Sixshot's saviors have thrown his armor into a volcano, held him down, and tied him up. He's not complaining.
Title: Portion Control
Warning: Sex, cannibalism, naked robots, people who don't know what they want or how to get it. More sex.
Rating: R
Continuity: IDW, sequel to Wolfsong
Characters: Sixshot, Terrorcons
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors.
Motivation (Prompt): Eabevella has this slight obsession with Sixshot/Terrorcons, and thus a commission was made. Thank you!
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Part One
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Theoretically, Hun-Grrr knew what the other Terrorcons were up to today. They'd run their plan by him for approval, first. That didn't mean he'd truly paid attention to what he'd been listening to. At the time, he'd been up to his fuel tanks in bargaining for supplies from aliens that he normally ate. He'd grunted vague agreement to Cutthroat's proposal on the basis of it seeming relatively harmless compared to the alternative.
The alternative being the Terrorcons not doing anything. A plan that kept his team of misfits occupied got an automatic pass. He was negotiating for whatever supplies their limited shanix could buy, and the unit needed to be elsewhere while he did so. Preferably too busy to think about making their own fun. The last time he'd left them on their own without something to do, they'd come looking for him. Hun-Grrr couldn't even buy stuff from that species online anymore, they'd gotten into so much trouble.
Tasty species, though. It had sort of been worth the stack of murder and destruction of property charges, and they'd grabbed anything that hadn't burned to shove onto the shuttle before fleeing from the authorities. They'd definitely gotten more than their money's worth, having ended up spending nothing and taking everything.
But piracy, however filling and profitable, wasn't exactly restful. That had become increasingly important the more coherent Sixshot became. The Terrorcons thrived on rampaging throughout the galaxy, uprooting their temporary bases and skeedaddling out of the quadrant just ahead of huge ships full of angry Galactic Council peacekeepers, but their guest didn't. Impatience had them chomping their many mouths, but they'd all come to the frustrated conclusion that catering to Sixshot's needs like nannybots caring for a sickly weakling was better than a dead Sixshot. They liked Sixshot alive, weak or strong. They'd worked too hard scraping him back in that direction to give up now.
The extent of Sixshot's injuries was well past their limited medical experience, and a lot of it was structural. Ununtrium undercoating on his protoform made repairs to his internals nigh-impossible, and his armature was forged from metals drawn from the compacted subatomic matter of a collapsed star. Seriously hardcore like whoa kind of construction. They had his stats memorized because Sixshot was the baddest aft among badafts - they weren't fanbots, okay, they just really appreciated living weaponry, especially the type who brooded and pretended not to care but had the driest one-liners ever heard among Decepticons - but frag if the Terrorcons knew how to repair his broken, busted, mangled, and just plain flattened armor.
Yeah, whatever had stomped Sixshot and left him bleeding out in a crater? Hun-Grrr had a healthy respect for it. As in, he wanted to stay healthy. He'd respect it from a distance, given a choice. The Terrorcons had picked fragments of Sixshot out of the ground, metal snapped off the half-dead Phase Sixer like Hun-Grrr snapped crisps apart, yet their combined efforts couldn't manage banging out a single dent in that same body, much less actually reconstruct anything. They'd been welding scrap metal over the worst of the rents to shield his protoform.
Sixshot's best bet at recovery lay in letting his self-repair handle the damage, slow but sure. Lacking the medical equipment and skill needed to do more than patch over the worst injuries, the Terrorcons had substituted stuffing Sixshot's reservoirs full of raw material and keeping him topped up. It worked, at least in a manner of speaking, but only as long as he rested.
Hence the need for peace and quiet. Frequently running for their lives switched his systems from slowburn recovery to survival overdrive. His systems chewed through energy and metal alike to prime him for escape from any perceived danger. It took forever to calm him down again afterward. Even when Sixshot seemed calm, his processors were on high alert, extremely aware of his vulnerable state and ready to redline at the slightest hint of threat. Every time the Terrorcons abandoned their temporary bases and took off in the shuttle ahead of a Galactic Council cruiser, Sixshot remained tense for days. Those were days of regression instead of recovery. He tired faster, processed fuel less efficiently, and leaked like a sieve as stress-elevated fluid pressure put strain on tubes not ready for hard use.
