Line Balance

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW
Perceptor/Drift
sticky, bondage, genital shibari, flogging, mild dom sub
based off this picture

 

Drift’s backframe arched, convulsed, as the whip cracked down across his shoulders.  His wrists, bound, pinned over his head against the wall he knelt before, twisted helplessly at the bite of the lash.  Perceptor paused, letting the pain sink in, studying the way the whip’s end marred the wax, scored the white enamel. Drift was his in these moments—here and now, achingly aware of him, wanting and fearing his touch.

And drawing out the moment made it sweeter, as Drift began to anticipate the next lash, his EM field coruscating, until the dread and anticipation built to a want, a hunger. It was a careful calculus, the balance between Drift’s want and his need, one that thrilled Perceptor in a way he’d never thought possible.

Another way, perhaps, that Drift had rescued him, brought him to life, awakening in him these desires, these blade-keen awarenesses of pain and pleasure, beauty and savagery. 

He was ready: Perceptor was ready.  The whip flashed again, the dark tongue snapping in the air, like malice in a sinuous form, before biting again into the armor—this time the thinner black meshmail under the chassis plating.  Drift arched again, a high keen of pain tearing from his vocalizer.  His vents were ragged, when he sagged again, fighting the pain.

Perceptor stepped closer, looping the whip over Drift’s head, tugging it back, tilting Drift’s helm back, the black rubberene taut against the dark throat.  “Shall I stop?” he asked. It wasn’t a question as much as  test.

Blue optics, lidded, took a moment to focus on him, to pull out of the sea of pain and sensation. “No,” Drift mumbled.

Perceptor felt a smile curl over his mouthplates. “Good.”  He remembered the first time they’d done this: how awkward he’d felt, as if he didn’t have the right, as if Drift’s desire was too fragile for him to touch.

Drift was…anything but fragile.

He thrust the head back, whisking the whip away from the throat.  His hand lingered on the helm, sliding up the high taper of one of the finials, tweaking the end just to see the sharp jolt travel through Drift’s frame. Beautiful, all of Drift’s responses were. The white mech held himself so controlled, so tightly, in public that he barely spoke a word, moving like a ghost, his face a quiet mask.  But under the surface…so much darkness still roiled and it needed release.  He needed someone else to be his control, to bleed off the anger and despair that threatened to eat him alive.

Perceptor slid the whip, trailing it over Drift’s torso, letting the dangling end flirt with the kneeling thighs, and then around the scabbards, naked of their swords.  He bent closer, trailing his fingers down the Great Sword’s channel, feeling Drift tremble at the touch—not the sharp bite of pain he’d been expecting.

Well, in these times, Drift was his, to do with as he pleased—hurt, caress, flog, cut, kiss. And Drift could call a limit on it, but that would be almost an admission of defeat in the white mech’s mind. A test of both of them—control and self-control, endurance, giving and taking.  “Mine,” Perceptor murmured. A fond wish: utter ownership, complete possession.

A nod of the helm, a quiet submission. Defiance would come later, hard struggles with himself not to give in, fighting his own need to control. The shoulders moved, tugging against the wrist bindings.  And the back, so deliciously exposed, helpless. 

No. Better idea.  Perceptor reached up, unhooking the bound wrists from the wall mount.  “Back,” he said, tugging the arms over Drift’s head, until Drift unfolded, lying back on the floor, pelvic span arched up from his kneeling legs.  Perceptor caught the wrists, folding them behind the helm.  Drift lay, compliant, optics wary. 

Better, Perceptor thought, watching the blue optics track the flicking end of the whip as he stirred it idly in his hand.  Better to see it coming. And here—so much more territory to mark: the chassis, the long dark thighs. The interface hatch itself. All…his.

The whip cracked, whistling through the air, striking over the chassis and Drift’s optics chased it, flinching before it landed. Drift cried out, arching up, mouth pulling into an ‘O’ as the pain struck the fresh sensor clusters, a secondary shock. 

It was curious, fascinating, really, how closely pain resembled passion.

