im so cooked

• “I didn’t choose to end up stuck here, but I’m not dealing with living in an alien frat house. You clankers leave your half eaten shit everywhere. I think college age boys would actually be cleaner. Fuck,” you snap, pointing a finger in the big mech’s face and he hesitates as Blast Off echoes ‘clankers.’ Because one thing you’ve figured out dealing with Vortex is that even when you’re scared out of your mind, you hide it. The copter much worse if he knows you’re scared or intimidated. “Look at this! What even is this? You’re nasty. All of you. You guys are so advanced and you’ve never heard of a damn broom?”

• Laughing, Vortex listens to you yelling at the other Combaticons, stunning them into silence. Sees Swindle open his mouth and then think better and shut it. Cowed by one tiny pissed off organic who’s a lot more scared of them and just pretending they’re not. Tipping back his engex, he sees Blast Off give him a look like he expects him to rescue them. Not happening given how funny this is. It’s a definite turn on.

• “You can’t talk to us like that,” Blast Off rumbles, slowly standing and looming over you. And you pull off one of your little foot coverings and throw it at him. ‘No wonder you slobs are all single. You’re too damn lazy to clean up after yourselves,’ you snap, gesturing angrily around the habsuite. ‘You might as well go live in the dump.’

As a higher-ranking Decepticon tactician, Onslaught was expected to go through hundreds of reports a day, as fast as his processor could digest the information. Senior leadership duties meant someone had to quality-check these before they were officially sent —can’t have just any slag getting its way up to even higher ranking officers. Soundwave doesn’t take misinformation lightly, and Laserbeak makes sure of it. But when Onslaught sets the last datapad down at his desk, he feels uneasy. Surely there’s more to do for the night. Done with QC this early? 

His spark spins just a little faster.

To be sure no bot needs him, he puts out the slightest feelers through the gestalt bond to see who’s home and awake. Brawl and Blast-Off are deep in recharge, Vortex is probably bothering that medic, and Swindle’s likely out making deals. Which means nobody fits the bill but Onslaught. He leans back in his chair to exvent a deep sigh of relief. 

The blue mech then scoots forward and retracts his battle mask to get more comfortable. Time to pick a scenario. He offlines his optics and rifles through some common options. Hmm. There’s the holovids everyone in the faction knows by this point, and they’re well-loved, even by him, but tonight just doesn’t feel like the night for that. There’s one fight with Hot Spot that got a little tense in the right ways… but Onslaught doesn’t feel like doing the extra work of letting his imagination fill in the gaps to finish a scene. His processor is running a little low after the hours of report reading.  But thinking of rival combiners brings him back to Bruticus, which brings him back to his team. 

His team. 

A while ago he would’ve balked at the idea–these mechs were once barely even cellmates to him. But now, as he files through his memory banks of countless interface snapshots—oh, that’s the one for tonight, he thinks, as his spike twitches with interest—they’ve really learned to come together.

The tactician lets his panel slide back to the tune of the pneumatic hiss of planes clinking into place. Like everything impressive about Onslaught, his spike is no different. It pressurizes into a thick and large unit, a circumference he can barely wrap his hand around before he’d have to squeeze to encircle it. A very well crafted weapon of muted blue on the top and sides, with a slightly darker blue head and an army green underside. Ochre biolights of dim aura along the base start to brighten and blink slowly in piqued desire. It’s unmodified in any way—no time for that in prison, naturally, but Onslaught also feels no inclination to add any common Decepticon features like spines or knots. Everyone has always left very satisfied regardless.

He lets the memory wash over him like the pleasurable burn of a swig of high grade, right hand taking its place near the head and beginning to mimic the motions of his first partner. Swindle. He swipes a thumb over the beading pre-transfluid at the slit, smearing it slowly down over the frenulum the same way Swindle’s tongue teasingly swirls around him. It’s the first contact Onslaught makes with himself tonight, shuddering as his body accepts the languid wave of warmth and accompanied by the click of cooling fans.

Swindle never lasts long, which is why it was always best to put him to work first: let his charge build up at the pace of servicing others so he’ll still be able to finish at a similar time to the rest of the team later. A great tactician knows how to slot every mech into the proper place, and Onslaught is the best, which is why he takes his deserving fill of pleasure before his subordinates, who can pair up as they please after his first move.

