Fic - Recall, Chapter 5
Title: Recall, Chapter 5
Continuity: G1, Dysfunction AU
Rating: NC-17
Content advice: abduction, non-con, manipulation of various kinds including sexual, graphic violence, dark themes, masochism
Beta: naboru_narluin
Disclaimer: Just playing in the sandbox, characters not mine.
Characters: Vortex, First Aid, Starscream
Summary: In which First Aid thinks about a lost opportunity, and Starscream says something worrying.
Prologue and Ch. 1, Ch. 2, Ch. 3, Ch. 4
He rested poorly, waking often, startled and alert. Each time it took him longer to settle, to calm the flow of fuel around his systems and stabilise his disrupted energy field.
Vortex had gone, maybe to repair bay, maybe to find someone else to frag. First Aid didn’t care; he hoped the ‘con never came back.
The energon had also gone. Could be the Stunticons had drunk it all; if there was any left, Vortex had moved it. He pawed over the wall, searching for panels and drawers, but all he found were old datapads. Jittery, and with nothing else but the unwanted TV to occupy him, he turned one of them on. Nothing but glyphs in an old Cybertronian language, one he didn’t understand. He put it back, carefully, angry with himself for not breaking it.
He was angry at himself for a whole host of other reasons too.
Sitting upright on the berth, his dented helm against the wall, he tried to catalogue them, to bring them into some semblance of order. Acceptance was the first step to recovery, he told himself. Accept that he had a problem - not just Vortex - and try to tackle it using the same thorough and logical steps he would use with any other mech.
The same steps he’d tried to use with Blades, until the threat of a gulf between them drove him to attempt the unthinkable. So what if hadn’t actually gone through with it? He’d broken into the brig with the clear intention of killing Vortex, of poking the gun between the energon bars and firing at the Combaticon’s processor until all trace of life or personality or programming was erased from the face of the universe.
He’d never been punished for it.
Blades knew. Skyfire knew. Hot Spot knew, and there were probably others. But Optimus had never called him on it, nor Prowl. Hot Spot hadn’t even mentioned it except to hold the both of them, Blades and First Aid, in the warmth and love of the gestalt bond until the shaking stopped, and the rage and the fear eventually ebbed away.
He clutched at the memory of Hot Spot and Blades, huddled together on their human-style sofa, nothing to be heard but the purr of their engines over the background hum of the busy human city. But his mind kept slipping towards Vortex, towards that moment when he’d stood in the brig and fired, and had deliberately missed. He fell back into recharge with that one thought cycling through his processor.
He could have prevented this; he had failed.
* * *
He awoke to the sensation of safety. A soft flow of energy wrapped around his fractured field, holding him gently. It was reassuring and peaceful, and he didn’t trust it. His systems booted slowly, and he tried to ignore the hope building in his circuits. He wouldn’t be home, he knew; he wouldn’t come back online to see his team standing around him, bathed in the cool white light of repair bay.
No. He would online his optics to find Vortex watching him, a smile on his face as he fabricated soft Autobottish sentiments to confuse and to manipulate.
But when his optics came online, Vortex wasn’t watching him at all. Well, not exactly. He was stretched out on his side, head propped on the crook of his arm, his tail rotors spinning slowly, and he was gazing with rapt attention at First Aid’s hands.
“Don’t startle. If I was going to pounce, I wouldn’t have waited for you to wake up.” Vortex smiled, and First Aid tried to work out what it was calculated to achieve. “Although the offer’s always open.”
First Aid fought against the energy field, chasing after his tension, his fear and his hatred. “You won’t let me go either way,” he said.
“I never said that,” Vortex replied. “Don’t fight it. Relax. I know what I’m doing.”
“And that’s supposed to be reassuring?” First Aid sat up, carefully, and backed himself into the corner again.
“It means I’m unlikely to break you,” Vortex said. He curled his free arm around First Aid’s feet and gently stroked a wheel rim. “Accidentally.”
