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ajremixIn my apparently neverending quest to not get any homework done today I've been reading through my fic/drabble folder on my computer and came across something I've neglected to put up for a while. Therefore... enjoy, I suppose, would be the proper word.
Title: The Shape You Left Behind
Fandom: Transformers IDW- human AU
Rating: R, not the most hardcore thing I’ve written
Word Count: 1560
Characters: Fireflight, Sandstorm
Summary: Fireflight wakes up to an empty bed and emotions he can’t stop.
He wakes up thinking he’s just heard the door to his quarters close and a hand flops out, trying to find something that’s not there. Or someone, rather. He cracks open an eye to see just his hand on the gray-white of the bed and stifles an unhappy sound. Sandstorm had just left, he decides. Had very literally just left as only now is Fireflight’s body starting to register the lack of weight and heartbeat and the warmth of another body is starting to fade from his own. Craning his neck about, Fireflight is just awake enough to notice that not only is Sandstorm gone, but so is everything else: his boots, his clothes and his shades.
He left, the pilot thinks to himself, without saying goodbye again.
It brings a hard, painful wrench to his chest when he thinks about this and Fireflight buries his head into the pillow to try and drown out a low whine that hollow feeling draws out. And the pillow smells like Sandstorm and so do the sheets and even his own skin. The room smells like him and them and sex and the moment where there was nothing in the universe but the two of them together.
He wants that. He wants nothing but that and it hurts so much that they’re always so far apart that it’s just not fair. He wants Sandstorm there, wants to wake up to him every morning and wrap his arms around the Wrecker every night and press kisses to his temple just because he can, just because they’re both there.
He loves Sandstorm- he’s not afraid to admit that. Fireflight loves him more than he thought anyone could love another person: loves how the sniper makes his heart swell, loves the little moments of gentleness between them, loves that even if their relationship isn’t flawless, both of them can still open their arms to each other. And he’d be utterly lying if he doesn’t admit that he loves Sandstorm’s body, the heat of his muscles and how the sun-kissed skin looks between the much paler bands of the pilot’s fingers. He loves that he can kiss his way down Sandstorm’s body and the little whimpers he can draw out while Sandstorm’s hips strain against his hands and lips. He loves that Sandstorm clutches at him, not afraid of Fireflight breaking in his hands, that the both of them like it a little rough, a little wild but that he’ll turn right around afterwards and touch Fireflight’s body like he’s surprised he has the ability to do so.
It’s the knowledge of that love, of the scent and the memories that make warm shudders go over Fireflight’s back. The muscles along his backside clench, driving his hips ever so slightly into the mattress and he lets out a hum of arousal. Sandstorm’s scent wraps ups around him, stroking down the length of his spine, running over his shoulders and fitting into the grooves of his ribs. And Fireflight’s hands follow after them, scratching lightly over the sensitive skin and dwelling over imperfections where Sandstorm had bit a little too hard, or grabbed a little too tightly, the moments where emotion and sensation had overwhelmed him and imprinted themselves onto Fireflight’s body.
Fireflight nuzzles the pillow, clutching it to himself with one arm, the other traversing over his body now awake with need and begging to be touched. He tries to mimic Sandstorm, but while his body can’t be fooled it accepts this as enough, singing wherever Fireflight’s hand goes. The touch isn’t the same, won’t ever be the same- calluses in the wrong places, fingers not as long or nimble, unable to grip the same way he remembers Sandstorm doing. His hand goes over his chest, slipping over the velvet warmth of muscles, across the light fall of hair that trails down his torso in a path so tempting Sandstorm falls for it every time.
He gasps, trying to remember to bite his cheek to keep quiet as phantom lips move to his hipbone and hands ghost over the curve of his ass. Fireflight wriggles and moans, rocking blatantly against the mattress and it’s not enough, won’t ever be enough. He flips to his back, hands skimming over his chest, picking out the freckles on his arms, of the discolored skin where there were once cuts and bullets and stitches had pulled him back together. His hands linger on all the little places Sandstorm’s would linger and he skirts ever so deliberately around his erection and even if it’s himself and not the Wrecker doing it the action still gets a high, needy whine and Fireflight’s toes curl into the sheets in frustration.