Swindle tapers off the tip with a dainty kiss and moves to gently licking up the base with an appreciation akin to appraising it, looking up with dim and hungry optics before taking it in as far as his intake allowed, wrapping a right hand around the rest of the length to compensate. The left one plays at transformation seams, fingers dipping at the wires with the same precision as that with which he counts shanix. Onslaught doesn’t care how much Swindle violates the Tyrest accord if his skills always remain this transferable. 

The tactician twists his hand in time with Swindle’s lips and heat slowly starts to pool in his lower chassis, thin wisps of smoke beginning to waft from his back canons. Onslaught isn’t a very vocal lover unless his partners make the request of him, but it’s been a while since he had enough time to do this, and the lack of training has him stifling low groans with a pressed fist to his lips. It wouldn’t be so bad to wake up the others, and they’d be more than happy to help out in other instances, but Blast Off and Brawl get cranky without proper recharge.

Brawl, as the memory pans out, is blissed out on the couch to the right while Vortex ruts into him. It’s an open secret amongst the team that the tank loves being dominated by those smaller than him, which is a lucky fetish to have when three fifths of one’s team is a smaller frame. They’re a great match for each other in this situation, as Brawl’s built-in tank stamina is the only immovable object that can stand up to the unstoppable force of Vortex’s trained-in penchant for interface. It also helps that Brawl’s highly armored plating can be scratched, dented, bit, bent, and whatever else satisfies Vortex’s drive to cause pain–as Brawl can barely feel any of it in his protoform. The rotary is also a master at dirty talk and degradation, conducting himself like whatever number round this is between the two is just another hour of interrogation, but the info Vortex seeks successfully to pry from Brawl’s lips is not related to war, rather yes please and more.

Onslaught adjusts his settings so the memory’s stereo sound leans to the right in order for him to pick up their audio more as Swindle leaves the field of view to go show Blast-off his due attention. The added audio helps prevent his charge from plateauing as the change in input crackles through his audials down to his abdomen, where he tenses his chassis plating slowly to encourage the currents to keep building along the musculature, in order to control the approach to overload in its eventual system failure.

He can tell Brawl is close in this section of the memory now because his upper body gets rigid while he kicks the back of his foot into Vortex’s thigh, wordlessly asking him to thrust hard enough to bring him over the edge. This must be a kinder memory, Onslaught muses, because Vortex doesn’t slow down or outright deny Brawl for his own amusement. Instead, he licks the energon off his fingers to replace it with oral lubricantt and rubs at Brawl’s anterior node, further mixing around their fluids. 

When Brawl trades in his whimpers for a guttural groan, though, Onslaught quickly grips the base of his spike to prevent himself from going over too—there’s one more piece of the memory he wants to get through. He comes down from the edge of overload with heavy ex-vents, letting his cooling fans expel the scorching steam while he dismisses the rest of the HUD warnings about temperature. 

After about a minute, he decided it’s time to start up again, skipping to a saved checkpoint in the file. Blast Off is seated in his lap, back pressed against the blue mech’s chest so as to generously face the rest of the team, with plush wet purple valve lips grinding achingly adagio over his spike. 

At his desk, Onslaught spreads around the beads of pre-transfuid that leak out to replicate the same ministrations before languidly pumping an enclosed hand around his spike. A low groan slips through his gritted teeth. How frustrating it is that Blast Off makes him work for it when they’re both already so pent up—but oh how it makes him see stars brighter than the view from Blast Off’s shuttle windows.

In the memory, Onslaught’s hands are actually wrapped around the waist of purple mech, as any attempt to move them lower and speed things along would result in more of that damned teasing. He’s still allowed to play at transformation seams though, weaving his way through ever sensitive cockpit wiring that elicits delicious whimpers he can’t wait to turn into moans. When Blast Off finally decides he’s had enough of denying himself the main event, though, he lifts up ever so slightly to align the spike with his entrance. Between whatever he and Swindle were doing earlier and these past couple minutes, he’s wet enough to slip the head and halfway down the shaft without issue. The last few planes require some controlled exhales in order to relax sufficiently to reach the base. 

It takes everything in Onslaught to refrain from moving during this: the shuttle is just so perfectly snug and warm in all the right ways. Being a good Decepticon soldier often means denying oneself so many things that when the feeling is this good, he can’t help but think about breaking down those walls and chasing it. 

