Fic - Reconciliation
Title: Reconciliation
Continuity: G1 cartoon, Dysfunction AU
Rating: R
Content advice: smut, p’n’p and tactile
Disclaimer: the characters and setting don't belong to me, I'm just playing with them
Characters and/or pairings: Blast Off/Vortex
Summary: Sequel to Attention and Unaccustomed Feeling. After everything that hasn’t quite gone right between them, it’s about time something did.
Notes: For naboru_narluin :D
In a gloomy storage bay, in a gap between shelves, Vortex squirmed. “I want to touch you,” he whispered.
Blast Off tightened his grip on the copter’s wrists, holding them high above his head. “No.” It had been altogether too long, waiting for Vortex to be repaired, waiting for Hook to release him from medbay. Lingering in the corridor like some lust-struck Stunticon. He wasn’t about to ruin things now by letting Vortex have his way.
“You used to let me.”
“And you used to beg,” Blast Off replied. There, he’d said it. He hadn’t meant to; it was better to refuse the past. Better still to forget it altogether.
But it was out now, and there was no way Vortex would miss a hint like that.
Blast Off leaned forward, the heat of his engine reflecting from the copter’s matte armour. “You want me?”
It could be like the old days, before the war. When they worked for Onslaught and not Megatron, when they came together not through loneliness or longing, or the compulsion of the combiner programming, but through a force of purely physical desire.
“You won’t let me,” Vortex said, as though it was the truth. What was he thinking? That Blast Off wouldn’t let him touch because he didn’t want him? Because this was some kind of punishment or lesson?
You can’t read me, Blast Off wanted to say. Remember back in Kaon, how you always tried and never quite succeeded. Remember when you stalked me stalking you, when we finally came to an understanding, when you didn’t move on like you always had before. Other partners, of course, we both had those, but there was always us.
He couldn’t say it. A slag-load of worthless sentiment, that’s all it was. He never would have said it before the Detention Centre. He would have said, perhaps, ‘lie still’ or ‘fight back’ or ‘do that thing you do to my ailerons’. Small and simple things, common ground that was at once familiar and comforting.
Things he hadn’t said in far too long.
Had he expected to wake in the middle of his recharge cycle, and find the interrogator watching him, that sly grin on his face, his fingers edging ever closer to Blast Off’s thrusters? Yes, he thought, he had. He’d wanted it.
He had been disappointed.
They hadn’t fallen back into old habits. The Nemesis was not Onslaught’s HQ in Kaon. It was crowded, unfamiliar. Every new mech was a temptation, and the copter never could keep his hands to himself.
“Why do you say that?” Blast Off asked. He’d taken too long to respond, but it wasn’t as though Vortex was going anywhere.
Vortex shook his head, hope written in his energy signature. “Doesn’t matter,” he said.
Liar, Blast Off thought. Another thing he couldn’t - wouldn’t - say. Too intimate, too much of an invitation to open up on a level that would be completely inappropriate. They were bonded now, irrevocably tied whether they liked it or not. Team. The gestalt programming gave them strengths, but it also made them weaker. It made them vulnerable, gave them an enhanced sense of empathy for each other. Gave Vortex perhaps the first taste of empathy he’d ever had.
Blast Off channelled the heat of his own overtaxed engine through his ceramic shields to the copter’s chestplates. There was a tiny click as Vortex’s fans engaged.
“You shot me,” Vortex said.
Blast Off pressed closer. “You went off with a grounder.”
A squeal of metal as Vortex writhed. He hooked a foot around Blast Off’s leg. “Only after you shot me,” he said.
“I’ll shoot you again if you don’t shut up.” Blast Off wondered how much further he could push before Vortex’s Earth-made metal would buckle. It was so very tempting.
The foot made its way to the side of Blast Off’s cannon, the scrape of metal spreading a tingling warmth all up his leg struts. Vortex grinned, and it was as though they were back on Cybertron. “Is that a promise?”
