NEHIP 1: Taken

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
Bayverse AU
Starscream, the Fallen, Grindor
WARNINGS: noncon, sticky, mindfucking, grossness (as per usual, take warnings seriously!!) allusions to very squicky mechpreg
Someone on the kink meme pointed out this got f-locked when I f-locked my LJ. So here it, and its continuation bits...will be. Following a kink meme prompt. Written about a year ago.

Starscream winced as his valve reservoir signaled its max capacity.  Whatever the Fallen’s plans were, he’d have to make do with this much.  He couldn’t take any more.  That was not a psychological judgment: physical fact.

If there was any plan at all. The Fallen could just be punishing him, humiliating him with this order that he had to valve every Decepticon on the Nemesis, and bring back his transfluid as proof.  He had failed the Fallen on a number of occasions, and such a humiliation would fit him perfectly. 

Still, underneath him, the aptly-named Grindor was working his spike in for a second overload, his hands hard over Starscream’s thighs, driving his spike straight up into the jet’s valve.  Not many Decepticons willingly took spike—most valvings were forced—so to have the Air Commander himself show up in your private recharge and offer his valve…to date no one had refused. All had agreed…enthusiastically.  His valve was slick with the transfluid and lubricant of so many mechs he couldn’t even keep count. 

With a groan, Grindor shot another load of transfluid into the jet’s valve, wiggling appreciatively as the valve tried to cycle the fluid into the reservoir.  Starscream hadn’t known he’d had a reservoir until the Fallen had told him, told him how to activate it.  Hadn’t realized until five kliks ago it had a maximum capacity.  He gritted his denta as the reservoir tried to cram in more fluid. 

“Frag,” Grindor said, beneath him.  “More?”

“Not right now,” Starscream said, rising to his feet, gingerly.  He felt the excess fluid and lubricant leak down his thighs.  He’d collected enough.  Time to see his master.

*****

“You are full.  You are certain of it?” 

“Yes!” Starscream snapped impatiently, shifting on his feet, feeling the heavy slosh of the reservoir. He’d come straight from Grindor’s quarters, barely stopping to wipe his armor off.  “Now, what is this plan?” 

“Starscream,” the Fallen murmured, from where he draped in his chair, lethargic. “You are aware of our diminishing numbers.”

“Yes,” he said, impatiently.  How did humiliation-fucks help that?

“It is time for us to make more.”

“Make…but the Allspark has been destroyed.”

“There is another way. As one of the first descendants of Primus, in the right circumstances, I can confer life.”

“And these…circumstances?” 

“A mix of genetic codes in energon rich fluids can be given life.”

“A mix of…” Starscream’s voice trailed off.  His valve reservoir felt suddenly heavy and dense.  “Like what I have.” 

“Precisely. Now.  Extend your spike.” 

Starscream blinked against the feeling that something was just out of his comprehension.

“Your spike, Starscream.” Impatient.

“I—I do not see how…”

“You do not have to see. You have sworn allegiance to me. Your spike.”

Starscream bowed his head, releasing his spike from its cap. 

“Extend it.”

Starscream looked up, shocked.

“It will be less painful if you extend your spike.”   The jet quivered, but forced his spike to extension.  He stood there, head bowed, completely shamed. If humiliation had been the Fallen’s goal, Starscream with an erect spike, his valve full of the transfluid of just about every mech on the ship, would do it. 

He gasped as one of the Fallen’s long, black talons wrapped around his spike, and froze as the other hand approached, extending from the end of one digit a long narrow metal rod.  He watched in horror—trying to pull away but unable—as the narrow rod entered the end of his spike. He could feel it, boring its way up his spike, a crawling agony.  He tried to fall to his knees, but the Fallen’s grip on his spike was inexorable.  “Stay very still,” the Fallen muttered.  And the bore went further, somewhere deep into him.  He cried out, screaming things that didn’t even make words, in some attempt to get mastery on the pain, shrieking as the narrow bore punctured the side of his valve reservoir. 

As quickly as it came in, the borer withdrew.  Starscream fell, catching himself hard on his hands, shivering in pain, feeling the strange wet trickle through the new hole.  

“I asked you to collect the fluid,” the Fallen explained, as though the explanation were a huge favor, “so that we can have proper genetic viability.  Were I merely to spawn with you, within a few generations, interbreeding would destroy our race.  Now we have a proper spread of materials.” 

Starscream didn’t raise his eyes.  “I am to bear them,” he muttered. 

“Impossible. Absurd. You are one of the genetic donors. Parts of your gene code will be in all of the hatchlings.”

“How? My fluid was not collected.”

“It is now.” The Fallen pushed himself out of his chair, sinking to his knees, pulling the jet to his feet. “I am weak, as you can see.  But I can be strengthened, with the same fluid that shall enrich our young.”  He fastened his mouth over the jet’s spike. 