Fingertips tease over the pale, soft skin of his inner thigh and the touch makes his hips buck, yearning to be touched by anything- anything so long as this fire under his skin can burn its way through him. “Please,” he mumbles, biting into the pillow and imagines the scene from it, that the heat smothering him is Sandstorm knelt between the pilot’s thighs. He can see it if he closes his eyes, the way Sandstorm grins, crooked from boundless desire and with just enough control to keep his lips hovering an inch away from the straining, eager cock nestled among copper red curls.
“Please, oh god Sandstorm, please…!” It feels like Fireflight’s body is trying to jump out of its skin, so taut and needing and he can’t take it anymore. His hands close over his member as the memory of Sandstorm wraps his wicked lips around the tip. With his hands stroking and jerking, even with precum slick over his palm and his hips thrusting into his fists hard, it’s not the same, it’s no where near the same. Not hot enough, not wet enough, no suction, no humming, no tongue swirling in ways that makes him dig his heels into Sandstorm’s sides and cry out loud enough for Slingshot to bang on the wall in frustration.
But it’s all that Fireflight has and he chants out a name brokenly, his world narrowed down to just that one word, unable to remember anything else but the name and the one it belongs to, the one he wants to belong to. When he cums it’s desperately, his body jerking hard, trying to seek out someone that isn’t there. He spills out in pulses synchronized with the throbbing of his heart, trying to tell himself that this is okay, that it’s alright and when he sees Sandstorm again he’ll be too happy to remember this moment when he’s spent and cold and forgotten.
Suddenly there are hands on his shoulders and a mouth so desperately hot against his. Fireflight’s arms come up and he’s mewling around the tongue twirling about his and he palms hard, warm shoulders whose planes are so wonderfully familiar to him.
“Oh my god,” is panted unevenly against kiss-bruised lips, “how are you so sexy?”
Fireflight pulls away, just enough to drop quick little kisses against chin and cheeks and neck and shoulders between his words, “I thought you left.”
“For a bit.” Blunt nails run over his sides making Fireflight’s body jump and pleasure pool around his stomach again. That pool of sensation ignites into a fire at the feel of a clothed erection grinding into the back of a thigh. “I don’t even care that you didn’t wait for me- you’re just… just so…”
Sandstorm’s name is muffled between their mouths, hands everywhere and skin burning to be touched and licked. Fireflight’s legs come up around the other man’s waist, dragging him in tight against his still naked body even as his hands work at the worn denim of the Wrecker’s pants. “I thought you left,” he said again, voice crackling around the edges as he tries to feel all of Sandstorm at once. “Your clothes were gone.”
“Put ‘em in the wash. You spilled your drink on me last night, remember?”
He does, a bit. He remembers someone bumping into him and he remembers falling against Sandstorm, both warm and wet and clutching the pilot tight as he snarled at someone Fireflight couldn’t see. Didn’t care to see. Cared more about tasting the way the cords in Sandstorm’s neck moved against his tongue, just as he does now.
“I thought you left,” the frantic clutching of Fireflight’s hands aren’t just from need anymore. He buries his face against the heat of a golden chest. “I thought you left without saying goodbye again.”
A hand weaves through soft red hair, quietly supporting and the other wipes away tears Fireflight doesn’t even notice gathering against his lashes. With surprising tenderness, Sandstorm presses his lips to the other man’s forehead. “Not again,” he promises, “never again. You deserve better than that.”
They lay like that for a long while, with Fireflight curled into the crook of Sandstorm’s arm and he memorizes that little space, the heat and weight and scent of a world where Sandstorm encompasses him entirely. Satisfied he can keep this memory, he lifts his head and captures the Wrecker’s mouth in a languid, slow burning kiss. They move against each other again without the frantic urgency of before. They don’t need to be hurried, they have time now and they ensure every moment of it will be cherished.
