![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shadow_vector2011-09-15 12:02 am
Miscegenation
IDW
Blurr/Swarm
warnings please heed: sticky, noncon, tentacles, mechpreg, forced mechpreg, endometrial biopsy, infanticide, suicide, and lol can you tell? It’s…a bit dark.
Takes place mid AHM. This was originally based on an IM discussion with an RP buddy (only she could convince me to write mechpreg) involving Drift. The whole thing was sketched with Drift in mind. Someone helpfully told me there was a kink meme prompt involving Drift and tentacles and it had attracted a lot of wank. So, to distance myself from that prompt, I’ve changed the main character here.
Blurr cursed, wrenching his shoulder from the insistent grip of the Insecticon. Another struck him in the back of the helm, its long scythe-like arm landing with full and heavy momentum. His vid feed blanked for a klik; he stumbled forward, over what might have been a threshold.
Why didn’t they kill him? The Swarm had caught him, cut off, alone, and overwhelmed him. Why not finish the job?
If they were Decepticons, he’d expect to be dragged to Starscream, from all those ages ago, or Megatron, some bounty promised to the mech who gave one of those the pleasure of crushing Blurr’s spark firsthand or trying to twist him, study his skill. But the Swarm was barely sentient. Certainly not smart enough to follow orders.
What, then?
His optics cleared, but for a moment the room was so dark he thought they were malfunctioning.
Scraping, shifting sounds in front of him. Something big, massive. He tipped his head up, optics cycling to lowlight. The room was…full. And at first he thought it was a crowd of Insecticons massed together—yellow and purple and acidy green shifting, scrabbling together, until he realized it was one massive unit, a hundred waving, flailing limbs controlled by one intelligence. Green optics peered down at him, six of them, in parallel lines down what might have been a face. It clicked and chittered, lowering down. The Insecticons behind him clutched at his arms, holding him still.
Blurr tipped his chin up, defiant. He could still fight. Everyone underestimated him, thinking he was speed and nothing but.
The face hovered before him, stinking and reeking of rancid corruption, rust bubbling along poorly constructed seams, paint weeping a sickly orange discharge. It gave a wet snuffling sound, part of its sensors lighting up. Despite himself, Blurr recoiled, the putrescent odor enough to damage his input relays.
The thing began…speaking, Blurr guessed—clicking and chattering, mandibles vibrating almost too fast to follow. The others hauled Blurr back, one misshapen claw reaching around him, tearing at his interface hatch. He hissed in pain, as the blue panel was torn off, clattering away onto the white-spotted floor.
The thing surged forward, and Blurr saw long tendrils of cabling seem to unspool themselves from around the thing’s frame, of various diameters, whipping and waving. He struggled, trying to tear himself free, his high-rated thigh servos trying to boost him free, the way he’d start from racing blocks.
No good—the Insecticons merely raised him up, redirecting the momentum upward, into the thing.
Cables caught at him, whipping around his wrists, his waist, his ankles, drawing him upward, lifting him off the ground.
Blurr kicked, using all the speed in his boosted servos, but the cables stretched and compressed, elastically, eating the force of his movements. Air sliced, cool and harsh, on his exposed equipment as he thrashed, the rubber cables tightening around his limbs, sliding into the joints themselves.
In desperation, he tried comm. The audio blasted with wild static, stunning his audio. He had no recourse but to howl, hollowly, as something bit against his spike cover. His optics flew down. He shuddered, horrified: one of the cables had fastened over his spike cover, chuck teeth biting down into the metal around the rim. He struck—or tried to—his hands making feeble swats, restrained by the cables.
“Get…off!” he howled, not even sure the damn thing understood simple Cybertronian. He shuddered, feeling the slight buzz off electricity over his spike cover, the clamped cable sending light shocks over the cover, pinging and tickling the sensitive metal. He kicked, nauseated, trying to override the spike cover’s programming, sending code after code.