Instead, both digital and corporeal Onslaughts rumble engines low and as he purrs scattered praises at how well Blast Off took his length with minimal effort. This devotion is the reason why he’s second in command. Nobody feels better. Nobody wants it more. Thankfully, flattery will get one everywhere, because Blast Off soon gives a needy whine and a nuzzle to the neck of the tactician to let him know it’s time to move. He unwraps his crossed arms from Blast Off’s midsection to place his hands on either side of purple hip plating, flexing palms and fingers along the area to decide where he’ll find perfect purchase. 

Once he assures himself the grip is solid, Onslaught lifts the mech in front of him like he’s practically a minibot—until almost off the spike—and drops him down in time to meet a bruising thrust. The contact and friction are heavenly. Both sets of biolights and visors illuminate like high beams as the respective sensor networks process the action; Blast Off letting out a broken shout that rolls into staccato moans as his ceiling node continues to be slammed. Back winglets are bouncing up and down in time with the repetitions, as well as the shuttle’s adorable dark amethyst spike, which is leaking transfluid onto the floor. 

Onslaught makes notes of the other ways Blast Off continues to fall apart whilst being used like a frag toy: like how the smaller mech can barely grab on to the large upper arms behind him to stabilize the rough ride, the quickening pace of his blinking bio lights, and the emerging tremble in his winglets. What a show he makes of being ravished. But when staticky vocalizer resets to tell the mech behind him to please, please finish inside me, the tactician is all too keen to soon release the knotting concentration of currents building in his lower chassis and panels. 

Onslaught pumps harder and faster at the implication of Blast Off’s closeness to overload, losing some of the previously maintained rhythm, but he knows exactly what compensation the shuttle needs next to get over the finish line: using his elbow to nudge the smaller mech’s arm off of his to say touch yourself for me. A purple arm leaves its place to spread the wealth of conductive fluids—covering both panels and sets of thighs—upwards to rub at fast flashing anterior node.

Onslaught’s valve cover pops open to gush out fluids, spilling off his seat onto the tiles below as he finally gives overdue mirrored attention to his own node. Electricity is visibly licking up and down his body—he’s so close, and all vents are roaring loud enough to nearly be heard outside the door. 

When Blast Off goes completely rigid as the memory Onslaught bites a winglet to stake claim—and shouts the name that’s been on his lips for so long—so too does the mech in the chair. His overload hits like a punch from Bruticus, hard, with an impact that has him keeling forward as his chest is flecked with sticky pink stripes. After a blissful minute so heavenly heady it might’ve been a taste of the afterspark, Onslaught notices the high of climax begin to ebb away. He basks in the afterglow for a little longer, enjoying the view of Blast Off slumped in satisfaction against his chest before he exits the file. He pants long and heavily,  until his vents reduce core temperature to a number his HUD is satisfied with, enough to cancel the previously dismissed warning pings.

Then, reality sets in that he has to clean up the mess he just made, at which he grunts with displeasure, but nonetheless unsubspaces a rag to start wiping at his thighs and the other affected areas. It’s an annoying chore, and Onslaught is nearly cranky from lack of recharge now, but it would be disgusting to leave for tomorrow. 

Tomorrow. Which comes a little too quickly for Onslaught, who holds his head as he lumbers into the Combaticon shared kitchen to dispense his morning energon. After a sip to determine if it needs any add-ins, he turns around and sits at the table, visor not looking up from his task until Blast Off and Brawl greet him with a good morning, boss. He nods his head curtly and just goes back to the energon, until the shuttle makes his next remark: he had a really good dream last night—oh, and you were there too, boss. 

The tactician stops mid sip. It dawns on him just how much the gestalt bond had snitched. Primus damned gestalt bond. He exvents a puff of indignation, but tightens up his thoughts and EM field so as to not tell on himself any further. As a leader, this would be a trivial matter over which to twist his wires. And… maybe he was a little interested in what Blast Off had to say. 

As a higher-ranking Decepticon tactician, Onslaught was expected to go through hundreds of reports a day, as fast as his processor could digest the information. Senior leadership duties meant someone had to quality-check these before they were officially sent —can’t have just any slag getting its way up to even higher ranking officers. Soundwave doesn’t take misinformation lightly, and Laserbeak makes sure of it. But when Onslaught sets the last datapad down at his desk, he feels uneasy. Surely there’s more to do for the night. Done with QC this early? 

His spark spins just a little faster.

