Fic - Mutual Benefit
Title: Mutual benefit
(Bonus scene for 'The Gestalt Bond and Other Problems')
Continuity: G1, Dysfunction AU
Rating: NC-17
Content advice: plug’n’play smut, mild BDSM, slash, desksex, PWP
Disclaimer: Just playing in the sandbox, characters not mine.
Pairing: Onslaught/Vortex
Beta: naboru_narluin, and with some very helpful input from caia_comica
Summary: After annoying Blast Off almost to breaking point, and covered in someone else's vital fluids, Vortex has deposited himself on Onslaught's desk. This appears to be an invitation...
Notes: Happens just after the end of the first scene of 'The Gestalt Bond and Other Problems', but that fic is only relevant if you want context. Otherwise, have some p'n'p PWP :D
“And as for you,” Onslaught said.
Vortex lay on the desk, his rotors beneath him. Visor retracted, his faceplates were caught between a pout and a smirk.
Onslaught dragged a finger down Vortex’s abdomen, through streaks of black and pink. Energon and oil, still wet.
“Messy,” he commented.
Vortex stretched. “Training,” he said.
His vocaliser hitched as Onslaught trailed both hands down his sides. “Uh! Mmmmm… Motormaster never finishes what he starts.”
“So you thought I’d help?” Onslaught asked. He gripped Vortex’s knees and pried them apart. His subordinate could be difficult when he was in the mood, and he was certainly in the mood. Onslaught forced himself between Vortex’s legs, one knee on the edge of the desk. He leaned over, tracing the outline of the copter’s interface panel. Vortex whimpered and writhed, but did not release the catch.
“Mutually… beneficial,” he panted.
Onslaught declined to respond.
Vortex gripped the base of Onslaught’s gun turret, wrapping his fingers around one barrel. His fans kicked in, just as Onslaught lowered his full weight down on his chassis.
“You can do better than that,” Onslaught snarled. He cupped Vortex’s chin, and smoothed his fingers over a slight ridge in the metal, the subtlest of welding scars. The copter shifted, rotors scraping against the desk. Onslaught followed the scar with his glossa, as Vortex gripped his other gun barrel, squeezing hard enough to dint the metal. Onslaught grinned; two could play at that game.
He bit down, feeling the thrum of the copter’s fuel pipe, the growl of his vocaliser.
“Harder,” Vortex urged, sliding his hands along Onslaught’s shoulders. There was a soft sound as he transformed his fingers into claws and slid them slowly through the gap between shoulder and arm.
Oh, frag yes… Onslaught brought his denta together, listening for the gradual creak of metal, the pulse of the fuel line hot against his glossa.
“Harder!” Vortex wailed.
“Whatever you say,” Onslaught growled, and bit through rubber and metal. Vortex trembled, and Onslaught grinned into the hot rush of energon. He scraped his glossa along the ragged edge, tasting sparks. “You’re the one who’ll be explaining this to Hook.”
“Tease,” Vortex panted. His head lolled, a faint smile on his lips.
“You want more?” Onslaught whispered. Energon trickled down the leg of the desk, steaming in the cool air.
“You know what I want.”
Vortex moaned as Onslaught shifted his weight, one hand around the copter's throat, supporting himself, the other grasping at his interface panel.
He struggled, claws deep under Onslaught’s armour. His panel was locked tight, hardly a gap between the plates. Being difficult, deliberately so. Onslaught scraped his fingers along a seam; the cover buckled, and a sunburst of satisfaction lit up his interface array. He wriggled his fingers, gaining leverage, and still Vortex wouldn’t open up. Then a crack as a catch gave way, and a distant ping as something ricocheted across the room.
Vortex froze. He strained to look in the direction of the noise, then started to snicker.
"Quiet." Onslaught dug his fingers under the loose corner of the panel.
"Mmmmm… I, uh... I don't think that was meant to come off."
"Neither are your rotors.” Onslaught leaned his weight on Vortex's throat. “And you get those replaced about twice a week."
"I'm fragile!" Vortex countered, arching his back.
"No you're not," Onslaught snapped. "You're an expensive pain in the aft. Now hold still."
Vortex glared up at him, a challenge in glowing red, a knowing smirk on his lips. He trailed his talons over Onslaught's armour, teasing, exploring, arriving at his interface cover, slipping neatly through the gap. The catch released.
Onslaught snatched one-handed at his wrists. “Not so fast.”