Wonderful, must be heavily implied threat day. First Aid shuddered, trying to jog his processor free of the EM field, to shut down the sensors on his wheels. But it was as futile as trying to move his legs.
“Hmm, come here,” Vortex said.
First Aid froze, pressing his back against the wall. The conflict between the manufactured aura of safety and comfort, and his own emotive response was sickening.
When he didn’t move, Vortex stretched and raised himself up to kneel at First Aid’s feet. “I said, come here.” Vortex loomed, the pressure of his forcefield mingling with the falsely reassuring energy signature, making First Aid’s processor spin. Vortex took hold of the flanges either side of First Aid’s face, squeezing just hard enough to hurt.
First Aid whimpered. An apology formed, unbidden. He pressed his lips together and refused to let it be said.
“Now, what would it take to get you to relax?” Vortex asked. His tone was measured, reasonable. Pleasant, almost. First Aid couldn’t find an answer; that small amount of pain indicated a world of possibilities he just didn’t want to think about.
“More importantly,” Vortex continued. “What would it take to get you to start enjoying yourself?”
First Aid tried to shake his head, but the pressure held him still. Oh no, not again, please. “You’re hurting me!”
“What are you going to do about it?” Vortex asked. His fingers transformed, claws raking the side of First Aid’s helm. The copter leaned in, chassis resting on the medic’s knees. First Aid didn’t know what to think, where to look. Red optics or that curving, vicious smile. Nowhere to hide, he was as far into the corner as he could get, and the claws had begun to roam.
“Arg, please, stop it!” he cried. Hateful, stupid reaction. But the talons were sharp, threatening to cut through his paintwork, down to the bare metal. “Stop hurting me!” Maybe that’s what Vortex wanted, a command like before, a small show of defiance.
But the talons continued to wander, trailing cold paths over his shoulders and arms, into the dip at his waist, down to his interface panel.
First Aid fought the topor of the energy field and covered the panel with his hands. Not that, anything but that. “Stop it!” What did the copter want? Resist or relax? He had no idea. So many conflicting messages, no space to second guess. No room to think of anything but the pressure of those hands, and the bright crimson light like blood from an injured human, too stark, too strong to be real.
And always that slightly twisted smile, raised higher on one side than the other, as though to compensate for the welding scar.
Vortex leaned closer, lips grazing his cheek. “I’ll give you a hint,” he whispered. “Be forceful with me.”
No! The word formed within his vocaliser, but First Aid choked it down. He wasn’t Blades. He couldn’t do that. He noticed the reflection of his optics glinting blue in the glass of Vortex’s visor and thought, this isn’t happening. I’m in shock, my processor has malfunctioned.
“I know there’s fight in you,” Vortex said. But there wasn’t. He was weak, all hydraulic pressure diverted to keeping his palms flat over his interface panel.
“Would it be different if Groove was here? Would you find it in yourself to fight for your team?”
“Leave them out of this!” First Aid yelled, and it was as though his CPU had fragmented. He could taste the bitter hatred, feel his hydraulic pressure increase, but it was at a remove, as though he was outside of himself, watching himself react in exactly the way Vortex wanted him to. He seized Vortex’s wrists, noting how the copter immediately acquiesced, how he put up only the slightest resistance to being flung back onto his rotors, pinned to the bunk with First Aid leaning over him.
Too late, First Aid felt the chain drop over the side. The charge seared through him and he screamed. Beneath him, Vortex shuddered and sighed, his optics dimming for one brief moment.
“Mmmm, you can do that again.” He twisted, kicking First Aid’s knees straight, forcing him down.
First Aid cried out, crashing onto Vortex’s chassis. The chain jolted again, not as hard, but still hard enough to hurt. First Aid reeled, dizzy and uncoordinated. How was there an arm around his waist? Hadn’t he pinned Vortex by the wrists? But his hands were empty, fingers splayed over Vortex’s shoulders, and there was a pressure again on the flange to the left of his face, talons pinching just enough for the sensors to register.
