing this last, delicate tracery of pleasure. The weight was comforting, the arms in a semi-embrace. “Thank you,” he murmured, lifting one arm to stroke down Drift’s shoulder. He shivered, his spike giving a delicate quiver of electricity.
Drift twitched underneath him. “You won. Your prize.” He managed a lopsided smile, mapping Wing’s body against his, inside his. His valve calipers rippled down.
The earnest expression melted into a sly purr. “I thought I liked that game.”
“Play again sometime,” Drift murmured, wrapping his arms over Wing’s shoulders, one thigh curling over Wing’s.
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And the way he got all possessive and 'you are my price' was pure win and also Drift was very cool, but in a mean interesting way XD
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