Lines of Red

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW
Drift/Wing
sticky, misuse of shibari
for halkrath's request. Hope it works for you!

The white mech smirked, tightening the ropes over Wing’s chassis, pinning the beautiful flightpanels to the jet’s back. 

“Drift…?”

Drift shook his head.  “No. Not who I am. Never who I am.”  He ran his fingers, callous and hard, over the red ropes, the contrast between their rough texture and the silky gloss of Wing’s armor almost magnetic.   

The gold optics flared with worry. “I don’t understand.”

“You will,” Drift said, bending in for a kiss. He began it gently, brushing his lipplates over the jet’s, letting current tingle between them, before he pushed into it, his glossa invading the other’s mouth. He growled with pleasure.  This was good, the jet’s head tilted back, throat exposed.  He wanted more. 

Drift broke the kiss, roughly, snatching at the bound wrists, hauling them over Wing’s head.  Wing whimpered at the sudden strain on his gyros, as Deadlock looped the long cord around a flying buttress, hooking it through a weight-loop.  “Almost,” he muttered, to himself, taking the long ends and hitching them around the fan-shaped audial fins on the jet’s helm, pinning the helm between Wing’s arms, face tilted back to the ceiling.

Drift grinned down at him. Better.  The jet’s optics were scintillant with alarm, his throat one long exposed line of cables, inviting a hand or a mouth.  He felt his spike surge behind its panel, one hand moving to stroke over the heated metal, his ventilations picking up.  Vulnerability enflamed  him, that apex of irritation, contempt and the desire to take.  His other hand stroked Wing’s face, thumb glossing the cheeks, the parted, fretful lip plates, while he freed his spike, already slick with lubricant.

Wing quivered, squeezing his optic shutters closed, trembling at the bite of the ropes into his wrist mechanisms, the rasp of cord over his armor as he tried to squirm away, and the hot shame of Drift’s open lust. Drift panted down at him, body rocking with the fast pulls of his hand on his spike, aroused beyond measure by the trapped jet, helpless before him.

“Please,” Wing whispered.  “Drift….”

“Deadlock,” he corrected, almost gently, his ventilation taken by the rising wall of charge, the overload spinning, slamming toward him. He hissed, his spike crackling in his palm, feeling the scalding spurt of transfluid down the channels. He stepped back, optics raking down Wing’s whimpering frame, at the hot trails of silver streaking down the white chassis, marking the jet. His. His property. His thing. 

[***]

Wing hung there, for cycles, the ropes cutting into his wrists.  His shoulders ached, the gimbals jammed into position, crimping a fuel line. The pistons in his arms had locked, his motor circulation slowing, pooling in his legs.  It was pain, hard and hot, like an envelope of stone around him. He could see the ceiling, and only that, and he tried to mark the passage of time in the shadows above him, the familiar vault of his quarters seeming a mass of darkness. It hurt. Everything hurt, as though he was lifted from his body on a sea of heat and pain. Even the streak of transfluid had cooled, sticky and dry, on his chassis, a sort of scar of shame.

Everything else seemed muffled, distant, light, sound, as though externality was retreating from him, or at the other end of a long tunnel. 

Wing was besieged by emotions: fear, worry, anger, frustration, frantic desperation. And the binding, the constriction, moved from painful to terrifying. He felt…teetering, as though the ground would fall out from under his knees. He felt his hands, numb and bound, clutch onto the rope, as though trying to catch himself from tumbling into a void of his own agony.

“Please.”  His voice was thin and thready, a whimper of pain.  “Deadlock. Please.”

A shift, a firing servo, and the other mech moved closer. “What.”  The voice was flat, expressionless, optics narrowed.

“Please!” Wing thrashed, the cords biting into his wrists, crushing fuel lines.  His spinal struts bucked, a sound of pure panic from his vocalizer. 

A hand caught him, around the shoulders, and he felt Drift’s chassis against his, the other’s mouth on his throat.  “So beautiful, Wing,” Drift’s voice was husky, rough with lust.  “Been watching you.”

“Please, please!”  The flightpanels strained against the cords, metal and rope squeaking.  His body shuddered into sobs, hot and desperate. “…help.”

The mouth on his throat stilled, the hand splayed against his trembling wing bracing him, as the mech leaned over, reaching for the cord release. “Hold still.” 

Wing whined, his body thrashing against Drift’s. 

“Still,” Drift said, letting the battlefield edge of his voice creep in.  Wing whimpered, writhing, but less frantically. 

“Please,” Wing breathed. “Anything. I’ll do anything.”

Drift growled, despite himself, pinning the jet against his chassis.  “Tell me you want me.”

A shudder. “I do. I want you. Please.”  The chin dipped, Wing trying to turn his head. 

Drift pushed to his feet, taking Wing’s weight with him. They were of a size, but while the jet had to strip weight to be flightworthy, Deadlock had been modded for sturdiness and power. Wing’s weight barely registered as he lifted him up.  The legs wobbled against his, before wrapping over his hips, clinging to him, the jet’s interface hatch riding over his. 

The shift gave him enough slack to loosen the rope, the cord falling into coils over Wing’s wrists.  He swept the loops over the jet’s helm, off the audial flares, with one almost tender hand, cradling the helm against his shoulder.  Wing’s hands, shaking and unsteady, clung to his body, burrowing his face against Drift, murmuring apologies. 

Drift stood, wrapping his other arm around the wings, tugging their bindings free.  “One day,” he breathed, “I’ll go too far. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”  The hardness evaporated, and all he wanted was to comfort the jet. The smear of his transfluid seemed to rebuke him for his lust, but Wing clung, soft and wanting, even so.

A shake of the head against his shoulder. “No. Because you worry.” 

“Shouldn’t need this.”  A frown, a hand soothing down the trembling wingpanels.

“I do. You do.”  Wing lifted his head, slowly, wincing at the pain of functionality returning to the servos, his gold optics worried and intense. “We need each other, Drift.” 

Drift could have argued, but didn’t: the heated, shivering jet in his arms demanded his attention, pulled from him a gentleness he hadn’t known he had.  He had no words, but tipped his head, his mouth meeting Wing’s in a kiss that was apology, desire, acknowledgment, a binding of what they both were, the miracle that had brought them together.

Comments

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

Guh.... what a send-off! You have no idea how glad I am that I checked LJ one last time before shutting down and hitting the road!

[acidgreenflames.livejournal.com]

I adore how you write these two! You write the constant push and pull between them so well! Great job!

[ladyofdragons.livejournal.com]

Wow, this wonderfully executed. The perfect amount of unsettling, to the point that the behaviors are all that's needed to create the atmosphere. You really feel the character walking the edge, sometimes not sure if they're fallen or not, wondering if that's only a matter pf perspective.