Grindor's Problem

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

Continuation of Gestalt. 

Warnings: Sticky, size kink, medical

Grindor gasped, his valve grasping frantically at the large spike inside it as he let his weight fall back down the slick length. His hands braced off what were Hightower’s treads, his lower frame stretched across the gestalt’s broad hips. The overload shuddered up his entire frame, his rotors quivering in their mounts. 

“Good?” Devastator asked, one hand—Scavenger—reaching to stroke his back. 

“Primus, yes,” Grindor managed. “Sorry.” He’d lost his rhythm when the overload hit him, leaving poor Devastator trembling on the verge of his own overload, but too aware of his ability to damage the copter to move. He could feel the gestalt’s hips vibrate under him, holding back from thrusting the spike into him. 

He shifted, bracing himself again, pushing his modified valve up the length of the gestalt’s spike, the charged spike nodes tingling against his, the valve lining shifting inward as the spike was withdrawn. Devastator’s green optics glowed down over his massive chassis at the copter, the grinding discs in his mouth revolving, thrumming with desire. 

Grindor tried not to analyze the situation, or if he did, he let it go simply as tactically advantageous to have a gestalt attached to him. But the truth, which he didn’t really want to acknowledge, was that he found the whole thing maddeningly erotic. Maybe it was the power and size. Maybe it was the simple brutality of the gestalt, matched by the simple purity of the thing’s desire. 

It certainly wasn’t intellectual. 

He lifted and lowered himself on the spike, moaning softly as the spike pushed aside the valve lining, stretching the valve, pushing his internal systems out of the way. Devastator grunted, tipping his head up to watch Grindor as he rode the gestalt’s spike, his hands digging into the treads fiercely. The gestalt’s spike was still half-charged, sending quick little shocks through Grindor’s valve nodes. He determined he wouldn’t lose control this time. The thought of the gestalt’s overload at once aroused him and helped him restrain his own excitement—he craved the gestalt’s overload—the shock that raced through the spike, the hot flood of fluid, blasting against his valve. Regular interfacing could barely compare. 

His hands sank into the rubber parts of the treads, his audio picking up his moaning, louder and louder, over the metallic slide of his thighs over Devastator’s hips. Devastator grunted down at him in time with his slide along the spike. The gestalt’s lubricant oozed across his groin plates, down Grindor’s inner thighs, cool against his control cables. He felt the larger mech’s own thigh joins quiver in anticipation, the shovel hands clacking together in empty air.

Devastator roared, a torrent of sound from his mouth as his spike jumped in Grindor’s valve, releasing its own flood of transfluid. The fluid hammered at the top of his valve, jolting his core line upright, kicking him into another overload that cycled on his fluid chamber. Grindor shivered as the mechanism pulled some of the transfluid into his chamber—the heat of the fluid flooding the chamber with unexpected sensation. A gasp escaped him, a sound right on the border between pain and pleasure as the small chamber filled to its capacity under pressure. 

The gestalt fell back, the hands limp on the ground next to him, gouges torn in the ground. Grindor squirmed, trying, carefully, to shift the spike inside him off the node that engaged the chamber’s cycler. Devastator’s optics blinked.

“Good?”

“Yes,” he said, honestly. It was fragging mind-blowing, as usual. Just that right now…it felt a little less than comfortable. No big deal. It’d be all right once he shifted his position. A little. “Ahh,” he winced. 

“Copter hurt?” The green optics narrowed in concern.

“Fine. Though, I should probably…,” Grindor pushed his weight forward, pulling himself off the spike. He lay across Devastator’s chassis for a long moment after the spike left his valve, caught up in the rush of lubricant and transfluid. That helped…a little. Though he still felt a tender pain, like a pressure, in his thorax. He forced a smile up at Devastator’s face. “Good, see?”

 *****

Three cycles later, he finally admitted to himself that he was not ‘good’. He was in pain. It hurt to lay on—his systems tender and raw. It hurt to walk—the over pressurized fluid trying to slosh, sending red-hot twinges to his primary systems nearby. He could manage to walk, but bent over, slowly, one arm bracing his body. But, he thought, miserably, he’d never be able to give his briefing like this. Not without other mechs guessing. Not without looking weak. And in the Decepticons, looking weak was dangerous.

