...so going to hell.
Yeah, okay, so I've had this image in my head for a while, and I had to write it down before it drove me insane. Cyclonus/Rodimus, rated R, 294 words, BDSM-ish themes.
*
It might have surprised some to know that Cyclonus considered himself an artist. He usually came across as the cold, self-possessed type, not given to florid expression or constant musing; even in battle, where his iron self-control was loosed somewhat, he was all business. You would never catch the second in command of the Decepticons with an art stylus in his hand, or a soldering gun for sculpture.
Nevertheless, he was an artist. His medium was pain.
Cyclonus stepped back to admire his work. Rodimus Prime, gilded with condensation and his own lubricant fluid, hung suspended from his wrists so that his feet barely scraped the floor. Rents and burn marks wrote out a series of dark runes across his bright armor, and his legs shook with the effort of holding himself up. Though Cyclonus allowed the moment to stretch out without touching him, Rodimus remained still and focused - no attempts at banter, no struggling or fighting back. Receptive, pliant, and patient: under Cyclonus's hand, Rodimus shed his constant reckless drive and became more disciplined than he could ever be anywhere else.
Cyclonus stepped forward and cupped his captive's cheek in his palm. Rodimus tilted his head up and toward the contact, shuttering his optics in undisguised pleasure. Chuckling, Cyclonus stroked the Prime's helm just to watch the effect of such simple, gentle affection. "You suffer beautifully, Rodimus," he murmured as he brought their faces close. "When I get you past your pride."
That earned a smile and a low, weak laugh. "Thanks," Rodimus managed with some effort, "I think."
"Hn." Pleased, Cyclonus reached up and released the restraints; without their support, Rodimus's legs gave out at last and Cyclonus had to carry him to the berth. He couldn't honestly say he minded.
*
And now I voom, for it is past my bedtime.
*
It might have surprised some to know that Cyclonus considered himself an artist. He usually came across as the cold, self-possessed type, not given to florid expression or constant musing; even in battle, where his iron self-control was loosed somewhat, he was all business. You would never catch the second in command of the Decepticons with an art stylus in his hand, or a soldering gun for sculpture.
Nevertheless, he was an artist. His medium was pain.
Cyclonus stepped back to admire his work. Rodimus Prime, gilded with condensation and his own lubricant fluid, hung suspended from his wrists so that his feet barely scraped the floor. Rents and burn marks wrote out a series of dark runes across his bright armor, and his legs shook with the effort of holding himself up. Though Cyclonus allowed the moment to stretch out without touching him, Rodimus remained still and focused - no attempts at banter, no struggling or fighting back. Receptive, pliant, and patient: under Cyclonus's hand, Rodimus shed his constant reckless drive and became more disciplined than he could ever be anywhere else.
Cyclonus stepped forward and cupped his captive's cheek in his palm. Rodimus tilted his head up and toward the contact, shuttering his optics in undisguised pleasure. Chuckling, Cyclonus stroked the Prime's helm just to watch the effect of such simple, gentle affection. "You suffer beautifully, Rodimus," he murmured as he brought their faces close. "When I get you past your pride."
That earned a smile and a low, weak laugh. "Thanks," Rodimus managed with some effort, "I think."
"Hn." Pleased, Cyclonus reached up and released the restraints; without their support, Rodimus's legs gave out at last and Cyclonus had to carry him to the berth. He couldn't honestly say he minded.
*
And now I voom, for it is past my bedtime.