To be sure no bot needs him, he puts out the slightest feelers through the gestalt bond to see who’s home and awake. Brawl and Blast-Off are deep in recharge, Vortex is probably bothering that medic, and Swindle’s likely out making deals. Which means nobody fits the bill but Onslaught. He leans back in his chair to exvent a deep sigh of relief. 

The blue mech then scoots forward and retracts his battle mask to get more comfortable. Time to pick a scenario. He offlines his optics and rifles through some common options. Hmm. There’s the holovids everyone in the faction knows by this point, and they’re well-loved, even by him, but tonight just doesn’t feel like the night for that. There’s one fight with Hot Spot that got a little tense in the right ways… but Onslaught doesn’t feel like doing the extra work of letting his imagination fill in the gaps to finish a scene. His processor is running a little low after the hours of report reading.  But thinking of rival combiners brings him back to Bruticus, which brings him back to his team. 

His team. 

A while ago he would’ve balked at the idea–these mechs were once barely even cellmates to him. But now, as he files through his memory banks of countless interface snapshots—oh, that’s the one for tonight, he thinks, as his spike twitches with interest—they’ve really learned to come together.

The tactician lets his panel slide back to the tune of the pneumatic hiss of planes clinking into place. Like everything impressive about Onslaught, his spike is no different. It pressurizes into a thick and large unit, a circumference he can barely wrap his hand around before he’d have to squeeze to encircle it. A very well crafted weapon of muted blue on the top and sides, with a slightly darker blue head and an army green underside. Ochre biolights of dim aura along the base start to brighten and blink slowly in piqued desire. It’s unmodified in any way—no time for that in prison, naturally, but Onslaught also feels no inclination to add any common Decepticon features like spines or knots. Everyone has always left very satisfied regardless.

He lets the memory wash over him like the pleasurable burn of a swig of high grade, right hand taking its place near the head and beginning to mimic the motions of his first partner. Swindle. He swipes a thumb over the beading pre-transfluid at the slit, smearing it slowly down over the frenulum the same way Swindle’s tongue teasingly swirls around him. It’s the first contact Onslaught makes with himself tonight, shuddering as his body accepts the languid wave of warmth and accompanied by the click of cooling fans.

Swindle never lasts long, which is why it was always best to put him to work first: let his charge build up at the pace of servicing others so he’ll still be able to finish at a similar time to the rest of the team later. A great tactician knows how to slot every mech into the proper place, and Onslaught is the best, which is why he takes his deserving fill of pleasure before his subordinates, who can pair up as they please after his first move.

Swindle tapers off the tip with a dainty kiss and moves to gently licking up the base with an appreciation akin to appraising it, looking up with dim and hungry optics before taking it in as far as his intake allowed, wrapping a right hand around the rest of the length to compensate. The left one plays at transformation seams, fingers dipping at the wires with the same precision as that with which he counts shanix. Onslaught doesn’t care how much Swindle violates the Tyrest accord if his skills always remain this transferable. 

The tactician twists his hand in time with Swindle’s lips and heat slowly starts to pool in his lower chassis, thin wisps of smoke beginning to waft from his back canons. Onslaught isn’t a very vocal lover unless his partners make the request of him, but it’s been a while since he had enough time to do this, and the lack of training has him stifling low groans with a pressed fist to his lips. It wouldn’t be so bad to wake up the others, and they’d be more than happy to help out in other instances, but Blast Off and Brawl get cranky without proper recharge.

Brawl, as the memory pans out, is blissed out on the couch to the right while Vortex ruts into him. It’s an open secret amongst the team that the tank loves being dominated by those smaller than him, which is a lucky fetish to have when three fifths of one’s team is a smaller frame. They’re a great match for each other in this situation, as Brawl’s built-in tank stamina is the only immovable object that can stand up to the unstoppable force of Vortex’s trained-in penchant for interface. It also helps that Brawl’s highly armored plating can be scratched, dented, bit, bent, and whatever else satisfies Vortex’s drive to cause pain–as Brawl can barely feel any of it in his protoform. The rotary is also a master at dirty talk and degradation, conducting himself like whatever number round this is between the two is just another hour of interrogation, but the info Vortex seeks successfully to pry from Brawl’s lips is not related to war, rather yes please and more.

Onslaught adjusts his settings so the memory’s stereo sound leans to the right in order for him to pick up their audio more as Swindle leaves the field of view to go show Blast-off his due attention. The added audio helps prevent his charge from plateauing as the change in input crackles through his audials down to his abdomen, where he tenses his chassis plating slowly to encourage the currents to keep building along the musculature, in order to control the approach to overload in its eventual system failure.

