Work Text:
“I have an idea,” Spike says.
Jet raises an eyebrow. It’s almost never a good sign when Spike ‘has an idea’, especially when he’s flat on his back on Jet’s bed, half-undressed, one hand on the back of Jet’s neck and the other flattened against his chest.
“Shoot,” Jet replies anyway, because saying no to Spike isn’t high on his list of skills.
Spike, true to form, makes a finger-gun out of his thumb and pointer finger. He presses it to the place where Jet’s prosthetic joins to his shoulder and says, “Bang.”
Jet laughs, despite himself. “Asshole.”
Spike makes a noise, starting to say something and then cutting himself off. He drops his finger-gun and holds up his palm. “Give me your hand.”
Jet shifts his weight, bracing one forearm against the bed so he can rest his prosthetic hand in Spike’s upturned palm.
He immediately regrets playing along when Spike pulls the hand to his throat. “No. Not a chance.”
Spike pouts. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”
“Go ahead, tell me your idea was something other than me choking you out while I fuck you.”
“I didn’t want you to actually choke me,” Spike retorts, flushing. “Just put your hand on my neck.”
Jet scowls at him. “If I lost my balance, I’d crush your windpipe. Or snap your neck.”
Spike blinks up at him, his mouth curling into that disarming little smile. “I trust you.”
“It’s not about trust,” Jet says, firmly. “It’s about physics. If you want my hand on your neck, you have to be on top.”
It’s a fair enough proposal, but Spike pulls a face anyway. “That’s work, though.”
Jet pushes himself up, sitting back on his heels. “Pick your poison.”
Spike pushes his shoulders down into the bed, arching his back with a low whine, then jolts himself upright in one fluid motion, unnecessarily showy. “Fine, whatever, we’ll do it your way,” he says. “Bossy.”
“You like when I’m bossy,” Jet says, shifting out of Spike’s way so he can get up. “The word you’re looking for is responsible. ”
“Boring,” Spike retorts, then pulls a face like he wants to apologize but can’t quite put his pride away. “Uh.”
Jet lets it slide. He lets a lot slide, where Spike is concerned. “Gear or no gear?” he asks.
Spike pretends to think about it. “Gear,” he says. “I want the big one.”
Can’t I hurt you just one way at a time, Jet thinks, but doesn’t say. “Yeah, sure,” he says, getting up from the bed to put his harness on, while Spike kneels on the bed, working himself open with his fingers.
“Been a while since we’ve done it this way,” Spike comments, pulling his fingers out of himself with a slick sound.
Jet nudges him out of the way and settles himself on his back on the bed, pulling the pillow behind his head. “Yeah, usually you make me do the work.”
“You like doing all the work,” Spike shoots right back, crawling over Jet’s legs and kneeling above him. He spreads his cunt with two fingers, sinking down onto the tip of the strap, then rising up again. “Give me your hand. No—” he prods at Jet’s shoulder. “Your other hand, I can work myself open on this, but it’ll be easier if you choke me a little.”
Jet raises his prosthetic arm, resting his hand on Spike’s chest, thumbing over his collarbone. “I’m not really sure about this.”
Spike takes hold of Jet’s wrist, lifting his hand to his face and kissing his palm, then settling Jet’s fingers at his neck. “I won’t let you hurt me.”
Jet doesn’t know if that’s true, but he can see how wet Spike is, dripping down the length of the strap as he rubs his dick against the tip of it. His flushed face, his wide eyes, his chest heaving. All that want writ plain across his face, more open than he usually sees Spike get. He’ll take it.
He folds his hand around Spike’s neck, fingers at once side of his throat and thumb on the other, cradling his trachea in the flat of his palm and the webbing between thumb and index finger.
The way Spike relaxes into it isn’t surprising, but it’s a little offputting. Jet shifts his grip, makes sure he can still feel Spike breathing steadily. “Okay?”
Spike nods against his hand, gripping Jet’s elbow as if to steady himself. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his face alight with something between arousal and wonder. He tips his head, shifts his weight like he’s testing Jet’s grip, then settles, breathing out slow and shuddering.
“Good?” Jet asks. It’s a little helpless, being here, flat on his back. Spike’s right—Jet does like doing most of the work. At least then he knows what he should be doing, other than trying to keep his hand relaxed. He’d feel better if he’d had the chance to see someone for a tune-up anytime in the last year—there’s never been enough in their pockets to see the kind of specialist that would actually have more to say about the arm than Jet already knows from eight years of living with it. The sensation’s decreased, the motors are worn down, the joints loosen over a day’s use.
But Spike trusts his hand—trusts him—so Jet will just have to live up to that.
Spike takes his time, for once. Maybe he’s figured out that Jet doesn’t like seeing him struggling, or maybe he’s just doing it for the sake of it, rubbing at himself with his fingertips, thighs trembling as he settles onto Jet’s strap and starts to fuck himself on the length, his weight against the harness grinding the base against Jet’s dick.
It’s dizzying, how good it is. Jet doesn’t understand Spike’s compulsion to line his arousal with a shot of fear, and it’s not easy to relax when he has Spike’s neck under his palm, but it’s hard to argue with the look on his face, all hazy-bright with arousal, hard to argue with the way he rocks his weight against Jet, back arching, one hand between his thighs, the other still wrapped around Jet’s elbow.
Hard to argue with the whine caught in Spike’s throat, the way it buzzes just enough for the sensors in Jet’s palm to pick up. Hard to argue with how quickly he works himself up, steady movement turned stuttering, sinking down onto the strap and staying there, working his hips in tiny circles, one hand working frantically at his dick.
“Spike,” Jet says, the name punched out of his chest. He drags his free hand up from his side and touches Spike’s wrist, pulling his hand from between his legs and pressing his thumb over Spike’s dick, stroking down the length of it.
Dropping his head so far forward that Jet hears him gag as his breath is cut off, Spike cums, mouth moving in the shape of Jet’s name, breathless, voiceless.
It should be horrifying enough to eat through Jet’s arousal, the sight of his hand on Spike’s neck, cutting off his air, the flare of terror in Spike’s eyes beneath the thick blanket of arousal. It should be. It isn’t.
Spike lifts himself on trembling legs and drops back down onto the strap, pressing the base down into Jet’s dick, and Jet’s vision goes white.
When he can think clearly again, Spike has climbed off the strap but is still kneeling over him, holding Jet’s prosthetic arm by the elbow and wrist, keeping the fingers against his throat. Jet’s hand has gone slack enough that he can see where his grip was, little bruises in the shape of his fingerprints.
Spike is grinning like he’s never been happier, all bright-eyed adrenaline. He leans down and presses a kiss to Jet’s lips, still holding on to Jet’s arm. “See, I told you I wouldn’t let you hurt me.”
Spike’s voice rasps. Bruises bloom to vividness on his neck. He can’t stop smiling, even as he’s kissing Jet.
Jet supposes there are worse ways to be hurt.