Fic - To feign amnesia, or not to feign amnesia…
Series: Alone in the Ark
Chapter 2: To feign amnesia, or not to feign amnesia…
Continuity: G1 cartoon, Decepticam AU
Rating: M
Warnings: reference to sticky smut, and reference to the concept of false accusation of rape
Disclaimer: I’m just playing with someone else’s copyrighted characters. Again. I’ll put them back when I’m done.
Characters and/or pairings: Vortex/Bumblebee, Wheeljack, Ratchet
Summary: Feeling very well shagged indeed, Bumblebee doesn’t do the sensible thing after Vortex leaves and clean up. He soon finds himself having to do a lot of fast thinking.
[ Chapter 1: Alone in the Ark]
Bee groaned.
Everything ached. From his valve to his horn to the tips of his fingers where they’d pressed altogether too hard against the marble tabletop.
He knew what he should do. He should get up, go visit the washracks, have some energon. Check the sofa for tell-tale traces of lubricant.
But knowing and doing were two very different things. Instead, he sighed into the heat of post-interfacing exhaustion, and took his optics offline.
He awoke to a hand on his shoulder. Urgent words crackled from a stressed vocaliser.
“Bumblebee! Bumblebee, can you hear me?”
“Urr…” Bee moaned.
“He can hear me! Huffer, go get Ratchet!”
Oh slag. Bee froze, snapping from the dizzy daze of recharge to fully alert and oh-so-embarrassed wakefulness in less than the time it took his processor to recognize the source of the voice.
Wheeljack.
Bee remained frozen. To fake unconsciousness or not to fake unconsciousness, that was the question. Slag slag slag, why didn’t he get up when he had the chance?
Cool hands on his arms, tugging him over and oh Sigma, no! His panels were still open, both of them.
Bee leapt up, slamming his hardware shut. He only just missed the tip of his spike.
“I’m OK, I’m OK!”
“Oh no, Bee.” Wheeljack sighed. The look he gave Bee was replete with sympathy and tinged with anger. “Oh, Bee, it’s OK, you’re safe now.”
Safe? What the frag did he mean?
An alarm began to sound; the clatter of armoured footsteps heavy in the corridor. Yeah, right, Vortex had escaped.
Wheeljack’s mask juddered, an echo of movement from his hidden faceplates. “Ratchet’s on his way.”
“Why? Bee spoke before thinking, then the realisation hit him. Uh-oh. “It’s not what it looks like?” he hazarded. But no, it didn’t sound any better this time around.
“Hey, you wanna sit down?” Wheeljack asked.
Bee gave the sofa a guilty glance. Yep, lubricant stains. And scorch marks. Well, the copter was hot… No! Bad Bee!
His capacitor twinged and his fuel pump raced. How in the name of Cybertron was he going to get out of this one?
The door opened, and Bee jumped.
Ratchet entered, giving Wheeljack a grateful look.
Two choices, Bee thought. Fess up, or feign amnesia.
He looked down at his chest plates, where streaks of grey overlay the sunshine yellow. OK, if he was going to feign amnesia, about five astroseconds ago would have been a really good time to start. Even better would have been straight after he woke up.
He sighed; why couldn’t his processor just throw him a solution? Surely lying couldn’t be that hard.
Another option occurred to him. Vortex was a Decepticon; Decepticons were evil. And as far as evil Decepticons went, Vortex was an epically nasty piece of work; people would be willing to believe just about anything of him. Yep, he sure was evil, not to mention large and dominating, and oh the feel of that spike thrust deep inside and gah! Mustn't think of that. Stupid valve, stop throbbing. No spike for you.
No spike ever again if the ‘bot you’re attached to gets court-martialled for letting a Decepticon go free.
The temptation of the third option was intense. Blame everything on Vortex. Tell Ratchet he was forced. It would explain it all; the lube stains on the sofa, the damage to his horns, the position in which Wheeljack had found him.
“You can tell me,” Ratchet said. “But you don’t have to. Just tilt your head and let me take a look at your sensors.”
Bee gaped. He didn’t even have to say anything. He could just keep quiet and let their assumptions run away with them. Vortex would take the blame, and Bee could just get on with his life without the shame of everyone knowing how much he’d enjoyed it.
Sure, they’d all be thinking something far worse, but at least no one would think that it was his fault.
He tilted his head, trying not to wince as Ratchet probed the damage to his horns. All he had to do was keep quiet.
He couldn’t do it.
“I’m sorry!” he blurted. “He got out, I don’t know how! And he’s so big, and he was there leaning on the sofa and I didn’t know he was in the room, and he said ‘wanna frag?’ and he went down on me and I just don’t get any and slag he’s hot, and I’m sorry! I couldn’t help myself!”
Ratchet’s jaw dropped.
“I really am,” Bee said. “I didn’t mean to screw him, it just… kinda happened.” OK, and that was the sound of plausible deniability vanishing out the window.
Ratchet’s optics flickered, and his lips twitched up at the corners. After a few astroseconds, he began to laugh, relief evident in the droop of his doorwings. He grinned, his grip on Bee’s helm no longer quite so gentle.
“You horny little fragger.”
*
And that seemed to be the opinion of the Ark at large. Sure, there were the naysayers, disgruntled prudes who found nothing whatsoever amusing in Bee fragging a ‘con twice his size. Huffer, Gears, Brawn, Sunstreaker, Mirage. But they were the minority.
Unsurprisingly, the official line was censure. Punishment duty, a reduction in privileges, a short stay in the brig. But Wheeljack kept him company, and even Perceptor couldn’t look at him any more without cracking a smile.
As he scrubbed the Aerialbots’ washrack floor for the fourteenth day in a row, Bee also couldn’t keep the grin off his faceplates. He’d fragged a Combaticon, and he’d got away with it.
