shadow_vector | Draning the Tank, Part One

More Devastator/Grindor fun. Warnings for...weirdness.

Grindor thought he’d never been as mortified in his life as when Mixmaster, one hand comfortingly petting his thigh, commed Flatline. To talk about him. While he was sitting there. He didn’t know whether it was the talking about his…condition that bothered him, or the talking about it to Flatline.

“Yeah,” Mixmaster was saying, “Kind of hoping you could help us out with treating your patient here. Yeah, Grindor.” A pause. “Yeah, that treatment.” He grinned. Grindor sank a bit lower in his chair. “We’re hoping you could sign him off for the rest of dutycycle. You know. This looks awfully, what do you guys call it? Emergent, right? Not something we want to leave untreated.” Another pause. “Touching? You think so? Yeah, we’ll be doing a lot of that, too.” Grindor squirmed, his cortex filling in the medic’s half of the conversation. Mixmaster petted his thigh, soothingly. Which did not help.

“Sure,” Mixmaster said. “I can keep track of that. Far as I know…twice since he left your cube.” He snickered. “He’s right here, I can ask him? No, you’re right, he is a bit on the shy side. Well, about talking about it. Doing it, totally different. Seriously.” Grindor did not even want to imagine Flatline’s reaction. Was he freaked out? Disturbed? Or was he kind of getting off on it? Oh, Grindor swore he’d never see anything but repair bots from now on.

“Mmmm yeah, the second one I was…here for. And you’re right: pressure’s way too high. A…little surprising, but, you know. I’m a high performance vehicle and I can handle it.” Another pause. “Yeah, oral intake has a pressure gauge.” Grindor slammed his head back against his main engine. Maybe if he did it again and hard enough, he could knock himself off line. That was seriously beginning to sound like a viable option. “Yeah, we can take periodic measurements. Normal PSI for his frame?” Mixmaster’s fingers grazed Grindor’s spike, still pressurized. Grindor whimpered. “Got it. Lower is better? All right. Yeah, I’ll tell him.” Mixmaster closed his comm, grinning down at Grindor. “Gotcha the rest of dutycycle off to take care of your…you know. Thing.”

“Kind of heard that,” Grindor muttered, squirming as Mixmaster squeezed the tip of his spike, playfully.

“He wants to see you again, you know, at your convenience. After we’re done with you.” Oh no, that didn’t sound ominous at all. “Allegedly to see if it worked.” The mech slicked a thumb in Grindor’s lubricant, then licked it off. “I think he wants to see if we broke you or not.” He grabbed Grindor’s wrists, hauling him off the chair. “Come on, let’s get you drained.”

“Look, I really appreciate it, but…” tried to free one hand to at least—at the very least—cover his interface equipment. Mixmaster sighed, rolling his optics, but released Grindor’s wrists.

“We had this out before, copter. Our fault. Our solution.”

“I meant…you know, talking to Flatline.” He stuffed his half pressurized spike back in its cover.

A snort of laughter. “Oh him? Frag; freaking out Flatline has become my new favorite sport.”

All right, Grindor had just discovered an entirely NEW level of mortification as Mixmaster dragged him into one of the huge recharge bays set aside for the gestalts. “Look,” Mixmaster said, “What I brought you.”

Hightower kicked himself off his berth. “This,” he said, “is awesome.” The others gathered around, too, Scavenger from where he had been stashing stuff under a berth, Rampage and Long Haul cut off in the middle of an argument. They gathered in a ring around Grindor, optics wide and pleased.

Grindor didn’t feel very awesome. He felt…really fraggin’ self-conscious. They all seemed to know what was going on, which was, he tried to convince himself, a blessing on one hand—he didn’t have to sit through what would doubtless have been a masterly-classless recap by Mixmaster, possibly including…the dripping console. Which was still not cleaned up. Oh frag. What if someone walked into his cube…!? Come to think of it…he looked down. Oh no. Spatters of fluid on his own torso. And he’d walked by how many mechs on the way here? Oh,… maybe this cure would kill him. He could hope.