Title: The Shape You Left Behind
Fandom: Transformers IDW- human AU
Rating: R, not the most hardcore thing I’ve written
Word Count: 1560
Characters: Fireflight, Sandstorm
Summary: Fireflight wakes up to an empty bed and emotions he can’t stop.
He wakes up thinking he’s just heard the door to his quarters close and a hand flops out, trying to find something that’s not there. Or someone, rather. He cracks open an eye to see just his hand on the gray-white of the bed and stifles an unhappy sound. Sandstorm had just left, he decides. Had very literally just left as only now is Fireflight’s body starting to register the lack of weight and heartbeat and the warmth of another body is starting to fade from his own. Craning his neck about, Fireflight is just awake enough to notice that not only is Sandstorm gone, but so is everything else: his boots, his clothes and his shades.
He left, the pilot thinks to himself, without saying goodbye again.
It brings a hard, painful wrench to his chest when he thinks about this and Fireflight buries his head into the pillow to try and drown out a low whine that hollow feeling draws out. And the pillow smells like Sandstorm and so do the sheets and even his own skin. The room smells like him and them and sex and the moment where there was nothing in the universe but the two of them together.
He wants that. He wants nothing but that and it hurts so much that they’re always so far apart that it’s just not fair. He wants Sandstorm there, wants to wake up to him every morning and wrap his arms around the Wrecker every night and press kisses to his temple just because he can, just because they’re both there.
He loves Sandstorm- he’s not afraid to admit that. Fireflight loves him more than he thought anyone could love another person: loves how the sniper makes his heart swell, loves the little moments of gentleness between them, loves that even if their relationship isn’t flawless, both of them can still open their arms to each other. And he’d be utterly lying if he doesn’t admit that he loves Sandstorm’s body, the heat of his muscles and how the sun-kissed skin looks between the much paler bands of the pilot’s fingers. He loves that he can kiss his way down Sandstorm’s body and the little whimpers he can draw out while Sandstorm’s hips strain against his hands and lips. He loves that Sandstorm clutches at him, not afraid of Fireflight breaking in his hands, that the both of them like it a little rough, a little wild but that he’ll turn right around afterwards and touch Fireflight’s body like he’s surprised he has the ability to do so.
It’s the knowledge of that love, of the scent and the memories that make warm shudders go over Fireflight’s back. The muscles along his backside clench, driving his hips ever so slightly into the mattress and he lets out a hum of arousal. Sandstorm’s scent wraps ups around him, stroking down the length of his spine, running over his shoulders and fitting into the grooves of his ribs. And Fireflight’s hands follow after them, scratching lightly over the sensitive skin and dwelling over imperfections where Sandstorm had bit a little too hard, or grabbed a little too tightly, the moments where emotion and sensation had overwhelmed him and imprinted themselves onto Fireflight’s body.
Fireflight nuzzles the pillow, clutching it to himself with one arm, the other traversing over his body now awake with need and begging to be touched. He tries to mimic Sandstorm, but while his body can’t be fooled it accepts this as enough, singing wherever Fireflight’s hand goes. The touch isn’t the same, won’t ever be the same- calluses in the wrong places, fingers not as long or nimble, unable to grip the same way he remembers Sandstorm doing. His hand goes over his chest, slipping over the velvet warmth of muscles, across the light fall of hair that trails down his torso in a path so tempting Sandstorm falls for it every time.
He gasps, trying to remember to bite his cheek to keep quiet as phantom lips move to his hipbone and hands ghost over the curve of his ass. Fireflight wriggles and moans, rocking blatantly against the mattress and it’s not enough, won’t ever be enough. He flips to his back, hands skimming over his chest, picking out the freckles on his arms, of the discolored skin where there were once cuts and bullets and stitches had pulled him back together. His hands linger on all the little places Sandstorm’s would linger and he skirts ever so deliberately around his erection and even if it’s himself and not the Wrecker doing it the action still gets a high, needy whine and Fireflight’s toes curl into the sheets in frustration.
