Meridian, ch 4

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW Meridian AU
Deadlock/Wing
dubcon, sticky
chapters archived here

Wing had gone beyond worry but not beyond caring. After a long while, a Decepticon guard had come for him, leading him to what would apparently be Deadlock’s quarters. A large, stark room, much bigger than even his apartments in Crystal City, but blank, empty except for a sort of thick, heavy air.  The guard raked insolent optics over Wing before he left, muttering something like “if he wasn’t Deadlock’s,” before turning away.

Wing didn’t know if the phrase comforted him or not, and he spent the next cycles, locked in that room, pondering, weighing, his still-bound wrists helpless in front of him. 

So that was Megatron, he thought, settling himself, after a long time, on the berth, scuffling his heels against the cool metal to push him into the corner in a tight bound ball.  He was…not what Wing had expected, entirely. Then again, Wing couldn’t quite say, if pushed, what he had expected.  He had expected hardness, hostility. He had not quite expected the…almost fond familiarity under the hard words the two had flung at each other.

He didn’t know what to do with that. Or himself, so he let himself drift into the hot, uncomfortable, restless recharge of a mech with no future. Much, he thought, his last conscious thought, like it had been for Drift, back in the gutters of Cybertron.  Just like Drift.

[***]

Wing awoke to hands on his wrists, his optics flying open, swept with alarm.

…to see Deadlock, bending over them, tapping in the release code on the wrist restraints. The mech reeked of interfacing—heated circuitry, the sweet tang of lubricant, but his armor bore traces of rough treatment—scrapes and dents, hot in patches from active autorepair.

The restraints fell free, clattering to the berth between them. Deadlock looked up, the blue optics lambent with something Wing couldn’t read. Deadlock reached for his helm, cupping around it, drawing it down to his into a kiss so gentle that Wing almost stiffened in surprise.  Deadlock moved, rolling his weight back, pulling Wing on top of him like a blanket.  Wing could feel some need lick against him, something flame from Deadlock’s EM field against his, letting himself unfold, stretching out over the other mech, their white armor seeming to mingle and glow in the dimness. The other’s glossa probed, almost cautiously, inside Wing’s mouth, seeking, tasting, while the fingers glided gently over the audial flares.  Despite himself, Wing shivered.

But this was different than before—Deadlock wasn’t deliberately riling his desire, using his own body against him. This was almost pleading, coaxing, and Wing’s body responded, his own hands, newly freed, stroking gently down the heated frame, his thighs sliding over Deadlock’s limbs, as the other mech parted them, raising his knees to create a sort of cradle around Wing’s hips: opening, offering.

It was a strange moment, silent, but communicating everything.

Wing found he couldn’t resist—the warmth, the wanting from the other mech tugged at him in small tendrils that prickled like hope: that Drift wasn’t lost to him, not utterly. That somewhere under that hard face was the softness he remembered and if there, he could uncover once again.  He returned the kiss, his mouth gentle and eager, giving a pleased clickchirr as the other’s hands found and stroked his folded wings.

The hips surged up against his, the pelvic span grinding along his, importuning.  Wing’s hand slipped between them, releasing the hatches with trembling fingers, his mouth stilling on Deadlock’s as the other’s hands hooked around his hips, guiding him to sheathe his spike in the valve.  They both hung, clinging to each other, for a long moment, the shock of familiar and strangeness, past and now, rippling the air between them, Deadlock’s optics flaring wide and blue under Wing’s gold. 

Wing began moving, rocking in his slow, careful way, a rising, steady surge against Deadlock. It was slow, languorous, as though they had all the time in the world, or more: the power, in moments like this, to make time stop.

That was what Deadlock really wanted, Wing thought: the stop of time, the denial of the present. And he shouldn’t, but he wanted it too, to deny the power of this dark place, of the louring cloud that was Megatron, of the hard touches Deadlock had visited on him earlier. 

Their bodies moved together, in a sweet, wordless unison, Deadlock’s hips tipping up to meet Wing’s gentle thrusts, their hands stroking at the seams, the charge that accumulated there, fingertips stirring a fairydust of desire, until Wing’s own want overcame him and he shuddered into release.  His fluid spilled between them, some scalding testament to the strange bond, and Deadlock’s legs twined through Wing’s, his hands clinging, holding the jet in place more firmly, more thoroughly, than despair and manacles.

Deadlock’s mouth found his again, though his optics were closed, somnolent and heavy, plucking one last kiss from Wing before he seemed to tumble into recharge.  Wing stilled himself. He did not deserve pleasure, or joy. He had brought about, in the height of his arrogance, the downfall of his home, his city, what he had sworn to protect. And instead of being allowed the ultimate penalty for that betrayal—a chance to redeem his mistake with the price of his life—he was here, in the arms of their destroyer, a kiss like hope still burning on his mouth. And Wing lay, caught in the snare of the Decepticon’s embrace, wondering what had become of him, if he was already lost.