Control issues.
May. 24th, 2011 11:41 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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shadow_vectorNC-17
IDW
Drift/Wing
PWP sticky
ALLEGEDLY, but really sort of fail, a fill for a kink meme request:
“It’s just for a pentacycle,” Wing said, wrapping his arms around Drift. “You’ll survive.”
Drift wasn’t so sure about that. “What’s this stupid thing about?” Already he could feel the electric silk of Wing behind him, tempting him.
“It’s to commemorate the cycles we spent wandering before we found this place.”
“So you celebrate by…no interfacing.” Yeah. In case he hadn’t thought everyone here was a little nuts.
Wing gave a frustrated nip to his shoulder-panel. Which in the circumstances, Drift did not appreciate. “Not ‘no interfacing’. Just no ejaculation.”
Which was…of course, like everything else in this stupid City, needlessly complicated. He grunted.
“It won’t be bad,” Wing said. “It’ll be kind of fun.”
Fun. Uh, no. Recharging night after night with a hot, squirmy jet next to you and not able to spike it into the berth? Not Drift’s idea of fun. In fact, his spike cycled just now thinking about the thigh sliding over his hip, the flash of stabilizer. “You people think tying yourselves to swords till you pass out is fun.”
“Drift…,” Wing began.
“Don’t you ‘Drift’ me,” he sulked. “And stop groping me if you actually want me to do this.” Because he was about ready to turn in the jet’s embrace and take him.
Wing gave a soft, sad sound, his arms stilling over Drift’s frame. “May I at least touch you?” he asked, voice grave.
“Just…no squirming.” The worst part: Wing’s hot, aroused squirm.
Wing settled, carefully, as if fearing every motion was a ‘squirm’ until he lay beside Drift, arm thrown over the chassis, cheek resting on the broad spaulder, his optics creased, unhappy.
And that was the first night.
[***]
This…was not going to work. Drift had already decided that. He was beginning—already—to lose his damn mind. And he’d swear that Wing was doing it on purpose: being seductive, extra touchy. All right, probably not. Wing was just…Wing. Which meant: a hot-running jet, with restless, optic-attracting wings and an EM field that licked coyly at anything within range. Which was, currently, Drift.
Drift’s spike complained within its housing, half pressurized, tapping impatiently for release, and scraping its head hard against the equipment cover every time the jet shifted in his recharge.
Like now, Wing lying on his side, aft snuggled into Drift’s hip, his top wing flopping back over Drift’s chassis. Drift’s hands twitched, wanting to grab that wing, stroke it, bite it, pull the jet on top of him and sink his spike into….
No. Stupid ritual. Stupid purity. He growled, softly, trying to stare angry holes in the ceiling.
And then…Wing’s words floated back to him. Just no ejaculation?
Oh right. ‘Just’.
But still.
The blue optics narrowed in the darkness, a fiendish smile blooming on his mouth. He was suffering, why not make sure Wing was suffering, just as much?
He let his hand brush the top strut of the wing, stroking down it, the satiny white sleek under his palm. Wing arched against him, sighing softly, the wing pushing into his touch. He grinned in the dark, tipping his head over, nipping at the join of the wingstrut to Wing’s back. Wing purred, tilting his head over his shoulder, optics dim with recharge.
Drift’s amusement sharpened, rolling to his side, pulling the jet’s back against him, his pelvic frame pushing insistently against the jet’s aft.
“Drift,” Wing murmured, warningly.
“What? Just touching you.”
Wing’s face flickered, torn between desire and obedience to his stupid rules. Drift slid a hand down a silver thigh to help tip the balance. “I remember. Just…like touching you.” He felt a twinge of glee as Wing melted at the words. Wing loved touch—loved touching, loved being touched. The white frame softened against him, one hand covering Drift’s, squeezing affectionately.
Drift bit into the metal, feeling the body twist against him, legs tangling with his, Wing’s smaller footplates sliding against his shins. His own desires battered at him, but he fought them back, concentrating on glossing his fingers down the jet’s armor seam, the other hand cupping Wing’s cockpit, letting his engine rev against the half-folded wings.
Wing arched against him, ventilations rough, a small moan escaping his vocalizer. “M-maybe,” he gasped, as Drift trailed a hand over the interface hatch, “You should…should stop?”
“Should I?” Drift murmured, licking up the back of Wing’s audial flare.
Wing trembled in his arms. “I-I think you might want to.”
“All right,” Drift said, changing his grip, simply holding the jet, one hand not-so-demurely tucked between the silver white thighs. “Go back to recharge,” he said, cycling his own optics down, grinning at Wing’s uncomfortable whine. As they always said, misery loved company.
[***]
The third night, Wing jumped him, mouth finding his the moment he settled onto the berth, hands clutching around his upper arms. The warm glossa probed into his mouth, while the frame ground against his.
Drift tore his mouth free, Wing’s mouth then ducking down to nuzzle into his throat. “Hey. Uh…your thing?”
Wing growled, softly, hands juddering down Drift’s frame. “I know,” he groaned. “I know.” He tore his hands away, slumping back down onto the berth.