He brought the whip down again. Drift moaned, optics finding Perceptor’s. Another slash, the black rubber whistling through the air to lick across Drift’s dark thighs. A score of silver where the tip gouged enamel, a small spark of contact, and the pelvic span arching up with want. Perceptor leaned over, a rough hand on the interface hatch—not opening, just taunting.  Drift’s optics shuttered, pushing his hips into the contact.

“Still,” Perceptor murmured.

Drift growled, vents harsh, hissing through his dentae as he forced himself unmoving. 

“Better,” Perceptor said, running light fingers up the thigh, dipping into the gap of the join of the thigh, feeling the fuzz of electrical charge against his fingertips. Drift’s ventilations were shallow, his optics staring over the bulk of his chassis at the black hand on his armor. Perceptor could feel the heat from the aroused equipment through the panel. 

“I wonder,” he said, a smile twitching across his mouth, “if it’s possible.”

“What?”

Perceptor cast him a sharp look, and Drift’s helm fell back. Perceptor rose to his feet, fingers feathering over the taut, trembling body. His body, to control.    He still thrilled with the thought, but he managed to keep his face impassive, unmoving. A game of control for both of them. 

He pushed back, the whip lashing out, fast, hard, several strokes, hot bites against Drift’s body—long stripes across the chassis, short licks on the thighs, and one sharp snap on the top of the interface hatch.

Drift’s body writhed, dancing into, against the pain, optics blank, his whole attention focused inward, on the exquisite rise and sweep of pain and pleasure, electrical current flooding over his circuitry, electrons singing against him. His ventilation struggled, heat wafting from his frame, striking against Perceptor’s legs like steam. Beautiful, Perceptor thought.  All of Drift’s intensity, his purity, turned inward, heedless, for a moment, of the world outside. 

The whip flew in Perceptor’s hand, fast, merciless, flogging at the splayed body. Drift writhed beneath the assault, sparks flickering from the sharp contact, his body shimmering  with charge as it built over his systems. His vocalizer croaked out non-words, simply sharp sounds of pain and want.

A sudden, sharp intake of air, the body trembling and rigid, optics distant and blank, current flickering like lightning in the recesses of the joints, tracing along the armor seams. 

Drift dropped back to the ground, all the tension, energy, wrung from his frame, leaving him limp, heavy, his optics lidded.  Perceptor felt a wicked grin tug at his lips, as the optics unlidded, helm tilting, seeking his face.  Trust, and longing, and vulnerability—sharper and more erotic than any physical touch.

“You did,” he said, forcing his tone bland. 

“Yes,” Drift said, struggling with the admission. He forced his optics steady, as though unashamed.

Perceptor felt a fierce kind of joy bubble through his systems, like a pressure swelling above his spark.  He bent, tucking the whip behind him, snapping open the interface hatch with one clinical, impassive hand.  And underneath, the metal slicked and silver from transfluid, the spike still rigid, jumping out of its housing.  He gave a soft laugh: testimony of Drift’s want, and Perceptor’s control. 

He could feel defiance beginning to simmer in Drift, as he curled his hand over the spike. “Mine,” he murmured, reminding Drift.  Drift squirmed, pulling away from the too-firm contact on his still-charged spike. Perceptor shook his head, warningly. Drift’s ventilations hissed, optics blazing, torn between Perceptor’s half-smile and the slow, implacable motion of the hand on his spike.

Perceptor bent down, covering the head of the spike with his mouth, tasting the sweet lubricant, the tang of the transfluid, and above those, the taste of some dark, hot triumph. Drift choked on a sound, thighs going taut as Perceptor circled the spike’s nodes with his glossa.

Perceptor jerked back, breaking contact enough to sting his mouthplates, laughing at the frantic cry from Drift. 

He coiled the whip, mouth curled in amusement as Drift tracked the movement, unsure what Perceptor was doing, expecting the whip to flash down against him. 

Perceptor turned. “Do not move,” he murmured, over his shoulder as he headed toward the maintenance facility cabinet.  He watched Drift from his periphery as Drift lay on the floor, obedient, hands still bound behind his head.  Drift’s form, sprawled on the decking, spike still urgently jabbing upward, waiting for Perceptor’s next command, his pain, his desire, entirely in Perceptor’s hands, was beautiful, thrilling. 

