Broken Weapon

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

Broken Weapon
Bayverse
NC-17
Sticky, dubcon
Onslaught/Skywarp
This takes place in the past, when Onslaught and Skywarp first meet.

22 Nov

 

 

Onslaught grunted as the last repairbot scampered off him,  and the greenlight of his readout flickered on. Cleared for duty.  He sat up, rolling his new shoulder around its mechanisms, letting the lead-bars rotate around the socket.  New metal, slightly too-tightly fitted, stung where it would eventually silver and smooth from wear.   

It had been worth it.  They’d won the battle, the Autobots screeching into retreat, abandoning the base so quickly and with such haste that Onslaught had presumed it had been wired to explode, or laced with intricate booby-traps.  

They’d proceeded with due caution, until…. 

Onslaught dropped to his feet , as if driving his suppressed anger into the floor.  He had to be here.  And if he was still online, Onslaught would give him a talking-to that would scorch his audio.  For a start.

His visor scanned the bay.  There, in one of the large cradles, the black and violet mass of the jetframe that had nearly gotten his whole strike team killed.  

“Skywarp,” he snapped.  It was hard to keep the edge of hostility from his voice. He felt the optics of the injured mechs on him.   

“What?” Returning his aggression with matching insolence. Red optics whirred to focus.  

Fine.  Onslaught hated formalities, too. “You disobeyed orders.” 

A dismissive hiss. “Stupid orders.”  Pitched a bit louder, for the listening audience.  

“That’s not your call.”  Onslaught was the operational commander.  His mission.  On his head the consequences.  “And if you’d followed my ‘stupid’ orders….”  He stared pointedly at the matte black charring on the jet’s armor, places where struts had warped and melted from the heat.  

“If I’d followed your stupid orders,” the jet retorted, “the Autobots would have had time to rally.  They do that, you know.”  

“We were safely within time parameters,” Onslaught returned.  “And I’m not sure they’d have managed any more damage than you did.”   

He heard a growl from the jet, saw one barbed hand curl around the repair cradle netting.  Onslaught waited.  Skywarp knew he was right, was daring him to say more, giving him permission to strike first so he could retaliate.   

He needn’t say anything more.  

At least right now.   

[***]

 

The jet hadn’t forgotten Onslaught’s insult.  If nothing else, the public aspect of his dressing down had driven into his cortex, stabbing into that abstruse Seeker pride. He’d stalked the Combaticon commander, once he’d been released from repair bay, with a single-minded intensity bordering on a mania.  Onslaught had felt the keen optics, a raptor’s fixed, targeting stare, across the refectory, drilling at him during briefings.  Oh he knew.  And it amused him to draw the jet out, sharpen the jet’s need for revenge to a blade keen hunger.  Make his predator into his prey, using his own predation against him.  

He had been playing these games on the battlefield for ages.  He had been with Vortex for almost as long.  This was…not challenging.  Especially with the clumsy force behind the jet’s pursuit—someone used to force and intimidation working, abjuring subtlety.   

It wasn’t hard to assign himself to a late shift in the hangar bay.  And one planted hint had Vortex complaining, vociferously, about it, so that there was no way, even for a jet as clumsy and brutal as Skywarp, not to hear about it.  He did not doubt the jet was clever—there was a certain beautiful precision in his combat and flight that could not come from a stupid mech—but someone used to force and intimidation scarcely had need of logic circuitry. Which made him vulnerable.  

Onslaught was subtle even in his unsubtlety.  Pick the battlefield, pick the weaponry.  He’d almost felt sorry for Skywarp.  

The jet strode into the hangar, the dim lights glinting off his own new replacement parts.  His optics, narrow red orbs, focused on vengeance.  Onslaught glanced up, then lowered his visor back to his datapad, pretending to be engrossed.  Skywarp stormed over, not even bothering to feign.  He thought he had Onslaught alone and vulnerable.  Yes to the first.  To the second…? 

 He could feel the jet seething at him as he continued to pretend to study the datapad.   

“You.”  

“Me,” Onslaught said, mildly.  Skywarp rose up on his double-bent legs, trying to loom.  Oh please, Onslaught thought, amused.  Standing, he was nearly as tall as the jet, and what little height advantage he gave away, he made up for in sturdiness.   

“You have a problem with me?”  

“Nowhere near as big as the problem you seem to have with me.”   Onslaught was glad for his battlemask, hiding the amused grin.  He flicked forward on his datapad, idly.  

