Virus, part one

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17 like whoa.
IDW
Drift/Wreckers. (This part: Perceptor, Springer, Kup)
sticky possibly dubcon (depending on your thoughts on sex slave viruses and free will) and kinks including inflation and modified watersports. I am hiding from my own id. There is also VERY LITTLE PLOT to this. Just smut. Smutty smut smut.

Perceptor felt the murmur rise up in his vocalizer, the sensor nodes of his valve trembling on the edge of release. He lowered the datapad, just for a moment, to watch--just watch--Drift's languorously lidded optics as the white mech's gloss probed deeper, more insistently, against the sensor nodes.  It was almost time, Perceptor supposed.  His ventilations cycled up, arousal blaring over his net.  Drift was so beautiful, and now, with the virus softening the hard lines of his features, letting his optics dim with desire, he was even moreso.

He’d ordered Drift just to tease, the slow build of desire. He’d wanted this to last.  It was self-indulgence, but a small one.  And Drift, with the virus, needed it. 

“Drift,” he murmured, and Drift’s optics closed, shivering with pleasure at the sound of his name.  A whimper, vibrating against the rim of Perceptor’s valve, the other mech’s glossa stilling against a node he had been teasing.  “Drift,” Perceptor repeated.  “I want to watch you.”  He ran a finger over one of the helm finials. “I want to watch you and your spike.”

Another whimper, and Drift scrambled back, obedient to the virus’s programming, settling on his knees.  His dark thighs rose over the white of his greaves, and he parted them, hand clawing at his interface hatch, wrapping around the turgid spike that jutted immediately from the housing, slick and slippery with oozed lubricant. His optics found Perceptor’s as the red mech rolled to one side, propping his head on an elbow, watching the flash of the silver spike between the black fingers, the wet slide of metal over metal, and the tension already thrumming in the thighs. 

Drift’s free hand squeezed at the berth, tight with lust, the want to overload. He couldn’t. Not until Perceptor gave permission: another of the virus’s codings, they’d discovered.  And this was an indulgence, also, a harmless one, Perceptor hoped, to indulge himself in his want to see Drift, normally so contained, so controlled, arching, whimpering and quivering, his thighs wantonly splayed wide on the berth as his hand raced the rising charge on his spike.

Perceptor felt his own desire flare in response, rising, rising with each slide of the hand along the spike, his valve seeming to throb with loneliness that only whetted his own need. 

Drift tipped his head back, hand furiously pumping his spike, his ventilation ragged and harsh.  Yes, Perceptor thought, electrified by the spectacle.  Now.  “You may,” he said, quietly, “overload.” 

Drift cried out, as though the word was the last electron that pushed him over the edge, his entire body bucking off the berth as the overload wracked him, transfluid jetting from his friction-heated spike.  He fell back to the berth,  shuddering, ventilations hard and hot, one thumb sliding over the head of the spike in a smear of silver. 

Perceptor let him lie, for a moment, enjoying the quivers of ecstasy secondhand, feeding on Drift’s openness, shameless desire. 

“Please,” Drift whispered, finally, almost a croak, optics flicking back to brightness, almost too bright, febrile with the virus.  Perceptor nodded, and Drift crawled at him, lithe as a lizard, hands clutching at Perceptor’s black hipframe, mouth descending like hunger itself on the still tingling valve. 

It was almost an assault, Drift’s mouth hard and insistent on the valve, glossa circling the rim before diving in for the sensitized lining.  Perceptor found himself writhing, hands clutching at Drift’s on his own hips, but he let himself ride it, let Drift’s mouth control him, small flicks of the glossa sending delicious shudders and tremors over his entire frame, until the shudders built, crashing over his body, his systems, in a paroxysm of bliss.

He quivered, hands dug between the joins of Drift’s fingers, hips high, for a long moment. Then, the pneumatic hiss of his limbs releasing their hold, sinking them both down to the berth.  And Drift’s optics were blue and clear, as he sighed, crawling up Perceptor’s body to plant an almost exhausted, wrung out kiss on the heated mouthplates.  “Don’t think it’s working,” Drift said, his voice raw, Perceptor’s fluid salty between them, causing static to jump the gap between their mouths.

“I know,” Perceptor said. “I’m working on it.” 

Drift settled down, sliding into a cradle of Perceptor’s arms, swearing softly. “Fraggin’ Lockdown.”

