shadow_vector | Resonance

R
IDW/G1 Forlorn Hope AU
Jetfire/Sixshot
Tactile, pnp

LOL I suck. Chronologically this takes place waaaay back at the research station. They were there, you know, together, for a while. Stuff happened.

Jetfire woke from recharge, almost afire with the realization. “Resonance,” he said, before he was really fully online. He turned his face unerringly toward Sixhot, one thigh thrown over the green pelvic frame, Sixhot's white armored hand still resting in the divot of his wings.

“What.” Sixshot, patient, no slur, no hesitation. As if he hadn't been recharging at all. One day Jetfire would solve if that was the other mech's faster reflexes or if Sixshot simply never shut down.

“Your pain issue. Hypersensitivity from resonance.”

A smooth shrug. “Probably.”

Jetfire pushed up, only to find the hand at his waist adamant, tugging him back down and snugged against the green chassis. He didn't fight it, but did plant a palm on the center of Sixshot's chest. “But if that's what it is, we can fix it! I can fix it!” The idea, the notion, of putting his scientist's mind to use to help Sixshot was dizzying.

“Good would that do.”

“You...wouldn't be in pain?” Jetfire ran a hand down Sixshot's armor, trailing one finger over assembly seams. Half-flirting, half contemplating the alloy, conductivity and other factors.

“Compromise other systems.”

“But it might not!” Enthusiasm was making him heedless. His hand moved more boldly, more possessively, over the dense alloy. He was imagining touching Sixshot, Sixshot responding with the same ardent whimpers and squirms as he did. His wings shivered.

“No.” Sixshot's hand curled almost warningly around the lower wing lobe.

“But it might help!” It seemed ridiculous. Why would Sixshot want to keep himself in pain? It must be some latent shyness. That was it—Sixshot feeling a bit exposed. “I mean,” he said, soothingly, “I've touched most of your major systems. It's not like I can't circuit-diagram theaaauhh!”

The hand twisted his lower wing, sending a blaze of red fire over his net. “Said no."

Jetfire arched up, gasping, one hand reaching back, trying to pry the fingers off his wing. “I'm sorry! I just don't understan—ow!” The hand twisted harder. Jetfire could feel rivets threatening to burst under the torque, metal straining. “Please!”

The hand let go immediately, and the release of tension caused almost its own new pain. He sagged down, shaking, the armor against him feeling suddenly hard and forbidding.

“I am sorry,” he whispered into Sixshot's chassis.

Sixshot's hand moved, stroking gently along the wing it had been tearing at, as if brushing the pain away. And, strangely, it worked—Jetfire's net soothed suddenly, the pain turning into a familiar feathered pleasure.

“Have my reasons,” Sixshot said. His way of apologizing, or at least attempting denouement.

“I understand,” Jetfire said, quietly, though he didn't. At all. He curled one of his hands before his face, as if hiding from Sixshot. From his own mortifying misstep. Losing sight of the decent from pursuit of science. It wasn't the first time it had happened. It would not be the last. He never learned.

A long moment, each lying in their own separate capsule of thought and blame, and then Sixshot gave a grunt, and sat up, pushing Jetfire onto his back. Another amends, as the large white hands began exploring Jetfire's thinner armor, a dark light—almost worried—from the red optics. As if reassuring himself of something he couldn't even frame into a question. “Want you,” he said, and Jetfire knew it was supposed to be an offering—I reveal my desire for you to refuse or accept. Ceding control to Jetfire, as well as moving back into more familiar ground.

Still his systems knew what they wanted, and revved with pleasure, present, remembered and anticipated. It made no sense, followed no logic, this complex calculus of desire, but some subsystems simply knew and wanted, like simple transistor switches. He didn't need to verbalize assent: his body's writhing reaction gave it away for him.

Sixshot's hand moved to Jetfire's interface hatch, flipping it open. The red optics flicked down for a microklik as the hand pulled Jetfire's module free, stroking the module's brushed metal with a thumb, making Jetfire judder with the intensity. Jetfire gave a soft moan, his hand reaching in return for Sixshot's, wanting the same, wanting parity. To make Sixshot feel as he felt—the same thing he wanted in solving the alloy resonance issue.

Sixshot exvented, almost a low hum. His optics locked with Jetfire’s as he seated the module in his access port. Jetfire gasped, his datastream already throbbing across his cables, pulsing slow, and soft and steady. Sixshot’s optics dimmed in tempo.

Jetfire’s hand curled over Sixshot’s module, warming the burnished steel in his palms before bringing it to his mouth, pressing it against his lip plating, letting his glossa flick out to brush it with raw current. Sixshot jolted at the touch, hands clawing at Jetfire’s frame.

