#Onslaught/Blastoff

[silence-ofthe-llamas]

Mecha Au-Au continues with OnOff and some more backstory to make the present Extra Hurt. <3

The desert was strange. The day was so hot heat had physical form. You could see it in waves in the air, shimmering and dancing. The nights, in contrast, were inhospitable and cold. All the heat suddenly dissipated, lost to the air. The wind had a chill to it that cut through you.

Tonight was one of the warmer nights. Balmy, Blast Off thinks he’d heard it before. The nights where you could get away with shorts and a short-sleeved shirt.

He couldn’t sleep.

He was tossing and turning so much he was sure that he had fucked his memory foam mattress topper. With a long, deep and weary sigh, Blast Off accepted that he wouldn’t be sleeping, so he pulled on some clothes that were more appropriate than his pyjamas and stuffed his lighter and a pack of cigarettes into his pocket before marching off to the courtyard. He slipped past the curtain and slid the panelled door open, running his fingers through his hair.

Someone was already there. Broad shoulders, wide back, big strong hands and arms with veins that popped-

“Jean?”

Onslaught.

He caught himself on the doorway, weighing up if he should join him or climb back into bed and be miserable.

He slipped on his sandals and took a seat beside him, doing his best to not make a racket as he pulled the chair out.

“Oscar.”

“What are you doing? It’s two in the morning.” Onslaught asked.

“Couldn’t sleep, so figured I’d go for a smoke.” Blast Off said. “Cigarette?”

“Thanks.”

They held them between their lips, pressing the tips together. Blast Off opened his lighter and struck the flint, lighting them both in one go. He leaned back and took a deep drag, slowly releasing it.

“So, your turn. What brings you out here at this time?”

“… Couldn’t sleep either. Lots to think about.”

“Oh yeah? Such as?”

Onslaught shook his head. “Complicated.”

“I am your second, you know. You’re supposed to talk to me about these things.”

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s not-“ he shook his head again. “Swindle’s… striking us a new deal. I need to figure out how we’re going to keep our end of the bargain.“

And he didn’t want to talk to me about this? He tried to not let how much it stung show on his face.

“I see.” He icily replied. “Well, good luck with that.”

“Jean-“

“No, no, it’s fine, you don’t want my opinion or expertise. That’s your prerogative.” He went to stub out his cigarette, but Onslaught caught his hand. “What? I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

“No, you’re not, you’re pissed. Finish it with me.”

He tutted. Onslaught let go of his hand, and he took a long drag of his cigarette instead, tapping the ashes to the floor in a petty display of disobedience. “I don’t think there’s much for us to talk about.”

“It’s highly sensitive.”

“So sensitive you can’t trust me, but you can trust Swindle?”

“Lockdown’s his contact. Won’t speak with me. But he’s willing to work with us.”

“Lockdown?” Blast Off hissed. “Isn’t he doing some real sketchy work with those guys who fuck around with the quintessons now?”

Onslaught nodded. “I don’t like it, but work is work.”

“We’ve never had to worry about money before. Is something going on?”

His face was strangely guarded and it had him on edge. He jumped when Onslaught replied.

“Nothing you need to worry about, Jean-Luc.”

His proper name. He frowned. It wasn’t often Onslaught used it, reserved for scolding and punctuation, for when he really needed to pay attention.

Nothing for him to worry about. The thing that was keeping him up at night was none of his, his second-in-command’s, his right hand, his confidant and dare he say it, his friends, business.

As he’d said. It was his prerogative. It just hurt a bit.

He looked away and nodded. The message was clear. Shut up. Don’t press it.

Suddenly, he felt tired. He yawned and rubbed his eye. Fuck. This would be the worst kind of sleep - the one tortured by wondering just where he went fucking wrong. It made it worse that it felt like a snub - that he simply wasn’t good enough, that he was losing to someone else. The thought of anyone else being better than him was despicable. Fuck. Why did he have to like him so much. Why did so much have to hinge on how one single man saw him?

“It’s a shame you can’t see the stars here.” Oscar muttered.

Despite being in the desert, civilisation had bled too closely. They couldn’t see the Milky Way, the North Star was the only thing bright enough to pierce through the light that polluted the sky. The worst light came from behind them - tens of miles away was a factory that built the parts for the mecha suits humanity used to fight quintessons. As a high profile target, it was perfect for any attack, so they kept it well lit.

A boon for them, but pretty shit for everyone else. People used to come to this town for its pristine view of the sky. Now it had slowly slipped off the map.

“I bet you get a better view by the creek a few miles west.” He gestured vaguely in the direction he assumed was correct. “Further away from that eyesore of a facility.”

In a past life he spent a lot of time staring up at the sky. All of his education had pointed him squarely to a life studying the stars, envisioning distant worlds and exploring the galaxy through probes and rovers and mathematics. It seemed so far away now - his world had been reduced down to what he could see through the scope of his rifle.

Staring up at the sky reminded them both of old times, too - for a while it was just the two of them, them against the world. Then Swindle came along, Brawl and Vortex in tow, and the rest was history.

Blast Off could feel Onslaughts gaze. He delicately plucked his cigarette from his mouth and exhaled, the cloud of smoke wispy and delicate like the smoke from a stick of incense, and looked back at him.

He tapped the ashes to the floor. Onslaught held his eyes, not saying anything.

It was like he was trying to say something to him. Blast Off couldn’t figure it out, and the thought frustrated him to no end. He should know. He used to know.

He broke eye contact to stub out what was left of his cigarette.

“I’ll see you in the morning then. Goodnight, Onslaught.”

It was childish. It was petty. He was throwing a tantrum. Onslaught would never see him as anything other than a perpetulant child if he kept pulling shit like this.

“… Goodnight.”

The door clicked shut behind him. Vortex whistled from the kitchen island.

“Coooold. Thought you were on first-name basis. You fighting? He smell of another woman’s perfume?”

Blast Off growled at him as he stalked past.

“Hey, just asking. Coffee?”

“It’s two in the morning!”

He shrugged. “Helps you sleep!”

Blast Off stared at him in disbelief before turning and storming off to his room. “You are so weird!”

Vortex’s cackle followed him down the hall.

------------------------------------------------------- He couldn’t tell you when it started to happen, but he could tell you when the final nail of his acceptance of the new status-quo had been hammered in.

They didn’t know he was there. His footsteps had always been so quiet, perfect for sneaking around. It had let him find the best spots. The good places to go to for good, clean shots. The best places to go to when guarding something. But it also let him snoop, and right now he wished he hadn’t. He’d have been able to pretend a bit longer if he didn’t know.

Onslaught was careful with their names. Swindle was even more so with his own. Blast Off wasn’t even sure if he knew his real name - he was just Swindle. Or Sean Cook, if he wanted to use his supposed birth name, but he never responded to Sean. It was Swindle.

