AAR

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

Turmoil/Deadlock
R
IDW/G1
PNP, dubcon, rough sex, dominance
A/N Title is failtastic as always. AAR is After Action Review in military parlance.

 

Turmoil waited on the ramp of the Mabaya.  He never waited for anyone, except Deadlock.  The returning mechs filed past him, only one or two daring to lift a questioning optic.  Turmoil glared them down, turning his masked face toward the glaring light of the local solar, where mechs resolved themselves into shadows. 

And finally, Deadlock.  Last, as always. Insisting on being his own rear guard.  Not out of any real desire to protect his mechs—just to get the last blows in.

Turmoil scanned the frame, surveying the damage.  Deadlock did not spare much of himself in combat.  Which was fair: Deadlock spared none of his mechs, either.  It made him a fierce warrior, but, Turmoil knew, limited his ability to command. Mechs would follow a leader like that only so far, and no further. 

Deadlock had always lacked restraint.  And one day, it would kill him.

“Later,” Deadlock said, trying to push past Turmoil’s bulk. 

“Now,” Turmoil said, stepping forward.  He admired Deadlock’s nerve—he was nearly twice the white mech’s size, and yet Deadlock still tried. 

“I have things to do.” He bumped a shoulder against Turmoil’s chassis. A few mechs who had limped in just before Deadlock discovered the strength to scuttle away, risking nervous glances behind them. 

“Oh?” A pointed challenge.  Turmoil simply stood, immobile. 

“I need to check on my mechs.”

“Ah,” Turmoil dipped his head, in a mocking gesture. “Such concern you have for them.” Deadlock could not possibly care less for his mechs.  Turmoil’s systems purred, quietly.

“Just following your example,” Deadlock said, tipping his face fearlessly up toward Turmoil’s.  

Turmoil felt his engine rev.  “You do like to push it, don’t you?” 

“I’m not sure how that’s a problem.” 

“I didn’t say it was.” 

There was a tense, vibrating moment between them, each considering, weighing.

Deadlock moved first, a balled, iron-hard fist aimed at Turmoil’s midsection.  Turmoil grunted as the blow impacted, curling forward with the impact.  Deadlock didn’t fall for it—he threw his left arm up to block the return jab Turmoil had aimed at his head. 

Turmoil gave a grunt of satisfaction, stepping in.  He could feel the heat of Deadlock’s sun-warmed armor radiating against his, feel the restless prickle of the EM field against his own, chilly, modified one. More than that, he could feel Deadlock’s defiance. Always, still. 

He pushed back, a flat heelstrike against a white shoulder.  Deadlock wobbled, then bent his knees, settling his posture.  Always resisting.  Even for no good reason, simply to dig in his heels and resist.  Turmoil loved it; fed off it.  He moved his other palm.  Deadlock blocked it with his own, pushing against Turmoil’s palm, on the balance between defense and attack. 

But…only for a moment before he lowered his head and bulled into Turmoil’s frame, trying to knock him back.  Turmoil shifted his weight, up and over most of the force, twisting behind Deadlock, throwing his arms around him in a bear hug that heaved him off the ground. 

Deadlock’s feet dangled helplessly for a klik or two, before he started squirming, trying to build some force and momentum as he drove his heels into Turmoil’s legs. 

“How was the battle?” Turmoil asked, conversationally.

Deadlock drove his head back, aiming his helm for Turmoil’s chin plate. It collided with a crunch, driving the mask back into Turmoil’s cheeks. “Fine,” he snarled. 

Another grunt, and the hard wall of the ship’s docking bulkhead met Deadlock’s head as Turmoil flung him to one side.  Deadlock rolled as he fell, coming up with a kick to Turmoil’s knee. Turmoil rotated his joint at the last instant, letting the strike simply push the knee out from under him, folding him down onto Deadlock.  He landed, deliberately heavily, letting Deadlock take most of the weight.

“Many casualties?” Turmoil laughed as Deadlock fumbled under him.

“No,” Deadlock’s voice was muffled under Turmoil’s mass.  He thrashed, trying to find leverage, metal grinding against Turmoil’s armor. “I’ll have your precious stats for you later.”

“Why, you almost sound obedient, Deadlock,” Turmoil lifted his weight, enough to reach a hand under his mass.  He caught at one of Deadlock’s hands.

“Just to get you off my back,” Deadlock said. He pointed his fingers, jabbing them under a plate.   Turmoil winced. 

“I’m not on your back,” Turmoil retorted, twisting up, and off of the stabbing fingers.  He slammed down, blindly, with one flat palm against Deadlock’s shoulder. 

“Figure of speech.” Deadlock twisted his fingers, prising up the plate, lifting Turmoil’s mass off him by the sharp movement.  A snarling grin twisted its way across his face.

“Ah,” Turmoil said, swiping down his body with his hand, closing hard over Deadlock’s wrist. “You’re a rhetorician, now?”  He twisted the wrist, fiercely, until the servos pinged with strain. 