It didn’t matter: the cover irised open and the…thing, sent some sort of feeler into the housing, that tapped and stroked the latent spike, prickling charge over the nodes. The spike began pressurizing, pushing from the housing, the collapsed segments beginning to expand, clicking slowly into place…inside that horrible thing.
Segments clamped down around the spike, and Blurr felt the nodes being tested, the inside of the thing—the mouth, it seemed—adjusting, rotating discs inside, matching against his nodes. And then…an awful, dreadful suction, the nodes feeling vacuum-friction, and the initial tendril wrapped around his spike’s baseplate, shooting random charge up the shaft.
Oh, Primus. Blurr thrashed, trying to fight his repugnance, but the thing bit into his armor, more than willing, it seemed, to tear off his spike. He shrieked in pain.
His spike began building charge—loathsomely, rising to the almost knowing ministrations of the cable. It was some horrible nightmare, Blurr thought, feeling his overload rising, and he, helpless to stop it, limbs flailing futilely in the grasp of the other cables. And above all that, the thing, staring, impassive, green optics lambent with some strange, vile hunger.
He gave a raw scream of pain and something bordering on helpless despair as the electricity reached critical, his spike overloading without pleasure, transfluid bursting, heated from the charge, into the thing. The segments rolled, up the cable, and Blurr realized that it was carrying the mass of his overload up into the thing…somewhere.
Blurr turned, dangling in air, vomiting, the contents of his tanks spewing from his mouth, pink and bitter, trailing over his mouth, down his chin. It began again, the interior segments resetting themselves against his hypercharged, already primed nodes.
It went on for cycles—forever, it seemed—charging and resetting, draining him, slowly, of transfluid, while he could do no more than retch and dangle, thrashing helplessly, the fight bleeding out of him as he filled with some helpless loathing disgust.
It finally ended, or ceased, the thing dropping him, limp, numb, unable, uncaring even to break his own fall. He clattered to the ground, spent with disgust, barely having energy to notice as the Insecticons came forward, seizing him by various projections on his armor. They dragged him—leaving long skids of unprotesting blue on the grubby floor—from the room, to a small, windowless closet, where Blurr curled around himself, alone, in the dark.
[***]
Days later, a new horror. He’d tried everything he could think of by then—fighting, giving in. Using his comm, trying to force the door. Nothing worked. Not even a lunging attack, fingers gouging at an Insecticon’s throat, had done much good: compared to their claws, talons, his own blunt fingertips were laughable. And he had speed, but they had endless numbers and an unwillingness to damage him that tormented the long, dark, locked-away hours. Why? Why not kill him?
…because he had value. The answer crept to him, from the shadowy corners of the room. And what value? His transfluid? He wished he’d listened to Ratchet’s briefing more closely. At the time, he’d just wanted to get out there and fight, because fighting the Swarm was faster and cleaner than the dirty thick tension in the Autobot base.
But this. He choked from the pain, a small cable worming its way up his valve, thighs held apart by larger cables made of the smaller ones plied together. The cable squirmed up, and he could feel it node against node, as it traveled up his valve, a squirming, living thing. Blurr snarled curses he remembered the from trainers from the track, from Twin Twist, words he’d thought were low, vulgar, but now they seemed the only things capable of even partially expressing the impotent fury, the helpless disgust that tore through his body.
He shrieked, the words falling apart, rent by the pain as the cable bit into the top of his valve, pushing its way through the narrow channel into his gestation chamber. His body shuddered, his whole frame trying to revolt, deny the experience, the sharp, never ending stab of pain following however he twisted, however he moved. If he’d anything in his tanks, he’d have purged again. As it was, a yellow, sickly foam flecked his mouth.
He gave a sharp shapeless cry, the cable worming up the channel and beginning to siphon the fluid in there, the cable’s hose shuddering in tempo, sucking the fluid down.
Blurr heard a sobbing moan, realizing it was coming from him, and that he’d become distanced, separated from the horror, almost as though he were floating above it, sickly and pale, as his body was violated, degraded, used, cables snaking under his armor, tapping and prying into his most secret corners. “Kill me,” he managed, a prayer to something, anything that would listen, as the thing dropped him, green optics acid and cold. The words were jolted from his limp, heavy frame as he landed, blue optics blank with horror. “Kill me.”