A black hand flashed in front of him, sending the datapad flying to where it cracked against the wall.  Oh, well, someone was impatient.  Onslaught feigned a sigh.   

“You look at me when I am speaking to you!”   

“I do?”  Who knew that all that experience with Vortex came in handy? He’d picked up Vortex’s brand of fractious and annoying seemingly by osmosis.   

Skywarp snarled, on the verge of swinging at Onslaught.  Onslaught could see, written in the trembling tension of the jet’s frame, how much restraint it had taken the jet to strike only the datapad, and not Onslaught himself.  Close to the edge. Uncontrollable.  That was Skywarp’s problem.  Almost just as dangerous to his allies in combat as his enemies, because that final strand of restraint could snap at any time.   

But the jet had potential. He had courage, though bordering on fearlessness. He had a ferociousness in combat, exactly the sort of violent genius Onslaught respected, and that, Primus knew, the cause needed.  He simply needed control. Discipline. Or else he was nothing more than the worst sin in Onslaught’s mind—a waste.  And from their last battle, a dangerous waste at that.  

Onslaught let the jet ride the blade of his fury.  His struggle was…fascinating to witness—all the vicious brutality of a trained, remorseless killer wrestling with the thinnest veneer of control.  Another push, to shatter even that illusion of control.  “Can I help you?” Onslaught asked, allowing insolence to tinge his voice. “I am on duty.”  Foreign words, foreign sentiment to him—the insolence sang tinnily and off-key to his own audio, but the jet didn’t know any better. Skywarp couldn’t see the trap. Another vulnerability that his strength and power had thus far protected him from.  

The jet’s snarl rose into a howl, his fists balling.  He surged toward Onslaught, left arm coming around in a blind strike.  

Onslaught tilted his head aside, letting the blow glance over his helm, bringing his own left arm up, letting the jet’s own momentum carry him into the blow.  The jet’s vocalizer crackled as Onslaught’s fist connected with his newly-replaced ribstrut.   

They grappled in earnest for a few long moments, the jet’s longer reach running time and again into Onslaught’s sturdier mass, and almost immovable center of gravity. They said nothing—they were beyond need for words—only grunting and sharp hisses as blows rained down, clanging and thudding into combat-tempered bodies.   

Skywarp bulled into Onslaught, bowling him over onto his back. Onslaught’s cannons slammed into the heavy deck plating, jarring his video feed just as the jet dropped his weight on top of his chassis.   

Onslaught thrashed, masking with pretend panic his testing of the jet’s center of balance. High, it was, bearing down upon his grille.  Which left his pelvic frame relatively massless.  Useful to know.    

Skywarp growled, talons sinking in around Onslaught’s armor.  “You are not my equal,” he hissed.   

“I am your better,” Onslaught retorted, automatically.  Almost there. Almost at the breaking point.  He could feel fury surge over the jet, the EM field prickling and crackling with ionic rage.  Skywarp’s vocalizer burst into a garble of outrage, his optics flaring.  

Onslaught struck upward, driving one knee into the twinned pelvic plates.  Metal crunched.  The incoherent syllables swirled to a howl.  Skywarp slammed his hands down on Onslaught’s shoulders, driving the Combaticon’s head against the decking.  For a handful of kliks, Onslaught’s audio buzzed with feedback. 

He felt the jet’s heat, the cooling fans blasting hot air against him in outraged bursts, the optics red darts of pure malice.  Another cloud of dark emotion swept over the jet’s face, a growl of pure black brutality, some feral violence taking hold as the jet drove down, grinding his pelvic frame against Onslaught’s.   

And Onslaught, suddenly, got it—snapping into focus like a targeting reticle achieving lock.  The way to bring Skywarp under control—the leash to bind him, to control him.  He could see the tangled mass of desire and pain and anger swirling behind the optics, the need to channel that out of the heavy frame, to inflict rather than to feel.  

“Is that all you’ve got?” he goaded, openly.   

The optics blazed hate upon him, the jet’s frame arching up.  “Show you,” Skywarp snarled.  Onslaught heard the snap of the interface hatch being opened, felt a rough hand shove between his legs.  Trying to violate, trying to reduce Onslaught to a mere thing, a vessel for his pain. 

Onslaught shook his head, both in denial and in sorrow.  The jet was…damaged beyond the ability of repairbots to fix.  A broken weapon.  No, not broken.  Redeemable.  Like everything in the Decepticon army, though, needing to be juryrigged, worked around.

Fine. He could do that.  He could take control, give the jet what he needed. He could bring Skywarp back from the brink. Make him useful.  Make him safe.

