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shadow_vector2012-05-09 12:32 am
niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in shadow_vector2012-05-09 12:32 am
Entry tags:
This Sweetness We Must Deny
NC-17
IDW
Megatron/Deadlock
sticky
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springkink: Megatron Deadlock sizekink this sweetness we must deny 9 May <-so original with the title aren't I?
Starscream’s protests echoed in his audio, and Megatron found he enjoyed the jet’s outrage and jealousy. But he was led by no one, certainly not a querulous Vosian. He had chosen Deadlock for this mission, and Deadlock it would be.
He made no secret of his favoritism. Why should he? Deadlock was everything he could desire in a Decepticon: ruthless, uncomplaining, devoted. More mechs could emulate Deadlock to their advantage.
He let Starscream’s outrage get drowned out by the roar of his engines, the higher pitch of Deadlock’s, as they rolled out of the bay. Perhaps aerial surveillance would have been preferable, but it would have given his location away to any watchful Autobot reconnaissance team. And now, the war still wobbling on new legs, he needed to move with relative secrecy at times.
Deadlock, with all his skill as a bodyguard, was invaluable for that: fast, with a long-practiced optic for ambush sites, places to pause under cover, was all he could ask for. It didn’t hurt, however, that Deadock’s company had…other benefits. They rolled in radio silence for hours—Deadlock rarely spoke, and wouldn’t risk distracting himself from the mission with idle chatter. They rumbled through the lower streets, the smaller mech’s faster form zipping ahead at intersections, caroming off the walls of tunnels, rolling out into his robot mode, guns drawn, listening warily.
They made good progress across the sprawl of Nyon, pausing to rest during daycycle in a warehouse that reeked of abandonment. Deadlock had set a small comm scrambler, and laid out rations of energon, before leaving to run a swift perimeter. He returned, with an obvious scrape of his foot on the plascrete, alerting Megatron to his presence.
Always those little details, quiet professionalism. No spy here, no skulking, no clawing for advantage. In a way, Deadlock was all too rare a find. And Megatron knew from his own past how important it was to value what was rare.
He pulled the smaller mech down beside him, mouth already seeking the perennial scowl. Always, always that hesitation of Deadlock’s, that wall that must be breached. But then the mouth parted under his, mouthplates softening, glossa almost shyly seeking his. One of Deadlock’s hands came up, almost daring, stroking over the heavy cheekplates of Megatron’s helm, as he lay, obediently, back, spaulders folding flat on the dingy ground.
It was fast, violent, but all the more intense for that: Megatron releasing his spike, sinking it mercilessly hard, into Deadlock’s valve. The smaller mech cried out at the sudden intrusion, the sound caught between them in the feral kiss.
Oh, Megatron had had lovers. It was astonishing to think how seductive power was: the miner who could barely get any attention, save a few rough exchanges against a mineshaft, a quick toss on the gravlift, suddenly was swarmed with willing, eager bodies. He knew it wasn’t about him, but the aura of power he radiated.
Even so, Deadlock stood out. Others came with ambition, goals. Deadlock gave himself almost as tribute, opening himself up, body and spark, to Megatron’s pleasure. He had given Deadlock a name, but more than that, a cause, a center around which to form himself. He had given Deadlock himself, and Deadlock offered it up, aware of its meager value.
Megatron hooked one arm under Deadlock’s knee, leaning over, thrusting into the smaller mech, feeling the pulsing stretch of the valve around him, straining to take all of him in. He was captivated by Deadlock’s willingness, even to the point of pain, the mech’s face, in interfacing, an open show of emotion, the only time he allowed any other expression than a sullen glower. Desire, raw lust, fired through his wiring, optics blazing as he drove into Deadlock’s body.
He shifted, spreading one large hand over the other’s throat, pressing down. Deadlock gasped, smaller hands clawing at his, the vocalizer buzzing under his palm as he leaned his weight on it.
