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kinkfestTitle: Just Like Flying
Author/Artist: Kyra Neko-Rei
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None.
Prompt: - Transformers, Silverbolt/Slingshot: First times - What I wouldn't give for one more day with you.
Word count: 2183
Summary: Slingshot's first meeting with Silverbolt, and decision to join in forming the Aerialbot gestalt.
Author's Note: I have seen little canon featuring the Aerialbots. My understanding of them was formed almost solely by reading other authors' takes on them. Much credit must go to these; although I have endeavored to avoid borrowing specific concepts, pretty much anybody who's written about the Aerialbots has likely contributed to how I see them.
This is backstory, a sort of movieverse-type setting at the beginning of the war, when the gestalt teams are being formed by the two armies, and certain Transformers are being recruited for this purpose. Slingshot is . . . less than comfortable with the idea of getting close to other Transformers, and the recruiters have sent Silverbolt to help him consider.
I am ridiculously late with this, and apologize. Creative drought at the worst possible time, but the rains have arrived and the stories are beginning to grow and bloom.
Gestalt. It's an odd concept, especially to Slingshot, who has never had any family or friends worth the name---that he could be joined together with four other mechs and they'd be as close as brothers, as close as twins thanks to the bond that would be created. It frightens him, the sort of wild panic that love and intimacy cause when offered to one who knows nothing of them, that only comes with the subconscious realization that this is what one truly wants, needs, craves beyond reason---it seems too good to be possible, and he doesn't dare go near it, for fear that he will be unworthy of it, rejected. But the recruiting agent is politely insistent: he is the one they want, and after many long joors of deliberation he agrees to let his designation and address be given to the other candidates.
He doesn't know anything about the project, aside from what the Autobot has told him---artificially created sibling-bonds, upgrades, a second alt-mode of part of a large and powerful war machine. He knows they are Autobots, not Decepticons, and that is a relief and a letdown all at once---most all of Cybertron's flyers have joined the Decepticons, enticed by the legendary Starscream, and by the high status given him---the Autobot command staff is all ground mechs, and Starscream is the most spectacular flyer ever to fire thrusters. Slingshot adores him, not only for his spectacular talents but for the hardness lurking deep in his optics: Starscream has some deep hurt in his past, as Slingshot himself has, and has overcome it, landing in a near-penultimate position, and Slingshot feels a kinship with the elite Seeker which he'd never dare to tell him.
But on the other hand, Slingshot knows he's no ace in the air---he's slower than most jets, not capable of their precision or grace, and the thought of Starscream watching him fly is enough to make him ill with mortification. He hasn't dared join the Decepticons for that reason. The Autobots have no such eminent presence in the Air Command, and it's increasingly hard to remain a neutral. It's a workable solution, and the recruiting agent's subtle praises have warmed him to the idea, although the concept of becoming brother to four strangers is still not an idea he's comfortable with; he watches the agent transform and depart, fear warring with a degree of optimism that the future might fall neatly into place.
Silverbolt arrives the next morning.
He's not what Slingshot expected, although Slingshot really hasn't gotten around to expecting anything, having spent the evening and half the night poking tentatively at the frightening opportunity offered to him, and not having so much as looked at the information on his potential brothers. Bigger than Slingshot, grace and awkwardness combined in his movements and his presence; he is confident and unsure all at once, and something about him puts Slingshot at ease. This is no Starscream, no flawless and arrogant legend that makes Slingshot feel like a clumsy sparkling in comparison, and he relaxes slightly; his vocalizer fails him, however, and he responds to Silverbolt's introduction by stepping back and waving him into the small room. It's a cheap place, the ceiling is too low, and he expects the other flyer to suggest they talk outside---it must feel claustrophobic to the bigger flyer, but Silverbolt doesn't betray the slightest bit of discomfort at his surroundings, and sits down on the berth that's doing double duty as a couch.
They talk about nothing---speculations about the war, jobs they've held and classes they've taken, the flying conditions around the cliffs south of the city; Slingshot remembers, belatedly, that he ought to offer Silverbolt something to drink, and when he's sat back down from digging a pair of cubes out of their box on the other side of the room, Silverbolt sets his down without opening it yet, and turns soft optics to look Slingshot searchingly in the face.