Perceptor lingered, just to watch, to let his own desire build, crest, wanting to touch, to control, and controlling himself by…not.  At least for a few moments.

He shook the jar of nanites, the fine thermochemicals in the bottom of the jar swirling, activating, and he felt the glass growing hot in his hands.  It made a kind of logic that appealed to him: hurt Drift, and then heal the hurt with the nanites. Two different flavors of control: pleasure and pain in equal measure. 

“Roll over,” he said, the jar half-hidden. 

Drift frowned, but obediently rolled, his hips leading the moment, entire body wincing as his spike struck the hard floor. He lifted his bound arms, uncertain.  Perceptor tugged them out, just for the effect of the vulnerability: the exposed sides, the shoulder armor jutting helplessly upward. And below them, the marked back, scored and scratched from the whip.  He knelt, paused, straddled the hips, flipping the jar’s lid open with one hand, and leaning forward, tipping the jar slowly, carefully, watching the nanites, like liquid hematite, well over the rim, hang for a klik, before one droplet detached itself, a shiny, round shape, to splatter on one of the marks. 

Drift gasped, the darksilver liquid spreading out over the small wound, activating, tingling into the circuitry.  Perceptor pinned him with his thighs, the smaller mech immobilized as he found another nick in the enamel, repeated the gesture.  He found the anticipation of the falling nanite to be a kind of breath-holding pleasure, as much as the sharp tremble in Drift’s frame as it struck. 

He bent, mouth finding one of the finials, taking it in, licking along its length. Another tremor, fine and delicate, traveling through the entire frame beneath him. Drift shifted his weight and it took Perceptor a moment to realize: the other mech was grinding his hips into the floor, stimulating his spike.

Oh, no. Can’t have that.

Perceptor rolled off, tugging on one scabbard, hard enough that Drift winced, rolling over. Drift’s optics blazed an aroused, frustrated defiance, his spike slick and glossy, stabbing into the air. Silver transfluid smeared his thighs, his belly.  It was…maddening, his arousal. 

Perceptor lay the nanite jar aside, reaching into a storage compartment on his hip to draw out a length of green cord.  He’d half-expected he’d need this, that Drift would need this.  He straddled the dark thighs, catching a loop of the green rope under one of the scabbards on Drift’s hip, then the other, holding both loose ends. He looked up, face impassive as Drift caught on, the cord and the significance of the color hitting home.

He rebent over the task, wrapping the long ends of the rope in a swift complicated series of halfhitches that spiraled slowly up the spike, covering the nodes, blocking them from stimulus, keeping Drift on the edge, unable to overload.  He looped down with the long ends, catching on the loose figure-8 between the scabbards, flattening the bound spike against Drift’s belly.  There. 

Drift hissed, optics flashing with frustration and a helpless defiance, bound by his word and desire as much as any length of cord.

Perceptor dipped his finger into the nanite jar, feeling the heat from the activated organisms, holding up the dark-quicksilvered finger between them and then lowered the finger carefully onto one of the cuts along Drift’s thigh. 

Drift moaned, through gritted dentae, as the nanites spread, and Perceptor stroked his finger along the line of the lash, against the seam of the armor. Drift’s head lolled back, his entire frame shaking.  He pushed his hips, helplessly, his bound spike unable to get any charge, the nodes pressed tight enough to hurt.

Perceptor repeated the gesture, on another lash mark, spreading healing where he’d hurt, tenderness where he’d used harshness.  The body bucked beneath him, twisting, arching, as though wrung by sensation.  He smeared the nanites, their warmth a delicious tingle along his fingertips, caressing Drift’s injurie, erasing pain with pleasure.

“Song!”  The bound hands, knotted together, dropped onto the chassis.  “Please.” 

Perceptor stopped, hand freezing just above the rim.  A droplet splashed gently back into the jar.  The signal that Drift needed a break, that it was verging on too much. It said something--Perceptor wasn't sure what--that Drift did not halt the pain, only the pleasure of the nanites.

“Please,” Drift repeated, his head lolling to one side, body shaking. “Just for a klik.” 

