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“Right,” Drift said, trying to roll onto his back, the motion stopped by the plane of his spaulder. “This is some kind of training, right?” This was a hell of a way to wake up.
“Is it?” Perceptor’s face was unreadable, looking at him over the datapad he was scanning, but Drift could see just a glint of something from his reticled optic, a sparkle of what might have been mischief.
“Unless you just wanted to practice knots or something.” He shifted, trying to twist his bound wrists apart. Perceptor always did have the weirdest hobbies.
“Not my fault you’re such a heavy sleeper.” He made a show of turning back to his pad.
“Not my fault someone got me drunk last night.” Yeah, that was probably an excuse. But he’d needed it, and the way Perceptor smiled—as in actually cracked a grin—at the way Drift had staggered down the hall, flinging his arms around the taller mech and murmuring, well, the kind of embarrassing things you murmur when you’re plastered and touching the mech you love.
“Not my fault you’re such a lightweight,” Perceptor countered, without looking up.
That was an interesting point. They’d drunk the same, but only Drift had gotten, well…drunk. Huh. He’d settle that, once he got out of this.
“Want help?” Perceptor asked, the timbre of his voice warm with something almost like a coy happiness, the mismatched blue optics peeking over the top of the datapad.
“No, I got it.” Some more squirming. Right. He…wasn’t getting it. Damn.
“Are you certain?” That little hint of amusement in the voice again.
“….not really.” Drift flopped onto his back, palms pressing into the berth. “All right. You win. You are, what? The knot-master?” It was hard to sound suitably crabby, being altogether too aware of how the situation looked, but he tried.
“I didn’t need that confirmed,” Perceptor said, calmly. He lay the datapad down on the table beside him, moving closer. “Now.” He let his gaze roam down Drift’s bound frame. “What shall we do with you.”
“I’d vote for ‘untie’,” Drift said, helpfully.
Perceptor tilted his helm, optics moving ceilingward, as though deep in thought. “It seems to me that that would be wasting a valuable opportunity.”
“Opportunity for what? Rifle through my stuff?” Drift drew his bound ankles up, planting his feet on the berth.
“Please.” Perceptor snorted. “Like I haven’t already.”
“You what?” Drift squirmed.
“Where do you think I found the rope, Drift,” Perceptor said, reasonably.
“Where did you…,” Drift cut himself off, his mouth folding to something like a pout. “This is really not fair.”
“Likely not,” Perceptor said, coolly, before his voice slid into something like a sultry drawl. “But it’s hardly the first time the odds have been against you.”
“Flattery,” Drift retorted, “will get you nowhere.”
“I think you’re not going anywhere yourself.” Perceptor leaned over, tracing one slow finger over Drift’s chestplate, his mouth in an enigmatic sort of smile. “Unless you,” he paused, as though studying angles and distances, “fall off the berth or something. I suppose that counts.”
“Fall off a berth?” Drift’s spaulders scraped the berth in an outraged wiggle. “Show you who’s going to fall off a berth.”
“Will you, now?” Perceptor leaned closer, resting his weight on the lower bevel of Drift’s chest, careful to balance himself and not put too much strain on Drift’s pinned wrists. “And how do you intend to do that?”
Drift grinned, clamping his knees against Perceptor’s body. “I have a few ideas.”
A one-sided smile. “So do I.” Perceptor grazed a hand lightly down Drift’s side.
Drift’s challenging grin softened, his engine rumbling into a purr. He curved his hips up, bumping his pelvic frame against Perceptor. “I think we’re off to a good start.”
Perceptor said nothing, letting his hands skim down Drift’s body, as he slowly settled back on his heels, between Drift’s legs, the mech’s bound ankles between his knees. Drift’s body surged up into his touch, like a sinuous wave of metal, reactive, responsive, as the skilled hands worked down his rib struts, over the heavy framing of his pelvic span, then flirting around the fronts of the thighs.
Drift gave a throaty sound, trying to push his interface hatch under Perceptor’s hand.
