Anything with the boys Jetstreak and bombsight
Bombsight stood in the doorway of his living room, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. The leather of his jacket creaked softly with the tension in his posture. There, on his expensive Italian sofa—his sofa—were two figures tangled together in a passionate embrace. Jetstreak, with his ridiculous brown curls and the smug confidence of youth, had Y/N pinned against the cushions, their mouths locked in a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. The wet sounds filled the quiet room, grating on Bombsight's nerves.
He cleared his throat, the sound sharp and deliberate. "Having fun?" He asked, his voice flat and cold.
Jetstreak broke the kiss, turning his head with an annoyed smirk. "Don't you have a museum exhibit to go to, grandpa? Or maybe a nap?" He sneered, pushing a stray curl from his eyes. "Someone's a jealous old man."
Y/N, breathless and flushed, pushed himself up on his elbows. His gaze swept over Bombsight, taking in the athletic build that defied his age, the piercing blue eyes, and the blonde hair that still looked as golden as it had in the fifties. A slow smile spread across his face. "Jealous, maybe." He said, his voice a low purr. "But a very hot, but young looking old man."
Bombsight's expression didn't change, but his eyes narrowed. He watched as Jetstreak rolled his eyes and leaned back in to capture Y/N's lips again, his hand sliding down Y/N's chest. The sight of their bodies pressed together, the easy intimacy, the sheer life of them... it was a bitter pill. Decades of loneliness, of watching everyone he ever knew age and die, and here was this punk, this child, living the life he'd always craved.
An unfamiliar heat coiled in his gut, a prickle of awareness that had nothing to do with anger. His gaze lingered on the curve of Y/N's neck, on the way Jetstreak's fingers tangled in his hair. Without conscious thought, Bombsight shifted his weight, his hand dropping to rest on the front of his jeans. He could feel the stir of his own arousal, a traitorous response to the scene before him. He pressed his palm against the growing hardness, a slow, deliberate pressure, his blue eyes fixed on the couple on his couch as he watched them, his annoyance slowly melting into a different kind of heat.