He still had a cycle before his briefing: he edged his way to repair bay. 

Flatline frowned during the examination—but that wasn’t anything that unusual. He wasn’t exactly the most chipper mech on the station. His hands felt almost cold against Grindor’s internal systems as he prodded, his optics distant, as if he’d rather be anywhere else. Especially when he asked the question.

“You engage in excessive interfacing?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Multiple partners,” Flatline said, neutrally, “Increases the chance for viral infections. You have had a scan?”

Grindor dropped his optics. “Not multiple partners. Just one.”  

“One?” Flatline’s voice was dubious, bordering on disrespect.

“One,” Grindor said. 

Flatline looked him up and down. “Oh,” he said. Simply that. Even so, Grindor felt his facial plates heat. As though he were being judged. “Shall I examine your interface equipment for damage?”

“If you want. No damage, though.” The repair bots in the field knew what they were doing. They’d tried their best here, but the problem was beyond their ability to communicate with him, and so they’d kicked him up to Flatline. Grindor lay back, flipping open his interface panel, flicking his rotors out of the way. 

“Interesting modification,” Flatline said, blandly. “Manual inspection—tell me where it hurts.” He reached a hand, coated with medical lubricant, toward the valve. Grindor spread his legs. Flatline’s cool hand inspected the rim of the valve, testing the solidity of its seating ring, tugging it back and forth, before moving on to the lining. It felt…kind of good. Grindor forced himself to relax.

The hand pinched at the lining fabric, before rubbing across to a sensor node. Grindor twitched. This was…unusual. Flatline frowned, rotating his hand inside the valve. “I need to expand this.”

Grindor grunted some assent, as Flatline pressed his hand wide, stretching the liner. “Any pain or discomfort?” the medic asked.

Beyond how weird this is? Grindor felt a strange embarrassment—this was the first time anyone other than Devastator had seen his modification. It felt like a commitment, suddenly, something to be judged on. Had he really thought it through before he did it? No. Of course not. “No,” he said, quietly. 

“Well,” Flatline said, probing deeper, “there appears to be no damage to the lining. And,” he tweaked another sensor node, causing Grindor to twitch, “installation seems to have been competently performed. The problem isn’t…here.”   Flatline shifted around further between Grindor’s knees. The red flash on his helm ducked lower. He hesitated, and then pushed his other hand into the modified valve as well, stretching the liner with one hand while the other explored the lining up higher in the valve. He prodded the node at the end that controlled the chamber cycler. 

Grindor yelped—pain shot through his sensor net. 

“Hm,” was all Flatline said. Not exactly helpful. He looked up. “May try to overload. That may relieve some of the pressure.”

“Yeah,” Grindor said. He pushed himself on to his elbows, looking down his cockpit. It bothered him that Flatline might get off on this, but as the mech began rubbing his fingers across the nodes, it struck Grindor that it bothered him more that Flatline might NOT get off on this. Maybe the medic thought his modification was freakish. Maybe it was. 

One thing was sure: the equipment was not malfunctioning—Flatline’s fingers teased over and over a handful of nodes expertly. How many times had he done this? Did they teach this in his training? He was…surprisingly good at it. Grindor felt his ventilation pick up as the medic’s ministrations in his valve raised his core temp along with the rising charge. Flatline kept his optics on the valve’s steel rim, his gaze distant, his focus on his fingers buried inside the modified lining. It disturbed—and kind of aroused—the copter to see how far Flatline’s arms were buried in his valve. 

He was glad the medic didn’t speak. His head dropped back against his main engine, his hands clutching at the bare metal of the exam table. His legs quivered, involuntarily, and he felt a rush of the thin valve protectant fluid wash over the medic’s fingers, with something like embarrassment. Was he coming too fast? Should he relax, get into it, and get it over with? He really didn’t fancy overloading in front of those bland, blank optics. But, his sensor net shimmered with sensation, his valve aching with memory for Devastator’s spike.