Drift rolled up to his knees, draping over Wing’s frame. “You said we could maybe…do something?” His optics were sly, fingertips tapping on the cockpit.
Wing whimpered, optics glued to the black fingertips tracing gentle lines over his cockpit glass. “We…shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t? You don’t want to?”
“I do.” The optics shuttered as if in pain. “Primus I do.” He squirmed, his chassis sliding under Drift’s rib struts.
Drift bent down, placing a chaste kiss on the jet’s mouth. Time to ratchet up the tension. “Trust me?”
Wing’s optics flared, warm and golden. “Y-yes.” There was an unspoken ‘but’ that Drift could easily pretend he didn’t hear. He bumped his mouth against the jet’s again, flicking his glossa out against the mouth plates. Not pushing in, just…skirting the edges, flirting with entrance.
Drift shifted down, sliding backwards along the jet’s body, his hands trailing along the complicated shapes of Wing’s armor, lifting his own torso with his knees, to slide between the silver thighs, mouth nipping hot and urgent on Wing’s interface hatch. Wing moaned, hands coming to clutch at Drift’s hands on his hips, body trembling. “This?” Drift asked, his voice husky.
The hatch clicked open, the hands squeezing his fingers as Drift gave a triumphant laugh, lowering his head, glossa circling the equipment covers. Wing released a vent of air, hips squirming. Drift grinned, lowering down to the valve cover, feeling his cheek armor against the thighs, his glossa tracing the rim of the valve’s cover until it released. He worked his hands under the thighs, clamping his hands around the hips, glossa probing into the valve. Wing’s lubricant was sweet and salty on his glossa, sharp prickles of arousal already tanging through the nodes. He almost felt sorry for Wing—so easily aroused, so entirely unable to hide it. And already so close.
Drift murmured, a shapeless sound, something of suppressed want. His own optics dimmed, sinking into the moment, glossa searching out one of the fine sensor nodes, the silky texture of the valve lining, the small raised nub of the sensor node. He rolled it over his dentae; Wing keening above him, thighs trembling, hands kneading his. “Drift. Oh…ohhhhh,” Wing thrashed on the berth, spine arching, twitching, contracting, in an agony of desire. He began a torrent of words, hands helpless and light, begging, writhing, pleading for release with his voice and every alloy of his frame.
Drift gave a feral sound of satisfaction, clamping around the hips, holding Wing down, forcing him steady, crest against the spike cover feeling the spike thrum against it, smelling the clean oil, tasting the charged lubricant, ionized air from Wing’s engines, the warm, gentle flow of Wing’s energy field against him, fuzzing, pushing, rising toward ecstasy.
Wing’s strong hands squeezed at his fingers, the overload wracking through the jet’s frame, hips bucking, one heel screeching along the metal of the berth.
Drift stilled, in place, mouth unmoving, glossa resting against the node he’d been tormenting, feeling the last of the electrical discharge prickle through him. Wing groaned, managing after a long moment to pull himself up enough to grab at Drift’s shoulders, hauling Drift against him. His mouth found Drift’s, eager, tasting himself on Drift’s glossa, lips, whimpering with desire, his body still trembling from the excess spill of charge. “Thank you,” Wing murmured, folding his arms around Drift. “I could…reciprocate?” His hand crept down Drift’s hip in invitation.
Drift pulled back, shaking his head. No. He’d rather wrestle with desire than be that exposed, vulnerable. It was one thing to do it to Wing: Wing was already half-open at all times, wanton, willing. He burned for release, but…not like that.
It was one thing to do, another to be done to and Drift wasn’t ready for that. Besides…being in control was so much more fun.
[***]
The fourth night, Wing plopped his weight across Drift’s hips, grinning down at him, squirming his pelvic span over Drift’s, coy, teasing.
“Something I can do for you, Wing?”
Wing rocked his hips, almost bouncing, his thighs squeezing at Drift’s body, rocking his hips in time against the berth. “Mmmmaybe.”
That…sounded promising. Drift’s hands closed over the white hips. “Really.”
“Really.” Wing dropped forward, his elbows resting on Drift’s spaulders, lowering his head for a quick, biting kiss. He pulled away, sucking
on Drift’s lower lip, gold optics lidded, intense, filling Drift’s visual field. “I want to get you off.”
“But…your little ritual.”
Wing squirmed, his body tantalizing and alive over Drift’s. “Only applies to me.”
“You look…smug.”
“I’ve been doing research!” Wing’s grin was infectious, as he bent lower, nuzzling into Drift’s throat. Drift’s systems, already simmering, boiled through his sensornet.
“Sounds dangerous.” Drift’s hands came up, almost on their own agenda, stroking over the ribstruts, fingertips, brushing the wings. “So what did you find out?”
“Well,” Wing stroked his audial flares against Drift’s spaulder. “The bad news is, not me. No fluids inside me.” He squirmed his weight, one hand sliding down between them to rest on the interface hatch’s release. “But, pretty much everything else is fine.”
“Everything else.” Yeah, what’s left?
