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shadow_vector2011-08-09 12:13 pm
A Sentimental Mercenary in a Freefire Zone
NC-17
IDW, post Megatron Origin
Megatron/Deadlock
data exchange sticky, rough sex
for tf_rare_pairing August Challenge
Song: Marillion’s Assassing Mostly the whole song, which is about a very charismatic speaker stirring up trouble. AND THEN, SMEX. (Not in the song.)
Megatron watched as Deadlock took his place. The mech moved quietly, automatically, to the left corner of the impromptu stage, where he always stood, hands flared, ready, over his guns, optics searching the audience. He took his title as bodyguard a little too seriously, perhaps, and far more ruthlessly than Starscream did, but Megatron had come to find some sort of strange, amused comfort in the mech’s stolid, frowning presence.
He forced the smirk from his mouth, turning to the audience. Dozens of pairs of optics crowded the shadowy, cramped space, an impromptu meeting hall crammed in the underbelly of Iacon, carved from an old, abandoned tramway station. His own optics took in the rough gouges in the bedrock. Poor mining done by amateurs, not caring what they dug through. Looking for negative space.
Deadlock’s head turned, scanning the audience, before the finials tipped in a nod. It was redundant, to have a bodyguard: Megatron had resisted the idea, until Soundwave had insisted that the middle classes of mechs hung on this sort of ornament and ceremony. So Megatron had indulged them their symbolism, wryly noting that the bodyguards Soundwave chose were far from Arena fighters. Starscream, who brought Vosian elegance and polish as he stood behind Megatron. And Deadlock, who brought a fierce, ardent energy that far outstripped his smaller frame.
Megatron began. A speech he had rehearsed, practiced for ages, it seemed, in the mines, trying out phrases, matching the rhythm to the tempo of the mining equipment, sometimes rising with the whine of a crosscutter, sometimes the deep, steady thump of a manual axe. The words seemed to flow without his conscious attention, these days, stitching together a tapestry of sound and meaning that stirred the sparks of his listeners.
Even Deadlock, who had heard a variation of this speech every day for a decacycle now. But Megatron could feel the mech’s presence, on the edge of his awareness, flaring alive, rapt with the language.
When the last syllable fell into the sudden silence, like a stone down a well, Deadlock moved. The audience, as usual, erupted into cheers, and Deadlock stalked the stage, small enough so as not to block the view of Megatron, the mech they had come to see. Another show, another demonstration of power, but one that Deadlock took—as he did everything—with a grim seriousness.
Megatron signaled, and Deadlock angled back, facing the audience, feet striking backwards blocking any shot that might be aimed at the Decepticon leader. Show, and more show. Assassination attempts had stopped—deemed too costly, too expensive after Deadlock had caught one, and Soundwave had…finished him. No Autobot, the rumor was, was willing to risk that.
Still, Deadlock never let his guard down. Even as they entered the secure corridor, Megatron could feel the taut, coiled energy thrumming off the smaller mech. And this close, it was a hot flame against him.
Megatron turned, halting. Deadlock stopped, immediately, optics warily scanning the corridor ahead for threats. Megatron felt the smirk grow over his faceplates. “Do you ever,” he asked, his voice still rich and warm from speaking, “let your guard down?”
“No.” The answer, flat, quiet, undefiant.
Megatron laughed. “Good.” He turned, optics flaring with a sudden hunger. A tense, almost clumsy moment, Deadlock teetering between anxiety and a matching want.
As much as Deadlock admitted to wanting.
Megatron’s mouth covered the smaller mech’s, driving him backward, against the wall, until his helm grated against the cold stone. The mouth parted against his, half a cry of pain, and his glossa took advantage, probing, intruding. Deadlock made a throaty sound of desire, his hands clawing suddenly at Megatron’s shoulders, shoulders striking against the bulkhead.
He tore his mouth from Deadlock’s, reveling in the bruising pain, metal against metal, his optics hovering before the smaller mech’s. “Want something, Deadlock?” Taunting, teasing. One corner of his mouth quirked as Deadlock squirmed, his thighs jarring together. Oh yes. Deadlock fought everything. Including himself.