“Frag, you’re a tease.” Vortex squirmed, tensing against the elbow at his throat. Then Onslaught made the connection and he slumped, sighing, as the data began to flow. “More.”
Onslaught made the second connection, and was immediately dizzy. The combiner programming, an automatic reaction. He held on as the code took over, sensing their connection, synchronising them.
The backlash was astounding.
Coupled to Vortex, he knew - suddenly and completely - what it was to be engineered for the air. He knew the strange spinning motion of tail rotors tucked down by his wrist; he knew the subtle vibration of the tiniest of indoor breezes. He knew what it felt like to be pinned to the desk, immobile and damaged, and loving every moment.
He groaned, his vision fragmenting as Vortex sent a rush of stimulation to his every sensor. Not simultaneously, but pulse after pulse in quick succession, recursive and unrelenting.
“More,” Vortex repeated, a whisper ground out through damaged components. “Harder, frag you.”
So tempting, so good to break. Venting fast, Onslaught pushed against Vortex’s throat, leaning his full weight onto the copter’s chest plates, pressing. Metal screeched, and a thrill sparked through the connection: the grind of rotor blades on the desk top, the hot abrasion of delicate atmospheric sensors.
“Unf, slag yes!” Vortex writhed, grinding against the flanges of Onslaught’s pelvic armour, shivering along with the pulse of data as the paint gave way, then the top layer of metal. He twisted, increasing the stress on his plating, the frequency of dents, the depth of the gouges. His optics flickered, unfocused; his thighs tightened around Onslaught’s hips.
“Break,” Onslaught whispered, pushing his elbow harder into Vortex’s throat. “Break, damn you!”
A crash of charge, a hiss of static; Vortex thrashed, screaming white noise.
Onslaught held him, pressing, squeezing, cables taught and limbs strained. His lips parted, but he kept it in; there could be no sound, no distraction from the deluge of sensation, nothing to pare him away from the molten glow of overload. Tense and focused, he welcomed it, chasing every thrill, tracing the path of each glowing aftershock.
“Mmmmmm.” Vortex sighed and grew slack. Satisfaction rippled through the connection, dissolute and warm.
Onslaught slumped. His chin clanged against Vortex’s shoulder.
“Heh.” Vortex broke the silence, his voice quiet and cracked. “Frag, that was good.”
Onslaught merely nodded. He couldn’t argue with that.
(Bonus scene for 'The Gestalt Bond and Other Problems')
Continuity: G1, Dysfunction AU
Rating: NC-17
Content advice: plug’n’play smut, mild BDSM, slash, desksex, PWP
Disclaimer: Just playing in the sandbox, characters not mine.
Pairing: Onslaught/Vortex
Beta: naboru_narluin, and with some very helpful input from caia_comica
Summary: After annoying Blast Off almost to breaking point, and covered in someone else's vital fluids, Vortex has deposited himself on Onslaught's desk. This appears to be an invitation...
Notes: Happens just after the end of the first scene of 'The Gestalt Bond and Other Problems', but that fic is only relevant if you want context. Otherwise, have some p'n'p PWP :D
“And as for you,” Onslaught said.
Vortex lay on the desk, his rotors beneath him. Visor retracted, his faceplates were caught between a pout and a smirk.
Onslaught dragged a finger down Vortex’s abdomen, through streaks of black and pink. Energon and oil, still wet.
“Messy,” he commented.
Vortex stretched. “Training,” he said.
His vocaliser hitched as Onslaught trailed both hands down his sides. “Uh! Mmmmm… Motormaster never finishes what he starts.”
“So you thought I’d help?” Onslaught asked. He gripped Vortex’s knees and pried them apart. His subordinate could be difficult when he was in the mood, and he was certainly in the mood. Onslaught forced himself between Vortex’s legs, one knee on the edge of the desk. He leaned over, tracing the outline of the copter’s interface panel. Vortex whimpered and writhed, but did not release the catch.
“Mutually… beneficial,” he panted.
Onslaught declined to respond.
Vortex gripped the base of Onslaught’s gun turret, wrapping his fingers around one barrel. His fans kicked in, just as Onslaught lowered his full weight down on his chassis.
“You can do better than that,” Onslaught snarled. He cupped Vortex’s chin, and smoothed his fingers over a slight ridge in the metal, the subtlest of welding scars. The copter shifted, rotors scraping against the desk. Onslaught followed the scar with his glossa, as Vortex gripped his other gun barrel, squeezing hard enough to dint the metal. Onslaught grinned; two could play at that game.
He bit down, feeling the thrum of the copter’s fuel pipe, the growl of his vocaliser.