And Onslaught was using it. And Swindle was saying his back to him, casually and practiced.

He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.

Before, Onslaught would drive up in the front with him. They would do things together, they were in sync. His most common cover was Onslaught. Blast Off would feed him what he was seeing, and he would update the plans and the others accordingly. Plans he was a part of, a valued contributor to. But now he sat in the back with Swindle, Brawl up front with him. Brawl and Vortex were his cover now, alternating between them. He preferred it when he had Vortex. Vortex left him alone. Brawl felt the need to talk to him. Onslaught hadn’t mentioned anything to him since that night in the courtyard. He hadn’t even brought up any other plans, any missions. He’d asked at first, demanding an update. He’d told him that there wasn’t anything for him to handle, that he’d done it all, that he was free to use his down time as he wanted. But he didn’t want to use it to catch up on the books he’d been wanting to read or the albums he’d wanted to listen to or to drive out deep into the desert to gaze at the stars. He wanted to be useful, to feel needed, for someone to want him around.

Onslaught hadn’t called him by his name since then either. It was always Blast Off, his call-sign. At first he’d thought that maybe he’d seen or heard someone nearby and was just taking a precaution, but now he was sure. Onslaught wasn’t using his name any more.

At this point, he was just a taxi. Nobody was listening on the other end as he gave his reports, he was sure of it. If he just sat in the car and waited, nobody would know any different. He could make some shit up on his half hour check ins and it would change precisely nothing.

Eventually, he did decide to go down to the creek to look at the stars. He checked the weather app religiously out of habit, tracking the air pressure and where the dew point was, the humidity, wind, cold fronts and warm fronts - it was both a source of comfort, a sense of normality, and a ritual he just couldn’t abandon. So, on an evening where the air was warm and still and the clouds were but distant thoughts on the horizon, he grabbed the keys to his car - his car, the janky one that was his pride and joy and the last remnant he had left of a normal life - and walked to the garage.

“Where you going?” Brawl asked, tipping back dangerously far on his chair as he walked past. He was surrounded by scrap metal and wires and screws, a screwdriver tucked behind his ear and another in his hand. Probably tinkering with something or other - he wondered if it was another bomb.

“Out for fresh air. Need anything from the shop?”

“Nah, I’m good.” The chair settled back down onto all four legs.

The door to the garage opened soundlessly. The lights hummed and buzzed as they came on, and he stuck his key into the handle of the car door.

She still turned on. She still purred for him, her lights coming on effortlessly. Satisfied, he opened the garage door, cringing when the metal shrieked against metal.

Why now, of all times?

“Oooh, she still turns on? I’m surprised.” Swindle had his arms folded across his chest, leaning casually against the door frame. “Real impressive, she is.”

Blast Off really wasn’t in the mood. He rolled his eyes and sighed.

“What do you want?” He was stood by his car, one hand on the top of the door and another on the roof. He drummed his fingers impatiently.

“Nothing, just passing on a message.” Swindle waved him off. “Onslaught says to not go too far.”

He felt something thin snap.

“He can tell me his-fucking-self.” Blast Off snapped. He slammed the car door behind him as Swindle’s smirk burned a hole into his chest. Once he was clear of the garage, he swore loudly and smacked his steering wheel in frustration.

The drive down to the creek happened in a blink. Pushing the thought of any fines he was sure to receive if he’d ended up speeding or blowing through red lights to the back of his mind, he sprawled out on his bumper and looked up. The night air had a chill to it, raising the hairs on his arms. He wanted to stay until he froze, to wait for the ancient heater in the car to kick in to warm him through again, anything to prolong his time out under the stars. Anything to give him an excuse to stay out longer. The base was starting to feel suffocating.

Nothing. The sky was clear, there were no clouds, but…

Nothing.

The mech factory was too bright, even this far away. The sky had been blotted out.

Quietly cursing, he closed his eyes and sighed.

How far did he have to go to see the stars again?

The drive back was much more sedate. Instead of feeling driven by spite, by anger and by the unjustness of it all, he felt… tired. Exhausted. The wind had been torn from his sails. He didn’t even have the stars now.

Onslaught was still up when he got back, flicking absently through a book Blast Off didn’t think he was actually reading.

“How were the stars?” Onslaught asked.

“You can’t see them.” Blast Off replied.

His bedroom door closed behind him with a sharp click.

------------------------------------------------------- He’s laying flat on a hillside, covered in foliage and dried grass, when the need to check the car suddenly possessed him. Something was wrong. He could sense something in the air around them. Straining his ears, he could hear a clicking sound, the hum of crackling electricity. A sour taste sat on his tongue.

Quintesson.

Vortex noticed it too. He was on his loop back to him whilst on patrol when he did, loudly swearing.

“Shit!” He hissed, vanishing in the direction of the sound.

Towards their car.

“No!” Blast Off hissed through his teeth, throwing off the foliage and ducking between the trees. The aliens had started to take notice of their vehicles - they knew they had fuel and power and engines, and had started to dismantle them for their gain. They’d already lost cars to them. Blast Off was rather attached to this one, she drove well and staved off bullets better than their old one had, and they’d put so much work into her suspension that she drove over all terrains like smooth butter. He wanted to keep her.

He was meters away when he felt a sharp pain in his thigh. Like he’d been punched by something sharp. The wind was ripped from him and he staggered, not quite understanding what he felt or what he was looking at until the echoing crack of a gunshot reached his ears.

Had he just been shot?

Stumbling behind cover, he pressed a hand to his thigh. It came back bright red.

“Fucking shit! What an awful day!” He spat, grabbing a fistful of leaves and cramming it against the wound. He grabbed his gun, smearing her with red, and took a deep breath to stop his head from spinning and to try and ignore the thudding hot pain radiating down his leg and up his side.

Two sets of footsteps. Amazing. Onslaught had always said they came in pairs.

He prepared his gun, took a deep breath, and swung around to take aim-

And woke up at the bottom of the ravine.

He thinks that’s where he is anyway - he’s not sure. He can’t see out of one eye and everything’s blurry, but he can see steep rock faces dotted with shrubbery and sharp rocks and boulders and trees clinging on for purchase. So. Probably a ravine.

He blinks and the sky has changed. Or maybe there’s something standing over him now? Groaning, he turns his head.

He sees Vortex. He knows it’s him because who else has the ridiculously shaggy ashy hair and the shiny arm? His mouth might be moving - it was really hard to tell - but he can’t understand a word he is saying.

Ugh. Fuck. This isn’t good.

Hands firmly wrap around him, and he doesn’t realise he’s screaming until his throat hurts and his chest feels concave and empty. His legs won’t respond but he can feel them, feel every movement and every bump and jolt and scrape.

He doesn’t like it. He hates it. He wants it to stop.

