Blind Surrender

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

Blind Surrender
NC-17
IDW
Sixshot/Jetfire
sticky, bondage, sight deprivation, oral, PWP
Yeah I wanted to work on something Sixshot-ish for a prompt table, but...this came out instead.  Oops.  Accidental bondage pronz! 

 

 

Jetfire heard himself whimper, heard the sound travel and bounce. Strange, he thought, how the loss of sight seemed to sharpen the sense of hearing…of touch.

Which was, he figured, Sixshot’s entire design, and the whole reason for the video-feed inhibitor.

“Scared.”  Sixshot’s usual, familiar flat vocalization.

Jetfire shook his head, feeling, somehow, the room move around him, as though he were still and it was the air of the room itself whipping from side to side. 

A noncommittal grunt, as if Sixshot didn’t really care.  Almost a lie.  He did care. This whole thing betrayed it, the way he’d snapped the restraints over Jetfire’s wrists, smoothing his thumbs down Jetfire’s hands, the way those hands had slicked down Jetfire’s exposed frame after he’d hauled the bound wrists upright, securing them somehow over Jetfire’s head. 

And now, those same hands trailed over his ventral span, wrapped around from behind, the fingers teasing the join of his cockpit, tracing the line where metal became glass.  Jetfire’s knee servos trembled, shivery and weak with arousal, and he found himself leaning back, letting his wrists take his unsteady weight. 

The hands moved, trailing along his waist and back, to trace the narrow edges of his wings, fingertips on the lines, tracing up wider and wider, and then over. Jetfire squirmed in his bonds, his sensornet shimmering with delight.  He heard a contented growl behind him, felt the soft buzz of an EM field quiet and stable against his wingspan.  Jetfire tilted his blind head back, leaning into Sixshot’s presence. 

The arms responded, pulling him back, roughly, his wings scraping over the green blocky mass of Sixshot’s chassis. “Want something.”

Jetfire nodded, weakly, his hands twisting in their bonds, high over his head. 

“Don’t make me ask.”  The voice buzzed deliciously against his audio, hands slicking down the flat planes of his wings.  Jetfire shivered, his wings almost burning against the touch. 

“I want you.” His voice was small, unsure. He was finally getting comfortable with displaying his desire, but speaking it…? 

And Sixshot knew this.  “How.” 

Jetfire writhed, lust and embarrassment warring over his body.  “A-any way you want.”  His voice was thready, meek.  He was glad for the inhibitor, so he didn’t have to see Sixshot’s face, though he still felt the sudden rush of heat over his facial plating heat sinks, in his interface equipment.  

“Any.” An edge to the voice, and the hands on his wings tightened, compressing the metal plates against the mechanisms beneath.  Jetfire moaned, the pressure/pain  surging through him.  He twisted against his bonds. 

“Any!” he gasped. Whatever Sixshot wanted.  He didn’t care. He never cared. He had…no right to a preference as long as he was being touched, wanted, desired. 

Sixshot rumbled, pulling Jetfire’s backspan against him, the vibration of his aroused engines travelling through the contact.  Jetfire felt his valve cycle on, wanting, his head dropping back against Sixshot’s shoulder, audio against the vertical stabilizer.  Sixshot took advantage of the openness, one hand sliding up along Jetfire’s bared throat, his hard, killer’s fingers roaming over the exposed cabling.  Jetfire bucked against him, the threat just real enough to arouse him.

Sixshot’s other hand smoothed down the cockpit again, and Jetfire could conjure the image from memories of the touch, black fingers spread over the blue glass, and over the white span of Jetfire’s interface cover.  And then past it, down into the hip joint, fingers flirting with the gap.  He whined, a sound of pure, frustrated lust, a sound that until he’d met Sixshot he’d never have imagined he could make.

“Any,” Sixshot echoed.  Promising endless frustration.

Jetfire, blind, dizzy with desire, nodded, feeling the fingers caress his bared throat.  “Wh-what you want,” he breathed, surrendering. 

A laugh. “Not,” Sixshot murmured, tightening his fingers over the throat cables just enough to make the point, “that you have much choice.”

No. Jetfire shook his head.

The arms tightened against him for a moment, pulling him into a crushing embrace before releasing him…utterly.  Heat seemed to radiate off him from the emptiness that had been Sixshot’s EM field, a cool, fuzzed rush over his dermal sensors. He turned his blind head, straining his audio, trying to sense Sixshot’s location, wobbling back and forth on his legs. He was grateful, in a sense, for the binding, without which he would have fallen.

A warm grasp on his interface hatch, a hand closing over it, squeezing before sliding down, and then another hand, both of them, sliding knuckles against his inner thighs, pushing them apart.  He sucked in a vent of air, feeling his core temp spike.

And then a sense of mass and weight between his legs, and a brisk snap opening his interface hatch.  He quivered, thighs forced apart, suddenly, by pushes against his ankles, as the cool air struck the warmed equipment covers. His hands twisted helplessly together, his shoulder servos firing. 

He gasped, jolting upright, at the touch against his valve cover, his legs electrically rigid.  He could swear he heard a laugh from out of the velvet darkness of his masked optical feed, as the touch circled the cover’s edge. He whimpered as the touch went from feathery gentle to a hard, demanding pressure and then back.  He quivered, tension in his thighs, feeling it release. His ventilations came in sharp, rapid gulps of air, optics closing, blind or not, waiting, hoping for contact, the caliper mechanisms spiraling down, eager, over a thin wash of lubricant.  He heard a sound from in front of him, a soft grunt from near his belly, and then a gentle click, before a sudden, surprising warmth covered his valve, and he felt the unmistakable flexible firmness of a glossa dragging along the valve’s rim.

