Meridian part 9

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW AU
Deadlock, Megatron, Wing
sticky, dubcon

Deadlock stirred in his recharge, white limbs shifting and adjusting under Wing’s embrace, and for a moment he was confused, as though the past and the present had folded and seamed together, and he was back in Crystal City, his defiance a hard, hidden bubble wrapped in the soft warmth of Wing.

He turned his head, optics half-shuttered to dim blue slits, searching the darkness for Wing’s face. In recharge, some of the despairing tension had left it—he looked almost as he had back then. 

Deadlock didn’t do much creative thinking, beyond strategizing.  That he excelled at, to the extent that he had defied Turmoil, again and again. Just…another kind of strategy, he thought. Different battlefield.  First question: what is our objective. 

The optic shutters opened, studying Wing, more obviously, his hand reaching to trace the contours of the jet’s frame.  Wing shivered under the touch, his body pushing into it, EM field flickering wanly to life.  Emboldened, Deadlock leaned closer, his mouth brushing against the sleep-parted lipplates. 

A soft response, a quiet whimper, and the optics began to hum online. Deadlock found he dreaded that—the moment Wing would online enough to be conscious, remember where he was, know who was touching him. 

His hand clamped over the frame, rolling onto his back, hauling Wing over him, his mouth sliding to Wing’s audio. “Take me,” he whispered, his voice too soft to carry emotion. He felt the EM field flash over his, arousal striking Wing like lightning, the jet’s sudden snap to desire. 

“Drift,” Wing said, and Deadlock was too lost in his own want to correct the jet, too afraid of shattering this.  He hiked his hips up, releasing his interface equipment, tempting, inviting. 

Wing, half conscious, snared in drowsy arousal, slid his hands down Deadlock’s frame, pushing off just enough to create clearance between them to sink his spike inside Deadlock. 

Deadlock’s dark thighs wrapped over the hips, locking Wing with him, unwilling to let him escape.  Wing moved above him, within him, in the same, slow, steady, gentle rocking way he had, so different from anything Deadlock had ever known, a motion insistent and demanding, for all its gentleness. Deadlock heard soft moans against him, the hands clinging to his frame, hot bursts of air from an impassioned mouth against his shoulder.

He sent the command, opening the data receptor in his valve’s crown.  He wanted this for this—the soft, reaching pleasure, but he also wanted…the data. Wing’s memories, Wing’s substance. Perhaps that was what was missing, the key to what Deadlock truly wanted. 

Wing cried out, half like a sob, the overload wringing from him. He shuddered, startled, as the valve clamped down over his spike, the contractions controlled, guiding the datafluid into the chamber. It felt different, Deadlock knew, but he was too lost to care, headlong-flung into sea of emotions, memories, color and light and sound and smell of Wing’s data. It was intoxicating, and entirely unlike Megatron’s.  He was aware of his head falling back against the berth, his body writhing from the memory, and the gold optics, surprised, confused, shining down at him.

He didn’t care: he clutched Wing to him, his mind and body embracing the white jet, with a grip that would not break, letting the waves of memory and being crash over him, frothing over them both in a storm of ecstasy.

[***]

“I want him,” Megatron said. It was a half-formed premise, not something that rose to the level of an actual desire.  More like…simply testing Deadlock.

Deadlock went rigid, the word ‘no’ forming, dying, on his lip plates. “….why.”

To goad you, to own you, he thought, letting a small smile curl over his mouth.  “You said he taught you.”

An almost imperceptible release of the broad shoulders. “Fighting.”

“Yes.” Among, apparently, other things.

“All right.”

“All…right?” Megatron’s mouth curled in amusement. “Are you giving me permission?”

“He won’t fight you.”  A blue defiant flare of the optics, chin tipped up.  Pushed, nettled, but not refusing.  The boundaries of Deadlock’s will were fascinating. Intoxicating, almost.

“Won’t he?”  

“He won’t fight me.” Said, flat, like the foundation of a building, heavy and solid. Some memory there, sour and dense.

“Ah, but Deadlock, surely you recall,” a glance, that traveled over the smaller mech, exploring the contours of the new design like a lascivious finger, stirring, he hoped, that sour sludge of memory, “I have ways of getting mechs to fight with me.”

[***]

Wing stepped into the practice chamber, optics level and steady.  Too level, Megatron thought: not even looking around, merely taking in Megatron standing on the far side before seeming to pull inward. 

“I won’t ask,” Megatron began, “if you are enjoying our hospitality.” A gambit, of course.  Pretend generosity.

“Thank you.” The voice was a courteous whisper, and Megatron knew it was thanking him for not asking the question.

“Deadlock told me,” Megatron continued, stepping closer, just enough to enforce the size difference, to make the white helm have to tilt up to meet his gaze, “that you taught him how to fight.”

A wan smile. “In a way, yes.” 

“He’s improved.”

He waited for the bland, polite comment: a compliment, at least, for his recognized lover, the labor of training.  None came. Curious.  No matter.  Megatron stepped one foot back, into the stance that he’d used at the Arena: so long ago that it seemed hardwired.  Impossible to believe he had once been a miner. It was as if his memories ceased—or began—in Clench’s arena. 

No, he could remember back before that. He chose not to.

“Show me.”

A shake of the head, white helm finials bowing. Polite, but refusing. Unlike Deadlock, so very, very unlike Deadlock, who defied, but dared not refuse.

“That was not a request,” Megatron said, swinging out with a broad, obvious punch. 

A hitch of the systems, one arm clenching up. And then releasing.  Refusing to block: the blow struck home, crashing against the side of the jet’s head, sending him tumbling over. 

He lay, refusing to get up, like a doll, like a training drone. 

“Get up.”

A flash of a smile, gold-lit and sad, from the cracked facial plate. Nothing else, nothing more. 

“Up.”

Stillness, broken only by the hiss of a hose knocked loose, a drip of energon splattering pink and blameworthy on the floor.

Megatron felt a flash of irritation. He was used to Deadlock’s pugnacious resistance, outright sullen defiance. This was just…limpness, passivity.  And a key, he thought, to Deadlock’s own frustration. 

He dropped to one knee, close to the jet’s face. “Wing,” he purred, leaning over.  “You will fight me.”

The mouth set itself, lip-plates plush and inviting. Another key to Deadlock, Megatron thought.  What Deadlock must have thought, coming from the gutters, to behold a creature of such obvious affluence?

Obviously, the desire to tear him down, bring him low. 

“You’ll fight me,” he continued, blandly, “because surely you can see that keeping me…entertained serves a purpose.”  He reached a hand, insolent, bold, to tug at the lead edge of one of the wing panels.  Just enough to hint, to hurt.  “And if you don’t, I could make things…so much worse for Deadlock.”  He let his voice dive into a growl, leaving no ambiguity, his optics fixing on the mobile, expressive mouth. So easily readable, the sharp, sudden quiver, and even more, after that, the body, as Wing pushed up sit. 

“Yes,” Wing said, optics downcast, bowed in surrender.  The wing panel shivered between his fingers.

Comments

[deedeesaurus.livejournal.com]

Oh dear, poor Wing. This is going to end so horribly...And yet I love it >D