NEHIP 2: Unclean

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
Bayverse AU
Starscream, Barricade
WARNINGS: Sticky, noncon, mindfucking, disturbing mechpreg

 

He had fully expected the copter to take him again after his recharge, as a sort of toll or pledge of silence. Or claim.  He was surprised, then, when the grey-skinned copter merely muttered, “I won’t tell anyone,” before checking the hallway to clear the jet’s exit, leaving Starscream feeling like his condition was a filthy secret.

In a way it was, but not the way Grindor thought. The filthy secret was what he had to do with the Fallen. The recharge had done him some good, but having to curl in the cramped position so that both of them could fit in the small room had left his servos stiff. Still, he had been simply too tired to move.  And Grindor was doubtless suffering the same effects from the cramped conditions, but he had not complained. 

He looked down at himself once he reached his own recharge, and finally, really took notice of himself for the first time in solars. He was, charitably, a mess. A mass of various fluids had dried on his lower chassis and legs. Some had started flaking off whitish grey. Some had bubbled the rubber of his gaskets. And. It smelled. He had been unaware of it before. He stank. Reeked of dried transfluid and lubricant and poor-maintenance.  He slumped on the edge of his berth. Just too much effort. To clean himself up? For what?  Were they even fighting a war anymore? Could he even still call himself a warrior? Would his warriors even respect him again?

Bad enough imagining their loss of respect getting to spike him. A process which seemed to be…never ending. Spawning an entire new batch…how often?  He groaned in pure misery.  But when they discovered he enjoyed it?  Had the Fallen thought he was HELPING?

He flopped down, miserably, on the berth.  His door chimed. He closed his eyes, wearily, for a second, checking his reservoir capacity. Yes, he could take one more, at least, without maxing it to the point of pain.

“Enter,” he said, dully, rolling his head to see who it was, who, this time, was going to demand to spike him. How hard a show he’d have to put on. And, not in some small part, who would want to spike him in his filthy and disgusting present condition.   Barricade. Great. Just had his first spiking in however long, and back for more from the one mech he knew he could get it from.

“Fine,” Starscream said, spreading his thighs where he lay.  “Get it over with.” 

Barricade froze, staring at him.  “Did—didn’t come here for that.” 

“What do you want, then?”  he asked, numbly.

“I—“ Barricade approached. “Primus, Starscream, you’re a fraggin’ mess.”  His eyes were glued to the sticky, flaking, corroding mass of the jet’s legs. 

“Flattery, already?”

Barricade scowled.  “Not in the mood, right now. What happened?”

“You are part of it, Barricade.” 

The mech stared at him for a long moment, shifting his gaze between the jet’s face and his legs, before turning to the small maintenance facility standard in all recharge booths.  He rattled in the supplies bin underneath, eventually dumping the contents of the bin on the floor, and lifting the hose to fill the bin itself with cleansing solvent.  Starscream watched this flurry of activity dully.  What was he up to?  Who was going to clean up THAT mess, too, now?  He hadn’t the energy to clean himself up. 

The smaller mech dragged the bin over to the berth and draped drenched cleansing rags over as much as he could reach of the inner cabling.  Starscream hissed in pain.  “Sorry,” Barricade muttered.  “Non-dilute. Thought the condition needed it.” 

Starscream struggled to his elbows, looking down his body at his legs.  Yes, he needed straight cleanser—Barricade was right about that. 

“It’ll sting for a few kliks, but it helps. Trust me. Especially if you ever want to feel clean, a little pain helps.”  Something about those words, or the tone of voice, snapped Starscream out of himself.  Barricade had been gangspiked…how many times before?  He’d probably woken from recharge more than once in this condition. 

“I am sorry.” 

Barricade looked up. “What are you sorry for?” As if Starscream didn’t have the right. In a way, he didn’t.  The jet had certainly joined in more than once. 

“For…having done this to you.” 

The mech shrugged. “Not a big deal. Not any more.”  He lifted one of the cloths, evaluating.  He replaced it with another from the bin, and began scrubbing. 

“Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?”  Starscream gritted his denta against the scrubbing, but he had to admit even the small clean patch made him feel…so much better.  “I should not have let myself get in this condition,” he muttered. 

