Induction

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW
Deadlock/Megatron, Soundwave
sticky
also yeah so I got bored and half-assedly remember electromagnetic induction motors.  My high school physics teacher would be devastated that the first logical thought was 'how can I turn this to robotporn?'  Voila induction mods for valves. 

“This one,” Soundwave said, tapping his finger on the datapad screen. “He will be an asset.”

Megatron leaned over, calling up the specs. “Small,” he said. “Negligible armor.”

“Armor can be acquired. Spirit cannot.”

“You’re saying this...,” Megatron squinted down at the screen, “Drift is an investment.”

“No more than any of the arena fighters.” 

One of the strange paradoxes of Soundwave, Megatron had learned: the mech was almost emotionless, but he was an almost frighteningly sharp judge of intangibles like character. Megatron scrolled through the mech’s history. “Gutters,” he said, finally.

Soundwave nodded. “He’s been overheard stating that he would have died just like those in Nyon at Zeta Prime’s hands.”  No details on where or when or how he happened to be ‘overheard’, but Megatron strongly suspected Rumble or Frenzy and their bar-hopping ways.  They’d been known to ply a mech with free liquor to free their glossas.  They enjoyed the work and Megatron certainly didn’t begrudge them their pleasures.

It was always easier when the mechs they scouted were halfway to falling anyway, when all they needed was the tiniest nudge. He didn’t want unwilling warriors, not in this fight. There would come a time, perhaps, when mindless cannon-fodder would be an asset, but not now. Not for this work.

“No basic report on intelligence.”

“He’s been trained. And performs…beyond expectations.”

Almost praise, if Megatron didn’t know any better. “All right.  Arrange it.” 

[***]

The message was a surprise. Mostly that there was no talk about money, none of the usual covert language the contracts Drift signed onto. Merely a date and a time and some passcode: C-12. 

He’d shrugged, shutting down his Lightwave interface. It was too obvious for an ambush, that was for sure.  Mechs wanted him dead, but no one would do something so obvious and expect him not to show up armed. Or if they were that stupid? They’d deserve it.

And now, he found himself here, a cycle before the time on the message, optics narrowed as he scouted the area, searching the growing crowd for any familiar face or slightly too sharp return glance.

A few hard looks: he was known, he was recognized. He kept one hand floating over his holster, just to give the sign: he knew, he recognized as well.

A quarter cycle before time, he saw others cut through the crowd, the hard bustle of mechs with a purpose. Drift let himself be pushed back, toward the far wall, toward the vaulted door, in case he needed to bail.

He caught sight of the insignia a moment later, the purple of dried innermost energon, the sharp wedge shape. Decepticons.  Why would they want anything to do with him? He stayed out of all that mess. He was just trying to get by. 

One came up to him. “Password.”

He blinked for a moment. “Yeah. I’m not sure I belong here.”

“Password.” The mech stepped closer, his bulk blocking any exit angle Drift had.

Drift frowned. “C-12.”

A brisk nod, and a hand on his arm. “You go here.”  He found himself dragged away from the wall, closer to the front of what was being set up as an ersatz stage. His hand covered his holster, but all his optics could spot were Decepticon badges. Lots of them. Yeah, bad place to start trouble.  

He didn’t have too long to wait, just long enough to get edgy, studying the other mechs in the audience. Had they gotten the same message? Some didn’t look like downworlders—too clean and polished, without the tight desperation he still remembered.  But they were no threat to him.

Megatron was.  He recognized him from the holovids, even a mech like Drift who barely paid attention to the news. None of it affected him, none of it was truth. It was all lies, anyway. He knew the truth: he’d bodyguarded half the sleek, oiled mechs who glowed so primly on holovid screens.  But Megatron….

Drift knew power. Raw pure power. Not money or influence or blackmail, but the kind that radiated from a mech himself, a sort of inner strength, barely leashed violence.  And Megatron exuded it like a vapor.