"You're nervous."
"I'm fine," snaps Slingshot with more venom than he means to put into it, and Silverbolt flinches back, palms turned up in a silent apology; Slingshot winces. He's never done this before, never engaged with anyone long enough for them to show concern, and doesn't like the thought of anyone thinking he needs it; at the same time,
"Tense, I mean," Silverbolt says softly, palms still spread wide. "Your wings are up and stiff. Looks like it hurts, almost." Slingshot lowers them; it does hurt a bit, now that the other has mentioned it, and he forces them into something approximating a more relaxed posture. He has the most unpleasant feeling Silverbolt isn't fooled.
"If you'd like . . ." Silverbolt is hesitant, "I could . . . help with that a bit." He makes a gesture that sort of looks like he's stroking along the edge of an invisible wing, and Slingshot straightens almost imperceptably. Does he really mean . . . ? "I'm not . . . good at being social," Silverbolt continues, "Haven't had much practice at it. But . . . friends soothe each other's wings sometimes, I've seen them, and . . . we're . . . maybe going to be brothers, so . . . if you like, I could?"
Slingshot has seen them too, friends and lovers and wingmates stroking or massaging each other's wings, cleaning and buffing them in the wash racks, polishing them---often leading up to, or in the middle of, interface. He knows how sensitive his wings are, and his spark twists and swoops even watching them, the passage of hands across gleaming metal and the moans and purrs and gasps that they produce, and his faceplates heat up at the memories. Slingshot has always been solitary; he's never offered, and certainly never asked. It's almost too intimate, this stranger---brother?---offering him this, but curiosity and a strange sort of longing sort of well up in his spark, and he nods, hesitantly, almost before he's made a conscious decision.
Silverbolt moves over to sit behind him; Slingshot almost flinches away, but the alternative is turning to face Silverbolt, and that's a whole different sort of vulnerability, so he spreads his wings forward, giving Silverbolt access to their backs and hoping he doesn't look quite as frightened as he is.
The first touch is right where they connect with his shoulders, light fingertips caressing the thin trailing edge; it's shockingly pleasant and soft and Slingshot can't repress a shiver, and then, as Silverbolt's hands trace the joining seams down his back and stroke across the flat expanses of sensitive metal toward the tips, a soft moan that escapes him without asking permission to leave his vocalizer. He cuts it off---barely---and Silverbolt whispers to him, "Does that mean I'm doing a good job?" His voice is tentative and hopeful, and it's almost easy for Slingshot to nod.
It's amazing, in fact---Slingshot now knows full well why nobody keeps their hands to themselves when there's other wings around, and he arches back, curving his spinal struts and pressing his wings back against Silverbolt's obliging hands. His reward is firm circles traced by Silverbolt's palms, and he cries out. Behind him Silverbolt purrs, and the sound is one he's only ever heard from a distance; coming from right behind him, it's the most delicious sound in the universe, seeming to resonate through his body and his spark, and he wriggles on the berth like an overexcited sparkling, so lost in the pleasure of caring hands on his wings that he doesn't even spare a thought for the indignity of it.
It takes him a couple minutes to realize that he is purring, too.
The glorious sensations on his wings continue, tinged with something somehow more than physical pleasure, Silverbolt's electrical field soothing and pleasant against his own; the tension is long gone, but he isn't going to tell Silverbolt to stop, not for anything. It's almost as wonderful as flying---more so, in a way, for being new to him, filling an ache he's never quite known he had. It somehow has all the wonder of the first time he ever flew, except that instead of air caressing his wings and holding him aloft, there are Silverbolt's hands caressing his wings and soothing his spark, and when Silverbolt's right hand tentatively edges around his wing to stroke fingertips over the front, he turns around to face him, hands reaching tentatively for Silverbolt's own bright large wings.
