Arch

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW
Dai Atlas/Wing
sticky, shibari
Allegedly a fill for a request for consensual shibari from the kink meme. 

There were those who might consider this an abuse of privilege, Dai Atlas thought, as Wing knelt before him, stripped of his weapons. But they did not understand the ways of the Circle, the ways Dai Atlas had singlehandedly kept them together through millennia of flight.

And they did not understand Wing, or himself; how the jet’s need meshed with his own: Wing’s need for submission pairing with his need to control. Wing’s need to be punished gearing with his need to exercise power. It was beautiful, and if incomprehensible, he liked to think it was on the sublime side of the line.

Wing knelt before him, hands folded on his sleek thighs, helm bowed, only the slightest tremor in his ex-vents giving a sign of emotion. It wasn’t fear as much as anticipation, a shivering eagerness.

“Your defiance serves no one, Wing,” he said, pitching his voice to that authoritative tone.

“No,” Wing said, quietly.

“Least of all yourself.”

A nod, a small dip of the helm, admitting, accepting.  Dai Atlas gave an assenting noise, turning to the cabinet, pulling out coils of colored, silken rope. He lay them out, before Wing, letting his fingers slide down the lengths as he unspooled them from their cores. He could feel the optics tracking the motion, apprehensive and longing.

“You are,” he said, toying with a long strand of red almost idly, “your own worst enemy, Wing.”

A chuff of breath, the wing panels fluttering behind the jet’s frame, the optics lifting to the red strand. 

Dai Atlas took his time binding the wings, snugging the strands after each half-hitch, making the smaller jet feel each line of tension, pulling the wings in, tight and constrained, the red rope making an elaborate, intricate web over the bare channel for the Great Sword. It was as much to Dai Atlas about the beauty and symmetry of the binding as the result, and he took pains, sliding the rope just so, pulling it taut. 

He paused, twining the running end around an anchoring line, leaning forward to plant a gentle kiss on the back of Wing’s helm. Wing gave a soft sigh, some of the tension bleeding off his frame. The helm tipped back, offering a kiss. 

Their cheeks slid together, armor over armor, his mouth brushing Wing’s heated lip plates, optics feeding on the spectacle of the tilted, exposed throat.  His hand slid down the white arm, fingers splaying over the armor, palm spread. This, he thought, was too beautiful: he wanted it more, wanted the arch in the spinal struts, the open vulnerability. He wanted to fix Wing like this, bind him this way, and move around, see him from all angles.

Yes.  But first, the wrists. 

He moved to take another length of cord, drawing one hand behind Wing’s back, then the other, kneeling behind the jet, close enough that his EM field pressed against Wing’s, his knees in the other’s periphery.  Dai  Atlas hooked the cord over the thin, bladelike flares on the other’s forearms, weaving them into a figure 8, before dropping down to catch the wrists.  He felt the slight struggle in the wrists, testing the bonds, the rising heat of the EM field reacting to his captivity.  Jets hated being grounded, motionless, but this was what Wing needed, wanted.  Dai Atlas purred, the bass rumble of his engines soothing the air between them. 

He thought about speaking but this was something beyond words, some intimacy that defied language. Dai Atlas tipped Wing back, one hand on the nacelle, arching the jet up and over until his helm rested on the ground, his entire body exposed, splayed open from head to knee.

He shifted position, reaching between the kneeling thighs to catch the lengths of rope from the wrist bindings, looping them over the skirting panels around Wing’s hips, immobilizing the smaller jet into just the perfect arch. He looked up, at the converging line of the thighs, the swell of the cockpit, the bulges of the shoulder nacelles, feeling the tremulous energy roiling off Wing’s frame.  He stood, to see the optics, wide and gold, staring blank and inward. 

Beautiful, he thought, stepping back, studying the lines of red over the white armor, the small flashes of his cordwork peeking out from under the jet.  Everything, beautiful: motion confined, energy captive. Exquisite vulnerability.

