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Hot Rod knew that he didn’t look like a typical Decepticon. He was small, even for a racer. His paint was bright and vibrant. Nothing about him looked threatening or dangerous at all. Sure he had his flames, but nobody ever suspected those until he turned them on his enemies in battle.
“I should get some mods.” he mused, sprawling himself across Deadlock’s lap.
“Why?” Deadlock frowned, working his claws into the hinges of Hot Rod’s spoiler.
“Well, I’m a frontliner aren’t I?” he asked rhetorically. “I oughtta look the part.”
“You’re already wearing an advertisement of your flames.” Deadlock pointed out, working his claws expertly along the cables in Hot Rod’s spoiler hub. “What more do you think you need?”
“Mmm, spikey bits.” he suggested, melting into Deadlock’s lap. “Maybe some heavier armour.”
“I thought you were already maxed out for armour.” Deadlock said, his free hand rubbing just above Hot Rod’s spoiler hub.
“I’m sure I can handle a little more.” Hot Rod huffed, flicking his spoiler in irritation. “What would you suggest?”
“Hmm, you could always get a reformat.” he mused. “An alt with sharper angles.”
“I’m already all sharp angles.” Hot Rod pointed out, making to roll over until the tug of Deadlock’s claws on his spoiler cables stopped him. He craned his neck, and Deadlock leaned over slightly so their optics could meet, denta glinting as one of the lights flickered. “I should get fangs.”
“Fangs?” Deadlock frowned.
“Yeah, like you.” Hot Rod sat up, settling himself at Deadlock’s side. “All the grunts on this base think you’re scary as slag when you smile.” he lifted a hand to rest on Deadlock’s chin, tracing his thumb over Deadlock’s lower lip until his mouth opened, displaying the wickedly sharp fangs set in with his upper denta.
“Wait.” Deadlock’s smile widened, his field flickering playful as he moved his free hand to rest on Hot Rod’s chest. “Rod, are you jealous?”
“What isn’t there to be jealous of?” Hot Rod gestured at Deadlock’s frame, all vicious grace and leashed violence, a weapon honed to perfection, wielded for the Decepticon Cause. And he was hot as slag too.
“I think I should be the one saying that, Hot Rod.” Deadlock chuckled, his field turning warm and indulgent.
“Please.” he scoffed, letting Deadlock guide him into his lap. “I’m all tacky paint and empty charm. My armour’s barely better than civvie standard. All I’ve got going for me is my flames.”
“And your processor.” Deadlock argued. “You’re good at reading mechs, Hot Rod. You’re one of our best commanders in the field. Plus, that lighter armour makes you wicked fast.” he pulled his hand out of Hot Rod’s spoiler and brought both down to grab Hot Rod’s aft, tugging him closer. “And you’re smeltin’ hot, too.”
“Flatterer.” Hot Rod laughed, but only briefly. A sharp bolt of hurt lanced through Deadlock’s field, his easy, open expression shifting to something harder.
“I don’t do flattery.” Deadlock sad sternly. “Why would you think that?”
“Come on, ‘Lock.” he sighed, frowning up at him. “I’m tacky and too loud and under-armoured. No self-respecting Con is gonna chase this tailpipe.”
“Who told you that?” Deadlock growled, claws digging into Hot Rod’s aft. “I’ll go show them how wrong they are.”
“What? No!” Hot Rod pushed at Deadlock’s chest, but only succeeded in leaning his torso away. “Deadlock, it was ages ago. I already-” his vocalizer seized up, and he curled in on himself, right hand clenching into a fist. His clients, from before he’d been deemed unfit for his forged function, had been Nyonian. Had been in the city, when he pulled the trigger and turned everyone and everything he’d ever known to so much molten slag.
“Hey, hey.” Deadlock slipped his fingers into Hot Rod’s trembling fist, easing his fingers apart enough to slide his own in between them, letting Hot Rod clutch his hand. “It’s alright.” he projected comfort and support in his field, and Hot Rod did his best to pull himself together. “But they were wrong.” Deadlock continued, his field firm in its honesty. “You’re slaggin’ beautiful, Rod. And deadly, and loyal...” he leaned in, until his nasal ridge brushed Hot Rod’s cheek. “Any mech would be lucky to have you, fangs or no.”
Hot Rod didn’t think, just tilted his helm and closed the distance between them, his lips slotting easily against Deadlock’s. He flicked his glossa out when Deadlock moaned, tracing over those shining-sharp fangs with a soft sound of his own. Deadlock’s hand on his aft tugged their hips flush together, and Hot Rod purred his engine as Deadlock’s rev trembled through his whole frame. “Let’s get back to your quarters.” he smiled when they parted, and yelped when Deadlock stood with him still in his arms. “I can walk, you know!”
“I know.” Deadlock smiled, and Hot Rod’s speculation module threw him a flash of what those wickedly sharp fangs would feel like on his neck cables, on his plating. “But I want everyone who sees us to know that you’re mine now.”
“Are you sure it isn’t the other way ‘round?” Hot Rod teased, heating his hands just past the point of comfort and pressing them into Deadlock’s pauldrons.
“We’ll see about that.” Deadlock promised, his voice low and optics bright. Hot Rod just beamed and leaned in to kiss him again.