“Do I have to repeat myself?”
“Arg! No, please don’t, I can’t…”
The pinching sensation dissolved, swept away by a flood of calm-safe-secure, a fluttering pulse of forced pleasure all through his sensor net.
“You can,” Vortex told him. Vortex twisted again; a sudden lurch, a flare of auxiliary engines, and somehow the ‘con was on top. He slithered back, sliding a hand between the energon cuff and First Aid’s tender axle. “Holding the chain won’t hurt you. Try it now,” he said, his other hand gripping First Aid's waist.
First Aid wasn’t sure how he was meant to jar the chain. Not that he wanted to, but Vortex’s free hand was so close to his interface panel, and the grip around his ankle was growing tighter. First Aid brought his leg back sharply, jolting the links. He flinched, but instead of the harsh stab of current all he felt was a mild tingling.
“More like it,” Vortex said. “Keep going.”
He wrapped his hand around the loose links, grateful that the shock was only administered at the cuff and not along the length of the chain, and pulled again. Vortex cried out, an incoherent happy sound, and lay his head on First Aid’s abdomen.
“Again,” he said. “And again, and don’t stop or I’ll tear out your optics and ahhhhhhh that’s so good… Harder!”
First Aid cringed and tugged the chain. If only he could jar it enough to weaken the metal, perhaps crack the bracket where it attached to the wall; maybe he could break it properly when Vortex had gone. He wrapped another loop around his hand and pulled as hard as he could. Vortex writhed, his rotors quivering. The cuff spat sparks; First Aid hissed, juddering as the current worked its way through them both. He tugged again and again, hauling on the bracket as Vortex uttered an unintelligible stream of nonsense noises that sounded as though they ought to have been words.
The air stank of burning paint, a bitter chemical reek as repellent as the warmth of the interrogator’s armour. Vortex’s engine purred, soft vibrations mingling with the pulse of his energy field and forcing little ripples of pleasure through First Aid’s sensor net. First Aid focussed on the dull metal around the TV and tried to escape the cascade of sensation.
Vortex in overload was loud, intense, clutching at First Aid’s armour, biting on the edge of his interface panel. Clinging to him afterwards, shuddering, purring.
First Aid didn’t hear the door open, but he heard it close. A flash of red and white wavered, reflected in the grey of the TV screen.
“So, that’s where you are,” Starscream said. “I’ve been pinging you.”
Vortex hardly moved, just tilted his head. “Otherwise occupied,” he said. “Sir.”
Starscream’s wing flaps flickered. “I can see that,” he said. “Hmm, dirty little thing, isn’t he?” First Aid realised that he was still holding the energon chain. He could only imagine how that looked.
Vortex grinned. “You have no idea.”
“I meant he could do with cleaning. But if you say so.” Starscream sniffed. “Megatron has condescended to listen to your proposal. Tomorrow, after duty cycle.”
Proposal? First Aid tried to turn, to get up off his back, but Vortex was too heavy. What proposal? Starscream bent over them, and it only then occurred to him exactly how large the seeker was. His face mask snapped back into place an astrosecond before he realised what a bad idea that would probably turn out to be.
Starscream inspected his helm. “What’s his alt mode?” he asked.
“A device to transport injured squishies,” Vortex replied, a trace of disgust curling his lip. He shuffled forward, crossing his arms over First Aid’s chest plates. “But it’s not your fault, is it?”
“You’ll have to do something about that,” Starscream said. “Still, he’s a good size.” He smiled. “Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t torn him apart already. But then, he seems to be behaving himself.”
“Mostly,” Vortex said, tapping First Aid’s mask.
Starscream sighed. “Megatron calls,” he said. “Slagger. Enjoy your recharge cycle. Wish I knew what one of those was.”
The door swished shut, the lock clicking on. Vortex looked down into First Aid’s optics, a drowsy half smile on his lips, and something more. An expectation. Wincing, First Aid retracted his mask.
Vortex stroked the side of his face. “Well done,” he said. “You’re learning.”
