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Hot Rod kicked a medium-sized boulder across the tunnel passage, sending a shower of pebbles and gravel pelting down over his helm and pauldrons. He yowled in surprise more than pain and brushed off the debris.
“Primus, fuck, okay. Do not pass go; do not collect two-hundred shanix.”
“You should do that again,” Deadlock said, voice silky and mocking from behind Hot Rod. “The dust coat almost makes you look good.”
Hot Rod swung a blind punch at him and whiffed it terribly. Whatever. His sensory suite was adjusting to low light. He’s a frontliner for the love of god. Not a deep-sea submarine.
His night vision kicked in—grainy, rippling black-and-white that gave him a headache. “Ugh. How are you seeing anything in this mess?”
“I’m better than you. Optimize your sensory suite, idiot.”
Hot Rod’s thermals and electromagnetic field readers maximized their sensitivity, painting Deadlock in warm hues against the stark, cool tones of the old mineshaft. He was leaning up against the tunnel wall, arms crossed, unbothered. Hot Rod’s sonar kicked in a moment later, weak and imprecise, but enough to feel out the terrain.
“So this is funny to you,” he said dryly.
“A little,” Deadlock admitted with a flick of his claws. His field pulsed in tandem, oily and slick with amusement against Hot Rod’s, staticky with dual agitation-apprehension. “I mean, it’s not quite shooting yourself in the aft, but—top ten fuck-ups, easy. I never deny myself a sensible chuckle at an Autobot’s expense.”
“You do realize we’re in the same situation, right? Like, you laughing at me does not make you any less trapped under a literal mountain of debris, in an old mineshaft, deep into neutral territory that nobody patrols. Do you happen to have a drill in that fraggin’ arsenal of yours? Didn’t think so. Shut up.”
Deadlock held up his hands in a ‘what can you do?’ pose. “My tactical matrix is putting our odds of rescue at 1.2%. Digging ourselves out and living to tell the tale? 0.07%. Not much to do but have a good laugh.”
What? That couldn’t be right. “You’re not getting any radio frequencies either?”
“No.”
“Even if you overclock the signal reader-transmitter?”
“Are you four years old? Of course I tried that.”
Hot Rod paused and let his own tactical matrix examine the parameters and run its own calculations. The report came back with even grimmer odds than Deadlock’s. “Slag,” Hot Rod muttered. Then, “Exploration? Another way out?”
Deadlock cocked his helm to the side silently as he ran the simulation. “14% likelihood we find another path; survival—depending on various unknown factors—resting right around 6%. You?”
Hot Rod wiggled his hand back and forth and pulled a face. “Not my favorite odds, but I’ve flown in the face of worse.”
He lifted his optic ridges hopefully. “Truce?”
Deadlock grinned with a full mouth of fangs before slowly withdrawing his pistol and clicking the safety off.
Hot Rod tensed, engine and t-cog readied for a duck-and-roll transformation.
Deadlock braced the pistol on his other palm and pointed it down the hallway. “Functional night vision ought to lead. Wouldn’t you say?” He turned his back on Hot Rod without another word and started down the tunnel.
“...Aft,” Hot Rod muttered.
Forty minutes later, the tunnel dead-ended at a wall with some half-full mining carts and scattered piles of rusted out drill parts and floodlights. They stared silently.
“You know,” Hot Rod said after a moment, “this is really all your fault.”
Deadlock laughed sharply, turning lurid red optics on him. “Oh, is it now?”
In battle, Deadlock never seemed that big. His alt mode hugged the ground like Hot Rod’s, and he was usually ducked to avoid fire or sniping from a distance. Up close, standing at his full height and looking down on Hot Rod, Hot Rod felt a twinge of indignation that Primus had to cast scouts and warframes from such different molds. But backing down wasn’t in his programming.
“Yes, obviously,” Hot Rod said, covering up his nerves with irritation. “If you hadn’t turned tail like the slagging coward you are and stayed in the field, we could have been throttling each other within radio contact of any other living metal whatsoever. But no, had to tear down that sketchy-ass dirt road through this big-ass quarry-canyon so you could flash your fenders at me.”
“Did you like them?” Deadlock asked. “I did get a wax job last month especially for you to see...” He leaned in. “....As you eat my dust.”
Hot Rod’s spoiler hiked high against his will. He couldn’t show—didn’t want to show that he— Ugh, he wasn’t supposed to let a ‘Con rile him up in the first place!
He straightened up and leaned into Deadlock’s space. “You had a headstart.”
“Is that what the Academy is turning out these days? Sore losers?” Deadlock racked the slide of his pistol. “I preferred when it was target practice.”
Hot Rod fumed at him for a few more beats before slumping back, deflated. “This is stupid. You’re stupid. I’m stupid. Why are we arguing about a fraggin’ race? We’re literally going to die in this tunnel. You’re a moron for leading us out of signal range; I’m a moron for shooting at rocks to drop on you that I thought looked stable but instead triggered a landslide. Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Deadlock said dryly. “If only we weren’t doomed to power down to comatose husks, rusting away for millennia to come.”
“Yeah. That sucks. Started calculating how long it’ll take for our sparks burn out on life support—punted the equation out of conscious processing pretty much immediately. Depressing stuff.”
Deadlock knocked on the wall. “Could attempt to excavate the entrance, I suppose.”
“No,” Hot Rod said, backing up against the wall and sliding down to a seat in the dirt. “We’re speedsters, mech. Your extra kibble be damned. Big enough boulder comes down on your head, splat, no more Decepticon janitor.”
“Janitor?” Deadlock asked, amused.
“Yeah, ‘cause you clean up all the trash? No? You ‘Cons have no sense of humor. It’s why you’re gonna lose, you know.”
“Could have been a strategic move, taking out Optimus’s protege. It would almost be worth it. If you add in a couple billion Autobot casualties.”
“Ha-ha. That killed me. We thought it would be a cave-in, or spark burnout, or hell, even one of your bullets through my processor, but no—it was the work of a terrible fraggin’ joke. If you can even call it that.”
Deadlock flipped around and leaned his back against the wall, two body-lengths from Hot Rod. “Well, I’m out of ideas. Wanna fuck?”
