shadow_vector | VIrus part two

NC-17
IDW
Drift/ Topspin/Twin Twist /Roadbuster /Traibreaker /Perceptor
sticky, dubcon (sex slave virus), mild degradation, sizekink (um, dude, Roadbuster?), bloodkink also I wrote the whole thing start to finish in two days. *flop*

[***]

Twin Twist threw down the game console he was playing, stomping into the common room he shared with his twin. Sometimes being a branched spark really fraggin’ blew. Like right now.“Seriously. You gotta masturbate right when I’m about to beat the final boss—whoa.”

Yeah, Topspin wasn’t yanking his own spike. Sure, he was sending some distracting vibes over their sparklink, but that was…Drift. You know, the Mr Aloof and Stabby. Drift, straddling Topspin and riding him like he was a fraggin’ circus ride.

“Pretty neat, huh?” Topspin said, his hands resting on Drift’s hips as the smaller mech rocked over his body. “Our turn, kinda thought we could share him.”

“Don’t have any fraggin’ choice but to share, huh.” Still, there were worse things than interfacing. And the echo of the valve sliding up the spike traveling over their spark connection was more than a bit distracting. “Keyed to you, huh?”

Topspin nodded.

“Want to frag him.” His mouth curled into the wicked grin that he knew Topspin couldn’t resist.

Another nod. “Drift. Lift up.” He pushed against the white hips, and Drift obeyed, raising up his backframe as Twin Twist came around, sliding his spike into the heated valve.

“You’ll have your fun,” Twin Twist said, to his twin.

A smirk. “Believe me, I will.” Topspin pulled Drift’s helm down, locking their mouths into a kiss as Drift cried out as Twin Twist began thrusting into the valve, his hands stroking the scabbards, the planes of the hip frame. Sweet little valve, Drift had, clinging to his spike, just as his mouth planting hot, clinging kisses on Topspin’s, their chassis rocking together as Twin Twist moved.

No need for Twin Twist to hold back, if Drift’s virus had been keyed to Topspin, so he pumped harder, driving toward overload, giving one loud snarl of satisfaction as he reached the limit, his spike crackling into the valve, transfluid a hot spurt into the valve’s lush snugness.

“Don’t know how you held off,” he muttered.

Topspin winked. “Called patience, Twin Twist.” He shoved one foot back against Twin Twist’s thigh, popping the spike from Drift’s valve. “My turn.” He scooted the hips down, rising up to fit his spike into the valve, as he scooped the white frame against him. As he rose to his feet, the dark thighs wrapped around his blue armor, the valve rippling down over his spike.

He dropped Drift’s back struts down across a table, sweeping the datapads and spare magazines to the floor with one hasty forearm, the table at just the right height for him not to have to bend his legs.

“Thought you were going to share,” Twin Twist said sourly, folding his arms. The sparklink kept shooting lust through him, keeping his spike at pressure, oozing lubricant and need.

Topspin pointed at Drift’s head, tipped over the edge of the table. “You need an invitation?”

Not really. Twin Twist circled around, lifting Drift’s head. “Hey, Drift.”

The mech mumbled something, hands clutching at the air between them.

“Wanna suck my spike?”

Another murmured sound, unintelligible, but the head turned , seeking Twin Twist’s exposed spike. Twin Twist groaned, as the hot mouth enveloped his spike. With Drift’s head off the edge of the table, he could thrust the entire length into the mouth, gliding over the intake stop, the glossa and mouth sucking and flicking over his spike’s corrugated contour. Oh frag, that felt good. And even more than that, the sight of Topspin’s blue-burnished spike streaked with silver from his own transfluid, flashing in and out of Drift’s valve. And Drift, moaning softly, hands clutching between the two of them.

“Gonna kind of ruin this for you,” Twin Twist said, feeling the overload already begin to crest over him. “But frag, he’s hot.”

Topspin’s hands circled the black waist, palms against the fine mesh. “It’s all about sharing,” he retorted, picking up his pace to pound into the valve, rocking Drift on the table, the motion carrying through to Drift’s mouth on Twin Twist’s spike.

The spark link pushed them to overload together, and Twin Twist felt a hot echo of overload as he shot another load of transfluid into the white mech, both of them filling him together. Twin Twist hissed as Drift swallowed, sending waves of pleasure over his spike’s head node.