* * *
Chapter 6
Continuity: G1, Dysfunction AU
Rating: NC-17
Content advice: abduction, non-con, manipulation of various kinds including sexual, graphic violence, dark themes, masochism
Beta: naboru_narluin
Disclaimer: Just playing in the sandbox, characters not mine.
Characters: Vortex, First Aid, Starscream
Summary: In which First Aid thinks about a lost opportunity, and Starscream says something worrying.
Prologue and Ch. 1, Ch. 2, Ch. 3, Ch. 4
He rested poorly, waking often, startled and alert. Each time it took him longer to settle, to calm the flow of fuel around his systems and stabilise his disrupted energy field.
Vortex had gone, maybe to repair bay, maybe to find someone else to frag. First Aid didn’t care; he hoped the ‘con never came back.
The energon had also gone. Could be the Stunticons had drunk it all; if there was any left, Vortex had moved it. He pawed over the wall, searching for panels and drawers, but all he found were old datapads. Jittery, and with nothing else but the unwanted TV to occupy him, he turned one of them on. Nothing but glyphs in an old Cybertronian language, one he didn’t understand. He put it back, carefully, angry with himself for not breaking it.
He was angry at himself for a whole host of other reasons too.
Sitting upright on the berth, his dented helm against the wall, he tried to catalogue them, to bring them into some semblance of order. Acceptance was the first step to recovery, he told himself. Accept that he had a problem - not just Vortex - and try to tackle it using the same thorough and logical steps he would use with any other mech.
The same steps he’d tried to use with Blades, until the threat of a gulf between them drove him to attempt the unthinkable. So what if hadn’t actually gone through with it? He’d broken into the brig with the clear intention of killing Vortex, of poking the gun between the energon bars and firing at the Combaticon’s processor until all trace of life or personality or programming was erased from the face of the universe.
He’d never been punished for it.
Blades knew. Skyfire knew. Hot Spot knew, and there were probably others. But Optimus had never called him on it, nor Prowl. Hot Spot hadn’t even mentioned it except to hold the both of them, Blades and First Aid, in the warmth and love of the gestalt bond until the shaking stopped, and the rage and the fear eventually ebbed away.
He clutched at the memory of Hot Spot and Blades, huddled together on their human-style sofa, nothing to be heard but the purr of their engines over the background hum of the busy human city. But his mind kept slipping towards Vortex, towards that moment when he’d stood in the brig and fired, and had deliberately missed. He fell back into recharge with that one thought cycling through his processor.
He could have prevented this; he had failed.
* * *
He awoke to the sensation of safety. A soft flow of energy wrapped around his fractured field, holding him gently. It was reassuring and peaceful, and he didn’t trust it. His systems booted slowly, and he tried to ignore the hope building in his circuits. He wouldn’t be home, he knew; he wouldn’t come back online to see his team standing around him, bathed in the cool white light of repair bay.
No. He would online his optics to find Vortex watching him, a smile on his face as he fabricated soft Autobottish sentiments to confuse and to manipulate.
But when his optics came online, Vortex wasn’t watching him at all. Well, not exactly. He was stretched out on his side, head propped on the crook of his arm, his tail rotors spinning slowly, and he was gazing with rapt attention at First Aid’s hands.
“Don’t startle. If I was going to pounce, I wouldn’t have waited for you to wake up.” Vortex smiled, and First Aid tried to work out what it was calculated to achieve. “Although the offer’s always open.”
First Aid fought against the energy field, chasing after his tension, his fear and his hatred. “You won’t let me go either way,” he said.
“I never said that,” Vortex replied. “Don’t fight it. Relax. I know what I’m doing.”
“And that’s supposed to be reassuring?” First Aid sat up, carefully, and backed himself into the corner again.
“It means I’m unlikely to break you,” Vortex said. He curled his free arm around First Aid’s feet and gently stroked a wheel rim. “Accidentally.”