They didn’t make it to Blast Off’s room. They didn’t even make it out of the storage bay. It was all so quick, so easy. Like the memories were subroutines, directing their actions, like the gulf of time meant nothing. The slide of armour, the subtle press and click of connectors, the first harsh stab of current.
Then the combiner programming kicked in, and the world fragmented. Blast Off groaned, venting hard. A thousand little thrills of data poured in through the connection. A flood of fragments, disassociated and dissolute, they sparked responses in his sensor net, made his engine roar and his plating heat. It was like in the brig, but better. So much better. He leaned against Vortex, dizzy in direct correlation with his soaring temperature.
Vortex quivered, crushed in the gap between shelves. His rotors clattered, his fingers curled and uncurled.
Blast Off held him up with one hand. The other roved, taking in the newness of the metal, feeling out the subtle dips where plating had been dented and not properly repaired.
“Inferior,” he whispered, and Vortex growled. But the growl came with a fierce surge of energy, his optics blazing.
“You don’t like it,” Vortex hissed. “Do something about it.” A pulse of heat as Vortex engaged his thrusters, using the lift to haul his legs up, wrapping them around Blast off’s waist. “Tear me apart,” he whispered. “Make them rebuild me.”
“No.” Blast Off snapped. It was too much effort for too little reward. He shuddered as the charge built, heat pooling behind his port, energy sparking between them. When he spoke, his words were buried under static. “Ons… Onslaught can do it.”
“Mmmmmmmf!” Vortex ground against him, head back and optics suddenly dark.
“Frag yes,” Blast Off whispered as the overload tore through him. Metal screamed, his fingers closing altogether too tightly around Vortex’s wrists. But it didn’t matter, nothing mattered but the heat and the thrill. And the release, altogether too long delayed.
Vortex slumped, his feet again on the floor, his head leaning against one of his rotors. “Does this mean you forgive me?” he said.
Blast Off didn’t let him go, but ran his free hand along the next rotor over. The metal shuddered. “No,” he replied.
Continuity: G1 cartoon, Dysfunction AU
Rating: R
Content advice: smut, p’n’p and tactile
Disclaimer: the characters and setting don't belong to me, I'm just playing with them
Characters and/or pairings: Blast Off/Vortex
Summary: Sequel to Attention and Unaccustomed Feeling. After everything that hasn’t quite gone right between them, it’s about time something did.
Notes: For naboru_narluin :D
In a gloomy storage bay, in a gap between shelves, Vortex squirmed. “I want to touch you,” he whispered.
Blast Off tightened his grip on the copter’s wrists, holding them high above his head. “No.” It had been altogether too long, waiting for Vortex to be repaired, waiting for Hook to release him from medbay. Lingering in the corridor like some lust-struck Stunticon. He wasn’t about to ruin things now by letting Vortex have his way.
“You used to let me.”
“And you used to beg,” Blast Off replied. There, he’d said it. He hadn’t meant to; it was better to refuse the past. Better still to forget it altogether.
But it was out now, and there was no way Vortex would miss a hint like that.
Blast Off leaned forward, the heat of his engine reflecting from the copter’s matte armour. “You want me?”
It could be like the old days, before the war. When they worked for Onslaught and not Megatron, when they came together not through loneliness or longing, or the compulsion of the combiner programming, but through a force of purely physical desire.
“You won’t let me,” Vortex said, as though it was the truth. What was he thinking? That Blast Off wouldn’t let him touch because he didn’t want him? Because this was some kind of punishment or lesson?
You can’t read me, Blast Off wanted to say. Remember back in Kaon, how you always tried and never quite succeeded. Remember when you stalked me stalking you, when we finally came to an understanding, when you didn’t move on like you always had before. Other partners, of course, we both had those, but there was always us.
He couldn’t say it. A slag-load of worthless sentiment, that’s all it was. He never would have said it before the Detention Centre. He would have said, perhaps, ‘lie still’ or ‘fight back’ or ‘do that thing you do to my ailerons’. Small and simple things, common ground that was at once familiar and comforting.
