Forlorn Hope (oops) 4/? First
Dec. 2nd, 2010 07:33 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
niyazi-a.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shadow_vectorIDW/G1
Jetfire/Sixshot
tactile, PWP
Goddammit these two keep giving me bunnies (and going at it like bunnies, too, alas!) There is plot (next chapter) but till then, have some PWP
ch 1: Forlorn Hope
ch 2: Relapse
ch 3: Transgression
Jetfire had been stunned, then honored, then worried, when he’d put the pieces together: he had been Sixshot’s first. As heady and flattering as the thought was, that he had been the one chosen, that he had been, in a sense ‘worth it’, it was more than a little distressing to think of a mech gone so long without even the simplest and most obvious of pleasures, one that even he had enjoyed. If…rarely.
Sixshot hadn’t told him—not that he was much for speaking anyway. But Jetfire had figured it from the ardent way the mech approached him later that night. Sixshot had come to his berth, stalking in uncanny silence, optics tilted, studying Jetfire until the Autobot had asked, quietly, “Is there something you need?”
That strange bitter snort that was Sixshot’s laugh, and the white hands had descended on Jetfire, pushing him back against the berth, pinning him with casual ease. “Could say that,” Sixshot murmured. He squeezed Jetfire’s wrists under one hand, over Jetfire’s head, while his other began roaming over the white frame, the pressure changing from needy almost painful intensity, to almost imperceptible brushes.
Jetfire found himself trembling, the caresses pulling current from his circuits, a trail of glittering dust across his sensornet. He felt no fear, not this time, that Sixshot would kill him, despite the helpless vulnerability of his position. Sixshot’s optics alternated from Jetfire’s face to tracking his hand’s progress over the white armor, the blue glass of his canopy, tracing the seams of the larger panels. His EM field rippled against Sixshot, his ventilation cycle staggering, unsteady. The impassive face studied Jetfire’s squirming response, feeling the change in his EM field. “Possible.”
Another of his flat questions, as if it somehow was weakness to admit to curiosity. Jetfire twisted his wrists, gently, wanting to touch as well. It seemed selfish to lie still and receive. But perhaps Sixshot thought that was too much like a threat, too much like ceding control. Was it possible?
“To overload from touch? Yes.” Jetfire’s sensornet was glowingly alive, cascades of sensation whirling across it. A different kind of overload, more…selfish, only one mech enjoying. The kind of overload Jetfire had found, too often, himself doing, quietly, furtively, alone; when his desires would no longer be ignored.
Sixshot nodded. “Hnh.” He pushed one knee between Jetfire’s thighs, glossing the thumb up Jetfire’s thigh armor to brush more gently than Jetfire would have credited, the little glimpse of Jetfire’s exposed cabling. Jetfire whimpered, pulling at the restraining hand.
The hand shifted to the span of his wings, stroking across the span, tracing along the aileron lines, gently tweaking the flaps themselves. Jetfire twisted, not knowing if he wanted to lean into the touch or away from it. No, it was not that difficult a question—he wanted to lean into it, more and more, but he felt suddenly shy. He was not, never had been, wanton or open in his desires. “You’re very…good at that,” he said, lamely, wanting to do something, however feeble, to return the sentiment.
Sixshot shrugged off the compliment. “Jet mode also.” Oh. Right. Should have remembered that. And the image it brought to mind, that perhaps Sixshot had also resorted to the same measures but…he would have known, then, wouldn’t he? That it was possible?
The thought staggered him, how lonely, how…out of touch (literally) Sixshot’s life seemed.
The bulk of Sixshot’s green chassis floated above Jetfire’s face, as one hand kept his pinned, the other exploring, ruthlessly delicate, palm glossing flat over the armor, fingertips curling into seams and panel edges. Sixshot’s expression went distant, as though mapping Jetfire’s body.
Jetfire found himself twisting, his feet scrabbling helplessly, tractionlessly, on the berth. His net tingled, sensation eddying and swirling like falling gemstones, charge building across his systems. “Please,” he heard himself gasp. He didn’t know what he was asking for, just…please.
Sixshot released his hands as his only answer. “No touching,” he muttered, just as Jetfire reached his hands to touch the stabilizers behind his shoulders. Jetfire floated his hands reluctantly to the berth, gasping as Sixshot slid both hands over his chassis, down both sides of his rib struts, and up, and then over to his arms.
“I want…,” Jetfire murmured, before Sixshot cut him off with a look.
“Later.” A promise, as well as a denial. Later…when? Jetfire’s hands wanted to clutch at Sixshot, despite his command. They did not have forever. He did not know how long they did have, and—he forced the thought from his mind, chased out by another tsunami of sensation as Sixshot leaned further, curling his arms around the break in the wings and rolling down, pulling Jetfire on top of him, his hands now free to caress the entirety of Jetfire’s backspan. Jetfire arched up, throwing his head back, his chassis pressing into Sixshot’s, hands obediently dropping to the berth, curling against the metal.
And Sixshot’s optics were fixed upon him, studying him, his responses, his reactions, and Jetfire found that gaze as arousing as the fingers that ghosted over his frame, the vibration against his body. He had never been looked at with such naked, raw lust before. He had never had his desires studied, summoned forth. He had never been, in a sense, desired. Not like this. And it was humbling and intoxicating at the same time, the two emotions conflicting, fighting like dragons of flame around his cortex, spinning him upward and out of control, his electrical systems sparking, thin threads of current shooting to Sixshot’s fingers when he broke contact, spattering around the touches, as his systems pushed him, forced him inexorably into overload. His disobedient hands clutched at Sixshot’s shoulders, white gripping green, as if anchoring himself, as if making Sixshot somehow…real.
He sagged back, limp, falling against Sixshot’s armor, excess overload charge sparkling blue over his body. Sixshot stroked it, gently, over his wingspan, with his hands. A murderer’s hands, a lover’s hands; hands capable of singleminded violence, but also, Jetfire knew, knew intimately, capable of a needy sort of tenderness.
Reluctantly, Jetfire put his palms on the berth, trying to push off. The red optics narrowed, the hands slowing their touches. “Probably crushing you,” Jetfire said, lamely.
“No.” As if to prove it, Sixshot lifted his chassis off the berth, Jetfire’s weight on him.
“Oh,” Jetfire said, torn between moving and subsiding back onto the broad green panels, that for once, weren’t too fragile for him, weren’t too light. “Forgive me: this is all…a bit new to me.”
And Sixshot laughed his rusty laugh, and said, merely, “New.”
Next: Rescue
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Date: 2010-12-03 01:23 am (UTC)...I think I'm officially hooked on these two now. You write them together so well! Their interactions, they make me just...!
*melts*
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