…And suddenly two body-lengths was nowhere near far enough apart. Hot Rod scooted away in a hurry, sputtering, “What? The pit are you even saying?”
Deadlock shrugged. “No way out. No search party. No guarantee all of this won’t come crumbling down on us at any second. Might as well indulge.”
“You’re a Decepticon!”
“I’m a dead mech walking,” Deadlock said, turning to face Hot Rod. “And so are you.”
This couldn’t be happening. Hot Rod felt laughter bubble up from his intake and spill over, strangled. “You nuts? Why would I ever—why would you ever—”
“What? Cross-faction interfacing is as old as the war.” Deadlock’s optics cycled down slightly. “Besides…I did say the dust on your paint has put you in quite an attractive light.”
“No, fragger, seriously—”
“What do you want me to say?” Deadlock grunted. “I’d rather go out in pleasure than in pain. Doubt you can relate, though; you Autobots love your noble suffering.”
“I can’t stand you.”
“And I’m not your biggest fan either.” Deadlock flicked the safety on and holstered his pistol. “It’ll keep our minds off killing each other. For a while, anyway. Less talking; more fucking.”
He seemed…worryingly sincere. “Come on, mech. No.”
Although, Hot Rod was realizing with a sinking fuel pump, if Deadlock decided ‘no’ was not an acceptable answer, there wasn’t much Hot Rod was going to be able to do to stop him. On the field, he was nimble enough to outmaneuver Deadlock every time in root mode, two-thirds of the time in alt mode. But his evasions required space, and this tunnel was not rich in it. He’d try, of course; he could bounce off the walls and sprint back and forth down the tunnel, but eventually he would get tired. Sloppy. And Deadlock, with his hulking, resource-conservative frame, would just snatch him by the pede, pull him close, grab at his frame… Hot Rod could unload his entire arsenal into Deadlock and it wouldn’t matter. Deadlock wouldn’t let him get a clear enough shot to cause real damage. And once Hot Rod’s arsenal was depleted and his frame was running lean on fuel, Deadlock could—could—anything he wanted, he could—
Hot Rod shifted in place to hide his shiver. “It’s still treason, dying or no dying. Can’t I go out with my honor intact?”
Deadlock made a retching sound. “Puh-lease. I guarantee your ‘honor’ was lost long before you met me.”
Hot Rod flushed before he could get a grip on this thermal monitor. “Well that’s fucking rude.”
“Not even Autobots are pussies enough to keep virgins in their ranks.”
“Fuck you,” Hot Rod said venomously.
Deadlock stilled. Tilted his helm again, heat signature rising from his logic cortex. He was quiet for long enough that Hot Rod was able to start regretting reacting to any of that.
“...Okay,” Deadlock said at length. “That’s…unexpected.”
“Don’t.”
“What?” He held up his hands innocently. “Take it as a compliment. I rag on your looks, but…damn, I would have tried to take you for a spin if we played on the same side. However many passes it took.”
“Barf,” Hot Rod said flatly. “I wouldn’t give you so much as an up-and-down.”
“Up, maybe not,” Deadlock conceded. “But down?” A grin spread across his face. “Fenders, right?”
Hot Rod flushed again, and snarled, “I was not checking you out!"
"Kidding, kidding,” Deadlock laughed. “Jeez, should’ve guessed. Too high-strung to be unsealed. You need to learn to relax, mech.”
“Lucky me,” Hot Rod said, droll. “I have all the time in the world.”
Deadlock allowed for a pause, then, “...I can teach you.”
“Just drop a rock on my head, seriously.”
“Aw, come on, Roddy. Who’s gonna know?”
“Don’t call me ‘Roddy.’”
“We’re both dead anyway. Do you seriously want to die a virgin? That’s fucking sad, mech. Your poor little array never even had the chance to initialize.”
“...And don’t talk about my interfacing equipment ever again, either. Are you for real? Take a biotech class. It’s not like I don’t self-service.”
“Okay, yeah, who doesn’t play with their spike? I’m talking about your valve. Your valve.”
Hot Rod’s plating flexed nervously. “Why wouldn’t I play with that too?”
Deadlock stared at him. “...That's your preference?”
“Never said that.”
“And yet, I'd wager it is.” Deadlock shifted to face him, his plating rippling with interest. “I’m a spikemech. You know what that means, pull-tab? It means I like to push my hard, hot spike into whatever soft, wet orifice I can get access to. I can name a few, if your imagination needs a little help.”
It didn’t. Hot Rod was steadfastly refusing pings from his generation cores that were on the job.
“Let’s call it…intuition. I’m intuiting that you’re not that kind of mech. You probably like the idea of bending over and beckoning with that naughty spoiler of yours. You’d rather feel the push and drag of a spike against your internals. Lighting up nodes, short-circuiting higher cognition streams…am I getting warm?”
“Fuck you,” Hot Rod whispered, pulling his knees into his chest.
“Fine,” Deadlock said, pushing up. Hot Rod’s spark jumped and thrashed fearfully in its chamber, but Deadlock started walking back down the tunnel without looking another glance. He called out over his shoulder as he went, “I’m no monster. Come find me if you change your mind.”
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Hot Rod did, in fact, find him later, much to his own chagrin. But not to solicit interface.
“What’re you doing?” he asked, slinking forward with arms wrapped around himself. Deadlock was kneeling on the ground and meticulously stacking rock cairns one after another around the collapsed exit path.
“Nothin’ much. You?”
“Being alone was giving me the creeps,” Hot Rod admitted. He gave the back of Deadlock’s head a weak glare. “Are you going to be an even bigger creep?”
“Nope,” Deadlock said, popping his lips around the ‘p’ sound. He grabbed a big, flat rock and started a new cairn.
“...Can I help you with that?”
“If you want to.”
And so, maddeningly, Hot Rod walked around the cave-in debris, picking up flat-ish rocks and sorting them into piles by size for Deadlock to make stacks out of. Hot Rod had turned off his chronometer earlier in an effort to reduce bloat in his processor. It had started running nonsense, ghost code and his sensory suite had fed him stimulus without adding it to an activity log. It made him feel crazy. He had lasted thirteen hours at that point. As a result, he had no idea how long they continued their pseudo assembly line, although rock cairns gradually covered the mineshaft floor and they had to keep shifting backwards.