It could not get any worse than this.
[***]
…it did.
Partly, he thought, in his own resignation, how he barely struggled anymore as they dragged him forth, as though he were a thing to harvest when ripe. And so he’d reduced himself, in his own thinking, to a thing, a numb, dead, horrible thing, unresisting as the door rattled aside on its bent railing, and a small mob of Insecticons poured in.
He let himself be borne—what choice did he have—down the corridor, to the large, foul-smelling room where the Swarm queen stay, its huge mass writhing, bulbous, filling the walls. Its putrid stench seemed to be half-sentient, reaching for Blurr, thick and ugly against his armor. The queen seemed more than usually animated today, blurping and twitching in either anticipation or pain…or both. Blurr couldn’t be bothered to decide.
He sagged as the cables snapped out, twining around his limbs. He’d run, but…where to? He’d fight but…he’d lose. He’d lose and they wouldn’t kill him: there wasn’t even death to be gained from that. Just this: delayed; hope: crushed. And even the effort of thinking was creating too much of a self. Better to just empty his mind, concentrate on enduring the present moment, without past, without future. The present was awful enough.
The putrescent vents breathed down upon him, causing an involuntary choke as he was hauled up, thighs jerked wide apart. The green optics lowered, sprouting stalks, as the cables lifted Blurr’s hips far over his head level, until he was dangling almost upside down, tangled in a network of foul-smelling black rubber.
Another wet sound, snuffling, and Blurr felt a vile wetness between his legs, warm and somehow feeling contaminated, filthy. He tried to squirm back, pull away, as the thing’s mandibles split.
“NO!” Blurr found words, and energy, too late, too useless, as a line of clearish slime dripped from the open mouth, followed by a brownish black, half-corroded tube. It reeked of rust and rancid oil, acrid like smoke in his olfactory sensors.
The stalks swiveled up to him, three of the six optics, almost…bemused.
Blurr protested, viscerally, kicking with his feet as he felt something probe his valve’s rim. Unlike before, this wasn’t a thin tendril, no larger than his finger, but the thick tube, its lip bubbled with corrosion.
It pushed in, the lips working, inching their way inside the barely-fitting valve, stretching the lining as it crawled up the valve’s length, oozing some thick, sticky slime. Blurr arched, contracted, thrashed, trying something, anything, to ease the revolting pressure. But even if he tore his gaze away from the tube, he could feel it, working its way up like a sentient thing. It bumped against the ceiling node. Blurr winced, optics stinging in pain, feeling the rim of it scrape and scratch on the ceiling node. The very touch somehow made him nauseous, as though it were pressing up against one of his cycling tanks.
A swelling feeling, something large pushing in against his valve’s rim, straining the ring of metal. Blurr could only endure as it pushed inside, swelling against the lining, some thick hard orb rolling along the tube.
And then another—Blurr could see the bulge working its way down the mottled tube, the hose segments swelling and contracting. He gagged, on reflex, merely watching, merely knowing that that <i>thing</i> was bound for inside him.
Six in all, his valve forced wide open, calipers whining at the stress, his entire body feeling swollen, aching, before the tube withdrew, and he was lowered, almost gently this time, to the ground, thick slime dripping from his valve, gummy and stringy. He retched, but his tanks were empty, and the action caused a sharp, cold pain in his jammed-open valve.
The thing burbled above him, slavering from its mouth, and Blurr could have sworn, sickly, that it was laughing.
And then it struck him, slowly, horror creeping through his cortex, skulking in the shadows of things he could not bear: he was carrying.
[***]
He stopped fueling. Or tried to. The idea—just the idea, not even considering the living, swelling reality in his valve—seemed to fill his tanks with scorched ash. Fuel was beyond him. And the idea of feeding the things that were growing, festering, inside him, was beyond loathsome.