Perceptor nodded.  The mercenary had planted the virus in Drift’s systems, a little betrayal present. It had started slowly, a decacycle ago, with Drift just seemingly…needy.  But it had grown to a demand, and the two had slowly worked out the rules of the virus’s counter programming. It was a kind of research, not entirely unpleasant, but essential for understanding the code.  But it was still growing, almost evolving. Perceptor hesitated, hating to broach the subject, but knowing he needed to. “Drift.”  He stroked one arm over a white spaulder. “We have to tell the others.”

“No!” Drift went rigid in his embrace, mortified.  “Perceptor…!” 

“We have to, Drift. They can help. At least with…the symptoms.” He hated the idea himself, but feeding the virus’s need was getting too much, too draining for him.  He needed to concentrate on the cure.  Or at least be able to recharge at night.

A long pause, and he heard the sound of a mouthplate grind.  He stroked over Drift’s chassis, fingers trailing in droplets of silver transfluid, waiting. 

“…all right.”  A tiny voice, a surrender.  He knew when Perceptor was right.  And Perceptor respected when Drift needed to fight, to argue, for his own self-esteem. 

“In the morning,” Perceptor said, sliding a comforting thigh over the hip, Drift’s scabbard flagging skyward. 

A sharp, tiny nod, and Drift pushed back, leaning his backstruts against Perceptor’s blocky chest, seeking some vain comfort, wrapping himself in darkness.

[***]

“What.” Springer’s gaze jumped between the two: Drift sitting, staring hard enough at his hands that Springer almost expected them to burst into flames, and Perceptor, his face the unreadable mask it had become since Turmoil’s ship. “What the fraggin’ frag is this slag you’re tellin’ me?”

“A virus,” Perceptor said.  “It’s not unheard of, just rare.” He tapped up an article on his datapad, where he’d listed the known variants.  “Often used as a psychological weapon on POWs.” 

“He ain’t one.”

“I know. Just a little…parting gift.” 

Drift twitched, his hands balling into fists that promised violence if he ever got in Lockdown’s range again.

Springer shook his head. This is what happens when you let Kup start taking in strays. Sex viruses.  “Is it contagious? Cause if so, you better quarantine him faster’n fast.”

Perceptor shook his head. “Not contagious. I’d have contracted it by now if it were.” 

Springer tried real hard to mask the expression on his face at that thought. Thank Primus for small favors.  Bad enough it was Drift with the stupid thing.  “Why’d Lockdown pull a stunt like this?”

“For this,” Drift said, his optics still fixed on his thumbs. “Humiliation.”

“Workin’ fine, then.”

“That’s not the point,” Perceptor intervened. “We need a cure, a programming patch or override. I can find one, but we need…help managing the symptoms.”

“Managing….  You want us to frag your mech for you.”

Perceptor’s mouth flattened. “Temporarily.”

“VERY temporarily,” Drift echoed. It was almost like a contest to figure out which of them looked less happy with the idea.  Yeah, well Springer figured he was the hands down winner, here. This is NOT what the Wreckers needed. 

“How we gonna do this, then?”

Perceptor sighed. “A roster. It’s the only way to be fair.”  He tapped another document on the datapad, swinging it around to face Springer.

Frag, Springer thought, trust you to make hooking up seem like duty. “Why am I first?”

Perceptor shrugged. “Leader.”

Oh great.  A perk of leadership, finally. Too bad it wasn’t one he fraggin’ wanted. “Should go alphatbetically or something.   Age. Time in service.” 

“Real thrill for me too,” Drift snapped.  “Don’t have to be on the list at all if you’re going to be like that.”

Oh yeah? Just for that?  “No way. Not going to subject my mechs to something weird without being right there along with them.”  Plus, now that he let the idea kind of…go in his head? Drift was kind of hot. And it had been a while.

“A true soldier,” Drift muttered.

“Wrecker,” Springer corrected, “And I’ll just clear my schedule for tonight.”

[***]

This, Springer thought, could definitely be worse.  Perceptor had pinged him when the virus’s programming went live, and he’d had his doubts.  Drift was hardly his favorite mech.  Sure, he and Perceptor got it on like petrorabbits, but, yeah, Springer wasn’t really sure this was a good idea.  Still, he’d committed, and when a Wrecker committed, he didn’t wuss out.

“Right,” he said, pointing to the berth. “Uh. Lie down.” 

Drift’s optics had a sort of glassy stare as he moved, settling himself on the berth. No complaining, no dark look, nothing. Just…obedient.  Whoa.  This was something Springer could get used to.  And was more of a turn on than he'd thought.

“Let’s see what you got.” 