“Hey,” Deadlock said eventually. “Enough. You need rest. Go recharge.”
“Hm?” Hot Rod gave him a vague acknowledgement before returning to scanning the ground for rocks.
“...You’ve been staring at one spot for thirty minutes. You’re freaking me out.”
Had he? Hot Rod physically shook his helm and his HUD fritzed at the edges. Okay, um. Yeah. Recharge sounded good. He walked back twenty or so meters down the tunnel to give Deadlock space to work, but close enough that he could still make out the red pinpricks of his optics in the dark. He hesitated.
“If anything happens—”
“I’ll wake you,” Deadlock said without looking up. “I’m not that much of an aft.”
A thank you felt like too much, so Hot Rod sat down, offlined his optics, and leaned his head back against the wall.
Then jerked upright. “And—and no funny business, got it?”
“‘Funny business,’ he says…” Deadlock drawled.
“Keep your fraggin’ spike to yourself,” Hot Rod hissed. “And your valve, for that matter.”
“What if I want to play with yours?”
Hot Rod revved his engine in a growl.
“...Boring,” Deadlock relented.
“Deadlock.”
“I’m not going to molest you in recharge, Primus,” Deadlock said. “Go the fuck to sleep.”
Hot Rod powered down, uneasy.
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He woke to darkness, which threw him off for a spark rotation or three until his processor caught up and reminded him that he was still buried alive. No miraculous rescues while he was out, apparently. He would have happily accepted waking up to find himself chained in the brig of a Decepticon worldsweeper at this point.
And speaking of Decepticons…
His sensory suite was slow to optimize after a long recharge, but Hot Rod could clearly hear a wet, repetitive schlick sound that had not been present when he fell into recharge.
Great, he thought. We have a leak. With our luck it’ll be a corrosive liquid of some kind and we’ll die horrible, painful deaths as it slowly eats our metal alive.
But it wasn’t really the drip-drop of a liquid into a pool or even the soft pik-pik of water dripping onto stone. This was slicker, more rhythmic, like—
Hot Rod’s sensory suite flared to life and he whipped his helm to the side to see Deadlock, once again two body-lengths away, one arm and his forehelm pressed against the wall, the other hand gripping his spike and pulling on it fast and hard.
Hot Rod tried to shout at him, but only managed a burst of garbled binary.
“Fuck’s sake,” Deadlock groaned, “couldn’t have stayed out for two more minutes? I was being so quiet, too.”
“You—! You? You…”
Deadlock’s mouth fell open to pant, evidently no longer feeling the need to hold back. “Yeah; me, me, me. Ugh, I was so close. You’re such a fuckin’ buzzkill, Roddy.”
“Why did I ever trust a Decepticon?” Hot Rod lamented, almost hysterical with shock. “You couldn’t last—” He paused. With his chronometer disabled, he had no idea how long he had been down in defrag. Luckily, Deadlock filled the gaps with a growl.
“You’ve been out thirty-one fuckin’ hours. Can I not have a single crank? There’s nothing else to do here and since you won’t let me fuck you—”
Hot Rod laughed sharply.
“—I’m pent up. The charge is making me itchy. You have something against a mech overloading?”
“Yeah, actually, I do,” Hot Rod said, “when it’s right fragging next to me!”
Deadlock grunted an acknowledgement.
But despite his revulsion, Hot Rod couldn’t stop staring at Deadlock’s spike. It was proportional, which meant it was around three times the size of his own and girthy. Dark, like the rest of Deadlock’s pelvic plating, and sparingly studded with biolights, glowing white from charge. They were the only biolights on Deadlock’s body, or at least the only ones visible with all that armored kibble. Its delicate plating was glossy with clear lubricant, and the change in shape at the tip and base of the spike implied subtle modifications. Subtlety meant that Deadlock was confident enough not to feel the need to peacock around other ‘Cons in the washracks. Modifications meant that Deadlock knew what he liked in a fuck, and had kitted out his array to cater to it. And he had all but waved that monster in Hot Rod’s face.
Hot Rod revved his engine at Deadlock again, angrily, and leaned his frame away. “You could have done it anywhere else in the entire tunnel, but you chose here. Do you think I have bolts for brains? Or are you seriously going to claim you’re innocent and weren’t jacking off to a sleeping mech?”
“...You’re right,” Deadlock said, voice thick with static. “I was lookin’ over at you and wonderin’ if I could manage to finish before you woke up. Come all over your frame and take some nice pics of my transfluid dripping into your seams.” He grinned suddenly, and licked his fangs. “Could come up with some story about a leak in the ceiling—see if you’d believe me. See if Hot Rod is really as chaste as he says.”
“You’re sick,” Hot Rod spat.
“Your mouth hangs open a little when you recharge, did you know that?” Deadlock said almost dreamily. “Fuck, I might have been able to slip just the tip in, it’s slim enough…”
Hot Rod’s fuel tank lurched with a queasy pulse he first attributed to nausea, but was horrified to discover was interest. He killed his EM field projectors a beat later, insides churning with dread, and when he glanced up to see if Deadlock had noticed, Deadlock’s optics were fixed on him.
“Slagger,” he breathed. “You want it.”
Hot Rod didn’t have the processing power to override all his instinctual responses at once. He curled his lip in a snarl even as his frame warmed from pede to crest. “You’re delusional, ‘Con.”
Deadlock started to pump his spike faster. “You want to know what it’s like. You want to wrap your lips around the tip and suck and suck until you finally find out what ‘Con transfluid tastes like.” He laughed wildly, breathlessly. “Won’t take long, now. Why don’t you give it a try?”
Hot Rod puffed his plating defensively, but he felt numb from the neck down. He couldn’t crawl away. He just kept watching Deadlock’s biolights strobe and the glint of red reflecting off wet claws and a wetter length. He watched even as he managed to choke out, “You’re insane. It couldn’t fit.”