Silverbolt sighs with obvious pleasure as Slingshot's tentative hands slide across the sensitive plating; he presses them forward into Slingshot's hands and Slingshot is at a level of happiness he only ever achieves in midair and alone; fear and wariness are all of a sudden so much absurdity and it's only too natural to move closer to Silverbolt, to straddle his lap and press against him, spark chambers humming against each other beneath layers of protective armor.
Slingshot is stunned to realize that he really wouldn't mind opening his spark chamber up. Lips part reflexively on this realization, and then Silverbolt is kissing him, lightly, softly, mouth tentative but hot and sweet against sensitive plating, and a jolt goes from Slingshot's lips to his spark and rebounds to where Silverbolt's hands are stroking at his wings, and he bucks hard against the larger jet, fingers tightening to grip the leading edges of Silverbolt's wings, opening his mouth to let both of them taste each other.
He's only ever brought himself to overload alone, and it's fun, but it's never been anything like this, and he presses ever closer, fingers altering course to mirror the kind of motions he makes on his own wings when he overloads himself, and Silverbolt gasps and then groans into Slingshot's mouth and deepens the kiss; they play with each other's wings, fierce and needy, electrical fields a sweet counterpoint to the bright-hot physicality of hands teasing flight sensors, and abruptly Silverbolt grabs him around the waist and leans back to lie against the berth, pulling Slingshot down over him. It's delicious, to lie like this, their fields overlapping, and Slingshot could get lost in that alone, the impossible magic of someone else's presence feeling as natural as wind at flight speeds, Silverbolt beneath him, supporting him like the air does, sweet and caring and unbelievably joyous---so this is what having a brother is like? He is on fire with pleasure, flying high on pure blissful sensation, his spark flaring brilliantly in his chest, warm and bright against its sensitive chamber, and his hands are almost buzzing with sensation, every trembling curve and edge of Silverbolt's wings as exquisitely pleasurable as Silverbolt's searing, wonderful touches on his wings.
Half unthinking, the feeling of security so surreal he can hardly believe he's doing it, he lets his spark chamber slide open a crack.
Instantly Silverbolt's field is magnified, emotions and arousal resonating through his unshielded spark, and he almost screams, and then Silverbolt's armor splits too, and then he does scream, his plating retracting fully, and he abandons himself to fall into Silverbolt like he abandons the ground to fall into the air.
It's paradise.
It's exactly like his first flight, the joy and rapture and feeling of being precisely where he belongs, where he was sparked to be. Silverbolt is a whirlwind of emotion and memory, like Slingshot and different from Slingshot, but most of all he loves Slingshot, wants to hold him close and soothe away every astroklik of pain he's ever suffered and replace it with kindness and joy, wants to see Slingshot happy and successful, simply cares about him, and it's a rapture that Slingshot has never known, the fulfillment of a longing he's never consciously realized, and in response he clings to Silverbolt with arms and field and spark, loving Silverbolt with an intensity that will frighten him sometime after coherence returns, but never enough to overcome the fact that he's as at home in Silverbolt's spark as he is in the sky; overload blazes through them both like a supernova, Silverbolt's pleasure reflected into Slingshot's spark and resonating through his field, but far more exquisite than the physical pleasure is the comfort he's never known, and he knows in the bliss of this joining that no pain or terror in the universe can make forming a gestalt with Silverbolt anything but wholly and fully worth it; he collapses against his soon-to-be brother without closing his spark chamber, telling Silverbolt with emotions and field expressions, "Stay." He thinks he means more than just tonight.
In fact, he knows he does.
Silverbolt's arms wrap around him in answer, and recharge has never beckoned so attractively. He scrapes his helm against Silverbolt's shoulder, and slips peacefully offline, his first recharge ever in another's embrace, so blissfully happy it's almost too much to bear.
The next morning, they fly together to the Research compound on Slingshot's way to work, walk through its doors, and with trembling hands and terrified yet soaring spark, Slingshot hands the signed gestalt-research contract to the officer on duty.
Author/Artist: Kyra Neko-Rei
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None.
Prompt: - Transformers, Silverbolt/Slingshot: First times - What I wouldn't give for one more day with you.
Word count: 2183
Summary: Slingshot's first meeting with Silverbolt, and decision to join in forming the Aerialbot gestalt.
