[TF] Ownership
Mar. 30th, 2021 07:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Ownership
Universe: Transformers G1
Characters: Jazz/Optimus
Rated: M
Enticements: Bondage, Dom/Sub, Possessive Behavior
Description: Right now, Optimus belongs to Jazz and only Jazz.
For Jeegoo:: Jazz topping Optimus, any continuity.
There really ought to be a law.
Though if there was, Jazz would happily break it, every day and every night. Jazz would happily go to prison, would offer himself to the nearest slagpit, if it meant he could have this every day.
Could have Optimus bound in front of him, arms pulled over his head, wrists manacled to the ceiling with restraints more than capable of keeping him in place. Every plate of armor separated from the other, allowing full access to the web of cables beneath, to Jazz’s dancing fingers over those braided lines and the delicate substructure.
Optimus is kneeling, straps around his thighs and shins, keeping his legs folded beneath him, a spreader bar forcing his knees wide, to the point of near-discomfort. He’s balanced very, very carefully. Jazz has made sure of it.
Optimus isn’t going anywhere, not until Jazz lets him. Right here, right now, in the quiet of Optimus’ locked quarters where no one can disturb them, Optimus belongs to Jazz and only to Jazz.
There is nothing Jazz wouldn’t do to keep this. He loans Optimus out to the Autobots on occasion. He lets them borrow his Prime for their war, for the leadership they desperately crave, and they don’t know the truth.
The Autobots can look up to Optimus all they want, can beg for his time and attention, but Optimus’ spark is Jazz’s.
Nothing any of them can say will change that.
Jazz licks his lips and presses his palm to Optimus’ chassis, the steady thrum of Optimus’ spark vibrating against his derma. The Matrix is here too, encroaching and wrapping around Optimus’ spark. They’ve had their fight -- Jazz and the sentient force that is the Matrix -- and ancient artifact or not, Jazz has made his claim clear.
The Matrix is not absolute, and Jazz does not fear it.
Jazz had Orion before the Matrix did. Jazz has Optimus now, no matter the Matrix’s grip.
His palm slides up and up, curving over Optimus’ shoulder. Optimus shivers under his touch, his field molten and electric where it collides with Jazz’s. His engine rumbles, thready and hungry.
Jazz hums to match the pitch and skims his hand up further, cupping Optimus’ mouthguard. “Give it to me,” he purrs.
Optimus’ optics darken with desire -- Matrix blue are the whispers, always the whispers. But Jazz knows the truth. If he cracks his chassis, the color of Optimus’ optics will match the color of Jazz’s spark. Because Optimus is his.
Click.
The mouthguard disengages. Jazz lifts and tosses it aside. The clatter of it sliding across the floor is barely audible over the hitch in Optimus’ ventilations, over the parting of his lips as Jazz strokes his thumb along the curve of them.
Optimus leans in toward him, like a flower toward the sun, like two sparks seeking the pull of their quantum energies. His gaze never falters from Jazz, focused on him entirely, focused on Jazz alone in a way he never gets outside of this room.
“Twelve hours,” Jazz reminds him. “You don’t exist to anyone but me for the next twelve hours.”
A low moan rises in Optimus’ intake. His optics flicker. He shifts minutely, and his lips purse against the press of Jazz’s thumb. Charge licks across his armor, a dance of pale lightning.
Jazz presses his other hand to Optimus’ chassis, primary digit dragging along Optimus’ central seam, between the two windows Jazz finds oh-so-appealing. There’s something to be said about the new kibble their residence on Earth has granted them.
Optimus’ spark thrums harder. Nips of charge bite at the tip of Jazz’s digit. He smiles, licks his lips again, presses in against the seam, harder and harder.
“Open,” he murmurs.
Optimus’ seam parts beneath his palm, achingly slow, and Jazz strokes along the inner frame, sensitive derma provoking a moan. Optimus rises and falls beneath him, engine revving, field licking hot desire along Jazz’s.
The brilliance of his spark fills the otherwise dim of Optimus’ quarters. It reflects over Jazz’s armor, and he knows it’s reflected in his visor, too. The heat of Optimus’ spark banks against Jazz’s closed chassis, but he keeps it locked tight for now.
Jazz presses his forehead to Optimus’ and dips his fingers into the first corona of Optimus’ spark, the crackling heat biting at his derma as Optimus moans and shudders beneath them. The chains creak as his arms tense, and Jazz knows he’s fighting the desire to embrace Jazz, to grab and hold Jazz against his chassis.
“Patience,” Jazz says, his ex-vents ghosting hot over Optimus’ lips, tantalizingly close but still too far. He teases his fingers deeper, skating along the edge of the secondary corona, and Optimus makes the most beautiful sound of want, begging without words.
“You’ll have me soon enough, my Prime,” Jazz croons, fingers stroking, tasting the nipping charge of Optimus’ spark and swallowing him whole. “Once I’ve reclaimed what is mine.”
He kisses away Optimus’ moan.