“Your intake would adjust,” Deadlock said dismissively, like he’d already glanced over Hot Rod’s specs. “Not like you to back down from a challenge.”
“That’s not going to work.”
“I’d love to fuck your throat,” Deadlock continued, as if Hot Rod hadn’t spoken, “but I can’t scare you off just yet, ya know? We have the rest of our lives together. So I’ll start with something I know will appreciate the stretch—that poor, hungry, underutilized little valve of yours.” He grinned at the look of horror that crossed Hot Rod’s face. “Aw, disappointed you don’t get to taste? I’ll give you a preview.”
Deadlock worked his spike furiously, and with a bitten-off growl, squeezed tightly around the base of it as his biolights flared as one, cutting off his overload. He groaned, low and pained, then turned to face Hot Rod. He tilted his hips and offered his spike, the injector tip beading with lubricant that spilled over and ran along the underside before slowly dripping onto the dirt.
“Go ahead,” he rasped. “Don’t be shy.”
Hot Rod leapt to his feet, overcoming the shock and turning his back on Deadlock. He pawed at his chestplate, his spark spinning at an almost painful velocity. The effort of controlling his frame left him trembling. This was fucked up. It was unreal. It was almost like some kind of horrible hallucination; like maybe he’d been crushed in that landslide after all and his processor was feeding him nonsense visions as it slowly fizzled out. His frame was messed up, broken somehow. He couldn’t possibly want…
Deadlock’s vents slowed and his frame pinged as it cooled.
“Are you done?” Hot Rod asked, terse. “I want you to get away from me.”
“No, I’m not done,” Deadlock said. “I didn’t come.”
“That’s your own fault.”
“Hot Rod,” Deadlock growled. “Stop being a fuckin’ tease. Get back here.”
“I already said I’m not going to interface with you,” Hot Rod said.
“And I called slagblast on your blasted slag. Not even a drone could mistake that flash of arousal through your EM field.” He sneered. “I can smell it on you.”
Hot Rod spun around, spoiler halves raised like two angry horns. “You are a problem,” he spat. He marched over to Deadlock and stood on his pedetips. “You’re rude, and insufferable, and depraved, and a fraggin’ lunatic. I’m doing this because I want some goddamn peace in my eternal suffering, and afterwards, I want you to leave me alone. Forever. That sound good to you, ‘Con?”
“Just shut up already,” Deadlock said, and hooked his claws into Hot Rod's pelvic plating, pulling him up against his chest and flush with his—with his spike.
It was hot with backed-up charge, and left cool trails of lubricant where it rubbed against Hot Rod’s armor. There was a light thrumming to it, an almost imperceptible shivering that he would never have detected unless pressed up against it. If a spike could be angry, this one was livid. Hot Rod shuddered. His eyes never left it.
“Release your EM projectors,” Deadlock growled from over his head.
Hot Rod flinched. “Wh-why?”
“Eventually, you won’t be able to speak. I want to feel how much you love being ruined by my spike even after your voxcoder shorts out.”
“Overconfident much?” Hot Rod muttered, but it was a relief to let go of his projectors. They fluctuated wildly for a moment before settling into a ragged frequency of anxiety, arousal, hatred, and mortifying excitement.
“Open your panels,” Deadlock ordered. “Both of them.”
“You could ask nice—”
“Now,” he snapped.
Hot Rod popped his panels open and slid them apart.
Deadlock immediately freed a hand to slide two claws into Hot Rod’s valve before his spike could even fully extend. He yelped in—pain, he thought, but his valvemesh was not sliced to ribbons. Deadlock had transformed away his claws at the last second. Primus, but a warframe’s fingers were large. Hot Rod sucked in a surprised vent and tried to squeeze his legs together. His valve clenched down on Deadlock’s fingers.
“Pit, you’re wet,” Deadlock hissed. “Thought I was gonna have to wring an overload out of you before I put it in.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m—ah—stretched,” Hot Rod protested. “You’re not seriously gonna, gonna shove straight in?”
Deadlock rumbled noncommittally, probing around Hot Rod’s valve. He scissored open calipers, rougher than how Hot Rod coaxed them open when he self-serviced. The burn of the stretch made him flinch, but—but Deadlock was so unrelenting in his survey that Hot Rod didn’t have time to catalogue the pain before Deadlock was massaging a different cluster of nodes. The constant switch between pain and pleasure left Hot Rod dizzy, panting and gripping onto Deadlock’s frame for support. He stood on his pedetips, as if attempting to escape Deadlock’s prying fingers, but they followed him even as he squirmed. Then Deadlock added a third and Hot Rod’s resistance caved. He slumped down and let Deadlock burrow inside him.
“So easy,” Deadlock murmured. “You’re really a virgin?”
“Sh-shut up about it,” Hot Rod despaired. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me. A lot.”
Deadlock turned his gaze to Hot Rod’s spike. It was stiffening and filling out, but still soft and pliant, not completely taken with the short work Deadlock was making of his valve. Deadlock flicked it with his free hand and snorted when Hot Rod jolted. “Good thing you’re a valvemech,” he said. “There’s no pleasing anyone with that thing. Might as well weld that panel shut.” He tilted his helm, thoughtful. “Although…might be fun to suck on every once in a while…”
“‘M not a—who said I was a fragging valvemech?” Hot Rod panted.
Deadlock forced his fingers deep and hooked his fingertips, pulling Hot Rod against him by the valve. Hot Rod yelped and banged his fists against Deadlock’s chest, but the blows were glancing; weak.
Deadlock leaned in. “Your pussy said so.”
Hot Rod glared at him through damp optics. “I hate you.”
Deadlock grinned and rubbed his fingers back and forth over a node cluster. Hot Rod’s visual field glitched from the sudden spike of charge and he locked his jaw servos to keep from letting out a cry.
“This doesn’t. Your processor will follow. In time.”