On the whole, things could be a lot worse.
Chapter 2: To feign amnesia, or not to feign amnesia…
Continuity: G1 cartoon, Decepticam AU
Rating: M
Warnings: reference to sticky smut, and reference to the concept of false accusation of rape
Disclaimer: I’m just playing with someone else’s copyrighted characters. Again. I’ll put them back when I’m done.
Characters and/or pairings: Vortex/Bumblebee, Wheeljack, Ratchet
Summary: Feeling very well shagged indeed, Bumblebee doesn’t do the sensible thing after Vortex leaves and clean up. He soon finds himself having to do a lot of fast thinking.
[ Chapter 1: Alone in the Ark]
Bee groaned.
Everything ached. From his valve to his horn to the tips of his fingers where they’d pressed altogether too hard against the marble tabletop.
He knew what he should do. He should get up, go visit the washracks, have some energon. Check the sofa for tell-tale traces of lubricant.
But knowing and doing were two very different things. Instead, he sighed into the heat of post-interfacing exhaustion, and took his optics offline.
He awoke to a hand on his shoulder. Urgent words crackled from a stressed vocaliser.
“Bumblebee! Bumblebee, can you hear me?”
“Urr…” Bee moaned.
“He can hear me! Huffer, go get Ratchet!”
Oh slag. Bee froze, snapping from the dizzy daze of recharge to fully alert and oh-so-embarrassed wakefulness in less than the time it took his processor to recognize the source of the voice.
Wheeljack.
Bee remained frozen. To fake unconsciousness or not to fake unconsciousness, that was the question. Slag slag slag, why didn’t he get up when he had the chance?
Cool hands on his arms, tugging him over and oh Sigma, no! His panels were still open, both of them.
Bee leapt up, slamming his hardware shut. He only just missed the tip of his spike.
“I’m OK, I’m OK!”
“Oh no, Bee.” Wheeljack sighed. The look he gave Bee was replete with sympathy and tinged with anger. “Oh, Bee, it’s OK, you’re safe now.”
Safe? What the frag did he mean?
An alarm began to sound; the clatter of armoured footsteps heavy in the corridor. Yeah, right, Vortex had escaped.
Wheeljack’s mask juddered, an echo of movement from his hidden faceplates. “Ratchet’s on his way.”
“Why? Bee spoke before thinking, then the realisation hit him. Uh-oh. “It’s not what it looks like?” he hazarded. But no, it didn’t sound any better this time around.
“Hey, you wanna sit down?” Wheeljack asked.
Bee gave the sofa a guilty glance. Yep, lubricant stains. And scorch marks. Well, the copter was hot… No! Bad Bee!
His capacitor twinged and his fuel pump raced. How in the name of Cybertron was he going to get out of this one?
The door opened, and Bee jumped.
Ratchet entered, giving Wheeljack a grateful look.
Two choices, Bee thought. Fess up, or feign amnesia.
He looked down at his chest plates, where streaks of grey overlay the sunshine yellow. OK, if he was going to feign amnesia, about five astroseconds ago would have been a really good time to start. Even better would have been straight after he woke up.
He sighed; why couldn’t his processor just throw him a solution? Surely lying couldn’t be that hard.
Another option occurred to him. Vortex was a Decepticon; Decepticons were evil. And as far as evil Decepticons went, Vortex was an epically nasty piece of work; people would be willing to believe just about anything of him. Yep, he sure was evil, not to mention large and dominating, and oh the feel of that spike thrust deep inside and gah! Mustn't think of that. Stupid valve, stop throbbing. No spike for you.
No spike ever again if the ‘bot you’re attached to gets court-martialled for letting a Decepticon go free.
The temptation of the third option was intense. Blame everything on Vortex. Tell Ratchet he was forced. It would explain it all; the lube stains on the sofa, the damage to his horns, the position in which Wheeljack had found him.
“You can tell me,” Ratchet said. “But you don’t have to. Just tilt your head and let me take a look at your sensors.”
Bee gaped. He didn’t even have to say anything. He could just keep quiet and let their assumptions run away with them. Vortex would take the blame, and Bee could just get on with his life without the shame of everyone knowing how much he’d enjoyed it.
Sure, they’d all be thinking something far worse, but at least no one would think that it was his fault.
He tilted his head, trying not to wince as Ratchet probed the damage to his horns. All he had to do was keep quiet.
He couldn’t do it.
“I’m sorry!” he blurted. “He got out, I don’t know how! And he’s so big, and he was there leaning on the sofa and I didn’t know he was in the room, and he said ‘wanna frag?’ and he went down on me and I just don’t get any and slag he’s hot, and I’m sorry! I couldn’t help myself!”
Ratchet’s jaw dropped.
“I really am,” Bee said. “I didn’t mean to screw him, it just… kinda happened.” OK, and that was the sound of plausible deniability vanishing out the window.
Ratchet’s optics flickered, and his lips twitched up at the corners. After a few astroseconds, he began to laugh, relief evident in the droop of his doorwings. He grinned, his grip on Bee’s helm no longer quite so gentle.
“You horny little fragger.”
*
And that seemed to be the opinion of the Ark at large. Sure, there were the naysayers, disgruntled prudes who found nothing whatsoever amusing in Bee fragging a ‘con twice his size. Huffer, Gears, Brawn, Sunstreaker, Mirage. But they were the minority.
Unsurprisingly, the official line was censure. Punishment duty, a reduction in privileges, a short stay in the brig. But Wheeljack kept him company, and even Perceptor couldn’t look at him any more without cracking a smile.
As he scrubbed the Aerialbots’ washrack floor for the fourteenth day in a row, Bee also couldn’t keep the grin off his faceplates. He’d fragged a Combaticon, and he’d got away with it.
On the whole, things could be a lot worse.