Solvent

A.N. This quick, smutty thing treats the Meta as its own entity, ignoring Wash's knowledge of him as Agent Maine. If that blatant backhand to canon bothers you...enjoy the sex?


****


Washington let his helmet rest between his knees and stared into the visor, not so much scrutinizing his tired reflection as he was using it as a focal point for his jumbled thoughts.

South.

The recovery agent released a breath, letting the helmet hit the dirt as the word finally settled in his brain. She’d jeopardized his life and his job, the self-serving bitch. Anyone who could kill their own brother, their twin no less-

“Deserved it-” he muttered.

“It was a wise decision,” Delta materialized in front of him, projecting from Caboose’s armor. Washington nodded and spared a glance at the two sleeping Privates. The bigger and dumber of the two had wrapped his arms around Church, who, even in blissful sleep, looked disgruntled at being treated like a human teddy bear.

“How is it in there?” he indicated the regulation Blue armor.

Delta’s projection shrugged. “Lonely. Omega left a very tangible vacancy when he departed. I’m surprised that Private Caboose has a functioning brain, as limited as the current function seems to be.”

The freelancer grinned in grim amusement and thought of his own ‘tangible vacancy’. It was too polite a term to describe the overwhelming sense of loss.

“Movement,” Delta’s whisper sliced into Wash’s musings and alerted him of the tiny beep in the corner of his hud. The freelancer retrieved his helmet, picked up his weapon, and crept into the brush beside their makeshift camp. He moved quickly and quietly towards the blip, every ounce of his physical training apparent in the sleek crouch of his heavily protected body.

Wash couldn’t tell that it was the Meta from the blip alone, but his gut was insistent. He was radio ready, prepared to yell for Church and tell him and Caboose to run like hell. The two could escape with Delta while Wash distracted the beast. Any other threat could be easily neutralized as long as it wasn’t-

A flash of metal caught on the edge of the freelancer’s vision before he was knocked off his feet, a great mass of armor tackling him to the ground. He opened his mouth to scream at Church but an elbow smashed into his visor, sending his head bouncing back into the dirt. It hit him again, hard across the jaw. The point of its arm wedged under the lip of his helmet and jerked, tearing the fabric beneath, ripping into tender wiring and cutting the power. Vision black, Washington lashed with all of his strength. The lodged elbow slipped free and embedded in the dirt beside his head with a crunch.

The freelancer was in a state of blind panic. Deprived of night vision, he had no choice but to wait for his eyes to adjust to the sparse moonlight. He bucked, teeth bared behind his dead faceplate, and struggled to keep the enemy from pinning him completely. Blood was seeping down the gash in his neck, wetting his suit, making him hyper aware of the injury and keeping him focused on the need to escape. He twisted his hips and slammed his knee into his attacker’s side, vision clearing enough to make out a round, reflective helmet and pale armor plating.

Meta. Wash hissed and tried to knee it again, but the thing shoved him down and growled into the freelancer’s face. All of the breath in Wash’s body vanished in one low ‘huff’. The weight of the creature was staggering, crushing, completely and totally immobilizing. The freelancer stilled, all of his focus shifting to the need to just breathe.

The Meta savored its acknowledged victory by growling once more into Wash’s face, plucking up his discarded weapon and tossing it further into the brush. It listened to the harsh panting behind the Mark IV mask and lowered its body even further, rumbling with joy at the sharp bark of pain the movement earned.

Wash felt his vision dim and knew it had nothing to do with his hud. Head fuzzy, breaths almost impossible to take, Wash felt unconsciousness pluck at him with dark, greedy fingers.

What sounded like a hundred little voices tittered in his ears. The recovery agent moaned softly, energy flooding away from him with each ragged exhale, convulsing throat attempting to form enough to communicate with the excited whispers.

The Meta raised itself up, lifting its smothering weight. Wash gasped, welcoming the rush of air to his lungs, and prepared to lunge away. The voices stopped him, mumbling urgently at him, warning him to be still. He listened and stayed prone beneath the stronger being despite every instinct that told him to run away.

The Meta was huge. Wash had never been this close to the thing before, but now he couldn’t help but appreciate the sheer size of the reclaimer. It was a miracle he’d been able to put up as much of a fight as he did.

Two heavy palms pressed down on his shoulders, keeping him in place. Every breath the beast took was clearly audible - a low, gravelly rumbling that reverberated in Washington’s chest plating. He watched the smooth gold of the Meta’s helmet tip, the voices swaying with the tilt of its massive head.

Washington felt the moment the Meta started to purr. The noise shook all the way from his chest to his pinned thighs. The chorus of voices echoed the sound, an occasional soft, high pitched sigh sneaking out through the low tones.

The palms moved down to his forearms, gloved fingers gliding down his biceps before they clamped down and he was flipped onto his stomach.

Instinctively he tried to rise, knees and elbows digging in the dirt. The Meta let out another growl and straddled him, hands yanking at the slabs of armor covering his back.

Washington erupted, a loud wail of protest ripping from his throat as he struggled to free himself. What the fuck was it doing? It could kill him now with embarrassingly little effort, it didn’t have to remove his armor to finish him. The voices tutted and the Meta slammed him down, stunning him as his forehead smacked the inside of his jostled helmet. There was ripping, a harsh tearing, cold…

Something blunt and slick pressed up against him and Washington’s mind shut down.

Oh, god.

A part of the recovery agent had never wanted to consider that the Meta was made of flesh and blood. He always assumed it was a rogue ‘bot with a powerhungry A.I., some division’s pet experiment gone horribly wrong. But this, this, obviously male appendage pushing into him, hot and pulsing and hurting and so very much living-

“Wash?”