He can tell Brawl is close in this section of the memory now because his upper body gets rigid while he kicks the back of his foot into Vortex’s thigh, wordlessly asking him to thrust hard enough to bring him over the edge. This must be a kinder memory, Onslaught muses, because Vortex doesn’t slow down or outright deny Brawl for his own amusement. Instead, he licks the energon off his fingers to replace it with oral lubricantt and rubs at Brawl’s anterior node, further mixing around their fluids. 

When Brawl trades in his whimpers for a guttural groan, though, Onslaught quickly grips the base of his spike to prevent himself from going over too—there’s one more piece of the memory he wants to get through. He comes down from the edge of overload with heavy ex-vents, letting his cooling fans expel the scorching steam while he dismisses the rest of the HUD warnings about temperature. 

After about a minute, he decided it’s time to start up again, skipping to a saved checkpoint in the file. Blast Off is seated in his lap, back pressed against the blue mech’s chest so as to generously face the rest of the team, with plush wet purple valve lips grinding achingly adagio over his spike. 

At his desk, Onslaught spreads around the beads of pre-transfuid that leak out to replicate the same ministrations before languidly pumping an enclosed hand around his spike. A low groan slips through his gritted teeth. How frustrating it is that Blast Off makes him work for it when they’re both already so pent up—but oh how it makes him see stars brighter than the view from Blast Off’s shuttle windows.

In the memory, Onslaught’s hands are actually wrapped around the waist of purple mech, as any attempt to move them lower and speed things along would result in more of that damned teasing. He’s still allowed to play at transformation seams though, weaving his way through ever sensitive cockpit wiring that elicits delicious whimpers he can’t wait to turn into moans. When Blast Off finally decides he’s had enough of denying himself the main event, though, he lifts up ever so slightly to align the spike with his entrance. Between whatever he and Swindle were doing earlier and these past couple minutes, he’s wet enough to slip the head and halfway down the shaft without issue. The last few planes require some controlled exhales in order to relax sufficiently to reach the base. 

It takes everything in Onslaught to refrain from moving during this: the shuttle is just so perfectly snug and warm in all the right ways. Being a good Decepticon soldier often means denying oneself so many things that when the feeling is this good, he can’t help but think about breaking down those walls and chasing it. 

Instead, both digital and corporeal Onslaughts rumble engines low and as he purrs scattered praises at how well Blast Off took his length with minimal effort. This devotion is the reason why he’s second in command. Nobody feels better. Nobody wants it more. Thankfully, flattery will get one everywhere, because Blast Off soon gives a needy whine and a nuzzle to the neck of the tactician to let him know it’s time to move. He unwraps his crossed arms from Blast Off’s midsection to place his hands on either side of purple hip plating, flexing palms and fingers along the area to decide where he’ll find perfect purchase. 

Once he assures himself the grip is solid, Onslaught lifts the mech in front of him like he’s practically a minibot—until almost off the spike—and drops him down in time to meet a bruising thrust. The contact and friction are heavenly. Both sets of biolights and visors illuminate like high beams as the respective sensor networks process the action; Blast Off letting out a broken shout that rolls into staccato moans as his ceiling node continues to be slammed. Back winglets are bouncing up and down in time with the repetitions, as well as the shuttle’s adorable dark amethyst spike, which is leaking transfluid onto the floor. 

Onslaught makes notes of the other ways Blast Off continues to fall apart whilst being used like a frag toy: like how the smaller mech can barely grab on to the large upper arms behind him to stabilize the rough ride, the quickening pace of his blinking bio lights, and the emerging tremble in his winglets. What a show he makes of being ravished. But when staticky vocalizer resets to tell the mech behind him to please, please finish inside me, the tactician is all too keen to soon release the knotting concentration of currents building in his lower chassis and panels. 

Onslaught pumps harder and faster at the implication of Blast Off’s closeness to overload, losing some of the previously maintained rhythm, but he knows exactly what compensation the shuttle needs next to get over the finish line: using his elbow to nudge the smaller mech’s arm off of his to say touch yourself for me. A purple arm leaves its place to spread the wealth of conductive fluids—covering both panels and sets of thighs—upwards to rub at fast flashing anterior node.

