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niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shadow_vector2012-02-14 10:09 pm
Meridian ch 6
IDW Meridian AU
Deadlock, Wing, Megatron
sticky, angst, dubcon
“Who did this?” Deadlock’s voice, grey and sharp, a shadow falling over where Wing lay, huddled on the floor. Hands tugged Wing out of his sobbing curl. Wing quailed from the touch, unable to bear the ignominy, the powerlessness of being Deadlock’s plaything now. He would have pleaded if he trusted himself to make words. But the touch was impassive, neutral, gliding down his limbs without thought of arousal. Puzzlement on Drift’s face, as his hands came up clean—without energon, rough spurs of broken armor, any sign of injury. “Who?” Deadlock repeated.
Wing shook his head, hunching, miserable, even as Deadlock scooped him up, carrying him, even balled up, to the berth’s putative comfort.
A long moment, Deadlock’s brow furrowing. Wing stayed curled in a lump of recrimination. A frustrated sound, Drift pushing up abruptly, crossing to the small private storage locker his rank had earned him. The whole room, though cramped compared to Wing’s quarters, was luxurious for a starship.
Wing felt a ration of energon pressed into his hands. His fingers closed numbly around the cube, as Deadlock’s hands lifted it to his mouth.
“Drink.” Half an order, the optics blue over the rim of the cube.
Wing…tried. The energon sparkled, effervesced in his mouth, warm and rich—too rich and he felt his throat close, his intakes disobey. Droplets dribbled from his mouth, a heated trail tingling down his chin.
A frustrated sound, and Deadlock snatched the cube, moving it to a side shelf. One thumb, scarred from long-past battles, swept the spilled trail, raising it to his own mouth. The gesture might have been tender, had it not been that it was Deadlock, his captor, and probably motivated from some ancient conservation protocol. Deadlock had been in the war so long it had become part of his base programming.
“Rest,” Deadlock ordered, turning away. “You’ll feel better after recharge.” The voice had a note of long, hard-earned experience. He planted himself at the far end of the berth, back toward Wing, straddling the corner.
…but I don’t deserve to….
[***]
Wing fell into some restless recharge, cycles later, only to jerk awake, sensors taut and wired. Nothing. Deadlock still sat, powered down, immobile, in the shadow-filled room. The darkness seemed to yawn between them, gnawing at Wing’s spark. He rolled forward, hooking one arm around Deadlock’s waist, tugging the mech backward, downward, almost surprised to feel the frame follow his guidance, until Deadlock lay next to Wing.
Wing buried his face against the flat of Deadlock’s chassis, feeling an arm creep around his shoulders. And he hated that he came to Deadlock for any sort of comfort, any consolation.
But he was weak. As Deadlock had said, had seen, he was weak, and he’d rather cling to the familiar hum of systems against him than ache alone. Even now.
Even so.
[***]
Wing woke later—not a harsh jerk this time, but a slow, gentle onlining. All the worse, he decided, when the sharp reality slashed through the drowsy torpor. He was here, alone, and all of his friends, everything he’d sworn to protect, was dead and in ruins.
Deadlock was gone, the berth where he had been long cooled, empty under Wing’s hand. He had no comfort. He deserved none. He rolled to his back, wings tight, staring at the smooth ductwork above him, the metal cool and lonely under him, the another long stretch of day spooling out before him. A time was he would have clung to life with both hands. Now, he held on loosely, almost daring it to break his grip.
[***]
“Deadlock.” The mouth curled into a smile. “You have missed me, apparently.”
A hard snort, the smaller mech pushing into Megatron’s quarters, ducking under the arm. “Wing,” he barked.
“The jet.”
“MY jet.”
“Yours.”
Deadlock’s mouth flattened, as he rounded on Megatron. “What did you do to him?”
Megatron tilted his head, amused. “Merely spoke.”
“Merely.” The chin jutted up. “Like you don’t use words as weapons.”
A bark of a laugh. “I have missed you, Deadlock.”
A twitch of the mouth, one hand jerking into a fist. Of course. The language Deadlock spoke. Megatron swept closer, arm hooking under the deep spaulders, tugging the smaller mech against him. “Tell me,” he murmured. “Tell me about your jet.”
Defiance in Deadlock’s optics, warm and familiar, through time. The fist bloomed, shoving against the heavier chassis, even as Megatron drove him back to the wall. He grunted, metal crunching, pressed between the large frame and the wall.
“You own nothing,” Megatron said, quietly, hands running over the white frame—so different, and yet still, the motions under it, the spark animating it, were deliciously familiar. Still Deadlock, as though the war hadn’t changed him other than to sharpen a blade already keen. Megatron had seen too many soldiers broken by the war, too many horrors crushing them down, but Deadlock…something sustained the smaller mech, some hot-burning inner flame that charred away doubt.
“But I,” he whispered, one hand sliding under the white jaw, tilting it up, “own you.”
It wasn’t a kiss or anything close: more like a bite between them, dentae grating, fighting for dominance, for control over the other and their own rampant desires. He felt the smaller hands clawing at him, torn between hurting and arousing.