Wing grinned, pressing down on the hatch’s release. “Use your imagination,” he said, optics already dimming, fingers searching for the spike cover, crawling over the warm metal. Drift’s spike surged up, the cover whisking aside, sensing urgency. Wing’s hand closed around the spike, squeezing gently, twisting his wrist around it as he pulled.
Drift shivered, the restrained lust of the last few days burning through his systems, his entire attention rapt on the careful, knowing movement of the hand on his spike. “You’re asking for trouble, Wing.”
“Am I?” Wing’s voice was soft, teasing, self-assured, even though Drift could feel the flare of desire across his EM field, a druzy flicker. “Maybe I just want you.” He leaned lower, his voice dropping, husky. “Maybe I just want to watch you overload, Drift.”
Drift sucked in a vent of air, feeling that somehow, somewhere along the line, the situation got reversed. He was supposed to be in control, in charge, not Wing, not the sleek, mild white jet, whose hand was tugging fierce arousal from his spike, Drift’s entire body heaving and rocking in time to the motion of Wing’s hand.
“I think,” Wing continued, his voice barely above a whisper, charge building across Drift’s nodes, “I think you’re trouble, Drift.” He leaned over, giving a biting kiss. “I guess I do want trouble.”
Drift’s entire body jolted, giving a groaning cry as the overload, delayed, denied for days, rocketed across his systems, burning like nitrogen through him. Wing’s ventilation fell into sharp pants, battered by the EM field, wild, untamed, as he stilled over Drift, hand trembling against the charge-crackling spike.
Drift gave a last twitching jolt, optics fixed on Wing’s face, devouring his response. They hung for a long moment, both feeling the heat of Drift’s transfluid, spattered across their chassis, shed its warmth into the air. Drift curled an arm around the jet’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss. “Get you back for that,” he said, against Wing’s mouth.
“Trouble,” Wing teased, surrendering to the kiss.
[***]
And then, the fifth night, both of them dissatisfied with half-measures, circling around each other’s lust like predators. The last night, and this had become, somehow, in Drift’s mind, a duel. Which he would win. He’d show Wing: he was more than just ‘trouble’.
“Are you sure? It’s…very tedious work.”
Drift just cocked his head. “So? Got anything better to do tonight? No.” He gave a flat stare.
Wing gave a tentative shrug. “If you want to? But only until you get bored.” He was adamant on the last point.
Drift nodded. Only, he wasn’t planning on getting bored. “Lie down.”
Wing flopped onto his belly, and it was a test of resolve right there for Drift not to just pounce on him. But no. He was going to draw this one out. He grabbed the oil, brushes and a cloth, and hopped back on the berth. “Open.”
Wing obediently splayed his wingflaps, locking them out. Another moment of temptation, but Drift was ready. He focused on oiling the brush, before bending over, scrubbing at the joints in the wings, where they folded together.
“Oh!” Wing arched up, struts trembling.
“Too hard?” Drift asked. “Things are filthy.” His brush’s bristles were turning muddy black from the grit.
“No, no,” Wing said, forcing himself back down. “Please. It needs to be done.”
Oh yes it does, Drift thought, and lightened the strokes anyway, changing from short sharp scrubs to long draws of the bristles along the length of the panels, letting the bristles drop slowly off the edge. Wing sighed beneath him, wriggling his shoulders in contentment. “That feels…really good,” Wing murmured, a flash of gold optic over a shoulder.
“General idea,” Drift said. He took the cloth, sweeping it down the panels, wiping the grime and oil. He could feel Wing’s engines purr, the EM tickling against him. Good progress. He worked on, repeating the cycle: oil, brush, then cloth, scrubbing and sweeping down each panel, the main struts, feeling Wing quiver and melt beneath him.
He straddled the jet’s hips, bending over, letting his own EM field, which had been fighting the same losing battle with arousal, mingle with Wing’s, letting it brush and tease against the scrubbed-sensitive sensors. He nipped at one of the audial flares. Wing gasped, hands clutching at the berth, wings locking out again in surprise. Drift gave a feral grin. “Do you want something, Wing?”
“Yes…?” Wing squirmed beneath him. “But…we shouldn’t.”
“But we can.” Drift dropped his weight on the jet’s back, knees squeezing against Wing’s thighs, grinding his pelvic span into the bare channel on Wing’s back where the sword normally rested. “You said we could use our imaginations, right?” He stroked a hand along the newly oiled wing, feeling the shudder beneath him. Try to think clearly, Wing. He bent, licking an exposed cable in the back of Wing’s neck for good measure.
“We could…,” Wing whined, squirming underneath Drift’s assault. Drift nipped the cable, gratified.
“Trust me? I’ve been good so far,” Drift coaxed, letting a hand slide between them, fingers on the interface hatch.
