Draining the Tank, part two

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

Sticky, medical...uh....Scrapper and...repair bot. O.O

Scrapper looked up at Grindor, protruding his glossa, prodding the tip of Grindor’s spike. He grinned as the copter gasped at the contact, meeting his optics steadily. “Hey, copter,” he said. “heard you had to see an actual medic.”

“Yeah.”   Wow, how much had Mixmaster told them? 

“Flatline,” Mixmaster broke his kiss with Rampage to chime in, “is freaked the frag out.” He growled as Rampage switched to biting at his neck. 

Grindor ducked his head. He really, like REALLY, didn’t want to think about Flatline right now. Or that everyone here knew…frag it, probably more than he did. 

“An actual medic, wow,” Scavenger said. “I heard they’re scary.” 

“They’re more afraid of you than you are of them,” Long Haul said, sagely. He lay on his back, toying with one of Grindor’s rotor blades.

“So…what did he do?”

Oh he did not want to think about this right now, especially as, while waiting for his answer, Scrapper traced a lazy, wavering line up his spike with his glossa. Grindor felt more lubricant ooze from the tip of his spike. It was hard to be neutral and disturbed (which was, he surmised, the reaction Flatline wanted from him) while Scrapper was doing…that.

“Felt it, like you guys have.” He hoped that didn’t make them feel bad.

“I haven’t.” Scrapper’s hands snaked forward his caliper-hands. “Here?” His hands closed, smoothly, gently around the tank. “You have such a cool design,” he murmured. “Open access like this.” 

“Flight thing!” Scavenger blurted. “I read somewhere that air frames have to strip out armor to stay light.” 

“Surprised you can read,” Rampage muttered, looking up over Mixmaster’s head. 

“Whatever thing,” Scrapper said. “Cool as the pit.” He pinched the tank slightly. “What else did he do?” 

“Uhhh, he…tested out a theory?”

Mixmaster snorted. 

“What theory?” Scrapper licked the spike again. Scavenger’s optics were wide in his cage, entranced. He’d even forgotten about the pile of…junk next to him.

“That, uhhh, overload could release the pressure.”

“FLATLINE?” Long Haul burst into noisy laughter next to him. “So, like, Flatline yanked your spike? I cannot picture that happening.” Another laugh. Grindor squirmed.

“I know: He made you do it and he watched.” Hightower cut in from where he had been squatting, content to watch. 

“Frag that’s a hot idea,” Rampage muttered. He yanked one of Mixmaster’s hands down to his pelvic plating.

“Uhhh, not…exactly. Not that way really.”

Scrapper blinked. “You mean…he…?” His face split into a grin. “Oh Primus that’s like disturbingly hot.”

Grindor would have stopped at ‘disturbing,’ but right now, with the attention Long Haul was paying to his rotor blade and Scrapper was paying, in teasing little licks, to his spike, and the soft little mewls coming from Rampage over his shoulder,  it was hard to not add ‘hot’ to anything. 

“I want to! Can I?” He waited, his optics serious. He really wouldn’t if Grindor said no. 

“If—if you want.”

“Slag, IF I want. Really.” He grinned.

“Thought we were going to get a pressure reading,” Mixmaster said. Above him, Rampage’s entire frame rocked back and forth, his optics half-shuttered in desire as Mixmaster’s hands did…something Grindor couldn’t see.

“I’ll get your slaggin’ pressure reading,” Scrapper snapped. “Haven’t forgotten.” He turned back to Grindor. “He got fluid release?”

“Yeah. Node at the top I think?”

“Cool.” Scrapper shifted one elbow back, though his other hand still squeezed at the tank. Grindor moaned as the squeeze put pressure on the line leading to his spike. “I’ll be careful.” It was, probably, only sensible to say that—his hands were pressure calipers. He globbed some of Grindor’s lubricant down one caliper, and pushed it inside. Grindor jumped. 

“Too much?”

“No. Just…weird.”

“Weird and fraggin’ hot.” He pushed the caliper up to the top of the valve. “Whoa. Didn’t realize you were this…ummm, big?”

Grindor gritted his optics closed. But that only gave him the flash of memory of Flatline, both of his forearms buried in the valve. He was a freak. 

“Hey, didn’t mean it anything bad. Just…wow I guess that means WE’RE that big?” He grinned.

 Long Haul sat up.  “I wanna feel.”

“You had your turn and you frotted his leg, you pervert.”

“You’re playing doctor!”

“I want to play! But I wanna be the nurse.” Scavenger said. 