Eyes that had been fiercely closed snapped open. Delta’s image was on the inside of his visor. He blinked back the tears of pain that had worked themselves out of the corners of his eyes and nodded.

“Delta…”

“Shhhhh, don’t say anything.”

“Delta...how-”

“Does it hurt?” Delta’s voice was gentle, attempting to anchor his mind on the simple question. Washington stifled a groan as the creature purred and pushed harder inside of him, its hands tight around the freelancer’s hips. “Breathe, Agent Washington.”

A sucking gasp rattled through the pinned man’s lungs. “Yes, fuck yes it hurts D-”

“Silence, Agent,” Delta snapped. Washington nearly sobbed as the Meta settled fully against his exposed ass, its guttural moan shivering along the back of his thighs. The length buried within him throbbed, begged, and the voices still fluttering in the air echoed its desire in needy little gasps.

“I’m here,” Delta attempted to soothe him but the pain was piercing. He thrashed and the Meta caught his wrists, pushing them down and tucking its own arms under his chest. It pulled out slowly and pressed in again, its purrs rolling along Wash’s back with each leisurely thrust. The shift of its hips and the angle hit something deep inside the freelancer. Something that sent a bright flush of pleasure through his shaking body.

“Wash? What is it?”

The agent’s mouth was slack with shock, eyebrows furrowed as the Meta brushed against that spot again. An intelligible moan tore from his throat, earning him a pleased hiss from the creature rutting against him.

“It’s…” Wash whispered, eyes drifting half closed and shame pouring over him. “It’s good. Delta, it’s good,” he grit his teeth, refusing to admit his obvious defeat. Anger welled behind the humiliation and he surged forward, but the Meta caught him and slapped its hips down. The hard thrust ripped a strangled shout from the freelancer’s throat, so the reclaimer did it again, and again, picking up his pace as it began to viciously fuck the smaller agent.

An embarrassed flush heated the Spartan’s cheeks. He closed his eyes, as if it would hide him from the scrutinizing gaze of the program in his visor.

“Are you enjoying this, Agent?” The A.I.’s voice was husky. Washington swallowed thickly and pushed his forehead to the ground, shaking his head, reluctant to believe that any of this was really happening.

“I…”

“Washington, report.”

“Stop it,” Wash pleaded, hips jerking, his trapped erection digging into the damp lining of his suit.

“Answer me!”

“YES, fuck!” he cried. The Meta gave a harsh gasp of static, its mouthpiece pressed against the back of Washington’s neck. The freelancer swore he could feel hot air prickling where it touched him there. His imagination. It had to be his imagination. The recovery agent was lost. He pushed back against the beast, forcing it to hit that beautiful spot, and canted his hips forward in the search for friction, driven incoherent when he couldn't find enough to get him off.

“Ask him,” Delta whispered directly into Wash’s ear, sounding more lascivious than the man could ever remember. Heat soared to the freelancer’s face.

“No.” He would retain some dignity out of this. He would.

“Ask him to lift you so can touch yourself.”

Something about those words, so casually (logically) tossed at him, made him crack in a way his training had never prepared him for. “M-Meta,” he rasped (moaned. Moaned like a slut, Wash. Don’t lie to yourself) and pushed up pointedly against the creature’s hips. It seemed to understand what he wanted because it eased off his back and pulled him onto his knees. Wash was shaking so hard he could barely hold himself up. The Meta tore at his codpiece and the suit beneath it.

Washington almost swallowed his own tongue when it wrapped its huge, gloved fist around his leaking cock.

“Delta, I’m gone. I’mgoneI’mgoneI’mgone,” he muttered, breath hitching, face pressed next to the A.I.’s projection.

“Wash, let me.”

The freelancer’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as the Meta slammed into him and roared, working its closed fist over the length in its hand. The voices joined in and Wash couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop himself from spilling hot over those fingers with a mind-numbing scream. A cool presence filled his head and Delta was wailing with him, leeching off of his pleasure and offering its own, causing a perfect loop of orgasmic feedback.

There was heat - wet, slick- pooling against the rigid flesh lodged inside of him. Wash’s eyelids fluttered rapidly as the Meta leaned over him, its mouthpiece cracking open, long tongue and sharp teeth tracing the wound on his neck, tasting the blood-

Howdoesitfeeltobeone?

* * * *

Wash woke with a start and sat up, head whipping around and eyes flashing over the quiet campsite. His chest ached, his throat was tight, his muscles were lead. Dizziness sent him back into the ground with a heavy thud. He tried to sit up again, disoriented, and managed to prop himself against a log. He flung his helmet to the side, taking deep gulps of air to calm his frantic pulse.

“Some dream.”

Washington snapped his head to the side and pointed his gun at Church. The Private held up his hands in defense. “Woah. Didn’t mean to scare-”

“Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“The Meta, the fucking Meta!”

Church cocked his helmeted head. “Uh. Hopefully somewhere far, far away from here. How the hell should I know?”

Washington blinked and lowered his gun. His eyes traveled over the ground around him, memory slowly resurfacing as his eyes landed on Caboose, who was curled near the ATV, sound asleep. Without a word, Washington collapsed and stared blankly up at the sky.

“Some dream,” Church repeated himself. This time, Wash caught the smile in his voice. The freelancer rolled over, thoughts already on the disturbing vision and the uncomfortable mess below his codpiece.

More important than either was the chill at the base of his skull, churning seven words over and over in its cool, frightening embrace.