Hit-and-run raids were all well and good for getting supplies without paying, except Sixshot got suspicious about why they kept knocking him out. There were only so many rocks they could pick out of his fuel lines as an excuse for why he had to shut down. Besides, eventually their luck was going to run out. One of the outposts they hit would get a shot at the shuttle. They could hide minor wounds and lie about where they picked up the (scorched) supplies while Sixshot had slept, but shuttle damage wouldn't be as easy to keep under wraps. He'd get stressed out, one way or another.
Locking the Terrorcons in the shuttle for weeks on end was a recipe for disaster, too. They needed to land and build a base just to get out and do something that wasn't stepping on each other's toes. It just wasn't a bright idea to lock five action-crazed Decepticons in a shuttle, hyped up on combat to come or past combat or fleeing from combat. Hun-Grrr included himself in that count. Fortunately, he didn't have to worry about Sixshot when the Terrorcons got violent; any form of excitement whatsoever exhausted Sixshot, but the Phase Sixer had a bizarre tendency to doze through their infighting or watch them bicker with the mild interest of a bystander. However, the shuttle itself couldn't take too many more bursts of gunfire from the inside.
So, piracy? Not a solution. It ended up being the opposite of restful in any form.
That left avoiding confrontations altogether. Which required being law-abiding visitors to whatever planet or settlement they ended up on. Hun-Grrr swore it was an obscure type of divine punishment for the war, or perhaps an Autobot plot to make them suffer. Ugh.
Reluctant as they were, the Terrorcons found legitimate work to earn shanix and did fair trading to convert those shanix to the supplies they needed. It sucked and they loathed it, but they managed. They'd always been pretty good at scavenging, and that wasn't too bad a job. Digging through old battlegrounds got them enough old junk to sell as well as kept them fed.
And Starscream said cannibalism wasn't a solution. Ha!
Trying to control the whole unit while trading with aliens usually resulted in finding out those aliens were tasty, so Hun-Grrr handled bargaining for supplies. He hated commerce. Spending money for things he could just take irritated him, and waiting in line to buy stuff pricked his temper. No Terrorcon had patience in great abundance. Keeping the fraying edges of his in place while playing nice with merchants made the urge to smash and grab worse. He was in a foul mood by the time he tromped out of the spaceport settlement.
The trek across the ice back to the shuttle hadn't done him any favors. He was cold down to his powerplant, and he knew there was no relief in sight for that. The base's heating was minimal.
He had been cold, that was. Either Blot had fixed the furnace while he'd been gone, or a heatwave had swept the area in the last five seconds. Maybe the volcano further down the lake shore had redirected to spill lava in this direction. Hun-Grrr would have a hard time moving out the way if it had. He stood stunned in the bunkroom door and stared.
The blanket-wrapped lump on his berth shifted uncomfortably. "You're letting cold air in."
Cold air. Yes. Ice planet. Winter. Base without a working furnace. Very cold. Was it warm in here, or had his internal temperature skyrocketed?
Hun-Grrr numbly stepped through the door to let it close. Two resets later, and his voice finally worked. "Is there a reason you're naked in my bed?"
"…yes." Sixshot eyed him warily from inside the bundle of thermal wraps. The Terrorcons had been using them to keep the ice out of their joints when they recharged. The Phase Sixer had apparently taken every one he could find in the bunkroom and constructed a nest on Hun-Grrr's berth. Despite the cocoon of silvery wraps (and one fluffy yellow one covered in a strange 'rubber duck' creature motif), he looked curiously small.
Lacking armor did that to a mech. Hun-Grrr's multiple mouths all went desert-dry yet watered copiously at the same time. Knowing his team had intended to strip their resident Phase Sixer to the protoform and having the proof in front of him was quite different.
His staring pressured more words out of Sixshot. "It's closest to the shuttle."