“Hey,” Scavenger said, tentative, “Can, uh, can we touch it?” One of the other mechs glared at him. He cowered back, until Long Haul said, “Yeah, actually. Can we?”

Mixmaster looked at Grindor, who had clasped his hands, nervously, over his frame. “Your call.”

Grindor looked around at the row of curious, aroused faces. “O-okay.” I mean, after all, copter, he told himself, you got a modification to interface with them. After that, where exactly do you have any modesty?

“Put him on Overload’s berth,” Long Haul said, “You know, since he’s not here.”

“Still hiding in shame from being named ‘Overload,’” Rampage quipped.

“And forming the butt,” Hightower added.

“Wouldn’t laugh too hard if I were you,” Mixmaster reminded. “Without him, you’re the butt.” A round of snickers. Grindor rocked on his feet, awkward, until Scavenger shyly took his hand and led him to an unused berth.

“Hightower might have a problem,” Scavenger announced.

“Hightower,” the crane mech said following them over, curious, “can figure it out for himself. Always has.”

“I-I think he wasn’t trying to be obnoxious,” Grindor offered.

The red crane smiled down at him, comfortingly. “Yeah, I know. Old habit of nipping at each other. Hard to break. Now. Can we feel?”

Grindor lay back on the berth, careful to flick his rotors out of the way. Hightower’s long hands hung over him for a long moment, hesitant. Grindor nodded. “It’s okay. Just…not too hard.”

He felt Hightower’s hand as a cool weight across his armor, probing around the sides, gently, toward the center. He stiffened as the long fingers pressed against the stressed surface of the tank.

“Ohhh,” Hightower said. “You can feel it. Really.” With his other hand, he rocked Grindor’s frame back and forth, gently. The copter felt the fluid slosh heavily. “Awesome,” Hightower breathed.

“I wanna feel!” Scavenger said, poking at Hightower’s wrist.

“Don’t hurt him, you little idiot,” Hightower said, but withdrew his hand. “Saw where I put mine, right?”

“Yeah, I can do it!” Scavenger pushed in front of the truss crane, and then hesitated, his face showing a little concern. “Let me know if it hurts?”

Grindor nodded. He wasn’t quite sure what all the excitement was about feeling it. But…it wasn’t a big deal, really. Felt a little weird but…he was getting used to ‘weird’ where these mechs were concerned. And this was only a LITTLE weird. As opposed to, you know, interfacing with a gestalt.

Scavenger’s hands reached on both sides. “This it?” He squeezed, gently. Grindor gasped as the action caused something like a cramp at the intake valve. He managed a nod. It wasn’t Scavenger’s fault—he didn’t know any better. “Frag,” the yellow mech breathed. “We did this? WE ARE COOL!”

Mixmaster pushed him away. “Reminder: we have the rest of duty- and offshift cycle, but…not forever, you lunks. You want to paw him up or perv him up?”

“I wanna do both,” Long Haul said, wryly.

“It’s cool!” Scavenger burbled on. “It’s a little warm and kind of bulgy and sloshy.” He pulled his hands out from under the armor to throw them around Grindor’s neck. “You’re awesome!”

Uhhhh, yeah. Grindor squirmed, partly from embarrassment, but partly also because Scavenger’s weight was pressing on his tank. He didn’t feel very awesome. He was, though, relieved when he saw Mixmaster’s dark grey hand clap over Scavenger’s shoulder.

“Think you’ve had enough groping there, son,” Mixmaster said.

“But I wasn’t grop—!” Scavenger reluctantly climbed off Grindor. The others by this time had gathered around, watching Grindor. He ducked his head. Why did this feel so weird? They’d seen him before. Seen him overload before. What was so different? Surely it was less kinky to do exhibitionism than…interface with a gestalt. He realized that that had become his go to ultimate weirdness.

Mixmaster folded his arms. “Someone’s got to go first,” he said. “Can’t believe there are no volunteers for this.”

