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Deadlock, as always, is hideously, dreadfully sober. He hasn’t even had time to buy a glass of bland mid-grade that an aspiring saboteur might have poisoned or otherwise drugged, so he doesn’t understand why he’s experiencing a full-blown hallucination right now.
Xa’ring Cross—neutral, technorganic planet. Ignis Fatuus—a bar just within the boundaries of the red-light district of the spaceport’s southern borough. Seedy and discrete enough to suit Deadlock’s reputation, but orderly enough to spare him from a situation where he’d have to knock some overcharged helms together. The idea was to stick with his own kind—’Cons—and the scummier of the local crowd. Tourists didn’t come to this part of town. Nice mechs didn’t come to this part of town. So why was Hot Rod, Autobot extraordinaire, flashing his paint in Ignis Fatuus, not ten meters from Deadlock?
Deadlock flags down the empuratae bartender. “Praxus Sunshine. Simmered.” The bartender asks him something, but Deadlock is too focused on Hot Rod to pay them any attention. Hot Rod hasn't noticed him yet, slipping in between taller, bulkier warframes with a nimbleness that makes Deadlock’s claws twitch and his internals tighten. That agility was hell to contend with in the field. Here, contained in every dimension, Hot Rod is little more than a fluttering bird in a cage.
Deadlock could kill him.
The bartender places the insulated glass in front of Deadlock, lifting the lid to let out a soft puff of steam. Jewel-like bubbles cling to the bottom and sides of the glass before rising to the top in a pleasant simmer. Deadlock nods to the bartender and picks up the glass, swirling it gently. It has a sharp, metallic scent that is intolerable to the sensory suites of refined mechs. Deadlock breathes it in.
No, he can’t kill Hot Rod. His fucking blasters are locked in his armory back on the Tascitorque. And he had to check his plasma sabres at the door. He could wring the life from Hot Rod’s spark with his bare claws, but he doesn’t have the inbuilt weaponry required to deal with the aftermath of breaking the peace on a ceasefire planet. He’ll just have to settle for glowering at Hot Rod and trying not to let his gaze slip down, where…surely, he had to be hallucinating…
Deadlock dims his biolights and melts into the shadows at the edge of the bar, just in time for Hot Rod to walk by. His frame gives off the warmth of heightened awareness, but he’s not discriminating enough to dodge the claws latching onto his spoiler bracket and hauling him backwards.
Hot Rod twists in the hold immediately, pinching Deadlock’s claws painfully and threatening to warp them. Deadlock lets him go, his objective achieved. He has Hot Rod’s attention.
Hot Rod spins around and gives him a venomous look. “Hooks to yourself, pitspawn,” he spits.
Deadlock wishes it didn’t turn him on a little. “Hey, Roddy,” he says.
Hot Rod glances down at Deadlock’s Decepticon emblem, then slowly drags his optics up to Deadlock’s face. “Do I know you?” he asks, monotone.
“You wound me.” Deadlock taps his chestplate with a claw. “Right here.”
Hot Rod makes a face like he’d like to train the sight on his blaster over Deadlock’s spark. “...You’ll live,” he says, then turns to leave, giving Deadlock an up-close-and-personal shot of the not-a-hallucination.
Deadlock grabs Hot Rod by the arm and leverages his higher body mass to make Hot Rod stumble a few steps back. Hot Rod rips Deadlock's hand off as soon as he steadies himself. “What is your problem?”
“My problem,” Deadlock deadpans. He gives Hot Rod a quizzical little smile, trying, for some absurd reason, to find a considerate way to bring it up. There isn’t one. “Have you always liked it up the aft?”
Hot Rod’s engine turns over with a scandalized rev, his optics wide and bright. “Excuse me?”
More than a few Decepticons look over, including a handful of bolts-for-brains idiots from an adjacent squadron. Deadlock angles his frame so that he blocks Hot Rod from view. Threats neutralized for now, Deadlock turns his optics back on Hot Rod, who has noticed his scan of the room and is flexing his fingers with the tell of a scout preparing to bolt. “Don’t get your gyros in a twist, darlin’,” Deadlock drawls. “I’m the only one who’s noticed. So far. Probably.”
“Noticed what?” Hot Rod seethes.
Deadlock can’t resist. He rounds his optics all innocent-like. “Why, that you like playing with your port, of course.”
“You’re disgusting.” Hot Rod tries to move past him; Deadlock blocks him.
“Whoa, what’s the big hurry? Aren’t you curious how I know?”
“Aren’t you curious how I know you’re a scum-sucking, diseased leech? No,” Hot Rod doesn’t give him a chance to answer, “it’s written all over your face.”
Deadlock schools his expression into neutrality. “You’re awful uppity for a mech who walks around with a cute little decal peeking out from behind the cracked panel of his aft port.”
Hot Rod, who had sucked in a ventilation in preparation to waste valuable computing resources on a snippy comeback, freezes. Then thaws with an actual, angry narrowing on his optics. “That’s not funny.”
No, it really isn’t. Deadlock has been unable to stop his useless, pleasure-seeking slagheap of a processor from caching low-res snaps of the toy, winking out at him from behind a panel that has been closed but not properly sealed. Amateur mistake. Deadlock would know. Drift had only made it once.
The lighting in this bar is unforgivably outdated. Deadlock can’t make out if the soft, shiny metal of the plug is silvery, golden, or coppery. He’s irritated, and even more so now that Hot Rod is trying to front after being called out fair and square.
“What’s it made out of, anyway? Newbies tend to go for silicone over metal. Gentler on the mesh. But less heft, doesn’t feel anything like a real spike. Makes a mech wonder…”
Hot Rod stiffens. “You…” He swallows solvent. “You didn’t really see…” His fingers twitch again, but he’s too shocked to run, and reaching back to cover his port would be too obvious. Bravado faltering, Hot Rod tucks his back up against the bar, mirroring Deadlock’s position from earlier. He hisses, “How did you see it?”