Hun-Grrr blinked at the wall. Okay, that made sense. His berth was the biggest, but it was also the warmest due to how they'd built the base cozied up to the shuttle fuselage. Shucked out of his armor, Sixshot had to be slagging cold right now. "You could go inside and cuddle up to the engine, y'know." Even parked, the had enough systems running to put out a ghost of warmth. That was more than the furnace output today.
Sixshot busied himself burrowing further into the thermal wraps. "Didn't think getting engine grease in open wounds was a good idea."
Wounds now exposed to the world by removing his armor, and the Terrorcons would go to town attempting to do something about those as soon as they were finished with his armor, but a thrill of glee zipped through Hun-Grrr's tanks. Oh ho, it was like that, eh? A sudden concern for cleanliness after months of their grubby paws all over him? Heh. He didn't think so.
Some mechs had trouble admitting they belonged in packs. Sixshot had been on his own for so long he probably couldn't put into words what he craved. Hun-Grrr, on the other hand, was an old hand at bullying stubborn Decepticons into joining the herd and following his lead.
The Terrorcons were a unit, but their beastmodes recognized the military hierarchy of their team as pack behavior. It knit them together. Even in the down times, the boring times between active duty when combat didn't keep them together for strategic purposes, they had each other. Sixshot hadn't had anyone.
Hun-Grrr could imagine it. He hadn't dragged his group together by the scruffs of their necks just because they all had bestial altmodes. It wasn't even just because they fought better as a team. It was because they did better as a team. Fighters without a purpose started to feel an aching void when there wasn't violence to fill their time. Hun-Grrr crammed a sense of unit cohesion into that void until his mechs fragging well swallowed it down and internalized it as team.
The other Decepticons thought it weird that they'd named themselves the Terrorcons, but they were a unit. They did stuff like that. They picked cool names, pooled shanix to buy shiny new weapons of destruction, and started fanclubs over an awesome Phase Sixer. Most importantly, whenever the fighting paused and the emptiness threatened, there was always somebody on the team that the faltering Terrorcon could go pester until it went away. Usually Cutthroat, for some reason.
Hun-Grrr hadn't been really thinking about recruiting Sixshot the way he had the Terrorcons, but he'd had a moment of hope when the Phase Sixer followed them to Mumu-Obscura. None of the Terrorcons had thought their idol noticed them hovering about him, not with how he'd gazed off into space like his mind was elsewhere waiting for the next mission, but then he'd come looking for them. They hadn't had the guts to ask why, but Hun-Grrr thought he might, just maybe, know why.
Especially when Sixshot ended up naked in his berth, asking without asking for company when he felt most vulnerable. Hun-Grrr eyed the bits of bare protoform peeking out from the blankets. Thermal wraps really couldn't be doing much to keep a mech Sixshot's size warm.
He opened a channel to his team even as he folded through transformation. *You couldn't leave someone behind to keep him company?*
Startled silence filled the line. *Huh. He wasn't supposed to wake up for another seven hours,* Rippersnapper said at last.
*Guess you're not as good as you said at judging how much chill juice to give him!* Sinnertwin immediately heckled, and they were off.
Hun-Grrr snorted, completely unsurprised. Doping Sixshot up enough to make him pass out was a notoriously unreliable method of forcing him into statis, but it was the most painless option. Phase Sixers just weren't made to be laid up.
Sixshot didn't put up even a token protest as Hun-Grrr heaved up onto the berth and flopped down on top of him. The two-headed dragon wasn't quite large enough to drape over him from helm to foot, but the tail helped. He could curl around the exposed bits, for the most part. The exposed naked bits.
Hun-Grrr's mouths watered again.
*Did any of you stop to get pictures? Of his injuries,* he tacked on hurriedly. *We'll need those. For treatment. We'll need to repair him.* Smooth recovery, but who could blame him? He was on top of Sixshot, but a Sixshot stripped down to the metal he was forged with. A Sixshot moving very intently between his legs. A Sixshot opening the blankets to get at the heat now radiating off of Hun-Grrr. Naked, thinly-veiled Sixshot pressed from throat to tailtip, knees and thighs moving against Hun-Grrr's belly, crinkling the blanket between them in a maddening way that had to be unintentional. It had to be.