“Shut UP, Scavenger,” Long Haul snarled. “Seriously. Fraggin’ weirdo.”

Scrapper frowned. “Look, I didn’t mess with your turns. This is mine.”

“Let ‘em feel,” Mixmaster growled, over his shoulder. Rampage was moaning softly, his claws scratching against Mixmaster’s heavy shoulder plates. Which meant, Grindor thought hopefully, that at least he didn’t want to play doctor. 

“Fine. Still my turn though.” He turned to Scavenger. “Put your hand below where mine is, okay?” 

Scavenger complied. 

“Right. Now,” He twisted his caliper inside Grindor’s valve. Grindor sucked in a breath as the gesture prickled current over his nodes. “Feel that?”

Long Haul snickered. “Think the copter does.” Grindor ducked his head. 

“Yeah. Wow. Up this far!” Scavenger’s face lit up. He squeezed down, pushing the nodes harder against Scrapper’s hand. Oh…PRIMUS. Grindor felt like he couldn’t move—the nodes quivered at the forced contact, staticky ripples resonated through his sensornet. 

“Think you’re hurting him,” Scrapper muttered.

“No!” he managed to gasp. “Not hurting.”

Scrapper grinned. “Great. Now… he did it like this?” Scrapper’s hand moved in his valve. Grindor felt his optics drift closed. He forced himself to nod, but it felt like effort to concentrate anywhere but his valve right now.

“Harder?”

He shook his head. “All right like this.” 

Scrapper frowned. “Gotcher ‘all right.’” He bent his head lower, licking at the still erect spike. Grindor whimpered. “Yeah,” Scrapper murmured. “Thought so.” He took the spike in his mouth. Grindor shivered.

“I could watch you all day,” Hightower breathed, leaning over Long Haul to get a better view.

“All you’ve been doing,” Long Haul muttered.

“Shut up. I got him off. All you did was get yourself off.”

“Hey! I performed vital foreplay functions. And,” he leaned in, showily pushing his mouth against the surprised copter’s, “I’m the only one who’s kissed him.” Long Haul’s glossa probed into his mouth again. Grindor whimpered in his throat. This was…way more stimulation than he was used to. Plus all the talking –or something—was making him dizzy.

“Ooooh, I want to!”

“Shut up, nurse,” Scrapper muttered, pausing, lifting his mouth off Grindor’s spike. “Make up your mind.”

“I…I can do that later, right? Copter, can I?”

“What is this,” Hightower griped, “Some idiot game?” 

Scrapper rolled his optics, and resumed working his mouth down the copter’s spike. Grindor could barely process the argument taking place around him. Scavenger’s hand still squeezed the valve firmly around Scrapper’s poking digit, and Scrapper’s mouth was pulling a completely different rhythm. His overload systems collided with each other, the rising charges clashing in resonance, the waves fighting, building and cancelling each other out. A staticky buzz seemed to fill his whole frame. He could feel it even in his fingertips, on his mouthplates, vibrating, tickling, against Long Haul’s. His vocalizer picked up the vibration as well, humming. He could feel Scavenger’s optics on him, wide, intense and strangely delighted. Next to him, he felt the berth jerk, and could distantly hear Rampage hiss. 

His entire frame felt like it was under high tension, vibrating with resonance…until it gave suddenly. He bucked, his frame banging noisily against the metal berth as both systems overloaded. His mouth tore away from Long Haul’s as he gave a sound…a ululation as transfluid moved from the chamber.  He felt Scavenger’s mouth pulling at his spike at the same time that his finger prodded and held against the upper node in his valve. 

He thrashed, his hands slapping against the berth, the mechs crowding next to him. Scavenger’s…whatever crashed to the floor. 

He was still surging with the overload’s charge, chassis heaving in deep pants. Scavenger threw his arms around him. “Frag you are so hot!” he squealed. 

Grindor’s mouth hurt from having grated against Long Haul’s. He struggled to vent deeply enough to cool his core temp. Scrapper lifted his head, giving a last, lingering teasing series of licks along the spike. “For once, Scavenger, you’re right.” He looked over the other mech’s humped back. “Mixmaster, pressure’s still way above acceptable.”

Mixmaster frowned. “Even that way? “ He pushed Rampage off him. “You get fluid release the other way, too?”

Scrapper wiggled on his elbows, carefully withdrawing his hand. It was dripping with silver. 

“You know,” Hightower murmured, speculatively. “Technically, THAT is ours.” 