Nothing is responding to him. He tries to move, to stop his hands from catching the floor and to rip the detritus that has worked its way into his boots out, but it’s as if it’s not there. It’s as if he’s not there, that he’s not in control of his own body.

“Fucks sake.” He quietly manages.

Vortex swore loudly in his native tongue. “You’re awake! Fuck, I was worried - Ons is on his way.”

“Oh no. Oh, no. He’s going to scold me so badly.”

“Only once he’s done with me. I’ll soften him up for you.”

Blast Off blinked, and the next time they open the scene had completely changed again.

He was looking at the roof of the car and was leaning against something - it stank of grease, blood, and sweat, familiar in a way that made his chest ache. He scrunched his nose.

He must have said something, because suddenly his field of view was full of Onslaught. He looked distraught. Why did he look so upset? He was fine, wasn’t he? He only fell. He wanted to reach up and brush his hair out of his eyes, loose curls and gentle waves falling into them, but his arms felt like lead and he couldn’t move them.

Blast Off couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there, but he didn’t mind where he was, so he was happy to close his eyes again and enjoy the warmth.

Finally, his eyes cracked open again in a dim room full of medical equipment held together with duct tape. Swindle. He always knew where to go where they wouldn’t ask questions, where if you gave them the money they’d duck their heads down and pretend you never existed if anyone asked.

He could smell cologne. A familiar one - it was one of his favourites. His commander always wore it, it was his signature at this point.

He looked to the side, head throbbing.

“Onslaught?” His voice didn’t sound like it belonged to him. He felt a strange sense of relief at seeing him - he knew he was in trouble if his thunderous expression was anything to go by, but it was Onslaught. If he was around, it would work out in the end.

“Blast Off.” Onslaught sounded furious, and the corners of his lips swiftly downturned.

Vortex was supposed to soften you up for me.

“What time is it?” He went to stretch out his legs, but sudden twinge and a lack of feeling felt like a bucket of cold water had been tipped over him. Slowly, he turned to look down at his legs. One was entombed in plaster, the other a patchwork of gauze and bandages.

Oh.

“Are you stupid?!” Onslaught demanded. He looked him up and down, as if not quite seeing the bandages and the casts and the IV. “Well? Are you thick?!”

Blast Off couldn’t reply. He couldn’t really hear him over the loud, high pitched ringing in his ears.

His leg was broken. His right one. The one that operated the gas and the brake. His left was intact - bruised and sore, but intact. He can still use the clutch, at least, but it’s of little comfort when he can’t make the car go any more. His leg was broken, and he was rendered completely and utterly useless. He felt numb. The broken arm didn’t register until Onslaught reached out to him and touched his shoulder - the pain was blinding but he could barely muster an intake of breath.

No legs, no car. No arms, no gun.

Oh. Oh, my god.

“Careful! He’s really hurt! Be gentle with him!”

Swindle. His voice cut straight through, cleaving his thoughts in half. He looked up at him but his eyes refused to focus. Swindle was looking sternly at the blurry shape next to him. Onslaught. Probably. He couldn’t bring himself to look at him.

“Am I in a hospital?” The question felt stupid and redundant, but fitting. It was just like him.

“Yeah, buddy. How’d you end up in the ravine? Vortex had to drag you up on his own!”

“I got shot. I think.” Blast Off frowned. He couldn’t feel anything. He remembered feeling like he’d been punched in the thigh, and the wet feeling of it as his ears rung and he suddenly lost the ability to stand. “I needed to get to the car. I can’t remember why - fuck, it was something so important, I can’t remember what it was.”

“You’d best remember. Quickly.” Onslaught snapped. Blast Off instinctively shrunk away from him, hissing when it pulled awkwardly on a needle. Swindle snapped something back at him, the bells in his ears too loud for him to hear what they were saying. He groaned and rubbed his forehead.

“What’s wrong?” Onslaught suddenly sounded concerned, at complete odds to his previous tone. “Do you need more medicine?”

“He’s got enough in him to take out a horse.” Swindle chided. “Don’t offer him more, Jesus. The boy can only take so much.”

“I’m older than you.” Blast Off frowned at him.

Swindle shrugged. “We’ll leave you in peace. Get some sleep.”

The chairs noisily scraped backwards, echoing in his head. Onslaught leaned down to whisper something into Swindles ear, and the door clicked shut behind them.

And the heart monitor behind him suddenly spiked.

He quickly spiralled. What was he going to do? What was he going to do? What could he do? Injuries like this didn’t heal in a couple of weeks. He’d be fucking useless and worthless and forgotten, left to rot here in the shady hospital Swindle liked to put them up in. They were fine without him. They were totally and completely fine without him. There wasn’t anything he could do about it. The only reason he’d managed to stick around them for so long was because they’d humoured him, because he offered some form of convenience. He was their backup. He was the afterthought.

He felt sick. His stomach turned, and he gagged. There wasn’t anywhere he could go, nobody he could turn to. He had made such a name for himself with the Combaticons it was unthinkable for him to ever clear his ledger and turn to more legitimate employment. If even his own team didn’t see any point to him, why the fuck would anyone else?

He found a bucket by the bed and held it close as he gagged and dry-heaved. He may have been a complete utter waste of space, a disgrace of a human being, but he was not vomiting on himself, and especially so when he couldn’t even get himself clean after.

Why did he need to get to the car so badly?

He didn’t remember. There weren’t any mirrors in the room, but he vaguely recalled falling. Did he hit his head? His face felt numb, but he didn’t know if it was the pure fear and realisation of his complete utter redundancy that caused it, or the pain relief that must have been making up the majority of his blood volume. He vaguely felt the uncomfortable scratch of a bandage against the tender flesh of his cheek. He must have hit his head. He couldn’t remember anything.

He realised then that his vision was obstructed. He couldn’t see-

He finally vomited.

It was too much. He didn’t even know where he was.

[siberat]

Ok. We need to geek it out and make a list of on/off movies. So far me and @anony-man came up with:

Broke back mountain

Titantic

we gotta keep the list going- any one else got any for the books?

[luxnovas-draws]

WW2 Combaticons

what if they stayed with their orginal alternate modes

[tsukasa0820]

Hey Leader!

[goobygnarp]

not dead.

but heres somethin i worked on a few weeks ago .

somewhat concerpt designs of the bombat boys

[yayasvalveplay]

Optimus learns so many things from the ghosts.

It could be something minor like learning Swindle is a combiner. Onslaught, Vortex, Brawl, and Blast Off still hanging around him. Telling Optimus stories of what they’d get up to together and about when they could be Bruticus.

Or it could be something larger like the time Bumblebee said he was going on patrol when he doesn’t have it that night but before Optimus can even ask Astrotrain tells him that he’s actually going on a date with Bltizwing so just play along, his amica put a lot of work into it to make it speacial for his darling Hummel

I am imagining Op gets dragged into buying something of Swindles. It's really useful for the team. But he's not so keen of getting it through illegal means. But hey the others say that he's the best at what he does.

