shadow_vector | NEHIP 3: Violation

NC-17
Bayverse
Starscream, The Fallen, Devastator
WARNINGS: GRAPHIC noncon, size kink, dark

Grindor sat on his berth, confused, stretching his cramped joints. He couldn’t stop replaying, full a/v, that image in his mind—Starscream moaning on top of him, crying out, his hand clawing at Grindor’s shoulder as his valve clutched against the copter’s overload.

The physical sensation had been…intense. One thing. But it stirred up a mess in Grindor’s mind. He had…gotten off on the jet’s moaning and writhing. He had wanted to…do things. More things. See that again. He wanted to watch. He wanted to see it happen, again.

But that was wrong.

Everyone knew spiking was about dominance. I am better than you: bigger, stronger, faster, more powerful I will prove it on your body. I will make you take me. Penetrate you. Violate your boundaries. Bind you to my will.

That’s what you’re supposed to get off on, he told himself. The dominance. Not that the valve enjoyed it. Not the spectacle of the other ‘con writhing, moaning in sensual delight. He’s supposed to hate it. Feel his humiliation. He’s not supposed to like it. You’re not supposed to like him liking it.

But oh Primus it was…arousing. Oh. That I…that I could make someone feel that. That I could…DO THAT. It’s like power, yes, but a different kind. Almost dizzying. I wonder if he’d let me…again. I want to see it. Hear it. Again. Longer. Slower. Really get to see it, study it, enjoy it. Primus, it raised something in me, something I have never felt before.

*****

A decacycle. Too short, too soon to put his reputation, his mental stability, on the line again. But he had time, at least, for a proper wash. Barricade had said it would help. And he was desperate, after his meeting with the Fallen, to feel clean.

He snapped the high pressure hose nozzle’s clip over one of his talons, closing his optics momentarily against the steady rain of cleanser from the washroom’s ceiling nozzles. The cleanser’s warm patter on his armor soothed him, like a thousand gentle touches. No demands of him, no expectations. Just…a gentle, benign sort of comfort.

He directed the high pressure hose into the crevices in his armor, hissing as the hose flaked off more of the accumulated gunk. He autoreleased his spike and valve covers, knowing he could never make them feel truly clean again, but determined to try. He tried not to think about the future—not even a cycle ahead—just to stay here. Now. With the warm rain of cleanser and his own bright armor beginning to show again from under the filth. Even the high pressure hose against his spike felt good—too hard to be arousing, a firm, impassive, blind touch, wanting, demanding nothing from him. The valve quivered under the hose’s pressure, but again, it was safe. Clean. He shuttered his optics, tilting his head to the flow from the ceiling, feeling the cleanser trickle through the workings of his shoulder assemblies, down the control cables and servos in his arms, over his cockpit. Clean. Safe. Yes.

He opened his eyes, letting the cleanser work at his optical lenses, feeling it spill like purifying tears over his cheekflares.

“Hello, Starscream.” He stiffened. Something just in the inflection alone set him on edge. “Kind of wrong that we have to come to you, don’t you think?”

He turned, slowly. Hightower and Scrapper leaned in the entryway to the washroom. Scavenger, Rampage and Mixmaster blocked the entrance to the heat dryers. And Long Haul stood, grinning at him, his optics raking up and down Starscream as if he owned him.

“Now is not the time,” Starscream snapped, refusing to let the little worm of worry feed on him. He was in command. Megatron was dead. Even with everything that was happening, he was not to be treated this way. “It is dutycycle for you.”

“Dutycycle,” Mixmaster scoffed. “Duty doing what? We just supposed to slag around on the ship doing fraggin’ maintenance like we’re still in transit?”

“The Fallen has a plan.” He just…had simply not seen fit to reveal it to Starscream. A chilling thought: was the Fallen actively excising him from command, and not just undermining his authority? How much of the Fallen’s so-called ‘mission’ was necessary?

They caught the worry on his face, and attributed it to themselves. “We have a better plan,” Hightower said. “We’ve always wanted to do this.” He nodded at his fellow mechs. The worm of worry in Starscream’s brain swelled as the six began their gestalt transformation. He dodged, wildly, from one side to another, trying to push his way past, but one of them always blocked him just long enough for another to throw him back. Like a sick game of Red Rover.

The cleanser fall from the ceiling no longer felt warm and comforting. It beat a rhythm of panic hard against his helm. “Get away!” he shouted. “Stand down!” The gestalt loomed above him, half blocking the ceiling heads. Devastator smiled down at him, and spoke in Mixmaster’s voice.

“We have always wanted to try this,” it repeated. Its huge hands—more than half Starscream’s size, caught him up. He struggled, opening fire with both of his chain guns. Devastator snatched him by one ankle and swung him against a wall. His optics blanked. He felt a sharp pain from his left wrist—the barrels of that gun were bent down, useless. Devastator’s laugh echoed around the confined room, splitting in the wet air to a chorus of mockery.