Author's Note: I have seen little canon featuring the Aerialbots. My understanding of them was formed almost solely by reading other authors' takes on them. Much credit must go to these; although I have endeavored to avoid borrowing specific concepts, pretty much anybody who's written about the Aerialbots has likely contributed to how I see them.
This is backstory, a sort of movieverse-type setting at the beginning of the war, when the gestalt teams are being formed by the two armies, and certain Transformers are being recruited for this purpose. Slingshot is . . . less than comfortable with the idea of getting close to other Transformers, and the recruiters have sent Silverbolt to help him consider.
I am ridiculously late with this, and apologize. Creative drought at the worst possible time, but the rains have arrived and the stories are beginning to grow and bloom.
Gestalt. It's an odd concept, especially to Slingshot, who has never had any family or friends worth the name---that he could be joined together with four other mechs and they'd be as close as brothers, as close as twins thanks to the bond that would be created. It frightens him, the sort of wild panic that love and intimacy cause when offered to one who knows nothing of them, that only comes with the subconscious realization that this is what one truly wants, needs, craves beyond reason---it seems too good to be possible, and he doesn't dare go near it, for fear that he will be unworthy of it, rejected. But the recruiting agent is politely insistent: he is the one they want, and after many long joors of deliberation he agrees to let his designation and address be given to the other candidates.
He doesn't know anything about the project, aside from what the Autobot has told him---artificially created sibling-bonds, upgrades, a second alt-mode of part of a large and powerful war machine. He knows they are Autobots, not Decepticons, and that is a relief and a letdown all at once---most all of Cybertron's flyers have joined the Decepticons, enticed by the legendary Starscream, and by the high status given him---the Autobot command staff is all ground mechs, and Starscream is the most spectacular flyer ever to fire thrusters. Slingshot adores him, not only for his spectacular talents but for the hardness lurking deep in his optics: Starscream has some deep hurt in his past, as Slingshot himself has, and has overcome it, landing in a near-penultimate position, and Slingshot feels a kinship with the elite Seeker which he'd never dare to tell him.
But on the other hand, Slingshot knows he's no ace in the air---he's slower than most jets, not capable of their precision or grace, and the thought of Starscream watching him fly is enough to make him ill with mortification. He hasn't dared join the Decepticons for that reason. The Autobots have no such eminent presence in the Air Command, and it's increasingly hard to remain a neutral. It's a workable solution, and the recruiting agent's subtle praises have warmed him to the idea, although the concept of becoming brother to four strangers is still not an idea he's comfortable with; he watches the agent transform and depart, fear warring with a degree of optimism that the future might fall neatly into place.
Silverbolt arrives the next morning.
He's not what Slingshot expected, although Slingshot really hasn't gotten around to expecting anything, having spent the evening and half the night poking tentatively at the frightening opportunity offered to him, and not having so much as looked at the information on his potential brothers. Bigger than Slingshot, grace and awkwardness combined in his movements and his presence; he is confident and unsure all at once, and something about him puts Slingshot at ease. This is no Starscream, no flawless and arrogant legend that makes Slingshot feel like a clumsy sparkling in comparison, and he relaxes slightly; his vocalizer fails him, however, and he responds to Silverbolt's introduction by stepping back and waving him into the small room. It's a cheap place, the ceiling is too low, and he expects the other flyer to suggest they talk outside---it must feel claustrophobic to the bigger flyer, but Silverbolt doesn't betray the slightest bit of discomfort at his surroundings, and sits down on the berth that's doing double duty as a couch.
They talk about nothing---speculations about the war, jobs they've held and classes they've taken, the flying conditions around the cliffs south of the city; Slingshot remembers, belatedly, that he ought to offer Silverbolt something to drink, and when he's sat back down from digging a pair of cubes out of their box on the other side of the room, Silverbolt sets his down without opening it yet, and turns soft optics to look Slingshot searchingly in the face.
"You're nervous."