He couldn’t keep his hands away, wanting to do more than see, wanting to know with his touch, feel the heated components, riffle through the agitated EM field. He wanted to trace the contours of Wing’s body, all of them, bevels and chamfers and plains, to rotate around gimbals and slide his thumbs up the fine seams between plates.

Dai Atlas knelt beside Wing, hands roaming, touches delicate feathers over the armor, up the thighs, over the arched chassis.  Wing trembled beneath him, lost in his own world of sensation and thought, a spectacle of the frame straining against itself. 

With a gentle brush down the other’s helm, he shifted between Wing’s knees, both thumbs stroking over the contours of the interface hatch, feeling the heat and eager vibration within. He watched the quivering frame, listening for the sharp, ragged vents, the soft slide of cord against the stone floor, the jet’s frame heating the air. 

He opened the hatch, slowly, letting the air heat around the space, taking a long moment to study the sealed equipment, the silky gleam of the brushed metal. 

A soft sound from Wing, almost a whimper, a whisper of need, shapeless with want.

An enigmatic smile, and Dai Atlas bent his attention to the spike cover, fingers circling it, palm cupping the folded panels.  He could feel the buzz of the spike, eager, behind the metal.  It was a simple task to coax it out, an agile, knowing touch to the spike cover, and the thin metal panels irised aside, the spike jutting, glistening and hard, into the air between them.  

He dipped his head, moving closer, close enough that his exvents pushed warm air on the wet spike. Spikes were standard equipment, of course, but localized, and Wing’s was a rare, beautiful example of the chased silverwork for which Altihex had been known. 

He flicked his glossa against the spike’s head, grinning at the sharp gasp, the way the hips before him struggled upward.  A soft chuckle stirred the air around the spike, as he probed his glossa over the ornate shape, sliding down the length, feeling the shock of pleasure colliding with the steady stress of pain from the bindings.

Wing suffered beautifully, arching, twisting helplessly, his ventilations sharp, short cries of indecision, as Dai Atlas worked along his Altihexian spike. Dai Atlas could hear the squeak of straining cord, the whine of taxed servos, smell the arousal sheeting off Wing. 

Soon—too soon, Dai Atlas would deem it, but always too soon—he wanted to keep Wing in this paroxysm of bound desire forever—the knee pistons fired, the spike jumping in his mouth with a sweetsharp burst of fluid. Wing’s entire body tensed, shockwaves of electricity rippling over his systems. 

Dai Atlas lifted his head, slowly, carefully, licking the last drop of the silvery fluid off the spike’s tip, rolling it on his glossa as he looked over the swell of Wing’s chassis, seeking out the blissful face, the optics warm and open.  His hands found the last hitches of the long cord, tucked inside Wing’s hip gimbals, moving with the same slow certainty, coiling the cord over his fingertips before releasing the slack.

Wing sagged to the floor, shoulders spread, belly flattening with a juddering sigh.  Dai Atlas leaned over to steal a kiss, their lip plates a contrast: supple and too still, warm and cool, and the taste of Wing’s fluid, tart and melting, passed between them.

Comments

[katsuko]

Damn, woman, but I love how you write shibari so very very much ♥

(I know, so very not constructive or anything else for that matter, but it's all I can process at the moment with my brain melted.)

[ultrarodimus.livejournal.com]

*melts into a puddle* Oh wow, that was hot ^_^ I love Wing. I love Dai Atlas (he's a bad-aft triple changer ^_^). LOVE the way you write them

[playswithworms.livejournal.com]

Ok, so my brain keeps insisting on admiring Wing's Altihexian spike and wondering how the local designs are made. Is it a specialty? Is there a bot in a workshop with all of the possible spike designs in catalogues or samples in little boxes, like the wands in Olivander's wand shop in Harry Potter? Can you get a different spike if you don't like the one you have? Does the spikemeister enjoy his work? Does he really really enjoy his work, waaaay too much? Or is it kind of like making tacos all day at Taco Bell and the last thing you want to do at the end of the day is eat a taco...*ponders*

[acidgreenflames.livejournal.com]

:D *Melts at awesomeness of story*