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When Onslaught pushed him down on his back onto the berth and pulled his knees apart, Blast Off’s cooling fans hissed on for the third time that night and thrummed at top speed. Onslaught’s weight bore Blast Off down and one of his hands on Blast Off’s chest pinned the shuttle in place against the thermal blankets.
Blast Off smiled self-consciously up at Onslaught and he didn’t even pretend it wasn’t embarrassingly adoring.
What was there left to hide? He had already shown Onslaught his lowest moment alongside his deepest feelings. And still, here they were. Together. He could be open. That was... allowed, right?
He had Onslaught’s complete and full attention for the rest of the night.
That fact alone was more than enough to make his spark spin wildly in his chassis.
Onslaught cupped his face, thumb brushing over the side of his cheek. He leaned down and a warm mouth pressed over his lips.
Blast Off returned the kiss, reaching out and sliding a hand around to the back of Onslaught’s helm to hold it and pull him deeper into it. Visor switching off, Onslaught let him. Taking it slow, no rush, no hurry, just the haze of shared pleasure, the gasping, quiet build-up towards climax. They lingered over the moment.
Blast Off had fantasized about this. He had wanted this, wanted Onslaught for so long that now it was happening, truly and sincerely happening, instead of just the past mess of lies that Blast Off hadn’t dared let proceed to this stage, now that was no barrier to be wedged between ‘wanting’ and ‘having,’ it was dizzying. His core temperature rose. He was almost overwhelmed by the big, hard body above him running hot as it ground against him.
Arousal, nervousness, desire, they all fought to hold sway inside him without any of them fully mastering his processor.
Blast Off couldn’t banish his nerves—the memory of Onslaught’s horrified rage and disbelief was too strong, the words they had hurdled at each other, the blows landing one after another, before the rest of the team had joined in. Onslaught been outraged at him for his betrayal, the form it had taken, and had pressed his fury onto Blast Off as relentlessly as he had once pressed his courtship. An echo of that blistering fire, that loathing had been burnt into him permanently. It wouldn’t leave. Though Onslaught had stopped, the burn had not even truly begun the process of fading.
Under the surface, it lodged like a broken T-cog trying to turn and finding itself unable to.
So, unable to silence the memories, he clung to actions instead. When they’d cabled together so Blast Off could present his memories as testimony to his motives. When Onslaught had turned aside his offer to leave the Combaticons and refused to let him go. When Onslaught had taken his hand and held on at the lookout, fingers locked together with his. Those moments, and all the times that had later followed them. Moments where Onslaught had opportunities to continue to punish him and not taken them.
They were a paltry salve to that burn.
Evidence that even if he wasn’t forgiven, he was still, in some way, wanted.
Evidence that Onslaught had meant it when he’d told him that he wanted him to stay. Blast Off wanted so very badly to believe Onslaught had meant that. That Onslaught considered him a valued subordinate or maybe an investment worth reclaiming or a gestalt-mate worth caring for or just—or just… —somebody that mattered to Onslaught.
Evidence that Onslaught would chose to be gentle while taking him rather than make this interface hurt.
If Onslaught decided otherwise, well—okay. Blast Off didn’t have the right to resist, not anymore. Resisting and trying to do things his way had gotten them shadowplayed and ruined everything Blast Off had thrown all his might into trying to fix to start with. So Blast Off had given up on that.
Starscream might not have intended to teach it and Onslaught might not have realized he had reinforced it, but Blast Off had learned his lesson. No more striking out on his own without telling somebody. That had backfired too much. He would be good. He would obey orders like a Combaticon should. He’d let it happen and be grateful Onslaught had deigned to give him even that much.
But even if he didn’t ask for it aloud, the shuttle would prefer gentleness all the same.
He was spent on pain, sickened to his tanks of clashing edges. Blast Off had followed Onslaught into the berthroom in a leap of faith that, based on his actions since the mnemosurgery had been removed, Onslaught wanted this to work out. Onslaught could muster up a lopsided form of kindness, if not from himself, then at least from one part of a gestalt to another part.
This could be part of the repairs to what the both of them had broken.
Blast Off didn’t want it to hurt.