“You have,” Wing said, wings fluttering, uneasily. Drift clicked the panel open, letting his fingers flirt with the valve’s cover, light maddening touches. Wing mewled, hips twisting, frustrated, fighting his own desires. The cover flicked aside, almost like a betrayal, and Drift felt the warm wetness of Wing’s valve lubricant on his fingers, as he traced a large wet circle around the rim of the valve, distracting the jet while he bumped his own hips up, snapped his panel open, and then dropped down, sinking his spike into the glorious, too-long-delayed snug warmth of Wing’s valve. They both shuddered, almost simultaneously, the valve clamping down on the spike, both of their systems shocked with sensation. Drift found his own vents gasping for air, desperate to cool his sudden heat, rocking himself gently, slowly, in the valve.
“Drift,” Wing whimpered, half a warning, half a plea.
Drift murmured something, sinking his dentae into the throat, tilting Wing’s head aside, his spinal struts arching and curling over Wing’s body, hands groping over the broad silver wings as his spike surged and ebbed in the valve. He could feel the overload charge rising, even with these slow, short strokes, his own net fighting desire.
He rocked back onto his knees, clamping his hands on the white hips so that Wing followed the movement, their bodies locked, braced on their knees. The angle was straighter here, more control, and he had…all of Wing’s back to enjoy, the half-frantic way Wing whipped his head, the aroused pulsing of his wings, inviting touch.
Drift kept one hand clamped on the hips, jerking Wing against him so their bodies both made half of the movement, pulling the valve onto his spike. He went faster, deeper, Wing moaning outright, only able to keep himself under control by turning his head to bite into his own shoulder, the sudden pain sapping some of the rising charge.
“Drift…please!” Wing begged, unsure what he was begging for—that Drift stop? That he not stop?
“Don’t know,” Drift said, pitching his voice sharp. “You’re so fraggin’ hot, Wing. Not really sure I can stop myself.”
“No!” Wing thrashed, trying to pull away, jerk his valve off the spike, but Drift’s hands clamped over the hips, fingers hard in the gaps of the metal, holding his weight, even as the jet writhed, frantic, as the very act of his struggle squeezed and rubbed over the spike. Drift kept his rhythm, inexorable, fighting the overload himself, his smile sharp-edged and wild.
“Mine, Wing,” he muttered. “I’ve been patient enough.”
Wing whimpered, twisting his hips. "Please!"
"You know how good that feels when you struggle, Wing?" He gave a dark laugh, his core temp spiking at the jet's frantic reaction. It was mean-spirited, it was terrible, but, damn, the writhing, frantic jet did things to his interface systems that he'd never felt before. Power and desire and want all rolled into one, rounded by control. Because he had no intention of ruining this for Wing and this was a test of his own control, his power over Wing's pleasure.
After another long moment of violent struggle, the heels swinging, hips bucking, spine twisting, Wing flopped with a disconsolate cry, surrendered, whimpering in dismay as he saw the whole period of abstinence just…ruined, his own inability to control himself, at base, the culprit. Even as his valve clutched around the spike within him, his cortex was showering him with blame for that very lack of restraint, for letting it get this far.
Drift shoved the hips away from him, jerking the valve off his spike with an abruptness that stung, throwing himself on the jet’s back, his slick, hot spike grinding into the Great Sword’s channel, his mouth searching for Wing’s throat, hands grabbing at Wing’s threading through them before he howled his own overload, the spike crackling against the white metal, silver fluid a torrent slicking the space between them. He collapsed onto the jet’s spinal struts, bite of his dentae loosening, licking gently along the throat cables. Wing lay beneath him, spent with worry, body shivering.
“Should trust me, Wing,” Drift whispered, nuzzling along the audio.
Wing’s optics squeezed together, his hand curling in Drift’s. “I do.”
“You didn’t, for a moment, there.”
“No….I…didn’t trust myself.” Wing twisted his neck, his mouth brushing over Drift’s, exquisite, as always, in his surrender.
[***]
Epilogue
This? Was not how Drift had expected to wake up. He’d fallen into recharge, spike still squashed between them, his transfluid a silver abstract spray on the wings he’d just cleaned, nuzzled into the jet’s body. And he’d woken up, wrists bound and extended over his head, Wing smiling down at him, toying with one of his plasma blades. “Morning, Drift,” Wing said, optics tilted, coy.
Drift tested the bonds on his wrists. Fruitless. He should know better: Wing was good at knots. “Suppose you’re going to get me back for last night, huh?”
“Astute observation,” Wing purred, keeping Drift’s gaze as he licked the length of the deactivated blade. Drift’s spike surged in its housing.
“Thought…your thing?”
“Ended at midnight.” The grin grew wicked.
Part of Drift wished he’d held on longer last night, and part did not regret that at all. Drift tilted his chin, a show of defiance. “I’m not afraid.”
“You shouldn’t be, but you will be,” Wing activated the blade, letting the crackling heat flitter over Drift’s still-exposed spike, “drained.”
IDW
Drift/Wing
PWP sticky
ALLEGEDLY, but really sort of fail, a fill for a kink meme request:
“It’s just for a pentacycle,” Wing said, wrapping his arms around Drift. “You’ll survive.”
Drift wasn’t so sure about that. “What’s this stupid thing about?” Already he could feel the electric silk of Wing behind him, tempting him.
“It’s to commemorate the cycles we spent wandering before we found this place.”