Perceptor nodded, stepping back, watching the exquisite struggle as too much pleasure, too much gentleness, softness, shimmered over his systems.  Drift’s vents were slow, forced, his optics gritted shut.  

“All right,” Drift breathed, optics still closed, the voice thin, stretched, “all right.” Perceptor capped the jar, shaking it vigorously, stirring more of the thermochemicals into the mix.  The jar heated in his hand, almost scalding his palm sensors. This way, the initial strike would be hotter, pushing into pain, overriding Drift’s discomfort.

He slathered the nanites over Drift’s chassis, palm sliding the dark fluid over the white armor, watching it sink in, the darkness spreading, glistening, spreading the heat and healing.  Drift hissed with the first contact, frame releasing as the pain cooled to pleasure, the scalding heat softening over Drift’s sensornet.

Drift writhed, whimpering, below him, surging into Perceptor’s gentle touches, pushing hard against the light touches, wanting both the pain and pleasure.  The whimpering grew to moans, half words, and then words, optics grinding shut, as blind, open, wild words poured from his vocalizer, wanting, demanding release.

It was Perceptor’s choice, holding Drift’s desire, his release, the agonizing anticipation, in his hands, measuring, timing, weighing the balance between desire and pain, anticipation and release. 

Drift groaned, trying to hook Perceptor’s leg with one ankle, as though he could force him, attack him to get what he wanted.

Perceptor let the ankle pull him down, landing between Drift’s legs. “Want something?” Not a taunt, not a goad, a simple, neutral question. 

Drift swore, scrabbling at Perceptor with his legs, his bound hands reaching, clawing futilely at Perceptor’s broad chestplate.  The fingers caught at his collar armor, dragging Perceptor down, Drift’s optic shutters flicking open.  “NOW,” Drift snarled, fingers attempting to gouge the metal. He cursed again.

Perceptor shook his head, almost imperceptibly. “You don’t give orders, Drift,” he murmured.  He let his pelvic span bump the bound spike, watching the ecstatic wince.  He pushed back, reaching one hand to release his spike.  “Ask.”

Drift glowered.  “Do it.”

Perceptor didn’t move. “Ask.” 

“Now, take me!”  He rocked his hips, offering, inviting. He groaned, tossing his head. “Come on. I need it.”

“Ask,” Perceptor repeated. He would not give in. He had drawn a line. He would hold it. And, he would admit, he wanted it: thrilled at the pleasure of Drift, asking. For him.

Drift gave a howl of frustration, slapping uselessly against Perceptor’s chassis with his bound hands.  “Frag. Please. I want you. Please.”  He seemed breathless, ragged, on the raw edge of desire.

Close enough.  Perceptor lowered down, sheathing himself in the valve, feeling its heat—warmed from the high run of Drift’s autorepair. Perceptor knew he wouldn’t last long: his own desires had been kept at bay, forced under tight control, subsumed to monitoring Drift’s desire. Here, though, physical contact, Drift’s body quivering, the valve rippling over his spike, he knew his own control was illusory, shredding even from the first thrust.

But Drift needed this: hard, brutal release, Perceptor driving into him, almost ridden by his own unleashed desire. The rope scraped raw on his abdomen, binding Drift’s spike flat, useless, reminding them both of control.

Drift bucked, so powerfully he lifted Perceptor’s greater weight with him, his bound hands hooking Perceptor’s helm, hauling the mouth to his, his valve clamping over the spike. Charge cracked over their bodies, Perceptor shuddering into his own overload, biting down onto Drift’s mouth as the swordsmech’s strong fingers scraped the back of his helm. 

Drift’s kiss gentled, glossa flirting with Perceptor’s mouth, and the hands released, stroking awkwardly.  Perceptor returned the softened kiss, pushing up, his lipplates breaking—slowly, reluctantly—with Drift’s, his spike still sunk deep in the white mech’s body.  “Yes?” Perceptor asked, all of the energy of restraint scraping his voice.

The optics blinked, languorously and the nasal tipped up to bump his nose. “Yes.” 

