Chapter Text
They stand together, on the sand, under the cold stars. Silent. Waiting. Drift is agitated. The waiting is worse than he’d expected. If it must be done, it were best done quickly.
Instead this waiting silence forces words from his throat.
“I’m sorry, Wing.”
Wing’s plating twitches, as though he’d forgotten Drift was there. He looks small and lonely without the Sword on his back. After a moment he says, “I’m the one who should apologize, Drift.” He turns to face Drift. His eyes are downcast at first, but he raises them to meet Drift’s gaze. “We were wrong to imprison you. Can you forgive us?” His gaze dips momentarily, then returns, aching. “Can you forgive me?”
Drift thinks of the last few weeks. Dai Atlas’s suspicion, the dents and aches from fighting Wing, the locks, the secrets. Wing’s smiles. More energon than he’d had in a long time. A frame that felt better than it had in years.
“I forgive you,” he says.
“Thank you,” Wing whispers. “Drift, I have to ask—”
Noise echoes across the desert. Wing turns, abruptly, and over his shoulder Drift can see them too, approaching in a cloud of dust. Wing wheels around, and for the first time, Drift sees fear in his face.
“Drift,” he says. “When you go back… the Decepticons…” He gestures helplessly. “My city…”
“It’ll be my secret,” Drift says, his throat tight. “I promise.”
The fear goes out of Wing’s face—not for himself, then, but for his city. He is relaxed, suddenly, now that the awful waiting is over. “Thank you,” he says. “I wish you well, Drift.”
Drift opens his mouth. He wants to say something. But he can’t say the same, not after what he’s done to Wing. What Wing is prepared to do for him. It would be a slap in the face. Instead he shuts his mouth, and Wing turns away, to face the slavers. They haven’t started firing, though they’re in range. It’s true, then—they want him alive.
Wing’s swords come online in a snap-hiss of energy. He runs to meet them, and yellow blood gouts upward as the first alien falls to his blades.
Lockdown appears at Drift’s shoulder; the slavers ignore them completely, swarming around Wing instead.
“Let’s go,” he says.
Drift can still hear Wing’s swords, the anguished cries of the slavers, but this is a tide that even Wing can’t hold back.
“Pity,” Lockdown says, following his gaze. “He could have been useful to us. Still. They’ll find a ‘use’ for him.”
Drift follows him, each step heavy and hollow. A sound from behind makes him stop—a scream. Wing’s scream. Pain.
Drift is rooted to the spot. “What will they do to him?” he asks.
Lockdown casts another uninterested glance towards the battle. “We could stay and find out. But we have a schedule to keep.”
Another cry, broken and anguished.
“Megatron’s waiting, Deadlock.”
Deadlock. That’s his name.
He turns his back on the battle and follows Lockdown across the sand, into the night.
Wing keeps fighting after losing one sword; he even keeps fighting after losing the other, but it’s a short fight, unbalanced, and one of the brutes wades through its smaller brethren and picks him up in one hand. Most of the slavers are his size, but the brutes are bigger than even Axe and Dai Atlas. It squeezes, and something cracks, and Wing screams in pain. Energon bubbles up from a break in his midsection, dripping to the sand.
“Careful,” a voice says. It is the leader of the slavers. Braid, he’s heard them call him, on those nights when he kept his careful surveillance over their camp. “We don’t want it dead.”
Wing tries to burn the thing with his turbines, but it slams him into the ground hard enough that something else cracks; in his HUD one of his turbines flashes red and goes offline. He is grounded.
The brute leans over him, snuffling, and it opens its mouth. Wing shudders as two wet tongues slather across his plating. He waits for Braid to reprimand it. But the reprimand doesn’t come. Instead the slavers—all of them, even Braid, standing over him and staring down into his eyes—laugh. There is anticipation, hunger, there.
Is that what they want? His Spark flares in distress. He was prepared for pain. He was prepared to be taken apart piece by piece. But he hadn’t been prepared for this.
Wing chokes and arches, trying to struggle, but the massive hands grab his thighs, spread them, and lift him off the ground. He dangles upside-down, disarmed and dizzy from energon loss and utterly helpless to resist. Its wet mouth opens and its dual tongues slather around his pelvic span, the gaps between his armor, honing in on the heat behind his interface panel and sending little shocks of charge through him. He shakes his head desperately, struggling, resisting, but the sandpaper sensation of its tongues coaxes his panel open, and the thing descends onto his valve with a ravenous growl. Wing shrieks a broken cry as both its tongues delve inside him, slippery and rough, sticky with its saliva, spreading his sensitive mesh lining and forcing his calipers apart.
“It’s better if you don’t resist,” Braid says. “They’re not very intelligent. It’s going to take you anyway, so you might as well stop struggling—we wouldn’t want you to be too damaged.”