Deadlock raises an optic ridge. “So it wasn’t on purpose.”
“What? No! Of course not!”
Pity. Bulging aft panels are a come-frag-me sign if Deadlock has ever seen one. But not really a pity, because even if he is horny and curious, Deadlock isn’t interested in tight, whiny scout port. Where is Hot Rod from again? He’s too low-ranked to hail from the likes of well-to-do Iacon or Tyrest. He should know better.
Deadlock offers him the now slightly unpalatable Praxus Sunshine. Hot Rod gives him a look as if to say, Do you think I’m stupid?
Deadlock grunts. “Can’t roofie a Praxus Sunshine. Why the frag do you think I ordered it?”
At the name, Hot Rod loosens his servos a little. He takes the glass, open-mouthed scenting the drink while he gives it a couple swirls, then throws the whole thing back in one go. Deadlock grunts again in appreciation of the proper technique.
“...Is it that obvious?” Hot Rod asks after a moment.
The true answer—It is if the mech is checking out your aft, then double-checking his work ten or so times to be sure—is likely to start a bar fight. Deadlock chooses the more diplomatic response. “Yep.” Then pushes off the bar to escape across the room, and failing that, back to the Tascitorque, to smash a bottle over Turmoil’s head and distract himself with the ensuing chaos.
“Wait,” Hot Rod whines. “You’re leaving me?”
Deadlock offlines his optics and sighs heavily. “Well, you said you’re not looking for a fuck. Any other reason to risk accusations of cross-factional fraternization?”
“But…I…”
Deadlock throws himself back against the bar and leans into Hot Rod’s space, fangs bared and plating bristling. “So tell me. If you’re not into aftplay and you’re not trying to pick up, why did you come down for shore leave with a plugged port?”
Hot Rod leans out of his space, sputtering. “I never said I—! Look, it’s not like that, okay?”
“Not like what? Like you’re a hungry little aftslut desperate for some action from whoever’s pistons pack the biggest punch?”
Even in the low light, Deadlock can see the flush to Hot Rod’s delicate facial mesh. He doesn’t know what’s come over him. He doesn’t talk to mechs like this, even Autobots, unless they start it. He feels parched, like his intake is lined with sawdust.
“You’re vile,” Hot Rod mutters.
Deadlock imagines pushing him up against the bar until it creaks from their combined weight, then leaning down and whispering in his audial, Oh yeah? And what else?
“At least a hungry little aftslut would be getting some,” Deadlock mutters in return. “So, what—a punishment thing? A dare? No, Autobots aren’t that fun.” He allows a small smile. “...Submission?”
“No,” Hot Rod says. “It’s just—it’s just for me. Okay? That’s it.”
Just for me. Deadlock rolls the words into his tactical matrix and lets it chew on them. What could they mean? His spike has decided what it thinks about them, but it wasn’t invited to the table for discussion, so Deadlock pushes aside any input from his interfacing array.
“You were staring at my aft,” Hot Rod accuses.
“Wow. Did you come up with that all on your own? How come Prowl hasn’t poached you for his spec-ops unit?”
Hot Rod scowls. “Primus, you are such a fucking…” He fumes for a moment, then demands, “So are you going to help me or not?”
“No.” Help? With what?
“Deadlock.”
Deadlock clamps down hard on his plating, refusing to let the thrill of hearing Hot Rod speak his designation make him shiver.
“I probably—I need to get out of here. I can’t let…” Hot Rod swallows, “...anyone else notice. But I can’t just—I need to fix…it.” He drops his voice low. “Take it out, I mean. Subspace it.”
Against his better judgment, Deadlock’s engine dies down, softening all the grinding and whirring of his frame so that he can tune his audials to Hot Rod’s words. Hot Rod isn’t coming on to Deadlock with his soft whispers and admission of vulnerability. But Deadlock’s processor doesn’t care. He tries to kill the prompts as soon as his motivator sends them, but he still can’t stop his generation cores from imagining Hot Rod bent over a washbasin in the bathroom, whimpering and squeaking as he hooks his fingers around the base of the plug and tugs.
“...What’s in it for me?” Deadlock’s voice is as low as Hot Rod’s.
Hot Rod slides his eyes from Deadlock. “...I’ll let you dance on me.”
Let him? Like Hot Rod was some kind of precious stone Deadlock should be honored to have the chance to wrap his claws around?
“Pass.” If he danced on Hot Rod he was going to end up mounting him on the dancefloor.
Hot Rod slumps. “Well, what the frag do you want, then? Why did you pull me aside in the first place?”
To sate his curiosity. And to make sure rolling with Turmoil’s crew hadn’t turned him terminally, illucidly insane yet. And here he is, curiosity sated. Ta-dah! It wasn’t a hallucination. Deadlock wonders why he doesn’t feel any better.
Deadlock plucks the empty glass out of Hot Rod’s hand and tilts his head back and extends his tongue, licking up the last dregs of high-grade. He thumps the glass on the bar. “Let me play with it.”
“What?”
“Ow! Damn, mech, my audials! You asked!”
“Oh, well, so sorry for giving you any benefit of the doubt! I thought maybe you weren’t a shameless, self-serving, lascivious prick.”
“And this prick is the only one in this joint who can help clean up your mess.”
“I could just call my friends.”
“Sure,” Deadlock says coolly. “Then they can all hear—along with everyone else in this bar—how Hot Rod rolled up to the red-light district with a fat aftplug up his port.”
Hot Rod’s optic ridges furrow. “How would they know—” Then he stills. “You wouldn't.”
“I don't know,” Deadlock says airily. “I'm kind of starting to identify with your description of a shameless pervert.”