“Remember,” he heard himself say, half a question, half a command, as the tendrils of memory seemed to unspool from some place behind Deadlock, twining around him, pulling them both under.
[***]
Cybertron, Kaon
It had gone beyond that first time, that one time Soundwave had told him would bind Deadlock to him. Deadlock never seemed to want it, at first. There was always this wall, this block, as though Deadlock did not interface, had no desire. But once awakened, the smaller mech’s desires were ravenous. Just…private.
And he never approached Megatron, always waiting to be summoned, and giving nothing away, remaining as still and impassive as if he were there to receive orders, until Megatron heaved him close, hands delivering the message. Even back then, some hesitation, the way one might rock backwards before throwing oneself headlong over a precipice; as though Deadlock was gathering himself for some great leap.
But once he leapt, he plummeted headlong, throwing himself into desire with an abandon that told some story of long repression in the gutters.
Like now, his hot hands splayed on Megatron’s square chest framing, dark thighs straddling Megatron’s hips. His mouth was parted in a loose shape of desire, optics dim, body surging upward as he rode himself over Megatron’s spike. Megatron’s own hands rode lightly on the smaller hips, less to guide than to feel the pistons fire, the gyros shift and whirl under his hands, and through them, over them, the buzzing hum of building charge.
Deadlock flung back his head, crying out a sharp sound, as the overload crackled through his body, his throat bared, cables exposed, his spinal struts shuddering. Megatron gave a hard groan, his systems firing, hands gouging into the narrow hips.
The smaller mech dropped forward, his hands slack, chassis thudding against Megatron’s, shivering as the datafluid hit his systems, injecting Megatron’s own memories, experiences in Deadlock’s own. Deadlock always softened after this, becoming almost pliant, clinging. It was exactly what Megatron wanted: complete, utter loyalty, vulnerability, laid out this time on his chassis, orange-red optics dim and almost adoring. A reward deeper than Soundwave had led him to believe.
He wondered, idly, as always, what memories Deadlock got, how the process worked. Was it a coherent, discrete chunk of timeline, or a random kaleidoscope of thought and sensation?
The head tipped forward, the mouth, warm and insistent, finding his jawline, nipping the edge. Megatron had had willing lovers before, compliant, wanting his pleasure, but there was always some motive for that, some self-interest. This, though…there was no need. No motive.
Deadlock pushed back, mouth trailing over the squared chassis, lingering over the Decepticon insignia, glossa tracing its edges in a long slide of electricity, before descending lower, wedging his legs between Megatron’s thighs. He paused, pooling himself between the parted legs, optics drowsy with half sated desire as he looked up the broad expanse. He lowered his head, slowly, the glossa sliding up the length of the still-turgid spike, holding Megatron’s gaze.
Another of the paradoxes of Deadlock: that he hated what he had had to learn to survive in the gutters, but that he was so very, very good at it. His glossa, curled around the spike, engine revving softly in what might have been a whore’s trick, or might just as easily have been genuine pleasure. All he knew, all that mattered, was that now, someone was wanting to pleasure him, concentrating on his desires, his responses with an attention and focus that couldn’t help but be flattering.
He groaned, quietly, as the mouth drew up, pulling across the spike’s still sensitized nodes. There was a point at which questioning, doubting motive, stood in the way of immediacy, of the sheer, solid fact of a mouth on his spike, small hands sliding palmwide over his thighs. Motive didn’t matter so much as the fact that this was freely given, and entirely different from the hard, fast, almost brutal interfacing he’d had in the mines. Those were just releases of tension, letting something go, like a valve releasing steam. This was…different, gathering something together, his entire body filling, thrumming with color and sound and sensation.
As the overload burst like a nova across his systems, datafluid spilling into the waiting, wanting mouth, the thought crossed his mind, sharp as a papercut, that Deadlock, perhaps, loved him.
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I cannot wait to see how this turns out.
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Guess I was wrong. I'm sorry. Your last comment, tbh, seems a bit meanspirited in context of your previous comment (cringelaughing). If you find my stuff so uncomfortable to read, please don't read any more.
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Which is why it did not ruin the story for me, and my next comment, "Can't wait, etc etc," is not mean spirited in the slightest.
As an author you have the discretion to post what you like when you like, and as a reader I should have the discretion to show you how much I enjoy reading what you share. I should be the one apologizing, not you, for sending you mixed messages especially in a time of pain for you. I understand what you are going through, as I recently went through similar with three of my cats. I don't wish to make you feel worse, and though my condolences at this point may seem forced, they aren't, and I hope everything works out as well as it can.
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I’m in total agreement with ravynfyre, and I want to rescue Wing and cuddle him forever. But in a weird way I feel for Deadlock too (I know I’m a bit of a weird-o) and I always feel so bad for him whenever you wright about the things he had to do to survive the gutters. You sympathise with him almost, despite the fact that he screwed Wing over. I love the drama and angst :D
Anyway I love this story, I love how you write Drift/Deadlock and I can’t wait to see what happens next.
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