The Fallen’s face was a stiff mask of plates, pressing against the jet’s body, but behind the plates, soft, pliable lips and…something…worked along the jet’s spike.  He shuddered, repulsed, even further horrified as his spike responded to the Fallen’s odious advances, extending itself and spilling a small bead of lubricant.  He squirmed, but the Fallen held him fast, his mouth earnest and seductive on the jet’s traitorous spike.  Starscream tried to push away, frantically, but his claws couldn’t get a grip on the Fallen’s slick armor.  No. No. No…..  “Gaaaaah!” he cried out, in revulsion and ecstasy, feeling the long-denied rush of fluid down his own spike. 

Not only his fluid, though, but combined with the transfluid of everyone else on the ship. Pieces of Ravage’s code.  Soundwave’s.  Bonecrusher’s.  Shooting through his spike toward some sort of strange new life.  It’s like his spike wasn’t his own any more.  He shuddered. 

“You see,” the Fallen murmured, licking up the last of the fluid, “I have made this pleasurable for you.” 

*****

Starscream had thought—hoped—it wouldn’t get any worse.  But it did.  Implantation of the genetic material, the Fallen had explained, needed to happen through his own valve, which he had offered to Starscream.  In addition to a valve and spike, the Fallen had another spiral-latched port, which he’d condescended to inform the jet was his oviduct.  But for right now, the Fallen had instructed, he needed the jet’s mixed transfluids in the valve. 

Starscream had refused, of course.  Repugnant.  The entire idea.  Even though his own spike stirred at the thought of getting a valve, after so many painful valvings himself, he forced its eagerness away with distaste.  The Fallen had raged, thrown the jet’s oath of obedience in his face, and then, simply, taken what he’d wanted.  Starscream felt a coldness descend upon him, as the Fallen hacked his systems, and felt himself cross over to the prone form, and thrust the traitorously lubricated spike into the waiting valve. 

“Must I do the rest as well?”

Starscream clenched his eyes shut, his sensornet overriding his conscious will, and he found himself thrusting his spike into the valve harder and harder, an overload growing blessedly quickly.  He almost gasped with relief as he felt the fluid shoot from his spike.  It was over. 

No it wasn’t.  “Continue,” the Fallen said, his voice strange. “You are to continue until the reservoir is empty.”  Starscream did a quick calculation of how many overloads he’d taken, and shuddered, but already his hips were pistoning the valve again. 

The fourth or fifth overload, he felt the Fallen groan, the valve move around him.  He froze. 

“Yes,” the Fallen said, as if talking to himself, “I had forgotten about that.” He gestured for the jet to continue.  Starscream had fallen to his knees by this point, bordering on exhaustion and despair, the Fallen having sunk to the floor with him.  When the jet overloaded again, the Fallen gave a circuit-stalling howl, and the valve clutched at his spike, almost desperately.  “Again!” he demanded.  The jet had no choice but to comply, the cold damp feeling of the Fallen’s hack lingering in the back of his processor like a fog. 

*****

Cycles later, the jet collapsed, only to have his master pounce on his still extended spike, his strange soft, warm mouth milking another overload out of it with satisfaction.  His master frowned.  “You need more.” 

“I do not need…anything.” Other than to recharge. Or die.  He didn’t care which at the moment. 

“The mix is becoming insufficiently adulterated.  You need at least three more donors. Come back then.” 

The jet knew when he was dismissed. He moved, stiffly, shoulders slumped. Even knowing the purpose didn’t make putting  himself out there to have his valve rammed by every mech on the ship any better.  The Fallen stopped him with a word. “Starscream. Do you not enjoy collecting the fluid?”

“It hurts,” he said flatly. 

“Hrmmmm.”

The jet felt the wet fog on his cortex again, running through his systems.  The same thing he had felt solars ago before his master had ordered him to collect the fluid.  “Curious,” the Fallen said.  “Get me those three samples.”

The jet staggered away.

*****

Three samples.  Three more overloads. He could do this.  He could endure three more.  Then he would collapse on his berth and recharge until…forever.  Who could he collect from? 

Barricade.  Somehow the small mech popped into his head.  Starscream took a moment to think about that—the weaker mech often found himself the favored forced-valve of some of the mechs, who liked how he fought every step of the way.  Starscream couldn’t remember the mech ever spiking anyone else.  Could be a  new experience for him. And besides, now that he’d been through it, Starscream felt a new sympathy. 

He overrode Barricade’s door locks.  The mech snapped out of recharge.

“What the hell do you want?” he snarled.

Ah, this again.  Starscream hated this part. “I am here to offer my valve to you,” he said, flatly.  No point trying to make it erotic. It wasn’t. 

“Why?” Barricade squinted at him, suspicious. 

“Orders from the Fallen.”

“The Fallen ordered you to get spiked by me?” Doubt.  It did sound ludicrous.

“Are you interested or not?” The jet was impatient. 

“If it’s not a trick…”

“It is not, I assure you.” Starscream settled himself  awkwardly against the wall of the small room, and retracted his valve-cap.  I wish it were. 

