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niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shadow_vector2011-11-15 07:00 am
Meridian part 3
NC-17
IDW AU
Deadlock, Wing, Megatron
dx sticky, dubcon, violent sex
Megatron kept his back to the entryway a beat longer than necessary, to drive the message home. He was…not pleased with Deadlock. But he was willing to hear him out. On his own terms. He admitted—to himself at least—to some curiosity. What story would he tell? Would he dare, after all this time, lie to Megatron?
Footsteps. Three sets. Interesting. Lockdown’s long stride, the still-familiar almost-stomp of Deadlock, that seemed to stir long dead echoes of memory, and a third set, even and light. That third set more than anything else, drew his attention. He turned, his broad backplate a mass of movement.
Deadlock’s face, set in the same jutting, almost challenging expression Megatron remembered from all those aeons ago, tilted up to his. “Megatron,” he gave a brusque nod. Deadlock himself, rearmored, only the face the same, the hard mouth, the burning, intense optics. Even blue, they were Deadlock’s. Unmistakable. Megatron would recognize Deadlock through any disguise—the face, that voice, always on the edge of hoarse.
Businesslike, calm. As though nothing had happened. And yet.
And yet, beside him, wrists bound, a small white jet, armor of an ancient design, optics a gold color Megatron hadn’t seen in ages.
He brought his gaze and all its fearsome weight back to the other mech. “Deadlock.”
And waited.
A confident quirk of the mouth. “Ready to get back to the front.” Never readier. Megatron could feel it singing in his circuits, the pent up need to attack. Deadlock: always absolutely clear and obvious, as though scorning deceit.
“Are you.” A deliberately insolent, evaluating stare, raking up and down the white armor, the swords.
“You need me.” A twitch of the lipplates, the first sign of uncertainty, the hands curling over the sword hilts, as if for reassurance.
“No, Deadlock. I can make use of you. That’s different—quite different—from need.” A red-opticked flare of anger. He felt the gold optics on him, studying, curious. Unafraid. “And this? Have you brought me a present, Deadlock?”
Deadlock stiffened. “A trophy. This one’s personal.”
“Personal. That’s…new.”
“He’s mine.” A bold flare of anger, the black hands balling into fists. Megatron felt an old, familiar smile curl over his mouthplates, a rising thrum in his energon lines. Deadlock was always…feisty.
“And you are mine. Or have you forgotten what you pledged, Deadlock?”
Deadlock vibrated, tight with anger. Remembering. And that familiar twitch, that hot flare of the optics, even though blue, stirred up old memories. Ancient, and desire flamed out from under all the encrusted cynicism. There was something about Deadlock, a sharp blade, which pierced through irrelevancies.
Megatron felt a bladed smile curve over his mouthplates. “I see I need to remind you.”
A sharp grinding sound: Deadlock’s mouthplates grating together. Megatron could practically taste the fine shavings. And he wanted to. Now.
Delay irritated him as much as it aroused him. And he wanted to hone both edges on Deadlock’s hardness. He let his optics rake down Deadlock’s frame, obviously, insolently, smirking at the tenseness in the frame.
“Not here.” The voice hard, flat, but not entirely unwilling. Of course not: Deadlock surely remembered, too.
He gave a short, amused nod. “My quarters, then. “ He gave a half turn, mocking a courteous gesture toward the door, halting abruptly. A bit theatrically, perhaps, but Deadlock had always responded to performance. He remembered how Deadlock had been captivated, rapt, by his words, on Cybertron, the glow of ideals flaming over his entire frame. “Unless you’d rather your possession joined us.” It felt good, that mocking grin and even better the startled sharp dismay on Deadlock’s face. “Later, then, perhaps.”
Deadlock balked. “No harm comes to him.” A glance, possessive, hot, and…something more, back to Wing. Interesting.
Deadlock balled his fists, resolute. “No harm.”
“None,” Megatron agreed, easily. “So long as you…suffice.”
[***]
Deadlock swung as soon as the door closed behind them, a fist, a solid mass of metal and fury, swinging at Megatron’s midsection. His spaulders echoed the move, carving a solid white arc into the room’s dimness. His fist contacted the abdominal armor, metal giving with a satisfying crunch. He gave a pleased snarl, that died abruptly as Megatron countered with a hammerblow to his shoulder.
“Maybe you haven’t forgotten,” Megatron laughed.
Deadlock swept his opposite leg out, footplate aimed in a vicious kick to the back of Megatron’s knee. It buckled, Deadlock feeling the rocking of the center of gravity above it as he swept to follow through with a fist to the jaw dropping down to range. He felt a dark surge of confidence at the startled flash over Megatron’s face. All that time, all those hits he’d taken at Wing’s hands. He had learned something, after all.
But Deadlock was a Decepticon, after all. He pulled back, keeping some of his skill in reserve. Better not show his hand. Not yet. And not when he wanted the end result of this as much as Megatron.
The next blow staggered him back, a series of juddering steps, that terminated in a slam of his shoulders against the wall behind him, and Megatron’s face, split between a sneer and a hiss of desire, hovering over his.
Deadlock’s optics blazed, the blue lights catching in a net of fine scratches over Megatron’s face plates, nearly burnishing him in azure.