"I'm fine," snaps Slingshot with more venom than he means to put into it, and Silverbolt flinches back, palms turned up in a silent apology; Slingshot winces. He's never done this before, never engaged with anyone long enough for them to show concern, and doesn't like the thought of anyone thinking he needs it; at the same time,
"Tense, I mean," Silverbolt says softly, palms still spread wide. "Your wings are up and stiff. Looks like it hurts, almost." Slingshot lowers them; it does hurt a bit, now that the other has mentioned it, and he forces them into something approximating a more relaxed posture. He has the most unpleasant feeling Silverbolt isn't fooled.
"If you'd like . . ." Silverbolt is hesitant, "I could . . . help with that a bit." He makes a gesture that sort of looks like he's stroking along the edge of an invisible wing, and Slingshot straightens almost imperceptably. Does he really mean . . . ? "I'm not . . . good at being social," Silverbolt continues, "Haven't had much practice at it. But . . . friends soothe each other's wings sometimes, I've seen them, and . . . we're . . . maybe going to be brothers, so . . . if you like, I could?"
Slingshot has seen them too, friends and lovers and wingmates stroking or massaging each other's wings, cleaning and buffing them in the wash racks, polishing them---often leading up to, or in the middle of, interface. He knows how sensitive his wings are, and his spark twists and swoops even watching them, the passage of hands across gleaming metal and the moans and purrs and gasps that they produce, and his faceplates heat up at the memories. Slingshot has always been solitary; he's never offered, and certainly never asked. It's almost too intimate, this stranger---brother?---offering him this, but curiosity and a strange sort of longing sort of well up in his spark, and he nods, hesitantly, almost before he's made a conscious decision.
Silverbolt moves over to sit behind him; Slingshot almost flinches away, but the alternative is turning to face Silverbolt, and that's a whole different sort of vulnerability, so he spreads his wings forward, giving Silverbolt access to their backs and hoping he doesn't look quite as frightened as he is.
The first touch is right where they connect with his shoulders, light fingertips caressing the thin trailing edge; it's shockingly pleasant and soft and Slingshot can't repress a shiver, and then, as Silverbolt's hands trace the joining seams down his back and stroke across the flat expanses of sensitive metal toward the tips, a soft moan that escapes him without asking permission to leave his vocalizer. He cuts it off---barely---and Silverbolt whispers to him, "Does that mean I'm doing a good job?" His voice is tentative and hopeful, and it's almost easy for Slingshot to nod.
It's amazing, in fact---Slingshot now knows full well why nobody keeps their hands to themselves when there's other wings around, and he arches back, curving his spinal struts and pressing his wings back against Silverbolt's obliging hands. His reward is firm circles traced by Silverbolt's palms, and he cries out. Behind him Silverbolt purrs, and the sound is one he's only ever heard from a distance; coming from right behind him, it's the most delicious sound in the universe, seeming to resonate through his body and his spark, and he wriggles on the berth like an overexcited sparkling, so lost in the pleasure of caring hands on his wings that he doesn't even spare a thought for the indignity of it.
It takes him a couple minutes to realize that he is purring, too.
The glorious sensations on his wings continue, tinged with something somehow more than physical pleasure, Silverbolt's electrical field soothing and pleasant against his own; the tension is long gone, but he isn't going to tell Silverbolt to stop, not for anything. It's almost as wonderful as flying---more so, in a way, for being new to him, filling an ache he's never quite known he had. It somehow has all the wonder of the first time he ever flew, except that instead of air caressing his wings and holding him aloft, there are Silverbolt's hands caressing his wings and soothing his spark, and when Silverbolt's right hand tentatively edges around his wing to stroke fingertips over the front, he turns around to face him, hands reaching tentatively for Silverbolt's own bright large wings.
Silverbolt sighs with obvious pleasure as Slingshot's tentative hands slide across the sensitive plating; he presses them forward into Slingshot's hands and Slingshot is at a level of happiness he only ever achieves in midair and alone; fear and wariness are all of a sudden so much absurdity and it's only too natural to move closer to Silverbolt, to straddle his lap and press against him, spark chambers humming against each other beneath layers of protective armor.