“OooOOOOOOoooo.” Scavenger pushed off Grindor’s chassis. The copter grunted as the larger mech pushed off him, reaching for Scrapper’s silvered hand. “Waaaaaaaaaaaant.” 

“Fraggin’ sicko,” Rampage muttered. “And he better not get another turn yet.” 

“Sparklings, behave,” Mixmaster said, turning. “Plenty of copter to go around.” His dark face hovered over Grindor’s. “You doin’ okay?” Grindor nodded. 

Scavenger licked noisily at Scrapper’s silvered fingers, not even seeming to notice as Rampage pushed him aside.

“MY turn,” Rampage said, greedily. He ducked his head down under Mixmaster’s, licking up the inverted V of Grindor’s facial plates. “Mine,” he murmured. “My copter.” His tread whips slapped alongside Grindor’s body. He switched himself around, rolling himself down Grindor’s chassis, gears rotating in his pelvic frame, in his arms. A soft growl built in his throat. Grindor brought his arms up around the yellow mech’s shoulders. Rampage responded with a louder growl, his face digging into Grindor’s throat.

“Watch it now,” Mixmaster warned. “Don’t break him.”

Rampage looked up, one of his whip ends flicking agitatedly, like a snake. “I won’t. I know.”  He turned his face down to Grindor. “You ever…been, like…held down before?”

“Does Devastator count?”

The face split into a grin.”So…you like it?”

Grindor squirmed. He was a nice mech. He didn’t do kinky stuff. Except…you know, like…get spiked by a gestalt on a regular basis. Group sex. And apparently, he was discovering, exhibitionism. He could feel the optics of all of the mechs on him and…it set his sensornet ablaze with a liquid heat. 

Grindor felt his hands being gathered together, one of the whips twining around his wrists. 

“Want you so bad,” Rampage muttered. “Never get to touch you.” He was, Grindor realized, the gestalt’s leg. He never would have touched Grindor. It was…kind of sad. 

“You can touch me now,” he offered. 

Rampage smiled down at him somehow halfway between playful and sinister. “I plan on it.”  He ducked his head in to lick Grindor’s cheek. “Not like you have any say right now, huh?” He jerked the treads wrapping Grindor’s wrists teasingly.  

Oh, right, well. Guess he had a point. Grindor gasped as his arms were jerked over his head, exposing his entire chassis. He felt…surprisingly vulnerable. Rampage slithered down his body, pausing to lick through the large gap where Grindor’s cockpit halves split. The mech’s glossa teased at his internal wiring. Grindor moaned, torn between arching into it and shrinking away from the too-intense sensations. It was like a heavy tickle, a silken slide against cables that never got touched except by the clinical little pincers of repair bots. 

The other tread whip snaked its way down one leg, wrapping itself around one of Grindor’s thighs. Grindor quivered, the metal and rubber treads digging firmly, but not painfully, into his thigh cables. 

Rampage’s hand wrapped around his spike as the yellow mech elbowed himself up near Grindor’s face again.  He lowered his head to Grindor’s audio. “I’m gonna watch you get off, pretty copter. I’m getting you off, right? Me. This one is mine.” Grindor nodded, numbly, a little worried. Rampage’s hand began, agonizingly slowly, sliding up and down his spike in a silky twisting motion. The tread whip closest to his wrist rubbed against his valve, lubricated by the leaking transfluid from Scrapper’s investigation.

Grindor moaned, his head dropping back against his rotor mount, lolling to one side, optics closing. He didn’t think he could handle this much interfacing. Or the sounds coming from the floor next to him, where, apparently, Scavenger was bouncing his way to another overload, Scrapper’s spike in his valve, sucking eagerly on Scrapper’s transfluid coated finger.

“No,” Rampage whispered, “Optics open. You watch me watching you.” Obediently, Grindor unshuttered his optics, looking into Rampage’s battered face. The mech was ugly—all of them were, really—but…there was some sort of desperate neediness that Grindor found attractive. And an honesty he didn’t see very often among the ‘cons. Rampage’s twisting motion against his spike was steadily building another overload: he felt himself twisting, his hips restless against the berth, pushing his spike eagerly into Rampage’s hand. Rampage chuckled down at him. “Want me, don’t you?” 

Grindor couldn’t answer beyond another, shivering, moan. 