Hot Rod bites his lip. Deadlock doesn’t really expect to get anywhere with such an uninspired bluff, but after a long moment of contemplation, Hot Rod says in a small, strained voice, “...Fine.”
And, well, Deadlock didn’t come to his station through luck or hesitation. He wraps his arms around Hot Rod’s waist and pulls Hot Rod against his chestplate. He drops one hand to casually grope at Hot Rod’s aft, his massive paw shielding the exposed port from roving eyes. Hot Rod flinches in Deadlock’s arms, then jolts when his claws tickle the underside of Hot Rod’s aft panel and brush the warm metal of the plug’s base. The glower he fixes Deadlock with is the most vicious yet, and it makes the soft circuits in Deadlock’s interfacing array feel as if they’re melting. Deadlock says, “See? Even ‘Cons can be sweet, given the right motivation.”
“Just make it quick,” Hot Rod grits out. He pushes back against Deadlock’s chestplate, keeping as much distance as he can. “Take your—your sick pleasure and get me the frag out of here.”
“Quick,” Deadlock repeats, trying (not very hard, mind) to hook his claws around the plug’s base. It’s not titanium, is it? Those were pricey. “Is that how you like your interface, Hot Rod? Quick and dirty?”
“I’m not a buymech,” he spits.
“I am.”
Hot Rod’s optics cycle wide and he goes rigid in Deadlock’s arms. Before he can stammer out any sort of dumb, self-flagellating Autobot apology, Deadlock gets ahold of the plug and starts to spin it, like he would unwind a nut off a bolt’s thread. Hot Rod chokes, his voxcoder sputtering and distorting his words. His hands, once flat against Deadlock’s chassis, curl into tight fists.
“Was, anyway,” Deadlock continues conversationally. “Not really the kind of stigma you can shake off. But enough about me. Tonight is all about you.”
“Frag off.”
Deadlock sighs. “Well, this is a riveting conversation. Might as well just pop out that nasty little toy and get it over with. Here and now should be fine.”
“Stop,” Hot Rod says. “Don’t. I…” He struggles internally, facial expression twisting. “I…don’t have a preference.”
“Hmm.” Deadlock lets the plug go and Hot Rod sways into him. His electromagnetic field is hot and energetically dense and weaving into Deadlock’s, but Hot Rod is too tense to let any emotion flow into it. “So you don’t care what hole he puts it in? Or what it is? You pop all your panels and wiggle your array in his face and say, ‘Surprise me’?”
Hot Rod’s field pulses. “Fucking—shut up. Don’t say embarrassing stuff like that.”
“Exotic curse words. Did I touch a neural wire?”
Hot Rod falls silent, but Deadlock can’t leave him be. His own field lashes out at Hot Rod, hemorrhaging frustration and barely contained arousal. “I think it’s obvious you have some preferences.”
Hot Rod flushes, leaning away from Deadlock again. “No, I—I don’t do this…a lot…”
“But you want to. That’s why you’ve got this—” Deadlock scrapes his claws from the base down the stem to where it disappears into Hot Rod’s shivering, clenching port, “—waving around where anyone can see. If they’re looking, of course.”
Hot Rod gasps and squirms, spoiler hiking high. “Deadlock, don’t—!” He bites his lip a moment later, optics darting across the bar warily.
“Well?”
“No,” Hot Rod says. “I told you. Wasn’t—wasn’t supposed to… It’s an accident.”
“Mmm.” Deadlock wraps his hands over the curve of Hot Rod’s posterior paneling and pushes Hot Rod’s hips against his own in a subtle, tantalizing grind. “Lucky for you I got to you first. Any other ‘Con’d just spin you around, tug it out, and stick you with their spike. A plug on display? Such a come-on.” He grazes his dentae over Hot Rod’s audial. “I mean, you’re all stretched out and practically begging for something more…substantial.”
Hot Rod vents unsteadily, field pulled within half a centimeter of his frame, all his servos and hydraulics locked tight.
“...You don’t want a ‘Con’s cock up your ass, do you Hot Rod?”
“No,” he whispers, fierce. His optics have cycled closed.
“Didn’t think so. But you know, I don’t buy that ‘just for me’ slag you were slingin’ earlier. Threw it into my tactical matrix and everything. Come on. Bringing that heat? To a neutral planet? In a shady part of town? Filled with ‘Cons and riffraff and none o’ your Autobitch buddies?” Deadlock starts sliding into Rodion dialect. He doesn’t notice the other Decepticons in the room, doesn’t bother to play commander. His worldview narrows to a small, red-plated scout and the building charge in his interfacing array. “What exactly were you trying to accomplish?”
Hot Rod’s frame shudders from the strain of lockstrut. “I was only…I was just…”
“Just having a little look around? Seein’ what the other side has to offer? Mechs must not be treating you very right at all if you’re snooping ‘round here for spike—”
“S-stop—I wasn’t—I’m not taking anyone to berth tonight, I don’t want—”
“—While your valve pulses, so empty, and your aft tightens around that plug, reminding you what a secretive little slut you are....”
Hot Rod shakes his head—no, no—but Deadlock doesn’t care if he agrees or disagrees. Doesn’t care what reason Hot Rod has for winding up here. What’s important is that he’s here, he’s under Deadlock’s claws, and Deadlock is grinding down the resistance in his struts, one slow slide of their arrays together at a time. Deadlock’s logic cortex is whining and carrying on in the background—too many witnesses, Turmoil won’t like it, Turmoil has Megatron’s audial—dammit, Deadlock knows that! He’s not going to fuck the Autobot scout. He’s not that stupid. He’s worked too hard to jeopardize his carefully stacked house of cards for a one night stand with a squirmy, whimpering, shivering, pleading—
He stills their rocking, slowly wrenching his hands from Hot Rod’s aft to the relative safety of his waist. Hot Rod spirals his optics open again, equally slowly.
