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Deadlock awoke to the sound of a dull thud against his window. He’d fallen asleep against the broken TV he’d been trying to fix; he’d wanted to be able to watch the news. Megatron hadn’t been in contact with him for a while-- it was too dangerous now that his mentor was making a name for himself among wider society and Deadlock’s cover was essential-- but he knew that if he just kept an eye on the news, he’d see something of what his old boss was up to.
Thunk, went another strike against the window of his third-story apartment. Deadlock struggled to his feet, taking a few wobbly steps forward. He hadn’t eaten in. . . oh, God, at least twenty hours, too focused on trying to repair the damn TV, but he was as alert as ever as he slid his gun out of the waistband of his sweatpants and squinted out the window.
And… came face-to-face with bright brown eyes and a wide grin.
“Hey,” Hot Rod whispered. “It’s me.”
Deadlock put the gun down on the kitchen table. “Roddy,” he said, shaking his head fondly, a grin working its way across his exhausted, sweat-caked features.
Deadlock opened the window.
“Thank God you woke up,” said the boy holding on to the railing of his third-story balcony, arms dangling and his distinctive, curly red hair visible even in the dingy light of Deadlock’s apartment. He cocked his head to the side and gestured helplessly at Deadlock’s window. “I had to throw both of my shoes and my hat. I was gonna throw my phone next.”
“You didn’t tell me tonight was a date night,” Deadlock said, leaning against the window frame.
“I don’t have your number,” Hot Rod teased.
“I don’t have a phone,” Deadlock retorted. Their little dance. Hot Rod didn’t understand why Deadlock didn’t-- correction, couldn’t-- have a phone, and Deadlock would never tell him that it was because a smartphone, the easiest thing to track, would inevitably blow his cover. Deadlock had considered a burner, but somehow even that seemed too risky.
“So it’s, uh. . .” Hot Rod fumbled for his personal tracking device in the back pocket of his jeans, the other hand gripping the rail entirely too loosely for someone who was perched on the outside edge of a third-story balcony. “It’s three in the morning, do you wanna go to the school a couple blocks down and hang out?”
“Three in the morning? Goddamn, Rod, did you even sleep?”
“I went to bed at eight so I was asleep for real when Dad checked on me, which, y’know, he’s doing now-- thanks for that, by the way. . . I set my alarm for two, snuck out and ran here!”
Deadlock shrugged. Six hours of sleep wasn’t bad. It was when Roddy started being like Deadlock and working off of one or two if he was lucky that Deadlock would start to worry. Hot Rod had college to focus on.
“So. . .” Hot Rod pursed his lips and tilted his head, poking two fingers together in an unfairly adorable move that he’d picked up from TikTok or something (whatever that was. . . he kept badgering Deadlock to make a video with him). “Wanna come out with me?”
Deadlock didn’t even give it a moment of consideration. “Hell yeah.”
“Nice.” Roddy swayed on the balcony. “Wanna let me in so I can go out the front door?”
“Only if you pick up your goddamn sneakers from my balcony.”
It was a thirty minute walk down streets misted by the late night aftermath of rain, the eerie glow of flickering streetlights their only guide as they arrived at the abandoned elementary school. Well-- abandoned was subjective. It was summer, and also 3 AM. Point being that there was no one there, and the playground was open.
“I used to go to school here,” Hot Rod said casually, climbing over the wire fence. “Before Dad got the promotion and we moved.” He hit the ground on the other side and turned back to cock his head at Deadlock. “Did you grow up in this town? I never thought to ask.”
“No,” Deadlock grunted as he swung himself over the fence. “Grew up in another state.”
Hot Rod eyed him. “Really? Cool. What state?”
Deadlock considered. It wouldn’t hurt to tell the truth, right? Not to Hot Rod. “California.”
“Hey, nice.” Hot Rod sighed, putting his hands on his hips. “I’d love to live in California. Ohio is really just. . . the worst, right?”
