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In a blind panic, handgun a melted hunk of metal on the floor and sword kicked away by one of the shuffling creatures, Cyclonus grabbed Whirl from behind and angled his chest-mounted guns at the advancing creature.
“Shoot!”
Shocked, Whirl hardly registered the firm hands around his guns, a strangled noise left his vocalizer in lieu of actual words.
“Just shoot!” The guns warmed quickly in his hands with each energized shot. Whirl didn’t shove him off once the first creature fell, moving easily with how Cyclonus moved him. He angled him towards the next one, then the next one, until there was a disgusting, fleshy pile of bodies around them. Cyclonus, seemingly realizing he was still rather involved with Whirl’s personal space, let go the moment he was shrugged off. Whirl hunched forward in exhaustion, hands on his knees and his fans loud enough to hear. “That was most of my ammo stockpile.”
“Then let's get back before more of those things find us.” Cyclonus rifled amongst the bodies to find his sword and eventually did, magnetizing it to his back. Whirl seemed to stumble for a moment and initially, Cyclonus didn’t think to help. Then he tripped over a very easily avoidable rock and he sprung to catch him. Whirl, now putting seventy percent of his weight on Cyclonus, was radiating what seemed like too much heat. Sure, they both tended to limit their close physical interactions, both for their images and their tendency to turn to violence, but this might be a problem. Would using his gun’s for so long and so suddenly cause overheating? Cyclonus has never thought of himself as a helicopter expert. Or a Whirl expert, for that matter.
-
Ratchet insisted to check over Whirl when they got back, citing that this kind of exhaustion was unexpected, especially from a bot like Whirl. Cyclonus kept watch from outside the medbay, quietly worrying to himself. He watched the medic heft Whirl up and say something to him and head towards the door. Cyclonus could’ve sworn the ship should’ve had more wheelchairs around if only just to transport mechs in this state. Whirl would be the kind to refuse, even from someone like Ratchet.
“Will you be watching over him?” Ratchet’s question shook Cyclonus from his thoughts. Whirl blinked at him.
“I suppose.”
“Make sure he gets plenty of fuel. Nothing is physically damaged as far as I can see, just low fuel levels. Happens with these kinds of installed gun mods.” He nodded towards Whirl’s chest. His guns, which had been folded out to be examined, snapped back under his cockpit.
“Understood.” Cyclonus offered an arm up to Whirl again, and he took it gratefully, grumbling something about medics under his breath.
-
They made it back to Cyclonus’ habsuite without any issue. It was an odd hour, not many people were roaming the halls. Tailgate was even out with his minibot-squad for movie night, so they had the room to themselves. Cyclonus had purposefully not mentioned Whirl being “injured” when Tailgate commed him upon hearing his return, as not to worry him. He didn't know if Whirl would stand two mechs fussing over him.
Cyclonus helped Whirl onto the slab and untangled himself from his spindly form.
“I’ll be back with fuel. Stay here.”
“Can’t get very far anyway.” Whirl hummed. As soon as Cyclonus left, Whirl was plagued by thoughts of his claw-tipped fingers and strong arms. He flopped back on the slab, limbs splayed. Surely all this was a result of the energon loss. He was going a bit loopy. More loopy than usual, at least. His engine thrummed in his chest and he placed a claw over his face. “Goddamnit.” He vented.
Cyclonus returned a few klicks later with a large glass of energon with a straw and two cubes extra. He sat down next to him and offered the glass.
“Drink.”
Whirl, not wanting to get up, extended his auxiliary intake port from his wrist and placed it into the glass, completely ignoring the straw. If Cyclonus thought it was odd, he didn’t so much as blink. As soon as the energon landed in his tank the fresh charge made him shudder. In an attempt to hide this, he pushed himself upwards to sit, briefly glancing at Cyclonus.
“So your on-board systems draw directly from your fuel reserves?” Cyclonus asked, for the first time in cycles attempting small talk. Or just any conversation to fill the silence of him gently feeding Whirl of all people.
“Yeah, makes it easy. Until something like this happens.” He chuckled, able to speak easily without removing his intake from the glass. “Which hasn’t happened in ages , by the way. You just caught me off guard.” His optic narrowed. “Do you not have any internal guns?”
“I can only access them in alt-mode.”
“Lame.” He drained the rest of the glass and retracted his intake.
“More?” Cyclonus moved to retrieve one of the two cubes he had set on the bedside table.
“I’m good, I’m good. Maybe in a bit.” Whirl swung his legs over the edge so he was sitting snuggly next to Cyclonus now. He tucked his auxiliary intake back into his wrist and closed the panel. Cyclonus noticed, again, how warm his frame was. Still was.
“You're warm.” He had the impulse to press the back of his hand against his forehead, but realized Whirl didn’t have a forehead in the same manner.
“Am I? Didn’t notice.” He examined his own claws. “Ratchet would’ve said something if it was an issue. The weather sucked on that planet.”
“Not any more than your cooling systems should be able to handle.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t fondle a mech’s guns without warning.” He shoved into Cyclonus’ personal space, optic narrowed, but not exactly angry. Yet.