“Come on,” Rampage coaxed. “Give it up. I want it.” He leaned closer. “I want to feel your hot fluid all over my belly plating. Seeping in where it’ll probably never wash out. Get me dirty like that, copter.” His optics had partially glazed, overtaken by his own lust. “I want to feel it,” he breathed, just as Grindor, trying desperately to convince himself he was horrified and not aroused by the words, shot up, his spike slipping from Rampage’s grip, transfluid arcing against the yellow mech’s chassis. Rampage looked down at his silver-splattered chassis, and then Grindor’s spike, still pressurized and still oozing silvery fluid among the lubricant. 

Rampage growled, grabbing Grindor roughly by the shoulders and pulling him onto him as the yellow mech rolled onto his back. “Spike me,” he ordered. He released the tread from Grindor’s wrists. “Come on. Primus I want to feel you inside me. Feel…that…” (he shivered in lust)”inside me.”

“Gonna hurt him,” Mixmaster said, warningly. Grindor had forgotten he was there. He looked up.

“I…can try, right?”

Mixmaster shrugged. “Your call. Just be careful. Don’t want YOU to hurt you, either.”

He nodded, wriggling his hips down between Rampage’s legs, all four of them. His rotors quivered at their sudden freedom—they had been pinned down for…how long? He took a deep vent of air, just to brace himself in case of pain, and pushed into Rampage’s valve. The yellow mech swore, and Grindor felt the treads wrap around him, pulling him closer. “Frag yeah,” Rampage breathed. He lifted his hips, seating Grindor’s spike deeper into his valve. A concerned expression flashed across his face. “Hey, uhhhh, stop if you need to, right?”

Even now , in the middle of it, they worried about him. He wondered how much of that came from them—or maybe the gestalt itself had begun to form a primitive consciousness and that concern had actually trickled down from the gestalt to the component mechs? He pulled out, gingerly pushing in again. His tank sloshed in an unfamiliar, but not unpleasant way. He tilted his head, trying to analyze the sensation, moving gently in and out of the valve. Rampage quivered, his optics hungry on Grindor’s face, his body.

The sloshing in his tank set up a counterpoint rhythm to his thrusting into the valve, sending a cascade of complex sensation trilling across his sensornet. It was indescribable, but…good. “Sorry,” he whispered, suddenly remembering Rampage. “Kind of…feeling it.”

“Bad?” 

“No…,” he put a hand to his abdomen. “Fluid motion.” 

The treads tightened around his hips. “Frag that’s hot.” 

“Wanna stop?”  Mixmaster cut in.

“No.” He wasn’t ready to say—out loud—that it felt good. It was just too weird for that. But it was building another overload in him, one that pushed on his valve interface circuitry as well, as the fluid sloshed down around the intake. 

“Want it!” Rampage moaned. “Come on!” His treads pulled more insistently at Grindor’s hips. He pushed in a little faster, a little harder, the new rhythm throwing off the old pattern of fluid motion sloshing in his tank. It was…impossibly intense and completely impossible to describe. 

Humiliatingly fast, he arched up, rotors flaring, overloading through his spike into the yellow mech. The fluid motion set his valve to grind helplessly against nothing in its own shadow overload. He felt Rampage’s valve clutch against him, the yellow mech howling at his own response. 

“Those rotors are hot!” Scavenger popped his head up over the side of the berth, reaching for one of the still-trembling blades. Scrapper, on the ground beneath him, muttered woozily, “What the frag did I miss?”

“Missed Rampage taking two turns,” Hightower said, blandly. Grindor, his breath still coming in ragged bursts, the fluid slowing its swirling in his chamber, looked over to see the enormous red mech stroking his own spike. Grindor groaned, feeling his spike stir…again!

“Don’t hear you complaining, Hightower,” Rampage muttered, his treads releasing from Grindor’s hips. “Nor him.”

“Gonna hear me complain if you don’t get your claws off him,” Mixmaster said. “My turn.”

Hightower gave a strangled cry as Mixmaster hauled himself up onto the berth. 

“Nice!” Long Haul applauded, from where he’d perched himself, enjoying whatever Scavenger and Scrapper had been doing as well as Hightower’s performance. “Think you set a distance record with that one.”

“I set records for everything,” Hightower said, benignly. He rolled to his feet, looming over the berth, tucking his spike away casually. “I’ll be right back. Do NOT let him leave.”

“No problem,” Long Haul said. Scrapper added, “We can always find where he is anyway.”

“Shut UP about that!” Mixmaster barked. “Freakin’ him out.”

“It’s all right,” Grindor said. “They can say it if they want.” 

“Don’t encourage them,” Mixmaster said, wriggling down. His heavy arm plates loomed over Grindor. “Sure that didn’t hurt?”

“Yeah, sure.” 