“It’s quiet,” Deadlock said, jumping down. “I like that. I had a lot of. . . there was a lot of activity in California.”
He could tell that Hot Rod was dying to ask, but lucky for Deadlock and his lack of resolve against a pair of pretty brown eyes, he didn’t. Deadlock said a brief prayer of thanks to a God he believed in a little more each time he saw Hot Rod’s face, and they went on.
“Tell me, Deadlock,” Hot Rod said, turning around and spreading his arms wide, “are you a swings man? A roundabout man? If you’re a curly slide guy, we’re gonna have to stop being friends.”
“Electric shocks are a bitch,” Deadlock agreed.
“Hell yeah. Won’t touch that with a ten-foot pole.” Hot Rod folded his arms and pouted. “I got stuck in there once and some jerk kicked me in the head coming down even though I yelled at her not to.”
“Damn, Rod, wanna talk about it?” Deadlock asked, mock-serious.
“I was emotionally scarred for life,” Roddy mused. “She goes to my college now, though.” He grinned up at Deadlock. “ Still hasn’t apologized.”
Deadlock laughed.
“Anyway, childhood trauma aside, what’s your poison?” Hot Rod asked, turning back to observe the playground. Deadlock wasn’t looking at the playground; he felt his face soften as he watched Hot Rod. His hair glistened with the dampness of the mist in the air, and he hugged his arms, left bare by the orange and red T-shirt he wore. The soft brown skin of the back of his neck prickled with visible goosebumps that Deadlock wanted to feel underneath his teeth.
He shook himself as Roddy turned back to him.
“I’m kinda feelin’ that big rope pyramid thing, to be honest,” he said. “I used to be the fastest climbing up those.” It was true, unlike a few stories he’d exaggerated to impress Roddy in the past. Growing up the short kid, he’d kinda had to make up for it by being fast enough to outrun his bullies, his father, and every single one of his internalized issues.
The pyramid towered above their heads, its spiderweb of red ropes still wet from the rain. It was almost identical to the one he’d spent countless hours climbing as a kid.
“Really? Hot Rod asked, and glanced back at Deadlock, looking him up and down skeptically. “Huh.”
“Yeah, track kid,” Deadlock said, elbowing him. “I’d beat your ass in a race any day.”
“Really?”
“Fuckin’ bet!”
“Alright then, race you to the top,” Hot Rod said, and was climbing without so much as a countdown, obviously trying to get a headstart.
“Hey!” Deadlock said, astonished, and leapt after him.
Hot Rod was... okay, he was way taller than Deadlock, and that gave him the advantage, but Deadlock played dirty for a living and hated to lose. Using his momentum, Deadlock made a lunge for one of Hot Rod’s legs; Hot Rod promptly kicked him off, losing his sneaker in the process, but Deadlock didn’t watch it fall.
“I said race, not have a fight ten feet in the air !” Hot Rod shouted, trying to climb faster.
Deadlock grabbed at his legs again; this time Hot Rod kicked him in the face. Deadlock felt his heart race and his mood soar, holding on to Hot Rod’s leg even as his cheekbone started to throb in that definitely-bruised sort of way.
“Fuckin’ cheater!” Hot Rod managed, laughing so hard he could barely hold on to the rope. “Get off!”
“No,” Deadlock growled, trying to use Hot Rod’s legs as leverage to overtake him.
“Get off!”
“No!”
Hot Rod braced his hands against the center pole, got a foot squarely against Deadlock’s shoulder, and pushed. Deadlock yelped, lost his balance, flailed frantically for a moment. In the split-second before he was sent careening towards the wet earth, Deadlock locked eyes with Hot Rod. There was no regret to be found in the depths of those gleeful brown eyes, just single-minded satisfaction.
Then Deadlock fell.
Granted, it was only a few feet-- nowhere near the ten Hot Rod had suggested-- and he bounced off a few ropes on his way down, which lessened his fall, but he still hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of him.