“So you celebrate by…no interfacing.” Yeah. In case he hadn’t thought everyone here was a little nuts.
Wing gave a frustrated nip to his shoulder-panel. Which in the circumstances, Drift did not appreciate. “Not ‘no interfacing’. Just no ejaculation.”
Which was…of course, like everything else in this stupid City, needlessly complicated. He grunted.
“It won’t be bad,” Wing said. “It’ll be kind of fun.”
Fun. Uh, no. Recharging night after night with a hot, squirmy jet next to you and not able to spike it into the berth? Not Drift’s idea of fun. In fact, his spike cycled just now thinking about the thigh sliding over his hip, the flash of stabilizer. “You people think tying yourselves to swords till you pass out is fun.”
“Drift…,” Wing began.
“Don’t you ‘Drift’ me,” he sulked. “And stop groping me if you actually want me to do this.” Because he was about ready to turn in the jet’s embrace and take him.
Wing gave a soft, sad sound, his arms stilling over Drift’s frame. “May I at least touch you?” he asked, voice grave.
“Just…no squirming.” The worst part: Wing’s hot, aroused squirm.
Wing settled, carefully, as if fearing every motion was a ‘squirm’ until he lay beside Drift, arm thrown over the chassis, cheek resting on the broad spaulder, his optics creased, unhappy.
And that was the first night.
[***]
This…was not going to work. Drift had already decided that. He was beginning—already—to lose his damn mind. And he’d swear that Wing was doing it on purpose: being seductive, extra touchy. All right, probably not. Wing was just…Wing. Which meant: a hot-running jet, with restless, optic-attracting wings and an EM field that licked coyly at anything within range. Which was, currently, Drift.
Drift’s spike complained within its housing, half pressurized, tapping impatiently for release, and scraping its head hard against the equipment cover every time the jet shifted in his recharge.
Like now, Wing lying on his side, aft snuggled into Drift’s hip, his top wing flopping back over Drift’s chassis. Drift’s hands twitched, wanting to grab that wing, stroke it, bite it, pull the jet on top of him and sink his spike into….
No. Stupid ritual. Stupid purity. He growled, softly, trying to stare angry holes in the ceiling.
And then…Wing’s words floated back to him. Just no ejaculation?
Oh right. ‘Just’.
But still.
The blue optics narrowed in the darkness, a fiendish smile blooming on his mouth. He was suffering, why not make sure Wing was suffering, just as much?
He let his hand brush the top strut of the wing, stroking down it, the satiny white sleek under his palm. Wing arched against him, sighing softly, the wing pushing into his touch. He grinned in the dark, tipping his head over, nipping at the join of the wingstrut to Wing’s back. Wing purred, tilting his head over his shoulder, optics dim with recharge.
Drift’s amusement sharpened, rolling to his side, pulling the jet’s back against him, his pelvic frame pushing insistently against the jet’s aft.
“Drift,” Wing murmured, warningly.
“What? Just touching you.”
Wing’s face flickered, torn between desire and obedience to his stupid rules. Drift slid a hand down a silver thigh to help tip the balance. “I remember. Just…like touching you.” He felt a twinge of glee as Wing melted at the words. Wing loved touch—loved touching, loved being touched. The white frame softened against him, one hand covering Drift’s, squeezing affectionately.
Drift bit into the metal, feeling the body twist against him, legs tangling with his, Wing’s smaller footplates sliding against his shins. His own desires battered at him, but he fought them back, concentrating on glossing his fingers down the jet’s armor seam, the other hand cupping Wing’s cockpit, letting his engine rev against the half-folded wings.
Wing arched against him, ventilations rough, a small moan escaping his vocalizer. “M-maybe,” he gasped, as Drift trailed a hand over the interface hatch, “You should…should stop?”
“Should I?” Drift murmured, licking up the back of Wing’s audial flare.
Wing trembled in his arms. “I-I think you might want to.”
“All right,” Drift said, changing his grip, simply holding the jet, one hand not-so-demurely tucked between the silver white thighs. “Go back to recharge,” he said, cycling his own optics down, grinning at Wing’s uncomfortable whine. As they always said, misery loved company.
[***]
The third night, Wing jumped him, mouth finding his the moment he settled onto the berth, hands clutching around his upper arms. The warm glossa probed into his mouth, while the frame ground against his.
Drift tore his mouth free, Wing’s mouth then ducking down to nuzzle into his throat. “Hey. Uh…your thing?”
Wing growled, softly, hands juddering down Drift’s frame. “I know,” he groaned. “I know.” He tore his hands away, slumping back down onto the berth.
Drift rolled up to his knees, draping over Wing’s frame. “You said we could maybe…do something?” His optics were sly, fingertips tapping on the cockpit.
Wing whimpered, optics glued to the black fingertips tracing gentle lines over his cockpit glass. “We…shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t? You don’t want to?”
“I do.” The optics shuttered as if in pain. “Primus I do.” He squirmed, his chassis sliding under Drift’s rib struts.
Drift bent down, placing a chaste kiss on the jet’s mouth. Time to ratchet up the tension. “Trust me?”