Deadlock gave a growl, harsh, feral, tucking his chin, optics hooded. His EM field buzzed against Megatron’s, frustrated. Megatron leaned in, bending down, brushing his chassis against Deadlock’s, snapping the hands back from his shoulders, pinning them against the wall. Deadlock’s head whipped from side to side, taking in his pinned wrists, ventilation hissing from his mouth.
Fierce, wild thing, Megatron thought, feeling his systems cycling up, engine revving. He’d learned in the Arena the hot lust of struggle and Deadlock did that so beautifully: feral, defiant, every time. He pressed against the smaller mech, his engine vibrations traveling over the metal, offering his mouth. Deadlock bit, dental ridges grinding one lip plate between them. A soft sound, a growl, nearly drowned in Megatron’s engine, and then a twisting pressure: Deadlock trying to squirm his wrists free.
Megatron laughed into the biting kiss, slicking his glossa against Deadlock’s mouth as he released one struggling wrist to slide a rough hand down Deadlock’s body, scraping over the interface hatch. “Don’t make me repeat the question.”
A larger snarl, and a gutter-rat’s curse, the pelvic span pushing wantonly against his hand. The red optics bored into his, roiling with something like hate. Hate for the admission, at least. “Yes,” Deadlock spat.
Megatron gave a snort, victorious, his hand opening the panel, blindly, letting the cool air strike the exposed, heated metal of the equipment covers while released his own hatch. He smirked, watching Deadlock try to resist lowering his gaze between them to see his dark spike jutting into the air. He felt a tremble of raw lust from the wrist he still held trapped.
He dropped the struggling wrist, clamping his hands against the chassis before lifting off, hauling Deadlock off his feet, under his shoulders. His grin was tinged with conquest, as Deadlock clamped his hands over his forearms, one foot thudding against Megatron’s thigh as he kicked.
“Open,” Megatron said, optics narrowing to red slits of desire. He leaned forward sliding his spike against Deadlock’s body.
Deadlock snarled, both legs kicking up, hands clawing at the armor under their grip. The fingertips were little claw-stars of pain across Megatron’s net, enough to remind him of life, to remind him of what he’d paid to be here. Deadlock could bring this out of him, more than anyone else. Starscream could play at defiance, but there was always that ironic edge, teetering on condescension, that he was playing a role in a game he found slightly silly. And Soundwave…no.
But Deadlock, a snarling, hissing mass of raw desire, wanting, and hating that he wanted, violent and earnest. Sometimes this was what Megatron needed, some wild coupling that stripped away all pretense of niceties and civilities and was just raw, brute pleasure.
Deadlock kicked out again, but this time, his heelplate caught around Megatron’s hip, jerking him closer, even as his optics blazed.
Megatron steeled himself, pushing inward, his spike finding the valve. It took more restraint than he thought he had to move slowly, enter almost gently. He was rated Industrial-Heavy; Deadlock was, at best, Courier-Light and their very frames spoke against this. His larger spike pushed slowly into the valve waiting for the calipers to wave apart, Deadlock’s mouth open, optics distant in concentration, until he’d seated himself fully in the smaller mech, the valve’s silky lining stretched taut around him.
A soft grunt, and Megatron felt the subtle change as Deadlock opened the data receptor. Obedient even in his defiance. He didn’t want submission, not here, not now. He wanted the fight, he wanted to watch the struggle.
And Deadlock struggled so gorgeously, so earnestly.
“I should,” Megatron whispered, mouth on the gold swell of Deadlock’s buccal armor, “just stay like this. What do you think, Deadlock?”
Deadlock squirmed, valve twisting on the spike, ducking under to bite at Megatron’s throat, muffling another curse. Megatron laughed, feeling the vibration of it against Deadlock’s mouth. Megatron relented, moving slowly at first, feeling the smaller body writhe against his, the tight pressure of the smaller-rated valve. Deadlock tore his mouth away with a wild moan, his head tipping back, helm against the wall. And Megatron’s laugh died to a sound of lust, as he picked up speed, his thrusts becoming harder, sharper, more demanding. Deadlock’s legs locked around his hips, his shoulders still pinned against the wall, his entire weight hanging from Megatron’s frame.