“Some things never change,” Megatron said, before pressing forward, bent over him, mouth hard and urgent on Deadlock’s. Deadlock tipped his head up, parting his mouthplates, the kiss simply another level of contest, another field of battle. He could feel the heat of Megatron’s cooling systems blasting between them, stirring the lust-raised heat of his own body. His hands clawed at the heavier armor, scratching, yet pulling closer, curls of metal spiraling out from under his touch.
Megatron picked him up, bodily, swinging the body in a fast, tight arc, so that Deadlock felt the air like a cool whistle through his footplates, slamming him against the ground. Equalizing their height difference, exacerbating Megatron’s control, as the larger mech pressed down upon him. Deadlock snarled, one arm, bent for the narrow gap between their bodies, swinging the elbow like a hammer against Megatron’s jaw.
The mouth spluttered open, a bellow of pain mingling, melting into laughter. One of the large hands braced over Deadlock’s chassis, fingers splayed out wide, the other scraping, obvious, possessive, down the frame, to grip the pelvic span. Deadlock thrashed, but they both knew that for the act it was. They both wanted this. And both needed to pretend it was something else.
Megatron thrust the hatch open, rubbing rough fingers down the newly exposed metal, pushing the thighs apart. A dark laugh rippled from the vocalizer, feeling the heat from the still-covered valve. Wanting, even as Deadlock himself struggled. He sent the command to his own interface equipment, autoreleasing his spike, grinning, growling with pleasure as the blue optics flitted down between them. Knowing. Wanting.
He swung himself up, cupping a hand around the white helm, spike sliding from its housing as he shifted his weight. He smirked down at Deadlock, reveling in the hard hate and resistance on the face. The Autobot-blue of the optics aroused him, tempted him to compulsion. “This is punishment, Deadlock,” he murmured, thrusting the rounded socket of the spike’s tip against the mouth, cool lubricant glossing over the mouth.
Deadlock snarled, blazing humiliation, but his mouth parted, twisting bitterly, accepting his punishment, accepting his rebuke. The hot mouth enveloped the spike’s tip, and Megatron twitched as a glossa flicked against a node. Continuing the contest, turning his own arousal against him in little bittersweet jolts of charge. Megatron remembered Deadlock’s history, the bitter tale trickling out, slowly, haltingly, over decacycles—the life Deadlock had led in the gutters, what he had traded, sold to survive. And how he hated to be reminded of it.
The point had been made. Megatron owned Deadlock, had pulled him free at last from that sort of filthy exchange.
He snatched one of the white-armored knees, throwing it across Deadlock’s body, twisting the smaller mech’s hips up onto the side, settling himself down onto the thigh, his spike hovering at the mouth of the valve. He paused, building the anticipation for both of them, feeling Deadlock’s anger, longing, fury, desire, loyalty, all the things that made him irreplaceable, made sending Lockdown after him worth it.
Megatron drove in, sinking his spike into the valve, enveloping himself in Deadlock’s ardent heat. The valve felt…different. Plush and clinging.
No, it was just the strain of memory, of time and distance that had made him forget. Deadlock was still Deadlock. The armor was different, the optics blue, but the writhing, the cursing voice, the high tide of desire, were all familiar. Familiar enough that his own desire seized him, and he found himself thrusting in with wild abandon, slipping on the edge of control.
Beneath him, around his spike, Deadlock squirmed, thrashing against him, ventilations harsh and rasping. His own hands grabbed at Deadlock's frame, wanting nothing more than to claw more excited snarl and cries of pain and lust from the smaller mech.
"Mine," he heard himself snarl, as the tide of lust swept over him, annihilating his better judgment, stripping away everything that the two bodies ceaselessly, relentlessly using each other.
He felt the change suddenly, in the slick heated lubrication of the valve; the sudden subtle shift of pressure and shape at the valve’s ceiling. And he realized that Deadlock remembered. He felt a possessive, feral smile crest across his mouth, crashing ahead of a tide of desire. The overload swept through him, the blazing heat, a hard cascading brush that shot through his systems, igniting them. transfluid spilling from his spike into the clutching valve. He felt the calipers seized and grasp at him, holding his spike fast, as the transfluid was taken up into the data chamber.
Deadlock shuddered underneath him, optics flaring and dimming, sated, turned inward as the rush of data flooded him like a secondary overload, the smaller, clawing black fingers softening now almost…clinging. Deadlock did always turn almost gentle after interfacing, as though the overload burned off the rough edges leaving something tender and fragile behind.
Megatron bent low, curling his spine to bring his mouth against Deadlock’s, feeling the mouth find his in a poignant, gentle kiss, tasting the change in Deadlock’s desire like some fine, rare vintage, a vestige of his own lubricant almost sweet on his glossa. He broke the kiss slowly, nipping at the mouthplates, optics hovering over Deadlock’s. “You fight better than I remember,” he murmured.
“Wing,” Deadlock said, his voice raw from snarling, exhausted, satiated.
“So it was more than his prettiness that drew you?” A goad, a taunt, deliberate.
The mouth hardened under his, optics hooding. “Long story.”
Megatron lay himself down, weight next to the white chassis, one hand still possessively on the chestplate, spike lodged, tingling and quiescent, in the snug valve’s velvety hold. “We have, it seems, time.”
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I wonder what Lockdown was thinking that entire conversation. XD
Fight!sex was delicious.... I need a fan now.
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