Jetfire let his optics lid, his glossa exploring the head of the module, nipping it with his mouth. Sixshot trembled above him. He felt a rush of exultation—Sixshot’s armor might be numb, desensitized, but his module was not. He would show him, finally, what he wanted to…make him feel the same trembling tight thrill of sensation.

“Stop,” Sixshot said, his voice unsteady, assaulted from two fronts—Jetfire’s mouth and his module.

Jetfire paused, momentarily. He shook his head. “This time, no.” He would respect Sixshot’s autonomy, he would not transgress the other’s will, but this…he would do. He nuzzled the module again, tracing a wandering line with his other hand down the cables and up, to circle the access port, with his own module plugged in. He stopped. “It’s important to me.”

Sixshot nodded, gruffly, dropping his weight onto one side, his chassis against Jetfire’s ribstruts, Jetfire’s module cables draped over his white frame, tense, tight, braced as though this were something he had to endure—was willing to endure—for Jetfire.

The thought excited and disturbed Jetfire simultaneously, that Sixshot would endure pain for him. “I don’t want to hurt you, ever,” he whispered, his vents caressing the module.

Sixshot tilted his head. “Happens, sometimes.”

Jetfire paused, his optics wide, earnest. “Not this time.” He held Sixshot’s optics with his own, opening his mouth, letting his glossa peep out, touch the warmed end of the module, slide over the end node, while his other hand stroked along the cables, smoothing them. He released some of his control of his datastream, feeling it throb more urgently against Sixshot, letting the Phase Sixer feel his desire, feel his want and longing and need. He nipped the module, pressing it with his mouth until he felt the pulse of Sixshot’s datastream burst from it against his lips. He laughed, softly. “You do want me,” he murmured.

Sixshot growled, pulling roughly at Jetfire’s chassis, one foot sliding down between Jetfire’s legs, tangling with the limbs. “Can outlast you,” he muttered, hands roaming over Jetfire’s wing.

“It’s not a contest,” Jetfire said but he found he didn’t want anything more than to yield now, to cede victory. He guided the module to his access port, hesitating, sighing before he plugged it in. Sixshot’s hands curled hard against him, grating against the flat panel of his wing as his datastream punched into Jetfire’s body, the resonance seeking Jetfire’s, hard pulses galloping after Jetfire’s slow, steady, ebbing and flowing waves of energy.

Sixshot hissed, his sound of pleasure, his hands gripping over Jetfire’s frame, sliding down his body, tracing the red panels of his pelvic frame, down his white thighs, pulling charge from the fine seams, like tingling velvet. No one else could move Jetfire this way, no one ever had so completely wanted, desired him, had wanted his desire, took such feral delight in his arousal.

Jetfire rolled toward Sixshot, his hands insistent on the heavy neutron armor, tracing panels, dipping into gaps.

“Can’t feel much,” Sixshot said, but for once, he didn’t stop Jetfire, he allowed the touch, as an intimacy.

“I know, but…I want to. The…the feel of you…,” Jetfire’s store of words ran out, incapable of expressing what he wanted to say: that Sixshot’s body under his palms made him solid, real, that the armor sliding under his sensors aroused him. Entirely selfish—when had he become so selfish?

He arched up, sliding his chassis against Sixshot’s, inviting the hand to touch the blue glass of his canopy, letting his optics drift heavy-lidded as their datastreams pulsed together, tripping and syncopating in a rhythm too complex to measure. His body trembled, anticipating, like an instrument played by their resonances. Sixshot’s vents hitched, his optics hungry, hands drawn over Jetfire’s body, impossibly light and delicate over the blue glass, before curling around.

Jetfire gasped as Sixshot pressed the catch on the canopy, the blue glass popping open. Sixshot gave a satisfied grunt, fingers probing, exploring, teasing the acute angles of the glass. Jetfire could not stop the moan that bubbled to his vocalizer, and then, didn’t want to, feeling Sixshot’s datastream give a double trip effortlessly into synchrony.

Jetfire flung his arms around Sixshot, burying the cry in the other mech’s shoulder just as Sixshot’s free hand tightened over his wing, crushing him closer, compressing his canopy, and Sixshot’s other hand, between them as the overload burst like a glorious explosion of music between them, over them, color and light and sound and sensation blasting everything away but the truth of them, desire and longing.

And he knew, abruptly, why Sixshot didn’t want any change to his systems—he didn’t want to risk losing this, blunting the sharp beautiful pain of this between them, blur the sacredness of the one time he did not suffer. Jetfire was the vessel of the only pleasure Sixshot knew.

“Yes!” he cried out. “I understand!” He pulled Sixshot’s head against his shoulder, throbbing with empathy and love.

And Sixshot allowed the embrace.

Resonance

no subject

no subject

no subject