Megatron leaned forward, resting the center of his helm on Deadlock’s rank crest, optics hovering over optics. They panted at each other, bodies surging together, barely seeing, so caught up in the sensations of their sensornets, caught up in themselves, entirely self-centered, Megatron’s gaze the haughty possessive glare of a conqueror; Deadlock’s the bittersweet obstinacy of one trying to deny the evidence of his own writhing arching frame.
It came all too soon—keyed up from the speech, from Deadlock’s impossibly arousing earnestness, from his own swell of control and power—the overload shuddered hard through Megatron’s frame, sweeping thought aside with a white tide of sensation: color, light, smell, sound, and exquisite, exquisite pleasure, sharp enough to hurt. His spike jolted in the valve, and he felt the hot rush of the data-fluid flood between them, and then the sharp, guttural cry from Deadlock, his valve calipers snatching at the spike, in a series of rhythmic capture-squeezes.
They hung, for a long moment, cooling systems buzzing between them, creating a delicate current of eddying air, bodies heaving in the heat. Deadlock’s optics were dimmed, the data hitting him hard and fast, like a secondary cascade, an assault on his neural net, sliding, sheathing, memories, sensation, skills under his own. It was…part of the whole point, to cement the smaller mech and all his ferocity and loyalty to him, blinding him to everything but Megatron himself. The colonization, the spread of his memories, was a conquest deeper than most mechs dreamed of. But it was more than that—they filled a need in each other.
Deadlock’s hand twitched, on Megatron’s elbow, and then the smaller mech pulled himself forward, riding along Megatron’s arms, his legs still wrapped around the dark hips, until his mouth found Megatron’s. No biting, no snarling, not this time: just a warm, gentle, almost seeking kiss, sweet and trembling with something like gratitude.
He held the smaller mech, for a moment teetering, uncertain, even as his mouth flowered against the gentle touches, his arms folding awkwardly against the broad, hard back. Deadlock’s fingers skimmed over the armor, light, almost imperceptible touches, flirting and stirring with the EM field and for a moment Megatron wondered about this—if he wanted, if he could endure, the teasing touches, the feathery caresses that raised impossibly light tickling nets of stars across his sensor span.
Whose was this? His couplings had always been hard, fast, racing toward climax. Wherever this gentleness came from, it was not Megatron. Surely not.
And then the moment passed, the lip plates practically hardening against Megatron’s, the body’s servos getting taut and rigid.
“Not safe here,” Deadlock mumbled, unlocking his ankles from behind Megatron’s hips, grasping wildly for his duty.
Curiosity burned in Megatron. “Not safe anywhere.” He felt the thighs slide over him, reaching for the ground, and Deadlock’s weight was gone, just a memory of pressure and warmth, air striking cold against his heated, slick spike.
Not safe, he thought, letting one hand slide, reluctantly letting go, over the complicated panels of Deadlock’s back. Not safe for anything but these hurried moments—fierce and violent, demanding and taking.
But maybe one day….
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I particularly liked this line: He was rated Industrial-Heavy; Deadlock was, at best, Courier-Light and their very frames spoke against this.
Purr, size difference...
...but also purr to the nod of different somatotypes actually making it difficult to have relationships between the classifications. I love the implications of that. I like how the two of them defy that.
But especially I like the concept that the starting of the war is what's denying intimacy as a tender thing. That it might even be what they'd like, but it can't happen until things are different...and then they never are. It's bittersweet.
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And as the Ongoing continues there are a lot of hints of rigid social stratification which would lead to this kind of tension.
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/has had too much sugar, does it show?
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No, it doesn't! You just seem very up, which I'm glad for you.
Megatron is a tough one to get a handle on (for me) in the romance department. I admire people such as yourself that can write him so well and make it believable.