And Deadlock…tipped his head back, opening his throat, offering more: his very life, if Megatron wanted. Open, vulnerable, yielding. It was impossible to imagine Starscream like this. That was another flavor of desire another taste of control, but this was simple, straightforward, and like refined, airframe energon, intoxicating for its plainness.
He climaxed, the hot rush of fluid a shock of release to both of them, Deadlock’s body arcing up against his, optics flaring wide, mouth shaping a choked-off cry.
Megatron knew what would come, next, if he let it: that strange, delicate yielding from the other mech, solicitous touches, almost tender, flirting kisses and caresses.
No, not tonight: a treasure he would not allow himself to enjoy. He pulled out, sharply, letting the pain remind them both of their place.
[***]
The second night’s waypoint was less secure, halfway to Iacon, safe only in its obscurity, in the fact that no one would dream of Megatron daring enter. Deadlock found them a basement, gritty and empty, but serviceable enough, and propped himself by the sole window, one pistol trained on an approach he hadn’t liked.
A loyal watchdog, Megatron thought, watching the daylight grow around him, casting the intricate shape of his helm in a sharp silhouette. He couldn’t help but approach, knowing Deadlock would hold fast to his duty, and stroke his hands over the deep spaulders, the complicated fine plates of the mech’s back, sliding around the waist. Deadlock kept himself in sleek running order, not out of vanity, but a cool respect: every upgrade he’d been given had been earned, and he considered them merely downpayments to his future work, better than any honor or pretty badge. The armor felt smooth and glossy under Megatron’s hands, reveling in the different textures of chased metal, slick enamel.
A soft, guarded purr of the engine, the hips shifting backwards, into the touch. And who was Megatron to balk, his hand sliding between the thighs, unfastening the interface hatch, fingers probing at the valve, the spike that twitched to life under his hand. He began stroking the spike, slow and even, feeling, watching the tremulous slide of Deadlock’s back plating, tensing and twitching. He batted aside his own interface system as it pinged on, systems warning and ready. No, this was a different pleasure he sought, snaking one hand further between the other’s legs, thick finger probing into the valve.
Deadlock gave a strangled gasp, head ducking for a moment, overcome.
Megatron cut the silence with a soft chuckle, letting his hands work over Deadlock’s equipment, pushing two of his broad fingers into the valve, spreading the lining, feeling the calipers struggle and flutter against him. He wormed the fingers in deeper, stroking along the valve lining, feeling Deadlock’s body go rigid, his optics staring, perhaps unseeing, into the grimy day. The other hand continued its slow pulls along the spike, twisting and sliding, feeling the arousal crackle with charge against his palm.
He felt sharp chuffs of hot air against him, Deadlock’s cooling systems, struggling to compensate for the rising heat, and a sudden wetness over his wrist, the valve seeping lubricant, redolent with chlorine. An aroused scent, wanting release.
Which he intended to give. He picked up the tempo of his hand on the spike, the fingers worming in the other’s valve, pulling Deadlock’s hips against his, bracing the smaller mech.
A jolt, the hips bucking against him, and he felt the crackle of charge over his hand, a shock of pleasure and electricity, thumb catching the edge of the jet of transfluid as it splattered on the low concrete wall. The valve clutched, mashing his fingers together in a wash of fluid, and he felt the calipers cycle, almost tugging at his fingers, trying to milk them of fluid.
He looked up, grinning at the sight of Deadlock, dentae sunk into the plating of one wrist, hissing back the cry of pleasure. He leaned forward, nipping against the mech’s collar armor, feeling the spaulders rise around him, catching him in their warmth. “Keep watch,” he whispered, slowly sliding his hands away from the heated, aroused frame, leaving Deadlock trembling, wrung out, to watch until darkness.
[***]
Their third night, in the hem of Iacon’s outskirts, and he’d boldly sent Deadlock into the hostel. While Megatron’s face was
too well known, very few outside of Kaon and the underworld knew Deadlock’s. It was a risk worth taking, just for the cheek of it: lodging, legally, like a good citizen, in his enemy’s proverbial nest.