“Have to be, to keep up with you.” Pain rippled over Deadlock’s face. He wedged a knee against Turmoil’s thigh.

“A compliment, Deadlock?”  Turmoil craned his head down to meet Deadlock’s gaze.

Deadlock’s grin sharpened, his offside hand aiming straight upward into a chinstrike. “Tactical,” he said.  “A diversion.”

Turmoil’s head whipped to the side, absorbing the blow’s force. He shook it off, shoving down against Deadlock’s shoulder, hard enough that a fairing crunched into the floor.  “Effective,” he managed. “Should try that against the enemy sometime.”

“Don’t need to,” Deadlock rolled into his injury, bringing his other fist in a cross-body blow, gouging in between two plates in Turmoil’s groin with his foot. A glassy crackle as he shattered a heat sink. 

“Another compliment.” Turmoil jerked his hips to dislodge the point of Deadlock’s toe.  “I’m going to start thinking you want me.” 

“Insanity always was a plus in Decepticon leadership,” Deadlock said, taking advantage of Turmoil’s motion to wriggle onto his side, beginning to claw his way along the floor. 

Turmoil laughed, lunging forward to cover Deadlock again, his face forcing its way between Deadlock’s shoulder and his head.  “You’re halfway there, then, yourself.” 

Deadlock whipped his head, his cheek against Turmoil’s damaged faceplate. “You going to keep talking or are we going to do something worth my time?”

The laugh returned, rich, and dark and intoxicating. And this time when a hand raked down Deadlock’s side, he curled into it, letting it open his interface hatch, roughly grabbing at his module. An elbow pinned him between the shoulders, Turmoil reaching for his own module. Deadlock arced up, powerfully enough to shift Turmoil’s body on top of his, as their prongs settled into the sockets. 

The current of data raced like acid through the connections, Turmoil’s pulse deceptively light, almost tripping, while Deadlock’s was a steady hammerblow, sharp, intense. Turmoil’s hands curled down around the shoulders again, but the touch was gentler, thumbs stroking down the seams, shifting his weight to rub their EM sensors together. 

“Could let me roll over,” Deadlock tugged on one of his pinned limbs.

“Let you?”  Turmoil’s datastream raced ahead of Deadlock’s. 

Deadlock writhed on the floor against the stream’s sudden upsurge, his vents ragged.  “Mass superiority,” he managed, swiping one hand weakly up toward Turmoil’s arm. 

“Among other superiorities.” Behind his damaged mask, his face plates cracked into a painful smile. 

“Like what?” Deadlock’s hand tangled in Turmoil’s forearm armor.  His stream pounded to catch up with Turmoil’s, his whole body shivering in time.

“Obviously?”  Turmoil shifted his weight forward, driving Deadlock’s body forward, down, grinding it into the ground.  “Self-control. Self-discipline.”  Always Deadlock’s weakness. It held him back, and Turmoil should be doing his best to train it out of him.  But…it was so very, very arousing in moments like this, as the white mech twisted beneath him, his vents hot and uneven,  catching flashes of the glow in his red optics a lambent flame. Wild and alive.

And not Turmoil’s, of course. And the commander knew that.  No one would ever own Deadlock completely.  But he could, in these small moments, take some of the wildness for himself. 

“Not really the time for a lecture,” Deadlock said, turning his head to the other shoulder. His mouth, hot and earnest, nipped at Turmoil’s shoulder, the words breaking down into a whine. 

“Merely,” Turmoil said, leaning over to gloss his damaged faceplate over the reaching lip plates, “answering your question.”

“Frag you,” Deadlock breathed against Turmoil’s cheek armor, shudders wracking his body.

Turmoil laughed. “You are.”  His own body grew rigid, a taut, fine vibration running over the frame, fed by the flare of outraged current from their connected modules. 

Deadlock howled, clanging clumsily against Turmoil’s armor as the hard shock of overload snapped through him.  Turmoil clutched an arm around the white frame, pulling it against his chassis, their EM fields folding and twisting and flaring together, Turmoil’s altered field seeming to devour the pale electricity crackling over Deadlock’s quivering frame.  Turmoil’s own ventilation sucked in air in deep, even pulls.

Turmoil felt Deadlock’s chassis shift against his palm.  He released his grip slowly, letting Deadlock lower down to the ground.  And, this time, roll over, the red optics wide and glistening up at him, fingers tangling in their still-connected cables, that throbbed with the strange emptiness of capacitors without charge. 

“Sometimes,” he muttered, “I think you get off on pissing me off.”

“Not sometimes.”  Turmoil laid both of his palms flat by Deadlock’s shoulders, hovering over the smaller mech. 

“Going to push me too far one day.”

Turmoil nodded. “One day.”  He probably would.  He couldn’t help himself, and Deadlock…would have no choice but to respond as he did.