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shadow_vector2010-11-29 06:48 am
Forlorn Hope 3/4 Transgression
IDW/G1
Sixshot/Jetfire
pnp sex
Lolwut? Yet more of this stupid pairing that's eaten my brain? Why....yeeessssssss. Follows Forlorn Hope and Relapse.
Jetfire laid out the brushes, scrapers, wrenches, solvents, and all the cleansing tools he could need, along with patch lengths of standard types of cables and mesh. He could feel Sixshot’s optics on him. And he was beginning to find the weight of that gaze to be comforting. He was wondering how he’d ever felt it to be threatening, that cool red gaze.
“I think this is everything I’ll need.” He’d wanted to lay it all out before Sixshot, so the other mech could see, no trickery. No deceit. If Jetfire were even capable of deceit.
“Countertoxin.”
It was strange how Jetfire was even becoming used to Sixshot’s truncated way of asking questions. “Are you having any side effects?” He turned his blue optics to face Sixshot.
Silence. Which was a ‘no’.
“I will only clean a small part right now. You will be fully online and operational. The countertoxin will continue to work and I can monitor you more closely.” He felt, acutely, his clumsiness. He was not Ratchet; he lacked a medic’s ability to explain the situation. And he could still feel himself using words to try to fill up Sixshot’s silence.
Sixshot grunted, approaching. “What.”
Jetfire felt a smile curl across his face. It felt…alien. How long had it been since he’d smiled? That long that it felt unfamiliar? Disconcerted, he said, “Something small. You said one arm did not have good autorepair?”
Sixshot moved to the other side of the workbench, laying his arm across it. He met Jetfire’s gaze steadily, popping his armor locks.
Jetfire observed, reaching to pick up a brush. “I have your permission to touch you?” He wanted to be certain. And…he wanted to make Sixshot say ‘yes’. The fancy had seized him, a wild delight, a challenge. Starscream, he thought, would approve of such a whim.
“Be dead if I didn’t.”
Jetfire made a snort, a feeble tendril of a laugh. An actual laugh. It felt…better than he remembered. “Can you say ‘yes’?”
A hesitation. “If I wanted.”
The snort grew a little more certain, finding its legs. He couldn’t tell if Sixshot had said it to be witty. He didn’t credit the Phase Sixer with much of a sense of humor. But he felt a slight lessening of the tension in the servos laid out beneath him on the work surface. He wasn’t offended, at least.
Then again, he thought more soberly, he couldn’t imagine a mech who had lived a life as Sixshot had would have much to find funny. He could feel the smile fade from his mouth.
He bent over the exposed arm, concentrating on the gunked up cables in front of him, trying not to think of what they had done, how many they had worked to kill. He worked in silence for a time, scrubbing the grease and the cables, crusted energon—most likely not all Sixshot’s—spilled from ancient battles, swabbing a fine solvent on the corroded contact plates, keeping his optics and cortex firmly on the work at hand.
It was strangely sensuous, he thought, but perhaps only because he wasn’t a proper medic. Someone with actual medic training would probably have gotten accustomed to viewing his patients as simple parts, and not…what Jetfire was thinking.
And it was gratifying work, though tedious, to watch the dirt of…ages finally scrub away, hoses and cables and connectors gleaming. He took a moment to study: Sixshot had said the self-repair was hampered on this arm. The nanite reservoir looked intact, but…perhaps it had been damaged somehow?
He switched tools to a small cutter without bothering to ask permission, and sliced into the reservoir to get a sample. The stuff was dead and sluggish, heavy like mud instead of liquid. “You were exposed to gamma radiation?” he said, looking up.
Sixshot shrugged. “Among other things.”
Jetfire held up his clot-covered probe. “The nanites are useless. Batching new ones will take a decacycle.” An implied question. He rotated the chamber to drain—either way, it was doing Sixshot no good.
Sixshot considered. “No way faster.” Jetfire knew what he was thinking—that batching would require programming them with his entire system scan. A little too personal.
“I…I could give you some of my own to transition but…it would be painful.”
A shrug. “Faster, though.”