“You,” Long Haul said, “just haven’t been listening.” He climbed onto the berth next to Grindor. “Hey there.”

“Uhhh, hi?”

The battered green face burst into an open-mouthed laugh. “You act like we’ve never done this before.”

“Technically, we haven’t. And…not with witnesses.”

Long Haul laughed. “You solitaries and your silly modesty.” He pulled Grindor to him with one hand on his shoulder. “Try to cure you of that, too.” He nuzzled against Grindor’s face, suddenly, himself, a little shy. Well, none of them ever had actually kissed him. And kissing as Devastator? Yeah. That wouldn’t work too well. “Hey, uhh, can I?”

Grindor took his hand, sighing, and placed it under his armor. What they got so aroused about with the swollen tank he didn’t understand but…well, it wasn’t like it took anything for him to let them touch him. “There. Not too hard?” The green fingers probed, rocking the tank back and forth.

“Hey that is cool, but…I wanted…,” his mouth closed over Grindor’s. The copter whimpered, acutely aware of the other Constructicons watching, even as Long Haul’s glossa probed into his mouth. He felt himself respond, hearing his systems hum online. It didn’t help that his spike was still partly pressurized from before. Long Haul’s hand rubbed over the swollen tank possessively, in a way that…hurt but didn’t both at the same time. He broke the kiss. “So. How we do this?”

“You know the objective,” Mixmaster said, making Grindor jump. For half a klik he’d forgotten about the audience. Now he was acutely aware of ten optics on him.

“Don’t want to put extra pressure on the tank.”

Ummm, I’m right here, Grindor thought.

“Hands!” Scavenger said, excitedly. “I vote hands!”

“You could take top,” Hightower said. “Keeping careful not to drop too hard on him.”

“Mouth,” Mixmaster said, proudly. “That’s what I did. Reminds me. We need to get pressure readings every once in a while.”

“You,” Scrapper said, “Are making this sound like work.” He turned to Long Haul. “And YOU better do something or I will.” He laid a possessive hand on Grindor’s ankle. Scavenger responded by grabbing a rotor. Rampage gave a frustrated sigh and roll of his optics, and wrapped his hands around Grindor’s engine.

“My piece is bigger,” Rampage said. “I win.”

Hello? Grindor thought, right here! Anyone notice I’m…like…functional? He hoped they’d remember before they yanked him to pieces. He had just gotten two of those rotor blades replaced.

“Oh, seriously!” Hightower reached over, snapping open Grindor’s interface panel and tapping the spike cover, which leapt to retract. He wrapped his fingers around the spike. “I win.” He squeezed the spike. Grindor moaned. Okay, they did notice he was functional—at least that much. And he had the distinct feeling he’d won…even though he wasn’t officially playing.

Long Haul shrugged. “Works for me,” he said, and pulled Grindor into another kiss, his arms reaching around the copter’s shoulders, reaching for the tail rotor he kept tucked against his spine. Hightower’s hand was between them, pinning Grindor’s hips flat, stroking at the spike. Grindor’s own hands clawed desperately around Long Haul’s shoulders, grabbing at his tires. Long Haul growled into his mouth, clutching at the tail rotor, throwing one thigh over Grindor’s leg. He began grunting, rubbing his pelvic plating against Grindor’s thigh. It was…weirdly hot. And Hightower’s hand was pulling at his spike, and someone was stroking the length of his rotors and…he could feel their optics on him, like soft little shy caresses and it was awkward and intimidating but at the same time these were the mechs who had seen him before like this and…oh!

The overload burst through his sensornet with the same intensity as the transfluid gushed from his spike, spattering on his frame, Long Haul’s chassis, spilling over Hightower’s red fingers like a stream of silver. He dropped his head back against his engine, and Rampage’s hands moved to stroke his face.

“You,” the yellow mech said, “are hot as melted slag when you overload.”