Hun-Grrr deleted a purring growl from his vocalizer and kept his hips still with an effort of will. This was not going where his interface equipment thought it was. No, really, it wasn't. This was unintentional erotic tease by blanket.
*Oh yeah,* Blot said happily. *We got lots of pictures.*
*A collection.*
*We might even share 'em if you ask real nice.*
Mass sniggering from the Terrorcons. Hun-Grrr was in charge of a bunch of guttermechs.
*It took so fragging long to get his interface paneling off!*
*You don't even know, Hun-Grrr. So long.*
*Worth it.*
*So worth it.*
*Good thing he was out long enough to get pictures of his - *
*Enough!* Hun-Grrr barked into his comlink, but too late. His team wallowed in ribald admiration of Sixshot's, ahem, equipment, praising Primus that nothing looked like it needed to be fixed. They'd looked, just in case. For posterity. They'd wanted to check for functionality, but none of them were into unconscious partners, and somewhere in their cesspit sparks they did have a shred of decency.
Or a fear of what Sixshot would eventually return on them for the molestation. Possibly a fear of what Hun-Grrr would have done to them if they hadn't waited for him.
He kneaded the thermal wraps under his paws moodily. Of course Sixshot had buried himself in blankets. They were a modesty shield. Hun-Grrr had missed out the naughty stuff by being a responsible member of society and going out to trade for supplies. Sixshot was starkers underneath him, and all Hun-Grrr had returned in time to see was mouth-watering flashes of protoform. Even the warm, squirming body between his four legs was muffled by silvery material.
His life was slagging unfair.
"Where is my armor?" Sixshot asked once he'd gotten comfortable.
Hun-Grrr craned his necks back to give him an incredulous look. "They didn't tell you why they shot you up?" His optics narrowed. "You didn't ask?!"
"What they did tell me convinced me I didn't want to be awake for whatever they had planned." Uneasy shifting made it clear Sixshot hadn't wanted to know more at the time. Ignorance was bliss, or it was until sick curiosity became a torment. "I'm assuming it worked, but...did they really...?"
Hun-Grrr recognized that look. That was the look of someone finding out about Blot's bathing habits, or what the Terrorcons could fuel on if better food wasn't available. He queried his team and got the answer he expected. "Yeah. They really did gnaw you out of your armor."
Wide optics stared up at him. "Uh."
He wasn't going to pass on Sinnertwin and Rippersnapper's ongoing debate about what the Phase Sixer tasted like. From the sounds of it, the rest of the team had gotten in on the munching enough to get a proper taste in, or some sloppy tongue in the case of Blot. Hun-Grrr struggled for a delicate way to phrase it and gave up. "Sinnertwin and Rippersnapper want me to inform you that you owe them new teeth."
It would take a while to resharpen teeth worn down to dull nubs. They hadn't gone directly at the impenetrable armor itself, but even the latches had resisted everything but outright chewing on them. Rippersnapper and Sinnertwin would be gumming their dinners for the foreseeable future.
"Um."
"If you woke up sticky: sorry. Drool's an unavoidable side-effect of eating with our mouths open, we've found."
"Urgh." Sixshot looked queasy.
Hun-Grrr's interface drive chose to pick up the unintended double entendre a minute too late. He redirected his optics to looking at the walls, the floor, the other bunks, anything but the wide-opticked mech bundled up under him. "So! Your armor's currently being thrown into the volcano." His mind emerged from the gutter in time to register Sixshot's utter dumbfoundment. He could have phrased that better. "On purpose, I mean." Primus stomping minibots, could he put his foot any further down his throat? "It's fine."
Much staring commenced. Sixshot didn't seem convinced that anything was fine.
Right, how about he try that 'explanation' thing again. Hun-Grrr thunked his chins down on Sixshot's blanket-covered chest and pulled in a deep breath. "We're using the volcano to get your armor soft enough to pop the dents out. The lava's not hot enough to mend the tears, but it's softening the metal enough to reshape." He decided not to mention that reshaping was being done by jumping up and down vigorously on the aforementioned armor. Their metalworking tools were extremely limited, alright? Terrorcons were big advocates of the 'Whatever Gets The Job Done' methodology.