Onslaught’s valve cover pops open to gush out fluids, spilling off his seat onto the tiles below as he finally gives overdue mirrored attention to his own node. Electricity is visibly licking up and down his body—he’s so close, and all vents are roaring loud enough to nearly be heard outside the door. 

When Blast Off goes completely rigid as the memory Onslaught bites a winglet to stake claim—and shouts the name that’s been on his lips for so long—so too does the mech in the chair. His overload hits like a punch from Bruticus, hard, with an impact that has him keeling forward as his chest is flecked with sticky pink stripes. After a blissful minute so heavenly heady it might’ve been a taste of the afterspark, Onslaught notices the high of climax begin to ebb away. He basks in the afterglow for a little longer, enjoying the view of Blast Off slumped in satisfaction against his chest before he exits the file. He pants long and heavily,  until his vents reduce core temperature to a number his HUD is satisfied with, enough to cancel the previously dismissed warning pings.

Then, reality sets in that he has to clean up the mess he just made, at which he grunts with displeasure, but nonetheless unsubspaces a rag to start wiping at his thighs and the other affected areas. It’s an annoying chore, and Onslaught is nearly cranky from lack of recharge now, but it would be disgusting to leave for tomorrow. 

Tomorrow. Which comes a little too quickly for Onslaught, who holds his head as he lumbers into the Combaticon shared kitchen to dispense his morning energon. After a sip to determine if it needs any add-ins, he turns around and sits at the table, visor not looking up from his task until Blast Off and Brawl greet him with a good morning, boss. He nods his head curtly and just goes back to the energon, until the shuttle makes his next remark: he had a really good dream last night—oh, and you were there too, boss. 

The tactician stops mid sip. It dawns on him just how much the gestalt bond had snitched. Primus damned gestalt bond. He exvents a puff of indignation, but tightens up his thoughts and EM field so as to not tell on himself any further. As a leader, this would be a trivial matter over which to twist his wires. And… maybe he was a little interested in what Blast Off had to say. 

As a higher-ranking Decepticon tactician, Onslaught was expected to go through hundreds of reports a day, as fast as his processor could digest the information. Senior leadership duties meant someone had to quality-check these before they were officially sent —can’t have just any slag getting its way up to even higher ranking officers. Soundwave doesn’t take misinformation lightly, and Laserbeak makes sure of it. But when Onslaught sets the last datapad down at his desk, he feels uneasy. Surely there’s more to do for the night. Done with QC this early? 

His spark spins just a little faster.

To be sure no bot needs him, he puts out the slightest feelers through the gestalt bond to see who’s home and awake. Brawl and Blast-Off are deep in recharge, Vortex is probably bothering that medic, and Swindle’s likely out making deals. Which means nobody fits the bill but Onslaught. He leans back in his chair to exvent a deep sigh of relief. 

The blue mech then scoots forward and retracts his battle mask to get more comfortable. Time to pick a scenario. He offlines his optics and rifles through some common options. Hmm. There’s the holovids everyone in the faction knows by this point, and they’re well-loved, even by him, but tonight just doesn’t feel like the night for that. There’s one fight with Hot Spot that got a little tense in the right ways… but Onslaught doesn’t feel like doing the extra work of letting his imagination fill in the gaps to finish a scene. His processor is running a little low after the hours of report reading.  But thinking of rival combiners brings him back to Bruticus, which brings him back to his team. 

His team. 

A while ago he would’ve balked at the idea–these mechs were once barely even cellmates to him. But now, as he files through his memory banks of countless interface snapshots—oh, that’s the one for tonight, he thinks, as his spike twitches with interest—they’ve really learned to come together.

The tactician lets his panel slide back to the tune of the pneumatic hiss of planes clinking into place. Like everything impressive about Onslaught, his spike is no different. It pressurizes into a thick and large unit, a circumference he can barely wrap his hand around before he’d have to squeeze to encircle it. A very well crafted weapon of muted blue on the top and sides, with a slightly darker blue head and an army green underside. Ochre biolights of dim aura along the base start to brighten and blink slowly in piqued desire. It’s unmodified in any way—no time for that in prison, naturally, but Onslaught also feels no inclination to add any common Decepticon features like spines or knots. Everyone has always left very satisfied regardless.

He lets the memory wash over him like the pleasurable burn of a swig of high grade, right hand taking its place near the head and beginning to mimic the motions of his first partner. Swindle. He swipes a thumb over the beading pre-transfluid at the slit, smearing it slowly down over the frenulum the same way Swindle’s tongue teasingly swirls around him. It’s the first contact Onslaught makes with himself tonight, shuddering as his body accepts the languid wave of warmth and accompanied by the click of cooling fans.