Barricade stumbled in his eagerness, and Starscream felt his hot spike in his valve.  He froze.  Something was different.  This didn’t hurt.  Normally it either hurt or just felt like numbness mixed with the burn of humiliation. This did not.  He squirmed.  His valve shifted in a way he had never felt before. 

Barricade froze. “Supposed to do that?”

“It has never happened before.” They looked at each other, curious.  Barricade made a few tentative thrusts.  Starscream felt his sensor net quiver, his ventilation pick up.  What the spark was happening?  “Co—continue,” the jet croaked.  Barricade continued, his eyes half-worried, half-fascinated, on the jet’s face. For his part, Starscream felt a rising, quivering sensation. From his valve.  He moaned, softly, squirming on the floor, trying to push into Barricade’s thrusts. 

Soon the smaller mech reached the point where his programming took over, and he closed his eyes, riding his own sensornet’s rising overload, thrusting wildly into the jet.  He overloaded with the force of one who seldom ever got to spike.  Starscream’s back arched into the overload, a loud keening tearing itself from his lips. He felt his valve, like an alien thing, tremble around the spike. It…it felt like an overload. But…valves were numb. Nonfunctional. Weren’t they?

“What the—what the fuck was THAT?” Barricade stared down at the valve. 

“I do not kno--,” Wait. He did know.  Starscream reached for the systems check file, and accessed what the Fallen had done.  He isolated a line of code, checking it against a restore point.  “Barricade,” he said. “Follow these instructions.” He rattled off the system file and the code line and then the code content.  After a moment, Barricade looked up, nodding.

“Gonna tell me what you just had me do?”

“I think—I think I just activated your valve.”  He reached forward, experimentally, tracing one talon along the smaller mech’s valve.  He felt Barricade’s servos tremble. 

*****

If Starscream had been hoping to recharge, he was in for a disappointment.  Brawl waited outside his quarters.  Only one guess why he was here. 

“Heard you were valving every damn mech on the ship, Second In Command,” he sneered. “Where’s mine?” 

Starscream looked at him, half torn between wanting to strike him for his insolence (had the Fallen realized the hit his authority would take making the jet do this?) and a trembling curiosity about his valve.  Curiosity got the better.  “Right here. If you can take it.” 

Brawl rushed him, and the two wrestled.  Starscream’s longer limbs gave him some advantage, but eventually the smaller mech got in too close for his extra range to be effective.  The jet found himself pinned, cockpit scraping the floor.  He could have tried harder, but…he was curious.  He cried out as Brawl’s spike thrust into him, harder as he felt his pelvic girdle hoisted up and Brawl’s front hip plates clanging in contact with the jet’s thigh armor.  Oh….it felt. It felt at all, for one.  It felt…delicious.  Like with Barricade, a trembling surge of electrons, skirling through his sensornet, the spike’s rhythm sending resonance waves across his main systems.  He cried out in ecstasy as the other mech’s transfluid spilled into him. 

Brawl dropped him, staring at him.  “You enjoyed that?”  The jet lay where he had fallen, his whole body wracked with delicious quivers.  Brawl looked halfway horrified. 

*****

Grindor had been enthusiastic and not-too-rough, so Starscream chose him for the third. He thought it only fair to warn him, but the warning got lost in the sudden moans that tore themselves from his vocalizer.  Grindor growled, pulling his arms around the jet’s broad torso, stroking at the engine mounts.  Instead of being dismayed or horrified by Starscream’s reaction, he seemed aroused.  “Oh,” he murmured, into the jet’s chest armor. “Oh Primus, Starscream.”  He had held the larger jet across his knees, thrusting up into him, while Starscream braced himself with one hand against the wall behind him.  Grindor’s overload tore another rippling spasm from the jet’s valve, and he collapsed against the wall, hard enough to blank his optics for a klik. 

“Hunh,” Grindor said, staring at him. “Think you just overloaded from that.”

Starscream fought to control his vent cycle. “Think so.” 

“That mean it felt good?” 

“Yes.”

“Didn’t happen before.” 

“Code alteration.”

“Oh.”  A pause. “You know, it gets out you like it, no one’s going to leave you alone.” 

The jet sighed. “It will get out.”  The Fallen would sooner rather than later need more and then more transfluid samples.  No way to hide the screaming and the spasming and the quivering for very long.  But judging from Brawl’s reaction, Starscream suspected more than a few would be repulsed by the idea that anyone could actually enjoy getting spiked.  It wouldn’t be so bad.  He doubted Brawl would be back for more.  And maybe he’d saved Barricade more than just a little discomfort the next time he was gangspiked.

“You can, you know, stay here if you need to be…not findable for a while.” 

A weak smile. “Thank you, Grindor. I may take you up on that now—if I may recharge here?” 

The copter pulled his spike gingerly, almost tenderly, out of the jet’s valve.  “Sure.” 

 

Part 2 Unclean