Perceptor pulled away, clucking. “So obvious, Drift,” he said, shaking his head.
“Obvious is good,” Drift said, his voice husky, EM field filled with a rough, wanting texture. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
“Obvious is obvious,” Perceptor countered. “And easily taken advantage of.” He flicked his fingers against the hatch’s cover, metal tinging against metal, as if to illustrate his point.
Drift gasped at the sharp ping, recovering to roll his hips invitingly under Perceptor’s touch. “Oh, I’m so taken advantage of,” he said. Not. But he would be up for it.
“You will be,” Perceptor said, rolling forward, the hand sliding over the interface hatch and up into the sleek white panel of Drift’s belly.
Drift jolted, his belly armor contracting.
Perceptor looked up, intrigued, one supraorbital ridge quirking. “Drift?”
“What.” He pressed his mouth into a cool line. A little too tightly. But that, well, it tickled.
“Everything all right?”
“You mean, you know, besides being tied up and entirely not being taken advantage of?” There. Refocus on the point, Perceptor. Don’t get distracted.
“Hrm.” Perceptor said.
“Hrm?” Drift echoed. He twisted to one side. Just as a precaution. Because he didn’t want Perceptor to get, well, ideas.
Too late. Perceptor had ideas. He could see it in the glint of mischief in the optics, an instant before the fingers feathered over his belly again.
“Hey!”
“Yes?” Perceptor kept his gaze down on Drift’s body, as his fingers traced another teasing path over his belly.
“I…uh,” another twitch, trying to pull away from the touches. “You could…ah…be doing other things with those hands?” His voice was high and tense, trying to fight it.
“I think I enjoy doing this,” Perceptor said. “Science.”
“Science,” Drift managed, before he finally couldn’t take it anymore, his mouth tearing into a grin, laughter spilling from his vocalizer.
“Indeed.” Perceptor sat back, studying Drift for a moment, the way he writhed on the berth, hands twisting in their bonds. The rubber of his wrist tires squealed against the metal berth as he moved. “Tell me, Drift. Shall I stop?”
Drift stilled himself, ventilation heaving, fighting to master himself. “…I can take it.”
“Can you?”
Drift narrowed his optics. “You wouldn’t.”
A grin, actual and genuine. “It seems I am.” He leaned in, tickling that sensitive spot just under Drift’s chestplate again.
Drift gritted his dentae, balling his fists behind his back, trying to force himself still. “See?” he said, his voice a sharp hiss.
“I do see.” Perceptor slid his free hand down over the white bulge of the interface hatch, thumb tracing the stacked chevrons on the cover.
The twitching became a kind of shivering, Drift’s ventilations ragged. “…better,” he croaked.
“Really,” Perceptor said, leaning down, planting a warm, slow kiss on the interface hatch. He could feel the heat and push of Drift’s EM field against his face, a warm, welcoming fuzz.
“Yeah.” A little shift of his pelvic frame, and the interface panel retracted. So maybe he was a little, well, obvious. Worse things in the world than being open about what you wanted.
And what he wanted right now was Perceptor.
A hot lick against his valve cover: Drift squeaked, hands clenching under his aft. Oh, frag, yes. More of that.
Perceptor looked up, over the length of Drift’s body, the way his spinal struts had to bow upward over his bound arms. His optics were lidded, sultry, and Drift arched his hips up invitingly, wanting another touch on his valve cover, feeling his systems tingling and alive.
Perceptor bent down again and Drift felt a warm circle trace itself over his spike cover. Behind the thin plates, his spike surged awake, all too aware of how small the distance was between it and the drowsy warm caresses.
Oh, much better, Drift thought, relaxing, letting tension seep from his shoulders. This was going in a much better direction.
Until Perceptor’s hands found his rib struts again, and Drift jolted rigid. “NOT FAIR!” he howled.
“Of course not,” Perceptor said. “But we’ve already established that.”