A berth, a real berth, and a serviceable, if not fancy, washrack. And decent energon, heated and supplemented, in the box
that Deadlock brought back up from the nearby café. Luxuries of a time before the war—luxuries neither of them had ever known before the war. Megatron jerked his helm to the washrack, as a hint, his own frame gleaming clean, wet marks of his own foot prints slowly drying on the floor. Deadlock nodded, silently padding to the maintenance facility. Megatron had half a mind—more than half—to return to the washracks, to take the smaller mech in the tingling fall of cleanser, thrust him up against the wall, or better yet, lie back, Deadlock’s thighs stretched wide over his hips.
Tempting. Too tempting. And he resisted it simply for that, that he not ever get to the point of being able to deny himself pleasure. That way was the way of corruption, indolence. That way led to Ratbat and all the rotted Senators.
He pressed the still-warm energon into Deadlock’s hand as the other emerged, fresh grease still thick and pinkish over his exposed joints. Every mech their luxury, he thought, grinning, pulling Deadlock down onto the berth, swiping some excess from under a skirting panel to spread it into an ankle gyro. Deadlock gave a startled sound, almost a squeak, at the touch, at the careful, sure hand that spread the grease, then flexed the footplate, working the warming stuff into the joint. Some things one never forgot, no matter how far behind them the mines stretched: how to grease a mech was one of them; another, the poignant courtesy of doing so small a favor, the small pleasures in the grim darkness.
“Recharge,” he ordered, as Deadlock finished the cube, tugging out a datapad. He had things to prepare for the next night, a rally such as Iacon had never seen. And Deadlock had been on alert for more than two days. He saw the protest begin to form, before exhaustion, like a wave, swept over the other mech, pulling him under. It was the matter of a quarter of a cycle before Deadlock was in deep recharge, curled in a tight ball, clutching at his pistols. His only possessions, his first possessions, and he curled around them like a core.
Megatron remembered giving him those guns, opening the armory and letting Deadlock take his pick, the other’s optics studying the racks of weapons, overwhelmed with his first sight of plenty, fingers brushing stocks and barrels, piles of rounds. And the hesitation as he’d picked the pair, as though he’d expected a veto for his greed. They were nothing flashy, like Deadlock himself, unpretty but sturdy, serviceable and accurate.
He lay aside the pad, finally, moving to lower the blackout shades against the brightness of the day outside. One day, he thought, our kind will be free to walk in the sun, to travel by daylight, not hiding in shadows, not fearing the light as the bright halogen of Security Forces. One day. Not today.
Megatron stretched himself along the berth, next to Deadlock’s curled frame. He reached over, tugging almost playfully at one of the weapons. A muttered, drowsy protest, the hand tightening, optics unshuttering to a bleary red that recognized his face. The grip relaxed, the gun releasing into his hand.
But that wasn’t what he was after—he reached over, for Deadlock himself, and felt the sturdy, small arms wrap around his shoulders, the face burrow against his broad chassis, legs tangling with his own, clinging against him. He felt the throb of the recharging systems, the spark, sure and strong and passionately loyal, throbbing behind the other mech’s armor, and he draped his own arm over the smaller shoulder, pulling Deadlock close, their EM fields floating smoothly together. It was not something he dared indulge in either of them that often, for fear of its softness, its contamination. But, he thought, as his thoughts cycled slowly down to recharge, if he never tasted them at all? There was nothing to be gained, and so much lost, from utter denial.
And tonight, just one of three, he’d allow himself to taste the sweetness he had to portion out in small sips, like potent energon. Just one night, they would lie tangled in each others’ arms like lovers.