Jetfire hesitated. Then, “All right.” He suppressed a strange, quiet, entirely unscientific thrill that part of his systems would become Sixshot’s. He hid the embarrassing thought in motion, as he bustled to get the transfusion equipment, only sitting back down across from the six-changer when he felt somewhat in control. He was pleased that his hands didn’t shake as he opened his own armor lock and probed the catheter into his own reservoir.
Jetfire studied Sixshot’s face keenly as the nanites began to transfuse. There was a slight tightening around the optic lenses, but nothing more. “It hurts?” It had to, Jetfire knew. It had to be blazing white hot fire through Sixshot’s arm as the nanites tried to repair Sixshot’s systems into Jetfire’s own, only to be stopped, logjammed by error/restart messages until they took the new coding.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Sixshot said, and then stopped, abruptly, as if surprised at the amount of words he’d said.
“That wasn’t what I’d asked,” Jetfire pushed.
Sixshot’s optics flicked. “It wasn’t,” he agreed. And then…nothing. Infuriating, characteristic stonewall.
Jetfire pushed further. “You feel pain…you feel pleasure?” Regret flared instantly at the piercing gaze. He twisted his head away, embarrassed.
“No.” Sixshot’s voice was flat. The hand on the exposed arm twitched, clenching on air.
Jetire blinked, still embarrassed, but his curiosity piqued. “No?”
Another of those enigmatic shrugs.
Jetfire set his cutter on its weakest setting, and slid it down a line. “That?” It should feel like a gentle feathering caress.
The optics flickered, nothing more.
Jetfire put the tool down. “I can run an advanced diagnostic.” There was simply no other reason why Sixshot couldn’t feel pleasure. It seemed somehow…wrong. Awful. The worst thing a Decepticon could do—make one of their own anhedonic. Some sort of programming block or coding error.
Sixshot snatched his hand away, armorlocks snapping closed, as he swung his other arm over the table, throwing Jetfire face down upon the work surface. Tools scattered, rolling and clattering while Jetfire tried to calm down from the sudden blast of panic. He turned his cheek to the table, optics searching up Sixshot’s chassis, while the Phase Sixer’s hands pinned him, hard. He felt a weight over his shoulders, a shadow falling over his vision.
“It was an offer,” he managed.
The grips tightened on him, the weight on his wings almost trembling. “You won’t get at me that easily, Autobot,” Sixshot snarled.
“I didn’t mean—I wouldn’t. Just to fix you. Just to help.” Jetfire craned his neck, trying to see Sixshot’s face. “Please.”
“Don’t need ‘help’.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”Jetfire went slack, loose. He couldn’t fight Sixshot. The only thing he could do is what he’d always done: not fight.
“Sorry because I’m going to kill you.”
Jetfire’s audio scraped on the worktable. “No. Sorry that I upset you.” His voice was raw with every emotion except fear.
He heard a rumbling growl, and then, abruptly, the weight on his back was gone. He lay still for a moment, letting the heat from Sixshot’s contact seep off into the air. He moved, slowly, as unthreatening as possible, pushing carefully off the bench. Sixshot glared at him from across the table. Studying him; unable to figure him out. The only reason, Jetfire realized, he was still alive.
Jetfire stooped to pick up the tools, his wings flicking, feeling Sixshot’s optics gaze heavy on him. He came around the bench to pick up the cutter, stooping low.
He straightened, the tension rising, his wings pinning rigid against his back. “I did not mean to transgress. Honestly.”
“Transgress.”
Jetfire fiddled with the cutter in his fingers. “I…got too close.” Foolishness. He was not much of an Autobot but he could hardly seek solace from the enemy. Loneliness was eroding him.
“Close,” Sixshot echoed. His hand lashed out, snatching the tool from Jetfire’s fingers. He pulled the mech closer by one white wrist. Jetfire’s canopy clinked against the chassis. He had never realized how close in height they were. It was the closest anyone had come, the optics nearly level with his own. He felt his ventilation system hitch.
He flinched, feeling a hard hand on his wing. The grip softened, slid down the aileron, awkwardly, curiously, Sixshot’s optics boring into Jetfire’s.
“What do you want?” Jetfire asked, cautious. The hand, he knew, could grip with force enough to crush his wing.
“No more talking,” Sixshot said, his other hand slicking over Jetfire’s rib frame. An answer to his question? An order? Did it matter?