Devastator caught him up again, snapping open an interface hatch. Starscream twisted, firing his engines at maximum burn. Devastator’s combined strength absorbed any forward thrust, and the cleanser dissipated any heat he might have used to scorch the huge monster.

“No!” he cried out, desperately, as the thing swung him close to its spike. Too big. He could tell already. He could feel it already, his valve tightening in terror. This was more than he could bear. He fought with everything he had in him, but, as good as he might have been, he was one against six. Not including the exponential power increase of the gestalt. It was inevitable that he would lose. Inevitable. But he would not go down willingly. Not weakly.

Devastator’s left arm, Scavenger, pinned his shoulders against the wall, while his other hand hauled the jet’s hips forward. He fought, even then, even so. Scavenger pushed against him with force enough to crack the cockpit, armor squealing in weak protest against the thick shovels of his digits. The pressure blocked his air-coolant system—fear and horror cycled him into overheat, cutting his visuals. Not, unfortunately, his pain.

Devastator drove his spike against Starscream’s pelvic plating. A ringing metallic sound, as his valve’s cover detached, unseated from its housing. The sound magnified in his audio, expanding, as if the sonic waves grew, louder and louder, blocking out his audio, blocking out any conscious thought other than the metallic ring, like a spinning circle of metal, whirling and whirling, spinning…and the pain.

White hot, like fire and acid, stabbing and slicing and bursting all at once. He felt like he was being torn apart. Ravaged. The ringing cut out from his audio suddenly, and he realized it was not the echo of his valve cap at all but his own screams, skirling higher and higher until his vocalizer shorted out.

And all he could hear after that was Devastator’s laughter, like hot blunt pain. Like shame and despair made audible.

*****

Grindor clicked his log. Off dutycycle. They were beginning to prep for a mission. Rumor had it that they were trying to find Megatron. It would be good to do something. He’d been practicing atmospheric drops, and his whole hull felt gritty and scored from the entry-heat. He needed a wash. And….maybe later, he would approach Starscream. He wanted to try again. If the jet would let him.

He stepped into the washroom, pleased to hear that the taps were already running. Means they were already warm. Ah. He could feel it already.

He stepped around the barrier and froze. There, under the tap. Oh. No. Like something had plucked the idea out of his cortex and crumpled it, ruined it, threw it in front of him, as a punishment for his vile thoughts. That he had wanted to please the jet. Corrupt thought. Perversion. He started shaking.

Starscream sprawled in a corner, one arm flung over his face, his legs wide. Sparks flashed over the jet’s cracked pelvic plating, where the cleanser allowed the electricity to jump. The mech’s frame twitched with each spark. Involuntary reflex. The frame itself was split, front and back, fluid oozing like treacle from the ruined valve, half of the valve’s lining shredded out. Grindor froze, inventorying the damage. It terrified him. He’d seen battle damage—maimed mechs, missing limbs,missing faces. But this…this affected him. The calculation was one thing, the other…that it was the valve. That the very thing he wanted to enjoy—ruined, in front of him.

He shut off the tap. It was all he could think of to do. He knelt down by the jet’s frame, moving the arm. Starscream’s eyes flickered, weakly. Frag.

“You okay?” he said, and stopped. Stupid question. But…what did you say? His only response was a burst of static and a slight turn of the head, away.

He scooped Starscream up, cursing frantically as the cleanser made the jet’s armor slick in his awkward fingers. Repair bay. Now. He flinched as a few last sparks shot across his own energy field. He struggled to accommodate Starscream’s wider shoulders and ended up carrying him slung over his shoulder, the jet’s limp arms banging against his rotors. It bothered him that this position left the damage so exposed, so visible. He felt rage and shame that didn’t belong to him.

*****

There was only one mech Grindor could think of to help. He had dropped Starscream in the nearest repair bay, laying him gently in the repair cradle, and stared anxiously at the repair bots scuttling over the damaged frame, clicking and beeping as they worked. It was probably his imagination that made them seem shocked.

He had tried to stay in the jet’s line of vision, hoping the sight of him would be comforting, but Starscream either turned his face away or closed his eyes. Grindor was not getting through to him. But someone could. Someone who had been there.

Barricade was frowning over a report and a series of satellite maps when Grindor found him. The smaller mech looked up, a sharp expression ripping across his features. “On duty,” he snapped.

“Not here for that. Something’s happened.” Grindor didn’t like Barricade, didn’t like his attitude. Only way he liked him was unconscious. Which seemed, in the context, a pretty horrible thought. Grindor determined to try harder.

“So? Things happen.”

“To Starscream. He’s in repair bay.”

Silence.

“Valve’s cracked.”

