Prompt 5 Response
Title: Unspoken
Continuity: IDW
Characters: Jetfire/Sixshot
Rated: PG-13
Warnings: angst?
Prompt: Seeking forgiveness
Time: 58 min
Words 837
Jetfire felt the crystals crunch under his footplates, fine greenish dust puffing in slow motion in the minimal atmosphere. Sixshot had merely acknowledged his request to meet and…he had no real reason to believe the Phase Sixer would actually come. Not after how they had parted. And exchanging soft words, from time to time, late at night, was one thing but…meeting again was entirely another.
Of course. That was why Jetfire wanted to. Even the sweetest words were thinned from distance, and nothing spoke truth like another mech’s EM field, flaring against one, hands tracing intricate alphabets of desire.
Sixshot wouldn’t be seen until he was ready to be seen, Jetfire knew, so he stepped slowly, hands half raised to show he was unarmed, despite the weight of the white gun slung over his back. He made no effort toward stealth, knowing that first, it would fail and second, Sixshot would only read it as deceit. And of all the things between them, he did not want to add that.
“My gun.” The voice, behind Jetfire.
“Yes. I brought it back for you.” They’d allowed him to keep it, as some sort of trophy, but still it had felt like theft when he’d taken it, even though he knew, with a hard sense of rightness, that it was necessary. It wasn’t his gun. It was Sixshot’s.
“Didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
A hand, on his back, and first he thought it was reaching for the heavy pistol, until it stroked over the flat plane of his upper wing. “Know me too well.” The weight of the pistol was gone, suddenly, and Jetfire’s backspan was naked and bare.
Not as much as I want. “It’s not mine,” he said. “I have no right to keep it.”
A grunt, and another hand, reaching around Jetfire’s chassis. Jetfire let himself sag back into the embrace, feeling Sixshot’s EM field buzz and flicker around his, the silky slide of his armor and that one knowing, teasing hand on his wing. “Missed you.”
Simple words, but the bittersweet tang of them made Jetfire shiver. They were separated because of his implacable conscience, nothing more. The fuzz and crackle of the EM field against him seemed like something he didn’t deserve, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. “I-I wanted to apologize,” he began.
Another grunt, and the warm slide of a mouth over the upper edge of his wing. “No need.”
“There is need.” He shivered, feeling the soft lick of a glossa against the back of his neck. He bowed his head, opening for more. A black hand slid down his thigh, palm flat over the armor, sending delicious shivers through his sensornet, threatening his resolve.
“Need this,” Sixshot murmured. Yes. He did. And Sixshot did as well, both of them wrapped in this mutual need that transcended desire.
Jetfire steeled himself, cycling a vent that guttered from the hot touches over his armor. “I put other loyalties above you.”
A chuff of air behind him, the hands stilling. One moved in front of him, tracing a circle in the air. “Autobots.” Another circle far apart. “Decepticons.” And in the middle, a third. “Us.”
“I know. We’re in the middle, torn apart.” He squeezed his optics shut, as if he could make it untrue, deny reality. He was a scientist: he knew better.
A headshake behind him. “Not torn apart.” He redrew the circle in the air. “Separate. Entirely.”
“But-“
“Worry too much, Jetfire,” Sixshot said, hands sliding over the shuttle’s torso, one hand light and teasing, seeking the interface hatch. “Think too much.”
“I don’t,” he said, letting himself sag back against Sixshot, reveling in the sheer sensual pleasure of another mech able to sustain his weight. Sixshot didn’t even brace himself: he was, seemingly always, completely solid, absolutely grounded. Jetfire envied his sureness, his certainty.
“Making you unhappy: it’s too much.”
Jetfire had no answer for that, the short, telegraphic sentence cutting through everything. “I’m sorry,” he said, at a loss of what else to say.
One hand slid to his lower wing, tweaking it. “We should change that.” The grip loosened on Jetfire’s frame, enough to let him turn, at last. The red optics glittered, and below them, Sixshot’s face, unmasked, scarred mouth twisted into a smile. And Jetfire knew that this was an offering of trust, vulnerability for vulnerability, Sixshot laying open his scars as Jetfire laid open his fears.
One mouthplate, half corroded from some old incident, quirked, as Sixshot caught Jetfire’s hands, pulling them around him. The scarring rippled down the mouthplate, the chin, and Jetfire saw, instantly, with a scientist’s gaze, why Sixshot spoke so sparingly. It must…hurt. Every word. And all those nights he’d commed, and Sixshot had listened, and spoken, every word forced through the damaged vocalizer, the crippled mouth. The words ‘I’m sorry’ bubbled on his own mouth, but he buried them, pressing his mouth against Sixshot’s in a kiss that shouldn’t have tasted as sweet as it did.