"So Autobot have you considered my trade?"

Op looks over his shoulder at his gaskets who all nods. Vortex giving him a thumbs up. "Yes. Yes I have."

"Wonderful. Pleasure doing business with you." Of course it's Swindle and tries to give him a faulty one and Onslaught sees it and tells op to not grab it. Which he doesn't.

"What's the matter? We made a deal. So take it."

"It's defective."

Swindle gets a bit irritated and tries to go on a long rant on how it's not defected only for Brawl to tell op to tell him to shut up you nark.

Upon doing so Swindle pauses and looks at him. As if he's seeing him for the first time. Only his team called him a nark (others called him a cheapskate, dealer, horrid mech.)

"What did you call me?"

"Brawl told me to call you that."

"How do- how do you know that name!?"

It takes a bit to get him to realize he's saying the truth.

"Are they all here?"

"Yes. And they are quite proud of you. Though many also want to strangle you for doing incredibly stupid things on your adventures."

Swindle just laughts and nods.

Omg Astrotrain being near Blitzwing. Always looking out for his Amica. Please Optimus do nor ruin this for them. He's never seen Blitzwing smile since his death. Bumblebee has brought out the best in him.

And op allows it as long as Astrotrain keeps him up to date and I'd anything goes wrong to contact him immediately.

[saxandviolins77]

A coin-operated boy With a pretty coin-operated voice Saying that he loves me That he's thinking of me Straight and to the point That is what I want A coin-operated boy Coin-Operated Boy, The Dresden Dolls

[project-halfbreed]

I'm finally done with my humanformer Combaticons. It was dumb thinking headcanons for them. But by all means, these are just my dumb thoughts, but I'm still glad to get them out of my head.

[theprimeverse]

The Last Prime is Ascended!

Saberus. Son of Optimus, Prima's Saberknight, The Last Prime, has risen. He has pulled the Star Saber from the Earth, taken up the Matrix and with both he takes his place as the latest in a long line of Primes. Those who would be named Prime are the catalyst of worlds. Everytime one makes a decision, whether it be for good or for ill, things change. What Saberus decides and whether it will be for good or for ill, only time will tell. In the meantime however, the theater of war shifts to a desert world of Velocity... The next story will be announced soon. In the meantime, read about Saberus Prime's Rise here in Transformers: The Last Prime (and feel free to leave a comment or review!) Also, follow for more! In the time between stories, I'll be posting more about my AU, including things like the Great Cybertronian Houses, the Line of Ultra Magnuses, The Thirteen, the Predakings and much, much more! Until then, Till All Are One! AO3 Link Fanfiction.net Link

[minniethemoocherda]

Stars and Stripes and Suns

A/N: Merry Christmas @keferon! I could not stop thinking about your Jazzprowl Mecha Au! I am obsessed! And I could not stop myself from thinking how Sideswipe and Sunstreaker would fit into it! So feel free to ignore any of this for your own personal headcanons lol! It is your Au after all! I tried my best to fit this into the established au lore but there's a lot so I might've got some stuff wrong 😅. Anyway I hope you enjoy the fic! Xxxxxxx

Ao3

FF.net

It had been a no brainer, back then.

Spend another stint in juvie or fight in a giant metal robot.

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe hadn't even needed to share a look before they both said yes.

Shockwave had selected them specifically. Sunstreaker still didn't understand the science of it all but those early mecha that Shockwave built were too much for one brain to handle. However with him and Sideswipe not only being twins, but being identical down to their DNA, they were able to survive the neural load in a way that non of the scientists other test subjects had. Whenever he hocked them up they weren't Sunstreaker or Sideswipe or the mech anymore. They were just one.

Sure having their brains ripped apart and stuck back together over and over and over again hurt like shit. Still, Sunstreaker would take it over going back into foster care and being separated from his brother.

It helped that they were already a formidable pair of fighters, synched to each other's side in ways neither could explain that the neural link only made even closer. Sunstreaker could turn their left arm into a sword the same second Sideswipe stabbed it through a drone whilst both twisted their torso to gracefully glide over the electric fence Shockwave had flung at them.

And even when the aliens showed up, Sunstreaker couldn't complain. He knew he shouldn't, but he enjoyed cutting them up. He enjoyed the thrill of slicing the tentacles from their heads and their heads from their amalgamation of faces like they were cuts of meat. Having been told his whole that he would never amount to anything, Sunstreaker felt a sick sense of satisfaction that he had proved to the world that there was something he was good at.

Technically they had been working under Shockwave as an apprenticeship so whilst the tests themselves were shit the pay was even shitter. But they had their own room that they could decorate however they wanted. So Sunstreaker had covered his in paint from the window of the art shop they used to sleep outside of whilst Sideswipe built a wall out of every toy car he had ever wanted.

The pay got better when Swindle showed up with other pilots. And even more so when they were revealed to the public.

Sideswipe was a pro at talking to the press whilst Sunstreaker preferred to pose for the camera. As usual the pair perfectly balanced each other.

The only time they got into a true disagreement was over what colour the mech should. It had been grey originally but Swindle had wanted something distinct to put on posters. Sideswipe had voted for red whilst Sunstreaker wanted yellow. In the end Swindle settled it with a coin toss that Sunstreaker still wasn't convinced his brother hadn't bribed the result of. But at least his twin let him pick out the shade as Sunstreaker was not going to be seen in that gaudy cherry that Cliffjumper was somehow happy to walking around in. Instead opting for a shining crimson the same shade as blood.

They both decided on the name. They'd been calling it the Lambo anyway after the mech's resemblance to their favourite sports car. And after Swindle cleared it with their copyright team, it became official.

Sunstreaker wouldn't say that fighting the Quintessons was easy. And ultimately he'd rather countless amounts of people weren't dying due to the invasion.

But he couldn't deny that he enjoyed being a mech pilot. That he enjoyed the fame and freebies and fashion he finally had the freedom to afford. And that he and Sideswipe wouldn't have to worry about being starving or separated ever again.

Then as per usual, everything in their life went to shit.

Jazz disappeared. Then the base got blown up. Not that they had been aware, because they had been on the other side of the country, where for the first time, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe found themselves in a fight they could not win.

"Finally a fucking fight!" Sideswipe grinned, glaring up at the Quintesson ship the size of a city.

Sunstreaker had always known what his twin was thinking even before both their minds had melted into one. So he knew that under Sideswipe's bravado, his brother was scared shitless.

That didn't stop Sideswipe from smiling as they charged towards the ship.

With their shield, they blocked the incoming blasts, giving civilians time to escape whilst their sword slashed through the remaining fire.

Together, they were the perfect balance of stealth, speed and strength. And eventually, miraculously they actually made it within touching distance of the ship.