In the next instant, Hot Rod was leaping on top of him, his legs straddling Deadlock’s waist, and he pushed Deadlock’s shoulders to the ground and said, “Ha.”
Deadlock groaned and tried to process how much pain he was in; not too much, he garnered. It was fine, he was fine-- the last thing he needed was Hot Rod getting up off of him and asking if he was okay, because he would.
“You didn’t reach the top,” Deadlock said by way of distraction.
“No, but you fell,” Hot Rod replied smugly, sitting down on Deadlock and leaning forward to prop his elbows up on Deadlock’s chest. Of course he could do that. He was so fucking tall.
Deadlock swallowed dryly and tried to focus on something other than the warm pressure of Hot Rod’s ass against his stomach, pressing back against his legs and-- oh no, of course he was shifting, it was like he didn’t care at all that Deadlock was suffering. “You kicked me.”
“You cheated!” Hot Rod was laughing again, lifting his elbows to shove Deadlock’s shoulders into the dirt once more. Deadlock grunted, still struggling to catch his breath but unwilling to let Hot Rod see.
“You are a dirty cheater and I should have expected this from you,” Hot Rod continued, shaking his head reproachfully at Deadlock. He was silhouetted by the streetlight, his dyed red hair turning a bright orange. There was an awful moment where he just sat on Deadlock and rocked his hips minutely, glancing backwards just the littlest bit. Deadlock’s legs stiffened. His fingernails bit into the ground, dirt collecting beneath them. He knew Roddy could feel him.
“Heh,” Hot Rod said. “Aw. Deadlock.”
“Hnmgf,” Deadlock said, letting his head fall back down against the dirt.
“Guess I should have expected this from you, too, huh?” Hot Rod said teasingly, and the warmth where his body met Deadlock’s was so much, it was too much. Deadlock whined softly and his hands lifted to grab helplessly at Hot Rod. He was gone. It was 3 AM and he was lying on his back in the dirt in an elementary school playground and Hot Rod was sitting on top of him, grinding slowly against his hips with all the playful cruelty of a cat chasing their prey.
“Roddy. . .” he managed.
“Deadlock, you’re so worked up,” Roddy said in mock surprise, leaning forward so that they were practically chest-to-chest, the warmth between them growing hotter. “Is this too much for you? You wanna stop? Want me to get off?”
“I--” Deadlock said, and choked off with a strangled noise as Hot Rod ground down against him again, hard through his jeans. Deadlock wished he’d worn something more grounding than the baggy sweatpants he had on now; he felt exposed, vulnerable, uncomfortable as the fabric soaked up the water on the ground. Hot Rod had every advantage.
Deadlock was kinda into it.
“You know,” Hot Rod purred against his ear, the sides of their faces brushing, Deadlock’s stubble rubbing roughly against Hot Rod’s smooth cheek, “we could have a real date. Somewhere private.” Deadlock gasped and his hips jerked against Hot Rod. “Sometime when all of this doesn’t have to be a secret.”
“I. . . Hot Rod. . .”
Roddy turned his head, kissed the developing bruise on Deadlock’s cheekbone. Deadlock’s hands left Hot Rod’s ass reluctantly to slide up his back, rucking his T-shirt up and exploring the skin underneath. Roddy shivered, and moved his mouth down to Deadlock’s neck, biting down just enough to add another bruise to his collection.
Deadlock liked the flavor of this bruise much better. He groaned, feeling a tight ball of heat stirring in the pit of his stomach as Hot Rod continued the slow roll of his hips. Deadlock wanted... wanted everything, he wanted Hot Rod, he wanted to have him right now--
“I have to tell you,” Hot Rod said quietly, against Deadlock’s throat, “this is dangerous and stupid and we shouldn’t be here, but. . . it’s okay. There’s nothing I’d rather be doing.” He lifted his head and grinned down at Deadlock, his expression strangely fond. “I like being with you.”
Deadlock stared up at him. “You do?”
