Fumbling Towards Ecstacy
Day 22: Bondage
"... where did you learn this?"
MDK's inquiry, like always, goes unanswered verbally. V1 instead just fixes him with a look from across the room, one that he can more or less identify as one-part smug pride and two-parts seductive intent. They hold their Whiplash hand high over their head, wrapping the cable that keeps both his arms pressed tight to his sides around their palm.
He can't move; the realization suddenly makes his mouth water. They've effectively strung him up like some kind of weird balloon in the middle of this musty bedroom.
Instead of attempting to reel him in, V1 grasps at the cable itself and gives it a sharp tug. The sheer strength of their right arm, prioritized for handling heavy weaponry, pulls him through the empty air between them like he weighs nothing. Their optic is swiftly dimming down to spare him any momentary blindness, and half-hidden behind its upper shutter, when he nearly collides with their chassis.
"Whoooaaakay, uh. Hi." He stutters, heat creeping across his face and spreading down to his ribcage in a visible blush. Their Feedbacker grasps at his femur and hooks it around their waist, bezel swiftly nuzzling against his lower visor in that kiss imitation they so love doing.
Their other two hands are upon him in an instant, fingers clutching at his clavicle, talons pulling teasingly at his helmet plume. A shudder wracks him, collagen trembling against metal; it's awfully loud in the silence of the bedroom.
V1's helm trails down where his jaw would be, like they were peppering it with kisses. The whirr of their internal fans grows louder, in pace with the heavy breaths he pulls in as their crotch plating grinds slowly into his own. Each leisurely roll of their hips sends lightning dancing up his spine and fire pooling south in a hurry. They can get him worked up so quickly; it almost feels like he should be embarrassed about it...
Too bad the sex tends to be too mindblowing (back-blowing) for him to really care about that.
Then he's being tugged towards the floor, their knees landing upon the plush rug carpet with a muted thud. And in a whirl of moment, MDK's helm is suddenly being pushed into the shag carpet by a clawed hand.
They pull him up onto his knees, Feedbacker greedily groping at his iliac wing and making his hips jolt with an embarrassingly loud moan. One that echoes into the neon-washed shadows of Lust's artificial sunsets. For a moment, terror grips him. He'll never live it down if his stalwart companion hears him-
...who he hasn't seen hide nor feather of since he finally looked up from the desktop monitor in the other bedroom, not fifteen minutes ago. Oh God, V1 must've somehow given him the heads up; how the fuck did they communicate that with him?
Any and all questions MDK might've voiced aloud about that are immediately dispersed when their hand dips lower.
"Shit," He hisses as V1's clever fingers slide across his pubic arch in a sensual caress. "Oh, fuck... "
He tries to move, tries to instinctively stifle the sounds they're pulling from him with each rub, but he can't. The binds around his arms pull tighter as their talons press down harder on his head. God, he knows they won't hurt him, but something about the pressure they apply with their claws right then, as if in reminder, sends sparks down his spine.
They could crush him, rip him to pieces if they desired; yet they don't. V1 wouldn't hurt him, not after everything. But some nights he wakes up in a sweat, the afterimage of their revolver pointed between his eyes burned into his retinas. Something about the guarantee of oblivion made MDK more than keenly aware of how they could very well have condemned him to that fate.
And yet despite all, here he is now. Held to the floor by an unbreakable grip, losing himself to every touch, every caress. He could be dead before he even realized what had happened. Why does that thought make lightning arc down his body?
He can't escape the growing intensity of their touches, the iron of their grip. They've long since figured out how to make him fall apart, and quickly, at that.
His moans fill the room; their only free hand is happily roaming his body. It gropes at his ribcage and trails light fingers over the discs of his spine. They pick up the pace, and then two of their fingers plunge through one of his foramen holes, thrusting at a near-merciless rhythm—
"God!" So much; too much, how is he this close already? "Please, pleasepleaseplease... !"
Release slams into him without warning, followed swiftly by an obscenely mortifying cry, wanton and loud. MDK thrashes hard enough to almost, almost loosen their grip on him. But they hold fast, and he cannot escape the crashing wave of pleasure that knocks all his other senses completely askew.
And then he comes down in a dizzying rush, chest heaving for air. Those same hands now caress him carefully, easing him back to the present moment with practiced, easy touches. The husk slumps into the carpet the best he can from where they still hold him in this extremely compromising position.
"Fuck." He huffs under his panting breath. V1's shoulders shake against his back, a silent indication of laughter. They nuzzle at him affectionately, grounding him after the intense experience. His afterglow rolls over him in slow waves, practically sinking into the soft carpeting below.
Those same soothing touches soon start becoming more searching, easing themselves back to his sensitive pubic arch. A whirr of shifting plating and a solid click follows. MDK shudders in eager anticipation. It wouldn't be the first time they've pushed him like this, and it won't be the last.
"Mmmph, come on." He pushes his hips back into their grip, shivering as they shift to hover over his prone frame.
They give their Whiplash cable a sharp tug, and pull his binds all the tighter.