Jazz has twelve hours, and he’s going to use every last one.
***
Universe: Transformers G1
Characters: Jazz/Optimus
Rated: M
Enticements: Bondage, Dom/Sub, Possessive Behavior
Description: Right now, Optimus belongs to Jazz and only Jazz.
For Jeegoo:: Jazz topping Optimus, any continuity.
There really ought to be a law.
Though if there was, Jazz would happily break it, every day and every night. Jazz would happily go to prison, would offer himself to the nearest slagpit, if it meant he could have this every day.
Could have Optimus bound in front of him, arms pulled over his head, wrists manacled to the ceiling with restraints more than capable of keeping him in place. Every plate of armor separated from the other, allowing full access to the web of cables beneath, to Jazz’s dancing fingers over those braided lines and the delicate substructure.
Optimus is kneeling, straps around his thighs and shins, keeping his legs folded beneath him, a spreader bar forcing his knees wide, to the point of near-discomfort. He’s balanced very, very carefully. Jazz has made sure of it.
Optimus isn’t going anywhere, not until Jazz lets him. Right here, right now, in the quiet of Optimus’ locked quarters where no one can disturb them, Optimus belongs to Jazz and only to Jazz.
There is nothing Jazz wouldn’t do to keep this. He loans Optimus out to the Autobots on occasion. He lets them borrow his Prime for their war, for the leadership they desperately crave, and they don’t know the truth.
The Autobots can look up to Optimus all they want, can beg for his time and attention, but Optimus’ spark is Jazz’s.
Nothing any of them can say will change that.
Jazz licks his lips and presses his palm to Optimus’ chassis, the steady thrum of Optimus’ spark vibrating against his derma. The Matrix is here too, encroaching and wrapping around Optimus’ spark. They’ve had their fight -- Jazz and the sentient force that is the Matrix -- and ancient artifact or not, Jazz has made his claim clear.
The Matrix is not absolute, and Jazz does not fear it.
Jazz had Orion before the Matrix did. Jazz has Optimus now, no matter the Matrix’s grip.
His palm slides up and up, curving over Optimus’ shoulder. Optimus shivers under his touch, his field molten and electric where it collides with Jazz’s. His engine rumbles, thready and hungry.
Jazz hums to match the pitch and skims his hand up further, cupping Optimus’ mouthguard. “Give it to me,” he purrs.
Optimus’ optics darken with desire -- Matrix blue are the whispers, always the whispers. But Jazz knows the truth. If he cracks his chassis, the color of Optimus’ optics will match the color of Jazz’s spark. Because Optimus is his.
Click.
The mouthguard disengages. Jazz lifts and tosses it aside. The clatter of it sliding across the floor is barely audible over the hitch in Optimus’ ventilations, over the parting of his lips as Jazz strokes his thumb along the curve of them.
Optimus leans in toward him, like a flower toward the sun, like two sparks seeking the pull of their quantum energies. His gaze never falters from Jazz, focused on him entirely, focused on Jazz alone in a way he never gets outside of this room.
“Twelve hours,” Jazz reminds him. “You don’t exist to anyone but me for the next twelve hours.”
A low moan rises in Optimus’ intake. His optics flicker. He shifts minutely, and his lips purse against the press of Jazz’s thumb. Charge licks across his armor, a dance of pale lightning.
Jazz presses his other hand to Optimus’ chassis, primary digit dragging along Optimus’ central seam, between the two windows Jazz finds oh-so-appealing. There’s something to be said about the new kibble their residence on Earth has granted them.
Optimus’ spark thrums harder. Nips of charge bite at the tip of Jazz’s digit. He smiles, licks his lips again, presses in against the seam, harder and harder.
“Open,” he murmurs.
Optimus’ seam parts beneath his palm, achingly slow, and Jazz strokes along the inner frame, sensitive derma provoking a moan. Optimus rises and falls beneath him, engine revving, field licking hot desire along Jazz’s.
The brilliance of his spark fills the otherwise dim of Optimus’ quarters. It reflects over Jazz’s armor, and he knows it’s reflected in his visor, too. The heat of Optimus’ spark banks against Jazz’s closed chassis, but he keeps it locked tight for now.
Jazz presses his forehead to Optimus’ and dips his fingers into the first corona of Optimus’ spark, the crackling heat biting at his derma as Optimus moans and shudders beneath them. The chains creak as his arms tense, and Jazz knows he’s fighting the desire to embrace Jazz, to grab and hold Jazz against his chassis.
“Patience,” Jazz says, his ex-vents ghosting hot over Optimus’ lips, tantalizingly close but still too far. He teases his fingers deeper, skating along the edge of the secondary corona, and Optimus makes the most beautiful sound of want, begging without words.
“You’ll have me soon enough, my Prime,” Jazz croons, fingers stroking, tasting the nipping charge of Optimus’ spark and swallowing him whole. “Once I’ve reclaimed what is mine.”
He kisses away Optimus’ moan.
Jazz has twelve hours, and he’s going to use every last one.
