Title: What You Can See
Disclaimer: not mine
A/N at my LJ, if anyone wants to see pictures of Compton scattering.
Summary: From the prompt generator: Thundercracker/Reflector, dominance. "He has no way of anticipating where they will touch, what they will do, whether the next thing he feels will hurt or comfort." G1, slash, bondage, PWP.
There is blackness: a length of oil-stained tarp serves as blindfold, salvaged from one of the lesser-used hangars. The electro-cuffs binding his wrists behind his back add minor discomfort, compounding the sense of helplessness.
There are hands: caressing his wings, his canopy, gripping his chin to pull him into a controlling kiss, tapping random binary over pressure sensors, scratching at seams in his armor. Impossible to keep track of them, as many as there are. Now three of them, then only two, then six.
There are the synced vibrations of three fields reading as one: one mech in three bodies, moving in and out of tandem. He has no way of anticipating where they will touch, what they will do, whether the next thing he feels will hurt or comfort, and it is terrifying and thrilling. It's thrilling giving control up to these weak and vicious things, and not knowing who is who, not knowing which one is teasing the transformation seam at his flank, which roughly fingering a spoiler, which watching and directing the actions of the other two.
Even if he wasn't blindfolded, he could only have told one from the others at best – their faces identical, their bodies nearly so - and that thought, too, is thrilling.
"We're going to take the cuffs off," three voices echo. Then, rising above the rippling harmonics of their giggle, one, coming from somewhere behind him, continues, "You are going to behave yourself?"
"Yeah," he breathes out, a guttural sound - rough with arousal, Kaonite-accented. They hate that and he knows it.
"What was that?" Voices playful with underlying hardness.
"Yes. Yes - Reflector, please..." Anything, anything to be able to respond to their touches, if they will allow it.
And then, like virtual particles blinking out of existence, the faint sting of the electrocuffs is gone. Immediately he lifts one hand toward the blindfold – they twist his wrist away, pinch and slap him. A single voice whispers in his audio, "Don't touch that."
Hands running up and down his thighs. Another set traces patterns on his wings with fingertips only - evolutes of sine functions and wild Compton scattering curly-cues.
The last take hold of the hand he'd lifted to the blindfold and guide it instead to his own cockpit canopy. "Show us how you pleasure yourself."
He hesitates – it's such a personal thing, and whatever they are, it isn't lovers - but the Reflector behind him presses encouraging lips to the back of his neck, and the echoing three-voice, "We want to see it."
Dragging his fingers lightly over canopy struts and titanium ceramic alloy, shaking, then harder, because he needs it. Then reaching out blindly - not to the one at his knees, nor the doppelganger now nibbling along the upturned trailing edge of one wing, but toward the disembodied third voice, the one not touching him. "Please."
Their undulating giggle, an unvoiced communication between them. A shifting of positions, minute vibrations through the berth felt in thighs and skidplate, then his wrists are pulled behind his neck and held there, and the hands on his thighs sliding down – down past knees, past the curves of turbines, deft fingers pressing into the mouth of one heel thruster.
"Mnngh - no..." he protests, jerking his foot in the other's grip. Their response is immediate: hands tighten on wrists, a cable is twisted suddenly and painfully.
"Settle down," snaps the closest voice. Then the one near his feet, "We'll be careful."
"...careful."
"...careful."
His imagination supplies flashed grins and optics glinting dangerously in triplicate.
Fingers continue their exploration, finding fuel injector lines, probing in between the blades that line his afterburner, curling beneath them. All three voices laugh at how it makes him twitch.
"Do you like this?" The voice of the one at his feet is the strongest, the other two, nearer him, mere whispering echoes. The fingers strum across the blades.
He shudders, unable to answer, and pulls at the hands holding his wrists. He's surprised when they release him: the fingers give his blades another stroke and withdraw.
Now they're moving around him, grazing contact and heated metal's proximity and the tang of ozone and electricity in the air.
One of them straddles his lap while the other two retreat. A mouth moves restlessly over his canopy, slick, eager glossa mimicking the way his own hands moved before. Only now, every feeling is unexpected: the insistent suction of lips locked over seams, glossa grazing throat only just enough to feel it, harder when it reaches the corner of his jaw.
At the edge of the berth – he can at least vaguely place them – two bodies move together, two throats with one voice making soft, indistinct sounds. Heat ramps merely at the thought of what they're doing to each other. A scrape of metal, a moan followed closely by another. The third is muffled against his throat. They cycle air as one.
Then they're moving again. Something brushes his hand gripping one Reflector's hip, and that one is pulled away from him. Another grazes fingertips against his empty, reaching palms.
"Here. Touch me here," a single voice says, indistinguishable in timbre and modulation from the others'. Both of his hands are guided to an exposed lens in the center of a chest, and now he knows which one he's touching. Living glass, so very delicate – but his fingers feel clumsy, prodding at him, so he slides his hands around the small of the mech's back and instead places his lips against the glass.
They jerk in his grasp and against each other, shuddering encouragement and murmured instructions, the scrape of his teeth making one whimper, and the other two, their mouths locked together, muffle each others' cries.
"Slower/Not so hard/Ah, Primus!" they say.
A small hand slipping into his armor, taking hold of a bunch of wires and giving them a hard twist, their third coming up behind him, palms pressed flat against his wings, sending tingling photon flashes skittering across his sensor grids.
"Keep going," the three-voice orders, and again the hand tugs on the bundle of cords - and Primus he's close, overheating, but he drags air through his vents to cool himself and does as they tell him, flicks his glossa out and against the lens, around its rim, and Reflector gasps, the sound rippling between his three parts.
Their fields are flaring in concert: sharp spikes of energy almost painful against his sensors, constructive interference on top of constructive interference, amplified by every scrape of metal against metal, every glancing touch.
It's too much: the ramping energy, hands on him and in him, the wild and confusing concomitance of sensations quantum entangled. They push him down to the berth and they're everywhere, touching him everywhere. There could be three or a thousand of them, pinching and petting and stroking him toward overload, and in less than a klik, he's arching into the blackness.
Arching and crying out and finally shaking weakly because their hands are gone, like gluons and neutrinos, almost as soon as his overload hits.
There are three bodies pressing together above him, tight cries blending into stuttering coincidence, and this - this won't be on any data disc placed near the berth when he wakes with the dirty tarp still tied over his optics. Not even a glimpse, not even to tease him.
The blackness closes in.