“I worry about hurting you,” Perceptor said—he knew better than to say it earlier, knowing Drift needed the reality to be seamless and hard. But now, it was safe, and he hoped that the small thread of worry would console Drift—if he needed it—that Perceptor did worry about going too far, losing control himself, and that Drift’s release, Drift’s need, far outweighed his own paltry concerns.

“Don’t,” Drift murmured, his thighs coming up, sliding over Perceptor’s skirting panels.  “I need it. I need it.”  The fingers stroked the ridge of Perceptor’s helm, as though comforting him, soothing him. 

“I know,” Perceptor said, quietly.  And he understood, and felt the shadowy pull of the part he played, the fierce joy, hard pleasure of someone else letting themselves be so utterly in your control, the line between pain and pleasure thickened and blurred, limits extended.  It was intoxicating.  “I should move,” he added, aware, suddenly, of his greater mass bearing down upon the body already heated from autorepair, still tingling against him from renegade current. 

Mine, he thought, idly, echoing his earlier words. But no. It wasn't like that--hard ownership, chattel and owner. He was Drift's as much as Drift was his, bound through this elegant, dangerous dance.

“No,” Drift murmured, and the bound wrists tugged, pulling Perceptor’s head down against his, audio sliding against audio, their bodies touching, pressed together as the last of the overload faded into a gentle wash of comfort.  “Not just yet.” 

 

 

Comments

[eerian_sadow]

oh gods. that hit so many of my kinks, you don't even know. *happy shivers*

*off for cold shower now*

[tainry.livejournal.com]

Brilliant. Especially the nanites and how Drift can't take as much of the healing as the pain.

[skyure.livejournal.com]

... make room in the freezer for me ... gods ...

*mewls*

[skyure.livejournal.com]

*sits in the freezer, with icepack, and reads story again*

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

whoadamn. *lacks coherency to respond coherently* holy hells, this is hot, and so freaking poetic and dark and lovely and wonderful. So very Drift that he has to use the safeword to escape being pushed too far by pleasure, rather than pain. That it's the pain he retreats to for safety, for his release. And Perceptor, so calm, and controlled and ominous throughout it all...

I cannot get enough of how you write these two. This IS the quintessential SniPerceptor and Drift to me. Thank you.

(and nanite hot wax? totally ftw. totally.)

[darkeyes-17.livejournal.com]

This kind of stuff isn't my usual cup of tea, buuuuuttttt: *drinking lots of tea* it sure is now!

Expertly written and really hot. I love your dom!Perceptors. I also like the dom!Drifts too when I see them XD You write this couple so very, very well.

[abarai-san.livejournal.com]

The image of Drift lying on the floor, knees folded beneath him, wrists bound and tucked behind his head with his-

*squeezes into freezer with other similarly affected readers*

Where did you- how did you- @.@

[jarakrisafis.livejournal.com]

*shuffles into freezer*

That, that. ack. Beautiful. I am in awe, utter and absolute awe.
*scrolls back to the top to reread and add to memories...*

[mmouse15.livejournal.com]

Yup, you'd rock that particular prompt, and so you did. So very hot and sexy and *shiver* how wonderful that it's the healing that Drift can't take rather than the pain. I also love the boundaries Perceptor draws for himself inside his own mind; He was Drift's as much as Drift was his, gods, so very good.

I also love the concept that the nanites are in the hot wax in the picture. What a terrific idea!

[ithilgwath.livejournal.com]

*very shyly waves* _{That was my prompt.}

This was amazing. The... just... everything. Everything about it was so perfect I can hardly believe it. And using the safeword because of the healing! It's such a beautiful twist that's just right for Drift and the dynamic of their session.

An--oh, sweet mystery of life, at last I've found you--Perceptor's possessiveness and the sharp control he keeps over both of them. Beautiful.

And I love the hot nanites taking the place of the hot wax. Blew me away, especially with how it actually affected Drift. Such a powerful image it wound up being.

And the quiet conversation at the end... Perceptor voicing his worries and Drift keeping him from leaving just yet... Just helped to drive home that they are going about this all... that their relationship is a healthy one, even though it isn't the "normal" kind. They make sure to get those things out in the air, instead of bottling it all up to slowly poison them or explode down the line.

So good. Thank you thank you thank you for writing this.