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So the thing with First Aid has become enough of a thing that he brings it up one time while they're coming back from the front. Vortex has his dirty feet up on Swindle's lap. Swindle would normally be complaining, but there are a bunch of trembling little colonists sitting in their normal seats; they're all crammed in the back quarter of Blast Off's hold so Knock Out can sling around mechs that need actual medical care. The noncombatants are all already so pathetic that Vortex doesn’t even have any interest in flashing his fangs to see them squirm.
"I'm seeing someone," Vortex says casually, when there's a lull in the jostling chatter and sounds of wounded mechs moaning pathetically. He picks a thin shard of metal out of his palm and presses on the injury until energon oozes out. "That little medic."
"We know," Brawl says. The gestalt bond is still open enough from combining that Vortex can feel him roll his optics behind his visor. "You two are fragging like ten times a day."
That's an exaggeration. It's more like twice a day, and only the days First Aid isn’t up to his neck in dismembered components. It's hard work taking mechs apart, so Vortex figures it's even harder putting them back together and doesn’t complain. He admires First Aid's work ethic just as much as he admires how good First Aid looks splashed in energon and grimed in oil.
Sometimes they just climb into First Aid's berth and rub up against each other a little bit. Vortex even likes all the kissing too, now that he's getting it on the regular. It feels real good and it makes him think about all the other nice things he's getting on the regular without even having to bribe or bully or blackmail someone for it.
Vortex tilts his head, baring all his fangs in a grin. "Don't be jealous."
"As if," Swindle mutters, elbowing him. "Gross, if you ask me."
“Good thing I didn’t,” Vortex shoots back.
Gestalt bonds are pretty weird if you're not in one. Pretty sweet if you are. First Aid doesn't seem to mind either way. Vortex does his best not to share what First Aid calls private stuff, but holding that line closed with a pretty mech working his entire hand into an access panel to replace your fried wiring while you try to distract him by clawing open his interface array and sucking his spike is hard work.
It's more of an art than a science. They grumble but the rest of them are constantly leaking all sorts of embarrassing slag, too, so he figures it's only fair he gets his turn. Brawl even has this weird one-sided thing going on with some mean little Autobot that used to work under Elita; it mostly involves Brawl getting bullied and then yanking his spike to it when he thinks no one can hear him. Vortex guesses that Onslaught's the only one that's really got any room to criticize; he always holds himself above that kind of thing, keeps his secrets the most securely.
"Just don't let it interfere with the work," is all Onslaught says, less dour than usual, and Vortex settles back against Blast Off's bulkhead.
That's as good as a blessing, then; he's gonna wait a few more months so he doesn't seem desperate and ask First Aid to be his Conjunx. He's pretty sure that's exactly the kind of thing you need to do as a priority when you find a mech as perfect as First Aid.
He picks another piece of metal out of his hand that he thinks is shrapnel from an exploded Quintesson drone. First Aid is going to have to dig the rest out one at a time with a laser scalpel. He doesn't think it can get any better than that.
*
It turns out it can get better. First Aid is pretty good at finding ways to make him squirm. He curls his fingers and Vortex revises his opinion: First Aid is an artist.
"Frag me now," Vortex whines, kicking his leg hard. The pressure on his spinal strut only increases, First Aid's knee grinding down, equal parts comforting weight and delicious agony.
First Aid has him tied up again, chained to the berth with an elaborate arrangement of heavy duty cargo straps because Vortex keeps snapping the regular kind when he thrashes.
"I'm not going to continue with the procedure unless you're able to relax and hold still," First Aid says. He's got his medic voice on, that crisp, sweet, coaxing tone like Vortex is just another unruly patient that needs to be taken care of. It goes straight to Vortex's spike.
He's also got two fingers palm deep in Vortex's aux port. It isn't built to normally accept anything as big as a spike, but half of the inner wall is shared with the flexible outer structure of Vortex's valve. First Aid showed him diagrams and everything.
First Aid’s also spent the last half hour working it open and as soon as Vortex stills, he pushes a third finger all the way into it. Vortex knows pretty intimately that slicing a mech up isn’t the only way to torture them, theres plenty of ways to finesse and cajole and crack a mech, but he’s pretty sure if someone’d tied him up and done this to him during the war Vortex would’ve been hard pressed not to squeal.
