Content advice: slash, mention of sticky, hand fetish, damage/repair fetish (kinda), accidental tactile, Vortex's dirty mind, and in chapter 2: dubcon, cocercion and explicit sticky, tactile and energy field smut.

Beta: the awesome naboru :D

Disclaimer: Um… not mine, just playing. I have no excuse for this, it was fun!


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Vortex had no memory of the crash.

He came online to the ship's distress beacon. It pinged in his HUD, echoing the intense bitter sting pulsing through the rest of his body. Pain responses – discomfort to anyone else's receptors, but to his they were fascinating. A mosaic of sensation: the furthest he could get from the Detention Centre.

He ran a scan of his own systems – damaged, depleted; he wouldn't move far without help – then his immediate environment: rocks, more rocks, and a complete absence of spaceship.

He hefted himself onto his back, innards aching and his rotors squidging in a muddy mix of the planetoid's native soil and his own spilled energon. Stars twinkled above, and a rime of frost began to form on the cooler parts of his armour.

When he was as comfortable as he was going to get, he sent a wireless request for access to the ship's flight log.

At least there was enough of the ship left to gain access from. And frag, it was funny. Stupid thing got caught in some kind of weather anomaly – Vortex neither understood nor cared enough to try – and ended up splattered across the side of a mountain.

It must have ejected him before impact. That or he'd launched himself out; one of the many benefits of being able to fly.

He couldn't help but laugh. So what if he was stranded on some slag-forsaken planetoid in the middle of nowhere? It'd teach Onslaught a valuable lesson about not forcing copters to pilot spacecraft when they really didn't want to.

Besides, the emergency beacon had been going for a good few joors now; Blast Off would come get him. Eventually.

A few joors later, and the planetoid's three moons had risen, but Blast Off hadn't showed up. There were, however, signs of life. Two energy signatures, both Autobot, and they were getting closer.

One spoke; "I wouldn't if I were you."

Vortex remained still. Faking unconsciousness was easy enough, but putting a name to the voice was harder.

"Look at him," the second mech said. "I can't just leave him there."

"Yes," the first replied. "You really can."

"Groove…"

"No!" the first snapped. Then a pause and a sigh, and Vortex could imagine that little brown and white frame quivering with indecision. "All right, I know, you gotta do what you gotta do."

"Groove, it's not just that. It's the crystals. My jet pack's scrap, and I can't mend it. We'll never reach them without someone who can fly."

This time, the silence stretched. Vortex focused on the flow of air over his tail rotors. The second voice had to be the medic; tasty.

Eventually, Groove spoke. "I can't see him helping," he said. "Even if you fix him."

"He's stranded here too," First Aid replied, and Vortex fought not to twitch as one of the 'bots knelt beside him.

"His team isn't like ours," the medic continued, his voice so very close. "There probably isn't anyone coming for him. And he's all alone."

Another sigh. "All right," Groove said. "But I'm taking his weapons."

Vortex didn't allow himself to react. He let it happen, lost for a moment in the tentative press of small, grounder hands on his forearms. His Gatling guns disengaged with a click and a hiss, leaving behind only a strange lightness. He had no idea where his glue gun was.

"I'll take these to the big fella," Groove said. "You be careful, Aid."

"I will," First Aid replied. There was another pause, and the medic neither touched Vortex nor spoke again until his team mate's footsteps had faded. Then, "I know you're awake," he said.

"Is it that obvious?" Vortex brought his optics online, and wow, what a view. "You're cute," he commented, as though it was something he'd only just noticed. "Will your team mate be gone for long?"

"I shouldn't think so," First Aid said. He ran his hands over Vortex's abdomen, pressing lightly on the metal; Vortex's engine revved. "You heard us talking," First Aid continued, completely failing to acknowledge that he'd prompted any physical response. "I'll be up-front with you. You aren't leaving here alone, but that isn't something you don't already know. I can repair you, but we need something from you in return."

"The two of you? Sure." Vortex grinned, and retracted his battered face mask. He treated First Aid to a suggestive grin. "Omega Supreme too, if you got any high grade."

First Aid stared at Vortex's mid-section. "We need you to fly one of us across the gorge to access a fuel source particular to this planet. We need it to break atmosphere."

Well, that solved the mystery of the 'big fella'; it was always nice when he was right. "Then what?" Vortex asked.

"Then we leave," First Aid replied. "We'll drop you off at a suitable neutral zone." Gently, he nudged Vortex's arm aside and probed the edges of a long and ragged tear; the contact stung. "You can have your weapons back once you've disembarked. Until then, we act according to the interplanetary code regarding ceasefires. Is that acceptable?"

Vortex wriggled, trying to press those fingers harder against the damage. When that failed, he made a show of thinking about the offer.

Damn, the medic was nicely built. Good colours, fine paint job; not pristine, but the scratches were small and everyday, and glittered in the stark light from the planetoid's newly risen moons. And those optics… All Autobottish innocence with a tough streak a mile wide. Sure, the 'bot wasn't really a fighter – the incident with Swindle had taught everyone that – but he wasn't weak either. Steady hands and steady principles; getting a rise out of him would be a challenge.

