shadow_vector | Syphoning

NC-17
IDW/MTMTE
Misfire/Fulcrum, the rest of the Scavengers
sticky, sounding, a bunch of fanon kink tropes and a side order of idek

When he’d launched himself off the top of the Worldsweeper, Fulcrum had expected, entirely, to die. He’d almost looked forward to doing it, really, doing some actual real good with his life, erm, death, and saving the mechs who’d gone out of their way to be decent to him.

He hadn’t expected this: to wake up, with a burgundy jet kneeling between his legs. “Not this again!”

“Hey, calm down, there, pinhead,” Misfire said. “Just checking out a hunch.”

“That’s not—that’s not a hunch.” It was his spike.

Misfire laughed. “K-class humor. Awesome.”

Uh. No? “I probably don’t want to know what you’re planning,” Fulcrum said, edging back against the wall. Maybe going on the WAP was a mistake. But really, he hadn’t had much choice.

“Yeah,” Misfire said, philosophically. “I could see that. Ruins the surprise.” He slicked one thumb up the spike’s underside, watching as Fulcrum gave a squeak, and then ducking down to take the spike in his mouth, riding it to the base and then sliding off the head. “See,” Misfire said, licking his lips, “It occurred to me that it’s probably, ya know, been a while since you got any.”

“Hey!” The old saying was true: the truth hurt. Ow.

“Not like that, pinhead. Okay, actually, kinda like that. But that’s not really the point. The point is,” another slide of the hand on Fulcrum’s bronze spike, Misfire’s other hand pressing down on one of Fulcrum’s thighs, “Betting your transfluid chamber’s pretty damn full.”

“Uh.” Wow. Personal question much? “You kind of have some, uh, boundary issues.”

“It’s my job.”

“To have boundary issues?”

“To syphon. Pay attention.” It was sort of hard to do that when Misfire’s hand kept doing that to his spike.

“S-syphon?”

“Sure. Transfluid’s got a decent energon rating. Issue is, you know,” he waggled his supraorbital ridges, “Acquiring it.”

“A-acquiri---ohprimus.” Fulcrum’s hands clawed at the floor, as Misfire bent down to take his spike in his mouth again, kind of answering Fulcrum’s next question. So, yeah, that’s how it was acquired, he thought, weakly, as Misfire began working his spike in earnest, glossa whipping around the spike’s sensor nodes, quick and darting and insistent. And it had been a long time since his last overload so, yeah, Fulcrum knew he was about to demonstrate a distinctly embarrassing lack of stamina.

But, sometimes you don’t care, and this was one of those times, as he sucked in a deep vent of air, feeling charge rise along his spike, the warm pressure build inside him, like a tingling heat, building to release. Misfire’s helm bobbed between his thighs, the red optics half closed in concentration. He’d clearly done this before. A lot. And that led Fulcrum’s mind down a whole city street of really perverse thoughts and pairings. Spinister. Crankcase—okay that was sort of a moodkill—Krok.

Fulcrum hissed, as the charge tripped the overload, his hips bouncing off the floor, pushing a hard jet of fluid into Misfire’s mouth, sending a hard wave of pleasure through Fulcrum’s entire sensor net. Oh. That was…better than he remembered.

Misfire sat back, glossa circling his lip plates, nodding, his optics distant. “Pretty fraggin’ good. All right. Next stage.”

“Next stage?” Just when Fulcrum was onboard with one idea—totally on board with the blow job thing, really—Misfire had to bound ahead again.

“What? You think I have time to get it all out that way? That was just a free sample. We need to get the rest.” He eyed Fulcrum’s spike, squeezing it with his hand as though measuring it. He nodded. “Here. Hold this.” He jerked the spike toward Fulcrum, who wrapped a hand—a bit protectively—around it.

“You’re…not going to cut it off, are you?” Because Fulcrum was rather attached to that spike. You know. Really attached.

“What?” Misfire looked up from where he was digging in a storage compartment on his thigh. “You really come up with some wacky ideas, Fulcrum. Seriously.” He held up a long glass pipette, moving back over, reaching with the pipette toward the hole at the head of Fulcrum’s spike.

Fulcrum’s yellow optics widened. “And that’s…not a wacky idea?” It sure didn’t look wacky. It looked pretty, wow, yeah, he didn’t want to put into words what it looked like. “You’re not going to….?”

“Jam this in you? Yes I am!” Misfire flashed a brilliant smile.

“C-can we talk about this first?”

“Talk about what?” Misfire squeezed the head of his spike and before Fulcrum could do anything more than squeak out an ‘ohprimus’, Misfire had inserted the glass tube in the head of his spike. “You might wanna be kind of careful, though,” Misfire said. “Glass. Fragile.”

That was a thought even more horrifying than the other horrifying thoughts Fulcrum was already entertaining. “Look. If this is about the DJD, you know….”