Wing’s optics flared, warm and golden. “Y-yes.” There was an unspoken ‘but’ that Drift could easily pretend he didn’t hear. He bumped his mouth against the jet’s again, flicking his glossa out against the mouth plates. Not pushing in, just…skirting the edges, flirting with entrance.
Drift shifted down, sliding backwards along the jet’s body, his hands trailing along the complicated shapes of Wing’s armor, lifting his own torso with his knees, to slide between the silver thighs, mouth nipping hot and urgent on Wing’s interface hatch. Wing moaned, hands coming to clutch at Drift’s hands on his hips, body trembling. “This?” Drift asked, his voice husky.
The hatch clicked open, the hands squeezing his fingers as Drift gave a triumphant laugh, lowering his head, glossa circling the equipment covers. Wing released a vent of air, hips squirming. Drift grinned, lowering down to the valve cover, feeling his cheek armor against the thighs, his glossa tracing the rim of the valve’s cover until it released. He worked his hands under the thighs, clamping his hands around the hips, glossa probing into the valve. Wing’s lubricant was sweet and salty on his glossa, sharp prickles of arousal already tanging through the nodes. He almost felt sorry for Wing—so easily aroused, so entirely unable to hide it. And already so close.
Drift murmured, a shapeless sound, something of suppressed want. His own optics dimmed, sinking into the moment, glossa searching out one of the fine sensor nodes, the silky texture of the valve lining, the small raised nub of the sensor node. He rolled it over his dentae; Wing keening above him, thighs trembling, hands kneading his. “Drift. Oh…ohhhhh,” Wing thrashed on the berth, spine arching, twitching, contracting, in an agony of desire. He began a torrent of words, hands helpless and light, begging, writhing, pleading for release with his voice and every alloy of his frame.
Drift gave a feral sound of satisfaction, clamping around the hips, holding Wing down, forcing him steady, crest against the spike cover feeling the spike thrum against it, smelling the clean oil, tasting the charged lubricant, ionized air from Wing’s engines, the warm, gentle flow of Wing’s energy field against him, fuzzing, pushing, rising toward ecstasy.
Wing’s strong hands squeezed at his fingers, the overload wracking through the jet’s frame, hips bucking, one heel screeching along the metal of the berth.
Drift stilled, in place, mouth unmoving, glossa resting against the node he’d been tormenting, feeling the last of the electrical discharge prickle through him. Wing groaned, managing after a long moment to pull himself up enough to grab at Drift’s shoulders, hauling Drift against him. His mouth found Drift’s, eager, tasting himself on Drift’s glossa, lips, whimpering with desire, his body still trembling from the excess spill of charge. “Thank you,” Wing murmured, folding his arms around Drift. “I could…reciprocate?” His hand crept down Drift’s hip in invitation.
Drift pulled back, shaking his head. No. He’d rather wrestle with desire than be that exposed, vulnerable. It was one thing to do it to Wing: Wing was already half-open at all times, wanton, willing. He burned for release, but…not like that.
It was one thing to do, another to be done to and Drift wasn’t ready for that. Besides…being in control was so much more fun.
[***]
The fourth night, Wing plopped his weight across Drift’s hips, grinning down at him, squirming his pelvic span over Drift’s, coy, teasing.
“Something I can do for you, Wing?”
Wing rocked his hips, almost bouncing, his thighs squeezing at Drift’s body, rocking his hips in time against the berth. “Mmmmaybe.”
That…sounded promising. Drift’s hands closed over the white hips. “Really.”
“Really.” Wing dropped forward, his elbows resting on Drift’s spaulders, lowering his head for a quick, biting kiss. He pulled away, sucking
on Drift’s lower lip, gold optics lidded, intense, filling Drift’s visual field. “I want to get you off.”
“But…your little ritual.”
Wing squirmed, his body tantalizing and alive over Drift’s. “Only applies to me.”
“You look…smug.”
“I’ve been doing research!” Wing’s grin was infectious, as he bent lower, nuzzling into Drift’s throat. Drift’s systems, already simmering, boiled through his sensornet.
“Sounds dangerous.” Drift’s hands came up, almost on their own agenda, stroking over the ribstruts, fingertips, brushing the wings. “So what did you find out?”
“Well,” Wing stroked his audial flares against Drift’s spaulder. “The bad news is, not me. No fluids inside me.” He squirmed his weight, one hand sliding down between them to rest on the interface hatch’s release. “But, pretty much everything else is fine.”
“Everything else.” Yeah, what’s left?
Wing grinned, pressing down on the hatch’s release. “Use your imagination,” he said, optics already dimming, fingers searching for the spike cover, crawling over the warm metal. Drift’s spike surged up, the cover whisking aside, sensing urgency. Wing’s hand closed around the spike, squeezing gently, twisting his wrist around it as he pulled.
Drift shivered, the restrained lust of the last few days burning through his systems, his entire attention rapt on the careful, knowing movement of the hand on his spike. “You’re asking for trouble, Wing.”