“I’d thank you for your service, but you’re the enemy, so.” He regards Hot Rod thoughtfully. The mech had given up at some point during their little grind sesh and was leaning his full weight into Deadlock. “...I’ll be tugging my spike to this later. No hard feelings.”
Hot Rod resets his optics blearily.
“Aw, don’t give me that look, Rodders. Okay, fine, you can finger yourself to it, too. You have my explicit consent. No morality handwringing required. Pit, I’ll even throw in permission to imagine what would have happened if this had gone further, if I—”
Hot Rod makes a small, confused noise. “That’s all? That’s all you wanted?”
Deadlock grinds his dentae together with a muffled squeal of metal-on-metal.
Hot Rod seems to realize what he’s said and quickly backtracks. “Wait. That came out wrong. That’s not what I meant. I only—” But Deadlock has taken Hot Rod’s aft in hand again, one prying open the half-closed panel and the other wrapping around the plug and tugging it against the rim calipers of Hot Rod’s port, forcing them to open against their automatic programming to stay closed. He pulls the plug to its widest girth, then lets it get sucked back in. Simulated, unsatisfying fucking.
“Oh. Well, then. Don’t mind. If I do,” Deadlock grits out. His fans are spun up and loud, but he couldn’t care less. He’s going to rail the first ‘Con he sees back on the ship. Up the aft and against the bulkhead. And they better scream.
“Nngh!” Hot Rod bites down around his cry, his back struts arching and pushing him harder into Deadlock. “Hey! T-take it easy! That one’s—oh—it’s—”
“It’s big?” Deadlock asks. “Bigger than you’re used to?”
Hot Rod whines wordlessly, pressing his forehelm to Deadlock’s chestplate and hiding his face. Deadlock shivers, plating rippling.
“...Yes,” Hot Rod whispers. “‘S why my panel wouldn’t close. It’s new, I…I couldn’t wait to try it out. I picked it up at the spaceport and I…”
“Where?” Deadlock demands. “Where did you go to stick it in?”
Hot Rod tucks himself into Deadlock, shockingly close. “The public effluent disposal…”
“The dump.” Deadlock can hear the incredulity in his voice. “You couldn’t even wait to get back to your ship? You went to the dump and stuffed yourself full in one of those filthy stalls?”
“None of the bars or clubs are near the Autobot—”
“Whore,” Deadlock hisses. “Easy, dirty little whore.”
Hot Rod’s field ripples and pulses, a warm bath of arousal and dismay against Deadlock’s own white-hot desire.
“Tell me,” Deadlock growls. “Does it feel good? Do you like your new toy?”
“Mmm, yeah, yes,” Hot Rod says. “If you keep doing that, I’ll—oh, fuck…”
Deadlock snarls, barely able to keep down a full engine rev. The words are out before he can terminate them: “Let me frag your aft, yeah?”
Hot Rod shakes his head, no, no.
Deadlock clicks his glossa. “Who are you trying to fool? Your array is practically melting into mine. I can hear the static from your node. The scout who plugged his aft over a wastepipe because he couldn’t wait is gonna slog all the way back to his ship, to his sad little soldier’s bunk, and hold a hand over his mouth while he jerks out a pathetic little overload? With all those other overcharged morons snoring away? Gimme a fuckin’ break.” Deadlock slips a claw in around the plug, pushing up against fluttering calipers. “When you have all of this in front of you, willing and ready?”
“Mmmgghh…” Hot Rod manages to look up at him, optics bright and desaturated from the heavy electrical demand of his frame.
“It’s big,” Deadlock says matter-of-factly. “So big it’ll make you see Primus. A big spike in your tight little port…are you going to tell me you don’t want that?”
Hot Rod swallows audibly. “I…” He glances around once more at their surroundings, plating puffing self-consciously. “...Not here.”
“Good boy,” Deadlock says. Hot Rod looks away from him, facial mesh flushed again. “Let’s take this to its natural conclusion, then.”
“Where—”
Deadlock frees a hand so he can knock a claw under Hot Rod’s chin and force his optics to meet Deadlock’s. He grins, all fang. “Why, the dirty effluent stalls, of course.”
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Deadlock…should not be doing this. Deadlock should not be doing him.
He tells his tactical matrix to shut its trap. His logic cortex frets over the dimensions of the stall he’s pushed them into—tight enough for a warframe with all their extraneous kibble, let alone two mechs—and spits out probabilities of structural damage to the bar and its effluent disposal. Deadlock tells his logic cortex where to shove it, too. There’s nothing rational or strategic about what he’s going to do to the Autobot.
Deadlock looks down on Hot Rod with optics cycled to pinpricks, bracing himself on the dubiously sound wall of the stall they’re in. Hot Rod glances up and behind him timidly, arms wrapped around himself. He shuffles his pedes against the raised, porcelain lip of the effluent drain. The dump has the stale, sour smell of waste—energon drained of its life-giving properties; dirtied coolant, solvents, lubricants; and transfluid, all siphoned into a single liquid slurry. It’s not as dirty as Deadlock would have expected, but there are still metal shavings and grit jammed into the grout of the tile and join where the drain meets the floor. Dark splatters stain the edges of the drain and the walls.
The spaceport would have been filthier. And in a place like this, Hot Rod had breathlessly pulled that plug from its packaging and stuffed it inside him, one hand covering his mouth to disguise his moans and whimpers. He probably didn’t even use lube.
“Bend over,” Deadlock orders in a rough voice.
The walk to the effluent disposal had brought some clarity back into Hot Rod’s hazy optics. He looks Deadlock up and down, considering. “Just…take it easy on me, will you?” And then, bracing himself against the upper lip of the drain, he shuffles back to within centimeters of Deadlock’s array and bends at the waist. He spreads his legs and opens both his aft and valve panels without Deadlock having to say anything. His spoiler flicks, anticipatory.
Whore, Deadlock thinks again.