Things he hadn’t said in far too long.
Had he expected to wake in the middle of his recharge cycle, and find the interrogator watching him, that sly grin on his face, his fingers edging ever closer to Blast Off’s thrusters? Yes, he thought, he had. He’d wanted it.
He had been disappointed.
They hadn’t fallen back into old habits. The Nemesis was not Onslaught’s HQ in Kaon. It was crowded, unfamiliar. Every new mech was a temptation, and the copter never could keep his hands to himself.
“Why do you say that?” Blast Off asked. He’d taken too long to respond, but it wasn’t as though Vortex was going anywhere.
Vortex shook his head, hope written in his energy signature. “Doesn’t matter,” he said.
Liar, Blast Off thought. Another thing he couldn’t - wouldn’t - say. Too intimate, too much of an invitation to open up on a level that would be completely inappropriate. They were bonded now, irrevocably tied whether they liked it or not. Team. The gestalt programming gave them strengths, but it also made them weaker. It made them vulnerable, gave them an enhanced sense of empathy for each other. Gave Vortex perhaps the first taste of empathy he’d ever had.
Blast Off channelled the heat of his own overtaxed engine through his ceramic shields to the copter’s chestplates. There was a tiny click as Vortex’s fans engaged.
“You shot me,” Vortex said.
Blast Off pressed closer. “You went off with a grounder.”
A squeal of metal as Vortex writhed. He hooked a foot around Blast Off’s leg. “Only after you shot me,” he said.
“I’ll shoot you again if you don’t shut up.” Blast Off wondered how much further he could push before Vortex’s Earth-made metal would buckle. It was so very tempting.
The foot made its way to the side of Blast Off’s cannon, the scrape of metal spreading a tingling warmth all up his leg struts. Vortex grinned, and it was as though they were back on Cybertron. “Is that a promise?”
They didn’t make it to Blast Off’s room. They didn’t even make it out of the storage bay. It was all so quick, so easy. Like the memories were subroutines, directing their actions, like the gulf of time meant nothing. The slide of armour, the subtle press and click of connectors, the first harsh stab of current.
Then the combiner programming kicked in, and the world fragmented. Blast Off groaned, venting hard. A thousand little thrills of data poured in through the connection. A flood of fragments, disassociated and dissolute, they sparked responses in his sensor net, made his engine roar and his plating heat. It was like in the brig, but better. So much better. He leaned against Vortex, dizzy in direct correlation with his soaring temperature.
Vortex quivered, crushed in the gap between shelves. His rotors clattered, his fingers curled and uncurled.
Blast Off held him up with one hand. The other roved, taking in the newness of the metal, feeling out the subtle dips where plating had been dented and not properly repaired.
“Inferior,” he whispered, and Vortex growled. But the growl came with a fierce surge of energy, his optics blazing.
“You don’t like it,” Vortex hissed. “Do something about it.” A pulse of heat as Vortex engaged his thrusters, using the lift to haul his legs up, wrapping them around Blast off’s waist. “Tear me apart,” he whispered. “Make them rebuild me.”
“No.” Blast Off snapped. It was too much effort for too little reward. He shuddered as the charge built, heat pooling behind his port, energy sparking between them. When he spoke, his words were buried under static. “Ons… Onslaught can do it.”
“Mmmmmmmf!” Vortex ground against him, head back and optics suddenly dark.
“Frag yes,” Blast Off whispered as the overload tore through him. Metal screamed, his fingers closing altogether too tightly around Vortex’s wrists. But it didn’t matter, nothing mattered but the heat and the thrill. And the release, altogether too long delayed.
Vortex slumped, his feet again on the floor, his head leaning against one of his rotors. “Does this mean you forgive me?” he said.
Blast Off didn’t let him go, but ran his free hand along the next rotor over. The metal shuddered. “No,” he replied.