Mixmaster trailed one hand down Grindor’s chassis. “Getting you kind of filthy, aren’t we?”

“It washes off,” the copter said, softly. Mixmaster’s large fingers slid under his belly armor, rubbing his tank. It wasn’t swollen now, barely hurt at all.

“Sorry we did this to you,” Mixmaster said. “We’ll work something out, okay?”

Grindor tilted his head. “It’s no big deal.” Well, not any more. The biggest deal in this whole thing had been his own mortification. Certainly not the gestalt’s fault. Mixmaster’s brow remained furrowed.

“Worried we freak you out too much. We don’t run the same as solitaries.”

“It’s…a little weird,” he admitted. “I’ll tell you if it begins to bother me.”

A flash of a smile from the dark grey mech. “Good. Tell me. Not these others. They’re idiots.”  He let his optics roll down Grindor’s frame. “Now…,” he said, speculatively. “You know what I want?”

“What?” Grindor settled himself on his back, careful to flick his rotors out of the way. 

“I want to watch you doing what I missed. In your work cube.”

Aaaannnd, just like that, the copter was back to hot mortification. So much for progress. “You mean you want to watch me…?” he couldn’t even say it.  

“I want to watch you.” Mixmaster confirmed.

“Ooooooh, I want to watch too!” Scavenger, his optics popping over the rim of the berth.  Of course. A crashing sound as he dragged the…whatever it was onto the berth above him.

“You want everything,” Scrapper said, hauling himself up onto the berth. “But this time I agree. And Hightower’s gonna be honked that he missed it.”

“Frag yeah,” Long Haul said, “I’m in.”

“Don’t even have to ask.” Rampage plonked himself down between Grindor’s still spread legs. 

Grindor looked around at the eager, aroused circle of optics, excited, expectant. “Uhhhh, I’ll try?” 

“What’s to try?” Long Haul said, the corners of his mouth curling. “Wrap and pull. Real simple.”

“Yeah!” Scavenger said, “You did it to us like…you know, that first time!”   Right. Oh. That. The first time he’d seen Devastator’s enormous spike. He remembered the prickling nodes, the hot hard pressure of the overload splashing against his frame. He shivered, his spike releasing a dollop of lubricant. One hand, of its own accord, it seemed, touched his spike. It jumped at the contact. He looked around, fearfully. Mixmaster nodded, gruffly.

“Go on.”

He closed his fingers around his spike, acutely aware of the five pairs of optics, entranced by the action as he slowly slid his hand up and down his spike. Even now, it still responded quickly. Mixmaster’s optics darted between his face and his hand, murmuring something encouraging. He bit his lower lip plate, optics nervously on Mixmaster’s face, half-waiting to see signs of revulsion. Mixmaster looked aroused. As Grindor studied his face, Mixmaster licked his own lips. 

Grindor’s hand moved a little more confidently, tugging at his spike faster, feeling the charge build up. He dropped his head back for an instant, then rolled it to look at Scavenger and Scrapper who were both…transfixed. 

He felt…hot. Desired. Wanted. There was a strangely passionate urgency on their faces that prevented him from slipping into a fantasy, which kept him here, hovering on the verges of his decency, sprawled out, wanton and painfully aware of it, his hand now pumping his spike with rapid abandon, his breath coming in ragged bursts. 

“Ynnngggguuuhh!” burst from his vocalizer, his systems tripping into what number overload? He’d lost count. Fluid spattered on his frame again, his chassis heaving, his hand still, idly squeezing at the spike, aware of the hot transfluid dribbling over and between his fingers.

There was a moment of silence, almost a strange kind of awe. He was just stirring from it when the door to the bay coded open and Hightower strode in, cupping something in one of his massive hands.

“Ohhhhh,” Scavenger said, “You missed out.”

Hightower took in the spray of silver fluid up the copter’s chassis, his hand still toying with the spike. “Hrm. So I did. But THIS will make up for it.” He leaned over, between Grindor’s thighs and opened his hand. A repair bot scuttled upright, and made a mad dash…right for Grindor’s valve. 

The copter howled as the repair bot dove, bodily, into his custom-sized valve. Hightower laughed.

“What’d you do?” Scavenger’s optics were on the copter, who was thrashing, moaning, on the berth.

“Heh. Repair bot. Random sequence to check the valve nodes.” 

“You,” Mixmaster said, “are one perverted mo-frackey.” He sounded…awed. 

