shadow_vector | Challenge

NC-17
IDW MTMTE
Ultra Magnus/Drift
sticky
for

ravynfyre, I hope this helps. A bit. :<

“I can take another round,” Drift said. His tone was almost shy, almost teasing, straightening up from where he had been flung against the wall. “If you’re up for it.”

“Up for it.” Ultra Magnus frowned. He couldn’t figure out if he was supposed to be insulted or not.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Drift said, giving a lopsided grin, as though he hadn’t—still—quite gotten the hang of it. He rushed in low, but shifted his momentum at the last moment, pushing up to bring a fist up along the line of Ultra Magnus’s body.

Ultra Magnus swung, almost pure instinct, one elbow across his body, sweeping Drift to one side: the lighter mech staggering to the side. It had begun with crossed motives on both sides, he thought. Drift claiming he wanted to practice, Ultra Magnus wanting to test Drift’s mettle. In case—in the very likely case—he needed to bring Drift down one day.

Drift recovered, turning the momentum around, driving one fist into Ultra Magnus’s midsection. A grin flickered on his face. This was what he needed: a chance to put rosters and rooming assignments and all the other minutiae of paperwork aside and just be what he was: a fighter, a mover, not a mind.

“You shouldn’t be enjoying this,” Ultra Magnus said, sternly. He bent around the punch, grabbing at the arm, using it to swing Drift around.

“Why not?” Drift’s mood was undamped, flush with memories of sparring with Wing: that desperate fight for freedom, that had really been the jet slowly showing him himself. And he knew he couldn’t replicate Wing’s process, Wing’s ideals, but he had learned, and the bittersweet edges of the memory sustained his smile. “Is having fun illegal?” He slammed into the wall, helm rattling, before he ducked skillfully down under Ultra Magnus’s next blow.

“Your kind of fun, yes.”

Drift grinned. “This is my kind of fun,” he said, sweeping out one of Ultra Magnus’s ankles. The larger mech went down hard, and Drift let himself tumble with him, landing on the broad chassis. “Tell me you’re not having fun.”

Ultra Magnus felt the other’s EM field fuzz over his, tingling and inviting. And remembered the last time they were like this: his arms pinned over his head, Drift slithering, coy and aroused, over his armor.

Oh, he did not want to remember that. Not right now, the other mech’s cheeky grin hovering over him, almost tempting a kiss.

“No,” he said.

“Liar.” Drift rolled off him, one hand trailing over Ultra Magnus’s thigh.

“I do not lie.”

A chuckle from the other mech, the face curved into a rare, unfamiliar smile. “Tell me,” he said, offering that hand to help Ultra Magnus to his feet, “All those mechs you’ve hunted, all the pursuit. It doesn’t…appeal to you?”

Ultra Magnus swatted the hand away, clambering to his feet. “I enforce the law.”

“Nothing says you can’t enjoy doing it, though.” A glint of the optic that might have been a wink.

Ultra Magnus frowned, brushing away a speck of imaginary dirt. “Are you flirting with me?”

The hard mouth curled into a smile. “Depends. Is that illegal, too?”

“I don’t think,” Ultra Magnus said, drawing himself upright, tingling with outrage, “that you have the proper respect for the law.”

“Oh?” Drift stepped back, making distance between them, letting his hips roll, the scabbards swaying enticingly. Ultra Magnus found his gaze drawn to the liquid motion. “Have to show me then, won’t you?”

That was quite enough of Drift’s insolence. Ultra Magnus leapt forward, closing the distance between them. Drift raised one arm to block a blow he thought was inbound. Ultra Magnus snatched at the arm, twisting it up and behind Drift’s back, spinning the smaller mech around and slamming him, belly down, against a table on the side of the room. The ex-Decepticon grunted at the impact, systems jarring.

And then Drift laughed. “Going to have to try harder than that.”

Ultra Magnus twisted the wrist in his grasp higher behind Drift’s back, between the spaulders. He leaned over, vents hissing down at Drift. “Will I? This was enough to take down most mechs.”

Another laugh, the EM field lashing against his. “Guess I’m a little harder than you’re used to handling.”

Ultra Magnus snarled, feeling all too vividly his own EM flare in response, his interface systems fire on as he became—abruptly—aware of the proximity of his interface equipment to Drift’s, the way the smaller mech was bent over the table at just the right height….

“I can handle you.”

“Really.” The helm turned, pointed finials revolving and he caught another glint of the blue tilted optic, a curve of a cheeky smile. “Prove it.” A sinuous wave of Drift’s spine, the back of his hips grinding against the tops of Ultra Magnus’s thighs in open invitation.

“You are incorrigible.”

“Probably. Does that mean you’re not even going to try?” A slide of contact up his ankle—Drift’s footplate, tracing the line of his heavy calf armor.