“Frag,” Topspin gasped. “Forgot something.” He quivered, his spike still juddering in the valve. “Hey Drift. You can overload.”

The white body between them arched and jolted, and Topspin felt the valve spasm against his spike, a rush of fluid washing against him. He dropped forward, palms flat on the table on either side of the white mech, the valve’s overload on his sensitized spike sending a sharp shock of pleasure over his net.

Twin Twist slipped his spike out of Drift’s mouth, cupping the helm, helping the mech sit up as he wiped one discreet finger over a trickle of fluid from the mouthplates. “Hey, uh…sorry. We get a little, you know, competitive.”

Drift wiped his hand roughly across his mouth, brow furrowed under his heavy helm, optics clearing and blue. “Fine,” he muttered.

“You sure?” Topspin petting a thigh, easing himself from the valve. “We can make it up to you at some point.”

An awkward shrug. “Not a big deal.” Drift hopped off the table, aiming straight for the door. The twins shared a look.

“Eh,” Twin Twist said. “Fun while it lasted.”

[***]

Perceptor frowned. “I am working on it, Drift.”

“Work. Harder.” Drift glowered, moving to the maintenance facility.

“Are they mistreating you? We could insist on ground rules.”

“Ground rules. Not about fraggin’ ground rules.” The hiss of a spigot turned on high.

Perceptor moved to the doorway, watching Drift snatch at a cleansing rag. “Then what is it?”

“What is it? I’m not a fraggin’ whore, Perceptor.” Something like desperation in his voice. “Did enough of that in the gutters.” The wall of his history reared up between them.

“Drift.” Perceptor placed a hand on the white spaulder. “No one thinks that of you. They know it’s the virus, not you.”

“Not the point,” Drift said, parting his thighs, swabbing at his valve rim, ignoring the hand on his shoulder. “Whatever they do, whatever they ask me, Perceptor, I want it. Not just then, but now.”

Perceptor caught the image of his face in the mirror: he looked as helpless as he felt. “I’m…I’m sorry, Drift. I’m working on it. But if I don’t find exactly the right patch, it could be disastrous.”

“What do you call this?” Drift slopped the wet rag into the sink, silver transfluid feathering off from it.

“Bad,” Perceptor said. “But it still passes. You’re still you, until it resets. It could be permanent, or lock you in a feedback loop.”

Drift’s mouth quivered, wanting to hold onto his fury, but feeling Perceptor’s struggle. And knowing that once again, the sniper was right.

“I’m doing my best,” Perceptor repeated.

Drift bit his mouthplate, wringing out the rag. “I know. I know. I’m sorry. It’s just…hard.”

“Yes,” Perceptor said. He sighed. “I should go back to the lab.” Might as well, and input the new data.

Drift looked up, his blue optics liquid and glistening. “Don’t. Please. Just…lay with me.”

Perceptor heard a world of longing in the voice, Drift asking when he had lost the ability to be asked., wanting simply to be held, respected, granted his own small need. “Yes.”

[***]

“Virus, huh?” Roadbuster shrugged. Hey, whatever. Not every day a mech got propositioned. Especially not a mech like Roadbuster. “Yeah, okay. I’m in.”

“Such enthusiasm,” Drift muttered.

“Could say the same,” Roadbuster retorted. He looked Drift up and down. “Look kinda…fragile.” Half a challenge, half a tease.

The blue optics narrowed. “Can take whatever you got.”

Really? Roadbuster’s optics glowed behind his visor. “We’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?”

[***]

Drift was somehow smaller under the effect of the virus than usual. Either that or, Roadbuster thought, he really was this small, but he just seemed to radiate himself bigger. Which didn’t matter at all: Roadbuster liked smaller mechs. Which was handy, considering that compared to him, just about every mech was small.

“Let’s see what you’re packing,” he said, leading Drift into his quarters, letting Drift step ahead of him, closing the distance to peer over the white shoulder. Drift released his spike, the silver length jutting in front of him. “Pretty,” Roadbuster said. It was. Shiny and silver and ornate. “Wanna see mine?”

“Yes.” Drift’s voice was breathy and thin and just about everything Roadbuster could ask for. If his spike hadn’t already been at top pressure, that wistful tone would have done the job.