“Psychological defense,” the smaller mech said, flatly. “Figure if you get yourself disgusting enough, no one will want to touch you.  Make them see how many other mech’s fluids they’re spiking you through.  Problem is, a lot of them get off on that.” 

“Ohhhhhh,”  Starscream wanted to apologize again. Desperately.  Just for…everything.  “You did not come here to clean me up,” he prompted.  Barricade knelt between the jet’s legs, peering under an armor plate, his rag working up and down power cables and servos with detachment. 

“Gonna have to get you to full maintenance at some point, to get into the fine wiring here,” the mech mumbled.  “Won’t really feel clean til you can do that.”  He looked up. “Yeah?”

“Barricade, why did you come here?”

The mech laughed. Harsh sounding. “Wanted to talk.” Embarrassed, but hiding it.

“We are talking. What would you like to,” he winced as Barricade scrubbed at a join in his armor, “talk about?”

“Meh. There’s no avoiding it, really.”  Barricade wrung out a cloth and turned, applying it fresh and full of non-dilute cleanser, to the jet’s valve.  Starscream bit down a cry. “This.” 

Starscream spoke through gritted denta. “I honestly do not know what to say, Barricade. I am sorry that I altered your code.” 

“Want to know what you did and why.” 

“I do not know why.  I did not know what I was doing, or its ramifications.”

“Ramifications. Right.  Apt word.”

Starscream flinched.  “I was…just hoping it would help.”

Barricade threw down a rag—it slapped wetly on the ground. “Why you even care, huh? Why suddenly give a FUCK about what happens to me?”

“I do not know, Barricade. I do not know.” A litany already lame in the jet’s own ears. 

“Yeah, well, what? Just because you’ve been spiked all of a sudden you’re going to be the fraggin’ champion? Save us all?  By what?! Making it feel now? Is  that what you did?  Is that the idea?” Barricade’s hands were shaking in rage, cleanser droplets shaking apart on his talon-tips.

“It—it does not hurt, Barricade.”

“I heard you screaming.  Don’t you fucking lie to me.” 

“It does not hurt. I swear.” 

“Oh, right.”  Barricade wadded up another rag and thrust it into the jet’s valve with one finger.  Starscream gasped as the cleanser stung the sensitive membrane. “So…THIS doesn’t hurt.”

“It does, but…it does not during a spiking.”

Barricade swore.  “They already count on me passing out, you know.  You know what it’s like? Waking up you don’t even know where covered with trans from Primus knows how many mechs—like they made it their mission to spurt it all over you, as if your valve wasn’t good enough for them?”  His face was angry—he rubbed the cloth in harsh circles over the jet’s valve housing.

“No. I do not know what that is like,” Starscream said, lamely. He didn’t know what to do in the face of the mech’s rage.  Desperately, he blurted, “You may stay with me.  I shall put out that I am spiking you and no one would dare to touch you.”  He realized as the words left his vocalizer what a stupid thing that was to suggest. First, Starscream had no authority anymore.  Not with everyone having had his turn with him.  Second, it didn’t give Barricade any dignity: being known as the spiketoy of the mech everyone else had spiked—lowest of the low. 

“You would touch me.” 

“I would not.”  A shudder as he thought of the Fallen. He didn’t even want to think of his spike.

“Oh, fuck you, Starscream.  Like all of a sudden you’re so honorable and noble? And so…you’d be the only one ramming my valve and I’m supposed to be grateful?” 

The words stung more than the cleanser. Not honor. Not here. Just…disgust at what he was facing himself.   “It…it does not hurt,” Starscream said, stupidly. 

“What? You say that enough times I’m going to believe it?  Fine.  Sure.”  Barricade climbed on the berth.  “Prove it to me.  Spike me.”  He straddled the jet’s wider hips, thighs spread.  “Spike me. Prove it.  Or admit you lied.” 

The jet quivered, not even half aware what he was feeling.  Just…awful.  “Will it convince you?” he asked, softly. The issue of whether or not Barricade would ever forgive him was not even on the table.

The mech’s eyes on him were hard, then melted. “Yeah.”