“Did Rodimus put you up to this?” The sudden question surprised even Ultra Magnus. He remembered all too well their last…encounter.

Another chuckle, and the helm shook. “No.” Another wriggle against him. “All me this time.”

“Ridiculous.” He tightened his hand on Drift’s wrist, feeling the slide of the armor plates against his belly, which sent erotic tingles over his net. No. Wrong thoughts. Very wrong thoughts.

“Ultra Magnus.” The teasing tone ratcheted down for a klik. “All I’ve done wrong. I’ve never lied.”

There was…that. He felt his own ventilations hitch, and he found himself pressing in closer, his thighs against Drift’s, rubbing the projection of his pelvic span against the other’s body. The EM field rippled and flared under his, Drift giving a soft, wanting sound like a moan. His spike pressurized behind its cover, almost imagining the body beneath him. “You,” he said, gruffly, “want me.”

“So hard to imagine?” Drift arched his shoulders back, bowing his head, exposing the back of his neck and the intricate lines of the cables, inviting contact.

Ultra Magnus bent, his dentae finding the cables, nipping along them, breathing his heat and desire against the smaller mech.

Another sound, a definite moan this time, and a sort of urgency in the wriggle against him. Drift was, it seemed, impatient. A smile pulled at the corners of Ultra Magnus’s mouth, and he let his free hand slide between them, rubbing at the back of Drift’s interface hatch.

A garbled sound, Drift rigid with want, freezing into place, his entire attention fixated on the three delicate brushpoints of Ultra Magnus’s fingertips, the one firm bite of his mouth.

He slipped the hatch open, drawing a lazy circle with his fingertips down the open panel, the lighter metal warm under his touch. He cupped the valve cover with his palm, fingertips flirting with the spike’s cover, just enough to tease and tempt, not enough to promise.

The valve cover clicked open—he could feel the sudden heat and the slide of the thin metal petals under his palm, and Drift’s body, straining back against him.

His own spike surged, and he freed it with a quick flick of his wrist, feeling the warm, tingling air of their tangled EM fields prickle against it as it jutted out of its cover, large and glossy with lubricant.

Ultra Magnus grunted, bending his knees, pushing the spike’s blunt head into the valve. Drift hissed with pleasure, thighs sliding wider apart. Ultra Magnus stopped, waited, enjoying the grasp and flutter of the calipers around the spike’s head, then the stirring impatience. He held Drift pinned, immobilized, spike and hands, and he could feel the rising frustration in the other’s frame, wanting more, wanting the rest. And more—knowing what Ultra Magnus was doing, knowing he was being deliberately denied.

And Drift wanting that, too. Wanting to be teased, tormented, withheld; wanting even this to be a challenge, a fight.

And Ultra Magnus wanted it, too. He pushed in, feeling the lining stretch, feeling Drift shudder beneath him, around him, feeling the hand clutch at his, Drift’s other hand clawing at the table’s edge as he inched in, slowly, agonizingly slowly, until his entire girth was sheathed in the smaller mech.

He stopped again, his spike’s head grinding against the ceiling of the valve, feeling the taut lining stretched around him, the slight resistance of the stretched mesh. “Seem to have you handled,” he breathed into Drift’s neck.

“Seem to,” Drift gasped, ventilations shallow, as though compressed by the mass of the spike inside him. “Might want to make sure, though.”

Still. Still, Drift was goading him. He felt a flash of outrage, that melted into arousal, liquid and hot, and he began moving, thrusting sharply into Drift, short little jabs with his spike that jolted Drift’s hips against the table.

Ultra Magnus straightened, bracing Drift’s shoulders with his hands, and pausing to look down his torso at the spectacle of his blue-lined spike disappearing into the white rim of the valve, the slick mingling of their fluids, the hard slide of metal on mesh. He saw, felt, heard, everything, even smelling the sharp tang of heated lubricant, of his own EM field rising to overload charge.

Drift squirmed beneath him, giving a choking cry, the thighs clamping backward against Ultra Magnus’s hips, and he felt the hot rush of fluid, the calipers rippling over his spike’s nodes in waves of pressure and charge. A grunt escaped him, and one long thrust, nearly out, to deep within, almost impaling Drift, and the fluid rushed scalding and sweet, through his spike, flooding into the tight space.

It had been…a long time. Longer even since he’d let himself get even that rough. He felt wrung out, his knees threatening to topple his weight. He leaned forward, resting his elbows beside Drift’s still quivering frame.

“Handled,” he huffed, over his humming cooling fans.

A vibration beneath him: Drift laughing, and the helm turned hard to one side. The body shifted and they both froze, gasping, at the move of spike in valve, sharp little prickles of charge shooting over the nodes. “For now,” Drift said, and this time, it was definitely a promise.