Wing can’t reply in words as the double tongues slither over sensory nodes, setting his systems ablaze with heat. The thing wrenches his legs further apart, burying its face between to force its tongues even deeper. Alerts flash in his HUD as his legs are pulled out of joint and he wails in pain, falling limp.
“What did I tell you?” the slaver tuts. He barks at the brute in his own language; Wing’s translation software kicks in. “Easy on the goods! It’s the only one to go around.”
The brute whines apologetically, pulling its tongues out and leaving Wing’s valve slippery and cold. It lowers him, turning him the right way up, and for a moment he is relieved—please let it stop—but then he feels, to his horror, something brush against his valve. He looks down. The appendage jutting between its legs is long, horrifyingly fleshy, ribbed, and there are tendrils coming out of the tip that wave and probe as if with minds of their own… and there are two of them. He chokes, sobs, struggles again.
The brute turns him around on Braid’s command, the better to give all the rest a good view. Wing writhes, but he’s helpless to stop that fleshy spike-equivalent from spreading the lips of his valve. The brute pulls him down in one violent movement, thrusting its hips up, and he wails as the organic spike drives deep into him, larger than his valve can accommodate without stretching, and a bulge appears in his abdominal armor as his internals shift out of the way.
The second of the two organic spikes presses up against his aft, sliding between his thighs beneath the one inside him. The brute reaches down, grasps it, guides it to his rim. Wing lets out a harsh cry of pain as it breaches him, spreading him to maximum capacity. The slavers cheer. Wing barely hears as the brute thrusts again into him, and his body bounces and rides the movement. He can feel those tendrils moving inside him, latching onto his sensory nodes to feed upon and reciprocate the charge building in each one. The pleasure is intense, matched only by the humiliation of being taken, claimed, sullied, while these creatures watch and cheer for his shame.
He’s never felt anything like this before, ever, no matter how exotic the toys he’d used, no matter how creative he’d been with his previous partners. He’s stretched so wide, but the organic spikes aren’t as solid as the ones he’s used to—malleable, like a glossa, but huge, bigger than most spikes, and those tendrils that are busily working feedback loops on all his most sensitive nodes? He’s never felt this way before. He chokes, his mouth falling open and oral lubricant spilling down his chin as he bounces on the organic spikes. His hands fall on his taut belly, feeling the shape of them as they move inside him, assisted by gravity.
“Look at this slut,” Braid says to the others, still in his own language, perhaps unaware that Wing can understand him. “Can you hear it moaning like a…” The word is untranslatable. Wing’s body feels close to overheating. He rocks and writhes, partly on his own steam now, his valve dripping with his pleasure. His charge spirals upward, upward, and he comes, shamefully, screaming his release as his valve clenches down around the alien spikes.
The brute grunts and groans piteously, tilting forward; Wing hits the ground on his stomach, gasping, and its weight falls on him an instant later, its spikes driving deep into him as its two secondary hands yank his hips back. He’s never taken anything so big that his belly stretches with every thrust. And then the spikes begin to throb, and hot liquid jets out into him, setting his sensors ablaze, and a residual overload ripples through him, sending his vision into static as its fluids pump into him.
The brute pulls out of him, though the tendrils of its spikes are reluctant to leave and tug at his nodes until reluctantly releasing him, making him gasp. His valve quivers, spread wide and open, his own lubricant and alien fluids dribbling slowly out of it. He stares unseeingly at the sand for a while, his vents roaring, his mind blank with shock and shame.
When cold reptilian fingers touch his thighs and turn him face-up, he returns to reality, focusing with difficulty on Braid’s nightmare face. The alien puts two, three fingers in Wing’s valve, grinning with all his yellow teeth.
“How does it feel inside of you?” he asks, and puts another finger in: his entire hand. Wing keens, arching weakly at the wide stretch as Braid spreads his fingers teasingly. The slaver curls his fingers into a fist and pushes. Wing gasps and half-words spill from his mouth, protests and pleas alike, his hips jerking instinctively as Braid’s fist pumps in and out of him a few times, sliding easily through the brute’s leavings, pushing deep enough to touch his ceiling node if he’d known where it was. Wing’s head falls back and he moans, oral solvent trickling down his chin.
The slaver uncurls his hand and explores with his long fingers, feeling the mesh lining, the calipers, finding the hard points of sensory nodes that make Wing twitch and gasp harshly when pressed, starting at the rim and moving inward. By the time he reaches the ceiling node, Wing is a shivering mess. He tenses up in horror as Braid finds the seal of his gestation tank and prods at it.