“Am I?” Wing’s voice was soft, teasing, self-assured, even though Drift could feel the flare of desire across his EM field, a druzy flicker. “Maybe I just want you.” He leaned lower, his voice dropping, husky. “Maybe I just want to watch you overload, Drift.”
Drift sucked in a vent of air, feeling that somehow, somewhere along the line, the situation got reversed. He was supposed to be in control, in charge, not Wing, not the sleek, mild white jet, whose hand was tugging fierce arousal from his spike, Drift’s entire body heaving and rocking in time to the motion of Wing’s hand.
“I think,” Wing continued, his voice barely above a whisper, charge building across Drift’s nodes, “I think you’re trouble, Drift.” He leaned over, giving a biting kiss. “I guess I do want trouble.”
Drift’s entire body jolted, giving a groaning cry as the overload, delayed, denied for days, rocketed across his systems, burning like nitrogen through him. Wing’s ventilation fell into sharp pants, battered by the EM field, wild, untamed, as he stilled over Drift, hand trembling against the charge-crackling spike.
Drift gave a last twitching jolt, optics fixed on Wing’s face, devouring his response. They hung for a long moment, both feeling the heat of Drift’s transfluid, spattered across their chassis, shed its warmth into the air. Drift curled an arm around the jet’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss. “Get you back for that,” he said, against Wing’s mouth.
“Trouble,” Wing teased, surrendering to the kiss.
[***]
And then, the fifth night, both of them dissatisfied with half-measures, circling around each other’s lust like predators. The last night, and this had become, somehow, in Drift’s mind, a duel. Which he would win. He’d show Wing: he was more than just ‘trouble’.
“Are you sure? It’s…very tedious work.”
Drift just cocked his head. “So? Got anything better to do tonight? No.” He gave a flat stare.
Wing gave a tentative shrug. “If you want to? But only until you get bored.” He was adamant on the last point.
Drift nodded. Only, he wasn’t planning on getting bored. “Lie down.”
Wing flopped onto his belly, and it was a test of resolve right there for Drift not to just pounce on him. But no. He was going to draw this one out. He grabbed the oil, brushes and a cloth, and hopped back on the berth. “Open.”
Wing obediently splayed his wingflaps, locking them out. Another moment of temptation, but Drift was ready. He focused on oiling the brush, before bending over, scrubbing at the joints in the wings, where they folded together.
“Oh!” Wing arched up, struts trembling.
“Too hard?” Drift asked. “Things are filthy.” His brush’s bristles were turning muddy black from the grit.
“No, no,” Wing said, forcing himself back down. “Please. It needs to be done.”
Oh yes it does, Drift thought, and lightened the strokes anyway, changing from short sharp scrubs to long draws of the bristles along the length of the panels, letting the bristles drop slowly off the edge. Wing sighed beneath him, wriggling his shoulders in contentment. “That feels…really good,” Wing murmured, a flash of gold optic over a shoulder.
“General idea,” Drift said. He took the cloth, sweeping it down the panels, wiping the grime and oil. He could feel Wing’s engines purr, the EM tickling against him. Good progress. He worked on, repeating the cycle: oil, brush, then cloth, scrubbing and sweeping down each panel, the main struts, feeling Wing quiver and melt beneath him.
He straddled the jet’s hips, bending over, letting his own EM field, which had been fighting the same losing battle with arousal, mingle with Wing’s, letting it brush and tease against the scrubbed-sensitive sensors. He nipped at one of the audial flares. Wing gasped, hands clutching at the berth, wings locking out again in surprise. Drift gave a feral grin. “Do you want something, Wing?”
“Yes…?” Wing squirmed beneath him. “But…we shouldn’t.”
“But we can.” Drift dropped his weight on the jet’s back, knees squeezing against Wing’s thighs, grinding his pelvic span into the bare channel on Wing’s back where the sword normally rested. “You said we could use our imaginations, right?” He stroked a hand along the newly oiled wing, feeling the shudder beneath him. Try to think clearly, Wing. He bent, licking an exposed cable in the back of Wing’s neck for good measure.
“We could…,” Wing whined, squirming underneath Drift’s assault. Drift nipped the cable, gratified.
“Trust me? I’ve been good so far,” Drift coaxed, letting a hand slide between them, fingers on the interface hatch.
“You have,” Wing said, wings fluttering, uneasily. Drift clicked the panel open, letting his fingers flirt with the valve’s cover, light maddening touches. Wing mewled, hips twisting, frustrated, fighting his own desires. The cover flicked aside, almost like a betrayal, and Drift felt the warm wetness of Wing’s valve lubricant on his fingers, as he traced a large wet circle around the rim of the valve, distracting the jet while he bumped his own hips up, snapped his panel open, and then dropped down, sinking his spike into the glorious, too-long-delayed snug warmth of Wing’s valve. They both shuddered, almost simultaneously, the valve clamping down on the spike, both of their systems shocked with sensation. Drift found his own vents gasping for air, desperate to cool his sudden heat, rocking himself gently, slowly, in the valve.
“Drift,” Wing whimpered, half a warning, half a plea.
