shadow_vector | Possession

NC-17
Bayverse
Constructicons/Devastator / Grindor, slightly OOC Vortex
Sticky, crack.

tf_rare_pairing prompt "Devastator/Grindor: dominance"

When the third one came to him, Mixmaster decided it was time to step in, if for no other reason than his own continued sanity. Gestalts were wonderful things, but…not when they were prone to jealousy. Some more than others, of course. So when Rampage had railed at him about Grindor having a ‘too’ friendly conversation with Vortex, he had blown it off: Rampage was a little…hasty. And Vortex was a bit of a wanton, well…slut, but his reputation and randiness often exceeded his capacity to acquire. But now, Scavenger was more or less a puddle on the floor of his work cube, sobbing that Grindor was going to abandon them because Vortex had told him that copters preferred other copters…well. He had to make a stand.

“Stow it, Scavenger,” he said, gruffly.

“But—what if he leaves us!? I know it’s my fault. He didn’t like my art!” Scavenger sniffled wetly.

Well, technically, no one likes your art, Scabs, Mixmaster thought. Mostly because no one understood it. Which made either Scavenger some sort of aesthetic genius—yeah right—or a clueless idiot who welded things together for no reason. But Grindor had made the appropriately grateful noises when Scavenger had presented him with what purported to be a sculpture of the gestalt in its combined form that really looked morelike the last time Hightower had purged his tanks after eating way too many rust crisps—so ‘you can have us with you all the time’—so…Mixmaster didn’t think that was the problem. The copter was smart enough that if that sort of thing freaked him out, he’d have dropped into his aerial mode and flown off. Not like any of them could have followed him.

Fraggin’ copter.

And that was the problem. He was THEIR fraggin’ copter. Literally.

“Here’s a concept,” Mixmaster said. “Let ME talk to him.” Because YOU’re an idiot.

Scavenger bobbed his stupid head, the long crane cage nodding with him. “Please, do-don’t let him leave?”

Mixmaster sighed. “Not going to get all Rampage on him, are you?”

“No!” Scavenger said, a little too defensively. Mixmaster glared at him. “Uhhh, I just like, you know, knowing where he is. At all times. Just…because.”

“Because.”

“He’s cute!”

Well, that was pretty undeniable. Even the idiot occasionally hit upon something true. “I said I’ll talk to him.”

“You said that thirty-two whole kliks ago!”

Frag. Are you kidding me? “Fine. Going right now. Okay?” Anything to get you and your soggy sobbing out of my work cube.

“Would’ve been better thirty-five kliks ago,” Scavenger muttered.

***

“Ohhhhhh, Primus, yeah,” Vortex purred, facedown on the maintenance rack. Grindor angled the compressed air nozzle into the other copter’s rotor mounts. “Told you I needed another rotary to do this.”

“Anytime,” Grindor said. No big deal. He was kind of shy himself, and he figured it made sense that Vortex might not feel comfortable asking anyone else. Rotor-bracket maintenance was kind of sensitive—a non-copter might easily twist a rotor blade or otherwise hurt or damage the mounting brackets. It did seem silly to him that it had taken Vortex so long to just come out and ask, because Vortex, well, didn’t exactly have a reputation for shyness. But still, he’d asked and Grindor figured he should probably make friends on the Nemesis, so…here he was.

“You know how, you know, good this feels,” Vortex said, twisting his head to look at Grindor. “Really sensitive.”

“I know. I’ll be careful.” Grindor was a little confused by Vortex’s frustrated slump, like there was something he wasn’t getting.

The visor winked at him. “I’ll be glad to return the favor if you want.”

Grindor shrugged. “Maybe later.” He wasn’t doing this to get anything back. Just being nice. He certainly didn’t want Vortex to feel like he had to offer something.

Vortex slumped again. Grindor leaned over, lifting one blade to aim the pressurized air under the mount. Vortex squirmed. “Too much?” Grindor asked, lifting the nozzle.

Vortex growled. “Not enough.” He turned, masking the growl in a playful snatch at Grindor’s rotors. He seized one. “See how you like it!” He tugged.