“What? Psh. No. This is all about the fuel. Now lemme concentrate.” Misfire twisted the pipette, like a corkscrew, pushing it farther in. Fulcrum went rigid, feeling the really, uh, unique sensation of something worming its way up his transfluid channel. Sure, he’d been borebrushed before, but you kind of braced yourself for that and it was over in a klik. This was a slow sort of spiraling of something hard and stiff and, yikes! Eminently prone to shattering into sharp shards. And he had no idea why Misfire was doing this.

He felt a sudden sharp pressure inside the base of his spike. Misfire nodded. “Okay, pinhead, let ‘er rip.”

“…excuse me?”

“You know. Do some four-finger lambada there. A little special private time action. A mech and his gun.” He gave a weird kind of leer. Because, yeah, everything was pretty fraggin’ weird right now.

“You want me to jerk off.”

“Got it in one, pinhead.”

“Here. Now. With this sticking out of my spike.” Really. Because glass pipette jammed in your spike doesn’t exactly read ‘sexy’, right?

“Yep. Oops. Almost forgot!” Misfire attached a slim rubber hose to the end of the glass rod, and attached the other end to a flask. “What? I gotta do this for you?”

“Uh.” Wow. “Do you have to be here? You know, watching and everything?”

“Have to?” Misfire shrugged. “Course not. But face it. It’s fraggin’ hot.”

If you say so. Fulcrum grimaced, but realized there was no way he was getting out of this one. So, all right. How bad could it be, after all? He’d certainly, uh, ‘entertained’ himself that way before. Just not with accessories and an audience.

He gave a tentative stroke up his spike, then down, cycling a deep vent. All right. He could do this. Just close the optics, you know, forget about the audience, and just, well, work the spike.

Which was, after all, still half-primed from the overload, excess charge tingling against his palm. He squeezed the spike, twisting his hand on the upstroke, letting his thumb slide over the tip, bumping the pipette before sliding back down. And again. And faster, finding his rhythm, quick and even. He forgot about Misfire. The DJD. Spinister. Poor Flywheels. Everyone and everything except the feel of his hand on his spike, the rising charge, the same build of pressure and heat in his belly.

Fulcrum dropped his head back, mouth parted, slack with concentration, his whole attention on chasing the overload that seemed on the edge of his sensornet, needing to be coaxed, teased out of hiding.

Oh frag, it had been a while, and he knew he still wasn’t going to last long, throwing himself at the overload, hand firm and fast over his spike.

The overload hit, but this time, instead of the one hot spurt of fluid, there was a sort of quick cycling at his spike’s base, and then another jet. And another. And another, over and over, clicking and pushing more and more fluid from his chamber, like waves of pleasure, overload piled on overload. He saw it through the clear glass of the pipette, spurt after spurt, emptying his transfluid tank with a sort of ruthless, overwhelming efficiency, until the cycling clicked empty, leaving Fulcrum wrung out and shuddering, his hand falling limply on his thigh.

Yeah, he was just going to lay here for a while, he thought, his whole body tingling and electric and feeling really, really good. He could get used to that.

Misfire smirked. “We all say that.” He leaned forward. “Ready to have it come out?”

Fulcrum nodded weakly.

Misfire pulled the glass tube out, slowly, Fulcrum twitching and moaning, because every sensor node in his entire body was currently hypercharged. “Hey, pinhead.” Misfire stowed the equipment, swirling the filled flask, and examining it. “Good haul. It’ll take you a few days to refill.” His smile was more than promising.

“Yeah okay,” Fulcrum said, dreamily. “Sounds good.”

“I’m gonna go back to the others.”

“I’m gonna…just lie here for a bit, I think,” Fulcrum said. Because moving seemed really unfortunate right now. Not when he could just lie here and sort of wallow in feeling completely, utterly, and entirely drained.

Misfire snickered. “You do that.”

[***]

A cycle or so later, movement seemed like a good idea. Fulcrum was still a bit wobbly. What? It had been a while and that was, yeah, that was a bit intense. Still, they’d taken him in, so the least he could do is show up and do crew things.

Was that a crew thing? He wasn’t sure. And he had no idea how to broach the topic.

He ambled into the dayroom, pasting on a ‘nothing weird just happened’ smile. “Hey guys.”

“Hey yourself,” Crankcase scowled.

That was…well, it was Crankcase. “So, what are we doing?” Fulcrum said, brightly, dropping into a seat next to Spinister. It was the only open seat. But hey. Teammies.

“Fueling,” Krok said, holding up a glass.

A glass of suspiciously silver liquid. Was that…?

“The Decepticon cause,” Misfire said, grinning, holding up his own glass, “thanks you for your generous contribution.”

Oh.

Yeah, forget the ‘nothing weird’ smile. Everything was weird. The entire universe was weird and they were drinking his transfluid as a snack.

Spinister leaned over, resting his head on Fulcrum’s shoulder, almost purring. “Fulcrum is my favorite flavor.”

Oh Primus. What had he gotten himself into?