Roadbuster wrapped one orange arm around the white chassis, reaching between them to release his own spike, dropping his knees, to push his spike under Drift’s, between the white mech’s legs. His spike dwarfed Drift’s, the silver line of Drift’s spike resting on the dark, orange-chased mass of Roadbuster’s. Roadbuster gave a growling laugh. “Built to scale.”

“Yes,” Drift said, vaguely, gaze fixed on the dark shape.

“Hard to believe it even fits, huh?” It did…barely. “Love spiking small mechs with it.” He could already feel the quiver of the valve against his spike’s lower quarter, a rush of thin fluid and heat of anticipation. He rocked his hips, sawing it back and forth between Drift’s thighs, the lubricant spreading on the dark metal. Drift seemed hypnotized, enthralled by the motion, sighing back against the orange chassis.

“Know what I like more than that?” Roadbuster rocked back, reaching his hand to help guide the spike into the mouth of the valve. Drift quivered against him. Roadbuster sighed, pushing himself slowly into the valve, waiting as the calipers splayed wide before him, feeling the lining stretch taut and eager around his girth.

Drift murmured some sound, his hands clutching over the orange arms, squeezing as the spike filled his valve, coming to rest against the ceiling node.

“I like this,” Roadbuster said, whispering in Drift’s audio, his mask nuzzling the helm finial, his arms taking most of Drift’s weight. “Just being in, feeling valve calipers around me, the lining tight. Just…being here. Filling.”

Drift whimpered, the calipers of his valve quivering against the massive spike.

“Could stay like this all night,” Roadbuster said. And that wasn’t a tease: this was the best part of interfacing for him, the silent, still intimacy, body speaking to body, just the idea of being inside another mech, pushing him on the brink of pleasure just by being there.

But Perceptor would probably shoot him if he did—the idea was to reset the virus. Which meant he had to get off. Yeah. Not really going to complain about that. He lowered one hand, wrapping it around the silver spike of the white mech. “Want you to get off for me.” More than a courtesy: the idea of Drift shuddering in ecstasy, the crack of an overload against Roadbuster’s palm, set his circuits singing with arousal.

Drift leaned back against him, opening himself up for Roadbuster, resting his head on the broad orange chassis as Roadbuster began stroking at the silver spike, lubricant slipping through his fingers. “So hot, Drift,” Roadbuster whispered. “Always thought so.”

Drift moaned against him, the valve rippling against his spike.

“Want you to enjoy this,” Roadbuster murmured, his hand riding the spike, thumb flicking over the spike’s head with each pull.

Drift murmured something back, and it took Roadbuster a few kliks to parse it out to be ‘thank you.’

The valve seemed to ripple on his spike again, like a hand adjusting its grip as Roadbuster’s own hand worked faster over the spike, feeling the electric hum of rising charge under his fingers.

Drift gave a guttural cry, and the spike, silver and sleek, seemed to jump in Roadbuster’s hand. Roadbuster heard a matching sound from his own throat as silver droplets spattered on the white chassis, his optics captivated by the sight of Drift’s body, caught in a net of ecstasy.

“Good,” Roadbuster murmured, nuzzling against the helm, the deep spaulder. “So good, Drift.” He shifted, hefting Drift’s weight off the floor easily, moving slowly to the berth, carefully laying himself down on the flat surface, still embedded in Drift’s valve, resting the smaller mech across his massive chassis. He could easily drop off to recharge just like this, warm and sated by Drift’s pleasure, his EM field fuzzing around the smaller mech.

A sudden ripple of the valve against his spike, calipers moving like a wave. And then another wave, up, then down, gentle and firm. “Drift…?”

A quiet sound, hands threading with his, and the valve’s cycling ripple continued, teasing his spike, goading it to arousal.

It was the virus. It was just the virus, he told himself, pushing Drift to bring him to overload, the virus wanting to reset, driving him to need.

But still, it was a strange, almost tender gesture, and Roadbuster found himself tensing, his entire attention rapt in the delicate ripples against his spike. His broad hands pawed, petting the white armor of Drift’s chassis, squirming on the berth, like an ocean surging and ebbing below Drift. He began gasping, ventilations hot and gusting between them. A sound began building, deep in his chassis, building to a long, enduring roar, seeming to shimmy through his entire frame. The overload crested on top of the sound, flooding over his net, scalding against Drift’s tight, silky valve, and he felt Drift, finally, arch atop him, carried away by the same power.

