shadow_vector | Mayfic! Inversion

NC-17
IDW
Wing/Drift
sticky, pwp, mild dom sub
just something I had stickin' around on the hard drive

Wing’s ventilations were hot and fierce, his hands roaming over Drift’s body. Drift felt his own ventilation hitch, his hands curled over the swells of the shoulder nacelles, tilting his head out of the way, inviting that hot mouth on his exposed throat. Wing whimpered against him, ridden by his own desire.

“Drift,” Wing breathed, his voice shaking with suppressed need, “would you—would you do something for me?” He couldn’t bring himself to meet Drift’s gaze, so he trailed his mouth along Drift’s jaw, nuzzling the rounded gold cheekplates of his helm.

“Depends what it is,” Drift murmured. He let his hands wander over the nacelles, teasing at the top edge of the wing frame, curious. Wing didn’t have many hesitations when it came to interfacing, but the few he did were…fairly kinky.

Wing whimpered, his pelvic frame squirming impatiently over Drift’s. “I, well…could you…could you pretend to fight back?” His audial fin slid over Drift’s helm, as he hid his face in Drift’s shoulder, bracing for refusal.

Drift laughed. “Pretend,” he echoed.

Wing nodded against him, his words muffled. “You can say ‘no’, Drift. I won’t be offended.”

“I can do that,” Drift said. He slid his arms back around the jet’s ribstruts, palms warm and tingling over the complicated plates.

Wing raised his head. “Really? It doesn’t…bother you?” His optics were glimmering gold, torn between lust and confusion.

Drift grinned up into the gold optics. “Didn’t I tie you up and cut you a few days ago? You think this is going to weird me out?”

“Yes?”

Drift laughed, his hands trailing down Wing’s arms, down the forearms, his fingers finding and twining together with Wing’s, worming his hands underneath. “I’ll even let you start with me pinned.”

Wing gaped in surprise, but the feel of Drift’s hands under his, the way Drift arched and rolled his torso, kindled something hot behind his gaze. A low sound built in his vocalizer, his mouth descending on Drift’s, glossa pushing, probing, demanding entry. Drift could taste the tingling of Wing’s arousal. He activated one shoulder, the arm trying to lift off the ground. An experiment, testing how much Wing wanted. Wing chirred, jamming the hand into the ground. Drift felt a spike in his own desire, curling his spinal struts, grinding his pelvic span up and against Wing’s thigh.

“Want something, Wing?” he goaded, his own ventilations picking up, tearing his mouth free. He squeezed one of the white legs between his thighs. “Hm?”

Wing’s optics floated closed, his thigh sliding between Drift’s, his pelvic arch a spot of heat Drift could trace on his own. The fingers tightened in his, the EM field buzzing.

“Afraid, Wing?” Drift lifted his head, drawing his crest along the line of Wing’s jaw, craning in to flick his glossa against the exposed throat mechanisms. “Not going to break me,” he whispered., a challenge, an invitation. He felt the body above him vibrate, Wing torn by want and need, riding right along the edge of his quaint moral code, teetering into a controlled, narrow transgression.

“I don’t want to break you,” Wing whispered, his voice hoarse. He levered his head down, optics liquid with emotion.

Drift gave a cocky jerk of his chin. “Thought you wanted me to struggle, Wing.” He pushed both of his spaulders down, levering his hands up off the ground, lifting Wing’s weight. “I’m not even trying.” Pushing Wing over the edge, where Drift knew he wanted to go.

The optics darkened, one hand tearing from Drift’s grasp, clawing down Drift’s chassis, mouth hot and feral on his audio, licking, then biting into the metal. Drift pushed against the shoulder.

Wing pushed back, lifting his hips, using the vertical stabilizer of one knee to wedge between Drift’s thighs, pushing them apart. Drift resisted, squeezing the thighs together, trapping Wing’s other leg. Wing growled, dropping his chassis against Drift’s, his free hand wrapping around Drift’s waist, raking down the pelvic frame, the top of the thigh. The touch was hard, demanding, unlike Wing’s usual soft, feathery, solicitous caresses.

“Are you trying now?” Wing ducked his head, crest resting on Drift’s shoulder, using his weight to pin it down, looking down the length of their twisting bodies. His hand snaked around the edge of the pelvic frame, creeping toward the center, fingertips like hot artillery, bursting across Drift’s net.