“I think he’s hot all the time!” Scavenger said. “My turn!” He bladed a rotor between two fingers, tracing it up to the mounting bracket. Grindor moaned. Worse, his spike was still pressurized.

“Oh, frag yeah,” Scrapper said. “Nice spike. How come we never noticed that before?”

“That should be painfully obvious,” Mixmaster cut in. “And that was three. We need to keep track of these. The medic wants to know how many it takes.” Urgh. Grindor did not want to analyze that right now.

“Is it MY turn?” Scavenger bounced, impatient.

“Fine,” Hightower said, pulling his hand away. “Don’t fraggin’ break him, though.”

Scavenger crawled up onto the berth. “Hi! I’m the left hand!”

Grindor grinned, and had to bite down a laugh at the expression of pain on Mixmaster’s face.

“Primus,” Rampage muttered, “You really are the IQ Suck of this team, aren’t you?”

Scavenger stuck out his glossa at Rampage, who was still running his hands, almost greedily, over Grindor’s face and main engine. Scavenger wormed his leg between Grindor’s hip and Long Haul’s body, settling himself on the copter’s spike with a sigh.

He reached forward, gingerly, feeling for the tank again. “It’s here, right?” He rubbed it as Grindor nodded. Grindor felt the mech’s valve clutch as if in response to the thought. Scavenger began moving, slowly, raising his hips off the spike and then down. “Frag,” he breathed. “Not used to you like this.”

“Yeah,” the copter said. “Could say the same.”

“Oh frag,” Scrapper muttered, “In for it now, copter. He’s gonna start giving you allllllll sortsa junk.”

“Leave him be,” Mixmaster said. “it’s cute. Not that you’d know anything about that.”

“Huh, I’m plenty cute. Right, copter?”

“Kind of busy?” Grindor squeaked. A tolerable excuse, one they all bought. The team worked best when they weren’t at each others’ throats. Only problem was, Grindor had noticed, that that’s where they always gravitated. Scavenger tipped his head back, one hand clutching at Long Haul’s side.

“Not too…hard…am I?” Scavenger gasped

Grindor shook his head, his vents coming in ragged bursts. He could feel his vents gust back against him, reflected off Long Haul’s chassis. The green mech continued to rub his pelvis against Grindor’s thigh armor, but had dropped to merely running his hands over Grindor’s heaving chassis. Grindor could hear nothing over the sound of his own breathing. He looked over his chassis, transfixed by Scavenger’s movement on him, the silver flashes of his spike appearing and disappearing as the yellow mech lifted and dropped his pelvic frame. Scavenger had braced one hand on Long Haul, the other grabbing Hightower’s slick and sticky hand, supporting him from putting too much of his weight on Grindor. The consideration stirred something in the copter. They really—in a weird and completely dysfunctional way—did care about him.

That thought moved something, almost like a piece of clockwork kicking over. They really did care about him. Even combined, when they could hurt him unintentionally, without even thinking, they took the time to think--even when it was really hard to think, to make sure. Instead, they were taking precautions, even now, not to hurt him, expecting nothing but that he just lay still and tell them if he hurt.

The rising charge in his spike pushed anything else like thought aside, cascades of electrons rushing through his sensornet, messages of a pure, electric bliss. Already. He should feel bad, incompetent, overeager, but it was hard right now. Hard to feel anything beyond Long Haul’s spike, now unsheathed and a slick naked spot on his thigh; Rampage’s hands flirting wildly with his main engine; others stroking his rotors; someone (he would swear) licking his foot; and Scavenger’s valve, slick and snug, riding his spike. He stretched one of his own hands up, brushing one of Scavenger’s wrists. The yellow mech’s head snapped forward at the contact. He grinned down at Grindor.

“Frag you feel good,” he said. Grindor was about to respond when the overload tripped. He managed an indeterminate word like “gaaahh.” Beside him, Long Haul grunted, and he felt a splat of liquid race up his thigh armor, Long Haul groaning quietly.