“Torture,” Drift said. “This is torture. I’m pretty sure it’s against…uh…some Autobot convention.” It was hard to think clearly right now, for, well, a variety of reasons.
“Hmm,” Perceptor said, his face close enough to Drift’s interface equipment that both covers caught the vibration. “Perhaps we should comm Ultra Magnus, then? I’m sure he’d be glad to come and assess the situation himself and render his professional opinion.”
That was…a whole dataslug of bad images. Ultra Magnus storming in, Drift, well, sort of exposed, and even though none of this was his fault, he’d end up as the recipient of the Dour Glare. He just knew it. “Yeah, uh, no.” That was an entire, and utter moodkill.
“I don’t know,” Perceptor said. “I think, honestly,” he said, moving up Drift’s body, brushing his EM field through Drift’s, until his optics hovered over Drift’s face, “someone should be able to see you. Like this. Bound.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper, “helpless.”
Drift found his ventilations shortening. He pressed his spaulders into the berth, levering himself up to catch Perceptor in a hard kiss, mouthplates seeking Perceptor’s. Perceptor followed him down to the berth, letting the kiss deepen, glossa probing, delicately, the perimeter of Drift’s mouth. Drift pressed himself up against Perceptor’s body, all too aware of his pinioned wrists and bound ankles, but doing his best to compensate for the limited movement. “Untie me,” Drift whispered, “and I’ll show you how helpless I am.”
“Later, perhaps,” Perceptor said. “Besides, torturers don’t take orders from their captives. But I might relent,” he mused, skittering one light hand down Drift’s chassis, causing a cascade of twitches, “if you begged.”
“Begged. Not. A. Chance.”
“Really.” A teasing swipe over his interface equipment, that withdrew, as an obvious lack.
“Sooner or later someone’s going to notice I’m missing.” He pouted. Perceptor couldn’t be serious.
“Will they? And then they will come looking.” Perceptor clucked. “Drift. It really does sound like you want someone to walk in and see you like this.” A glitter in the optic, as his had circled the spike cover, until it yielded, Drift’s spike jutting up into his palm. “Or more like this.” He gave the spike a lingering squeeze, before releasing it.
“Perceptor….” He tried to stifle the whine in his tone, but really, this was unfair.
“Drift. That’s not begging.” The hand wrapped around his spike again, sliding down, till his fingertips brushed the valve cover, then up, to squeeze the spike’s head against the ball of his thumb. Drift froze, rapt, his entire body taut, intent on that touch.
Perceptor continued, picking up a slow, gliding speed, the spike glossing and slick with lubricant, heating under the friction.
Drift felt a moan escape him, his hands bunching behind his back, spreading his thighs as much as he could to open himself to Perceptor. Heat built behind his spike, the kind of swirling, tingling pressure of charge nearing overload. He rocked his hips in tempo, trying to deepen the strokes.
“Don’t stop,” Drift murmured. He was so close, his EM field swirling with current, aching for release.
Perceptor stopped. “That’s not begging.”
“Come on!” Drift howled, outraged, bucking his hips up, trying to aim his spike at Perceptor’s hand. This was unfair.
“Beg,” Perceptor said. His own EM field gave an aroused ripple.
“It’s mean!”
“Drift.” Perceptor managed to sound disappointed. “Do you need remediation?”
“Remediate this!” Whatever ‘this’ was. All Drift knew was that his spike was raging at him, Perceptor’s grin was inflaming his already burning desire, and he had to do something.
Other than ‘beg’.
So ‘this’ turned out to be bodily heaving himself at Perceptor, who moved aside, back on his knees. Drift toppled to one side, unable to stop himself, and nearly fell off the berth—caught by one hand on the binding between his wrists.
“Say. Nothing,” he said, wriggling his hips back onto the berth.
“If you beg me not to,” Perceptor said, the hand that pulled Drift back onto the berth sliding around Drift’s narrow waist.