Grindor stiffened as the yank on his rotor blade stabbed his interface systems operational. Oh dear. He must have inadvertently gotten Vortex, you know, aroused. “Sorry!” he said. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Tease,” Vortex said, running the blade between his fingers, rocking it back and forth in its bracket. Grindor squeaked. Uhhh, you proved your point. “Come here,” Vortex said coyly, reeling Grindor in by the rotor until they were less than a handspan apart.

“Am I interrupting something?” Mixmaster’s voice floated in from the doorway. His long arms were folded over his chassis, bulky convex armor turning him into a mass of rounded shapes. Vortex jumped back.

“No,” Grindor said. Uh oh, Mixmaster looked upset. “Just doing some maintenance.”

“Really.” Mixmaster’s face was dubious. “Care to explain what you were, ummm, maintaining there?”

“Copter-to-copter relations,” Vortex snapped. He dropped the rotor he’d been holding with one last regretful pinch.

“This copter has enough relations of that sort, thanks,” Mixmaster said, optics blazing.

Vortex snorted derisively, his optics raking up and down Mixmaster’s lumpy frame. “He can do better.”

“Yeah? Like you?”

“Well, of course,” Vortex said. “But let’s face it: better than you isn’t really a high bar to reach.”

Mixmaster seethed.

“Hey, uh, wait.” Grindor looked between the two of them. “I was just doing rotor maintenance because he asked me.” What was the big deal?

“Yeah? Well I ask you not to.”

“He can make his own decisions,” Vortex snapped.

“I know. That’s why I asked him.” Mixmaster glared back at the copter.

“Just like I asked him to do rotor maintenance,” Vortex countered.

Grindor looked blank. There was…something he was missing here. Mixmaster’s armor plates were rising like hackles. And Vortex seemed awfully tense as well. “It’s, uhh, just a rotary thing.”

Vortex nodded. “See? He belongs with his own kind.”

“What? I didn’t say that.”

“Stop putting words in his mouth before I put something else in yours.” Rampage stepped in behind Mixmaster. He ducked his head at the gestalt commander. “Sorry. Sounded like you needed help in here.”

“Sounded?” Mixmaster looked decidedly displeased.

“What? I have full audio surveill at all times.” Mixmaster shook his head. “Look, fraggit, it’s how I show I care!” Rampage snarled, his tread whips flicking. He turned to Vortex. “You heard me. Back off our copter.”

“He’s not your copter,” Vortex growled.

“Uhhhh, actually, I kind of am.” Grindor took a step closer to the Constructicons. Rampage grabbed the same rotor Vortex had snatched and showily dusted it off.

“You heard him. Kind of is,” Mixmaster said. His armor bristled. “So, how’s about you show us your cortex isn’t entirely whirled to pudding and you just, you know, whup off or something.”

“Shut up, grounder.” Vortex said, reflexively. “He’s only with you because you’re creepy and stalking him.”

“The stalking is kind of flattering,” Grindor admitted. Well, it was. Kind of. Made him feel…protected.

“Really?” Scavenger’s head popped around the edge of the doorframe. “Because Mixmaster said that stalking was like psy-psycho—something.”

“Your ART is psycho-something,” Rampage snapped.

“I comm’d the others,” Scavenger burbled, pushing into the room. “Oooooooo,” he got distracted by the compressed air hose. Psssssht! He blasted it in his face, blinking. “Neato!” He bounced over to Rampage. “Hey, try this!” He pressed the nozzle against the seam of Rampage’s interface hatch and sent a burst of air through.

“Frag!” Rampage howled. He shoved Scavenger away, roughly. “Seriously? Ruining things, Scabs.” The yellow mech fell hard on his aft, hose flying.

Vortex shook his head, sadly. “Really. You pick them over your own kind?”

“Yes,” Grindor said, firmly. “I do.” He turned to haul Scavenger up off the floor. He was vaguely aware of the sounds of the others approaching.

Vortex sneered. “They’re so fraggin’ stupid! Guess they make you feel smart by comparison.”

Grindor had had enough. The other copter could insult him, but…the gestalt had enough flak. He wouldn’t let them take any more. Not for his sake. “Hey, Scavenger. You still into tying knots?”