He kept—he kept fucking his fingers into Hot Rod, like there was a piston in his wrist that could keep going and going—forever, if he had to. The angle was never right for Hot Rod to finger himself so thoroughly, and the sensation was different from riding a false spike. Deadlock fluttered his fingers; twisting, spreading, mapping out node clusters and abusing them until Hot Rod’s charge racked so high that his regulator started shorting out nonessential power draws, most of which were from his personality cores and processor. Hot Rod’s hatred sputtered out. He couldn’t complete any lines of thought that didn’t directly relate to—to making sure Deadlock continued to do what he was doing. His jaw servos loosened at some point and he was letting out these little uh-uh-uh noises that would have been humiliating if he had the capacity to feel it.
“There you go,” Deadlock murmured. “That’s better, isn’t it?”
Hot Rod couldn’t respond. He was on the precipice of a small overload, unable to focus on anything but the smooth motion of the fingerfucking, aided by his now gratuitous lubrication. The wave built and then crested, sending him into a full-body shudder of released charge, some of it jumping to Deadlock in harmless stings. As power was redirected back to his nonessential systems, Hot Rod realized he was leaning his full weight into Deadlock, drooling a little on his chest plating. He attempted to feel mortified. His personality cores twinged with faint, sluggish shame. It wasn’t enough to prompt him to push away, to yank Deadlock’s fingers out of him where his valve was still clenching and unclenching with aftershocks.
Deadlock did it for him. He pulled his fingers out and Hot Rod let out a pathetic whimper, knees trembling and pressing together. He clung to Deadlock so as no to lose his footing altogether.
“Foolish Autobot,” Deadlock said tenderly. He stroked Hot Rod’s spoiler as it fluttered just out of his grip. “That’s only the beginning.”
“…I told you,” Hot Rod said at length. “Can’t fit. Just look at it.”
He watched his hand, powerless as if in a dream, reach out and touch Deadlock’s spike, wrapping his fingers around it. It was still warm, sticky now from the partially-dried lubricant. Hot Rod swallowed thickly. He moved his hand up and down, just a little, to feel the faint pulsing of the circuitry beneath its brushed and waxed coating.
“…Yeah?” Deadlock said. Hot Rod could hear the smirk in his voice.
It wouldn’t fit. It wasn’t going to fit. Hot Rod didn’t even want to try. If he tried, Deadlock was going to make it fit, like mechs did to minibots in the pornos. He was going to break Hot Rod. Crack his array open until it was suited only to the shape of this…this…
“Love seeing how small your hand is, holding it,” Deadlock said softly. “Gonna love watching each inch sink into you, plate by plate, even more.”
Hot Rod shook his head but didn’t speak. Deadlock’s hand covered his own, tightening Hot Rod’s grip and guiding him in a fluid up-and-down, slowly working Deadlock’s charge back up.
Hot Rod’s fingers brushed over the differently-plated base of Deadlock’s spike. “What’s that?” he asked.
“Nothing you need to worry about on round one,” Deadlock said.
“Round one?” Hot Rod asked, not really listening. He was stroking the shape of it, a rimmed band of delicate, overlapping metal plates that seemed to be compressing something. Deadlock stilled him, then used their overlapping hands to grasp and bring the tip of his spike lower. He hunched down, and Hot Rod’s vents caught as he bumped it against Hot Rod’s sensitized anterior node, shared charge sizzling between their arrays. He pushed it lower, until the tip slid snugly between the plush, swollen silicone rim of Hot Rod’s valve. It looked and felt massive in the small gap.
“W-wait,” Hot Rod said.
“Lie down on your back,” Deadlock coaxed. “I want you to watch.”
“Deadlock,” Hot Rod said, an edge of panic to his voice, “it’s not gonna fit, I’m serious.”
“It will,” Deadlock said. “Lie back.”
“No,” Hot Rod said. “I’m not—I’m not fragging doing that, I—”
“You need it big,” Deadlock reasoned. “A smaller spike can only rub some of your interior nodes. You need a spike that can fill you completely. That will stroke them all in tandem with every pass.”
“Some, some is okay,” Hot Rod argued. “I don’t need ‘all,’ that—that sounds crazy, that sounds like too much…”
“Trust me,” Deadlock purred. “Once your pussy tastes my spike, it won’t want anything else ever again. Not fingers, not an interface toy, and certainly not any Autobitch’s subpar equipment. You gonna die a virgin, Roddy? ‘Cause it’s this—” he tapped his spike against Hot Rod’s node again, “—or it’s nothing.”
Hot Rod swallowed thickly.
“...If I tell you to slow down?” Hot Rod ventured finally. “If I tell you to stop?”
“I will,” Deadlock promised.
Hot Rod backed up slowly. He sat down, then leaned back on his elbows, knees still pressed tightly together. “What am I doing?” he muttered to himself.
Deadlock made the earth shake when he dropped down to his knees, frame bracketing Hot Rod on either side. Hot Rod’s spark spun up, anxietyexcitementanxietyexcitementneedNEEDNEED pulsing from his very core despite his reservations. Deadlock grabbed Hot Rod’s thighs and hoisted them up to his hips.
Hot Rod let out a yip of surprise, falling painfully back onto his spoiler and his entire aft lifted off the ground. He flailed, but could not leverage himself back up, leaving him at Deadlock’s mercy. “Deadlock—I can’t—”
“Shhh,” Deadlock hushed him gently. “Ready?”
“No,” Hot Rod mumbled, but watched with sick fascination as Deadlock lined up his oversized spike with the entrance to Hot Rod’s valve, and pushed in.
Hot Rod had thought he was watching, anyway, but he must have lost some time because one moment, he was tense and holding in a ventilation; the next, his visual field had gone white and he was panting like he was on the last lap of a race. His pleasure subsystem was going haywire attempting to process the stimulus input from his inner nodes. It placed a draconic demand for processing power, leaving Hot Rod unable to so much as form the glyphs to speak. He stared, uncomprehending, at Deadlock’s spike, not even a third of the way into him.
His calipers were loosening and eking their way wider to fit a size of object Hot Rod had never attempted to put inside himself. His nodes—his fucking nodes—would not quit it with the shivering pulses of pleasure, layering on top of each other in an unbearable symphony of sensation, even as his valve strained under the pressure. Warnings pelted his processor along with ribbons of pain as Deadlock kept pushing deeper.