Grindor writhed, feeling the repair bot—moving, wriggling—inside his valve, prodding at the nodes, wriggling again to change position, prodding another node. His valve lining got stretched, pulled, pinched and prodded as the bot, intent on its task, scrambled wildly. The repair bot’s motion set his valve interface systems haywire, bringing him just to the edge of overload but…holding him there: the bot’s node-test did not include raising the nodes to overload charge. He hovered, his entire body quivering even as he thrashed from side to side, legs and arms and rotors flailing madly, on the edge of overload. 

Frantic, he grabbed his spike and began jerking at it, intent on getting to overload. He felt that if his systems didn’t trip soon, he’d go mad. His sensor net was crackling with signals. The repair bot continued its mad scramble inside him, keeping him at the brink. The pincer’s tiny pinches pulled him back from overload, resetting or diminishing the charge across his interface net. He pumped more urgently, even as his rhythm was thrown off by his own thrashing, grabbing his spike with both hands. 

He yowled as finally, FINALLY, his systems tripped to overload, his transfluid spurting out along the berth, hitting Long Haul in the hand and thigh, riding the delicious sparking waves of pleasure. 

Hightower clicked something in repair bot code.

Suddenly, his systems tripped again, causing him almost, it felt like, to convulse, as the repair bot in his valve raced to the upper node and activated it. 

“Ohhh, oh Primus, OH!” Grindor’s pelvic frame seemed to flop about of its own free will as the repair bot’s actions spiraled open the intake to his gestational chamber. He felt a rush of fluid down his valve, that sparked the valve nodes wildly as it washed its way out, sweeping the poor repair bot out of the valve in a wave of silver and eventually making loud spattering sounds off the edge of the berth and onto the floor.

The bot struggled to its feet, shaking fluid off its head, staggering woozily, slipping in the fluid.

“I want one!” Scavenger said, reaching out for the bot, where it had skidded up against Rampage’s front legs. The yellow limbs were covered in transfluid, as was Scavenger’s…whatever.

“Doesn’t fit in yours,” Scrapper said.

“Would fit in his head, though,” Rampage added. “Primus. Look at all of it.” He tapped it with a finger, giggling as ripples spread over the surface.

Grindor struggled to one elbow. His entire frame was drenched in silver, which spread in a pool long enough to make the berth a shallow puddle.  “Wow,” he said. 

“No wonder it hurt.”

Hightower grinned. “Not only was that fraggin’ stupidly hot, you do realize what this means.”

“He’s empty now.” Long Haul’s optics glinted. Oh Primus. Grindor sagged against the berth. Please, not right now.   He really didn’t think he could take any more.

“Can we keep him at least!” Scavenger whined. “I mean the repair bot.”

“Scab does have a point,” Scrapper said. “With the bot…well, we can take care of it pretty quickly. If…,” his optics glinted, “we want to go that route. Me, I’m for having the option.” 

Mixmaster considered. “It is late, and sometimes we won’t have the luxury of half a duty cycle to do it….” 

“You can’t be serious,” Grindor protested. “I mean, you’d want to keep that around to…do that…in me…again?”  He felt weak as a sparkling, drained in more ways than one. How long had he been here? How many times had he overloaded? His systems were fried.

“Yeah,” Scrapper said. “Why?”

“It’s uh….a little weird?”

“Let me sell it to you tactically,” Rampage said. “Night before a battle. Your tank is a little…full. You wanna spend all night getting fragged by us?”

“Yes?” Grindor blushed, horrified at the answer that slipped out of his vocalizer.

 Mixmaster burst out laughing. “Fine, keep the repair bot. But Scavenger,” he pointed a finger. “No taking it apart!”

Scavenger scooped up the little bot, and began licking the fluid off it. Grindor felt that he should have, somehow, been repulsed. Strangely, now, it just seemed endearingly odd. 

“Good,” Long Haul said. “You’re with us now. We’ll clean off the berth—NOT WITH YOUR GLOSSA YOU PERVERT,” he paused to yell at Scrapper, “and you can stay here.” 

“He doesn’t have to,” Mixmaster asserted. “If he wants to. And we’ll arrange a schedule so draining the tank isn’t this exhausting for him in the future. Look at him—poor mech’s exhausted.”

“But…he’s still with us, right?”

“Yeah,” Grindor said, his whole body succumbing to exhaustion. 

“Good,” Scrapper said. “Cause, just in case, I got that last bit on vid. And we’re not afraid to use it.”
 

 

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[linnet-melody.livejournal.com]

“Cause, just in case, I got that last bit on vid. And we’re not afraid to use it.”

*EVIL CACKLE*