He broke the kiss and rocked forward, canting up his hips so his pelvic span rubbed flush against the heated metal of Onslaught’s spike housing. His own spike panel long retracted to bare one part of his equipment, his solidly pressurised spike dragged across it too.
Onslaught groaned.
Blast Off purred his engine in invitation and gasped when Onslaught responded in kind, the revving of the truck’s engine vibrating through his frame, and Onslaught was touching him even more now, and Blast Off—
He wouldn’t just lay there and passively let this happen.
Blast Off wanted this to be mutual, a good experience shared. To give his partner pleasure. Blast Off’s hands explored over the overlapping flat planes of armor plating and caressed the transformation seams he found.
The shuttle bit down on the plates near the other mech’s neck. His teeth left shallow marks in the metal for him to lick over.
Onslaught made an appreciative noise and trailed a hand up his side, then onto his backplates, petting thick glass, over his back kibble to fiddle with it.
Fingers kneaded at the sensors lining the edge of his wing, making Blast Off squirm.
His field cozied up to Onslaught, saturated with his arousal and was met with the answering tingle of lust brimming in Onslaught’s field. Onslaught kept him arching back with the handling, making charge crackle over metal, before Blast Off slumped, panting, as Onslaught’s hand finally left his wings.
Blast Off’s spike matched with his frame, black on the smooth underside, brown on the top and the thin lines of purple biolights patterning its ridges. Pink prefluids beaded at the blunt tip. Onslaught kept his own spike panel sealed shut and took Blast Off into his hand, and stroked leisurely. His grip slid over the grooves in the slick metal, massaging up and down as more prefluids leaked. Judging by how his visor dimmed, Blast Off approved of the rhythmic squeeze of pressure. Onslaught’s thumb rubbed at the spike’s head.
Internal mechanisms misfiring, Blast Off’s legs jerked, heel thrusters emitting plumes of steam.
Onslaught paused and glanced at the thrusters as they tried to ignite. “Don’t set the covers on fire,” he warned.
“I’m trying not to!” Blast Off huffed and forcibly shut them off.
“Mm.” After sending more charge lapping down Blast Off’s wires, Onslaught let go of his spike. The joints between his fingers were stained pink with fluids. There was another part of the equipment being put on display for him that Onslaught planned to attend to. “Open up.” Onslaught phrased it as an order rather than a request.
Blast Off followed it and opened his panel.
Onslaught ran a hand down Blast Off’s torso, moving lower and lower, his hand dropping between Blast Off’s spread legs. Wetness greeted him, as did the slate gray lips of Blast Off’s valve. He teased the rim with his fingertips and the sound of Blast Off’s fans picked up.
The valve was swollen and spoiling for attention, begging to be plugged into, plush lining slick with lubricant. Its inner walls squeezed around the finger that prodded inside.
Clawing at the berth, Blast Off tipped back his helm and whimpered as one finger became two, filling his port once the previous one had stretched him to Onslaught’s satisfaction. He bucked his hips into the touches.
The way they rubbed the nodes and flexed inside him drove the charge up, building, building across his sensor network, and that was before Onslaught curled them right into that sensor cluster in his valve—the wave of pleasure crested. Blast Off shuddered through a climax and let it ripple over to Onslaught through the bond, sharing the overload and triggering one from the truck as well.
Blast Off lifted his legs and hooked them around Onslaught’s larger hips once Onslaught had finished. The rush of happy anticipation running high, he wanted to be full. Onslaught released his spike with a click of the panel retracting and guided it to the port.
Then he pressed himself forward.
Blast Off stifled a grunt.
It keep coming until it was—there, it was in. Onslaught was up to the hilt in snug warmth, the valve’s rim taut around him. Onslaught let out a burst of hot air in a sigh.
Grabbing Blast Off’s hips, he pulled out until just the head remained inside. Onslaught pushed gently in, testing how the calipers eagerly stretched around his spike before drawing back. Then he drove in deeper—the sensation sparking an indecent moan from Blast Off’s lips, and Onslaught had a glow in his optic band like he thought it was a shame the shuttle wasn’t the sort to be as vocal in berth as he could be—and out, in and out.