Jetfire moaned, as much from the image his imagination fed him as the sensory input: Sixshot’s helm,  between his white thighs, optics warm and alive over his ventral span, dimmed, he hoped, with concentration and desire. 

Sixshot rumbled against him, hands sliding down around his thighs, then up, flirting with the seams.  His glossa dipped into the valve’s lining, flicking over a node cluster.  Jetfire gave a sharp chuff, his hips twitching.  Sixshot’s hands tightened around his pelvic frame, steadying him, bracing him, probing further into the valve, lip plates nipping at the lining.

Jetfire ached at his blindness, his physical sensors trying to feed him information, a collage of sensation—hardness, softness, motion, heat, moisture, that skirled over his net like a cyclone.  He threw his head back, crying out in lust and frustration.

“Sorry!” Jetfire gave a gasping whisper. “I’m sorry.”  His knee servos buckled, dragging his weight against his bound wrists.  He whimpered torn between desire and pain.

The pressure slid forward, Sixshot’s mouth leaving his valve, cool air biting into the warmth. “Make all the noise you want,” Sixshot murmured. “No one can hear.” He tightened his arms around Jetfire’s legs, ducking low again, trailing a blazing line from the still-covered spike to the open, wanting valve.  Jetfire would have given anything to see, to gauge Sixshot’s facial expression, to see, he hoped, desire mirrored on unfamiliar features. 

Long, hard arms wrapped around his thighs, pulling him forward, spreading them further, settling them over the bulky mass of a chassis, Sixshot letting his own frame take Jetfire’s weight, the hands on Jetfire’s body sure and strong. 

Another arousal of its own kind: Sixshot was the only mech he’d ever met who was his equal in size, his superior in strength, who could so easily take the full force of his weight, around whom, finally, Jetfire didn’t have to be careful. 

He let go, letting his weight sag onto Sixshot’s sturdy chassis, giving into the warm wet circles of Sixshot’s glossa around his valve, the demanding yet delicate stroke over his clusters, giving up control, his frame undulating and juddering in the throes of inchoate desire.

And it struck him that the visual inhibitor might frustrate him, but it freed Sixshot, who had, he realized suddenly, his own shyness and vulnerability. He could feel the heady curiosity, Sixshot driven by Jetfire’s feedback more than any technique, chasing Jetfire’s squirms and whimpers and bucks, learning this like a new art.  And the control: Sixshot so completely commandeering Jetfire’s desires, making his whole large frame writhe and gasp and moan, by one infinitesimal flick of the glossa.  Sixshot got off on control and, to be honest, Jetfire on being controlled. 

The realization fanned his desires until, finally, his body yielded utterly, valve awash with conductive fluid tingling with charge, a scream tearing from his vocalizer, his spinal struts twisting, spasming, his hands clawing at air, pelvic span grinding against Sixshot’s face in a paroxysm of release, wanton and helpless before his own response.

Sixshot remained for a moment, Jetfire’s weight resting on his chassis, lapping gently, teasingly, at the valve, laughing quietly to himself as Jetfire twitched and gasped above him. Finally, he pushed up, unwinding his arms from Jetfire’s thighs, with one, last, longing lick around the quivering wet valve before pushing to his feet, slowly, carefully, tracing a wet hot line over the blue canopy, two touches, light and sure, over Jetfire’s chassis, sliding in a rising line over the chassis’ depth, against his throat and…

…Jetfire quivered, his mouth covered by Sixshot’s, the mouth plates firm, unyielding, yet somehow shy, awkward.  Wanting, but not knowing how.  Jetfire leaned into it, parting his lips against the intrusion, tasting his own fluids on Sixshot’s glossa. He’d had only the one kiss, in the dark, ages ago, before this and he was grateful for Sixshot’s grip around his ribstruts, crushing him against the broad warm metal.   He probed gently with his own glossa, sliding over Sixshot’s, bleating softly on the ebbing waves of sated lust and the salt-sweet tingle of his own charged fluid. 

Sixshot broke the kiss, with a final shy nip at Jetfire’s lower lip plate, and then Jetfire felt hands on his helm, and with a snap, the visual feed inhibitor shut off.

He blinked his optic shutters, feeling the optics warm, the blue receptors beginning to glow and focus on Sixshot’s face, already masked, already the familiar blankness in place.  Even so, Jetfire had learned to read the smallest traces of emotion, though he couldn’t say how. Possibly, minute variations in optic aperture, possibly reads of his strange EM, but Jetfire could feel the almost smug satisfaction coming off Sixshot in waves. 

Sixshot gave an amused snort, letting his gaze take in the spectacle of Jetfire, wrung out, ventilations uneven, mouth still parted at the memory of the kiss, optics drowsy, arms still pinned overhead.  Sixshot’s optics traveled up the long lines of Jetfire’s arms. “Should probably let you go,” he said, reaching up, his EM bumping over Jetfire’s, letting his hands travel up the lines his gaze had traced moments before, up the fine seams of Jetfire’s arms, head tilting up to the binding.  Jetfire could not resist the opportunity, leaning in to nuzzle against Sixshot’s exposed throat, letting his arms fall, when Sixshot released them, around the broad green shoulders. 

“No,” he whispered, into the hard cabling that throbbed with Sixshot’s life and desires, “never let me go.”

 

Comments

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

Thanks! They're...really strangely gentle with each other, aren't they? (compared to Drift/Percy who play a lot rougher!) Glad you liked!