“What’s this?” the alien asks, feeling around it. Thoroughly. That is the most sensitive place in Wing’s valve and he arches, his legs kicking out spasmodically, keening. Fortunately his gestation tank is not ready to open yet, and remains sealed. Braid gives up, at least for the moment, drawing his hand back to the rim of Wing’s valve. He runs his slippery fingers around the rim, then pauses curiously at the hard nub of his external node. He rubs it and Wing cries out, his engines revving.
“Oh?” the slaver says. He repeats the action, and Wing’s reaction is no less intense the second time. “Interesting. Pain? Or pleasure?”
He presses on it again, his finger rubbing in little circles around and around it. Then he leans down and opens his mouth, allowing his obscenely long tongue to flick against it, and Wing lets out a high, pure note. Braid alternates between tongue and finger, sometimes rubbing, sometimes stroking, sometimes tapping, and once pinching it between two digits—that sends a lightning bolt of need through Wing. Wing’s spike cover spirals back, allowing his spike to jut into the air. Braid laughs, an ugly grating sound, and wraps his scaled fingers around it.
“Pleasure, then,” he says, pumping in short, squeezing jerks. Wing whines, arching and twisting, his fingers scraping through the dirt as he tries to claw his way backward. But the pleasure of it makes his movements sluggish, and another of the slavers steps up to hold him in place while Braid strokes his spike. He overloads with a strangled cry and a burst of transfluid that spatters hotly over his shivering armor.
“Interesting,” the slaver says again, grinning with all his yellow fangs. Abruptly he buries his hand in Wing’s valve again and Wing gasps, jerking, oversensitive. The alien’s fingers probe again at his sealed gestation tank. “I thought maybe… it seems not.”
Wing shakes his head desperately. “It,” he chokes, “it won’t…”
The alien grabs his chin. “Speak up.”
“Give up,” Wing says, trying to make it sound more like a command than a plea. By Cybertronian physiology’s standards, this has barely been foreplay, but if this keeps going…
“Not so easily,” Braid says. “Not when my kind’s future is locked in your body’s secrets.” He jerks his head up to the others. “Have some fun,” he says. “But don’t damage it too much.”
They turn Wing over onto his belly, pulling his aft up into the air, and a fresh slaver moves up behind him, long fingers pressing into Wing’s valve and spreading it open. He gasps as something thick and fleshy pushes against him. He glances back, flattening his pinions, and sees the slaver behind him has removed his lower armor pieces to reveal a large pinkish spike, one studded with what look terrifyingly like blunt spines. The alien groans and snarls as he pushes forward, sinking the spike into him, spreading Wing’s valve nicely: he’s taken bigger tonight, but this spike is the equal to a decently sized Cybertronian. He chokes as the spike draws backwards, its spines dragging against his sensory nodes: there is some pain, but it only adds flavor to the pleasure that swamps him. He lays his head on the ground as it starts up a rhythm of thrusting. He squeezes his optics closed so he doesn’t have to see them leering at him, considers offlining his audios so he can’t hear the things they are saying about him. But he doesn’t.
“I want my turn next.”
“I never thought a synthetic could be so wet, like a happy little…” That untranslatable word again.
“Wonder what it feels like inside.”
The ground shakes with vibrations and a hand grips the back of his helm, pulling him up to hands and knees. He opens his optics and discovers one of the slavers is tilting his head back, and one of the brutes crouches before him, presenting its double spikes. He tries to jerk his head away. But the spike moving in his valve makes him cry out, and before he can close his mouth, the tendrils of one spike are inside, stretching him open with surprising strength. He makes a desperate, shapeless sound of protest, that is abruptly muffled when one of the spikes plunges into his mouth. He gags, his body trying to rid itself of whatever blocks his intake, but the thing just grunts and thrusts its hips repeatedly. The other spike slides wetly against his face and audial fins.
The spike inside him is hitting all of the best nodes, making his systems sing in pleasure. His valve calipers cycle in, rippling and squeezing, and charge begins to rise again. The noises he’s making around the brute’s spike stuffed in his mouth become more like moans, and his optics flicker.
After a few minutes the brute howls, thrusting sharply forward, and Wing chokes as hot fluid gushes down his intake. More jets from its other spike, coating the side of his face and helm. He coughs as the spike pulls away, the tendrils flirting with his tongue as they go. The alien holding his helm has a hand on its own spike, pumping hard, and it’s a matter of seconds before it comes across his face too. At the same time the alien in his valve spends, filling him with liquid heat. Wing has enough left in him to override the old gestation protocols as Braid’s hand hunts around inside him again, stroking the seal of his gestation tank.