Out of the corner of his scope, Sunstreaker saw a Quintesson soldier strike. He didn't even have to think to ask before Sideswipe had slammed their shield into its neck. At the same time Sunstreaker soared themselves over the now dead soldier, striking the sword into the side of the ship. Sunstreaker felt the air shake as something inside it shrieked then blew up.

"Think we might actually succeed in shish-kebabing these shitheads!" Sideswipe smiled, surrounded in the smouldering embers of the burning alien spaceship.

Then a tentacle shot out of the ship, slamming into their side like a skyscraper. Sideswipe didn't even have time to scream. But Sunstreaker did as he experienced his brother's death. He screamed as his soul was stretched and squished and shattered between himself, his mech and his twin. He shot and sliced and screamed until something finally snapped and everything went black.

The next thing Sunstreaker knew was shouting. He opened his eyes, to see the blurred shape of grey and ginger hair next to his bed.

"He was a child!" The blur yelled and Sunstreaker belatedly recognised the voice as Ratchet even though their injuries hadn't been severe enough to see the head medical officer before now.

"Sunstreaker is twenty-one." Shockwave replied in his usual monotone, apparently unaffected by the fact that one of his pilots was now dead.

"And you've been fucking with his head since he was FIFTEEN!" Ratchet screamed. The entire med-bay silenced at the outburst, not even Shockwave daring to make a sound until Ratchet spoke again.

"Once I've fixed him up, I am done. I will not be apart of this anymore."

But Sunstreaker barely registered the words. All he felt was the emptiness of his brother being gone.

He had felt the feat and the pain and the nothing of his brother's death. He had experienced what no living human could and his head could not comprehend it. All it could do was hurt.

Shockwave had ordered him to pilot the Lambo again, to compare how it functioned with only one twin instead of the set. Sunstreaker tried to strangle him, only being held back by the combined force of Brawl, Blast-Off and Onslaught. Even Swindle told Shockwave to fuck off.

But in the end, Sunstreaker couldn't blame Shockwave for his brother's death. They had both signed up of their own free will after all.

Sunstreaker had been in it for the fight and for the fame. Sideswipe had been the one with heroics in his heart. It should have been him who had lived. He would have stayed because it was the right thing to do. Whilst Sunstreaker stuck around because he had nowhere else to go.

Blurr was still around, even more broken than before but still posing for the camera and doing PR. Sunstreaker couldn't do press anymore without his brother.

He couldn't do anything anymore with out his brother.

And if it weren't for the nothing that he knew was waiting for him that no one else could ever understand, then he would have joined his brother in death.

Stuck in stagnation, he did Shockwave's stupid experiments and signed his name on posters he couldn't even look at and tried and tried and tried mech after mech after mech. But he couldn't even sit in one without being sick, the melding of his mind with the mechs making his skull split in half. Each day bled into the other until eventually Swindle came to see him.

"Look kid, I know you don't want to hear this and I hate to he the one to tell ya. But we've tried every pilot we got left and the Lambo ain't working for anyone. So if you don't give it a go, then I got no excuses left to not strip it for scraps."

So Sunstreaker forced his feet into the hanger he hadn't been in since the day his brother died.

They had repaired the Lambo's right side. It's crimson coat as clean as the day Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had spent painting it.

Sunstreaker touched the tips of it's pedes. For some reason, he had been expecting it to be cold. But it felt as warm as before, the thumping pump of machinery pulsing away underneath the metal.

Something snapped inside Sunstreaker's head. But instead of it all falling apart, it felt like the pieces of a picture snapping into place.

Sunstreaker could not save his brother. He might not be able to save the Lambo either. But he had to try.

Besides the single chair, the cockpit was the same as ever. Someone had even kept their stickers.

Sunstreaker hocked himself up to the neural net and instead of being sick all he felt was a sense of serenity. Suddenly the pain in his head was gone, replaced with the sound of Sideswipe's voice that snorted "Took you long enough."

[siberstudios]

Here are the colored version- one with an art nouveau style, and the second with just a cutesy bg. Just lookit how happy they are- and how blushy Onslaught is!

[silence-ofthe-llamas]

Combaticon backstory continued! Mecha AU-AU again. What is continuity?

His heart had stopped three times that day.

The first was when Blast Off missed his check in. Jean-Luc was many things, and meticulous was one of them - he knew he could trust him to get it done and get it right. The man did not need constant monitoring and guidance; he didn’t need babysitting. He could take his eyes from him and know that he was exactly where he was meant to be, and when.

And he had missed his check in.

Five minutes passed, and he felt the soles of his feet sweat. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

His walkie talkie crackled and he almost dropped it in his haste to grab it. Instead of the smooth French voice he expected, a rough Ukrainian one came instead.

“Blast Off’s down. Two neutralised hostiles. Finding him now.”

“Finding him?!”

“He fell down the ravine.”

He took the stairs three at a time, almost missing each one and sending himself flying down them.

The second time was when he found Vortex dragging him up from the ravine - they were both covered in blood, Vortex was swearing up a storm and telling him to wake up, desperation bleeding into a usually carefree voice.

“Jean!” He didn’t recognise the sound that came out of him.

He had blinked and somehow teleported to his side; he’d had his hands on him, easily lifting him up, taking his weight from Vortex.

The blood had been his. It was still flowing, soaking his shirt and his trousers. His mind had gone blank - Jean wasn’t meant to be so pale, such a sickly shade of grey. His cheeks always had a pink hue to them that was now missing, replaced by cuts and slowly forming bruises.

He’d handled worse before. He had been the one to grab Vortex when he’d gotten his arm ripped off by that quintesson - that had been an awful day. They’d all borne new scars, shiny and pink and raw. But Jean-Luc was different - he didn’t often get hurt. He was so far removed from it all that he very, very rarely ever saw the close-quarters combat that gave them their wounds. It seemed it had all been saving itself, waiting for him.

“Where were you!” He snapped at Vortex as he grabbed his medical kit, a tiny bag he kept in a pocket on his hip for small injuries. Stray bullets, slashes from knives, splinters. The minor shit. Not whatever this was, not whatever had cleaved Jean’s head open and snapped his nose, ripped his ear up & broken his leg. It was bent at an odd angle. He felt sick looking at it. His hands were shaking and he felt dizzy.

“Oh come on! I looked away for five minutes - a quint got close! Don’t be like this!” Vortex snapped back. He was grabbing his medical kit - bigger than his commanders at his insistence given his love for charging in head-first. He stomped over to a nearby tree and snapped two small branches off. “Straighten that leg, he’s getting a splint.” He instructed, ripping the flap of one of his pockets off and folding it, shoving it between Jeans teeth.

Vortex was very good at taking people apart. So good, he’d managed to reverse-engineer basic medical care – not that he got to show it off very often. None of them trusted him to actually treat them, he had a proclivity to forget they were both alive and that he wasn’t supposed to hurt them, but it came in handy for emergencies like this, as rare as they were.