“Well,” he drawls. “I certainly can’t leave you feeling empty.” Deadlock plunges two fingers into Hot Rod’s valve.
“A-ACKZCVHZH—?!” Hot Rod’s voxcoder trips over itself with a burst of static. His valve ripples around the alien intrusion, unsure of whether to draw it deeper or push it out. His anterior node crackles and throbs; Deadlock can feel it through Hot Rod’s valvemesh. But Deadlock isn’t here to play with Hot Rod’s pussy. His fingers are a pacifier.
With his other hand, Deadlock grasps the plug and tugs slowly, not wanting to tear the sensitive port lining. Hot Rod’s aft calipers cooperate readily, pushing out the plug even through the tight squeeze of his rim. Deadlock pops it out a moment later, leaving a gaping, clenching aft port. Hot Rod mewls, a tiny, weak sound.
“There you go,” Deadlock murmurs. He subspaces the plug. Slowly, he moves his fingers inside Hot Rod’s valve, soothing. “How’s that?”
Hot Rod squirms. “Your digits…mmm…thick…”
“Your aft, pet.”
“Too empty…”
“Mm, I can see that.” Deadlock stimulates the production of solvent in his mouth. The lubrication subsystem doesn’t need much prodding. Letting his jaws falls open and his glossa laze out, Deadlock leans down and allows oral solvent to pool and drool over his fangs and down his tongue, splattering against Hot Rod’s aft in long, translucent strings. His solvent dribbles, still body-warm, into Hot Rod’s bared port. Hot Rod gasps and squirms, but he is pinned between the wall and Deadlock, and speared on Deadlock’s fingers.
Deadlock fingerfucks Hot Rod faster now, automatic. The squirming and mewling, the wet port jiggling in front of his optics, have him antsy and impatient. His own hips twitch eagerly, as if attempting to match Hot Rod’s senseless rhythm. Deadlock retracts his spike panel, and his spike whips out, pressurizing instantly; painfully. Deadlock hisses.
“O-oh, oh, right there…” Hot Rod moans, bouncing now on Deadlock’s digits. As Deadlock’s spike pressurizes, it knocks against Hot Rod’s array with a clatter and Hot Rod yelps. “What—what the—” He cranes his neck cables, trying to catch a glimpse of Deadlock’s piece.
Deadlock laughs and pushes his head back down, spike flexing when Hot Rod goes willingly. “What? I had to take it out eventually.” He strokes the back of Hot Rod’s helm. “You wanna see it, pretty thing?”
“Yes,” Hot Rod whispers.
The door to the effluent disposal swings open with a screech and bangs hard into the wall, making both of them jump.
“Unicron’s ball bearings!” swears a mech as he stomps into the effluent disposal. “Rusted fraggin’ deathtrap. Watch it!”
“Sorry,” grunts his companion, lumbering after him.
Deadlock recognizes the voices as Blast and Roadtrain, two morons serving under Butterfly. He relaxes his fluffed plating. Turmoil hated Butterfly’s guts. Deadlock could suck off an Autobot commander out in the open against a washbasin and Butterfly’s goons wouldn’t so much as reset their optics. But Hot Rod didn’t know that. And Deadlock would bet half a ship’s worth of shanix that Hot Rod thinks they’re royally screwed if they’re caught interfacing across faction lines.
The two Decepticons take the stalls on either side of Deadlock and Hot Rod, loudly carrying on about how dismal the gambling prospects are on Xa’ring Cross. Deadlock can feel how tense Hot Rod is, trembling from the effort of holding his charged frame still. Deadlock crooks his fingers inside and Hot Rod’s spoiler flaps wildly. He bites down on his arm and shoots Deadlock a murderous glare.
“...Still wanna see it?” Deadlock teases, sotto voce.
Hot Rod shakes his head furiously, optics wide.
“Aw.” And then, slyly, “How about I show you another way?”
Before Hot Rod can respond, Deadlock pulls his fingers out of Hot Rod’s valve, using his free hand to catch Hot Rod when his struts finally give out and he loses his balance. Deadlock uses his wet fingers to slick his spike, already dribbling with lubricant behind the flares of the tip. Then, leaning flush against Hot Rod’s back, Deadlock slides his spike between Hot Rod’s legs and rubs it up against the swollen silicone of Hot Rod’s valve rim. Of course, since Hot Rod is much smaller than Deadlock, it brushes past his anterior node until the tip kisses the edge of his abdominal plating.
Hot Rod’s array pulses in time with his hungry, shocked EM field, and globs of lubricant drip from his valve onto Deadlock’s spike. His lubricant is hot; it tingles against the sensory ridges of Deadlock’s spike. Deadlock doesn’t let him squirm away. He wants Hot Rod to feel the length…the girth…the weight…perhaps he can even guess at some of the modifications Deadlock has made to his spike.
Hot Rod spits out the plating of his arm to tip his head back, knocking softly into one of Deadlock’s pauldrons. “That’s not gonna fraggin’ fit!” he hisses.
“It will.”
“In my valve, maybe! Not my aft.”
Deadlock’s flares flex and Hot Rod jolts, startled. Deadlock kisses the side of his helm almost tenderly. “And what, little Autobot, are you going to do about it? I’m sure you’ve realized by now that those are ‘Cons on either side of us. They aren’t going to save you.” He nuzzles behind Hot Rod’s audial. “I suggest you try not to moan.”
Deadlock pulls back and Hot Rod chokes out a hushed, “W-wait!” He tries to reach back with his free hand and push Deadlock’s hips away from him, but he has no leverage, rendering his efforts in vain.
Deadlock molests Hot Rod’s aft with the tip of his spike, teasing the entrance without pushing in. Once he has the tip seated comfortably in the circle of the rim calipers, he leans against Hot Rod with his full weight, crushing him up against the back wall and in turn, slowly forcing his spiketip in. It strains and strains, flares flush against the length, until—POP.