The black fingers moved, snapping open the interface hatch, exposing the equipment covers.  After a moment, just enough for Springer to step down to the end of the berth, Drift’s fingers moved, sure and quick, circling the covers in gentle touches, just enough that the petals irised open.

“Right. How do we do this, then?”  Springer dropped one knee on the berth.

“What do you want?”  The voice was drowsy, as though from a distance. 

“Anything?” 

A nod, as though words were exhausting.  Yeah, well, talkin’ wasn’t Springer’s strong suit either. Springer felt a dark smile curl over his face plates, his own hand releasing his spike.  “Lick it.”

Drift rolled up, curling toward Springer’s kneeling frame, optics shuttering as his lip plates parted, glossa tracing a line up the spike’s underside. Springer felt a push of lubricant, arousal firing furnace-hot over his sensor net.  

“More.”  Springer moved back, stepping onto the floor by the berth, Drift crawling to follow, his mouth seeking the spike.  Springer gave a grunt of satisfaction as the warm mouth closed over his spike, feeling the glossa tease down and up its length, Drift’s hands closing over his hips. 

Oh frag this was already almost too much.  The white mech knew what he was doing, for one thing, which conjured some pretty hot images in Springer’s mind: Drift shoving Perceptor against a wall, slithering down his body.  Oh that was fraggin’ hot. 

For another thing, frag. It was Drift: constant pain in his aft, kneeling between Springer’s legs, sucking his spike.  Springer wondered why it hadn’t been a fantasy already.  He had to fight the surge of arousal, pushing the overload back. No way. He was going to enjoy this. 

“Like that?” he growled.  He could feel the fingers tighten over his hip armor, a half-swallowed moan in the throat. 

“Good at it, you know?  You learn that in the ‘cons?”  Pushing a little further, feeling a dark belly to his lust roll to the surface.  Another whimper, the mouth sliding over his spike, glossa teasing at the nodes.  

He hissed with pleasure, curling his hands around the finials of Drift’s helm, tugging forward, deepening the thrusts of his spike into the other’s mouth. He could feel the back of the intake channel at the head of each push, his EM field flaring along with it in rising arousal.  He waited for resistance, for pushback. It never came, just an answering flare of arousal.

“You look good like this, Drift,” he growled.  “Look better when you’re swallowing my transfluid.”

A moan this time, as though Springer’s words were arousing him, the white mech’s engine revving hard and high.  He’d thought he’d wanted Drift’s humiliation—rage, embarrassment—but he found the other’s enflamed acceptance, the eagerness in the lidded optics, the mouth sucking lustfully at his spike, was…beyond maddening.  The overload burst through him, a hot jet of fluid gushing from his spike, his hands closing over the finials, to make sure Drift didn’t pull away.

The throat squeezed against his spike, once, twice, a third time, as Drift swallowed the scalding fluid, optics closed, entirely immersed in the moment.  Springer’s hips twitched under the other mech’s touch as Drift flicked a knowing glossa over the underside nodes, shocking a last little trickle of fluid from the spike before he sat back, tipping his head to meet Springer’s gaze, optics still glassy and dim as he licked his glossa over his lip plates. 

Springer caught himself hoping that Perceptor took his time finding that damn cure.

[***]

All right. Let’s just see how this works, Kup thought.  Been a while since he’d run into one of these viruses, but some things, you never quite forget, though you might have to shake the rust off a few memories. He figured maybe he’d be able to give Perceptor some hints as to which one of the ninety-four known varieties of slave viruses it was.  You know.  All in the name of the cure. That's why they paid Kup the big bucks.  Or...not.

“Let’s start easy, there,” he said.  Perceptor had given the transfer command, and as the virus worked, Drift was his until he was done with him.  No need to rush.  “Kiss me.”

Drift stepped forward, optics lidding, his mouth brushing gently against Kup’s, lipplates sliding over the cool metal.  Kup pushed into it, his glossa probing past the lipplates, and Drift’s hands came up, hesitant, to brush his audio receptors, matching the kiss.  Kup purred against the smaller mech, his own hands sliding around the narrow waist, fingertips brushing around the heavy pelvic armor, and up the fine seam of the back’s mesh mail.  Drift—virus or not, he couldn’t tell and at one level didn’t fraggin’ care—was exquisitely responsive, his body trembling against Kup’s chassis.  Which was promising. Very, very promising.

“Sit on the berth,” he said, pulling away. “On the very edge.”

Drift perched himself obediently on the berth, as Kup moved to one of his storage cabinets. One he hadn’t opened in a long, long time. He hoped the gasket hadn’t dry-rotted by now.  He took it out, testing it with his thumbs. “Let’s see your valve.”