“Onslaught, we’re at the car.” His walkie talkie crackled. “Where are you?”

They heard the engine roar into life, followed by a distant shout.

“Aw, fuck.” Vortex looked in the direction of the shouts. “There were more of them.”

“More?”

“Two jumped Blast Off.” Vortex explained. “They’re over there,” he gestured somewhere over his shoulder, “I thought they were it. Figures. It’s never that simple.”

The leg went back awkwardly, and Onslaught grimaced as Blast Off cried out in pain, his arm moving strangely. His cries were muffled by the fabric he was biting down hard on, distorted and haunting.

“Fucking shit!” He hissed. “His arm’s broken too!”

“No time, get him!” Vortex had his hand on his gun, another gripping the long blade on his thigh. “You’re stronger than I am - get him in the car!”

“You have five minutes!”

The third time his heart had stopped was when Brawl was going twice the speed limit, following the hasty directions from Swindle, and Jean had said his name.

“Oscar?”

He was so quiet. He almost missed it, the sound of the car so much louder, Vortex calling out alerts as he watched them above from his drone beside him. Blast Off’s legs were resting on him, keeping them somewhat elevated.

“Jean?” He was quick to brush hair out of his eyes, the man fighting for consciousness - he’d fluttered in and out of it continuously. Onslaught was terrified for what damage had been done. Was it too late? Was he going to die now? It swirled in his gut, churning his stomach. The last months of efforts would have been wasted if he died now. He couldn’t let it happen.

“Did you find it?” He asked him.

“Find what?”

“The thing.”

“I haven’t found anything.”

Jean didn’t reply, his eyes were glazed and far away again.

His heart didn’t stop, but he almost wished that it did, when Jean woke up the first time in the hospital a few days later. Onslaught felt so numb to it now, consumed by the idea that he simply wasn’t going to wake up again and the last few months had been completely wasted, that none of it had been worth it because he hadn’t managed to save him too, that he should have allowed himself time with him. Jean had seen him and called him Onslaught, not Oscar again, and anger had surged up inside of him with its absence - anger and fury at the situation, wholly misplaced. Jean didn’t look at him. He just looked down at himself, at his legs, his lap. He wasn’t making eye contact with anyone. It wasn’t Jean. Something was wrong, and fear had gripped him so tightly he’d had to leave before he said something stupid about how important he was to him. He wasn’t going to bare his guts to him - not when he already had enough to process, and certainly not with their audience.

It didn’t stop the second time, no, it simply dropped straight through his body and onto the floor instead.

Jean still wasn’t looking at him, but he’d asked if he was in a hospital again. He’d stared at himself as if he was seeing it all for the first time, reliving the panic and the agony of it.

He wasn’t forming any memories. His short term memory was gone.

He will be okay, the doctor had said. He’s in shock, he’s injured. Give him time.

His heart had left a cavern in his chest. He’d failed them all.

They were falling apart without him.

--------------------------------------------------------------

“How did you do this?” Blast Off asked Vortex desperately. “How do you beg them to change the channel? To turn it off?”

“That’s the fun part! You don’t.” Vortex winked at him. “Enjoy~!”

“Please don’t leave me alone with this tripe!”

“Blah blah blah~, can’t hear you!” He childishly put his hands over his ears, leaning backwards.

“Vortex, please!”

“You just accept it’s there. Eventually it stops sucking so bad. Ooh, is this the villa episode?”

Vortex was strangely absorbed in something he had strongly declared to hate. He’d promised the end of telenovelas if he were ever to become ruler of the world, but right now he was so absorbed in it he didn’t notice his cigarette ash falling onto his hand.

Blast Off looked elsewhere for his entertainment.

The room he was in had a small window. In that small window was a square of blue, punctuated by passing pigeons. He wondered what it was like to be outside again. They weren’t taking any chances - he was being cooped up inside until he could at least run without any of them having to support him. He had long passed the point of stir crazy - he felt insane. He’d only seen the same four walls and the same instruments for over two months. He wanted colour, he wanted the breeze, he wanted a cigarette without having to sit in his own smoke cloud.

The nights were the worst. Nobody was there to keep him company - he was left until someone came to check on him and give him his medication before leaving him again until breakfast. The days when one of the team brought him coffee and a pastry were the best.

It still wiggled in the back of his mind, the doubt, the lack of self-worth. Having someone stay with him every day had only intensified the guilt at first, but now he’d grown to accept it. For whatever reason, Onslaught saw him as something worth their protection, and thus he was protected.

So long as the sun was up. The moon could have him.

He didn’t think about how he hadn’t seen Onslaught once. He didn’t think about how he hadn’t seen Swindle since the morning of his accident. It wasn’t worth it. It simply wasn’t worth it. The time that had passed was more than enough to settle his thoughts on the matter. He wouldn’t care. They were all adults, they could act professionally. What did it matter if he wasn’t as important as he thought he was to the love of his life? Shit happened. It was his own damn fault for letting his feelings run away from him like that.

“They say you can leave soon.” Vortex said, breaking his train of thought before he got too carried away with it and his feelings started showing on his face.

“Do they now?”

“I hope it’s quickly. Onslaughts been doing some of the cooking, but he’s Dutch.” He pulled a face. “Let me tell you, I’m never going to the Netherlands. Brawls been handling it otherwise, but…”

“Brawl?”

“Brawl.”

Blast Off sighed dramatically. “I suppose I’ll insist on it, then. You must all be starving.”

“Please make me crêpes.”

“Not for your malnourished bones.”

“I’ll eat anything if it’s in a crêpe.”

“I am willing to test that.”

Relearning how to walk was crushing. It was so simple. He did this shit without thinking for his whole life, it was just controlled falling. But his legs shook and trembled and he didn’t know what went where and it was a humbling mess.

But soon, he was walking again. Not far, but he was walking. One step closer to getting out of there and figuring out where he’d go next.

He couldn’t stay. He’d find a way to repay Swindle, he’d do what he had to, but he couldn’t stay. The feeling of being a fish in a barrel was too much, the guillotine was primed and ready to fall. He couldn’t take it any more.

The night was balmy. Blast Off felt restless.

He was able to walk short distances. He knew he could make it to the balcony, and if he rested there, he could make it back. He wanted to feel the fresh air, to smoke outside and to smell the desert on the wind. So, he kicked off the blanket, grabbed his cigarettes and lighter, and began to hobble.

He hadn’t been outside of his room at night. He hadn’t been anywhere on his own in so long - the thought was thrilling. Excitement ran through him. Fuck, he never thought he’d miss the isolation so much.

The door was quiet as he opened it, peering into the dim hallway. Empty. He swung his head the other way and almost jumped out of his skin.