The look of startled hurt left Scavenger’s face instantly. “Am I!” Last deca, Scavenger had demonstrated his latest hobby of knot tying for cycles on end, as if it were some kind of magic trick. He was very good at tying them. Not so good, however, at untying them.

Grindor pushed him toward Vortex. “I think Vortex needs a demonstration.”

Rampage stepped back, whips snaking hostilely. “Not on me! Not again, you fraggin’ weirdo.”

“Pssssh. You’re no fun,” Scavenger muttered. His hands stretched the length of the compressed air hose experimentally, approaching Vortex.

“Just try something, stupid,” Vortex snarled.

“Okay.” What Vortex didn’t know was that however slow Scavenger might be upstairs, he was plenty fast physically. The ground mech whipped out with a loop of the hose, catching Vortex around the rotor mount. From there, it was pretty much all downhill for Vortex.

“See what I did there?” Scavenger said, stepping back, proudly. “I did a Double Happiness Knot there at the end.”

“Very nice,” Grindor said. The others came around to admire. For once, on the same page. They apparently agreed upon two topics now: that they liked Grindor, and they did not like Vortex.

“Huh,” Hightower said. “One improvement.” He reached over and hefted the immobilized ball wrapped in the green hose and suspended it from one of the wall hooks. He stepped back. “Yeah. Much better.”

Vortex glared at them. “My team will get you back for this.”

“Will they?” Mixmaster asked, snidely.

“Now what?” Long Haul muttered. “Late to the party, as usual. Fraggin’ missed everything. Well, except the staring at and humiliating Vortex part. Which is fun, don’t get me wrong. But….”

Mixmaster grinned. “I think Vortex here needs another little demonstration. Maybe then he’ll get it.” He pulled Grindor against him, roughly, sliding his facial plates along the copter’s. He pulled away, hesitant. “Yes?”

Grindor grinned back. “Yes.”

The gestalt thrummed across their bond—Grindor thought he could even feel it a bit—as they went through the complicated transformation into their gestalt.

Devastator grinned down, looming over Grindor, green optics glowing. “Copter.” One huge hand slammed the floor next to Grindor. “Want.” Its head scraped the ceiling of the room.

“Oh I can hardly wait to see this,” Vortex snapped. Not like he had a choice. Hanging from the wall hook, his only way to avoid it was to close his optics. And he was, Grindor knew, far too paranoid to do that. “Grindor, spiketoy.”

Grindor’s fists balled. Really? He tried to be a decent mech, nice to everyone. But it was really slagging hard right now. “Devastator,” he said, fighting to keep his voice calm. He hated losing his temper. “Lie down.”

The huge mech blinked uncomprehending for a long moment. “Down?”

Grindor nodded. “Down.”

Devastator struggled, laying itself along the floor awkwardly, the back kibble keeping the head propped up high. “Down,” it repeated obediently.

“Open.” A little less hesitation this time: Devastator’s interface hatch clicked open, the spike cover irising open. Grindor had to repress a shiver as the spike pressurized. Oh, he had more than a few fond memories there. He clambered over the leg, patting Long Haul’s frame as he did. He ran his hands down the spike, spreading the already abundant lubricant down the spike. Devastator groaned. Grindor grinned, making sure Vortex was watching.

He slicked his hands up the spike again, feeling Devastator quiver all around him. The huge mech seemed to fill the entire room, his brightly colored components a shifting carpet of desire. His own interface systems fired on, remembering his first time, the exploratory contact with the spike, not even sure if it was possible. How alien it had seemed back then, and how strangely familiar now. Devastator’s low intellect had seemed a bit frightening, unpredictable then. Now it was almost endearing, especially the trust the gestalt placed in him. He could feel the green optics on him, ablaze with lust, the mouth parted, gears spinning. And another set of optics on him, behind a red visor. Vortex, halfway between horrified and aroused. And…Grindor had a strange realization that he rather liked it that way. He lowered his head, his glossa flicking out to lick at the spike. There was no way he could take the massive equipment into his mouth, but, this much, he could do. Vortex’s optics on him inflamed him. He made a showy lick all the way up the spike, glossa swirling around the spike’s tip.