“None of my concern,” Barricade retorted, turning his eyes back to his sat maps. “Sure he didn’t care about me, so…returning the favor.”

“Barricade….” Grindor feared the anger in his voice, but it somehow came out…imploring.

Barricade threw down the maps. “Fine,” he said, angry. “But you’re coming with me.”

“Yeah, of course.” That seemed like an odd request.

Until the mech clarified, “Not putting my aft out there to get spiked under some trumped up story like that.”

“Not trumped up.”

“Fine. Whatever. We’ll see.” He logged out of his terminal and stood up. “Also means you don’t spike me.”

The look of disgust was all the answer Barricade got. And all he probably wanted.

*****

Barricade’s first action in repair bay immediately soothed any hesitations Grindor had about getting him. The smaller mech had snatched up one of the repair bots fighting to get in closer to repair the pelvic damage and briskly ordered, “Override. Priority, vocalizer function.” The bot had scuttled to its new mission eagerly.

Barricade pushed the bots aside for a klik, wanting to see the damage himself. Grindor couldn’t bring himself to look, but Barricade studied it as if it were for one of his reports. He said nothing, letting the bots clamber back to their work, and moved to the head of the repair cradle.
“Starscream,” he said, his voice gentler than any Grindor had ever heard him use. “We’re here. We’ll stay here as long as you need us to.”

The jet shook his head.

“Rephrase: Not getting rid of us,” Barricade retorted. Starscream turned pleading eyes to him. Barricade frowned again. “Yeah, been here before. Benefit of my fraggin’ experience,” he said, bitterly. But his bitterness wasn’t directed at the jet. “Know what you need better than you do.”

Starscream turned his eyes numbly back to the ceiling. Grindor stepped closer into the jet’s field of vision, but then faltered—whatever he’d thought he was going to say dying in his vocalizer. It was hard to know what to say, even if you’d been there, Barricade admitted grudgingly. He didn’t know what Grindor’s part was in all this but he’d been acting decently so far. And as long as he was distracted by the jet, he would leave Barricade alone.

The repair bot working on the vocalizer clicked triumphantly, and scampered down Starscream’s body to report his success and get its new mission from the mech who had overridden its previous command. Barricade pushed it toward a crowd running to the machining room.

“Starscream,” Barricade said, softly, again. “Try your vocalizer.”

The voice sounded attenuated. The self-repair hadn’t yet integrated all of the new hardware. “I do not wish to speak about it.”

“Don’t have to.”

“Frag that! Who did this, Starscream? What sick fraggin’ monster would do this?” Grindor grabbed a handful of repair cradle in his emotion, causing the jet’s eyes to flare with pain.

“No,” One word, but it held an enormous mass of meaning in it. Pride and a bathetic attempt at dignity and humiliation and self-control and shame and horror and the fear that to speak would make it real.

“Don’t have to talk about it now,” Barricade glared at Grindor. The copter was twice his height, but he flinched back from the four furious red optics. “Just want you to have your voice back.” Power. This was all about power, and the jet’s recovery began with a sense of safety, yes, but also of power. To speak or not to speak should be his choice, not whoever or whatever had damaged his voc.

“Override,” the jet croaked. The repair bots clustered across his lower torso and legs froze, little heads turning as one in rapt attention. “Cease repairs.”

“Starscream,” the copter remonstrated. “You can’t think you can leave this unrepaired.”

“OVERRIDE,” Barricade barked. “Commence and finish repairs. No further overrides. Command complete.” Lifting his eyes to the copter, he snapped, “He was trying to self-offline, you fraggin’ moron.”

The copter shrunk back, cowed and horrified. The expression on the jet’s face confirmed Barricade’s statement. “No,” he said, his voice thick. “You can’t. You can’t mean…I….”

“You have no right to say anything right now,” Barricade continued. Grindor tried to raise up some anger at the science officer’s attitude, but found himself blank and empty. Empty of everything except a viscous and effervescent kind of grief.

“The first time,” Barricade said, blankly, not even sure whom he was addressing, “is the worst.” He twitched as a hand closed over his—the jet’s talons weaving through his own. He hesitated, then squeezed back.

“Sorry,” the jet said, his face cringing as he recognized how inadequate that sounded.

“Not here about me,” Barricade said, bluntly. But he kept his fingers intertwined. The copter reached over and took the jet’s other hand, envious of the contact. Starscream hesitated for a long moment, then opened his fingers to Grindor’s grasp.

Barricade met Grindor’s eyes. “Did a decent thing.” Grindor shifted. Oh, he had his own motives. And now they felt horrible and disgusting. How would the jet ever bear interfacing again? He was looking at this perverse fantasy taken from him, and that fueled his anger. He would find who did this and make sure punishment happened. Even if it meant he never got more than that one memory, that memory, and the memory’s ruin, was worth his effort. Was worth…everything.

NEHIP 3: Violation

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