It fragging hurts. Vortex desperately wants more, all his sensor nets lit up like the skies above Old Iacon during the Festival of Solus. First Aid's spike is going to ruin him.
"If you don't frag me right now," Vortex says, his voice mostly little bursts of static, "I'm going to fry all my circuits and die."
"You will not." First Aid is smiling, Vortex can hear it. Vortex desperately wants to get free and bite him, but according to First Aid, impulses like that are why they tie Vortex down for slag like this.
First Aid has work to do, he can't always be replacing his fuel lines and welding up parts that Vortex gets a little too enthusiastic with. Vortex's brand new little voice of reason sounds suspiciously exactly like First Aid.
"I'll lick your valve," Vortex whines, moving to bartering. "I won't even bite." He’s a liar.
First Aid tugs on a strap that pulls painfully on Vortex's rotor blades. He gives his fingers a twist in a way that makes Vortex's spike jump and charge go crackling across his plating. "You're going to do that anyway, because you're my good, sweet little fragtoy and you love sucking node. Isn't that right?"
Frag, he does. First Aid tastes like nothing else. He wants to shove his whole face in that pretty red valve and suffocate his intakes until he overheats.
Vortex tries to twist and fight but he can't. He shudders when First Aid's panel slides open over his back and First Aid grinds the plump, wet mesh of his valve down onto Vortex's lower back. It isn't fair.
He doesn't realize he’s said that last part out loud until First Aid is clicking sympathetically and saying, "I know, sweetspark. Just a little more and I'm going to give you exactly what you need."
'A little more' turns out to be about five more minutes of slow, agonizing stretching that alternates between sharp, wonderful shuddery sensations, the occasional wisp of pure pleasure, and a strange, neutral kind of pressure. First Aid has Vortex panting just from the way he keeps grinding his charged up little anterior node up and down Vortex's dorsal plating, leaving a slick trail.
Vortex jerks when First Aid finally pulls his fingers out of the port, lifting his weight off Vortex. His feet hit the floor between Vortex's spread legs and Vortex convulses with anticipation.
"All right down there?" First Aid murmurs, smoothing a hand over Vortex's flared plating.
"No," Vortex lies, petulant and impatient. He means yes. He'll let First Aid torture him for the rest of the evening if that's what First Aid likes. He's got the stamina.
"Mmhm," First Aid says. He checks the straps and encourages Vortex's arm back into a more comfortable position. "You ready for my spike, sweetspark?"
"Yes," Vortex grinds out. He doesn't even have the bandwidth left to threaten or beg or bribe.
First Aid's spike is just about the most perfect thing Vortex has ever encountered. It's a real nice size, not too monstrous, perfect for cramming into all kinds of tight spaces and stretching them open. The conductive sensor rings flex some, with more hydraulic swell between them than most mechs have, and it makes it feel a little soft and dirty, like Vortex has his hand or mouth or valve around something more organic than mech.
The more they use it, the better First Aid gets with it. It gets a lot of use.
First Aid pins Vortex’s pelvic block to the berth with both hands. The tip of it fills him and he grinds his jaws together so hard his fangs spark. The lubricant stuffed in his aft is already dripping from the channel, squelching wet and messy as First Aid's spike crowds it out.
And it hurts, frag does it hurt. His intakes stutter, his fuel pump constricting. He desperately tries to save it to long term memory as it's happening, but he keeps getting tangled up in the sensation, making copies over copies, catching little snatches of ecstatic torment and looping them.
First Aid shifts his feet, already venting hard. There aren't any conductive nodes in the port, so Vortex really is just First Aid's nasty little fragtoy. Just a hole to be used for First Aid’s pleasure. He's completely incoherent with want.
But First Aid angles his spike, draws all the way out, and then thrusts home so hard that Vortex howls like mechanimal and nearly bites through his own lip.
Oh – oh. Oh, frag, what the frag – a blaze of heat hits him. If he was standing his legs would give out. Vortex doesn't know what's happening, the feeling is too good to be true, he's gotta be wired backwards. But then it hits him that First Aid's spike is compressing his valve from the outside, slamming into all those nodes from a different angle, rubbing them together because the port is distending deliciously into the same space his valve occupies.