The gasket, the hose seemed intact enough, and just the smell of them, and just the silky feel under his fingers, was enough to excite him.  He turned around. Drift had parted his thighs, legs splayed wide enough that his knees touched the sides of the berth, his valve open and uncovered, watching, expectant. The stuff in Kup’s hands seemed to mean nothing to him. Well, kid was probably innocent about the finer things in life. As a ‘con, he probably knew more than his share of straight up noncon, but this was so much more…ya know, refined. 

“This ain’t gonna hurt.”

“It’s all right if it does,” Drift said, dimly.  Heh.  Kup filed that away. He doubted Perceptor had pushed that far into the programming’s rules to figure that out. That eliminated at least thirteen contenders. 

“Yeah, well it doesn’t. I ain’t into that.” That was more Trailbreaker’s thing, really, if an old bot had a memory worth half a slag. 

A vague, floaty nod from the white helm as Kup knelt down between the legs.  Drift was a pretty little mech, and the play of the dark metal of his thighs, the small silver gaps of cables, the white pelvic frame?  Mech coulda made a living before the war just standing around naked. Well, like he was now, soft and sultry. Not like his usual scowl.  Yeah, uh, no.  Kup didn’t know what Perceptor found so hot in Drift’s usual mode.  But this?  This he could get into. Very very deeply into. 

He squeezed the gasket, bending it just enough that it could clear the valve’s rim, as he pushed it inside.  A little twitch of the thighs as he withdrew his hand, the rubber pushing against the lowest set of calipers, creating a solid seal. 

He screwed the pressure gauge into the hose, before turning the wheel-spigot.  Drift gave a sharp sound as the cold water began flooding into his valve, sealed in by the gasket.  The sound seemed to shoot straight through Kup’s sensor net, a hot blade of arousal.  He shot a glance up at Drift’s face, the mouth parted, optics wide and dim, sunk into the experience. Kup dropped his gaze back to the pressure gauge, watching the numbers climb, thinking of the water rushing in, pushing the valve’s pleats apart, filling the lining, pushing it against the calipers. His spike pushed lubricant at the thought: the valve, distended, filled, Drift’s heat slowly warming it. 

His thumb rolled off the wheel, slowing the flow of water into the valve, then stopping it.  There was a long, slow moment, filled only with the sound of Drift’s high, ragged venting, the curl of his fingers over the edge of the berth. Satisfied, Kup detached the hose from the gasket block, one hand catching the few droplets of water that slipped before it sealed, licking it off his finger in anticipation. Kup rested one hand on the mesh of Drift’s belly armor, swearing he could feel the radiating coolness of the water within.  Drift whimpered, unsteadily. 

“Walk,” Kup said, standing up, coiling the hose around one hand. “And you are allowed to overload.” 

Drift rose, moving carefully, the water sloshing around in his valve unfamiliar and off balance. He took some uneven steps forward, gasping, hand clutching over his belly, as Kup watched, feeding on the arousal that flamed from the white frame. “Keep going,” he murmured, taking Drift’s seat on the berth, feeling the warmth where Drift had been.  The white mech continued, before crying out, his entire body shuddering as the water, sluicing over his nodes, brought him to overload.  

Kup gave a purr of satisfaction.  “All right,” he said, “Come back tomorrow.”

A shudder, and a confused glance over the shoulder.  “Go on,” Kup said.  “Only, no one touches that valve.” 

[***]

It was part of the thing, Kup knew. Part of the arousal to madden himself with the thought—just the thought—of Drift struggling through the day, every step tumbling him closer to overload, every overload releasing more fluid into the already distended valve.  The best part of arousal was the imagination and a mech as old as Kup had a good one.

Still, nothing was better than the real thing, so he was more than ready for when Drift showed up, the next evening, legs trembling as he moved. 

“Stand,” Kup said, coming up behind the white mech, wrapping his arms around the waist, feeling the warmth of the mesh mail, the bump against the yielding armor, the rounded pressure of the swollen lining. He could feel--he could fraggin' see it if he knew where to look--where the bloated valve was bulging against the mail. His own arousal spiked higher, his hands skimming down to the interface hatch, flicking it open. 

He frowned at the sudden wetness on his hand. Had the gasket leaked after all?  No. It was spike lubricant, he realized.  The valve’s weight had pressed on the hydraulics of the spike, forcing it to pressure. Oh, poor Drift, he thought, a wicked smile spreading over his face.  “Have a good night?” he asked, sweetly.