“W—huh—I…” Hot Rod tried to speak, but his language processing module was still too low on his processor’s priority tree for him to form words.
Deadlock, above him, for once seemed to be in a similar situation. He was dumping steam from his vents like his internals had caught fire, and his optics were locked, unfocused, on his spike where it disappeared into Hot Rod’s body.
“Slag,” Deadlock croaked. “Fuck. I knew—I knew you’d be tight, but I didn’t think—you’re sucking the tip right in, you whore.”
Deadlock pulled out and Hot Rod let out a devastated cry of loss before it warped into garbled binary as Deadlock thrust right back in. It had to be bruising his sensitive injector tip, but he kept working more and more of his length in, until he was pushing up against the girthiest part of his spike…
Strain warnings for his calipers and valvemesh blanketed Hot Rod’s HUD and finally, a warning for the integrity of the very structure of his valve. He tried to paw at Deadlock, tried to get his attention, but Deadlock’s optics were focusing now, honing in on the place where their frames connected like those of a predator. Oral solvent dripped from Deadlock’s slack jaw onto Hot Rod’s pelvic plating.
Hot Rod managed to reroute processing power to his language module. “D-Deadlock,” he whimpered. “Slow, slow down—‘s too much—”
“Shut up,” Deadlock growled, and licked his thumb before pressing it to Hot Rod’s anterior node and rubbing.
Hot Rod’s HUD and processor blanked. White-hot pleasure knifed through him, exacerbated by his valve clenching down and rubbing his interior nodes on the massive spike splitting him open. His pleasure subsystem sunk its claws into his regulator, siphoning power at a terrifying rate to keep up with the demand and Hot Rod—Hot Rod was gone.
“Primus, Primus,” he whimpered. “Oh my god, ‘Lock, please—please, please, please don’t stop—oh—oh, I can’t—oh—”
“Yeah,” Deadlock mumbled. “Won’t stop, won’t slow down—frag, how is it so tight and hot, I can’t stand it!”
He kept rubbing on Hot Rod’s anterior node, and his spike kept rubbing up inside. Hot Rod moaned, that humiliating uh-uh-uh all over again, but this time when overload took him, he thrashed. His back struts arched and Hot Rod pushed himself off the ground, spoiler flapping wildly and his hips bucking senselessly against Deadlock’s iron hold. Charge arced between them, lighting up the tunnel with a flash of blue, and Hot Rod blacked out just as he caught the tail end of Deadlock’s moan.
When he came online again, Deadlock was still fucking him. He had gotten his whole spike in, down to the base, and Hot Rod’s array pulsed painfully with the aftermath. But he was already building charge, caching even more than the last overload, and his regulator had succumbed to the demands of his pleasure subsystem and written a temporary command code that directed all power from his mobility systems into it to keep up. Hot Rod couldn’t move.
“How—” Hot Rod reset his voxcoder. “How have you not—”
“Choked the circuit,” Deadlock answered, glossa lolling out of his mouth. “Nearly got me when you came, but…”
“Why…why wouldn’t you…”
Deadlock turned feral optics, flooded pink with charge, onto Hot Rod’s.
“You need to feel it, Roddy. I want you with me when I finally overload. I want you to revel in every second of it, to worship this spike that can get you so high, and I want you to understand that no one else will ever come close. Ever.”
“But I can’t…Deadlock, I can’t take much more of this. My available power is drained; if I overload again I’ll—I don’t know how long I’ll be out this time!”
“Then don’t overload,” Deadlock said. He smirked. “If you can, that is. Your frame is so eager for this, it’s a miracle that I managed to get to you first.” He leaned in and hissed in Hot Rod’s audial. “Good choice. Your commander would have turned you into a free-use drone if they knew they’d signed shareware into their forces.”
Hot Rod cuffed him, not nearly hard enough to do any damage.
Deadlock laughed. “Oh, don’t worry, baby. I don’t intend to share you with anyone. I could never make you suffer mediocre spike. Instead you’ll get this—over and over and over…”
Hot Rod’s overstimulated anterior node throbbed weakly in interest. Hot Rod threw an arm over his face. “Primus, shut up.”
Deadlock readjusted his grip on Hot Rod and pistoned deep, molesting his ceiling node cluster and teasing the entrance to Hot Rod’s forge with his injector tip.
“Fuck!” Hot Rod barked. “Deadlock, stop! That’s too deep!”
Deadlock laughed, and did it again.
“Did you h-hear me? You—you…” Hot Rod broke off with a ragged gasp. This was—this was different from before, different from the other node clusters. A run-of-the-mill false spike couldn’t reach this deep, and Hot Rod had never stimulated his ceiling node cluster. An entirely separate line of code fired off into—into his gestational subsystem, and Hot Rod went limp, relaxing into Deadlock’s ministrations. He could feel…the more Deadlock prodded at his ceiling nodes, the more his injector tip discharged teasing frissons of electricity…his forge’s entrance cracked and began to spiral open.
“That’s it,” Deadlock purred. “That’s what I wanted to feel. I’m gonna overload inside you, Roddy. Spill deep in your valve and have your forge drink every single drop. It’s the only way shareware like you can be satisfied. It’s the only way I can show you what good interface, real interface is all about. And you’ll love it; your coding will sing and your frame will set itself ablaze…”
“W-wait,” Hot Rod said. “Wait. You never said—we never agreed to that. Stop.”
But he couldn’t squirm away. His coding had pinned him, helpless, under Deadlock. He wasn’t sparked, but his gestational subsystem wanted everything Deadlock could give him, and it refused to be sabotaged. He managed to twitch, but it only jiggled Deadlock’s spike inside of him in a new way that sent a ripple pleasure up his back struts and made him whimper.
Deadlock gave Hot Rod a mocking smile. “I don’t think I will.”
“Stop,” Hot Rod hiccuped around the forge-deep thrusts. “You said—you said you’d stop…”
Deadlock leaned down and vented steam over Hot Rod’s anterior node. Hot Rod howled.
