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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 Yeah me again. Yeah, THEM again! ;_; Just some general smexing. Enjoy!

“You shouldn’t be here,” Jetfire whispered. His hand slapped the keypad, closing the door to the maintenance room, locking it.
Sixshot didn’t answer him…directly. He showed no sign of guilt, despite being caught white-handed in the small room, kneeling by a torn-open access panel. He rose to his feet, swinging one of his guns up in a smooth arc until the barrel glared at Jetfire’s face. “Neither should you.”
Jetfire’s optics ranged over the white and green frame with a sharp hunger. It had been too long. It was always too long. And it was more than an aesthetic appreciation. He knew the violence in those limbs, in that cortex. He knew those were a destroyer’s hands.
“I am on the maintenance roster,” he said, coolly. Not dismissing the threat of the gun. He never lost sight of Sixshot’s ability to kill, even him. It just didn’t matter to him. If that’s what Sixshot wanted…he would take death at Sixshot’s hands.
Sixshot watched him over the barrel. “Reporting me.”
Jetfire shook his head. “I wouldn’t do anything to get you captured.” Sixshot in chains was Sixshot mutilated, the essence of him bound, destroyed. Sixshot wouldn't survive; Jetfire couldn't bear even the thought.
The gun lowered. “Have to tell them something. Your section.”
Jetfire shrugged. “I’ll think of something.” Later, when he could think, when his cortex wasn’t aswim with memories of Sixshot—of what those hands had done to him. Of how he tasted, smelled. Of his weight and power and grace. “I missed you,” he breathed. Three so simple words, stand ins themselves, but carrying so much weight.
“Yes,” Sixshot said. His optics flicked to Jetfire’s red-striped wings.
Jetfire shivered, wings tingling with remembered pleasures. All he could think of was the proximity of Sixshot. And all Sixshot could think of…?
He pulled Sixshot against him abruptly with an unaccustomed force. He didn’t know when, if, they’d ever get another chance. And this was stupid and dangerous enough as it was. The pistol clattered from Sixshot’s hand, which grabbed for his lower wings. Yes. Despite everything between them—faction, history, the war—at times like this it all fell away, and only their bodies and their hunger for each other remained.
“Dangerous,” Sixshot muttered, even as his hands blazed hot trails over the broad frontspans of Jetfire’s wings, his pelvic frame grinding against Jetfire’s white hips as they sank to the floor.
“Yes,” Jetfire agreed, adding, with a coy smile, “No talking.” Sixshot’s words, thrown back at him like a bond.
Sixshot gave a snort of laughter, shoving his thighs apart with one knee, making just enough space for one hand to snatch at Jetfire’s interface hatch, fingers harsh and demanding on covers that were already half-retracted from lust. Jetfire’s spike slid into Sixshot’s hand, the white fingers twitching at first with surprise before curling around it, slicking the lubricant down the shaft.
Jetfire’s optics dimmed, writhing at the contact, the cool, even pressure from the palm that had been, kliks before, holding a gun to his head with every intent to kill. He bit down on a moan, aware of the confined space, aware that at any moment they could be caught, aware that that would mean ruin for both of them.
They both knew it, and instead of quenching their desire with cool common sense, it only inflamed it.
Jetfire wormed his hips, pushing his valve up, sliding over Sixshot’s white thigh, his thin armor silky against the battered metal. Sixshot’s gaze was intense, opening up, feeding upon Jetfire’s displays of need, enthralled by the larger shuttle’s ragged bursts of air, the sinuous arching of the spinal struts, the way he could control Jetfire by such light gestures against his spike.
Jetfire’s own hands reached, grabbing for the broad shoulders, digging at a seam for the wires underneath. Sixshot shuddered as Jetfire’s fingers found a sensitive cluster, a growl building in his vocalizer. Sixshot did not let others touch him—very few things could register on his neutronium armor. But his systems underneath, in the thin, fine gaps, were exquisitely sensitive, bordering on pain.
Sixshot did not mind pain.
But he knew what Jetfire wanted—wanted it, too—and pushed forward, shifting his grip on the spike as he sank his own into Jetfire’s eager valve. Jetfire gasped at the familiar-but-almost-forgotten presence, unpleating the valve’s lining, slick with lubricant, filling him slowly, Sixshot moving with an almost sadistic patience, squeezing slowly at the spike in his hand until he’d seated it deep inside.
Patience disappeared, Sixshot driving his hips against Jetfire’s, air hissing from his cooling system, the spike building friction across the valve’s nodes in counterpoint to the slow, steady pulls that the Phase Sixer still maintained along Jetfire’s spike. And above all, Sixshot’s optics, fixed, hungry, devouring Jetfire laid out before him, feeding on his writhing body, Jetfire’s hands clutching helplessly at the vertical stabilizers behind Sixshot’s shoulders, wings vibrating against the ground, hips rising to meet Sixshot’s.
And Jetfire wanted to mark Sixshot. More than he just wanted to overload, more than he wanted to feel the scalding rush of transfluid up his spike’s channel, he wanted to see it spattered on the teal chassis, a silver testimony to his desire.
Sixshot looked down, one hand braced flat on Jetfire’s thrumming wing, his other working at Jetfire’s warmed spike. Lubricant slickened from the friction, thinning, glossing his white fingers, slipping down the spike mounting to mingle with Sixshot’s own as he drove into Jetfire’s valve. His growl revved, his spike gave a preliminary slipping burst of charge that caused Jetfire’s valve to quiver-clamp down around it.
Jetfire shuddered, enough that Sixshot’s one free hand clamped around his hips to keep himself from being thrown, as the overload tore through him, his spike and valve surrendering simultaneously, crackling with current, spasming against Sixshot’s touch. He felt a hot flush of transfluid fill his valve even as his own spike released a spray of silver. He arched up, taking the other’s weight with him, head thrown up and back, hands clawing under the armor with force enough to twist the wires, warp one fine strut.
Sixshot hung for a moment, lingering in the aftershocks before he pulled away, smearing the silver across their bodies, silver on teal, silver on blue. He gave his quiet laugh, lubricant slicked finger tracing a complicated pattern in the silver across the blue of Jetfire’s cockpit. “Get you back for this.” A promise.
He bent forward, counterbalancing on one hand as he reluctantly drew his spike from Jetfire’s valve. Both paused, feeling the rush of their heat dissipating in the cool air, transfluid and lubricant trickling from between them, their EM fields caressing like velvet. Sixshot squatted, one hand stowing his equipment. His optics lingered on Jetfire’s languorously limp frame, his other hand stroking down one white and red armored thigh. He tilted his head to the door. A signal. He had to go.
Jetfire nodded. “Be safe,” he whispered, sitting up as Sixshot rose to his feet.
Sixshot pinged the lock off the doorcode, looking back over his shoulder as it opened. “Be careful,” he said, and then everything he couldn’t say crowded into the next word. “Jetfire.”
And he was gone and all that remained was a pleasant ache and a cooling puddle. But Jetfire fell back, sated, warmed by the sound of his name in the other’s voice.
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Possession