Blast Off braced himself, enjoying the slow pace for the moment but expecting him to speed up.
But Onslaught didn’t. Smooth and steady, he kept thrusting into Blast Off who rocked against Onslaught’s movements.
Blast Off’s field flickered, confused.
Then Onslaught stopped altogether.
Split open on his cord, Blast Off stared up at him blankly and for a moment thought he just might scream if his commander didn’t start moving again right now.
Onslaught smirked at him.
Blast Off’s face colored. He tried to sit up and correct the utterly unacceptable matter of not immediately getting pounded out of his armor by manually sliding himself up and down the length, but domineering to the last, Onslaught thwarted him and pushed Blast Off back onto the covers.
“You’re mine,” said Onslaught.
“Huh?” Blast Off’s voice was dazed. He dug his heels into Onslaught’s backside, scraping at the paint from how much he wanted Onslaught to move inside him again.
Onslaught leaned in closer, frame blocking out the light from above and casting Blast Off in his shadow.
“I spoke clearly. Tell me you’re mine. I want to hear you say it.”
Before Blast Off could contemplate twisting out from under him to re-gain leverage and keep trying to frag himself on his spike, Onslaught seized Blast Off’s arms and pinned them both down on either side of the shuttle’s helm. His grip was merciless. He had him caught.
“Who do you belong to?”
“You,” Blast Off choked out the instant he understood what was being demanded from him. His valve clutched at the thick spike shoved up so deep inside, invading him, rubbing up against his innermost nodes and shocking them with pleasure, making it hard to think straight. “Yours. I’m yours, in any way you want me! Forever. I wouldn’t be anybody else’s. Only you. Please, don’t stop. Yours. Come on, keep going.”
Onslaught hummed and leaned away again. “That’s right. You are.”
Blast Off sighed and tried to relax, tried to be patient.
But Onslaught still didn’t resume thrusting, holding himself still inside, and it felt so good but it would feel even better once he started moving, and Primus-damnit why did Onslaught pick now to tease.
Blast Off whined. “Yours. Onslaught. Why wouldn’t you...”
“Louder, Blast Off,” Onslaught knew exactly what he was doing to Blast Off and drank in his every reaction, so helplessly fervent. “I want to hear you a little louder before I’ll give it to you.”
“Please. Don’t... stop, take me! Frag me!” Blast Off thrashed, raw. He wrapped his field up in Onslaught’s field, projecting his need shamelessly. “I want your spike, I want you to come inside me, Primus! Prove it. Prove that I’m yours!”
Onslaught’s field supplied its answer in the hunger that rushed through it.
“Is that a challenge?” Onslaught rewarded him by slamming their hips together and grinding his spike against his ceiling node.
Blast Off keened. Onslaught all but purred happily into his audial as he rammed him again, quick and hard, loving the noises he was dragging out of his teammate. “I’m going to take you in every single way you can think of eventually. I’ll enjoy myself immensely when I do. But tonight… Tonight I’m just going to frag you ‘til you can’t walk.”
“Please!”
////
By the time Onslaught’s fourth overload had transfluid gushing into him, Blast Off’s vision was shorting out with bursts of static. Pleasure laced through his circuits with each thrust. His own lubricant and Onslaught’s fluids dripped down Blast Off’s aft.
Blast Off felt too much for words—he couldn’t form them.
Couldn’t think of anything coherent, beyond his gasps for more yes faster and his cries of there, right there, oh please oh that’s it when Onslaught’s spike slid over another node cluster inside him and made him see stars.
He dug his fingers into Onslaught’s palms and overloaded with a sobbing moan, but Onslaught kept going and that meant the charge was quick to build up into a hot, tightening ball in Blast Off’s lower regions that came apart and dispersed into two more overloads flashing through him.
Onslaught was venting so harshly now Blast Off could hear him over the racket of their coupling.
Rebooting his visor to get rid of the static, Blast Off’s visual feed switched on and stabilized to the sight of Onslaught bent over him, face flushed with coolant and lips tight in concentration, spike repeatedly thrusting into his channel, and Blast Off felt his spark seize in its chamber.
Primus.
Oh, Primus.