Wonderful, must be heavily implied threat day. First Aid shuddered, trying to jog his processor free of the EM field, to shut down the sensors on his wheels. But it was as futile as trying to move his legs.
“Hmm, come here,” Vortex said.
First Aid froze, pressing his back against the wall. The conflict between the manufactured aura of safety and comfort, and his own emotive response was sickening.
When he didn’t move, Vortex stretched and raised himself up to kneel at First Aid’s feet. “I said, come here.” Vortex loomed, the pressure of his forcefield mingling with the falsely reassuring energy signature, making First Aid’s processor spin. Vortex took hold of the flanges either side of First Aid’s face, squeezing just hard enough to hurt.
First Aid whimpered. An apology formed, unbidden. He pressed his lips together and refused to let it be said.
“Now, what would it take to get you to relax?” Vortex asked. His tone was measured, reasonable. Pleasant, almost. First Aid couldn’t find an answer; that small amount of pain indicated a world of possibilities he just didn’t want to think about.
“More importantly,” Vortex continued. “What would it take to get you to start enjoying yourself?”
First Aid tried to shake his head, but the pressure held him still. Oh no, not again, please. “You’re hurting me!”
“What are you going to do about it?” Vortex asked. His fingers transformed, claws raking the side of First Aid’s helm. The copter leaned in, chassis resting on the medic’s knees. First Aid didn’t know what to think, where to look. Red optics or that curving, vicious smile. Nowhere to hide, he was as far into the corner as he could get, and the claws had begun to roam.
“Arg, please, stop it!” he cried. Hateful, stupid reaction. But the talons were sharp, threatening to cut through his paintwork, down to the bare metal. “Stop hurting me!” Maybe that’s what Vortex wanted, a command like before, a small show of defiance.
But the talons continued to wander, trailing cold paths over his shoulders and arms, into the dip at his waist, down to his interface panel.
First Aid fought the topor of the energy field and covered the panel with his hands. Not that, anything but that. “Stop it!” What did the copter want? Resist or relax? He had no idea. So many conflicting messages, no space to second guess. No room to think of anything but the pressure of those hands, and the bright crimson light like blood from an injured human, too stark, too strong to be real.
And always that slightly twisted smile, raised higher on one side than the other, as though to compensate for the welding scar.
Vortex leaned closer, lips grazing his cheek. “I’ll give you a hint,” he whispered. “Be forceful with me.”
No! The word formed within his vocaliser, but First Aid choked it down. He wasn’t Blades. He couldn’t do that. He noticed the reflection of his optics glinting blue in the glass of Vortex’s visor and thought, this isn’t happening. I’m in shock, my processor has malfunctioned.
“I know there’s fight in you,” Vortex said. But there wasn’t. He was weak, all hydraulic pressure diverted to keeping his palms flat over his interface panel.
“Would it be different if Groove was here? Would you find it in yourself to fight for your team?”
“Leave them out of this!” First Aid yelled, and it was as though his CPU had fragmented. He could taste the bitter hatred, feel his hydraulic pressure increase, but it was at a remove, as though he was outside of himself, watching himself react in exactly the way Vortex wanted him to. He seized Vortex’s wrists, noting how the copter immediately acquiesced, how he put up only the slightest resistance to being flung back onto his rotors, pinned to the bunk with First Aid leaning over him.
Too late, First Aid felt the chain drop over the side. The charge seared through him and he screamed. Beneath him, Vortex shuddered and sighed, his optics dimming for one brief moment.
“Mmmm, you can do that again.” He twisted, kicking First Aid’s knees straight, forcing him down.
First Aid cried out, crashing onto Vortex’s chassis. The chain jolted again, not as hard, but still hard enough to hurt. First Aid reeled, dizzy and uncoordinated. How was there an arm around his waist? Hadn’t he pinned Vortex by the wrists? But his hands were empty, fingers splayed over Vortex’s shoulders, and there was a pressure again on the flange to the left of his face, talons pinching just enough for the sensors to register.
“Do I have to repeat myself?”
