La Petite Mort

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW pre spotlight, pre miniseries
Turmoil/Deadlock
Sticky, snuff, pnp, sizekink and yeah this is one of those dark ones you probably want to skip over
for tf_rare_pairing  weekly request: Turmoil Deadlock curiosity killed the autobot

 

 

“Maybe now you’ll listen to me.”  Deadlock’s smile was sharp as a laser scalpel, as he shoved the prisoner so that the Autobot stumbled, sprawling at Turmoil’s feet. “Told you that proximity hit wasn’t a glitch.”

“We’ll discuss that later, Deadlock.”  Turmoil’s optics hung for a meaningfully long moment at Deadlock’s face, taking in the smirk, the barely-tempered hostility. Deadlock was brilliant in the field and his instincts—such as now—were almost uncanny. If only he’d aim his aggression better.  Turmoil did not need the continual subordination.  It eroded his authority. “Details.”

“By the artificial gravity transducers,” Deadlock said. “Apparently planning a nice little surprise.” 

“Zero-g would be a temporary inconvenience at best,” Turmoil speculated. Nearly every mech had magna-clamps. 

“Flipflopping, though,” Deadlock said, gesturing with a hand. Yes, if there was a way to sabotage, destroy, or muck with anything, chances were Deadlock had thought of it.  It seemed sometimes as though Deadlock expended all of his processing power on dirty tactics.  Certainly, Turmoil thought, he didn’t seem to save many bytes for manners. 

Still, Deadlock’s combat record made up for a lot.  And his other proclivities also…mitigated his incivility. Somewhat.  “Still not unmanageable,” Turmoil countered. Magna clamps didn’t care about gravity.

Deadlock glowered.  “He’d already run the degaussing protocols. Or hadn’t you noticed?” Meaning, magnets would be useless.  Turmoil gave an irritated grunt, shifting his feet. His own degaussed EM field generally dropped such protocols from his awareness.  And Deadlock? Always aware—almost hyperaware—of even the most minute changes to his environment. Some holdover from his past, Turmoil suspected. 

He knelt in front of the bound captive, letting the spikes on his knees just dangerously close to the face.  For effect, of course. “But we’re being rude, Deadlock,” he said. “Our captive surely has a voice.” 

“If you can get anything out of him,” Deadlock muttered, dissatisfied, mouth twisting.  Behind his mask, Turmoil felt a smirk take root.  Ah, Deadlock had tried. And Deadlock had failed. 

“If he knows anything worthwhile,” Turmoil said, sliding one hand under the mech’s jaw, letting his thick fingers dig in under the hinge, till the mech cried out in muffled pain, bound hands pawing uselessly at the air as Turmoil raised him to his feet by that one point of pain, “I’ll find it.”

[***]

It turned out the Autobot knew very little worthwhile.  Turmoil’s search had been…thorough, the mech’s armor, stripped off plate by plate, limbs removed, digit by digit, joint by joint.  Energon, thick and tacky, spattered on the walls, down Turmoil’s dark front. The room reeked like scalded fluids, burnt insulation.

And what was left of the intruder, limbless, a chassis and head, facial plates skinned, the vocalizer torn out, crushed before the still-functioning optics when Turmoil deemed the screaming had become ‘annoying’, stared unblinkingly before him, optic shutters torn off, the lenses scored and warped. 

Turmoil stepped over a pile of dented armor, to where Deadlock slouched, arms folded, against the wall.  His expression was tight, mimicking disgust, but Turmoil knew better. Deadlock professed to hate the ‘waste’ of such violence. He was far from squeamish—his combat record spoke against that slander—but he had argued, volubly, that this was purposeless.

It depended, Turmoil always responded, on the purpose.  And while the initial purpose had been to get information from the Autobot intruder, this purpose, this second purpose, was no less successful: he could smell the bloodlust from Deadlock, the way the optics lit over Turmoil’s stained frame, the jagged edges of his EM field that rasped over Turmoil’s as he stepped in.  Deadlock was an attractive mech, well, when he wasn’t scowling.  And he was irresistible when he wanted something.

Turmoil liked making him want something.

