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Deadlock had a problem. A short, speedy, flaming red problem by the name of Hot Rod. Or more specifically, Hot Rod’s mouth. Ever since their impromptu tumble in the berth last deca-cycle, he had found his optics drawn to Hot Rod whenever the mech was in the same room as him, his processor idling over memory clips of warm hands moving confidently over his seams, a warmer panel grinding against his own, a burning mouth pressing molten wet kisses to his neck cables between hungry moans and intoxicating pleas.
Hot Rod’s optics met his, and the mech flashed him a blinding grin before returning to the conversation he was currently holding with a few other frontliners. Deadlock ripped his gaze away, returning his focus to the pistol he was field-stripping on one of the low tables in the common room, but after removing a few pieces his optics flicked up to Hot Rod again. His engine made a very unhealthy sound at the sight that greeted him, Hot Rod laughing, a rust stick held carelessly between his denta, wiggling as his glossa played with the part inside his mouth.
Deadlock dropped his optics back to his gun again, but his processor was whole solar systems away, a flickering slideshow playing on high speed fast forward of every item he’d seen Hot Rod pop in his mouth since they’d known each other. Primus, he almost thought that Hot Rod was doing it on purpose, the way he’d been showing off his dexterous glossa lately. Deadlock manually throttled down his cooling fans before anyone could notice them climbing. His optics flicked up to Hot Rod again, hands moving on pure motor memory, and he nearly snapped part of the firing mechanism at the sight of Hot Rod licking rust dust off his fingers.
Hot Rod stuck his pinkie in his mouth, and Deadlock heard the engine rev of one of the other mechs in Hot Rod’s conversation group even from halfway across the room. He was on his pedes without a thought, standing at Hot Rod’s side before his processor even registered his motion. “Hands off.” he growled, pushing as much possessive menace into his field as he could, which was rather a lot. “He’s mine.”
The mechs scattered, and Hot Rod twisted to pout up at him, though the playful delighted affectionate flicker of his field belayed any worries Deadlock might have had. “I can handle myself, you know.” he licked his pinkie again, and Deadlock leashed his field tight enough only Hot Rod could feel the desperate lust which flooded it at that sight. Hot Rod smirked, and patted his damp hand against Deadlock’s chestplate, just under his brand. “Finish up with your gun.” he whispered, caressing the dark ridge of Deadlock’s armour with his warm, warm fingers. “I’ll be in my berth.”
Hot Rod slipped out of his reach easy as venting, and Deadlock could only stare after him as he all but skipped out of the room. He had never reassembled any gun so fast in all his functioning.