 He allowed his mind to take him there, away from this sterile table, the blank optics of the medic and his businesslike hands. He allowed himself to think of Devastator’s thick spike, the way it felt when he pushed in—always a surprise, it seemed, leaving him gasping as it pushed aside his secondary systems.   Of the mass of lubricant that spread itself up his valve, its coolness striking against his valve’s warmth, silky against the stretched liner. Of the strokes that probably seemed small to the enormous mech, but pulled the spike nearly out and all the way in with each thrust. Of how the strokes hit that top node—the same one Flatline was prodding with one digit. 

“Agh!” he choked out, despite his attempts to be quiet and as casual about this as Flatline. His valve clutched against the medic’s forearms, driving them together with a force that got him a surprised look from the mech. Flatline pushed, hard, at the upper node, and even through his overload Grindor bucked upward, his chamber cycler activating. 

Grindor felt a trickle of fluid—must be Devastator’s transfluid—from the chamber down his valve. Flatline hesitated a moment longer, and then slowly withdrew his hands from the valve. Not really gently, but, slowly enough to pass for ‘considerate’. His hands were streaked with silver fluid and glossy with lubricant. He turned to rinse them off, leaving Grindor splayed open on the table, the fluids seeping from his valve onto the metal surface. 

Grindor pushed himself up and then over, trying not to sit in one puddle while still leaking another one. Just to break the silence, he said, “That helped.” It did. Some of the pressure had been relieved—his entire frame no longer felt a burning ache from his thorax. 

“Not enough, I imagine,” Flatline said, swabbing a drying cloth at his interior cabling. “And not if you intend to continue interfacing that way.”

“So…I can’t interface again? I’ve never heard such a ridiculous thing.” And…he did not look forward to explaining that to Devastator. Or his component mechs. Slow on the uptake, and violent in reception. Oh, this would not go over well. Not to mention that…well, he wasn’t fond of celibacy either.

Flatline leaned against a bank of monitors. Grindor suddenly noticed dents in his forearm plating—those hadn’t been there earlier. “There’s a reason we have two pieces of interface equipment. I suspect—though you understand that I honestly do not care to—that your interfacing activity has been…one sided.” He waited, his red flash lowering over his optics. Grindor squirmed. 

“It’s kind of hard not to, with the size difference and all.” He ducked his head. Dammit. Give him a battle or an opponent and he could break it down with calm precision. Talk about his private life? He was a blushing sparkling. 

Flatline rubbed his hand over his face, as if trying to erase the image that created in his processor. “Yes, well, you will have to come to some accommodation. The chamber is full and over pressurized. The only way to relieve the pressure is to remove the fluid. What I just did was marginally effective, but in actual interfacing would not work—more fluid would enter the chamber on your, ahem, partner’s overload.”

“So?”

“You have to siphon the chamber yourself. The old fashioned way.” He rubbed his dented forearms. 

“I told you. The size thing?”

“Gestalts aren’t always combined,” Flatline said, blandly. Oh but that would cause problems. Favoritism, jealousy....Grindor really didn’t think that was such a good idea. Solve one problem, cause…six others. Flatline watched his face, for a klik, then added, almost smirking, “Or, you could get VERY well acquainted with your hands.”

****

Grindor could not figure a way to explain this that did not end…poorly. He was seriously giving Flatline’s parting advice some thought, looking at his hands and calculating how many times he’d have to do it with the relative volume of his chamber and how much did Devastator actually overload? This was, of course, not what duty cycle was for. He frowned, and shifted forward on his chair, but the motion sloshed his overfull chamber again, causing a cramp to kick through his systems. He’d have to do…something about it. 

After duty cycle, he thought. Maybe I could go to the washrack and while no one’s looking…. His hand drifted to his interface hatch, his spike cover. Maybe…I could do it now. Get one over with; get that much space in the chamber. 