Roadbuster could feel Drift returning to himself, the coding of the virus going dormant, stage by stage. He loosened his grip, almost sheepish, aware of the sudden awkwardness between them. “Don’t have to leave,” he said, hearing, and wincing at, the plaintive tone in his own voice. He felt Drift stiffen, half turn, the optics blue and hard and searching over one shoulder, before the shoulders settled, inexplicably, back down on his chassis, a deep vent cycling down against him.

[***]

Perceptor caught himself pacing when Drift returned. He wanted to blurt ‘where have you been?’ but the answer to that was obvious. He was with Roadbuster. Perceptor had written the roster himself. He just…hadn’t expected it to take all night. “Drift…?”

An awkward shrug. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Are you all right?”

“Fine.”

Perceptor searched over Drift’s body, looking for scratches, bruises, anything to give a hint what had happened. “You…stayed with him.”

“He asked me to.”

“Before…?”

A shake of the head, Drift pushing past him to the maintenance facility. “After.” A frown. “Told you. It’s staying. What they want. It stays.”

“I’m sorry.”

Drift went rigid, something halfway between despair and anger warring on his face. “Not your fault, Perceptor.”

“I should do more. I should have it solved by now.”

“You’re doing your best.” It was the soft understanding that wounded Perceptor, Drift, in the depths of the virus, giving Perceptor sympathy, wanting him not to hurt.

“I’ll do better.” I promise.

[***]

Trailbreaker practically purred with delight, as Drift drank the cube. “It’s just an accelerant, and fuel,” he explained. He’d been careful, explained to them both—before the virus took effect—what he was going to do. What he wanted to do. Perceptor had frowned, seeming to withdraw into a blacker and blacker cloud, but Drift had merely nodded, expressionless. He’d only spoken up when Trailbreaker said he could stop him at any time. Drift had shook his head. “Virus won’t let me.”

“Have you tested it?”

The two had exchanged a glance. “How,” Perceptor asked, slowly.

“Have you given him permission, under the virus’s coding, to say no?”

Another exchange of looks, sheepish. Yeah, well, there was your answer, and there was all the proof Trailbreaker needed. They were just too naïve to try to work these things through.

And so here Drift sat, optics hazy and dreamlike, sipping the additive-energon, waiting for orders.

Trailbreaker didn’t often get to give orders. “Drift. I want you to tell me ‘it hurts’ if it begins to bother you. Can you do that?” He’d spent the intervening cycles trying to figure various virus workarounds. If Drift couldn’t say ‘no’, he could at least do that much, right?

Drift blinked, seeming to check against his coding. “Yes.”

Relief on both sides, and Trailbreaker began to wonder just how much of Drift was in what was sitting before him, how much he could see and feel and react. It was horrifying and yet…strangely arousing at the same time. “Good.” He almost couldn’t wait, dropping down to one knee in front of Drift, running one hand up the white ankle. “Does that feel good?” It seemed vitally important to know.

Drift nodded, draining the rest of the cube, and waiting, almost placid. It was erotic and yet disturbing, so different from Drift’s usual silence. Trailbreaker wasn’t sure he liked it. Ridiculous, he thought. You’d think the best thing someone with his proclivities could ask for would be an entirely obedient, empty hull.

But it wasn’t.

He pushed forward, his chassis against the white greaves, mouth finding Drift’s, the lip plates parting under his, hands curling over his shoulders. Well, Drift wasn’t a total zombie: he reacted, and beautifully, his glossa almost shy, darting against Trailbreaker’s, his hands clinging and wanting. Trailbreaker felt a purr of desire bubble from his chassis, pushing forward, to lay Drift out along the berth.

“What we talked about,” he whispered. “Before.”

“Yes.”

“I want to.” A twinge of excitement. It had been a while since he’d gotten to indulge this particular taste.

“Yes.” Acceptance, nothing more.

Trailbreaker gave a rumble of pleasure, reaching into a storage compartment on his back, withdrawing the fine blade. In his hands it seemed almost fragile, dainty. He held it between them, both their optics studying the flash of light over the blade, measuring its keenness, its potential for pain, for pleasure.