“Harder,” Vortex urged, sliding his hands along Onslaught’s shoulders. There was a soft sound as he transformed his fingers into claws and slid them slowly through the gap between shoulder and arm.
Oh, frag yes… Onslaught brought his denta together, listening for the gradual creak of metal, the pulse of the fuel line hot against his glossa.
“Harder!” Vortex wailed.
“Whatever you say,” Onslaught growled, and bit through rubber and metal. Vortex trembled, and Onslaught grinned into the hot rush of energon. He scraped his glossa along the ragged edge, tasting sparks. “You’re the one who’ll be explaining this to Hook.”
“Tease,” Vortex panted. His head lolled, a faint smile on his lips.
“You want more?” Onslaught whispered. Energon trickled down the leg of the desk, steaming in the cool air.
“You know what I want.”
Vortex moaned as Onslaught shifted his weight, one hand around the copter's throat, supporting himself, the other grasping at his interface panel.
He struggled, claws deep under Onslaught’s armour. His panel was locked tight, hardly a gap between the plates. Being difficult, deliberately so. Onslaught scraped his fingers along a seam; the cover buckled, and a sunburst of satisfaction lit up his interface array. He wriggled his fingers, gaining leverage, and still Vortex wouldn’t open up. Then a crack as a catch gave way, and a distant ping as something ricocheted across the room.
Vortex froze. He strained to look in the direction of the noise, then started to snicker.
"Quiet." Onslaught dug his fingers under the loose corner of the panel.
"Mmmmm… I, uh... I don't think that was meant to come off."
"Neither are your rotors.” Onslaught leaned his weight on Vortex's throat. “And you get those replaced about twice a week."
"I'm fragile!" Vortex countered, arching his back.
"No you're not," Onslaught snapped. "You're an expensive pain in the aft. Now hold still."
Vortex glared up at him, a challenge in glowing red, a knowing smirk on his lips. He trailed his talons over Onslaught's armour, teasing, exploring, arriving at his interface cover, slipping neatly through the gap. The catch released.
Onslaught snatched one-handed at his wrists. “Not so fast.”
“Frag, you’re a tease.” Vortex squirmed, tensing against the elbow at his throat. Then Onslaught made the connection and he slumped, sighing, as the data began to flow. “More.”
Onslaught made the second connection, and was immediately dizzy. The combiner programming, an automatic reaction. He held on as the code took over, sensing their connection, synchronising them.
The backlash was astounding.
Coupled to Vortex, he knew - suddenly and completely - what it was to be engineered for the air. He knew the strange spinning motion of tail rotors tucked down by his wrist; he knew the subtle vibration of the tiniest of indoor breezes. He knew what it felt like to be pinned to the desk, immobile and damaged, and loving every moment.
He groaned, his vision fragmenting as Vortex sent a rush of stimulation to his every sensor. Not simultaneously, but pulse after pulse in quick succession, recursive and unrelenting.
“More,” Vortex repeated, a whisper ground out through damaged components. “Harder, frag you.”
So tempting, so good to break. Venting fast, Onslaught pushed against Vortex’s throat, leaning his full weight onto the copter’s chest plates, pressing. Metal screeched, and a thrill sparked through the connection: the grind of rotor blades on the desk top, the hot abrasion of delicate atmospheric sensors.
“Unf, slag yes!” Vortex writhed, grinding against the flanges of Onslaught’s pelvic armour, shivering along with the pulse of data as the paint gave way, then the top layer of metal. He twisted, increasing the stress on his plating, the frequency of dents, the depth of the gouges. His optics flickered, unfocused; his thighs tightened around Onslaught’s hips.
“Break,” Onslaught whispered, pushing his elbow harder into Vortex’s throat. “Break, damn you!”
A crash of charge, a hiss of static; Vortex thrashed, screaming white noise.
Onslaught held him, pressing, squeezing, cables taught and limbs strained. His lips parted, but he kept it in; there could be no sound, no distraction from the deluge of sensation, nothing to pare him away from the molten glow of overload. Tense and focused, he welcomed it, chasing every thrill, tracing the path of each glowing aftershock.
“Mmmmmm.” Vortex sighed and grew slack. Satisfaction rippled through the connection, dissolute and warm.
Onslaught slumped. His chin clanged against Vortex’s shoulder.
“Heh.” Vortex broke the silence, his voice quiet and cracked. “Frag, that was good.”
Onslaught merely nodded. He couldn’t argue with that.