Deadlock lets out a pleased grunt at the snugness of Hot Rod’s aft. The hand that had been flailing at Deadlock is now frozen, a deathgrip on part of his hip fairing. Hot Rod’s plating is compressed against his frame with the force of his tension, the shock of the foreign intrusion. Then he shudders from helm to pede, and his frame goes loose. Deadlock sinks in another few centimeters. Hot Rod whimpers.
Stretched, Deadlock thinks. That wasn’t a pained noise.
Hot Rod’s field flows continuously now, for the most part filled with confused ecstasy. It prickles with pain, though, from where Hot Rod has once again dug his dentae into his arm hard enough to dent the metal.
“That looks painful, bitty,” Deadlock murmurs. “Let me help?”
Hot Rod looks up at him, unfocused.
Deadlock offers three of his fingers off the hand he had slicked his spike with. “Say, ‘ahh.’”
Hot Rod shakily unlatches his dentae from his arm. He pants shakily through parted lips, then, hesitantly, he opens his mouth wide, glossa lolling out. “Haaah…?”
The expression, almost innocent in its dazed trust of him, makes Deadlock’s spike ripple in Hot Rod’s port. He hears the catch of Hot Rod’s vents, and quickly shoves his fingers into Hot Rod’s mouth to stifle the needy whine he lets escape. Deadlock pushes them deep, enough to flirt with the ring of his intake, and Hot Rod’s gags, intake heaving and optics sparking in the corners. He makes a lewd, wet coughing sound as he gags, his back arching and port squeezing almost painfully tight around Deadlock. Deadlock lacks the same reservations as Hot Rod, and lets out a hungry rev of his engine.
The conversation pauses between the two Decepticons. “Aw, hell no,” Blast says. “Someone fraggin’ in here?”
“Piss off, Blast,” Deadlock snarls, low and threatening.
“Oh, slag. Deadlock, is that you? Getting some tailpipe? Want me to clear the room?”
Deadlock frowns, eyeing Hot Rod consideringly. “...No. I don’t mind an audience.”
And then he starts to rock his hips.
“Nngh—! Mmmphghh—!” Hot Rod shakes his head furiously, optics still wide and sparking and spoiler fluttering like a feral thing. He fumbles behind him until he finds Deadlock’s hand, and then, jerkily, signs to him with chirolinguistics.
Wa—ai—t! Wait, s—top—! No! No, no, do—nt want an—y—one to hear! You’re too bi—ig, it hur—ur—rts!
“Hrmm.” Deadlock tilts his head. “Not quite loose enough. Well, I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
Fragger!
“I can fix that,” Deadlock soothes. “Shh, shh.”
He pulls his hand from Hot Rod’s even as Hot Rod frantically scrabbles for it and mounts more silent protest. Deadlock pushes three fingers into Hot Rod’s soaked and swollen valve, plugging it up and rubbing up on all those nodes that had been turning him to molten slag earlier. Hot Rod heaves around him—fingers in his mouth, fingers in his valve, and a too-big spike up his aft—and lets out a low, defeated groan. But even that is soon consumed by rhythmic, gurgling moans as Deadlock alternates pushing in his spike and his fingers.
The inner structure of the interfacing array is made of flexible mesh, which means that Deadlock can feel his spike pressing down against his fingers, and his fingers pressing up against his spike as he moves. It doesn’t seem possible—Hot Rod’s hips aren’t very wide, and Deadlock, a warframe, isn’t small anywhere. He lets out a descending whistle, impressed. “Damn, mech. How can you fit so much?”
Hot Rod attempts to buck Deadlock out of him with a growl of his engine, but it’s undercut by the whimper from his mouth. “Mmmphhh—!”
…Deadlock doesn’t need chiro to know that one was, Motherfucker!
“Mm, you’re right, darlin’. Filling all your holes is better than just one.”
Roadtrain bangs on the stall wall on their other side. “Hey, Deadlock! Why don’t you open that door and put on a show, huh? Your brothers-in-arms could do with some good entertainment.”
Deadlock laughs. “Alright, let me ask!” He drops his voice low and turns back to Hot Rod. “Would you like that, pet? Like to put on a show for my friends out there? Show ‘em what a real good time you are?” But Hot Rod is already shaking his head furiously. He drools as he works his glossa under Deadlock’s digits, pleading.
“Aww, no? But then you could have a whole row of spikes to fill you up.” He snickers, and then calls out, “That’s a no, Roadtrain. He’s shy. And he wants me all to himself.”
Roadtrain says something in response, but Deadlock doesn’t parse it. Hot Rod’s aft is starting to cooperate, lubricating more as his calipers shudder apart and reprogram themselves to tighten slower, allowing Deadlock to really piston his spike into the comfortable, tight warmth of Hot Rod’s port. He’s deep now, his tip searching and feeling for a gestation port that isn’t there, flares undulating in anticipation of locking inside. He can see it’s starting to affect Hot Rod. He must not have taken something this deep inside often or maybe ever, sensory strips on the inside of his port activating and sending confusing signals to his processor—not pain, but pressure; gentle pressure everywhere, scrambling his systems and pitching his moans higher, more wanton. Not every mech’s processor interprets the pressure as pleasure, but with Deadlock’s fingers stuffing his valve, he tilts the scale in favor of feeling good.
“So fragging tight,” he hisses. “Can feel all the ridges of my spike through your valve. You like it, huh? This is what you came to me for, right?”
“Hhaaahhghh…” Hot Rod gurgles.
“That’s it…that’s my pretty pet. Frag, you look gorgeous on my spike. You were made for this.”
Deadlock’s finials twitch. “It really would be a shame,” he murmurs, “not to show you off.”
Hot Rod’s plating, relaxed and fluffed from arousal, flattens in shock.