“Fine.”  Starscream calculated: he could do just enough to prove his point and then stop. The last thing he wanted to do would be to contaminate Barricade with the corrupt mix of fluids leaking from his reservoir into his spike in overload.  Barricade had had enough of that.  “Lie down.”  He pushed himself up, with effort.  Barricade’s cleaning efforts, he hated to admit, had helped.  He felt a bit more…decent.  He hoped it wouldn’t take long to convince the mech. 

He pushed one of the mech’s thighs aside, levering himself toward the valve. “Barricade,” he said, calmly. “Your valve cover is cracked.” 

“Yeah,” the mech said, defiantly. “Tired of getting the damn thing replaced.” 

“Could you retract it, please? If you insist on going through with this…experiment.” 

Barricade grunted, sitting up.  It took him two tries to pry the cover off.  He flopped back down.  “Show me how wrong you are.” 

Despite himself, Starscream’s spike was erect and leaking lubricant.  Was he aroused by the smaller mech?  His attitude? No, the jet’s mind kept flashing back to the mech’s cleaning of his battered lower body.  That was a Barricade he could…. He stopped the thought. Spiking had no place for that kind of thought. Properly, he should be simply proving his dominance to Barricade. Here, proving himself right.  He pushed his spike in, slowly, eyes anxious on the supine form beneath him. He saw the frame tense, bracing for something.  He paused when he had pushed all the way in. “Hurt?”

“No.  But you’re going slowly. No one ever does.”  Fighting to the last. 

“How fast would you like me to go, as a fair test?”

He felt the talons tug at his hips in a quick tempo. “Like that.” 

“And how hard?” He was not going to spend all cycle having Barricade invalidate trial after trial because some condition was unaccounted for.  He didn’t have the energy.

“Let you know.” 

“Fine.” He began thrusting into the smaller mech, gently at first, at his rhythm, but then harder, and harder.  Barricade’s face was unreadable.  At times his labial plates seemed to quiver, but he didn’t signal the jet to stop.  The mech’s eyes were hard on Starscream, almost hateful.  Starscream had to fight a rising tide of desire—mechanical reflex, he told himself.  Merely spike on valve.

“GGGGGGUuuuuuuuuhhhh!” Barricade cried out, tossing his head back. Starscream felt the valve…move against his. Not the way the Fallen’s had—quicker, harder, more intense.  He stopped, halfway in, the sudden reaction after so much silence and stillness shocking any built-up desire out of his system. 

“Barricade?” 

The mech’s hands locked into his chest armor. “Finish! Do it!”  I cannot, the jet thought.  The Fallen. My fluids…contamination.  But the mech’s insistence and his own spike’s desire overrode his senses.

Starscream, concerned, nonetheless continued thrusting into the mech’s valve, feeling his desire recapture his sensornet, and build.  The mech’s face had gone back to unreadable, but his hands stayed linked in the jet’s armor, yanking him harder and harder toward him. Not pushing the jet away. 

With a moan half born of despair, the jet felt his spike overload into Barricade’s valve.  Which seemed to move as if a thing alive around him. He collapsed onto his elbows, barely holding himself off Barricade.  Beneath him, the smaller mech was panting.  Starscream heard the unmistakable whir of heat sinks. 

A wash of regret—all the reasons he’d told himself not to overload into the mech came back over him.  He pulled out, hurriedly, as if he could take back the spill of fluids. 

Barricade lay limply while Starscream frantically scrubbed at his filthy spike.  Barricade hadn’t gotten to clean that earlier, and though his spike had only been in the Fallen, it was still…dirty.  Contaminated. Wrong. 

“That,” he said, “cannot happen again.”  He tossed a rag to Barricade.  “Clean yourself, please?”

The mech sat up, slowly, swabbing the rag gingerly around his valve.  For a long moment, they said nothing.  Barricade gave one last swipe along the gloss of his armor and tossed the rag back into the cleanser.  “Fine. You were right. That didn’t hurt. Could’ve done without the ‘last time I lower myself to touching filth like you’ bit there at the end, though.”

Starscream looked at him, confused. When had he said anything like that? “I merely said—“

“I heard what you said.”