He wiped one hand through an energon stain on his arm, brushing it against Deadlock’s mouth.  The mouth tensed: Deadlock knew he was being led.  But he’d known that all along, when he’d stayed.  And the mouth parted, and the glossa flicking between the lip plates to taste the energon.  Turmoil gave a gratified sound, holding his finger closer.  The red optics narrowed in a glare, but…well, Deadlock couldn’t resist.  Violence and interfacing were so intertwined for him he couldn’t limp down that road on only one leg.  He leaned forward, arms still folded over his chassis, optics glowering, but the mouth—oh that sensuous soft mouth—opened, the glossa licking the energon from Turmoil’s finger.  Turmoil’s engines idled higher.  

Were Deadlock cleverer than he was, he’d realize the power he had over Turmoil in these moments, how his resistance, his show of distaste, his hard giving-in, aroused his commander. 

He wasn’t clever; too wrapped in the present, without forethought or planning. And Turmoil liked him, needed him, exactly this way.  Turmoil reached, pulling Deadlock off the wall, tugging at the dark spaulder.  “Come now,” Turmoil said, his voice quiet, the baritone rumbling in the air between them, rippling over Deadlock’s sensornet. “He’s dying.”

Deadlock growled, token resistance. He wanted this as much as Turmoil. The difference was, he tried to hide it from himself, fight it.  Pretend, Turmoil thought, that he was honorable. Superior.  Deadlock was entirely immune to irony.

Deadlock’s hands slicked up Turmoil’s thighs.  Not one for foreplay, Deadlock. Well, Turmoil thought, unless one considered the careful vivisection of an enemy foreplay.  He’d taken Deadlock enough times on dropshuttles on the way back from battlefields to know there was no small truth in that.  And to Turmoil, the sharpest aphrodisiac he could ask for was Deadlock’s grudging resistance.

Deadlock growled, thumbs skirting the interface hatch. Turmoil stepped back, leading Deadlock off the wall, back toward the wreck of the Autobot, the dark hands reluctant to leave Turmoil’s armor.  So easily led, Turmoil thought, dropping to a knee, forcing Deadlock to follow.  Not that he needed the encouragement. 

The small hands tore open Turmoil’s interface hatch, cold and rough on the heated equipment covers, raking over the metal. Turmoil gave a pleased growl, his own hand snaking between the dark thighs, pushing them apart, his own fingers sliding over Deadlock’s interface hatch.  He gave a dark laugh, the covers releasing to his touch.  Poor Deadlock, so easily, easily led by lust.  Turmoil ran his hand down, the palm sliding over the lubricated spike, pressing it against Deadlock’s frame, one thick finger circling, probing the mouth of the valve. 

Deadlock writhed, trying to hide his desires, trying to worm his valve away from the maddening touches. Trying to deny that he wanted it. 

Turmoil dropped a knee between Deadlock’s, releasing his spike, pausing to let it jut between them. He took one of Deadlock’s hands, wrapping it around the spike, guiding the hand to slick the lubricant down the dark metal.  Deadlock’s optics burned with lust, transfixed on the spike, the gloss of lubricant in the dim light, the weak crackle of current over his hand.  Turmoil growled with his own want, rocking back, feeling the hand tug at the spike, trying to master it.  He let Deadlock guide it to the mouth of the valve. “So eager,” he whispered, bending low over the white helm, gloating at the outrage on Deadlock’s face, even as the hand squeezed more insistently over his spike. 

Eager. Yes.  As was Turmoil. He rolled forward, sinking his spike into the narrow valve, feeling the calipers strain to retract, the lining unpleating entirely, his spike scraping the valve’s metal rim. He paused for a moment, letting them both feel it—the mass and fullness, the taut stretch of the valve lining.  Rumor had it that Megatron had once taken Deadlock. And it was possibly only rumor, but it was one Turmoil liked to imagine: the dark hand curled around Deadlock’s white helm, holding the mouth against his spike. Or Deadlock, flung over some table, or taken on the floor of the Arena itself, his face a rictus of pleasure and pain.