Deadlock hollers, “Blast! Roadtrain! You fraggers still there?”
Blast calls back, sheepishly, “Yeah, ‘Lock. Didn’t say we had to leave, didja now? Stretcher’s here too.”
“Hey!” Stretcher hisses.
“I changed my mind.” Deadlock hooks his fingers in Hot Rod’s valve meanly, cutting off any wriggling protest. Hot Rod wails around his fingers. “A prize this pretty should be shared. For the betterment of troop morale, and all. It’s my responsibility as commander.”
“Mmmpghh?! Nnnghhh?!”
“How ‘bout I let you watch him come?”
He gets three hollers of agreement.
“And the star of the show…?” Deadlock coos. He pulls his fingers out of Hot Rod’s mouth and valve, and draws his spike back until only the tip remains inside. Hot Rod coughs and sputters, then draws in a vent to yell.
…Deadlock pulls Hot Rod back onto his spike fully, transforming his claws out to grip him hard.
“D-Deadlock!” Hot Rod howls, hiccuping around his designation. “W-wait—! Sssttoop…! D-don’t—! Hhahh—frag—!” He bats and kicks at Deadlock as best he can, all the while clenching around Deadlock’s spike and drooling lubricant from his port. “B-big—fuck, you’re so big, please—!”
There’s a chorus of whistles and catcalls from outside the stall. Blast pipes up, “Oh, mech, you were holding out on us! Come on, ‘Lock! Show us what you’re doing to make that piece of shareware scream like that!”
Deadlock hoists Hot Rod up high enough that his pedes dangle, holding him flush against his chest so he is able to turn around in the stall, and, with a mighty kick, rip the lock off the door and the door half off its hinges. Deadlock steps out, one hand on Hot Rod’s hip, the other on Hot Rod’s chest. The Decepticons are clumped together at the entrance to the dump, Roadtrain’s considerable bulk blocking anyone from getting in. Or getting out, Deadlock thinks, with a fond flex of his spike plating in Hot Rod. All three have their spikes in hand, pressurized and slick.
“Evening, comrades,” Deadlock growls, all his fangs flashing in a smug grin. “How do you like my new toy?”
Hot Rod’s field is pulled tight and oscillating wildly, fear and mortification and arousal swapping wavelengths faster than Deadlock can track. Deadlock can feel the sudden heat from behind Hot Rod’s neck—his tactical matrix, burning up with the effort of computing escape plans, probabilities, and weighing the likelihood of Deadlock throwing him to these slavering wolves. Or maybe he was trying to figure out how many of them he could take. If his throat and valvemesh could withstand the abuse of multiple spikes, all except Stretcher’s oversized for his slighter frame. If, combined, their transfluid reservoirs could fill his fuel tank.
Deadlock shifts to a one-handed grip on Hot Rod and reaches down to part Hot Rod’s valve silicone with the V of his fingers. “Ever seen an Autobot like this in your functioning?”
Hot Rod hiccups around his protests. “S-stop…Deadlock…”
The three ‘Cons peer at him, especially at the now exposed and illuminated inside of Hot Rod’s valve. Hot Rod writhes and pulls at Deadlock’s iron grip. When he can’t so much as dislodge a finger, Hot Rod moves his hands to try to cover his bared valve, but not, Deadlock notes, attempting to close his valve panel. He lets out a piteous moan when Deadlock bucks up and into his aft. His fingers curl into claws and a glob of lubricant dribbles over the rim and runs down his array and onto Deadlock’s.
“...Maybe not every good Autobot is a dead Autobot,” Blast temporizes with a lecherous grin. “Think he was forged like that, or can they be trained?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Deadlock says conversationally. “I found this one was wandering around with a fat plug practically bulging out of his port, just begging to be fragged, but he still acts like he's a good little Autobot and not a cum-hungry drone.”
“That sound about right, darlin’?” Deadlock drawls softly into Hot Rod’s audial.
“F-f…fu-uckin’...”
“When do we get a turn with him?” Roadtrain asks. “C’mon. Sharing is caring.”
Deadlock smirks. “Well, what do you think, Rodders? You’ve got two options: either I can pass you around like the last bottle of engex on the frontlines, or you can tell these fine mechs how good my spike and fingers feel. Tell them you couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else fraggin’ you.”
Hot Rod’s helm jerks, and he looks back at Deadlock. “Me?! You wa-ant me…to…”
Deadlock raises his optic ridges in mock surprise. “Oh, no, no, bitty. It’s up to you, not me.”
Hot Rod’s optics dart, panicked, but after a long moment of contemplation, they dim. He turns his face into Deadlock’s collar fairing, optics sparking at the corners once more. “Please,” he whispers into Deadlock’s plating, “d-don’t make me…h-haah…”
Deadlock has to lock his backstruts and clamp down on his spike to not overload prematurely. His personality cores suddenly want a piece of the action, and he’s hit with a tidal wave of—of—of something. He can’t parse it with his processor in his array, but it’s intense, and the emotions flow out into his EM field. Hot Rod whimpers as their fields intermix.
Fuck, he’s sexy. Panting into Deadlock’s neck like a virgin concubine. Deadlock half-regrets showing him off. The game is fast losing its appeal; he wants to rut into Hot Rod properly, like he would take a ‘Con and equal, but he is forced to carry on with this silly charade. He’s not completely able to smooth the gravel from his voice when he coaxes, “Go on, Rodders. Don’t be shy. You’ve moaned for us so much already. Surely it can’t be too hard to tell them how much you love it.”
Hot Rod crushes his face harder against Deadlock.
“...Or I can watch you suck spike until your stomach distends.”
Hot Rod swallows audibly. He draws back to look Deadlock in the eyes, gauging how serious he is. Deadlock has to resist swallowing down his own oral solvent. Hot Rod is looking to him for direction, guidance. Depending on him. All Deadlock had to do was push his cock up Hot Rod’s ass, and he had the sweet submission he craved. Had he ever had such a partner?