Sixshot blinked a few times. Hun-Grrr's interface equipment pinged hopefully. Total bafflement was a cute look on the mech. Actually, the whole picture was rather scrumptious. Sixshot and naked vulnerability punched Hun-Grrr's buttons. He liked having Sixshot under him, fuel pump pounding in aborted alarm, wrapped up like a to-go packet. Edible, that was the word. Sixshot looked edible. Deliciously so.
Hun-Grrr was a great many things, but a saint he wasn't. He squeezed all four optics shut and reminded himself that no matter how many naughty pictures were being playfully thrown into his inbox by irritating teammates, Sixshot was in no shape to clang into next week. That wasn't why the Terrorcons had peeled him out of that crater, and Hun-Grrr would not accept a frag as some kind of impersonal down-payment on the rescue.
It had been offered, and Hun-Grrr had refused. If he fragged Sixshot, it would be as an equal. Well, he'd accept being fragged through the berth by the Phase Sixer at full-power, but he wouldn't take interfacing as an act to be endured. He didn't think he could take watching Sixshot lowering himself to that. The very idea made him slightly ill, or like he wanted to kill something.
His body thought it a wonderful idea, however. Hun-Grrr gritted his teeth until his jaw creaked. Somewhere under the layers of thermal wraps, Sixshot's port and cable were open to absolutely everything. He could almost smell them. His own set begged him to dig into the warm treat under him. Just a taste. A small taste. He could just...sample.
His forepaws flexed in the blankets. Both his throats worked in a hard swallow.
A compromise was a good idea, surely. Sixshot was filthy inside his cocoon, filthy and cold. The others had drooled all over him in the process of stripping him down, but Hun-Grrr would bet a bag of snacks that none of them had thought to clean him up afterward.
"Turn over," he ordered roughly.
"Why?" Puzzled, Sixshot hesitated.
There was an almost audible snap as the last frayed threads of Hun-Grrr's overtaxed patience gave up.
"I said," he arched his necks to snarl low and threatening on either side of Sixshot's head, "turn over. Or I will make you."
Sixshot's optics rounded. White light glimmered around the red where the frames opened wider than the lenses. Hun-Grrr winced internally, already berating his loss of control. Threatening to tear an invalid a new one was the best way to promote recovery, right? Oops.
The Terrorcons were well aware that Sixshot knew down to his struts he owed them, he depended on them, and he'd awkwardly assumed the role of a Decepticon stuck in that subordinate, submissive position. They'd had a more difficult time adjusting to their new rank relative to him. Standing over their idol just didn't seem right. Hun-Grrr still didn't believe deep in his spark that he was more powerful than the mighty Phase Sixer Sixshot.
Sixshot terribly, humbly, intimately knew who held his life in their hands. His fans rattled, and he froze under the Terrorcon leader. A disobedient Decepticon soldier, even another Terrorcon, would expect a bite or beating as punishment from an officer like Hun-Grrr. Sixshot was clearly prepared for either. He didn't move until Hun-Grrr's heads rose to allow it. Then he rolled over on the berth at a speed just below a scramble.
Hun-Grrr's foreheads thunked down between Sixshot's shoulders. He tried not to feel the way Sixshot sank down as if trying to disappear. Fragging Pit.
Realistically, he couldn't screw this up any more than he had. It wasn't the best consoling thought, but Hun-Grrr repeated it to himself as he started to groom Sixshot.
The familiarity of the act settled his temper as fast as it had flared. It felt a little strange grooming Sixshot when he wasn't in his wolf altmode, but it wasn't the first time Hun-Grrr had done this. Admittedly, he hadn't done it since Sixshot had recovered enough to speak, but still. Grooming was grooming.