"Sure," Vortex said. He could always get Blast Off to pick him up somewhere else. "What're you doing?"

"I'm performing a secondary assessment," First Aid replied. "I'm checking for any damage I might have missed with my initial scans." There was something about his voice too, a kind patience which seemed programmed in; making that come over all staticky would be a wonderful thing indeed. "You might want to desensitise visual input for a moment, I need a better light." First Aid waited until Vortex had dimmed his optics before turning on his headlamps. "Goodness," he said. "That must have been some crash."

"Heh, you should see the ship," Vortex said. He squirmed as the medic's hands knocked sparks from severed wires. It was enough to bring his core temperature back up, the frost burning from his armour in ghostly plumes.

"I'm certain I don't want to," First Aid said. He worked as he talked, easing apart tangled cables, and removing shards of metal and plastic and glass. "I hope there was no-one else on board."

"Nah, just me." Vortex tried to lean up, craning to see. He managed to get his elbows to support him before First Aid gently but firmly pushed him back down.

"We'll have none of that," the medic said, his hands leaving little smears of blackened energon on Vortex's shoulders. "I need you to lay still."

"You could always cuff me?" Vortex suggested, then gasped as a sunburst of intense, liquid heat radiated out through his sensor net. "Mmmmmmmph! Oh Sigma…"

"I'm sorry," First Aid said. "I didn't think you'd appreciate me warning you it was going to hurt, being a big tough Decepticon and all."

"Mmmhuh?" Vortex cut all optical input, his attention turned inwards. He could visualise those tiny, pale hands wrapped around his vital parts, slick with hydraulic fluid and glistening with oil. Things slid around, prompting a beautiful jumble of synaesthetic input as First Aid probed and prodded, reuniting connectors and isolating damaged components. Vortex's gyros danced, and his CPU appeared to spin, as giddy a ride as if he'd launched himself into a tornado.

Dimly, he heard the Protectobot say something about it going to sting, and frag did it sting, a glorious hot grating that started somewhere near his engine's output shaft and wound its way along his rotors and back again. His blades tingled, each sensor sparking in the energon mud, each jolt of current going straight to his interface array. His circuits blazed, his chassis heating steadily.

Vortex brought his optics back online. It was a struggle to stay still, to resist the urge to grab the medic and pull him close. It was so hard to keep his spike in its casing, and his rotor blades from quivering in the muck. His tail rotors vibrated, clattering against his arm, and yet somehow First Aid managed to ignore it all.

The Protectobot retrieved various instruments from compartments on his arms. He applied them with a practiced grace, slow and careful, oblivious to everything but his task, never rushing.

Vortex heaved air through the vents on his helm, and the undamaged vent above his left hip, but it did nothing to cool his heated circuits.

And watching First Aid at work did nothing to prevent the charge from building. Unsurprisingly, it had the opposite effect. Everything about the 'bot was a temptation. The moonlight gleaming from that smooth, touchable paintwork; the subtle glow from his optics and the tension in his frame as he knelt in the mud, leaning over Vortex, sparks flying in the chill air.

The medic's hand brushed the outer casing of Vortex's laser core, and his primary fuel pump stalled.

"Nearly done," First Aid said.

I sure am, Vortex thought, as a small burst of excess energy discharged itself through his EM field. His transformation seams tingled and his connectors ached, but First Aid seemed completely unaffected.

Just one more jolt, that was all he needed. One more tiny flare of incandescent pleasure-pain, one more pulse of sensation searing its way to his interface circuits and boom! The overwhelming glory of overload, and all at the hands of one very hot little grounder medic who had absolutely no idea the effect he was having.

Just one more…

"OK, done," First Aid said happily. He closed Vortex's chestplates and straightened up, his battle mask moving as though he was about to say something else. But then the comm. panel on his arm began to flash and he stood. "Excuse me, I need to take this."

Vortex groaned. Now that was just not fair. He grasped after the stimulation from his welded plating and new wiring, but it wasn't enough. He needed something intense, something harsh. He ground his rotors into the mud, but there were no handy sharp rocks, and all it did was make him feel grubby.

"Frag." He huffed and heaved himself to his feet. Fuel reserves at 32%, laser core at 64%, not bad. Hydraulic pressure left something to be desired, but as long as he didn't need to fight Omega Supreme to get his weapons back, it should be OK.

As for the pressure in a certain other part of his anatomy, that was more than a little frustrating. He stretched and spun his rotors, hoping to disperse the charge, but all he managed to disperse was a spray of pinky grey mud.

First Aid wandered back, his comm panel snapping flush to his arm. "There's a storm coming," he said. He stopped out of arm's reach. "Groove says it's bad. We should find somewhere to hole up for a while."

"It can't be that bad," Vortex replied, before his CPU caught up with his audials. His rotors shivered, dripping mud. "But hey, if you think so. Where d'you wanna go?"