IDW
Megatron/Deadlock
sticky
for
springkink: Megatron Deadlock sizekink this sweetness we must deny 9 May <-so original with the title aren't I?Starscream’s protests echoed in his audio, and Megatron found he enjoyed the jet’s outrage and jealousy. But he was led by no one, certainly not a querulous Vosian. He had chosen Deadlock for this mission, and Deadlock it would be.
He made no secret of his favoritism. Why should he? Deadlock was everything he could desire in a Decepticon: ruthless, uncomplaining, devoted. More mechs could emulate Deadlock to their advantage.
He let Starscream’s outrage get drowned out by the roar of his engines, the higher pitch of Deadlock’s, as they rolled out of the bay. Perhaps aerial surveillance would have been preferable, but it would have given his location away to any watchful Autobot reconnaissance team. And now, the war still wobbling on new legs, he needed to move with relative secrecy at times.
Deadlock, with all his skill as a bodyguard, was invaluable for that: fast, with a long-practiced optic for ambush sites, places to pause under cover, was all he could ask for. It didn’t hurt, however, that Deadock’s company had…other benefits. They rolled in radio silence for hours—Deadlock rarely spoke, and wouldn’t risk distracting himself from the mission with idle chatter. They rumbled through the lower streets, the smaller mech’s faster form zipping ahead at intersections, caroming off the walls of tunnels, rolling out into his robot mode, guns drawn, listening warily.
They made good progress across the sprawl of Nyon, pausing to rest during daycycle in a warehouse that reeked of abandonment. Deadlock had set a small comm scrambler, and laid out rations of energon, before leaving to run a swift perimeter. He returned, with an obvious scrape of his foot on the plascrete, alerting Megatron to his presence.
Always those little details, quiet professionalism. No spy here, no skulking, no clawing for advantage. In a way, Deadlock was all too rare a find. And Megatron knew from his own past how important it was to value what was rare.
He pulled the smaller mech down beside him, mouth already seeking the perennial scowl. Always, always that hesitation of Deadlock’s, that wall that must be breached. But then the mouth parted under his, mouthplates softening, glossa almost shyly seeking his. One of Deadlock’s hands came up, almost daring, stroking over the heavy cheekplates of Megatron’s helm, as he lay, obediently, back, spaulders folding flat on the dingy ground.
It was fast, violent, but all the more intense for that: Megatron releasing his spike, sinking it mercilessly hard, into Deadlock’s valve. The smaller mech cried out at the sudden intrusion, the sound caught between them in the feral kiss.
Oh, Megatron had had lovers. It was astonishing to think how seductive power was: the miner who could barely get any attention, save a few rough exchanges against a mineshaft, a quick toss on the gravlift, suddenly was swarmed with willing, eager bodies. He knew it wasn’t about him, but the aura of power he radiated.
Even so, Deadlock stood out. Others came with ambition, goals. Deadlock gave himself almost as tribute, opening himself up, body and spark, to Megatron’s pleasure. He had given Deadlock a name, but more than that, a cause, a center around which to form himself. He had given Deadlock himself, and Deadlock offered it up, aware of its meager value.
Megatron hooked one arm under Deadlock’s knee, leaning over, thrusting into the smaller mech, feeling the pulsing stretch of the valve around him, straining to take all of him in. He was captivated by Deadlock’s willingness, even to the point of pain, the mech’s face, in interfacing, an open show of emotion, the only time he allowed any other expression than a sullen glower. Desire, raw lust, fired through his wiring, optics blazing as he drove into Deadlock’s body.
He shifted, spreading one large hand over the other’s throat, pressing down. Deadlock gasped, smaller hands clawing at his, the vocalizer buzzing under his palm as he leaned his weight on it.
And Deadlock…tipped his head back, opening his throat, offering more: his very life, if Megatron wanted. Open, vulnerable, yielding. It was impossible to imagine Starscream like this. That was another flavor of desire another taste of control, but this was simple, straightforward, and like refined, airframe energon, intoxicating for its plainness.