Onslaught. Staring right back at him.

He looked tired. Gaunt. Lost and exhausted. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, and Blast Off found that he quite liked the look of it. His heart skipped a beat, thumping just a little faster.

“… Smoke?”

He’d half expected the man to roughly manhandle him back into the bed and tie him down to keep him there - he had the vague sense that he had been so furious with him the last time he’d seen him and he couldn’t shake the feeling of shame - so he was surprised when Onslaught agreed.

“These?” He jiggled his own pack back at him. They looked fancy. He chucked his own pack back onto his bed.

Onslaught didn’t talk. He simply followed him as he slowly hobbled to the balcony. The sound of their footsteps, uneven and disjointed, was agony on his ears. They used to walk in tune.

“I heard you’ve been doing some of the cooking. I’m jealous, I don’t remember the last time you cooked for me.” Blast Off prompted.

“It was when you had that stomach bug. It made it worse.” He replied.

“Oh. Yes.” He bit back his laugh, conscious of not drawing too much attention to themselves. “I remember now.”

“Nobodies been sick this time.”

“That’s not a good benchmark, you know.” He huffed. “Vortex was begging me to come back and make him crêpes.”

“He’s been buying the premade ones at the shop.” He sighed. “Every supply run he fills his boots.”

“At least he’s eating.”

They were almost there when his leg decided it didn’t want to support him any more. A wobble, and his arm flew out to brace himself on the wall. Onslaught was faster, an arm wrapping around his waist and effortlessly holding him upright. Indignant, he wanted to twist out of his hold and stand on his own two feet, but his leg felt fragile and like cracked glass. If he tried it, he’d risk all of the progress he’d made. So instead, he huffed and crossed his arms under his chest, leaning back against his arm.

“… Thank you.” He muttered.

“Aren’t you lucky I came?”

“Extremely so.”

Onslaught loosened his grip and Blast Off gasped, hands scrabbling to hold onto him. If he let go now he was certain to end up flat on his ass and unable to get back up again. It was unacceptable.

Huh. He’s lost weight. His hands had found fistfuls of his t-shirt. He knew how much of his shirt he should have been able to grab - he should have been straining the fabric, pushing it to the limit. He could happily grip onto more.

He frowned up at him. Onslaught returned the look with a quirked brow and a stronger hold.

“That seemed dramatic.”

“My leg’s too weak.” Blast Off admitted. He couldn’t make eye contact with him. “I just need a minute to rest it.”

Onslaught seemed to weigh it up in his mind for all of five seconds before he adjusted his hold on him and picked him up, walking the final few meters to the balcony.

“Oscar!” Blast Off gasped in surprise. “Put me down!”

He ignored him, tucking him in closely and placing his palm against the side of his head as they went through the doorway, the knuckle brushing against the plastic frame. The feel of the breeze against bare skin made Blast Off shudder, the sensation of it long forgotten.

Onslaught put him down onto the plush cushion of the sofa, a rare luxury in this hospital. One of the rickety metal chairs was dragged, to be closer to him, and Blast Off swung his healing leg up to rest on it. He remembered. It made his chest flutter strangely.

He sat down next to him, as far away as he could get without making it obvious, and started to rummage in his pockets, looking for the cigarettes.

Blast Off took the lighter out of his pocket to keep himself from looking at him too much. He hadn’t forgotten what he looked like, he was sure of it, but Onslaught looked different. Fraught. Haggard. Stressed. There were speckles of grey in his hair where there hadn’t been before, and he frowned. It wasn’t like Onslaught to not keep up his appearance – the military insisted their men were clean shaven, and even though he was long gone from their regimented structures and rules and laws, he still maintained a clean-shaven visage. The only time Blast Off ever saw him with stubble was when he was sick, or when he’d managed to wake up before him and caught him on his daily pilgramage to the bathroom to clean up for the day.

“Your beard looks good. It suits you.”

The cigarette packet was found.

“Mmhm.”

Onslaught stuck a cigarette into his mouth before offering Blast Off the carton. Blast Off took one, placing it between his own lips. It took conscious effort to not push them together, to not fall back into their old habits. He lit his commanders first, quietly swearing as he tried to light his, his thumb slipping on the flint and just releasing sparks.

“Here.” Onslaught pulled him closer by his jaw, pressing his lit cigarette against his own. It was the closest he’d ever get to kissing him. The embers caught, lighting it, and he calmly pulled away.

Blast Off could feel his heart beat shaking him. It was loud. Could he hear it? Shit - did he feel it when the tips of his fingers touched his throat? He felt warm.

“Thanks.”

Being alone together didn’t feel so awkward once. But now the air was thick between them, an oppressive force. He wanted to hide. He wanted it to dissipate up into the atmosphere and vanish and for things to go back to how they used to be. Having Onslaught see him be so pathetic felt like nails on a chalkboard. He wasn’t meant to be, he was meant to be the best. That was why he had chosen him in the first place.

“You’re walking now.” Onslaught commented. “You’re faster than I thought you’d be.”

“For a few weeks now. Vortex mentioned I could leave soon.”

“At some point.” He acknowledged.

“At some point?” He scoffed. “I feel like you’re testing my resolve.”

“No, I’m testing mine.”

“Oh?” Blast Off raised a brow at him. “Right. I’ll pretend I believe you.”

“Whatever.”

The silence stretched on, long and awkward. Blast Off watched as the last embers of his cigarette died off, holding the filter between his lips.

It had been a good one. Clean. A refreshing taste, something new and different. He hadn’t realised how bad his usual brand was - cheap and cheerful in comparison - and he worried that he’d not be able to go back to them.

Damn him. He’ll never leave me, I’ll carry him with me forever.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think the past few weeks.” He began tapping the plastic chair, rhythmic and consistent. “The team’s outgrown me, I can’t keep up. I appreciate everything you’re all doing for me, but I don’t think I can stay with you.” He couldn’t look at him. The air between them was thick and tense - he could feel his eyes drilling into him in the way they did. “I’ll go to Megatron. He’ll have something for me.”

“What?”

“If Swindle can let me know the bill, I’ll pay him back.”

“Jean, no. You’re choosing Megatron? Over us? Over me?”

He looked down at his hands. He didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know what he wanted to say. Or what Osc- Onslaught wanted to hear. Now that he knew how easily he was cast aside, the decisions were made for him. May as well be cast to the wolves by Megatron than by Onslaught. It would be far less painful.

“Jean-Luc, look at me.”

He couldn’t look away forever. He told himself he could just focus on that handsome beard that complimented his features so well, that the way his eyes looked under the amber glow of the lamps would be so captivating, that he’d have to carve the memory of it into himself with a blunt knife so it scarred and could never be removed.

Onslaught looked tired. He looked desperate. He looked sad.