“Arg! No, please don’t, I can’t…”
The pinching sensation dissolved, swept away by a flood of calm-safe-secure, a fluttering pulse of forced pleasure all through his sensor net.
“You can,” Vortex told him. Vortex twisted again; a sudden lurch, a flare of auxiliary engines, and somehow the ‘con was on top. He slithered back, sliding a hand between the energon cuff and First Aid’s tender axle. “Holding the chain won’t hurt you. Try it now,” he said, his other hand gripping First Aid's waist.
First Aid wasn’t sure how he was meant to jar the chain. Not that he wanted to, but Vortex’s free hand was so close to his interface panel, and the grip around his ankle was growing tighter. First Aid brought his leg back sharply, jolting the links. He flinched, but instead of the harsh stab of current all he felt was a mild tingling.
“More like it,” Vortex said. “Keep going.”
He wrapped his hand around the loose links, grateful that the shock was only administered at the cuff and not along the length of the chain, and pulled again. Vortex cried out, an incoherent happy sound, and lay his head on First Aid’s abdomen.
“Again,” he said. “And again, and don’t stop or I’ll tear out your optics and ahhhhhhh that’s so good… Harder!”
First Aid cringed and tugged the chain. If only he could jar it enough to weaken the metal, perhaps crack the bracket where it attached to the wall; maybe he could break it properly when Vortex had gone. He wrapped another loop around his hand and pulled as hard as he could. Vortex writhed, his rotors quivering. The cuff spat sparks; First Aid hissed, juddering as the current worked its way through them both. He tugged again and again, hauling on the bracket as Vortex uttered an unintelligible stream of nonsense noises that sounded as though they ought to have been words.
The air stank of burning paint, a bitter chemical reek as repellent as the warmth of the interrogator’s armour. Vortex’s engine purred, soft vibrations mingling with the pulse of his energy field and forcing little ripples of pleasure through First Aid’s sensor net. First Aid focussed on the dull metal around the TV and tried to escape the cascade of sensation.
Vortex in overload was loud, intense, clutching at First Aid’s armour, biting on the edge of his interface panel. Clinging to him afterwards, shuddering, purring.
First Aid didn’t hear the door open, but he heard it close. A flash of red and white wavered, reflected in the grey of the TV screen.
“So, that’s where you are,” Starscream said. “I’ve been pinging you.”
Vortex hardly moved, just tilted his head. “Otherwise occupied,” he said. “Sir.”
Starscream’s wing flaps flickered. “I can see that,” he said. “Hmm, dirty little thing, isn’t he?” First Aid realised that he was still holding the energon chain. He could only imagine how that looked.
Vortex grinned. “You have no idea.”
“I meant he could do with cleaning. But if you say so.” Starscream sniffed. “Megatron has condescended to listen to your proposal. Tomorrow, after duty cycle.”
Proposal? First Aid tried to turn, to get up off his back, but Vortex was too heavy. What proposal? Starscream bent over them, and it only then occurred to him exactly how large the seeker was. His face mask snapped back into place an astrosecond before he realised what a bad idea that would probably turn out to be.
Starscream inspected his helm. “What’s his alt mode?” he asked.
“A device to transport injured squishies,” Vortex replied, a trace of disgust curling his lip. He shuffled forward, crossing his arms over First Aid’s chest plates. “But it’s not your fault, is it?”
“You’ll have to do something about that,” Starscream said. “Still, he’s a good size.” He smiled. “Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t torn him apart already. But then, he seems to be behaving himself.”
“Mostly,” Vortex said, tapping First Aid’s mask.
Starscream sighed. “Megatron calls,” he said. “Slagger. Enjoy your recharge cycle. Wish I knew what one of those was.”
The door swished shut, the lock clicking on. Vortex looked down into First Aid’s optics, a drowsy half smile on his lips, and something more. An expectation. Wincing, First Aid retracted his mask.
Vortex stroked the side of his face. “Well done,” he said. “You’re learning.”
* * *
Chapter 6