He climaxed, the hot rush of fluid a shock of release to both of them, Deadlock’s body arcing up against his, optics flaring wide, mouth shaping a choked-off cry.
Megatron knew what would come, next, if he let it: that strange, delicate yielding from the other mech, solicitous touches, almost tender, flirting kisses and caresses.
No, not tonight: a treasure he would not allow himself to enjoy. He pulled out, sharply, letting the pain remind them both of their place.
[***]
The second night’s waypoint was less secure, halfway to Iacon, safe only in its obscurity, in the fact that no one would dream of Megatron daring enter. Deadlock found them a basement, gritty and empty, but serviceable enough, and propped himself by the sole window, one pistol trained on an approach he hadn’t liked.
A loyal watchdog, Megatron thought, watching the daylight grow around him, casting the intricate shape of his helm in a sharp silhouette. He couldn’t help but approach, knowing Deadlock would hold fast to his duty, and stroke his hands over the deep spaulders, the complicated fine plates of the mech’s back, sliding around the waist. Deadlock kept himself in sleek running order, not out of vanity, but a cool respect: every upgrade he’d been given had been earned, and he considered them merely downpayments to his future work, better than any honor or pretty badge. The armor felt smooth and glossy under Megatron’s hands, reveling in the different textures of chased metal, slick enamel.
A soft, guarded purr of the engine, the hips shifting backwards, into the touch. And who was Megatron to balk, his hand sliding between the thighs, unfastening the interface hatch, fingers probing at the valve, the spike that twitched to life under his hand. He began stroking the spike, slow and even, feeling, watching the tremulous slide of Deadlock’s back plating, tensing and twitching. He batted aside his own interface system as it pinged on, systems warning and ready. No, this was a different pleasure he sought, snaking one hand further between the other’s legs, thick finger probing into the valve.
Deadlock gave a strangled gasp, head ducking for a moment, overcome.
Megatron cut the silence with a soft chuckle, letting his hands work over Deadlock’s equipment, pushing two of his broad fingers into the valve, spreading the lining, feeling the calipers struggle and flutter against him. He wormed the fingers in deeper, stroking along the valve lining, feeling Deadlock’s body go rigid, his optics staring, perhaps unseeing, into the grimy day. The other hand continued its slow pulls along the spike, twisting and sliding, feeling the arousal crackle with charge against his palm.
He felt sharp chuffs of hot air against him, Deadlock’s cooling systems, struggling to compensate for the rising heat, and a sudden wetness over his wrist, the valve seeping lubricant, redolent with chlorine. An aroused scent, wanting release.
Which he intended to give. He picked up the tempo of his hand on the spike, the fingers worming in the other’s valve, pulling Deadlock’s hips against his, bracing the smaller mech.
A jolt, the hips bucking against him, and he felt the crackle of charge over his hand, a shock of pleasure and electricity, thumb catching the edge of the jet of transfluid as it splattered on the low concrete wall. The valve clutched, mashing his fingers together in a wash of fluid, and he felt the calipers cycle, almost tugging at his fingers, trying to milk them of fluid.
He looked up, grinning at the sight of Deadlock, dentae sunk into the plating of one wrist, hissing back the cry of pleasure. He leaned forward, nipping against the mech’s collar armor, feeling the spaulders rise around him, catching him in their warmth. “Keep watch,” he whispered, slowly sliding his hands away from the heated, aroused frame, leaving Deadlock trembling, wrung out, to watch until darkness.
[***]
Their third night, in the hem of Iacon’s outskirts, and he’d boldly sent Deadlock into the hostel. While Megatron’s face was
too well known, very few outside of Kaon and the underworld knew Deadlock’s. It was a risk worth taking, just for the cheek of it: lodging, legally, like a good citizen, in his enemy’s proverbial nest.