First Aid thrusts a second time and gives a soft cry. His spike must be getting absolutely strangled by Vortex's aft. Vortex wiggles a little experimentally and discovers he can squeeze down harder.
"Oh, fuck, baby, that’s so good," First Aid says, slipping deliriously into English of all things, his voice clicking and catching on the alien syllables. It makes Vortex squirm. He's seen lots of human pornos and he's got to admit they get up to some pretty wonderful, extremely flexible and stretchy stuff for being gross, drippy little organics.
First Aid is making him feel a lot like that, small and helpless and damp and – frag, wow. He really is some kinda sicko. He doesn't quite know what was going on in any of them, but the feeling he’s got right now is kinda the same as he had when he’d scrubbed through those vids, mouth open and kinda weirdly shuddery, except now he’s also so charged up he feels like his spark is about to blow itself out the top of his head. First Aid's got a hand wrapped around a strap that's holding him in place, like an animal on a leash, not quite cutting off any vital fluid circulation but suggesting it.
He yanks hard on the strap and Vortex's vision pixelates. He's going to self-service to this so much he's gonna need a new spike. He's gonna have First Aid as his Conjunx for sure, even if it takes killing every fragging Quintesson in the galaxy for First Aid and then fragging him stupid on the scrap heap he makes of their bodies. He's going to retire them both to some little hab suite in New Iacon or something and spend his war prize creds on making sure First Aid can sit on his face absolutely any time he wants, day or night. If he's ever going to die, he wants to do it with First Aid's thighs wrapped around his neck.
The overload tears through them both like blaster fire through glass. Vortex’s claws puncture the mesh of the berth, the whole thing sagging under them when he severs a support cable. First Aid is shoving so hard into him that he doesn’t notice and Vortex can’t even manage to do more than whine as his processor trips forward unexpectedly into overclock and the whole overload stretches into a shuddery, blinding blur of heat and the kind of pleasure that straddles the line of pain.
Vortex slumps, moaning pitifully. The only active thread in his processor wonders dully how the frag he went from forcible Decepticon conscription to being fragged halfway into stasis by the mildest-looking little Autobot he’s ever met.
"Yeah," First Aid is saying, his vents coming in noisy gusts. He's sliding off of Vortex, undoing the straps already with little tugs and yanks. Sensation is starting to come back to Vortex’s extremities, adding to the tingling he feels all over, and he can feel First Aid dripping condensation all over his dorsal plating. "Except the dead Quintesson bodies thing. I think I'm gonna have to pass on that."
"What?" Vortex asks muzzily, blinking his optics back online. He arches his spinal strut a little, sore but loosening up. "What do you mean?"
"All that stuff you said," First Aid says. He's got the fueling line out now, and is hanging a bag of coolant while Vortex struggles to sit up. Fragging medics and their freaky fast recovery time. First Aid steadies him, bracing Vortex against his chest while he flips open Vortex's medical access panel. "That all sounds pretty nice, especially the hab suite thing."
Vortex's rotor whirrs briefly when he scrubs back through the memory. Cybercat's out of the bag. It’d be kinda mortifying if First Aid didn’t sound so happy, which is something that's inexplicably become important to Vortex. He leans his head against First Aid's shoulder and groans. "Was gonna ask you real sweet-like. I know you like that sappy slag."
First Aid hums. He plugs in a diagnostic to cable and pings Vortex's systems, a breezy, resonating feeling that Vortex really likes. First Aid taking care of him is a nice touch. Makes him feel all special and slag. "You still can. I’ll pretend it's the first time."
"Wanna see my spark first?" Vortex asks, the question muffled against First Aid's neck.
"Sure do," First Aid says. Vortex can hear him smiling. "Let's get you some rest first, so you don't overheat and melt your processor. I distinctly remember you saying you only wanted to die with your face in my valve."
First Aid should know better than to just say things like that when he's in grabbing range. It's definitely First Aid’s fault that they yank the coolant line out when Vortex hauls him in for a kiss that's more teeth than anything else. It gets everywhere and Vortex is gonna be the one to clean it up later, but that's a problem for the future.