“...What?”
“When you just grabbed my chest!” Whirl snapped his gun’s out for emphasis. “You're lucky I didn't yank too hard away, you could’ve taken them both off. I would be still in the medbay, these things are hard-wired.” He gestured at the area under his cockpit.
“...Is that why you’re still warm?” Cyclonus completely skipped over his own half-formed reasoning for why did what he did, slowly connecting the dots between Whirl’s exhaustion, warmth, and his hard-wired guns. Cyclonus had been around for ages. A more than passing fascination with artillery isn’t a new occurrence, but he hadn’t exactly expected… something like this.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Whirl said dismissively, crossing his arms and looking away from him.
“And what about that little yelp? Or was that just the sudden nature of it all on its own?” Cyclonus pressed further.
“Okay, okay, and? What if I shoved my hands in your chest vents? Really yanked you around by them.” Whirl surged back towards him, their chests knocking together. Cyclonus slowly reached a hand up and wrapped it around one of his still-extended guns. Whirl’s optic shuttered and his wings flicked back.
“But am I right?” He ran a thumb across the inner side of it, letting the claw scrape across the metal. Heat surged from Whirl’s frame.
“Maybe. Maybe you are.” The start of a whine just barely left his vocalizer. His charge shot back up to what it was as the last shots had left his guns, right before his body had caught up and sapped that charge right back into his frame to keep him conscious for the return trip. Now, fully fueled, he could really bask in the sensation of such sensitive and powerful mechanisms being caressed . And Cyclonus knew how to caress with the reverence that Whirl had never experienced before him. His hand drifted down to the simple joint that connected the guns to his chest, tracing the area under the apex of his cockpit, before jumping to the yet-to-be-touched gun. This time he dipped a claw into the barrel, only able to get the point of it in. He only fired low-caliber rounds. Whirl’s hips twitched as he scraped along the inside of the barrel.
Cyclonus released his guns, followed closely by a mournful whine from Whirl, before grabbing Whirl by the waist and hauling him into his lap. Whirl wanted to slide forward and knock their panels together, but Cyclonus kept him from moving too far as his hand returned to his guns, his other hand firmly dug into the softer plating of his waist. The pressure only spurred him on, his claws easily digging between seams. Whirl didn’t know what to do with his arms before Cyclonus guided him to rest at his own waist. Whirl’s optic fritzed as Cyclonus tightened his grip on one of his guns.
“Would you shoot me right here?” Cyclonus purred, pulling Whirl forward until his gun’s tapped against his chest, scraping the paint there. “In my lap?”
His vocalizer spat static for a moment before he was able to get the words out.
“If- if you asked.” Whirl vented. His hips canted forward against nothing. Cyclonus could feel the charge radiating from his still-closed panels, even with their slight distance. His own charge was spiraling upwards with Whirl’s little sounds and motions on top of the pure heat radiating from his frame.
“I want you to. Right here.” Cyclonus dragged a claw down the barrel and into the bore once more, feeling the metal heat.
“Really? You do?” Whirl tried to have a coherent thought and only partially succeeded, his guns already online and drawing energon into bolts of energy for firing. His fans only whirred louder, almost rattling.
“I do.” Cyclonus abandoned Whirl’s waist to circle his other gun. Whirl’s optic was a thin, glitchy line as Cyclonus looked at him. He dug a claw into a seam at the base of the less attended-to gun and Whirl shuddered, a broken whine escaping his vocalizer.
“Please.” He hissed, hardly any sound real leaving him at all. Whirl’s own claws weakly grasped at Cyclonus’ waist, unable to put much detailed focus towards him. His systems pinged him with a soft ready to fire . “Please, Cyclonus.”
“Do it.” He purred, low enough to send a soft rumble across his plating. He felt the twin guns in his hands heat up with the same charge that he felt before. The warmth even seeped into his chest plating, confused alarms lighting up across his internal systems. He kept his hands firm, squeezing tighter, the heat almost burning his hands as he could almost feel the bolts load and click into place. “Shoot me.”
A cry ripped from Whirl’s vocalizer as he was pushed over the edge, the charge twisting into a blinding pleasure when Cyclonus yanked his guns upwards at the last second, the bolt colliding with the wall behind him. He was still in the throes of his own overload to even register that the shot didn’t make its intended target. Cyclonus kept his grip firm and scraping, unaware of the overstimulation that was wracking Whirl’s frame as he slumped forward.
“Hands, hands, hands-” Whirl panted, trying to grab his wrists. Cyclonus let go and his hands drifted along the underside of his cockpit and smoothed down Whirl’s waist. He shuddered, folding his guns away and easing his cockpit downwards so he could rest more solidly against Cyclonus. He wrapped his arms around him and Whirl whined, rubbing the side of his face against his neck in an approximation of a kiss.
“Was that good?”
Whirl nodded against his neck, a high, crackly whine coming from his vocalizer. Cyclonus hummed and squeezed him a fraction tighter, letting his own charge die back down. They sat there together like that for a long while, Whirl’s fans slowly calming and his frame returning to a normal temperature as Cyclonus held him.