Fingertips tease over the pale, soft skin of his inner thigh and the touch makes his hips buck, yearning to be touched by anything- anything so long as this fire under his skin can burn its way through him. “Please,” he mumbles, biting into the pillow and imagines the scene from it, that the heat smothering him is Sandstorm knelt between the pilot’s thighs. He can see it if he closes his eyes, the way Sandstorm grins, crooked from boundless desire and with just enough control to keep his lips hovering an inch away from the straining, eager cock nestled among copper red curls.
“Please, oh god Sandstorm, please…!” It feels like Fireflight’s body is trying to jump out of its skin, so taut and needing and he can’t take it anymore. His hands close over his member as the memory of Sandstorm wraps his wicked lips around the tip. With his hands stroking and jerking, even with precum slick over his palm and his hips thrusting into his fists hard, it’s not the same, it’s no where near the same. Not hot enough, not wet enough, no suction, no humming, no tongue swirling in ways that makes him dig his heels into Sandstorm’s sides and cry out loud enough for Slingshot to bang on the wall in frustration.
But it’s all that Fireflight has and he chants out a name brokenly, his world narrowed down to just that one word, unable to remember anything else but the name and the one it belongs to, the one he wants to belong to. When he cums it’s desperately, his body jerking hard, trying to seek out someone that isn’t there. He spills out in pulses synchronized with the throbbing of his heart, trying to tell himself that this is okay, that it’s alright and when he sees Sandstorm again he’ll be too happy to remember this moment when he’s spent and cold and forgotten.
Suddenly there are hands on his shoulders and a mouth so desperately hot against his. Fireflight’s arms come up and he’s mewling around the tongue twirling about his and he palms hard, warm shoulders whose planes are so wonderfully familiar to him.
“Oh my god,” is panted unevenly against kiss-bruised lips, “how are you so sexy?”
Fireflight pulls away, just enough to drop quick little kisses against chin and cheeks and neck and shoulders between his words, “I thought you left.”
“For a bit.” Blunt nails run over his sides making Fireflight’s body jump and pleasure pool around his stomach again. That pool of sensation ignites into a fire at the feel of a clothed erection grinding into the back of a thigh. “I don’t even care that you didn’t wait for me- you’re just… just so…”
Sandstorm’s name is muffled between their mouths, hands everywhere and skin burning to be touched and licked. Fireflight’s legs come up around the other man’s waist, dragging him in tight against his still naked body even as his hands work at the worn denim of the Wrecker’s pants. “I thought you left,” he said again, voice crackling around the edges as he tries to feel all of Sandstorm at once. “Your clothes were gone.”
“Put ‘em in the wash. You spilled your drink on me last night, remember?”
He does, a bit. He remembers someone bumping into him and he remembers falling against Sandstorm, both warm and wet and clutching the pilot tight as he snarled at someone Fireflight couldn’t see. Didn’t care to see. Cared more about tasting the way the cords in Sandstorm’s neck moved against his tongue, just as he does now.
“I thought you left,” the frantic clutching of Fireflight’s hands aren’t just from need anymore. He buries his face against the heat of a golden chest. “I thought you left without saying goodbye again.”
A hand weaves through soft red hair, quietly supporting and the other wipes away tears Fireflight doesn’t even notice gathering against his lashes. With surprising tenderness, Sandstorm presses his lips to the other man’s forehead. “Not again,” he promises, “never again. You deserve better than that.”
They lay like that for a long while, with Fireflight curled into the crook of Sandstorm’s arm and he memorizes that little space, the heat and weight and scent of a world where Sandstorm encompasses him entirely. Satisfied he can keep this memory, he lifts his head and captures the Wrecker’s mouth in a languid, slow burning kiss. They move against each other again without the frantic urgency of before. They don’t need to be hurried, they have time now and they ensure every moment of it will be cherished.
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no subject
Date: 2009-04-24 03:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-25 12:34 am (UTC)You are spectacular at communicating the depth of their love for each other.
no subject
Date: 2009-04-25 03:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-25 09:50 pm (UTC)I chuckled at the bit about Slingshot whacking the wall.