Lubricant welled in the corners of his optics and they sparked. “Liar…you fuckin’ liar…you were never gonna stop…”
“Who lied to whom first, Hot Rod? Your glyphs say ‘no’ but your frame has been screaming ‘yes’ since you first saw my spike. I’m just choosing to trust your body over your tangled-up and confused little mind.”
“Deadlock, you don’t get it, you can’t. The Autobots—my squad—they’ll know that I—"
“What do you care? We’re going to die here, remember? No one can tell from your shell that I buried my transfluid inside you. It’ll just be the two of us. And it’ll feel so good, Roddy. Better than anything I’ve shown you so far. All the molten spend pooling deep in your forge…warming you from the inside out…your frame is gonna love it…”
Each punch inside Hot Rod’s valve was getting harder, Deadlock getting more and more excited as he talked himself into a fit. His smile was almost manic with glee. Hot Rod’s valve had adjusted, as Deadlock promised, and was overslick with lubricant from two overloads. Deadlock’s spike made a lewd schlop-schlop sound with every pump of his hips. Hot Rod’s lubricant was sprayed across the ground and the fronts of both their frames. It was faintly fluorescent, like transfluid, and gave shape to their coupling bodies in the otherwise oppressive darkness.
Deadlock had to be talking slag. He just wanted to mount Hot Rod and rut into him like he’s a prize Deadlock had won the rights to. He didn’t care if it made Hot Rod black out for days—he would probably just use Hot Rod as a sleeve if that was the case! He didn’t care, and Hot Rod couldn’t trust his words, but the charge was, inexorably, building high and Hot Rod was losing grasp of rationality, of the sane part of him that screamed to not let Deadlock do as he wanted. What Deadlock wanted to do, so far, had put him out of his mind with pleasure.
But he was a scout, an Autobot soldier. And no matter how much his frame craved release, Deadlock’s release, he couldn’t give up the hope of rescue and surrender himself to a life as a Decepticon’s frag toy.
“If they—if they do find us, ‘Lock—”
“If they find us,” Deadlock cut him off. “If we somehow beat the odds and we’re rescued and restored to our rightful places…so what? Do you think they’ll be able to tell?”
“Well…”
“And even then—just because you took my load inside doesn’t mean you…” Deadlock’s voice became deep and silky, “...took it willingly.”
Hot Rod’s vents stalled.
Deadlock paused in fucking Hot Rod to settle the rest of his frame down against Hot Rod’s chest like a tamed silodenta cat. He nuzzled his face into the crook of Hot Rod’s neck and pressed his fanged grin into the cables there. “Mmm, I felt that. You like that, huh?”
He started moving his hips again, but this time it was deep and slow, taking his sweet time as he licked at Hot Rod’s neck and spewed filth. “Yeah, baby. You can tell them this big, bad Decepticon chased you down and cornered you—hell, I’ll even take the blame for the cave-in. He trapped you up against a dead-end tunnel. Shoved you onto your back. Threatened to dismember you piece by piece if you didn’t open up.
“You were so courageous. You opened up and looked away, bravely gritting your dentae as he extended his huge, appalling spike and started to pump it in front of you. You didn’t give him the satisfaction, right, Hot Rod?”
Hot Rod keened.
“Such a noble sacrifice, soldier,” Deadlock purred. “You stayed tense and dry the whole time. Didn’t get aroused at all. No good Autobot would get hot for a big, dripping Decepticon spike rubbing against their swollen rim and shoving in, inch by inch, claiming their valve. No good Autobot would get sopping wet from the delicious stretch of their calipers as that monster’s girth stimulated each and every node.
“Hot Rod is such a good, loyal officer,” Deadlock said, scraping his claws up Hot Rod’s sides. “He would never enjoy being raped by me. Right?”
Hot Rod shuddered from helm to pedes. “Deadlock…”
“Now be a good little whore,” Deadlock ordered with a snarl, “and open your gestational port fully. I want my transfluid all the way in.”
“No—I can’t—that’s—”
“Oh, yes you can. Yes you will.”
Hot Rod keened again as his frame disobeyed him and his forge opened all the way, wide enough to accept the hungry, probing injector tip of Deadlock’s spike. Hot Rod tried to close his legs, but Deadlock’s bulk kept him spread wide. He tried to clench down on Deadlock’s spike to slow him down, but Deadlock just pushed through it. He started fucking into Hot Rod faster again, muttering, finally, finally, finally.
His spike was meltingly hot. It scorched Hot Rod’s mesh like a brand, deep enough that he could almost feel the heat building in his abdomen. He thought about the backed up transfluid in Deadlock’s lines, twice denied its release and getting hotter and hotter as the coils of Deadlock’s internals accepted even more charge from Hot Rod. Hot Rod’s frame was built to withstand heat, but he’d never shot liquid fire into his most sensitive internals. He was sure it would hurt. And Deadlock would keep shooting into him; would fill his gestational tank all the way to bursting until it spilled over, just like he promised… Boiling transfluid settling in Hot Rod’s belly as a reminder that he let a Decepticon into his precious core; let that ‘Con take pleasure from his frame and then use it like a common dump. Shameful. Degenerate. Treasonous. Hot Rod didn’t care.
“Need it,” Hot Rod mumbled. “Need it, need it, come on Deadlock—wanna feel what it’s like, wanna feel your spill—”
Deadlock growled low in his throat.
“Gonna, gonna be messy, aren’t you, big boy? Gonna ruin me like you said—like you promised—no matter what I say, so I might—might as well just let you…”
His thrusts got sloppier and Hot Rod could feel it coming, could feel the way Deadlock’s field rushed in and out over him as the charge peaked. He was close, he was chasing it, he was going to come inside Hot Rod, and even if it hurt it would feel good, because everything Deadlock did to him felt good. Hot Rod threw his head back and moaned wantonly, trying to buck his hips up to meet Deadlock. He was chasing his own overload, the biggest one he’d ever felt—no self-servicing had ever felt like this. He was certain, suddenly, that he could take it. Whatever Deadlock threw at him, his frame and his valve could take it, would take it, if only Deadlock would command it of him.
Life as a Decepticon’s frag toy…it was better than an honorable, lonely death.
“Give it to me!” Hot Rod sobbed.