Blurr had no choice: after a few days—almost blissful days (and to what had he sunk that ‘bliss’ meant merely ‘not being violated, degraded, his body used without will or consent’)—they came for him. And held him, head braced against the wall. One Insecticon leered over him, mandibles spreading, pressing against Blurr’s mouth. A claw grabbed his helm, the small spire on his helm’s top, jerking his head backward, mouth opening almost on reflex, gasping with pain.
An intrusion, a glossa, or something like, shoving between his dentae, across his glossa, scraping at the back angle of his intake. He gagged, his tank expelling only wet air, as the thing in his mouth spewed something sweet-sharp and vile, textured thick and half-digested.
He struggled, hands scrambling for purchase, to shove the thing away, the gunk filling his mouth, leaking from the corners, dribbling in warm slick lines down his chin. He choked, some of it working into his throat, sliding in heavy chunks down to his empty tank. More, and more, his body held, still, as the Insecticon continued to dribble the half-digested energon down his throat, the stuff stirring, all unwilling, his systems to life, feeding the noxious creatures that tumbled in his valve, semi-quiescent in their eggsacs.
[***]
The first ripple staggered him, driving him to his knees. It felt like his valve lining was being shredded—tearing into him with so much pain that he couldn’t even make a sound, not even a sucking gasp.
Agony—another movement in his valve, one of the eggsacs bulging against him.
He buckled, one hand clutching his abdomen, the other palm-hard and scraping against the stained floor. His valve cover quivered—it had been jammed open since the implantation, and it struggled, now, between trying to close off against the pain and open wider. It was horrible, made worse by the abominable wet sounds, something drenched and slippy, working its way free.
Because that’s what it was: his systems instinctively understood, and just as instinctively rebelled from the fact. One of his minders clicked, excitedly, as pain shocked through Blurr’s body again, and all his speed was useless, helpless to outrun this, helpless to do anything but lie and twitch as the saclets ruptured. Pinkish purple energon dribbled from his valve, thinned by the clear goo from the sacs, and a wet wriggling.
The Insecticons gathered, piling into the small room, filling it with their fetid odor, their surging, nauseating presence, their brutal glee some sort of horrid parody. Blurr could only lie, curled loosely on his side on the floor,giving birth to inarticulate cries of horror and despair as the things crawled from his valve, writhing, wriggling their way down the small channel, spilling out, mewling, flopping wetly on the ground. Ruptured sacs, gummy and wet, slipped after them, leaving warm trails down Blurr’s armor.
It was the smallest mercy that the Insecticons snatched the hatchlings away before he had to see them, as he still winced from their sharp talons raking fresh trails of agony down his valve.
[***]
Blurr had built a wall in his own cortex, solid and high, behind which he cowered, caitiff-weak, through the next few days, surfeited on horror and despair. It was the only thing that saved some scrap of sanity through the next days, as he was dragged out again, his transfluid harvested and the vile ovipositor laying another batch of eggs in him. It was…too much to bear, moment-to-moment—the vantage of past and future would have been too much. He wasn’t really aware of himself, his surroundings, anything, until his body clattered to the open pavement, and the less putrid air of the streets assailed him.
“Got you,” a voice penetrated, slowly, thickly, into his cortex. It had been so long since he’d heard a voice that for a long moment he could make no sense of the gabble of sound, separate the speech from the sensation of being lifted, carried, touched, the sound of scraping metal.
“Nnnnnnnooooo,” he said, weak, the only word he could manage, a summation, a rejection of everything that had happened, and this present reality. He could feel the swelling, loathsome, pushing against his calipers. Not moving yet: quiescent, foul with malignant promise. Why? Why seed him again? Why burden him, send him back?
It was…beyond abhorrent. And the only conscious thought he had was that he couldn’t let them examine him, couldn’t let them know.
[***]
It…hadn’t occurred to them. Ratchet had looked him over, for obvious damage, obvious injuries, busying himself treating the wrenches and scrapes on Blurr’s armor from when he’d had the spark and strength to fight back. It hadn’t occurred to him to check the valve, to do more than a cursory check of the valve cover, fix the dented panel. Perhaps, Blurr thought, it was too repulsive for them to even conceive that the Swarm procreated, that they could even develop to that level—they were so used to thinking of the Insecticons as semi-sentient things. Sexuality was beyond belief.