Swindle never lasts long, which is why it was always best to put him to work first: let his charge build up at the pace of servicing others so he’ll still be able to finish at a similar time to the rest of the team later. A great tactician knows how to slot every mech into the proper place, and Onslaught is the best, which is why he takes his deserving fill of pleasure before his subordinates, who can pair up as they please after his first move.

Swindle tapers off the tip with a dainty kiss and moves to gently licking up the base with an appreciation akin to appraising it, looking up with dim and hungry optics before taking it in as far as his intake allowed, wrapping a right hand around the rest of the length to compensate. The left one plays at transformation seams, fingers dipping at the wires with the same precision as that with which he counts shanix. Onslaught doesn’t care how much Swindle violates the Tyrest accord if his skills always remain this transferable. 

The tactician twists his hand in time with Swindle’s lips and heat slowly starts to pool in his lower chassis, thin wisps of smoke beginning to waft from his back canons. Onslaught isn’t a very vocal lover unless his partners make the request of him, but it’s been a while since he had enough time to do this, and the lack of training has him stifling low groans with a pressed fist to his lips. It wouldn’t be so bad to wake up the others, and they’d be more than happy to help out in other instances, but Blast Off and Brawl get cranky without proper recharge.

Brawl, as the memory pans out, is blissed out on the couch to the right while Vortex ruts into him. It’s an open secret amongst the team that the tank loves being dominated by those smaller than him, which is a lucky fetish to have when three fifths of one’s team is a smaller frame. They’re a great match for each other in this situation, as Brawl’s built-in tank stamina is the only immovable object that can stand up to the unstoppable force of Vortex’s trained-in penchant for interface. It also helps that Brawl’s highly armored plating can be scratched, dented, bit, bent, and whatever else satisfies Vortex’s drive to cause pain–as Brawl can barely feel any of it in his protoform. The rotary is also a master at dirty talk and degradation, conducting himself like whatever number round this is between the two is just another hour of interrogation, but the info Vortex seeks successfully to pry from Brawl’s lips is not related to war, rather yes please and more.

Onslaught adjusts his settings so the memory’s stereo sound leans to the right in order for him to pick up their audio more as Swindle leaves the field of view to go show Blast-off his due attention. The added audio helps prevent his charge from plateauing as the change in input crackles through his audials down to his abdomen, where he tenses his chassis plating slowly to encourage the currents to keep building along the musculature, in order to control the approach to overload in its eventual system failure.

He can tell Brawl is close in this section of the memory now because his upper body gets rigid while he kicks the back of his foot into Vortex’s thigh, wordlessly asking him to thrust hard enough to bring him over the edge. This must be a kinder memory, Onslaught muses, because Vortex doesn’t slow down or outright deny Brawl for his own amusement. Instead, he licks the energon off his fingers to replace it with oral lubricantt and rubs at Brawl’s anterior node, further mixing around their fluids. 

When Brawl trades in his whimpers for a guttural groan, though, Onslaught quickly grips the base of his spike to prevent himself from going over too—there’s one more piece of the memory he wants to get through. He comes down from the edge of overload with heavy ex-vents, letting his cooling fans expel the scorching steam while he dismisses the rest of the HUD warnings about temperature. 

After about a minute, he decided it’s time to start up again, skipping to a saved checkpoint in the file. Blast Off is seated in his lap, back pressed against the blue mech’s chest so as to generously face the rest of the team, with plush wet purple valve lips grinding achingly adagio over his spike. 

At his desk, Onslaught spreads around the beads of pre-transfuid that leak out to replicate the same ministrations before languidly pumping an enclosed hand around his spike. A low groan slips through his gritted teeth. How frustrating it is that Blast Off makes him work for it when they’re both already so pent up—but oh how it makes him see stars brighter than the view from Blast Off’s shuttle windows.

In the memory, Onslaught’s hands are actually wrapped around the waist of purple mech, as any attempt to move them lower and speed things along would result in more of that damned teasing. He’s still allowed to play at transformation seams though, weaving his way through ever sensitive cockpit wiring that elicits delicious whimpers he can’t wait to turn into moans. When Blast Off finally decides he’s had enough of denying himself the main event, though, he lifts up ever so slightly to align the spike with his entrance. Between whatever he and Swindle were doing earlier and these past couple minutes, he’s wet enough to slip the head and halfway down the shaft without issue. The last few planes require some controlled exhales in order to relax sufficiently to reach the base. 