But more: he could save the jet from himself.  A long, slow process, a commitment deeper than he wanted to consider.  Because he knew that brink, he knew the battle going on behind the blazing optics.  He knew the tenuous, fragile balance between rage and power, between force and giving too much away, between lust and desire.  He knew it all too well. 

And he knew what to do.

He bucked his body up, where Skywarp’s mass was least, levering him off balance.  Skywarp’s weight lurched forward, his forehead clanging atop Onslaught’s, arms flailing for new balance. Onslaught thrust one hand roughly down into the gap, grabbing at the jet’s erect spike. 

Skywarp growled, driving one  foreknee into Onslaught’s leg, attempting to lever himself back.  Onslaught jerked the spike hard to one side, wrenching at its mechanisms.  Pain shot, hot and white and sharp, over the jet’s sensornet, tendrils of it leaking through his EM field in prickly waves of distress and alarm.

The jet shuddered, as Onslaught’s hand squeezed the spike, hard enough to hurt, to threaten.  What Skywarp hadn’t considered, Onslaught knew, was that interfacing was…by nature…vulnerable. 

“Let…go,” the jet gasped, trying to make it an order. 

Onslaught laughed, softly.  He brought his other hand down, letting the pads of his fingers stroke teasingly over the spike’s tip nodes.  

A hot blast of air from the jet’s cooling fans as pain signals poured into pleasure, sending a dark thrill through his systems.  Skywarp went rigid, one hand scraping curls of metal from the deck by Onslaught’s shoulder.  Onslaught turned his head to mask his smile. Oh? I have you now, Skywarp.  He pulled, gently, rolling his thumb over the spike’s tip.  The jet vibrated with desire.  Skywarp shifted, trying to move.  Onslaught stopped him with a sharp tug with his other hand, rocking the spike against its housing.

Skywarp whimpered, a wince of pain flashing over his face.  Yes, Onslaught thought.  Good.   He stroked the spike between his hands.  Skywarp shivered, his spike prickling with current against Onslaught’s palms.  He rolled his hands over it, feeling a warm push of lubricant from the little ducts. 

“Please,”  Skywarp moaned, when Onslaught abruptly stopped.  “I need it.”

“The problem,” Onslaught said, forcing Skywarp’s gaze to meet his, “is that you give in too often to your needs.” 

Skywarp jerked as though he had been slapped.  “I—“

“Quiet,” Onslaught said, letting his command tone creep into his voice.  He would teach the jet to behave.   Simple creature, for all his emotional turmoil.  Easily led.  And…he could not deny the hot rush of desire in his own net.  So much power, and force, and violence, bridled for him, twitching and whimpering at his touch.   

Skywarp snarled, but subsided, optics whirring unsteadily.  Onslaught felt his own systems spin up at the confusion in the jet’s optics. Onslaught stroked one hand down the spike, feeling the charge tingle over his hand, slicking the lubricant back along the spike’s length.  Skywarp’s optics dimmed, lidded, withdrawing from the hard glare to a distant inwardness.

Onslaught continued stroking the spike, feeling the jet rock back and forth in counterpoint, the optics hazy, the growl fading to a yearning purr.  Skywarp dove down, suddenly, burrowing his face against Onslaught’s throat, his beak-like mouth digging against Onslaught’s throat.  Onslaught tilted his head, letting the mouth pinch his cabling.  The sharp shock of pain intoxicated him as much as what it meant—the jet’s yielding, with force, the surfeit of his desire overflowing onto Onslaught.

Skywarp cried out, the vibrations pushing into Onslaught’s throat. His hips bucked, current whipcracked across Onslaught’s hands as the overload charge snapped through the jet.

The heavy frame collapsed against Onslaught’s body.  Onslaught wriggled his hands away, sticky with lubricant, the smell of ozonized lubricant filling the air between them.  The energon line that Skywarp had pinioned with his mouthplates split from pressure, leaking hot energon into his clavicular strutwork.  The jet quivered, shuddering aftershocks twitching through his systems as his oversensitized spike nodes brushed against Onslaught’s thigh. 

“Quiet,” Onslaught murmured, his voice gentle.  The storm raged through the jet, fury without surcease, sourceless, bottomless rage that the jet stood helpless against. “Quiet, Skywarp.”  He felt the talons curl in around him, clutching at him as though he were salvation. 

 

 

 

Comments

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

He's pretty dark in this, poor Onslaught.

Glad you liked.