“Not really,” Drift goaded. He caught at Wing’s shoulder with his hand, dragging it down, biting one of the pinions. Wing arched up, his other hand squeezing Drift’s fingers, his body rigid, twitching. “Come on, Wing,” he whispered, around the flange of metal. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Wing whimpered, head turned aside, panting, building up to something, in some last fight with himself. When he turned back, his optics blazed. “Yes,” he said, dark velvet in his voice. He shook his other hand free, managing to whip down to grab Drift’s wrist, twisting it around. Overcharged as he was, he still managed to push off his legs, levering Drift over to his belly, the trapped wrist twisted up behind his back.

Wing’s weight fell against Drift’s spinal struts, his glossa licking at one of the helm’s audio spires. “Better?” Wing goaded. He wedged Drift’s knees apart, his free hand riding over the aft of the pelvic frame, squeezing the edges of the interface hatch. He nuzzled into the back of Drift’s neck, nipping his way along the cables. Drift struggled, a frisson of alarm shimmering through his sensor net. Not fear. Nothing like fear. He wanted this to happen, wanted to see and feel Wing try this on. And he realized he’d rather be taken fighting than with Wing’s wide submission, opening himself to it. He wasn’t…ready for that.

Drift bucked his hips, trying to dislodge Wing, playing at resistance, careful not to go too far. The white jet laughed, biting harder against his neck, the hand between them flicking open the hatch. Drift found himself responding, his interface equipment firing on, fueled by the contact of their bodies. The stabilizers on Wing’s knees slid over the backs of his legs, his fingers scraping against the exposed equipment covers.

Drift struggled with his trapped arm, trying to twist it from Wing’s grip. Mostly for form’s sake, but also because the rising tide of desire and need were threatening to overwhelm him, and he was trying to channel some of that back into control, to concentrate on something familiar. He whipped his head to the other side, his rounded cheek armor resting on the floor, optics peering back in his periphery at Wing, his helm on
Drift’s shoulder, mouth parted, immersed in the experience.

Drift jolted as his valve cover clicked open, surrendering under the gentle brushes of Wing’s hand, and then the hard slide of an armored finger, tracing the rim, dipping in, delicately, the fierceness of Wing’s desire held—barely—in check, tremblingly channeled into that one delicate digit. Drift felt a moan, like a hard bubble, rise in his vocalizer. His entire concentration seemed to find that small point of contact, the touch sending rippling shivers over his net.

A scraping push against his hip: Wing grinding his pelvic span in frustration, while his finger continued its careful exploration. Drift saw Wing’s optics flick open, studying Drift’s responses—the twitches and choked whimpers, the ragged bursts of ventilation.

“May I?” Wing’s optics turned toward Drift, coruscating with lust barely contained. Drift didn’t answer, hitching his hips up, bumping the valve against Wing’s hand. Answer enough. Wing made a soft sound, lust winning over restraint, the hand shifting to snap open his interface hatch. He kept Drift’s gaze locked as he slowly sank his spike, cool and slick with lubricant, into Drift. Wing gave a sort of gasping cry, seating the spike against the valve’s ceiling, a shudder running through his frame. Drift hissed, his hand clutching at the hand that held his down, his ventilations tight and controlled.

“T-too much?” Wing asked.

Drift shook his head. He wanted this…needed it. Wing rocked against him, the spike moving. Wing lifted his head, sliding his audial fin over Drift’s spaulder, moving to kiss the side of Drift’s helm, down the line, his chassis sliding over Drift’s back.

They didn’t speak, Wing’s body moving over Drift’s, tempo picking up, spike driving harder against Drift. Wing’s gaze never left Drift’s face, studying it for signs, feeding on Drift’s response, worried and wanting at the same time, fighting between arousal and consideration.

Drift felt the overload build up in him, a trembling, quivering pulse, rising and rising, building upon itself, helpless to do anything other than anticipate the next thrust, the next push of Wing’s hips against his, the spike pushing into the valve, friction heating the contact points between them. He focused his own gaze on Wing’s face, on the projection of the nasal, the golden optics too wanting, too much for him to handle. Drift had been taken before, but always violently, always force and malice behind it. Wing’s open concern, even as his vocalizer growled, his thrusts becoming more forceful, feral, his mouth hot against one of Drift’s shoulder plates, was too much of a change.

Wing’s face spasmed, his wings flaring out, dentae biting into the metal he’d been nuzzling against. The spike leapt in Drift’s valve, a burst of charge, hot, prickling, electric. Drift gave a choked cry, optics wide, his body shuddering into overload.

Wing melted against him, releasing his trapped hand at last, the rounded swell of his chassis against the flat planes of Drift’s spinal struts . The mouth moved, lipping gently where he’d bitten, curling against Drift’s body, melting back from his feral hardness to the tender warmth Drift knew.