It takes everything in Onslaught to refrain from moving during this: the shuttle is just so perfectly snug and warm in all the right ways. Being a good Decepticon soldier often means denying oneself so many things that when the feeling is this good, he can’t help but think about breaking down those walls and chasing it. 

Instead, both digital and corporeal Onslaughts rumble engines low and as he purrs scattered praises at how well Blast Off took his length with minimal effort. This devotion is the reason why he’s second in command. Nobody feels better. Nobody wants it more. Thankfully, flattery will get one everywhere, because Blast Off soon gives a needy whine and a nuzzle to the neck of the tactician to let him know it’s time to move. He unwraps his crossed arms from Blast Off’s midsection to place his hands on either side of purple hip plating, flexing palms and fingers along the area to decide where he’ll find perfect purchase. 

Once he assures himself the grip is solid, Onslaught lifts the mech in front of him like he’s practically a minibot—until almost off the spike—and drops him down in time to meet a bruising thrust. The contact and friction are heavenly. Both sets of biolights and visors illuminate like high beams as the respective sensor networks process the action; Blast Off letting out a broken shout that rolls into staccato moans as his ceiling node continues to be slammed. Back winglets are bouncing up and down in time with the repetitions, as well as the shuttle’s adorable dark amethyst spike, which is leaking transfluid onto the floor. 

Onslaught makes notes of the other ways Blast Off continues to fall apart whilst being used like a frag toy: like how the smaller mech can barely grab on to the large upper arms behind him to stabilize the rough ride, the quickening pace of his blinking bio lights, and the emerging tremble in his winglets. What a show he makes of being ravished. But when staticky vocalizer resets to tell the mech behind him to please, please finish inside me, the tactician is all too keen to soon release the knotting concentration of currents building in his lower chassis and panels. 

Onslaught pumps harder and faster at the implication of Blast Off’s closeness to overload, losing some of the previously maintained rhythm, but he knows exactly what compensation the shuttle needs next to get over the finish line: using his elbow to nudge the smaller mech’s arm off of his to say touch yourself for me. A purple arm leaves its place to spread the wealth of conductive fluids—covering both panels and sets of thighs—upwards to rub at fast flashing anterior node.

Onslaught’s valve cover pops open to gush out fluids, spilling off his seat onto the tiles below as he finally gives overdue mirrored attention to his own node. Electricity is visibly licking up and down his body—he’s so close, and all vents are roaring loud enough to nearly be heard outside the door. 

When Blast Off goes completely rigid as the memory Onslaught bites a winglet to stake claim—and shouts the name that’s been on his lips for so long—so too does the mech in the chair. His overload hits like a punch from Bruticus, hard, with an impact that has him keeling forward as his chest is flecked with sticky pink stripes. After a blissful minute so heavenly heady it might’ve been a taste of the afterspark, Onslaught notices the high of climax begin to ebb away. He basks in the afterglow for a little longer, enjoying the view of Blast Off slumped in satisfaction against his chest before he exits the file. He pants long and heavily,  until his vents reduce core temperature to a number his HUD is satisfied with, enough to cancel the previously dismissed warning pings.

Then, reality sets in that he has to clean up the mess he just made, at which he grunts with displeasure, but nonetheless unsubspaces a rag to start wiping at his thighs and the other affected areas. It’s an annoying chore, and Onslaught is nearly cranky from lack of recharge now, but it would be disgusting to leave for tomorrow. 

Tomorrow. Which comes a little too quickly for Onslaught, who holds his head as he lumbers into the Combaticon shared kitchen to dispense his morning energon. After a sip to determine if it needs any add-ins, he turns around and sits at the table, visor not looking up from his task until Blast Off and Brawl greet him with a good morning, boss. He nods his head curtly and just goes back to the energon, until the shuttle makes his next remark: he had a really good dream last night—oh, and you were there too, boss. 

The tactician stops mid sip. It dawns on him just how much the gestalt bond had snitched. Primus damned gestalt bond. He exvents a puff of indignation, but tightens up his thoughts and EM field so as to not tell on himself any further. As a leader, this would be a trivial matter over which to twist his wires. And… maybe he was a little interested in what Blast Off had to say.