Starscream trembled. Did he dare tell Barricade the truth?  Did he care what Barricade thought of him? No. He could not.  Some things he could not do. He could not even think of words to describe the horror of last daycycle, those long agonizing cycles emptying his reservoir into the Fallen’s valve. Much less could he think of forcing those words out of his vocalizer.  To say them to…anyone was…impossible.

“Think what you like, Barricade,” he said, pettishly.  He checked his chrono against his duty log.  A few cycles left.  He dropped on his back, next to Barricade, on the berth and closed his eyes.  Next to him, Barricade shifted.

“Do you want me to leave?” 

“You may stay,” Starscream said, neutrally, though really more than anything he wanted Barricade to go back to cleaning the scunge off his legs.  Time enough for that later.  Later.  He heard the mech pull farther away from him, almost as if giving him room. 

“Starscream?”

“Yes?”

“What is happening to us?”

Again he would have to say the words. "I do not know."

Starscream trembled.  One did not easily defy the Fallen. One did not, actually, defy him.  But here he was, trying to at least negotiate.  It was not going well.  His one knee ached where it had rested on the floor for a cycle. 

“I have explained your duties to you,” his master said.

“I understand. But perhaps there is…another way.” 

“What part is intolerable?”  Primus, all of it. 

“I cannot perform these duties.  Choose someone else.  I admit…,” the words came hard to him, “I admit failure.”

“Impossible.” 

“I do not see why.  Someone else can do this.” 

“You do not realize what an honor I have bestowed upon you, making you the co-creator.”  Starscream’s capacitor stalled in disgust.

“I do not want—I am not worthy of such an honor,” he corrected himself. Please, choose someone else. Please.  I cannot. I cannot.  I am…already ruined. But please….. 

“No. You have been chosen.  You have already been prepared.”

“I—there must be another way.” 

“To do what, exactly? Do you refuse to collect the fluid?”  An affirmative vibrated in his vocalizer.  But then, no. If he did get relieved—it would merely fall to someone else.  Someone else would have the horrible degrading task of…oh it was unspeakable. His memory flashed to Barricade.  He shuddered. And…and doubtless that new collector one day would show up at his recharge, offering his valve and…would he refuse?

“It is…inefficient,” he suggested, carefully, “how the fluid is transferred to you.” 

“Inefficient.”  Testing the lie.  “That is your concern.” 

“Yes.”

“Rise.” 

Starscream pushed to his feet, confused.  The Fallen’s voice gave nothing away. 

“Step forward to me.”

No…no no no no.  What had he thought? A thin tissue of hope shredded.  He tested the codes on his spike chamber, knowing what was next. This time, at least, he would not be forced. He would not allow the Fallen’s programming into his own. He would spare himself that much violation. 

“Raise your arms.”  Perplexed, he complied.  His master’s hands came around him again, one wrapping behind his waist, the other bracing against him.  He froze, as his master stretched his hand toward him again, remembering too well last daycycle’s painful drill.  The long fingers tapped against his body, and paused. “Here,” he murmured. “You wish greater efficiency, yes?”

“Yes.” 

“It will be less pleasurable.”

I don’t care. I don’t care. Just…. “Yes.” 

“This is your request.”

“Yes.” 

His master’s face was unreadable.  “Spike,” he said, quietly.  The jet retracted the spike cover.  His master reached with…oh, horror, that one digit again, pushing into the spike’s central line.  A ripple of pain tore across Starscream’s vocalizer.  The prodding sensation gave way to a solid, stable burn.  He gritted his dental plates together. 

“Guh!”  His shoulders arched forward, as his master began siphoning the fluid directly from his transfluid reservoir.  A hollow, cold, hateful pain.  A sucking pain, though it made no sense.  This lasted…ages it seemed, but by chrono, less than a cycle before the Fallen withdrew his digit.  Starscream collapsed to his knees, choking on pain and horror. 

“More efficient,” the voice was cold. “Next solar, the first ovapods will be ready for extraction.  I shall require more fluid within a decacycle.  Be prepared.” Decacycle.  He had his time limit. 

He shuddered.

 Part three: Violation