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                Wing settles himself against you, and you manage not to react until he rocks his hips against yours. You keep your face steady, but he’s so warm and wet, you can’t help it—your fans kick up a notch. It’s quiet, but his mouth turns up at the corners, and you know he notices. And then he sets the edge of his sword under your chin.

                “Now, Drift,” he murmurs. “Hands above your head.”

                “Why? Afraid I’d turn the tables if we were on an equal playing field?”

                But you obey him. And Wing, he just smiles at you, so patient and so gentle you can’t stand it, you just want to punch the smile off his face, or—or something.

                “Leave your hands where they are until I tell you to move them. And let’s not have the rest of you moving either.” He rocks against you again, and you hiss through your teeth. “You don’t have much leverage to speak of, but you’re an inventive mech, and I’ve got you right where I want you.”

                You open your mouth to argue—but he presses his sword just that little bit harder, until you can feel the edge starting to bite into the cables of your throat. You hardly even know what expression you must be making now, but Wing just curls forward far enough to press one soft kiss to your cheek.

                While bends forward and when he straightens again, the sword doesn’t move a millimeter from where he has it resting. And when he braces his free hand against your chestplate and starts to rock against you, the sword doesn’t move then, either.

                You’re determined to outlast him. You’re certain you can outlast him. That determination lasts all of a moment, and then suddenly it’s unbearable, the slide of his valve against your spike is too perfect, you want to move, you want to grab his hips and pull him down against you. You want to control the rhythm, push him faster, harder—

                “Drift,” he says. A warning. He’s still smiling. You want to stop him from smiling, you want him gasping and needing, you want to do the same things to him that’s doing to you—

                You… don’t move your hands. You’re not going to lose, not like that. You couldn’t stand the pity and understanding he’d give you for surrendering that way. You cheat in subtler ways. You arch your hips up against him, as best as you can, stutter his rhythm. It doesn’t work. He doesn’t even have the common decency to acknowledge you’re cheating at the game, just adjusts himself to you as easy as anything.

                When you try to roll your hips sideways, throw him off balance, that doesn’t work either. And it doesn’t get you a word of warning either. Instead his sword presses just a hair harder, just enough that you feel a drop of energon spill down your neck. Nnh. You fight the urge to freeze, struggle against him—it’s not going to do you any good, but just a little more, just—

                His sword bites just a touch deeper, until the energon drips down your neck at a steady flow, pooling against your collar plating. Wing’s hand is still braced against your chest—right over your spark, you don’t think—and his smile is unbearably gentle when he says, “There we go, Drift, go ahead—”

                Your overload shakes you from head to toe, but you’re aware enough to notice that Wing’s sword is just barely touching your throat again, and doesn’t cut you, no matter how you shake and gasp. When you finally get yourself under control again and start to bring your hand down to… you don’t know, get a hand on his spike, or roll him over and frag him into the berth, or something (you may be sulking, just a little), his sword presses against your neck again, and you freeze.

                “Oh, Drift,” he says. “I didn’t tell you to move yet.” He rolls his hips down against yours, and you don’t quite manage to stifle a little noise at the back of your throat. He smiles. “Mm. Well then. I do think you and I are just getting started.”