He ran his smaller front teeth over ununtrium-coated metal, scraping delicate stripes through the thinnest layer, the polish layer. His fangs would have gone deeper, but even wounded and naked, Sixshot was too tough for Hun-Grrr's teeth to actually puncture. Instead, the shallow grooves through the topmost layer sent a signal to self-repair systems to pay attention to that area of the surface. Hun-Grrr's tongues, while not as serrated as Cutthroat's - backward-pointed barbs, the #1 reason nobody asked Cutthroat for oral - stimulated nanite activity as he rasped them along the back of Sixshot's neck. Stains, grime, and everyday dirt fell to the tiny nibbling bites working over the mech's protoform.
Hun-Grrr concentrated on careful grooming Sixshot's exposed head. It was kind of odd that his face mask didn't come off when the helm did, but maybe the latches just hadn't come off? Gnawing at Sixshot's throat in an attempt at prying the mask off probably wasn't a good idea. Hun-Grrr nibbled the frail framework sheltering Sixshot's brain module as he turned the problem over in his mind. There was no reason he couldn't work on it.
Sixshot made a small noise, arms moving up the berth. Hun-Grrr idly stepped on his forearms, clawed paws pinning slightly larger hands down, and Sixshot stopped. The Terrorcon snorted approval into the sides of his neck, and Sixshot jolted a bit. Hun-Grrr began licking at neck cables next, working his tongues into the tangle of hoses, conduits, and wires to get at the mess of leftover fluids from past injuries and current state of disrepair. He curled his tongues to rasp at dried energon, one mouth stretched wide around the back of Sixshot's neck and the other nosing into the mech's bared throat structure.
Another small, soft noise came from somewhere in Sixshot's vocalizer. Hun-Grrr paused, fangs dimpling the shock absorber cushioning the Phase Sixer's neck struts. "Rrrr?"
"Nothing."
"Rrr." Hun-Grrr mentally shrugged and started around the sides of Sixshot's neck. The nice thing about having two heads was that he could groom both sides at once. Too bad the mech didn't appreciate it. Sixshot hands were twitching under his claws, pulling back in tiny motions in time with the gentle rake of teeth on metal. When Hun-Grrr nipped under his chin in reproof, Sixshot stretched his throat out in surrender but arched up, pushing against Hun-Grrr as if to escape. Hun-Grrr huffed annoyance into the side of his neck from one side while getting a firm grip on that presented throat with the other head. If Sixshot wouldn't hold still for his grooming, then Sixshot would get held down for his grooming.
Tsk. It didn't help. If anything, the squirming picked up. Hun-Grrr grinned. Was Sixshot ticklish? He could feel the Phase Sixer's fuel pump picking up speed, but the frustrated, stifled motions within the thermal wraps didn't smell of fear. Hun-Grrr knew what fear smelled like.
"Prrr?" he purred at Sixshot, teasing, but most of his attention was fixed on finding the latches to the face mask. It took a minute just to find them, laving his tongue over and over the seam where mask met jawline as he tried to feel out where it fastened. As he'd thought, the latches already had marks from teeth. The other Terrorcons had given it a try, but the latches had been smashed under the mask itself. Biting through them was inadvisable. Hmm. He nibbled, teeth throwing sparks. There had to be a way to get the mask off.
Sixshot kicked inside the blankets when Hun-Grrr tried forcing his tongue under the mask. His optics were wide but dim, strangely startled. Hun-Grrr cautiously released his neck, wondering if he'd cut off circulation somewhere, but Sixshot shuddered, gasping suddenly.
Both of Hun-Grrr's heads snapped back. "What? Do you need to purge? Don't purge on my bed, ugh, hold on." His optics searched the semi-darkness of the bunkroom for a wastebin. Sixshot's tanks periodically voided all fuel. They hadn't figured out why yet, but they'd all gotten used to grabbing the nearest bucket to throw under his open intakes when he started horking.
Sixshot dug his face into the berth and snatched his hands in under himself the second Hun-Grrr released him. "No purging. I...no. I feel fine. Overheated."
