Mabaya, ch 11 Rut

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

R
IDW Mabaya AU
Drift/Deadlock, Turmoil
pnp, referred dubcon

Only the Strong (Perceptor, Drift, Turmoil)
In Darkness (Turmoil, Drift/Deadlock)
Caught (Turmoil, Perceptor)
Coming to Light (Perceptor, Drift)
Disconsolate
Visit
Decompensating
Tangled
Already Lost
Errant

Deadlock arched up, hating the ecstasy pouring through the connection, hating the pleasure he drew from the link with Turmoil’s systems, throbbing, pounding against his.  This was…not like with Wing, the strange, complicated intimacy he’d had with the light flyer, fierce but gentle.  And it wasn’t what he wanted—or thought he wanted—with Perceptor: something sweet and mild and giving.  This was raw and violent and selfish and dark.

And Primus help him, he wanted it. He sank his hand into Turmoil’s wrist, digging into the cabling, feeling the larger mech shudder against him. 

Turmoil’s dark armor enveloped him and it seemed somehow symbolic: his whiteness covered, brightness surrounded, by the massy darkness.

The arms loosened around him, and Deadlock felt his knee servos struggle to take the returning weight.  Turmoil’s cool EM field twined around him possessively even while his arms let go.  He waited for Turmoil’s remark, that he’d wanted it, needed it, something to rub in what they both already knew.

Turmoil’s hands moved with smooth, practiced efficiency, pulling their cables apart, giving his the tug that let it retract smoothly back into its housing. He held Deadlock’s in his curled hand for a moment, rolling over the contact points with his thumb, before tugging it, and then following it in, depositing one last caress on it as it snugged into its socket. Deadlock flinched at the light touch, repulsed.  Which was, of course, Turmoil’s intent.

The heavy arms came to rest on his shoulders, companionably, Turmoil propping his chin on Deadlock’s helm.  They stayed there for a long moment, Deadlock standing between Turmoil’s broad knees. “You know,” Turmoil said.  “You could have all this back.”   

“An empty room.”   

A soft laugh.  “It would not be empty for long.”   

Deadlock shifted.  “No.”   

“Mmm,” Turmoil murmured, almost a hum, as though that was precisely the response he’d expected.  “I’ve been thinking about what you said.  Before you blew the Black Star.” Another snort. “I did rather like that ship.”  

“What I said.”  He almost didn’t remember.  Why should he? That had been Drift.   

“About how the Autobots are where we began and we’ve…somehow fallen.”   

Oh.  I’ve been thinking about what you said, too.  Outcast. No one will accept me.   “And.” 

 “And.”  The weight pressed down on his shoulders, the hands flexing and balling, possibly a threat.  “An answer this time: why did you leave?”   

You. Me. This. Restlessness. Frustration. I don’t know. “You didn’t go far enough.”  

“Ah.”  That sound, like a round clicking into a chamber, Deadlock stepping into Turmoil’s snare.  “And…your Autobot friends.  Do they…go far enough? Are they winning the war at your pace, Deadlock?”  

No.  “There’s something more than just winning.”  

“Oh?” 

 Deadlock pulled away, his one hand snapping his hatch closed, drifting, tempted, over the short sword’s pommel. If he didn’t have Perceptor to worry about….  You don’t.  

I do.   

He’s holding you back, that Autobot. 

Turmoil’s right. I need to be held back. Deadlock tore himself free, pacing across the room.  

“Honor.  Ideals. Vision.” He tried to summon the ghost of Wing’s voice with his, but the warm golden gaze and bright armor were a long, long way from this darkness.  

“Intangibles,” Turmoil said.  He lowered his head between his shoulders, keeping Deadlock at optic-level.  

“So is ‘victory’.”    

“Yes. And you see how easily intangibles fall prey to reality, Deadlock.”  

Deadlock had no answer. Turmoil could always do this to him, spin him up with words.  “What do you want?” he asked, optics narrowed. “Be clear. For once.”   

Turmoil’s head tilted, battlemask quirking upward. Amused.  Then he leaned forward, swiftly, so that Deadlock could see, could feel the rush of that much mass moving at that great a speed.  The optics stopped a handspan from his.  “I want?  I want to break you down, Deadlock.  I want to make you suffer for my ship. My command.  But more than that, I want to strip away all this pretense, “  he made a fastidious gesture with one hand, “and get down to who you are.  Who you can be.”   

Who I can be.  Killer.  “I know who I am.” 

“You know who you want to be.  That’s…different.”   

Deadlock curled his hand over the short sword’s pommel.  “I’m sick of your philosophy games, Turmoil.”   

“Ah, resorting to violence.  Yes.  That’s exactly what this…Drift would do.”  Turmoil pushed to his feet, stretching languorously, leaving his midsection, for a long moment, terribly, terribly exposed, the long scars on his armor from where Drift had pinned him to the wall of the Black Star casting ugly shadows over the smooth plating.  

The blade seemed to fly into Deadlock’s hand, flashing outward.  Turmoil slipped sideways, just as the blade reached him, so that the solid slice was cut down to a spark-slinging nick over his chassis. A set-up, of course.  “It will,” he observed calmly, “take more than the one sword to kill me.”   

Deadlock recovered his balance, the blade cutting a silver crescent of light, coming back for another slash.  Turmoil stepped back again, taking the next slash on his forearm.   

“Which means more to you, Deadlock?  I’m going to offer you a choice.” 

“I’m not interested in your games,” Deadlock said.  He’d lost sight of what he was doing, lost sight of Perceptor, of Drift, of Wing, of everything other than Turmoil’s hot insult pouring over him like molten steel.   

Turmoil continued, backing another step, moving to block the next strike with his other arm, metal clanging and skreeling.  “Simple choice, Deadlock.  Don’t you want your Great Sword back?” 

Deadlock went still, locked down, the empty sheath seeming to ring with hollow pain.  Yes.  Oh yes. But...one hand.  He couldn't....

 Turmoil nodded: he had Deadlock’s attention now.  “Your Great Sword,” he murmured. “Think of it.  That? You could kill me with.  This…toy?”  He made a derisive snort. 

 The image flashed to Deadlock: Turmoil’s energon, purple and hot, spilling from his damaged joints, taunting Drift to kill him, to finish the job.  His palm itched, his stump blazing.  “What’s the trade?”

 “The trade?”  Turmoil swept in again closing his hand around the blade.  He squeezed, letting the blade bite into his palm plating. “Simple. Prove to me this Drift is dead.”   

“He is.” He’s not. Or it wouldn’t hurt this much. 

Turmoil saw the truth in the too-new red optics.  He jerked his hand away, leaving a line of energon up the blade.  “I trust,” he said, wryly, at the door’s keypad, “you know what to do.” 

Yes.  No, oh…no. 

 

Comments

[chibirisuchan.livejournal.com]

..........he's trying to get Deadlock to kill Perceptor himself, isn't he.

And somewhere in the back of his head, where there's still a Drift, it's got to be nagging him that killing Perceptor himself would at least mean he could give him a fast and relatively painless end, instead of watching Turmoil torture him like a cat with a half-alive mouse for as long as Turmoil wanted to drag it out.

;__________________; aaaaaugh...