“Yeah, dumbass.” Hot Rod shoved him again. “Why do you think I got up in the middle of the night to come trespass on a playground with you? I could’ve stayed home and had a good night’s sleep.”
Deadlock opened and closed his mouth. Hot Rod. . . liked being with him? He had nothing he’d rather do than. . . be with Deadlock?
The emotions were complicated, so Deadlock bucked up against Hot Rod impatiently, frustrated at their proximity. All he wanted to do was reach up and grab Roddy, pull him down and bite his neck, his jaw, his shoulder-- all over, bruise him like he’d bruised Deadlock, mark his claim on Roddy and bare himself for some in return. But he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t. Hot Rod had to go home after this and pretend like he’d never been here.
Hard to do that with cum in your jeans and bite marks in the flesh of your neck.
But it would be so easy. Hot Rod was tall, but he could easily be thrown off balance and pinned to the ground. Deadlock found himself infuriated by how easy it would be to take Hot Rod down, at how vulnerable he made himself in front of Deadlock. He should know better!
He should know better… but how could he?
“Okay,” Hot Rod said, and winced as he climbed gingerly off of Deadlock. “Sorry. That was a little far, I guess. Shouldn’t have started what I can’t follow through on.” He gestured with his chin down at Deadlock’s crotch, and awkwardly adjusted his own pants. Deadlock struggled to a sitting position as Roddy put his hands on his hips and stared up at the sky.
“You could, y’know,” Deadlock mumbled. “Follow through.”
Hot Rod laughed. “I’d like to. But uh, not by a school? In public? Maybe?”
“Coward,” Deadlock muttered.
“I do need to be getting home,” Hot Rod said, and pulled his phone from his back pocket, miraculously unscathed. “Yeah. It’s almost 4:30 and Dad will be up at six. Takes me about an hour to walk home, so I gotta go.”
“Come on,” Deadlock said pathetically. “You can stay a little bit longer.”
“I can’t, dude. Dad almost killed you when he found you in my room last time, remember? I don’t want him coming to look for me and finding you.”
So that was what he was worried about. Deadlock shrugged, resting his forearms on his knees. He should have expected that a 6’6 dockworker who volunteered at a fire department and was apparently some kind of boxing champion would be able to wipe the floor with him, but. . . being slammed into the ground over and over again by his throat had been an entertaining and surprising experience. He’d managed to escape when the man had paused to demand what he was doing in his son’s bedroom and Deadlock hadn’t hesitated a second before all but flinging himself out of the second-story window and sprinting down the street like a goddamn Texas Chainsaw Massacre protagonist.
Hot Rod had told him later that he’d pretended to have been asleep the whole time, woken only by the altercation between his father and the stranger who had climbed into his room at midnight. Understandably, Optimus had been on edge for a while after that, unwilling to let Roddy out by himself and driving him to and from college. And he’d boarded up the window. Boarded it up! As in: with plywood.
Maybe, Deadlock wanted to say, if you didn’t have a father who insisted on checking on you in the middle of the night when you’re fucking 18 years old that wouldn’t have happened.
But it happened, and now Hot Rod snuck out of his house late at night, well past when his father had fallen asleep, to throw his shoes at Deadlock’s window and wrestle with him on the wet grounds of an elementary school.
“I’m not scared of Optimus,” Deadlock said.
Hot Rod snorted. “You’re not?”
“No.”
“He thinks you’re a predator and is insisting on giving me boxing lessons so that I can beat you off if you ever come for me again.”
Deadlock huffed. “Well. . . not like you’d be able to beat me in a fight.”
Hot Rod sighed. “I know you’re trying to bait me, Lock. I don’t have time to fight with you right now.” He extended a hand to him, grinning brightly. “I can walk you home, though.”
“How’s your dick?” Deadlock asked meanly, letting Hot Rod pull him to his feet.
Hot Rod looked him up and down. They were standing just a little bit too close, so it should have come as no surprise when Hot Rod wedged a knee between Deadlock’s legs and nudged.