He lowered it, slowly, finding a small gap in Drift’s elbow. “Here,” he said, letting the anticipation build between them, before he lowered the blade, moving sharp and fast, slitting across a fuel line.

Energon seeped, a fat pink droplet, from the cut, as Drift gave a small hiss of pain. The accelerant he’d given Drift would kick in his autorepair soon and fast: Trailbreaker was nothing if not careful. And he had his forcefield generator on, ready to create a localized field, if necessary, to stop a leak.

He bent his mouth over the cut, glossa flicking out like a serpent, for the bright splash of the energon’s sweetness. Another hiss from Drift, the warmth of Trailbreaker’s mouth sending ripples of pleasure through him. Trailbreaker bent farther, sucking on the small cut, begging it for more, as Drift shivered beneath him. The small shiver of pain sent a flare of matching desire spiking over Trailbreaker’s net.

When Trailbreaker raised his head, his own optics were glazed with lust, his glossa drowsily licking over his mouthplates. “Yes?”

Drift mumbled, his own head lolling back.

Trailbreaker shook his head, shaking off the arousal’s cloud. “Answer honestly.”

“Yes,” Drift breathed. “It feels good.”

A growl of unsated pleasure, and Drift found Trailbreaker’s mouth covering his again, the taste of his own energon sweet and tingling against his glossa. His hands slid under Drift’s backstruts, lifting the hipframe, fingertips seeking the gaps in the armor between the pelvic framing and the thigh armor. He flicked his small blade out again, making another small cut in the line, shivering with pleasure as another droplet of pink welled from the new cut, at the top of Drift’s thigh. He turned the leg, so that the droplet swelled, and then trailed down the dark armor, leaving a glossy pink trail. Drift squirmed, propping up on his elbows, following the pink line with his optics, whimpering as Trailbreaker pressed the cut hose, squeezing out another droplet.

Trailbreaker bent lower, his glossa cupping under the belly of the droplet, savoring the sweetness, optics dimming in delight, before he traced the slow line back up the dark armor. Drift gave a soft sigh, watching the mouth on his thigh, Trailbreaker’s rapt face as the mouth fastened on the wound, nipping at the lips of the cut, sucking out a few more drops of energon before the autorepair accelerant kicked in.

He growled, lifting his face from the join of Drift’s thigh, lower lipplate pink-smeared and glossy, giving Drift a predator’s look before lunging forward, pushing Drift onto the berth, one hand crushed between them to release his interface hatch. Trailbreaker’s spike jutted between them, hard, aroused, slick with lubricant. Trailbreaker’s mouth found Drift’s throat, his dentae tearing at the throat cables scraping raw and sharp on the exposed lines. His hands snatched at Drift’s wrists, pinning them over the smaller mech’s head, bearing his weight down on them: mastery, control.

Drift bucked his hips up, and Trailbreaker took the opportunity, driving his spike into the sleek valve. A line ruptured under his assault, tart sweet flooding Trailbreaker’s mouth, and he growled, feeding, hungrily, his spinal struts arching and smoothing as he surged his spike into Drift’s body.

Trailbreaker fought his own desires, the need to monitor Drift its own arousal to him, a line that held him back, deliciously, restrained him from excess. He lifted his head, optics dim, energon spattered on his mouth, his chassis, as he caught Drift’s optics. “I want,” he gasped, his voice raw, fighting for control, forcing the confession of his own desire, “the taste of you. When you come back from battle, cut, bleeding, covered in energon, I want to pin you to the wall, and lick it off you, taste it all, energon and pain and victory.” He ended in a groan, inchoate with desire.

Drift shuddered beneath him, grinding his hips against Trailbreaker’s pelvic frame, rocking the spike in his valve. Trailbreaker cried out, his optics blanking, squeezing shut, mouth pulling into a rictus of ecstasy, hands squeezing at Drift’s slender wrists, his heavy chassis pressing hard against Drift’s. He vented, hard, hot air gusting between them, the scent of Drift’s energon sweet between their mouths, and Drift lifted his head, mouth meeting Trailbreaker’s, in a hungry kiss that didn’t fade until the febrile light dimmed from Drift’s optics.

[***}

“It’s a theory,” Trailbreaker said. He’d carried Drift back, after a second round of interfacing had exhausted the smaller mech. Drift lay, half-asleep, on the berth beside him as Perceptor fussed over him, casting quick glares at Trailbreaker as he patched the small cuts.