"Hot, huh?" The motion shook the last layer of thermal wrap from Sixshot's shoulders. Hun-Grrr eyed them - bare protoform, broad but tantalizingly naked, a weapon of carnage and fear at its most distilled - and set to grooming them. His teeth worked in short, repetitive strokes from the arms inward, lingering on the joints. Sixshot had amazing joints. The mech was forged to transform six different ways. Hun-Grrr could spend all day slithering his tongue through the complicated swivels built into every transformation hinge, and he gnawed careful fangs over the joints themselves, teeth tips clicking off metal. He had to make himself move on, aiming for the nape of the neck where he'd left off grooming downward.
Sixshot hissed, coughing midway through and muttering something about a hydraulic letting off pressure. He shrugged further out of the blankets.
Someone must have fixed the furnace after all. It was warm in here. Hun-Grrr helpfully tugged the blankets down, muzzles nudging under the layers to sniff and breathe in deeply, pulling in air that wafted in hot drafts out from the cocoon. Sixshot writhed, caught between not fighting Hun-Grrr's paw on his back - when had he put that there? - and getting out of the smothering, unneeded, and unwanted thermal wraps.
Hun-Grrr put all his weight on Sixshot's back to hold him in place as he snuffled and nudged, pushing the blankets away to lie loosely on the berth. Ahhh, there. Unwrapped at last like home delivery of something too rich and horrible for his digestion, but so delicious going down. He took a long, self-indulgent lick up Sixshot's back. It tasted like cordite, burnt energon, and ionization from a discharged weapon. Hun-Grrr let the flavors slide down his throat and smiled, two mouths upturned as he savored. A taste. A sample.
As always, he couldn't resist going back for a bigger bite.
Sixshot arched into the sting, knees sliding forward to push up in a blatant offer.
And Hun-Grrr hesitated, self-control at its limit. His other front paw rose, wavering.
It took him a minute, but he brought it down on Sixshot's raised aft, pushing down. He couldn't open his throats enough to say a denial, not with the hot, oily scent of arousal steaming into the air in languid wisps from a port he didn't even have to see to know he want to gorge himself on. No. Not - like this. He wouldn't.
He wanted to.
Hun-Grrr straddled Sixshot's back, grinding against him, hips bucking, but he kept his panels closed. His teeth grazed over protoform. His tongue slicked back and forth over open wounds. He mouthed, licked, and groomed in mindless need, and Sixshot's small, panting sounds built up in helpless, mounting lust that matched his. Hands clenched in the discarded blankets. Hun-Grrr set his paws on them, claws tearing through the berth between the fingers but mostly just holding them still, holding Sixshot down, and the Phase Sixer made a "*!" sound as if that were something momentous, something he hadn't been prepared for.
Hun-Grrr's back legs spread, paws planted on bare legs, and Sixshot's "*!" this time was closer to a glottal grunt. Hun-Grrr ground his interface panels against temptation and held on, growl climbing to a howling shriek. Sixshot twisted, jerked, and shuddered, thighs forcibly parted and shaking from it.
After the snap and crackle of overload died down, it took Hun-Grrr a while to realize Sixshot's optics weren't dark in satisfaction. That was statis, not afterglow. The bunkroom reeked of fragging and fried circuitry, and he'd just fragged a Phase Sixer into statis.
Well, then.
A hasty check on Sixshot's vitals told him the tactile overload hadn't done the mech any lasting harm as far as he could tell. He hoped, anyway. Hun-Grrr transformed and staggered away from his berth, burning up and on the verge of having his way the wall if it would get him off. Fortunately, he had options.
He headed out the door at an ungainly gallop. *First mech to 'face me gets the secondhand aftershock of fragging Sixshot unconscious!*
*What?!*
*You absolute rusted crankshaft-breaking bulkhead-humper.*
*Dibs!*
*Nuh-uh, get back here - *
*I called dibs!*
*Not if I get to him first!*
The Terrorcons were stampeding back toward the base for what would inevitably turn into an orgy. Sixshot was knocked out and naked in the bunkroom. Somebody would eventually have to go fetch the supplies Hun-Grrr had spent the day bargaining for like people did when they were trying to do things the legal way. He'd have to supervise, or additional supplies would get stolen.
This was peace and quiet, medical care and teamwork, done Terrorcon style.
Hun-Grrr could get used to being a fine, upstanding member of society.
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