Slingshot is stunned to realize that he really wouldn't mind opening his spark chamber up. Lips part reflexively on this realization, and then Silverbolt is kissing him, lightly, softly, mouth tentative but hot and sweet against sensitive plating, and a jolt goes from Slingshot's lips to his spark and rebounds to where Silverbolt's hands are stroking at his wings, and he bucks hard against the larger jet, fingers tightening to grip the leading edges of Silverbolt's wings, opening his mouth to let both of them taste each other.
He's only ever brought himself to overload alone, and it's fun, but it's never been anything like this, and he presses ever closer, fingers altering course to mirror the kind of motions he makes on his own wings when he overloads himself, and Silverbolt gasps and then groans into Slingshot's mouth and deepens the kiss; they play with each other's wings, fierce and needy, electrical fields a sweet counterpoint to the bright-hot physicality of hands teasing flight sensors, and abruptly Silverbolt grabs him around the waist and leans back to lie against the berth, pulling Slingshot down over him. It's delicious, to lie like this, their fields overlapping, and Slingshot could get lost in that alone, the impossible magic of someone else's presence feeling as natural as wind at flight speeds, Silverbolt beneath him, supporting him like the air does, sweet and caring and unbelievably joyous---so this is what having a brother is like? He is on fire with pleasure, flying high on pure blissful sensation, his spark flaring brilliantly in his chest, warm and bright against its sensitive chamber, and his hands are almost buzzing with sensation, every trembling curve and edge of Silverbolt's wings as exquisitely pleasurable as Silverbolt's searing, wonderful touches on his wings.
Half unthinking, the feeling of security so surreal he can hardly believe he's doing it, he lets his spark chamber slide open a crack.
Instantly Silverbolt's field is magnified, emotions and arousal resonating through his unshielded spark, and he almost screams, and then Silverbolt's armor splits too, and then he does scream, his plating retracting fully, and he abandons himself to fall into Silverbolt like he abandons the ground to fall into the air.
It's paradise.
It's exactly like his first flight, the joy and rapture and feeling of being precisely where he belongs, where he was sparked to be. Silverbolt is a whirlwind of emotion and memory, like Slingshot and different from Slingshot, but most of all he loves Slingshot, wants to hold him close and soothe away every astroklik of pain he's ever suffered and replace it with kindness and joy, wants to see Slingshot happy and successful, simply cares about him, and it's a rapture that Slingshot has never known, the fulfillment of a longing he's never consciously realized, and in response he clings to Silverbolt with arms and field and spark, loving Silverbolt with an intensity that will frighten him sometime after coherence returns, but never enough to overcome the fact that he's as at home in Silverbolt's spark as he is in the sky; overload blazes through them both like a supernova, Silverbolt's pleasure reflected into Slingshot's spark and resonating through his field, but far more exquisite than the physical pleasure is the comfort he's never known, and he knows in the bliss of this joining that no pain or terror in the universe can make forming a gestalt with Silverbolt anything but wholly and fully worth it; he collapses against his soon-to-be brother without closing his spark chamber, telling Silverbolt with emotions and field expressions, "Stay." He thinks he means more than just tonight.
In fact, he knows he does.
Silverbolt's arms wrap around him in answer, and recharge has never beckoned so attractively. He scrapes his helm against Silverbolt's shoulder, and slips peacefully offline, his first recharge ever in another's embrace, so blissfully happy it's almost too much to bear.
The next morning, they fly together to the Research compound on Slingshot's way to work, walk through its doors, and with trembling hands and terrified yet soaring spark, Slingshot hands the signed gestalt-research contract to the officer on duty.
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no subject
Date: 2009-08-28 11:07 pm (UTC)Seriously, though, I have a major soft spot for Silverbolt/Slingshot out of all the Aerials. *pets*
no subject
Date: 2009-08-28 11:18 pm (UTC)*very intrigued, but also seriously sleep-deprived, so we'll have to see*
no subject
Date: 2009-08-29 07:00 am (UTC)*must stop sluttifying characters who would assuredly NOT APPRECIATE it*
no subject
Date: 2011-03-31 07:46 am (UTC)*gives you the internet*