“Theory.”

“It’s worth looking into. He could tell me if it hurt. Because I told him to.”

“He wouldn’t be able to tell you no.”

“Is it worth a shot? Look. It’s getting worse. The worst it could do is…not work.”

Perceptor frowned, pushing his distaste aside. Because Trailbreaker was right. It could work. It would fit the malignly elegant simplicity of Jhiaxus’s codes. “I’ll try it.”

“I thought you might want to be the one,” Trailbreaker said. He reached out a hand, brushing the teal arm. “I…can’t imagine what it’s been like for you.”

“Not infected.”

“No. You’re not. But you’ve had to hand him over, night after night, to other mechs. Trusting them.” Trailbreaker shook his head. “I don’t think I could have done it.”

Perceptor’s mouth worked. It had been more difficult than he wanted to admit, his chassis burning with jealousy every night, jealousy and guilt and horror edging on despair at his own helplessness. Perhaps Trailbreaker’s suggestion was folly, perhaps it wouldn’t work. But he clung to it as a desperate mech clinging to a lifeline, however feeble and thin. And Trailbreaker’s quiet understanding…melted some of that hot pain. He gave a nod, turning away, unable to stop the emotion from scrawling across his face.

[***]

He could almost time by now when the virus took over—excruciatingly attuned to the changes in Drift’s posture, his ventilation cycle. He was ready. He hoped. He wasn’t sure he wanted this to happen, because right now, it was a hope that it could work. If he tried, and failed, all he had were half-written patches he was honestly a bit terrified to try. If this failed it did nothing. If his code patches failed….? He dreaded to think.

“Drift,” he said, stepping in front of the white mech, watching the optics glaze.

“Yes?” The voice had taken the hazy, dreamy tone.

Perceptor touched the black arm, then the chin, tipping the face up to his, meeting the bleary gaze, keying Drift to him. “Drift.”

“Yes.”

He bent lower, planting a kiss on the mouthplates, one he knew that if this worked, he’d never be bold enough to do, and hating that it had taken the virus to embolden him. He broke the kiss. “Drift. Purge the virus.”

He waited, his hand cupping Drift’s chin trembling with tension. Please work, he thought, as if that did any good. If wishes worked, Drift would have been cured days ago. But still, please work. Please, may Trailbreaker be right.

The optic shutters closed, the head tilting, and for a long moment, nothing. Perceptor hung, torn between calling Drift’s name and fear of interrupting a defrag and cache purge.

And then the optics opened again, and they were clear and blue, and Drift’s shoulders shifted back, almost imperceptible, to their usual posture. “What?”

Perceptor had never been gladder to hear that voice—Drift’s voice, clear and free of the virus. It worked. He sank down to his knees, on the floor before Drift, shaking with relief, releasing tension he hadn’t realized he’d held. “Nothing,” he said, fighting giddiness. “Just…glad to see you.”

A smile, hesitant, but genuine. “Perceptor. We recharge together.” That tone of simple common sense.

Almost a sob of relief. “Yes.” Yes we do, he thought, and never again would he send Drift off to another mech.

“Acting weird,” Drift murmured.

“And you? Are you feeling…all right?”

Drift’s brow furrowed under the heavy helm. “Fine. Tired, though.”

“We can recharge, if you want.”

A nod. “Yeah.” Drift seemed almost surprised to notice he was already on their berth, but he shrugged it off, laying himself on his side, gesturing for Perceptor to join him. Perceptor lifted up and over the white mech, curling against the back struts, his longer legs slotting in against the backs of Drift’s thighs. He could feel the heavy exhaustion through Drift’s EM field, night after night of interfacing, of wakefulness, taking their toll. He wrapped an arm over the rib struts, his spark warming as Drift wriggled back against him. Drift raised one of Perceptor’s hands to his mouth, planting a light kiss on one knuckle. “Don’t know why I’m so tired,” he murmured.

“Long story,” Perceptor said. He’d tell Drift. The mech had a right to know, after all. And he’d rather tell Drift himself than have him find out another way. But he’d tell him in the morning—one last act of selfishness, to keep this tender moment between them. He nuzzled against the helm’s audial fin. “I’ll tell you in the morning.”

A slow nod. “Just…had the weirdest dreams….”