Drift murmured something, sinking his dentae into the throat, tilting Wing’s head aside, his spinal struts arching and curling over Wing’s body, hands groping over the broad silver wings as his spike surged and ebbed in the valve. He could feel the overload charge rising, even with these slow, short strokes, his own net fighting desire.
He rocked back onto his knees, clamping his hands on the white hips so that Wing followed the movement, their bodies locked, braced on their knees. The angle was straighter here, more control, and he had…all of Wing’s back to enjoy, the half-frantic way Wing whipped his head, the aroused pulsing of his wings, inviting touch.
Drift kept one hand clamped on the hips, jerking Wing against him so their bodies both made half of the movement, pulling the valve onto his spike. He went faster, deeper, Wing moaning outright, only able to keep himself under control by turning his head to bite into his own shoulder, the sudden pain sapping some of the rising charge.
“Drift…please!” Wing begged, unsure what he was begging for—that Drift stop? That he not stop?
“Don’t know,” Drift said, pitching his voice sharp. “You’re so fraggin’ hot, Wing. Not really sure I can stop myself.”
“No!” Wing thrashed, trying to pull away, jerk his valve off the spike, but Drift’s hands clamped over the hips, fingers hard in the gaps of the metal, holding his weight, even as the jet writhed, frantic, as the very act of his struggle squeezed and rubbed over the spike. Drift kept his rhythm, inexorable, fighting the overload himself, his smile sharp-edged and wild.
“Mine, Wing,” he muttered. “I’ve been patient enough.”
Wing whimpered, twisting his hips. "Please!"
"You know how good that feels when you struggle, Wing?" He gave a dark laugh, his core temp spiking at the jet's frantic reaction. It was mean-spirited, it was terrible, but, damn, the writhing, frantic jet did things to his interface systems that he'd never felt before. Power and desire and want all rolled into one, rounded by control. Because he had no intention of ruining this for Wing and this was a test of his own control, his power over Wing's pleasure.
After another long moment of violent struggle, the heels swinging, hips bucking, spine twisting, Wing flopped with a disconsolate cry, surrendered, whimpering in dismay as he saw the whole period of abstinence just…ruined, his own inability to control himself, at base, the culprit. Even as his valve clutched around the spike within him, his cortex was showering him with blame for that very lack of restraint, for letting it get this far.
Drift shoved the hips away from him, jerking the valve off his spike with an abruptness that stung, throwing himself on the jet’s back, his slick, hot spike grinding into the Great Sword’s channel, his mouth searching for Wing’s throat, hands grabbing at Wing’s threading through them before he howled his own overload, the spike crackling against the white metal, silver fluid a torrent slicking the space between them. He collapsed onto the jet’s spinal struts, bite of his dentae loosening, licking gently along the throat cables. Wing lay beneath him, spent with worry, body shivering.
“Should trust me, Wing,” Drift whispered, nuzzling along the audio.
Wing’s optics squeezed together, his hand curling in Drift’s. “I do.”
“You didn’t, for a moment, there.”
“No….I…didn’t trust myself.” Wing twisted his neck, his mouth brushing over Drift’s, exquisite, as always, in his surrender.
[***]
Epilogue
This? Was not how Drift had expected to wake up. He’d fallen into recharge, spike still squashed between them, his transfluid a silver abstract spray on the wings he’d just cleaned, nuzzled into the jet’s body. And he’d woken up, wrists bound and extended over his head, Wing smiling down at him, toying with one of his plasma blades. “Morning, Drift,” Wing said, optics tilted, coy.
Drift tested the bonds on his wrists. Fruitless. He should know better: Wing was good at knots. “Suppose you’re going to get me back for last night, huh?”
“Astute observation,” Wing purred, keeping Drift’s gaze as he licked the length of the deactivated blade. Drift’s spike surged in its housing.
“Thought…your thing?”
“Ended at midnight.” The grin grew wicked.
Part of Drift wished he’d held on longer last night, and part did not regret that at all. Drift tilted his chin, a show of defiance. “I’m not afraid.”
“You shouldn’t be, but you will be,” Wing activated the blade, letting the crackling heat flitter over Drift’s still-exposed spike, “drained.”
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no subject
Date: 2011-05-24 04:16 pm (UTC)thank you.
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Date: 2011-05-24 04:18 pm (UTC)Loved it!
no subject
Date: 2011-05-24 07:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-24 10:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-24 10:03 pm (UTC)*right-click, save-as*
YEP.
THAT JUST HAPPENED.
Yeah, only started watching fic comm recently
Date: 2011-05-24 10:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-25 02:35 am (UTC)And then some.
no subject
Date: 2011-05-25 03:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-25 01:22 pm (UTC)But I have to say, it's lovely written! Wing tring to be all traditional and such but struggles so much... I don't even think Drift was the most tormented one here... XD~
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Date: 2011-05-25 08:47 pm (UTC)Two-thumbs up. I like how creative you are with your descriptions. Keep it up
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Date: 2011-05-26 01:38 am (UTC)fails miserably
So hot. So incredibly hot.
no subject
Date: 2011-05-29 03:35 pm (UTC)