His spike leapt at the prospect, thumping against the cover which didn’t quite retract in time. He ran his fingers down the spike. It had been a while, hadn’t it? He definitely enjoyed Devastator, but…his spike perhaps had been getting a little neglected. Poor thing. He smiled, shaking his head at how silly this whole thing was. How silly it sounded. But his spike tingled at the thought of the stimulation. Lubricant oozed from the tip, already streaked with transfluid. Well, there had been a pressure buildup, Grindor thought. It probably made sense. 

His hand wrapped itself almost of its own accord around the spike, slicking the lubricant down the length, glossing over the sensor nodes. Ohhhh that did feel good.  He stroked up the spike with a sigh, pausing to rub the top nodes in small circles with his thumb. He felt his ventilation hitch, the overload sequencing beginning to measure charge. Frag it felt good. He began stroking the spike in earnest, picking up the tempo, squeezing at the top and the base. Ozone filled the air from his charging spike. He had to pause once to flick lubricant off his hand—there was so much of it from the long neglected spike that it was impeding his grip. He felt his rotors twitch, his hips tighten as the charge built, the spike tingling, almost prickling with energy. 

He swallowed a cry as he overloaded, his spike shooting its transfluid in a silvery arc, splattering against the underside of his console. He hung for a moment, lips parted, entire body quivering from the overcharge as the overload ran through him like a tingling shimmer. Excess transfluid leaked down over his fingers, hot and viscous. And then a drip of the fluid from his console hit his thigh armor. 

Grindor cursed. This was no way to be professional. And being a work cube, there were no cleansing rags here. He’d have to go out to the maintenance facility and get one. And…he hoped no one would stick their head into his work cube while he was gone and see the silvery mess dripping down onto the floor. 

He swiped his hand down his thigh, clicking his interface panel shut adamantly over his still-pressurized spike. He’d have to deal with that later, the pressure issue. Right now he needed to be able to pass for non-perverted as he crossed to the maint fac. Good thing, he thought, that I’m silver. Maybe the fluid won’t show. He crossed to the door.

His door coded open right in the face of Mixmaster. Frag. “Uh, hi,” he said, hurriedly, turning so, he hoped, he blocked the mech’s view of his dripping console.

“Hey,” Mixmaster said. “You…okay? We’re a little worried.”

“Worried? Why? I’m fine. Totally.” They did an edgy dance where Mixmaster inched to enter the cube and Grindor tried to block him without looking obvious. 

Mixmaster’s optics narrowed. “You sure? You’re not acting fine. And Long Haul saw you earlier and said you weren’t walking right.” His gaze scanned Grindor, who still hunched a bit, to protect his transfluid spattered armor from view. “Still aren’t walking right.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You keep saying that—hey.” Mixmaster lifted his head, his olfactory sensor audibly sampling the air. “Huh. You gettin’ busy without us?” 

Grindor winced. “Uh, no.”

“Someone in here? That why you’re trying to keep me out?” Mixmaster pushed him aside, his large shoulder plates bumping squarely into Grindor’s chassis. “Who’s in here?” Oh frag. Exactly as you expected, copter, he told himself. Jealousy. Over…masturbation. Good that you still have a tactical read on the situation, genius: now, how ‘bout you do something about it? 

“No one’s here.”

Mixmaster went still, optics on the console and the splotch on the floor where he’d flicked off the excess lubricant. As Grindor turned, he saw two silvery droplets detach themselves and stretch slowly to the ground. He wondered if it were possible to die of mortification. 

“Whoa. What? We’re not enough for you? We can do it more, if you want.” Anger, hurt, and almost pleading in his voice. They were…really attached to him. At least his valve.

Uh, no. More than enough, Grindor thought. That’s kind of the problem. “I, uh, it’s a medical condition,” he said, weakly. Dammit. You are no good at all at this interpersonal nonsense, Grindor. Soon as you get separated from Blackout and you’re just hopeless. 

“Medical condition,” Mixmaster repeated slowly. “Never heard of one in the database.”

“It’s, uh,…it’s kind of unusual.” 