“How’s yours?” he said.
Deadlock opened his mouth in outrage, but Hot Rod was already walking.
Deadlock had to run to catch up with his fucking long-legged gait. He folded his arms as Hot Rod slowed down for him.
This was how it always ended.
Something in Deadlock rebelled. He didn’t want Hot Rod to leave. Every time he did, Deadlock felt as if he would never see him again; as if this time, Hot Rod would finally wise up and leave him for good. Then Deadlock would be left with nothing but the bruises to remember him by. Eventually those would fade, too, and Hot Rod really would be gone.
Because he was too good for Deadlock.
He didn’t know anything about why Deadlock was here in butt-fuck Nowhere, Ohio. He didn’t know that Deadlock was part of what could loosely be described as a string of political assassins financed by backdoor drug deals and money laundering. As far as Hot Rod knew, Deadlock was just some sleazy 20-something who lived in a shitty apartment and probably competed in illegal drag races. He didn’t know about the failed mission, the blown cover, the year and a half spent in this town under Megatron’s orders, keeping an eye on the local college with the intent of recruiting promising young activists for the Cause.
Instead, Deadlock had found Hot Rod. Hot Rod who was in school for political science; explaining to Deadlock how most people thought it was a throwaway major, but it’d be different for him. He dreamed of changing the world.
Deadlock sighed.
The Cause wasn’t ever something he’d regretted, but it seemed ugly and dirty next to Hot Rod’s integrity, next to the thought of him watching one of Deadlock’s assassinations.
Hot Rod was working his way into Deadlock’s cracks. He had nightmares sometimes, of Hot Rod’s name on the list of his targets, Hot Rod’s face in his sights.
In hindsight, that should have been a tip-off that this was getting to be a little more serious than a fling. But it was too late now. He was in it, headfirst and unable to escape if he’d wanted to.
“How are you going to sneak back in without Optimus knowing?” he asked, glancing up at Hot Rod.
“Dunno. Maybe I’ll pretend I woke up early and I’m down in the kitchen getting food or something.” Hot Rod hugged himself, looking down. “Y’know, I hate lying to him. He believes me every time.”
“Yeah, well. . .” Deadlock said, throwing his hands up. “Unless he suddenly starts being cool with us dating. . .”
Hot Rod turned to look at him. “Us what?”
“You know, dating, or whatever,” Deadlock mumbled. He felt his face heat. “I don’t know, what do you wanna call it?”
“No, I. . . I like dating,” Hot Rod said. He smiled shyly, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “If you like. . . dating?”
Deadlock huffed out a laugh and nodded. “I like dating.”
Hot Rod elbowed him teasingly. “So are we boyfriends now?”
“Yeah, dumbass, you’re my boyfriend now.”
“No, you’re my boyfriend now.”
“Shut up, you’re my boyfriend.”
“No, I’m pretty sure you’re my boyfriend,” Hot Rod said smugly, and leaned sideways to rest his elbow on Deadlock’s shoulder.
Deadlock shoved him off, stifling another laugh. Last thing they needed to do was wake up the neighborhood.
But for all his doubts about this, knowing that Hot Rod cared-- that Hot Rod wanted to be with him ( there’s nothing I’d rather be doing, he’d said. I like being with you)-- it made the angry, possessive part of Deadlock — the part that wanted to pin Hot Rod down and make him promise to stay with Deadlock, not go home, stay with Deadlock-- it made that part just a little bit quieter. And that was what Hot Rod deserved.
Well, it grazed the tip of the iceberg at least.
“Can I get you a gun from the apartment to carry when you walk home?” he mumbled. “I don’t like you walking that far by yourself.”
“No, Deadlock. That would be suspicious.”
“But are you. . . gonna be okay?”
“I’ll be fine.” Hot Rod folded his arms. “I run track, remember? I’ll get home fast.”
Deadlock regarded him for a moment.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
.