“Tell them,” Deadlock rumbles, nodding to the ‘Cons.
Trembling, Hot Rod turns to face the other Decepticons, flattening his back against Deadlock. “I-I—!” He takes a bracing breath, then offlines his optics, and howls his proclamation: “I-I just want—! Want your spike Deadlock! Hngh…just—just want your thick—huge fucking spike in m-me—! Oh frag—! Mmgh-! I-I just want your fat spike s-splitting me open—! Deadlock, please!”
Deadlock’s spark spins up, despite himself. He had started thrusting more insistently into Hot Rod as he babbled to reward his prize, but now it was uncontrollable, like the unmistakable territorial snarl that rips through his intake now. His engine roars with a couple violent revs, and the other ‘Cons step back, Stretcher blurting, “Oh pit, no!” and hiding behind Roadtrain’s leg.
Deadlock throws Hot Rod over a washbasin, giving into the need to rut him. “Yeah, bitty? You like it that much? Knew you could take it, knew it'd feel so good…” His plating is crawling, itchy with desire, and Deadlock’s vents billow with exhaust. He mouths over Hot Rod’s spoiler, glossa working over the pleasing planes of the halves. “Best I’ve ever had, yeah you fuckin’ are…”
“A-Aaaghhh…! H-harder—! Harder! Fuck, ‘Lock—! Please—! Oh Primus, f-fuck my aft—!”
“So glad you flounced your little toy in my face, let me play with your ass and your pussy.....”
Hot Rod tucks his helm down, chin to his chest, and drools openly. His glyphs run together in nonsensical clumps interrupted by bouts of static. Sapient speech is beyond him now, but his field flutters like his spoiler. Mortification and fear have burned off, leaving only strut-deep satisfaction and overwhelming pleasure. Deadlock has—literally—fucked all sense from his frame.
Deadlock groans. “Gonna cum so deep inside you that you'll be digging me out for months.”
“P-p…ple—kzzrkt—ea…p…!”
“Fuck—! Fuckfuckfuck—so tight, so good, Primus you're hot inside, Roddy,” Deadlock snarls. “You should let me take your valve after this, yeah? And your mouth. Let me take every hole…I need it—need it—” Hot Rod’s lubricant splatters over their thighs, the washbasin, the wall, the floor; drips from Hot Rod’s dangling pedes.
Hot Rod attempts to nod; it looks more like he’s having a neck spasm. “Aahh-aahuuhh—! Want—want it…mmghhh…use—use me.....oh, fucking Primus, ruin my holes, ‘Lock—!”
Deadlock’s own higher processing is starting to stall. His fans scream with the need to dump heat and his interfacing array is a tyrant, demanding more and more energetic load. Deadlock’s processor flounders, helpless to deny it, and he hits the point of no return, tipping down the hill to overload. He floats on the pleasurable high of a fully-charged spike, growling and licking anywhere he can reach on Hot Rod.
“F-fill me—!” Hot Rod’s own interfacing array is crackling and shuddering from charge. He tips over into the approach of overload, and in that moment, Deadlock could do anything to him. Ask him to do or say anything. Complete submission. “O-ohh Deadlock—! Stuff me full! Oh fuck…ohfuckohfuckohfuck I’m gonna break apart—Deadlock please—!”
Blast mutters, “Damn. I mean, he’s hot and all, but…is he really that good?”
At the sound of another mech’s voice, Deadlock’s optics flash and he roars at them, snapping his teeth. Blast and Stretcher flatten themselves against the wall, and even Roadtrain rears back, away from Deadlock. Glaring at them, Deadlock surges into Hot Rod, pistoning deep. Marking his territory. Claiming.
“G-gonna—! Gonna—! OhfuckohfuckohPrimushelpme—oh nononono—! ‘Lock, I’m gonna—! If you keep going, oh—fuck—!” Hot Rod’s once-innocent fingers transform into the claws of a feral mech, and he drags them over the tiled wall, carving welts into the wall and holding on for dear life as he wails. “Wait, wait—fuck slow down, wait, please oh fffuuu-uuckk!”
Hot Rod’s voxcoder shrieks as overload takes him. His port and valve clench down like furious vises, wringing Deadlock’s spike. Fluid splatters everywhere, drenching both of them. Deadlock catalogues, in a remote area of his processor, not to be recovered until much later, that he has compelled Hot Rod to perform a mass dump of his lubricant chambers. Hot Rod is squirting—liquid concentrate streaming from his valve as if from his spike. The sight—the scent—of his slick pushes Deadlock to redline.
His ferocious, rippling snarl cuts off with a squeal of parts. Deadlock’s core pulses and heavy heat explodes along the main line in his spike, spilling pressurized, molten transfluid deep into Hot Rod’s tiny, clenching port in waves. The relief of release surprises a whine out of Deadlock. He keeps fucking into Hot Rod like he’s programmed for it, even when they’re both panting and whimpering from oversensitivity.
Deadlock curls over Hot Rod’s frame and presses close, shielding him from view of the other Decepticons. He can smell the slightly acrid scent of overheated components and the oily scent of transfluid from the overload of mechs other than himself and his mate. Under him, Hot Rod lets out soft, needy cries as Deadlock’s spike plating ripples and pulses in even more transfluid, as his flares flex against nothing. He’s limp in Deadlock’s grip, unselfconscious of the others’ presence now that he has burned himself on an almost catastrophic overload. Deadlock is nearly brought to his knees by the need to lick Hot Rod clean; to nuzzle into each of his seams and check him over for injury. The protective instinct is as terrifying as it is undeniable.
Deadlock clutches him close, spike still embedded in his port. He turns murderous red optics on their audience, and in a low, staticky voice, snarls, “Get out. Get. Out.”
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