A berth, a real berth, and a serviceable, if not fancy, washrack. And decent energon, heated and supplemented, in the box
that Deadlock brought back up from the nearby café. Luxuries of a time before the war—luxuries neither of them had ever known before the war. Megatron jerked his helm to the washrack, as a hint, his own frame gleaming clean, wet marks of his own foot prints slowly drying on the floor. Deadlock nodded, silently padding to the maintenance facility. Megatron had half a mind—more than half—to return to the washracks, to take the smaller mech in the tingling fall of cleanser, thrust him up against the wall, or better yet, lie back, Deadlock’s thighs stretched wide over his hips.
Tempting. Too tempting. And he resisted it simply for that, that he not ever get to the point of being able to deny himself pleasure. That way was the way of corruption, indolence. That way led to Ratbat and all the rotted Senators.
He pressed the still-warm energon into Deadlock’s hand as the other emerged, fresh grease still thick and pinkish over his exposed joints. Every mech their luxury, he thought, grinning, pulling Deadlock down onto the berth, swiping some excess from under a skirting panel to spread it into an ankle gyro. Deadlock gave a startled sound, almost a squeak, at the touch, at the careful, sure hand that spread the grease, then flexed the footplate, working the warming stuff into the joint. Some things one never forgot, no matter how far behind them the mines stretched: how to grease a mech was one of them; another, the poignant courtesy of doing so small a favor, the small pleasures in the grim darkness.
“Recharge,” he ordered, as Deadlock finished the cube, tugging out a datapad. He had things to prepare for the next night, a rally such as Iacon had never seen. And Deadlock had been on alert for more than two days. He saw the protest begin to form, before exhaustion, like a wave, swept over the other mech, pulling him under. It was the matter of a quarter of a cycle before Deadlock was in deep recharge, curled in a tight ball, clutching at his pistols. His only possessions, his first possessions, and he curled around them like a core.
Megatron remembered giving him those guns, opening the armory and letting Deadlock take his pick, the other’s optics studying the racks of weapons, overwhelmed with his first sight of plenty, fingers brushing stocks and barrels, piles of rounds. And the hesitation as he’d picked the pair, as though he’d expected a veto for his greed. They were nothing flashy, like Deadlock himself, unpretty but sturdy, serviceable and accurate.
He lay aside the pad, finally, moving to lower the blackout shades against the brightness of the day outside. One day, he thought, our kind will be free to walk in the sun, to travel by daylight, not hiding in shadows, not fearing the light as the bright halogen of Security Forces. One day. Not today.
Megatron stretched himself along the berth, next to Deadlock’s curled frame. He reached over, tugging almost playfully at one of the weapons. A muttered, drowsy protest, the hand tightening, optics unshuttering to a bleary red that recognized his face. The grip relaxed, the gun releasing into his hand.
But that wasn’t what he was after—he reached over, for Deadlock himself, and felt the sturdy, small arms wrap around his shoulders, the face burrow against his broad chassis, legs tangling with his own, clinging against him. He felt the throb of the recharging systems, the spark, sure and strong and passionately loyal, throbbing behind the other mech’s armor, and he draped his own arm over the smaller shoulder, pulling Deadlock close, their EM fields floating smoothly together. It was not something he dared indulge in either of them that often, for fear of its softness, its contamination. But, he thought, as his thoughts cycled slowly down to recharge, if he never tasted them at all? There was nothing to be gained, and so much lost, from utter denial.
And tonight, just one of three, he’d allow himself to taste the sweetness he had to portion out in small sips, like potent energon. Just one night, they would lie tangled in each others’ arms like lovers.
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I think early war Megatron is really a fascinating guy. IDW made him...a LOT more sympathetic than the Autobots in MO, Chaos Theory and Chaos.
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Loved it, through and through.
Thank you for sharing such a tender moment from Megatron's POV with us. I loved it. So precious.
;A;
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Wow... *_* This can be seen: Megatron in your fics is really... alive (another characters too, but, huh, i think, that write about such person as Megatron is... a little hard?)
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