Jetfire felt a tremble but he couldn’t decide if it was from his own frame or Sixshot’s. He raised a hand, slowly, still a bit wary lest his gesture be read as a threat, and brushed Sixshot’s shoulder.
The hand tightened on his waist, and Jetfire could feel the tension in the Phase Sixer’s frame, as he fought with…some darkness. Something that read every gesture as an attack, that read every contact as an attempt to injure. Sixshot was, in his way, as frozen to pleasure as Jetfire was, his own systems throwing up blocks between himself and anything like comfort. But Jetfire could also feel the supreme effort to fight against it.
Jetfire realized that…he would have to take lead. He was not used to being the more experienced—it did not come easily to him. He ran a shy thumb over Sixshot’s facemask, encouraged as the other mech turned, ever-so-slightly into the gesture. He felt a question bubble up in his vocalizer, but remembered Sixshot’s last words. Right. No more talking. They were neither of them adroit with words, and they were useless now, anyway.
And he would have to trust Sixshot to read his intentions for what they were, which was, he thought, probably as much of a stress to trust as Sixshot’s own battle.
Wordlessly, then, he opened his interface hatch, his optics dropping, shyly, and then back up, hopefully. Sixshot blinked, then tapped a panel on his side. The armor was battered, dented, and Jetfire had to pry it open, a bit surprised by the Phase Sixer’s passivity.
He asked permission, with his gaze, one finger gently circling the access port’s rim. Sixshot stretched a hand toward Jetfire’s equipment, his own thumb clumsily mimicking Jetfire’s gesture. Jetfire sagged against him, quivering, leaning to rest his helm against Sixshot’s, their faces close. I don’t want this to hurt, he thought, wished, as hard as he was able. What he was afraid, even to think to himself, was that he didn’t want this to be a disappointment. He could feel his own longing swelling up in him, echoes of long untouched desires resonating back to life. His electromagnetic field rippled, mapping the contours of Sixshot’s larger frame.
Even so long unpracticed, Jetfire’s hand remembered the gesture, uncoupled his interface module, finding the access port. With one sigh of razor-sharp anticipation, he drove his module into the port coupling, feeling it seat, feeling his datastream pulse with the force of long restrained desire. He fumbled with Sixshot’s module, the cables tangling between his fingers, body twitching with each pulse of his datastream, until he finally, shakily, managed to seat the module.
Sixshot’s optics flickered, a quivering shudder traveling up his frame. The lethal white hands clutched at Jetfire, fingerpads sending little stars of almost-pain across his sensornet. The datastreams collided in a explosion of light and color and sensation, fighting for rhythm. Jetfire’s knee servos gave—he clung at the green chassis. Sixshot’s arms tightened, lowering them both to a tangled mass on the floor. Control was beyond both of them at this point, both helpless before their too-long-restrained desires.
Sixshot’s datastream was some wild, untamed thing, beyond even his ability to control, that battered at, tore at Jetfire’s sensornet, raw and yet impossibly aroused. This was not the acid sharp desire of Starscream, but something heavy and brutal, unsubtle, blunt, an impossible to stand against. Jetfire’s datastream whirled around it, trying to catch or counterpoint the tempo, building toward release.
Sixshot’s hands roamed ferociously over Jetfire’s wings, his chassis sliding slickly over Jetfire’s cockpit. Jetfire’s own hands explored, with more urgency than he thought he could have, squirming, writhing over the Decepticon.
A sound started from somewhere deep in Sixshot’s frame, like a buzz, a vibration almost too low to hear at first, vibrating through their frames, rising, growing louder, larger in amplitude until it raised to a deafening roar. Sixshot bucked upward, his datastream snapping into synch with Jetfire’s, the overload slamming across both of their systems, throwing charge across their nets that swept Jetfire away, away from himself, his body, his ever, ever thinking cortex, until he was nothing but sensation wrapped in fragile tendrils of emotion.
And the only conscious thought he could make was that he never wanted this to end, never wanted to return to that body, that snarled mass of problems and paradoxes and worries and anxieties. He wanted to stay here…where he was free.
Next: First
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...Can they temporarily fix stuff? Like, my morning? 'Cause, I gotta tell ya. The coffee ain't really doin' it.
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For some reason this reminds me of the Scientific Method and that adds to my enormous happy. :D