Continuity: IDW
Characters: Jetfire/Sixshot
Rated: PG-13
Warnings: angst?
Prompt: Seeking forgiveness
Time: 58 min
Words 837
Jetfire felt the crystals crunch under his footplates, fine greenish dust puffing in slow motion in the minimal atmosphere. Sixshot had merely acknowledged his request to meet and…he had no real reason to believe the Phase Sixer would actually come. Not after how they had parted. And exchanging soft words, from time to time, late at night, was one thing but…meeting again was entirely another.
Of course. That was why Jetfire wanted to. Even the sweetest words were thinned from distance, and nothing spoke truth like another mech’s EM field, flaring against one, hands tracing intricate alphabets of desire.
Sixshot wouldn’t be seen until he was ready to be seen, Jetfire knew, so he stepped slowly, hands half raised to show he was unarmed, despite the weight of the white gun slung over his back. He made no effort toward stealth, knowing that first, it would fail and second, Sixshot would only read it as deceit. And of all the things between them, he did not want to add that.
“My gun.” The voice, behind Jetfire.
“Yes. I brought it back for you.” They’d allowed him to keep it, as some sort of trophy, but still it had felt like theft when he’d taken it, even though he knew, with a hard sense of rightness, that it was necessary. It wasn’t his gun. It was Sixshot’s.
“Didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
A hand, on his back, and first he thought it was reaching for the heavy pistol, until it stroked over the flat plane of his upper wing. “Know me too well.” The weight of the pistol was gone, suddenly, and Jetfire’s backspan was naked and bare.
Not as much as I want. “It’s not mine,” he said. “I have no right to keep it.”
A grunt, and another hand, reaching around Jetfire’s chassis. Jetfire let himself sag back into the embrace, feeling Sixshot’s EM field buzz and flicker around his, the silky slide of his armor and that one knowing, teasing hand on his wing. “Missed you.”
Simple words, but the bittersweet tang of them made Jetfire shiver. They were separated because of his implacable conscience, nothing more. The fuzz and crackle of the EM field against him seemed like something he didn’t deserve, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. “I-I wanted to apologize,” he began.
Another grunt, and the warm slide of a mouth over the upper edge of his wing. “No need.”
“There is need.” He shivered, feeling the soft lick of a glossa against the back of his neck. He bowed his head, opening for more. A black hand slid down his thigh, palm flat over the armor, sending delicious shivers through his sensornet, threatening his resolve.
“Need this,” Sixshot murmured. Yes. He did. And Sixshot did as well, both of them wrapped in this mutual need that transcended desire.
Jetfire steeled himself, cycling a vent that guttered from the hot touches over his armor. “I put other loyalties above you.”
A chuff of air behind him, the hands stilling. One moved in front of him, tracing a circle in the air. “Autobots.” Another circle far apart. “Decepticons.” And in the middle, a third. “Us.”
“I know. We’re in the middle, torn apart.” He squeezed his optics shut, as if he could make it untrue, deny reality. He was a scientist: he knew better.
A headshake behind him. “Not torn apart.” He redrew the circle in the air. “Separate. Entirely.”
“But-“
“Worry too much, Jetfire,” Sixshot said, hands sliding over the shuttle’s torso, one hand light and teasing, seeking the interface hatch. “Think too much.”
“I don’t,” he said, letting himself sag back against Sixshot, reveling in the sheer sensual pleasure of another mech able to sustain his weight. Sixshot didn’t even brace himself: he was, seemingly always, completely solid, absolutely grounded. Jetfire envied his sureness, his certainty.
“Making you unhappy: it’s too much.”
Jetfire had no answer for that, the short, telegraphic sentence cutting through everything. “I’m sorry,” he said, at a loss of what else to say.
One hand slid to his lower wing, tweaking it. “We should change that.” The grip loosened on Jetfire’s frame, enough to let him turn, at last. The red optics glittered, and below them, Sixshot’s face, unmasked, scarred mouth twisted into a smile. And Jetfire knew that this was an offering of trust, vulnerability for vulnerability, Sixshot laying open his scars as Jetfire laid open his fears.
One mouthplate, half corroded from some old incident, quirked, as Sixshot caught Jetfire’s hands, pulling them around him. The scarring rippled down the mouthplate, the chin, and Jetfire saw, instantly, with a scientist’s gaze, why Sixshot spoke so sparingly. It must…hurt. Every word. And all those nights he’d commed, and Sixshot had listened, and spoken, every word forced through the damaged vocalizer, the crippled mouth. The words ‘I’m sorry’ bubbled on his own mouth, but he buried them, pressing his mouth against Sixshot’s in a kiss that shouldn’t have tasted as sweet as it did.