Captivated, Blast Off wished his arms were free so he could wrap them around his partner’s shoulders and grasp tight, feel more of the drumming of the heavy duty engine reverberating right up against him, into his struts.
The bites he’d dented into the metal next to Onslaught’s neck were still visible. (A reminder: if you claim me, then I claim you. Mine.)
He was intent on Onslaught’s response, desperate for it to be a good one, pinning his hopes on it, for Blast Off itched to please, and the sight of his leader’s gratification from taking him like this, spread out and burning to be held down and interfaced—it thrilled Blast Off on a physical level. He wanted to prolong it, wanted to draw it out like a final note in a song.
Blast Off made a low, strained sound.
Onslaught dipped closer and the shuttle surrendered, and Onslaught took advantage of his open mouth and hungrily kissed Blast Off into silence. Onslaught kept fragging him the whole time, Blast Off’s frame quaking from each clang of metal slamming into metal, from where their frames interlocked.
When Onslaught’s release emptied into him and the bond signaled Onslaught had finally spent the dregs of his transfluid's reserve tanks, it almost felt like it came too soon.
The romantic side to him might have liked it if they had timed it so they overloaded the last time together and the bond’s programming approved at the wish, but Blast Off’s own reserves had already been used up for the night and it was the most that he could have done to last for the finishing stretch. Not this time.
Maybe next time. Once they had gotten used to it.
Blast Off collapsed back onto the berth, worn out and trembling in the post-overload afterglow. His plating was dented. His vents blasted air as his frame tried to reclaim its normal temperature, overworked cooling fans whirring. Onslaught’s fans were audibly no better. Drying trails of transfluid sprayed across Onslaught’s broad midsection from where Blast Off had come onto him.
Onslaught was still on top of him.
A small click. Onslaught had snapped his mask back on.
Blast Off wished Onslaught hadn’t, but understood why he had and accepted it.
Maybe next time Onslaught would feel like leaving his face uncovered after interfacing. And maybe he never would, no matter how many times they fragged. Either way, Blast Off would treat it as one of the personal boundary lines he and Onslaught had drawn between them.
Blast Off nuzzled at him, and after a pause, Onslaught briefly rubbed his mask against his cheek in return. They were alone, it was okay to indulge. Onslaught wasn’t a mech prone to public displays of open warmth: he preferred close touches in private, and saved affection for behind closed doors. Blast Off had always liked that. It felt safe, to be somewhere that nobody else could see them.
Cautiously, he moved his hand to flatten it onto Onslaught’s back-mounted turrets.
Depressurising spike still buried inside him, Onslaught just hummed his vocalizer contentedly and wrapped his arms around him. He tugged him closer.
Blast Off relaxed into the embrace. Forehead coming to a rest against a shoulder, his hand idly mapped out his commander’s dark blue backplating. His stern, demanding, self-centered and brutal commander, his comrade-in-arms, his teammate but also his friend, his lover. His partner. Sensor network still buzzing with afterglow, Blast Off wanted to give into impulse and tell Onslaught again he loved him, even if he was aware Onslaught knew that already.
But he only worked up the nerve to say it to his face once, when Blast Off had thought it was his very last chance to do so before being sent away.
Now, that incentive was absent and Blast Off… He hadn’t repeated himself. If he told Onslaught he loved him, he didn’t want Onslaught to feel pressured to reciprocate aloud. So Blast Off swallowed down the impulse towards more vulnerability than he was ready for and hoped his own actions demonstrated what he didn’t say with words.
“Tired,” he mumbled. His voice came out hoarse from overuse.
“In a good way, I should hope.” Onslaught replied.
Blast Off snorted at him, affectionate. “Obviously!”
He pressed a leg against Onslaught’s black thigh. Onslaught’s arms tightened around him before loosening.
“No complaints?” Onslaught said, a touch awkwardly.
Turning his face up at him, Blast Off reset his optics.
“None. I like it so much,” Blast Off said. “You’re wonderful.” You’re a monster, Blast Off didn’t say and deliberately withheld from the bond so Onslaught couldn’t sense the thought. You’re a monster and you’re wonderful and I’m a monster because I’ve seen the horrible things you did that you’re not sorry for and nothing you did has ever been so horrible that I stopped wanting this.