“Didn’t sleep,” Drift murmured, quivering under the knowing touches of Kup’s fingers.

“I expect not,” Kup said, his imagination showing him a thrashing, whimpering Drift, shuddering with overloads. “What you need,” he said, fingers probing the intact gasket, “Is what they’d call on Earth ‘a good fucking’.” 

Drift gasped at the touch, his hips bumping back against Kup’s. All the confirmation Kup needed—he pushed Drift down, bending the shoulders forward, hauling the hips back, while he released his own spike.  Drift rested on his elbows, aft high, the black ring of the gasket dark in the silver circle of his valve.  Kup rested the head of his spike against the gasket.  “Want me to spike you, Drift?” he asked.

“Y-yes.”  The hips wormed back, Kup barely twitching out of reach.

“Say it.  Say you want me to spike you.” 

A quiver up the back struts, like a sine wave traveling along the metal.  “I want you to spike me.”

He nosed his spike closer. “Please.”

“Please!” 

All the invitation Kup needed. He hauled the hips back against his, slamming his spike through the gasket’s hose seal, and into the sloshing hot liquid.  He pumped furiously, the gasket’s rim giving friction to his spike nodes, the heated water and valve fluid from what must have been a dozen overloads gushing out with each thrust, spattering, splashing scalding on his hips, his thighs, trickling off his armor.  He hooked Drift’s shoulders, hauling him up, the thighs spraddling across his lap as he continued to drive his spike into the valve, stabbing his way toward overload, the fluid gushing over his lower frame. 

“Gonna spike you now,” he said, gasping, fighting the rising charge, but figuring it was worth a test of the programming.  “But you don’t leave till I fuck you again in the morning, got it?”

Drift tried to make some word, but it just came out as a garble of sound, his hands clawing at the air in front of him.

Kup grunted, one last thrust sending him over the edge, and his own transfluid joined the fluids running out of the gasket’s seal, rising off his hips with force enough to lift Drift’s entire frame with him, arms clamped over the swordsmech’s chassis.  Drift keened, and Kup could feel the calipers, released from their max extension at last, grip around his spike, quivering with one last, wrung out release. 

Oh frag, it had been too damn long, Kup said, feeling his systems on the edge of overheating. Out of practice, out of condition. But still, worth every klik. 

And now time to test the latent hold of the virus.  “Down,” he said, dropping his weight to one side, his spike still lodged in the valve, the gasket sealing them together.  If the virus worked the way he thought, Drift was his for the night, even though his overload had reset the program. If he was wrong, he was gonna get elbowed in the face.  Hey, no risk, no gain, right? 

Drift settled down beside him, his own frame shaking and exhausted, the hot fluid cooling between them.  He was already halfway in recharge, worn out by his sleepless night, and just before Kup followed, his spike gave a turgid swell in the snug valve, a throb against the calipers, already anticipating the morning.

Comments

[skyure.livejournal.com]

... mew ...

Wow ... Virus that makes your partner willing? Mean stuff there, really mean stuff!

Can imagine that Cons use that against prisoners.

Springer getting off on a submissive Drift? Was to be expected.

But Kup? That old pervert? Made me laugh as much as made me shiver... nice idea ...

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

anyone needs me, I'll be in the corner, in a combusted little pile of ash. omfg, I liked this a lot. and, maybe it's the nerd in me, but seeing Kup's reasoning (okay, rationalization.) behind some of what he does, just added to the hotness factor for me.

and part of me is scared that the "evolution" Perceptor was seeing might not be the virus entrenching itself... to the point that it might not be fixable if it isn't stopped in time. I'm really, really, really hoping not, but it seems a Lockdown thing to do, scarily enough.

Also, I find the thought of thirteen known variations of the virus where pain would incur a fight/resistance response? To be scary.

[akufu.livejournal.com]

I... just keep staring at this... and stare. And hope for the next pervy part *cough* *hides*

[darthneko.livejournal.com]

Oh... oh my goodness. Perceptor + Drift - fairly expected, but rather hot in the context. Springer + Drift - also fairly expected in their dynamic (oh, Springer, you're kinda an ass ^__^) but definitely hot.

Kup + Imagination - WIN! \o/ Oh, Kup. Old enough to be damned kinky. ^________^ And I love how he's ticking off what viruses it isn't by process of elimination. Heee!

But mostly overall, just daaaaaaamn. HOT. Looking forward to where this goes.

[silaphet.livejournal.com]

adoring your inimitable kinky lubricious versatility, & !Trailbreaker!? Yes please; thank you sir, may i have another? favoritest line ever = "part one"