Or, what Turmoil knew had happened: Deadlock’s flat, dead snarl, hips pistoning against another mech, the mech’s hands pinned underneath him, Deadlock’s optics fixed on some distant ecstasy that never…quite…arrived.

Poor Deadlock. Always so unsatisfied.  Which was why he needed Turmoil.  Why he needed…this. 

Turmoil reached with one hand, the hardline cables snaking from his wrist toward the ruined Autobot.  The cables bit into the thin metal, all insulation, all firewalling having been torn away, so that the connection snapped on as soon as the nanofilaments penetrated.  “Life and death, Deadlock,” he murmured, craning his neck, to where Deadlock’s white helm seemed to glimmer in the shadow cast by Turmoil’s massive frame, the optics molten, mouth twisted with want.  One hand extended, clawing, grabbing for Turmoil’s wrist, his own cables snaking around, biting into Turmoil’s, splitting the feed.  Turmoil gave a rev, the vibration traveling frame-against-frame, as he began thrusting—short, shallow, but sharp, into the straining valve.

The helm fell back against the stained, littered floor, the optics glaring, aroused malevolence, blankly at Turmoil’s chassis as it moved above him. Deadlock’s one hand clutched at Turmoil’s, wrapping the thumb, squeezing at it, fingers digging into the plates, his other hand clawing down Turmoil’s side, body writhing on the edge of pain, helpless to force himself over into the abyss between death and ecstasy, the dying Autobot’s last flare of rage, sensation, hate, and terror like some wild accelerant between them.

Deadlock roared, arching up, optics blanking white, wrist cables burning into Turmoil’s as Turmoil drove him into overload, spike jamming into the valve’s ceiling node with an almost brutal desire.  Turmoil’s transfluid slammed  into him, a hard rush of fluid, filling the already-tight valve, spilling back along the spike, trickling along the rim, hot against their joined bodies. 

Turmoil looked over: the last light died from the Autobot’s optics, frame cooling, slumping, dead, its last moments feeding their lust, its emotions burning under theirs, power and feeling where they were both numb. 

“Now, Deadlock,” he whispered, releasing his cables’ connection to the dead Autobot, keeping the link with his second active and alive.  “You wanted to talk.”

 

Comments

[lc-skywalker.livejournal.com]

Dear good gods! This was incredible and amazing and... and... yeah. I'm out of adjectives.

Suffice to say, I love this. And I'm quite certain that has ensured me a seat very close to the front of the bus to Special Hell. (I'll bring the Jack Daniels?)

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

Glad you liked it! Weirdo. :P

I am a little freaked out that I can write Turmoil so easily.

[silaphet.livejournal.com]

creepy, just when i was thinking there weren't enough vivisections anymore, you read my mind. keeping this one in back pocket for Dimmu Borgir days

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

Well trust Decepticons to use Autobots as sex toys. :)

[oni-gil.livejournal.com]

I um wow.

If all the circuits in my brain hadn't just fried, I would have something interesting to say. Suffice it to second what those above me have said. And keyboard smashes without the keyboard smashes. Because sometimes you run across a fic that makes you go "HOLY SH*T." (coming from someone who never swears.)

[not-your-gun.livejournal.com]

Even the most dysfunctional of relationships can be functional when both are satisfied.

I had to think on why this sort of fic can be so tempting, and really seek for some sort of meaning in the dark delight of it. What I found is that...in a way, this is alluring because of how unacceptable it would be...that Decepticons can still find pleasure in each other, that, strangely, it works.

Even among death and pain and suffering....even because of it, there's a place for them to belong, to get what they need.

Granted, now I'm curious what goes through your head when you write these two.


Either way, I'm always happy with how you play Turmoil and Drift off each other. You write this...dark force that is Turmoil so well, it gives me inspiration.

[ultharkitty.livejournal.com]

Oh so very dark, deliciously so. This has immensely improved the beginning of the week :D

[mieka-writes.livejournal.com]

creepy as hell... but Whoa........ um.. wow

[ladyofdragons.livejournal.com]

Hnnnng yes. I probably enjoyed that more than I should have, but I have no regrets. As dark pairings go this is one of my absolute faves. wicked, wicked, hot!