And his wariness evaporated the moment he heard the other speak. He couldn’t speak to Megatron’s quality of voice or rhythm or vocabulary. But he knew that what Megatron said took the anger and wariness in him and twisted them into something powerful and with purpose. He began to look around the room with new optics, seeing them not as threats but as allies, others brought here from the seeds of their own discontent, wanting to be told they could accomplish…something. 

And then Megatron seemed to find him, optic to optic in the middle of that crowd and said clearly and calmly, the words ringing in Drift’s spark, “Drift. I have heard great things….”

[***]

And he was forgotten about, for a while, after that night, sent on to training, further tests of his skills, then put to work. The glow hadn’t faded from that night, not for Drift. He clung to his new name, clutching it like a first possession, burning bright against his spark.  He felt galvanized, as though his armor was harder, his optics keener than before.  All his skill, all his will and force, he put forth into the missions he was assigned to. He didn’t complain, his optics and audio wide open: listening, watching, learning. He had a purpose now, a way to make things happen.  He burned with the zeal of a true believer.

And he didn’t try to get attention. He didn’t seek it out. But his skill and his zeal would not go unrecognized.

He found himself, then, closing a door behind him, pistols heavy on his thighs, feeling a tightness in his belly as he met the red optics that leveled at him from the chair.  “Megatron.”  Respect, bordering on reverence, in his voice.  He still remembered that night: Megatron could see it in the tight quiver of his frame. 

“Come here,” Megatron said, stirring the air with one hand, idly. 

Like Deadlock would do anything but comply. He stepped closer, the confident step of a mech who knew—at last—he was worth something, stopping just as his greave bumped Megatron’s shin. His mouth twitched as he came to a stop, curious, almost wary. 

Megatron sat forward, stretching one hand out for Deadlock’s hip.  Another twitch, this one surprised and eager, from the smaller mech. “You’ve not disappointed,” Megatron said. 

“No,” Deadlock said. His own hand quivered, wanting to touch, but not entirely sure. 

“Cautious, Deadlock?” Megatron chuckled, amused.  “Never thought that would be said of you.” A tease, a goad, and Deadlock snapped at it like bait, his hand closing over Megatron’s arm, sliding, juddering, up to the shoulder.

Megatron rose, scooping Deadlock up with him, the smaller mech’s weight—Courier Light—almost nothing to his power load.  Deadlock struggled for a klik, that disoriented squirm of someone used to feeling ground under his feet, before settling, his hands hooked over Megatron’s shoulders.

“Interesting modification to your valve,” Megatron said, evenly, conversationally, as if he didn’t have the other mech suspended, half-clinging to him. 

The full, frowning mouth twitched as though cut. “Long time ago. I don’t do that anymore.”

“Yet you still have the induction mod.” He knew: Dustoff’s medical reports on incoming recruits were always thorough.  The mod told a story of its own: a mech forced to sell his body, determined to at least try to sell it to a higher class of mech.  Induction mods were upper class only. He must have paid a pretty price in a very ugly market to get one.

“Never got around to getting rid of it,” Deadlock said, but Megatron could feel the heat behind the squirm this time, the way Deadlock jerked back when his interface hatch bumped Megatron’s. Megatron let the moment stretch, curious.  Deadlock squirmed again, clutching and trying to wriggle away at the same time. “…yes,” Deadlock said, finally, giving in to the question Megatron didn’t ask, because he didn’t need to. 

He carried Deadlock over to the map table, where the war’s progress was laid out in a fine, ghostly holo. He flicked it off, moving to lay Deadlock down.

“Easier if you lie down,” Deadlock said, his mouth still pinched and unhappy as though displeased with the whole situation. 

One supraorbital ridge quirked under his battered helm, questioning.

“…need to concentrate,” Deadlock said, simply. 

Fair enough.  Megatron turned, easing himself onto the table, taking Deadlock with him as he splayed his broad back on the surface still warm from the holoprojectors. 