Lying here, in the berth, stuffed full of Onslaught’s spike, Blast Off had no room left for fooling himself.
If what the Combaticons had done in the fever pitch of the war wasn’t enough to drive him away, Onslaught would never do anything Blast Off couldn’t stomach.
He knew he had been in love with Onslaught after the Combaticons helped turn a planet into a glob of molten slag, and he had known what they had done was wrong, but Onslaught, outlined in the light of the fires from the battlefield, shouting over the rattle of the artillery, commanding them to step over the grey frames and hold the line, had been the most handsome sight Blast Off had ever seen next to the beauty of outer space.
It had made his spark surge in his chest.
He’d fallen for the Onslaught he’d seen behind closed doors, concerned about the team even if he didn’t need to be, and he’d fallen for the Onslaught he’d admired in the battlefield, tearing through their enemies.
He had lied to himself.
Blast Off had told himself he was better than the team, Blast Off had told himself he wasn’t a monster, just because he didn’t like to look, just because he had the capacity to care.
There’s no point pretending he wasn’t a monster anymore. Starscream and his mnemosurgeon had shown Blast Off exactly how low he could sink even when it came to the mech he’d loved more than anybody else if he could justify it to himself. So what if he’d cared it was wrong? He had still gone along with it.
… There wasn’t a lot of room for self-delusion after that.
A monster that cares, is that really that much of a functional difference from a monster that doesn’t?
Another something Blast Off didn’t say: I love it. I love you fragging me. You, a monster. I want you to frag me all the time. I want you to take me to berth and frag me into it every night. You, a monster. Me, a monster.
Maybe we’re the best each other deserves.
“Ah, I,” Blast Off said, trying for a light-heartedness he didn’t quite stick the landing on. 'Casual' wasn't a word that could be pinned to his feelings. He smiled at Onslaught, the expression on his face tender. “You sounded like you liked it too?”
The truck shifted his weight.
“Yes,” Onslaught said simply. “I did.”
Blast Off perked up, warming at the compliment.
“Thank you.”
Onslaught reset his optics at him.
“For being—” Blast Off searched for the words: Onslaught wouldn’t want to be told ‘thank you’ for such a soft thing like being... gentle. Nice? Not cruel? “Pleasant. To me.” Blast Off said evenly, “For trusting me enough for this.”
The truck shifted his weight.
“You don’t like pain-fragging. I already knew that,” Onslaught said. “And the point of this wasn’t to make you do something you don’t like. I don’t want to hurt you.” His other arm remaining curled around him, Onslaught put a hand on the side of Blast Off’s helm. He softened his tone, attempting to be reassuring. “This wasn’t a punishment.”
“I know,” Blast Off muttered, automatically leaning into the touch before clearing his intake. It had been years since the disaster back on Old Cybertron, but Blast Off still sometimes struggled to feel secure. “I know, but…—”
“I’m not going to use what we do in the berth against you.”
Onslaught pressed ahead.
“I do trust you.”
(Onslaught said it in the same fashion other, less emotionally constipated and more sentimental mechs might say I love you.)
His spike slid out as Onslaught eased back, transfluid leaking out with it, leaving Blast Off aching for the sudden emptiness.
Onslaught vented out a cloud of steam and rolled off him.
Once they had gotten up and wiped the berth clean of the smears and paint flecks left by interfacing, Onslaught’s berth was wide enough for both of them to share with ease. Blast Off was content to nestle up close to him, wordlessly seeking the warmth of living metal pressed against living metal, and too tired to think one bit about the prospect of waking up in a heap of entwined limbs in the morning. He started drifting off with the sound of Onslaught’s venting in his audials.
He wasn’t forgiven, not yet, but it meant something to Blast Off to be treated by Onslaught like he was worth wanting, worth being touched without the intent to hurt.
Onslaught would still be there in the morning. He wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t going to get himself killed. The war was something long dead.
Comforted by that thought, Blast Off slipped into recharge.
(rendezvous)
A place of meeting at a given time, for example, a spaceship with a space station.