Devastator groaned, the gears spinning more wildly. The spike oozed more lubricant as Grindor continued to tease at the spike with his glossa, his hands. He circled one of the nodes with his glossa, feeling it spark against him, feeling Devastator twitch. Devastator’s own hands clawed at the floor, tearing up benches. “Copter!” it managed. Grindor’s own interface equipment tingled, already imagining/remembering the spike inside him, the way it stretched at his valve lining, the higher-rated nodes zapping his own with charge. The lubricant tasted like a sweetish diesel, the charged nodes already ionizing it into a high tang like ozone.

He gave in, to both Devastator’s plea and his own lust. He straddled the spike, lowering himself onto it, the warm lubricant sliding the spike into his valve. He shuddered as the nodes prickled against his own, his hands splaying on the gestalt’s chassis, bracing himself, controlling the rate at which he lowered himself onto the spike. He moaned, his head tossing back till it struck the engine manifold. Devastator’s hands came up, clutching at Grindor’s body—covering him from the arms down, really—bracing him to begin thrusting.

“No,” Grindor gasped. He pushed the hands away. Spiketoy? No way. He’d show Vortex a thing or two.

“No?” The hands obediently fell away, but the optics tilted, sad, crushed. “Copter?” it asked, quietly, hurt. Rejected. The happy spinning of its mouth gears slowed.

Grindor braced himself on the larger chassis, pushing himself up and down the spike. Devastator quivered, optics flickering brighter with comprehension.

Grindor braced his knees—using the arched armor of his greaves to anchor into the gestalt’s pelvic frame, Hightower’s body, and rode the spike in a slow, steady pace. The slide of the spike in his valve, the way it pushed his secondary systems aside with each entry, was maddening. He almost didn’t trust himself to be able to keep the steady rhythm, but the thought of Vortex’s hostile glare drove him on, determined him to make a good demonstration of this. He gritted his denta, glossa flicking out of the slit of his mouth in concentration.

Devastator groaned, his mouth gears spinning again, head tilted, optics enthralled with the sight of the silver copter straddling its belly, pushing himself up and down the spike, little flashes of the yellow and black spike disappearing into the silver valve, echoed with sharp shocks of rising charge in its nodes. Not just up and down, but forward and back, sending an unpredictable and powerful wash of signals across the gestalt’s net.

Grindor’s rotors quivered, vibrating with suppressed lust, determined to hold off as long as possible. Which was not easy. Foreplay worked both ways, he realized—the time he spent licking at the node, imagining the feel of the spike, had more than primed his systems for overload. Before he really wanted—even though he so desperately did want—his valve clutched, electricity firing across the charged valve nodes. The charge burst tripped the gestalt’s overload and he was sent spinning, helplessly, into another blaze of sensation as the gestalt’s transfluid shot at high pressure and extra high conductivity, into his valve, blasting against the sensitive ceiling node. He cried out, rotors flaring, as above him, under him, around him, Devastator thrashed, the massive head tilting back with the hollow roar that signaled the firing of the gestalt’s vortex grinder.

For a long moment they hung there, Grindor’s optics shuttered, reveling in the ooze of the transfluid as it sent aftershock prickles across his sensornet, Devastator’s frame shuddering, mouth gears spinning down. “Copter,” it said, happily, one hand stroking gently at a rotor. “Our copter.”

“Yes,” Grindor gasped, easing himself gently off the spike, hands reaching for handholds up the gestalt’s chassis. Another shiver as transfluid trickled out of his valve, down the gestalt’s spike and interface equipment. He flopped belly down on the gestalt’s chassis, rotors drooping languorously. Oh he could fall into recharge right here, especially after the depletion of charge from the interface. He could feel their systems vibrate underneath him, the harmonics even. It was good for them, he knew. Brought them together, forced them into synchrony. He should probably get off the gestalt. Let them retransform. Oh…in a decaklik. Maybe. He groaned, protesting even the idea of movement.

He managed to turn lazily to Vortex, who was squirming, obviously aroused, optics flickering to the silver trail of transfluid and the glossy, smeared, bumblebee striped spike. “Think you can top that?”

Possession

no subject