He wondered what he was seeing in his face. Did he look as depressed as he felt? As useless? Did his skin look ashy and pale and sickly? Did he look dead? Part of him hoped he did, hoped he looked sick and diseased and undesirable. That Onslaught would take one look at him and immediately be overcome with disgust, that he would cast him away again and he didn’t have to do the hard, dirty work of cutting away at the red cord that bound them together himself.

“We’re falling apart without you.”

Blast Off snorted. “I’m sure you are.” You hardly acknowledged me. “Need I remind you, the last time I acted as your lieutenant commander, you replaced me with Swindle. So forgive me for being hesitant to take your word for it.”

“I did not replace you.” Onslaught hotly replied. “You’ve always been my second, you always will be.”

The old Blast Off would have risen to the challenge, would have snapped at the bit and firmly dished it back.

The current Blast Off didn’t have any fight left. He had nothing to give and nothing to prove. He just nodded.

“Okay.”

“That’s it? Okay?”

“I don’t know what else you want from me.” Blast Off laughed. He wanted another cigarette. Maybe if he chainsmoked them he’d pass out and this would all be over, and he’d just be presented with the bill. It would be an agony that he would keep with him forever to never see the others again and say goodbye properly, but such was life. It happened. Life continued, time marched on whether you wanted it to or not.

Maybe in another life, one where he wasn’t so fragile and where he was braver and better and good for more than aiming and shooting, this would have all worked out. Onslaught would never have looked at him with the disgust he held in his eyes as he looked at him now, and he’d never have fallen for him and nothing would be complicated.

“I really thought better of you.”

“Yeah, me too. All I know is I haven’t seen you since the day I fell down the ravine. So. Yeah. Okay. Just okay. I am your second. That’s that. I trust you.”

“I’ve been with you every day. Night shift. While you’re sleeping. Do you know how hard it is to be asked the same question three times an hour?”

“Brawl mentioned I had short term memory loss. Temporary short term memory loss.”

“I would have lost it if you asked me if you were in a hospital again.” He rubbed his forehead. “You’re meant to be sharp as a knife. Though I suppose you’re not as clever as I thought.”

“You know, for someone who I assume is trying to convince me to stay, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it.”

“What, you want me to get on my knees and beg?”

“… It would help.”

Onslaught scoffed and flicked his cigarette butt into the ash tray. It landed neatly in the middle.

“Not a chance.”

Blast Off stubbed his butt next to Onslaughts.

“Pity.” He swung his leg down from where he had it rested against an opposite chair and stood up, using the table for balance. “I’ll think it over, okay?”

The thought of not seeing any of them again suddenly felt a bit too real. Too much. He didn’t want to consider it. Fuck, they all irritated him so much but they were his family. He would done anything for them. He knew he could count on them to do the same for him. But the fact he wasn’t keeping up haunted him - he’d tried and tried to no avail. Their backs all looked bigger whilst he felt so frail. Maybe time away would be good. Maybe one day they’d see each other as peers again.

“Wait-“ Onslaughts hand shot out to him, and he wasn’t fast enough to dodge it on his weak legs. He was spun around and pulled firmly into his lap with a shout, tucked in securely against his chest. “Stay.”

It’s not like you’ve given me a lot of choice here. He’d never been able to break his hold before.

He huffed and rested his head against him. “Like I have any other option.” He snootily replied. Onslaught seemed to ignore him.

“I don’t know what I’m doing without you - we’re falling apart without you there.”

“I’d say just do whatever it is you’ve been doing for the past four months, and you’ll be fine.”

The hands on him tightened, the arms around him coming closer. “We need you - shit, I need you, Jean. You’re what’s keeping me together. Without you, none of the past few months matter.”

Blast Off rested his cheek on his shoulder, and realised that the shaking feeling wasn’t his own heart as he’d expected - it was Oscars. And it was pounding. Hard enough for it to shake him, to interrupt his breathing - his world suddenly focused in to one spot, on one thing - nothing else mattered except the rhythm of his heart.

Man. He still had it bad for him. He hated himself. How pathetic could he get? He swallowed thickly, feeling his eyes prickle. Ugh.

“I suppose I can hang around until the bill is paid off.”

“I’ll get Swindle to add a few zeros then.”

“Cheeky git.”

“I’m not letting you go so easily.”

His arms were gentle, tender. He knew how easily they could crush him, how with a sneeze he could end up with shattered ribs. But he was being so gentle, so careful with him. He avoided his injuries, studiously avoiding putting pressure onto his hips and bad leg and shifting most of his weight to be taken on his own. He closed his eyes and gave himself sixty seconds to enjoy it before he pulled the professional shutter back down again.

He smelled like sweat and soap and those weird wax beads Swindle had insisted on using in their laundry. He could also smell a vague sense of citrus - the cologne he wore on clean days. It was his favourite one. It was only on his second breath that he realised Onslaught had been the one to carry him to the car, to keep him safely on his lap, a hand protecting his skull from whacking against the car door and the window with each harsh turn.

The optimistic part of him suddenly snapped into clarity. What if Oscar feels the same way?

It was a ridiculous notion. It was his brains attempt to come up with a plot line from those damn telenovelas he’d been forced to watch. The unrequited love, the rejection, the reciprocation. Textbook cheese. It was perfect for television. It was total and utter fiction. But it had suddenly taken hold and he was possessed by it - he needed to see, to check.

A hand slipped up his broad chest, resting at the base of his skull for his fingers to play with the curls there.

“Mmhmm. Sure.”

It was a risky gamble, but it paid off. Oscars heart thumped hard, his breath quietly catching. Blast Off peeked at his face.

The others didn’t think Onslaught was very expressive. They thought he had such impressive control over his emotions - that he only showed what he wanted them to see.

Blast Off didn’t know what they were talking about. He was obviously blushing right now. Sure, it didn’t reach his face - the only times his cheeks turned pink were when he overheated through physical exertion or through the desert simply being the desert, or when he was very merry and had drunk enough alcohol to satisfy the seven dwarves - but it had stained his ears bright pink, the tips of them red and glowing. He was embarrassed about something. And now he wondered if it were because this was his version of a confession, or if it was because he was playing with his hair. Or both.

God. He hoped it was both. Was that okay?

[devilart2199-aibi]

Combaticon redesigns 🪖🚀💵

Mine compared to G1 + Earth alt modes! ⬇️

Not 100% happy with Swindle, he still needs some work. The gang is so big compared to him OTL The short foot of Bruticus lol

[mistermalaprop]

Hi there! I see you accepting art request so may I request for Onslaught/Warpath? They're currently my favorite shipping :]

sure! it's my first time drawing either of these goobers so i apologize if it's not how you were expecting <3

here's a version without text/hearts for whatever reason:

[plastyi]

My Bruticus design for my Au

[toyboxcomix]

Random Old Comic: Brutal https://www.toyboxcomix.com/2017/04/30/brutal/