“Another,” Braid says. And Wing cries out as another alien spike thrusts home. One of its spines rubs against his external node with every thrust and he moans, dissolving into pleasure, as more alien transfluid splatters across his wings from another one stroking himself. Scaly hands stroke his armor, his wiring, his face, and a new one pushes into his mouth; he sucks freely, his optics dim and unfocused, spines rough on his glossa.
This time, when the alien comes inside of him, his gestation tank unseals.
Braid’s exploring hand this time finds the opening. He makes a curious sound and pushes deeper, sliding his clawed fingers inside. Wing writhes as the fingers stroke the inner lining; every touch feels amazing with his gestation tank open, and he arches and bucks backward, his mouth falling open and alien seed sliding down his chin, as he overloads again, valve calipers squeezing Braid’s arm.
“Interesting,” Braid says. “Now it’s time.”
They turn Wing onto his back and he lies with his vents roaring, writhing in the dust as Braid’s hand draws out of him. He looks down, blearily, to see the appendage that appears when Braid unbuckles his waist armor: it is closer to the brute’s strange spikes, but elongated and supple, seeping its own lubricant along its length. It slides into his valve, not as thick as the others, but so long—it slithers, like a glossa, deeper and deeper inside him until with a cry of mixed fear and bliss, he feels it penetrate his gestation tank. Braid begins to move against him, and the tentacle undulates inside him, flexing, pulsing hot against his sensory nodes, rubbing against the inside of his gestation tank. Wing claws at the ground, arching and squirming: it is too much, too intense, and he has no name for the things he wants, whether he needs this to stop or go on forever. Looking down his own body he can see the shape of Braid’s tentacle moving within him. He moans, his optics flickering, and lets his head fall back to the ground, lolling side to side. There is no resisting this.
Braid grunts, and the tentacle convulses, throbbing. Wing moans as it seems to ripple against his calipers. Almost as though round shapes are moving through it. He keens, beginning to understand, as fluids and round hot shapes alike begin to fill his gestation tank. Eggs. Braid is filling him with eggs. The pleasure mixes with horror, and he sobs, optical lubricant spilling down his cheeks—he wants it to end, but it feels so good, his body has never experienced pleasure this intense.
He can’t resist, not against this, and his belly slowly expands, his internals shifting and his armor clicking as it refits itself. He feels so full in a way he’s never experienced, hot and heavy and sluggish and slightly sick, as the flood ends and Braid’s tentacle begins to retract itself. At least… at least it’s over, now, Wing thinks, as his body clutches down around the alien eggs in his gestation tank.
But he’s wrong. He’s so very wrong.
“The more of us fertilize the eggs, the greater our new young will become,” Braid says to the others. “So who wants to fuck the little…” That word a third time.
Wing sobs and wails as they clamor for him. He squeezes his optics shut, trying to lose himself in oblivion, but an alien spike sinks into him, a slow and purposeful rhythm, and it begins again. He is trapped in this moment, in this violated body, his belly heavy with eggs and his valve filled with an alien spike. He cries and moans and writhes and falls limp in turns, as scaly hands stroke his distended armor fondly. The first alien comes inside him, its seed hot in his gestation tank, mixing with what’s already there.
The ground shakes again and hands lift him up, in offering it seems, and he chokes and hangs helpless as a brute’s double spikes split his valve wide. He clings to it, crying, his hips rocking instinctively at the sheer pleasure of it, even when his back hits the ground again and it ruts into him. He takes a glance down, sees his belly shifting and bulging as it fucks him relentlessly, and he is hypnotized, drooling. It spills into him, and he runs a wondering hand over his belly as it bulges further, filling with seed. He lies passive and unresisting as a third slaver fucks him, then two at once, aware of nothing but the fullness and the pleasure and the pressure of the eggs and fluids inside him, pumping his gestation tank fuller and fuller.
At last it seems they’ve had their fill; he feels stuffed full, his valve aching with the heaviness in his gestation tank that bulges his belly outward. The slaver Braid reaches inside his gaping valve, this time with some sort of device which he clicks in place at the top of Wing’s valve.
“Take him home,” he says.
By “home” he had meant the slavers’ base in the desert. Wing hovers between unconsciousness and wakefulness as one of the brutes carries him; every movement makes his staggeringly full gestation tank shift and he feels the need to purge his heavy fuel tank, but he keeps it down somehow. He drifts in and out of consciousness, waking in fits and starts: a door, lit hallways, finally a medical bay of some sort, where he is laid in a soft place which feels alarmingly like heaven to his overworked body. He is too exhausted to move as the straps of a sort of harness are tightened around his legs, arms, and torso, leaving his thighs splayed wide. There are other aliens, examining him with sensors and hands, and the next time he half-wakes there are leads and sensors being placed all over his valve and gestation tank, feeding who-knows-what information to his captors. Wing passes out again.