“Kind of unusu—is this about us?” Mixmaster’s low brow furrowed lower. “I mean ‘us and you’ us. Not just, you know, ‘us’ us.” 

What? Oh. “Kind of.” He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Another drip from the console. 

“Kind of, how?” Mixmaster plopped himself in Grindor’s chair, looking up at him. His long arms dangled to the floor. Grindor winced as another drip landed on Mixmaster’s knee. 

Grindor tried to lean against the console, looking casual, but the arch in his central line pulled against his swollen fluid chamber. He flinched, and hunched over a bit, acutely aware of Mixmaster’s optics on him. 

“It’s…uh, complicated.”

“I’m not entirely stupid. The others kind of kill the IQ,” Mixmaster said, dryly. “Start at the beginning and I’ll let you know if I can keep up.” 

“It’s just a little…awkward.” 

“Hmmmm.” Mixmaster ran one finger along the underside of the console, holding up the digit dripping in silver liquid. “This isn’t?”

Frag. He had a point. “All right. It’s just that, well, my gestational chamber’s full and it’s kind of painful and—“

“Full…from us.” Grindor nodded. Mixmaster grinned. “We’re pretty hardcore. Others are going to so get off on that.” The grin faded. “Didn’t know it would hurt. Didn’t think about that.” 

“Yeah, well, me neither,” Grindor said, ruefully. 

“And the connection to this?” Another gesture with the silvered finger.

“Have to find some way to depressurize the chamber.”

Mixmaster’s face lit up. “Makes perfect sense. Frag,” he said, pushing off the chair by pushing his arms against the floor, “Whyn’cha come to us right away with this?” 

“It’s a little—“

“Yeah yeah, complicated, awkward, whatever. Look. It’s not a problem. We can fix that.” He grinned. “Kinda what we do.”   He pushed Grindor back to the chair. “And since we’re really the cause of the problem, only fair we should get in on the solution.”

Whump—Grindor’s backside fell against the metal of the chair, and he found himself pinned by one of Mixmaster’s long arms while the other popped open his hatch. His (traitorous) spike leapt out of its storage compartment, still sticky from…Grindor’s attempt at the ‘solution.’

“Hot little thing, isn’t it?” Mixmaster grinned. All Grindor saw was a mass of metal—the shields on Mixmaster’s arm, before he felt a warm pressure on his spike. Oh…dear Primus. 

“Really,” he gasped. “Can take care of this…by…myselllllll….” Mixmaster’s mouth worked its way slowly down his spike, glossa tracing a lazy path through the sensor nodes. Grindor’s whole body was rigid with desire. His hands clutched at the arms of the chair. 

The mouth stopped and for a klik his spike stung as air hit it. “More fun this way.” The mouth returned, and Grindor realized he didn’t have much choice. Whether together or separate, he really didn’t stand much of a chance getting his way—about this—against any of the Constructicons. Mixmaster’s hand braced his shoulders flat to the chair back, while his mouth rode up and down the spike. Grindor moaned, his hips pushing up, thighs spreading, opening himself up more to Mixmaster’s touch. 

The other mech’s fingers traced the rim of his valve, teasing at the rim nodes, while his mouth continued sucking and teasing the spike. 

Grindor’s body jumped, as if jerked upward from a line tied to his spike, the transfluid rushing into Mixmaster’s mouth. The mech swallowed, dragging his glossa along the spike with each swallow, increasing suction to get as much fluid out of the spike as possible. Grindor thrashed against the chair, his entire sensor net enflamed with the sensation from his spike.

The truck dropped back on his heels, releasing his grip over the copter’s shoulders. He watched Grindor through half-lidded optics, and licked his lips, slowly. Grindor could see flashes of silver against the black of the glossa. He whimpered. 

“Others want in on this,” Mixmaster said, his voice husky.

“Others?” Grindor squeaked. 

“Yeah. We’re all responsible, so….” He shrugged. “Tonight, our mission is to drain your tank.” He winked. “We do know how to share our toys.” 

 

Next: Draining the Tank Pt 1