Deadlock’s thighs spraddled Megatron’s hips, as he leaned forward, placing one hand on the other’s flat chestplate, his other sliding between their bodies.  Megatron gave a pleased growl as his spike released, pushing into the plushness of Deadlock’s EM field, dark and slick.  Deadlock considered it for a moment, giving it one stroke with a practiced hand before hitching up his hips, and moving to sink his valve down onto the large spike. 

Megatron could feel the mesh unpleat, like a flower unfurling, as his spike nosed its way in. He could feel Deadlock’s focus as the mech spiraled open the standard calipers to his valve, feel the stretch of the mesh around him until his spike’s head bumped against the contact plate at the ceiling of the smaller mech’s valve.

He’d always enjoyed this about smaller mechs: the feeling of fullness, ownership, possession, just lying here, his spike bedded deeply in their bodies, the mechanisms struggling to contain him, on the line between pain and pleasure.

Deadlock settled backward, his optics going distant, and Megatron felt a sudden, pulling click, his spike’s rim jerked hard against the valve.  And then, the slow roll of the electromagnetic valve, the solenoid-like rings slowly pulling current over his spike.  He could trace the current, slow and steady, feel the slight timephase that let it seem to roll up his spike. It was…exquisite.

Deadlock sucked a slow vent of air, his attention fixed in that distant way that told Megatron of a HUD, where he was monitoring something. What?

Oh. 

He felt the current speed up, to the point where he couldn’t trace it anymore, then a rise in charge, then slow down, a carefully controlled set of variations that brought charge, and then let it fade, absorbed into the valve nodes, and raised it again in a maddening tease.  It felt like his entire spike was in contact, not just the surface plating, as though his entire body shivered under the magnetic field flux. 

It was impossibly arousing, and he wasn’t moving a single actuator, merely lying still, while Deadlock manipulated the current flow in his valve mod. It was a luxury beyond what he could imagine, two mechs motionless save for the tiny current-carrying rings around the valve.  Deadlock’s mouth was parted in concentration, the standard calipers periodically giving little flutters of arousal.

He felt the charge building in his spike, an unusual sense of fullness, as the energy gathered in his spike, dammed up against some intangible barrier.

Deadlock gasped, “Higher capacity than I’m used to,” like an excuse, the calipers squeezing against the metal girth, as he continued to flux the field around the spike. 

He didn’t need an excuse: Megatron could feel it coming, the overload, the tension and buildup in his spike almost dwarfed by the quivering in his frame, his entire attention focused on Deadlock, on those small solenoids. He barely noticed the hot trickle of lubricant—his own—seeping from the valve, unneeded. 

And then it hit, the current reaching a voltage, jumping to the contact plate in the valve’s ceiling, cascading between them, pulling them together, like a circuit. 

Deadlock gave a harsh cry, arching up, sparks crackling over his frame, in the sweet thrall of the overload, while Megatron, beneath him, felt his engine roar, his spike’s fluid almost a secondary release compared to the hard detonation of raw current. His hands clawed into Deadlock’s hips, bracing him there in place, feeling the prickle of current even there. 

Deadlock hung for a long moment, blank and rapt, as the induction rings slowed themselves to stillness, feeling the slick heat of transfluid and the raw ache of the electrical overload, leaving him sore and sated, isolated in some kernel of himself, before he seemed to come to himself, come to an awareness of where he was and who he was with.  The mouth reshaped itself from its bow of ecstasy to its usual flatness. 

Megatron unhooked his fingers from the hips, giving rough, ungentle strokes down the dark thighs, fingertips tracing the holsters of Deadlock’s guns. 

“What you expected?” Deadlock’s voice was gravelly, as though even his vocalizer was running extra charge. 

“In all ways,” Megatron said, pausing to let Deadlock lift himself off his spike, feeling the mesh lining push to compress itself, “you exceed expectations.”

Comments

[wind-on-wave.livejournal.com]

Oh. Oh wow. WOW, cause of your Megatron and Deadlock in such relations and, aww, awesome Deadlock who just become a decepticon.
And, oh yes, i like this not-only-spikes nsfw scene, that you write :o