But no less real and all the more horrible.
Blurr staggered, in miserable silence, as they moved to a new base, setting up the perimeter with a numb obedience that attracted some stares. His hand rubbed his abdominal armor, at lost moments, worrying over the future he knew was scrabbling toward him.
He only hoped he’d be killed before that. He hoped for it, begged for it in the cycles he couldn’t sleep, knowing he was too much of a coward to kill himself. But the Swarm refused to oblige, skittering rooftiles refused to slide out from under his feet. He remained adamantly, bitterly, alive. And the things in his valve grew, burgeoning, fermenting in darkness, swelling against his systems, feeding on his will to live as much as his energon.
A stabbing ripple through his valve. “No,” he gasped, as though that were the only word he could say, as though his entire existence had contracted to that hopeless, helpless denial, that futile attempt to refuse reality.
Reality would not be refused: the eggs would hatch, their bastardized nature stronger than his will. He snatched his rifle, lurching off to a balcony, clinging to the pretense of privacy as if that made things better.
The rifle clattered from his hands, as he fell to his knees, hands gripping at the balcony rail, metal plates flattening against the battered, chipped plascrete as he tried to squeeze the pain, the ignominy, the horror, from his body and into the railing itself.
His valve cover buckled, dented from the inside, the hatching monstrosities pushing out against each other, clawing for life, for freedom.
Blurr bit down, grinding his dental plates, hissing his agony, desperate lest someone hear. Energon and amniotic fluid leaked from the valve, around the rupturing seal, streaking pink and glosswet down his thighs.
A strangled cry, half-weeping, as the first of the things forced its way through, biting at the thin petals of the valve cover. A thin plop as it fell to the ground between his straining thighs, squirming and clawing, as though all life were prey and fodder, and existence was something to be chewed through.
Another bulging worming down his valve, rippling nausea over his systems. He blanked his optics, vocalizer grating in pain, as it moved, wriggling and repugnant, reeking of energon and pain.
Blurr’s optics flicked open, the pain so intense he had no choice but to look, and he saw, as the first thing—vile, diseased hybrid, abomination, clawed and snapped between his legs, an unmistakable blue crest. His own.
And the reality grew so dark and sudden and sharp, like a blade of obsidian driving into his very pith. His transfluid. His CNA.
He retched, his tanks purging, the scent sour and sharp in the nearly-omnipresent night, his vision clouding, narrowing focus to the squirming horrors.
And his hand grabbed for his rifle, to do the only thing he could think, driving the butt down over and over again, bludgeoning, smashing, destroying with all the fury of a spark bereft of any light, crushing the things into paste, their protometal crunching, spurting fluids over his thighs, his belly, his only thought to destroy them, to cease, to end the dread, the disgust.
He heard a sound—his own voice, a feral, cornered whine, punctuated by the pounding, driving of the rifle’s buttstock into the pavement.
And then another sound, behind him, to his right, and he turned. The rifle froze in mid-air, butt streaked and smeared, his optics clearing from their clouded madness to coalesce onto the white figure in the doorway: Drift, mouth agape with horror.
Blurr felt his entire body freeze, as though doused with liquid nitrogen, his spark radiating a bitter, agonized cold. There was one thing left, one avenue only. And it wasn’t the act of courage it might have been, days ago, but supreme cowardice, the inability to face the horror, the knowledge lighting over the white-helmed face.
His thumb, well trained after all these years of war, hooked into the trigger well, tipping the barrel up, and he stared into its impassive bore like the eye of Primacron. His thumb twitched, and a burst of light, and he was beyond, at last, all judgment.
no subject
no subject
I do have to say that nausea and ewww god make it stop is generally how I feel reading mechpreg, no matter how benignly written.
And now you know why I can't read mechpreg.
no subject