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Possession	By : swordqueen Category: Transformers > G1 > Slash - M/M Views: 1558 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers nor the characters. I make no money writing or posting this.

Chapter List
- 1-Possession
- 2-Stolen Moment
- 1
- 2
A/N Ohaithar. This pairing's eaten my brain: IDW Jetfire and Sixshot. I normally write them plug and play, but then, yeah, sticky ensued. :P

NO plot in this (though they do have your typical angsty crossfactional with lots of smex), vaguely sub/dom

XXXXX

Jetfire shivered at Sixshot’s hands, hot and hard on his wings. The hands raked down the spans, lines of pain, of Sixshot’s feral desire writing itself across his skin. He turned his face to the other side, cool surface of his lab table reflecting the heat of his arousal back at him.

Sixshot moved, running one knee down the back of Jetfire’s leg, sleek against the thigh plate before it wedged between the thighs, spreading them. “Please,” Jetfire whimpered.

“What.” Sixshot’s flat question, teasing this time, in his own, dark way. One hand curled over the trailing edge of his wing. Jetfire quivered, hostage to his own desires.

“I want you.” Another shiver ran down Jetfire’s frame.

A laugh. Jetfire tried to push up off the table, only to be forced back down by the weight of Sixshot’s body. His wings vibrated against the chassis grinding into him. “Want me.”

“Yes.” The word came out as a breath. He turned his face to the other side, catching a glimpse of red optics flashing in a white helm.

“How.”

A hum as Jetfire’s cooling fans kicked on. “How…however you want me.”

He heard a purring growl behind him, vibrating through contact with his frame. A hand raked up the back of one of his thighs, a trail of embers, reaching for his interface hatch. He twitched, no longer embarrassed, as he used to be, at how obvious he was in his arousal. He had no secrets from Sixshot, and didn’t want any.

Sixshot’s weight moved against him, his hips rocking back from Jetfire’s. Jetfire hung in tremulous anticipation, his valve eager, waiting.

Another laugh against his wings—Sixshot, making him wait, toying with his anticipation. Jetfire didn’t care: Sixshot made him wanton, open. It would be wrong to hide from Sixshot how much he desired him. Only Sixshot could draw this from him, could pull this eager submission out of him.

Sixshot drew out the game, a warm presence resting in the mouth of the valve. Jetfire sucked in a shaky breath, holding himself still, obedient to Sixshot’s will.

The spike thrust into him abruptly, filling him entirely, causing him to arch up, his helm bumping into Sixshot’s. Sixshot drove in, sheathing his spike within Jetfire’s body, and then stopping, the larger shuttle impaled on him. “Yes.”

“Yes!” Jetfire cried out. Oh Primus, yes, Jetfire thought. Everything.

Sixshot gave a soft sound the hands shifting under Jetfire’s wings, curling around his shoulders, grinding his hips against Jetfire, before he started a fierce, driving rhythm, spike pushing into Jetfire’s yielding valve. Jetfire pushed up, lolling his head to one side, baring the side of his neck. Sixshot never kissed him, never let Jetfire see his face, but at times like this, sometimes, he could be tempted. His hands came up, cautiously, to cover the powerful hands gripping at his frame, clutching blindly at his armor—not to stop them but to hold them, to feel himself being held by them. To be owned.

His hips bucked with each thrust, enthralled, possessed by rising rapture that swelled and crested, breaking as he felt one last, fierce thrust, and the hot burst of transfluid in him, throwing him over the boundaries of body and into ecstasy.

He returned to himself quivering, nearly sobbing in Sixshot’s arms, that had gone from clutching him possessively to supporting the chassis against his. He quivered, feeling owned, taken, possessed,…loved. “Thank you,” he breathed.

The arms pulled him back more firmly and he felt the faint brush of a warmed face-mask against his throat before the grip loosened, letting him drop back to the table, palms first. Sixshot stayed inside him for a moment longer, before withdrawing slowly, the friction heated transfluid dripping from the valve as he pulled out.

Jetfire lay still for a moment, quivery with aftershocks of his overload, feeling Sixshot’s optics on him, drinking in the spectacle of his naked arousal. Slowly, slowly, he turned over, hips against the table, one hip sliding over Sixshot’s pelvic armor, white against green, until he stood face to face, propped on the table by still-shaking arms. The red optics flared against him, hot and possessive. He could still feel the slow trickle of transfluid between his thighs, valve aching pleasurably from overload. Yet he wanted more, wanted to show Sixshot more, elicit some final statement of claim.

He reached a careful hand toward Sixshot—they both watched it, the Phase Sixer turning his head to track the white hand as it moved to stroke over his green shoulder, slide up the vertical stabilizer. Jetfire was enthralled at his own audacity, at Sixshot allowing the touch. The other mech never gave much sign of finding pleasure in being touched—not the way Jetfire did, his systems alive and blazing and sparkling with sensation—beyond what arousal Jetfire took from it.

A bold idea flashed across Jetfire’s mind, and without thinking—for what place had thought and logic and reason in any of this?—he slid slowly, letting his body glide down Sixshot’s, to his knees. His optics dimmed as he licked, delicately, at the spike, hearing the startled hiss from Sixshot as some aural intoxicant, emboldening him further, his glossa moving to explore the underside of the spike’s complicated architecture.

Hard hands clutched at the tops of his wings—Sixshot, grabbing for balance, for solidity, as Jetfire’s mouth enveloped the spike. Jetfire moved his mouth down the spike, slowly, then back up, flirting with his glossa over its ridges and nodes. He paused, just the very tip in the circle of his lips, letting the cool air sting against the spike. Sixshot made a choking noise, hands squeezing harder on the heavy structure of Jetfire’s wings. Jetfire ached at the touch—everyone had always been so gentle with him, despite his size, presuming him fragile, weak. Too considerate. When what he’d wanted, all along, was this: hard, thoughtless touches, grabs summoned by his own actions, pushing another mech beyond care, into that selfish world of surrendering to one’s base systems, color and light and sensation swirling across the sensor net. He knew that feeling of surrender, loved it, and wanted Sixshot to feel it.

His mouth worked on the spike, glossa flirting, wrapping, teasing, his mouth sucking, sliding the spike along his oral chamber, optics dim, withdrawing into his own arousal. He could taste the musky metallic taste of Sixshot’s transfluid, the tang of lubricant, and the high sweetness of his own valve fluid: a complicated palate of desire and need.

Sixshot growled, almost a bark, like a warning before his hips jerked forward, caught by Jetfire’s hands. The hands on his wings twisted, wrenching metal in a final death-throe of control as he gave over to the overload, his transfluid flooding Jetfire’s mouth. Jetfire swallowed eagerly, reveling in the red sparks across his net from his wings, drinking it in like a victory, continuing to tease the spike until Sixshot twitched, on the edge of pain.

He released the spike with reluctance, savoring the taste, the feel of the nodes sliding off his glossa as he pulled his mouth off.

Sixshot’s hands grabbed his shoulders, hauling him to his feet, staring at him for a long, silent moment. His EM field throbbed against Jetfire’s, a palpable reminder of what Jetfire had done, what he had proved upon Sixshot’s body. Jetfire's mouth still tingled with transfluid, the taste of Sixshot's lust dark and raw and sleek. Jetfire’s optics were wide, open and blue, yielding under Sixshot’s hard gaze.

“Mine.” Sixshot said. Not a question.

Jetfire shivered, his damaged wings tingling. “Yes.”
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Possession