Deadlock let out a strangled roar and then his spike rippled, independent of Deadlock’s movements, and the tip buried into the opening of Hot Rod’s gestational port, the flares around the injector tip activating and locking it in while the rim calipers of Hot Rod’s valve clamped down on his spike, magnetizing and locking it inside at the base as well. Deadlock’s spike rippled again and transfluid burst into Hot Rod’s forge, white-hot and pressurized. Hot Rod’s pleasure subsystem rewarded him with a wave of charge so strong that overload smashed through him, shorting out his voxcoder halfway through a scream and stalling out every single system for a spark rotation before hitting him with so many crash reports that he went limp from overtaxed memory. And even after that initial burst, Deadlock’s spike was still pumping transfluid into him in thick, rhythmic bursts.
Deadlock let out a broken whine. “Oh, fuck,” he groaned. “I haven’t come that hard in millennia. You’re gripping so tight I think you’ll drain my reservoirs.”
He slapped Hot Rod’s valve and Hot Rod’s calipers tightened minutely. Hot Rod let out a reedy cry.
“That’s it, baby,” Deadlock said. “Drink up. Milk me all the way down to empty. Don’t worry; your medic won’t be able to tell you wanted it."
“Think of how they’ll fawn over you. Poor, poor Hot Rod, getting forcibly dumped in by that beast. Oh, how brave you were to put up a fight! Optimus will be so proud. Maybe they’ll even give you a medal.”
“A medal of valor for spreading your legs and moaning for Megatron’s assassin.” Deadlock cackled so hard he had to gasp for breath. “That’s so fucking funny.”
He looked back down at Hot Rod, but Hot Rod’s optics were dim and unfocused. A line of oral solvent dribbled from the corner of parted lips and his frame trembled faintly. He let out a soft whine.
“My bad, pretty thing,” Deadlock said. “You can’t even hear me anymore, can you? Feels too good, too hot. It feels good to me, too, you know. Like I’ve always dreamed it would feel.”
He pressed his mouth to Hot Rod’s audial. “Can I tell you a secret, Roddy? Swear you won’t tell nobody, ‘kay? I’ve wanted you for a long, long time. How…lucky…I am that you got us stuck here all alone. Primus must have a soft spot for me.”
“Don’t worry,” Deadlock promised. “I’ll make sure to rape you as many times as you want, Roddy.”
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Hot Rod, upon waking, swung his fist as hard as he could into the mech hovering over him. It was fortunate that Ratchet, on top of being a medic with the frame hardiness that came with the territory, had expected a violent reaction and caught his fist.
“Cool it, kid. You’re safe. It’s over.”
Ratchet? Safe? Neither of those things made any sense. Hot Rod forced his optics online against the complaints of his sluggish frame. Ratchet was indeed standing over him. A glance at his surroundings showed the unextraordinary interior of an Autobot transport. It appeared that he had somehow gone from certain death to a gentle cruise back to his squadron’s battleship and off that godforsaken planet.
“Must have put up a helluva fight,” Ratchet said, scanning a PADD hooked up to Hot Rod’s medical port. “You were on reserves when we found you in that canyon. I’ll spare you the whole spiel this time, but mind your power consumption, racing frame. Just ‘cause you can discharge a whole lot of energy at once doesn’t mean you should.” He muttered under his breath, “I outta take a look at your regulator…”
Canyon. Landslide. Darkness. Deadlock.
Deadlock.
“Y-you found us?” Hot Rod asked, voice staticky and strained.
Ratchet scowled at him. “Use your comms, for Primussake. Don’t hurt yourself. And what do you mean ‘us’?”
They hadn’t seen Deadlock? How? Hot Rod was missing too much information. It was throwing him off-kilter. He had to proceed with caution.
<< I was chasing after—a-a ‘Con. >> He explained, faltering at admitting his own stupidity in chasing Deadlock down alone. << There was a landslide, and, um… >>
“And the ‘Con got away,” Ratchet completed for him. “Happens to us all, kid. Don’t let it get you down. Just be happy to be alive.”
<< And he didn’t…he wasn’t… >>
“No spark in that canyon but your own. Maybe the landslide got him, but I couldn’t say. Ask Magnus if you want the details; I wasn’t in the initial rescue party. He’s the one who traced your rescue beacon.”
<< My— >>
“Quick thinking, activating that before you passed out. We would’ve never found you otherwise.”
Hot Rod slumped back against the stretcher, processor in shambles. Nothing was adding up. Had he imagined Deadlock? His frame felt right as rain, no aches or twinges whatsoever, but…yep, a quick systems check showed that Ratchet had killed his pain sensors for the time being, probably in an attempt to let him recharge as long as possible. No one was trying to blast him out of an airlock for having residual transfluid on his frame, although now that he was thinking clearly, there would have been no way to identify it as Deadlock’s anyway. Any paint transfers from their coupling would be hidden amongst the rest of Hot Rod’s battle scuffs. He might have really gotten away with it. Which meant he could go right ahead and pretend it never happened at all.
He had a long-distance comms message in his inbox, probably from Springer or Bluestreak, nagging him about where he’s been. Maybe a tongue-lashing from Kup. He sighed. Nothing better to do. He opened it.
<< Don’t ask how I got your commlink. You don’t want to know the answer to that. You knocked out pretty hard after that last overload, hundred and twenty hours or so (your chronometer is disabled, btw). I was bored and ran a couple more detailed scans of the tunnel. What do you know? There was a well-hidden emergency exit in the wall about two-thirds of the way to the dead-end that we must have passed over. Dragged your aft outside, posed you artfully in the landslide rubble, activated your beacon, and went on my merry way. Why didn’t I kill you? Oh, come on, Roddy. You don’t visit the buffet line just once.
And hey—if you ever want to see what that mod does, you have my link. >>
Hot Rod saved a copy of the message to his flash storage, permanently wiped the original from all his data banks, and then moved the copy behind a series of firewalls so convoluted it would take Jazz, Soundwave, and days of creative torture to get it out of him.
“I told you not to call me ‘Roddy,’” Hot Rod muttered, and resisted the urge to tilt his helm back and scream.
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