“What is with you and—gah!!!” Drift thrashed as the hand turned to tickling him. “Really! This is completely unfair!” It really was. There was no way this was fair. At all. And he knew Perceptor would just retort that of course it wasn’t, again. “When I get untied, you’re going to—“
“Still not begging,” Perceptor said. He sat back, rolling Drift onto his back again. “It appears I must employ…more extreme measures.”
“So this is torture.”
“The best kind,” Perceptor said, levering his weight down the berth, one hand closing over Drift’s ankle, turning up the sole of the foot.
“No.” Drift wriggled, trying to free his ankle servo from the other’s touch. Perceptor laughed, one finger dipping in behind Drift’s knee, wiggling against the wiring there. The entire leg vibrated. Frag, it was like he had every area mapped out already. “This is…the…worst! Kind!” He collapsed into shrieks of laughter as Perceptor’s fingers combed down the sole of his footplate. His whole body thrashed, rocking from side to side, spike tracing an arc in the air. His engines roared, hot air blasting against Perceptor’s body.
“Mmmhmm,” Perceptor said, sliding his tickling fingers up from the underside of Drift’s ankle, up the seam of his shin. Drift writhed, trying frantically to pull his leg free. “Say please.”
“Stop! Stop! Please!!” Drift’s shoulders rolled from side to side, his body quivering. “Please! Stop!”
“Hmm,” Perceptor said. “Unconvincing.”
“Unconvincing!? I’ll show you unconvinc—ohprimusno-o-o-o-o-!!” He couldn’t even make a coherent thought as the fingers skittered their way over his abdomen, one sole finger trailing up the line of his spike.
“Now, that?” Perceptor said, “That sounded convincing. Let’s try this again. Drift. Is there something you want me to do?”
A series of juddering twitches, as Perceptor’s black fingertip traced a descending series of arcs down the bottom of Drift’s spike.
Drift groaned, optics lidding. “Yes. That. More of that.” His spike raged to life again, against Perceptor’s touch. “…please.”
“Perhaps,” Perceptor said, lifting his hand away. Drift whimpered, optics following the lubricant-slicked finger as Perceptor lifted it to his mouth, licking it.
“Perceptor. Please.” His body vibrated, as though connected by some string to his pelvic armor, optics glued to that glossa, flicking in quick little movements over his finger. “I want you.” That sounded seductive, right? No? Maybe if he moved his body like this. Yes? A little cocked up on one hip? “Don’t you want me?”
“I want you to beg,” Perceptor said, with a deciding sort of nod. He relented, his hand sliding around the spike again, squeezing and pulling at it, slowly, his other hand whisking a quick line up Drift’s foot.
Drift yelped, the two stimuli colliding in his brain module: warm and electric and too much.
“Come on, Drift,” Perceptor said, lowering his head to nuzzle a line up Drift’s greave, his fingertips probing into the ankle gaps. “Beg for me.” His hand moved faster and faster on the spike, as though catching the charge he’d worked up earlier against it.
Drift tried. He really did, but he was overwhelmed by the tickles, the touches on his turgid spike, the hot arousal in Perceptor’s optics. And when it came to it, he wasn’t sure what he’d beg—at this point, all he wanted was Perceptor not to stop, the overload and the tickling tearing through his systems. The best he could do was some half-laughing moaning, his body writhing into, and out of, the touches, conflicted and aroused by the conflict.
Until he couldn't bear it any longer, his body convulsing, a sharp, powerful move that snapped the rope that bound his wrists, a silver jet of fluid from his spike arcing in the air to splatter hot droplets onto his body. He lay, for a long moment, hyperventing, pushing air in deep, noisy gulps.
Perceptor's hand slipped off his spike with one last, lingering pull, drawing a shuddering groan from Drift. He sighed. "I suppose we'll have to try again, some other time."
Drift gave a drowsy grin, pulling his arms--the broken strands of rope dangling from his wrists. He winced for a klik at the stiffness. "Better idea," he said. "Why don't you show me how it's done...."