Scavenger howled, three, four times, his overload triggered by the electric flash of Grindor’s own, his frame jerking, involuntarily, against Grindor’s. His hand clutched at Grindor’s as he slowly rocked himself forward. “Hey,” he gasped, “Didn’t hurt ya?”

Grindor shook his head. “Stop worrying. I’m not that fragile.”

“Not a fragile thing,” Mixmaster cut in. “Don’t want you to leave us. If we hurt you, you’ll leave.” Something dark and more than a little sad ran across the grey mech’s face.

“I won’t.” He didn’t believe it himself until he heard the words. Well, it made a kind of sense. His valve was…unique. And even beyond the strangely sweet consideration they were taking, even right now as Scavenger eased himself carefully of his spike , there was something else that drew him. The team. He’d never had anything like it. They belonged together. For all the fighting and squabbling and sniping, they had…someone. Even just to listen to at the end of a bad shift, even someone to get in a pointless, stupid fight that you’ve had so many times it was a kind of comfortable familiarity. He wanted that. At least some of that.

“Wanna get you something!” Scavenger burbled. He scrambled off the berth, leaving a dripping trail of transfluid.

“Frag it!” Rampage roared. “Ruining the fragging mood!”

Grindor started laughing, then doubled over as the action cramped his tank. He pushed himself up to one elbow. Long Haul shifted to stroke his back, running his hands down the rotors. Grindor met Mixmaster’s gaze. “I’m not going to leave.”

“Good to hear you say that,” Rampage said. “Not like we’d let you anyway.”

Long Haul clonked his head against Grindor’s shoulder. “Talk about killing the mood, you stalker moron,” he muttered. Grindor braced his hand over his tank, trying not to laugh to the point of cramping again.

“Ignore him,” Mixmaster said. “That’s what we do.” He moved to sit on the edge of the berth. “We wouldn’t actually stalk you.”

“Frag yeah we would!” Scrapper said. He started stroking between Grindor’s toes. “Already know his work schedule, his private comm freq, his favorite grade of energon, the last five datapods he’s downloaded….”

Mixmaster slapped one of his hands over his face. “Uhhh, pretend you didn’t hear that.”

Scavenger was bounding back, something that looked like a rusted windchime mated with a water fountain dangling from his arms. “Wait til you see this!”

“Tried to warn you, copter….” Scrapper sang.

“We,” Mixmaster asserted. “Are getting off task here.”

“My turn!” Scrapper blurted, the same time Rampage said, “Me.” They glared at each other from opposite ends of Grindor, Scrapper’s hand tightening around the copter’s toes. Rampage sank his claws into Grindor’s engine. Ouch? The two faced off, snarling.

“No fighting!” Mixmaster snapped. “Teammates don’t fight over teammates.” Grindor blinked at the words, and then, at his reaction to them. ‘Teammate’. “Teammate?” he blurted. Scavenger plonked his…whatever the frag it was next to him on the berth.

“Yes!” It was, Grindor thought, more than a little unsettling that a crane larger than he was could act so…perky. “You’re so one of us. Even though you fly and all that and probably can’t actually fix anything.” He bent over and planted a slurpy kiss on Grindor’s belly armor.

“Oughta fix you,” Rampage muttered.

“You are so weird it is embarrassing as the Pit to admit I know you,” Scrapper muttered. “Much less admit I’m the other hand. Move your yellow butt, before I move it for you.” Scrapper climbed onto the berth. It was…getting crowded up here. Long Haul lay next to him, Mixmaster perched by his shoulder, Scavenger kneeling next to him, his…rusty whatever next to him, and now Scrapper slithering up his body. It was…weirdly cozy. Until Scrapper licked his spike, at which point it became weirdly hot.

“Good idea,” Mixmaster said to Scrapper, reaching to pull a frowning Rampage down into a kiss, shifting so that the mech fit between his legs. One of Rampage’s tread whips slapped the berth next to Grindor’s audio. “About time we get a pressure reading."

Next: Draining the Tank. Part two!