[IDW] Lost and Lonely Space 07/12
Dec. 13th, 2018 06:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Commission fic for Cosmicdanger!
Title: Lost and Lonely Space
Universe: IDW, Pre-Death of Optimus Prime
Characters: Ratchet, Deadlock, Alien Original Character(s)
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Canon Divergence
Description: While on a sabbatical from the war, Ratchet runs into a spot of trouble that lands him in close company with a familiar face, the famed Decepticon Deadlock.
chapter seven
The broken communications array takes point of pride in the middle of the floor in front of the rear bay doors because there’s no place else to put it. They’d tried resting it on the work table, but it had crackled under the weight, and threatened to snap in half.
Ratchet is far too old to be sitting on the floor, crouching over a broken piece of comm equipment. But it’s their only chance to get out of here.
He has no idea what he’s doing. But he has to try.
It takes fifteen minutes of Deadlock hovering before Ratchet has to snap at him to leave the tool box and take a hike. Or a nap. Or something other than looming over Ratchet with an impatient click of his armor.
Deadlock huffs and drops down at the console. Ratchet doesn't know what he's working on over there, and frankly doesn't care, so long as it means he's not hovering.
Eventually, he gets up and vanishes into the washrack. Ratchet only acknowledges this peripherally, trying this best to stay focused on the comms array.
Primus, but he wishes Wheeljack were here. Wheeljack could have fixed this with a snap of his fingers. Could have built one out of scraps and duct tape and thin air.
Ratchet's spark aches.
He understands why Optimus sent him on this vacation, this sabbatical. He’d felt the tenuous threads of his sanity fraying to the point of snapping. He even understands why he had to go it alone.
He still misses his friends, his allies, his fellow soldiers. Wheeljack’s warm humor and Perceptor’s dry wit and Hoist’s steady calm and First Aid’s sharp glossa. He misses them terribly, with an ache in his chassis, and as much as he wishes he could run from the war forever, he doesn’t think he can leave them behind.
Ratchet shakes his head, tries to focus on the comms array, not that he knows what he’s doing. He’s stripped away the broken parts and made a list of what he thinks needs replacing. Pieces he’s pretty sure he can slot in and out of place easily enough. If this works, someone will need to climb on top of the ship and re-mount it, but small steps.
He’s got to get it functioning again first.
Deadlock emerges from the washrack, still somewhat dripping. “Any progress?” he asks.
Ratchet grinds his denta. Something about the Decepticon’s voice grates on his patience. “The moment there is, you’ll be the first to know,” he says, just as a bolt pings off and goes flying across the room, narrowly missing Deadlock’s head.
Damn. The one time he doesn’t have decent aim.
Deadlock holds up his hands and backs toward the recharge room. “Clearly.” He points a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll just go recharge then.”
“You do that,” Ratchet grunts.
The door rattles shut behind Deadlock.
Peace and quiet reign for as long as it takes for Ratchet to give up on finding the lost bolt. He mutters a curse subvocally and leans back on his heels, rubbing a palm down his face.
At some point, he’s got to admit he has no idea what he’s doing.
Ratchet hauls himself up and starts digging into the supply cabinet. Not that there’s much to dig through. The dented med kit takes pride of place on the top shelf. The second shelf holds spare fluids, coolant, hydraulic, lubricating oils, and the like. The third shelf contains their energon rations, medgrade, low grade, and a few solid energon bars for extended release. The bottom two shelves contain the sole entirety of their spare parts stock.
Ratchet bends down and starts to dig. He pulls out a few coils of spare wire, a whole bin of loose nuts and bolts and screws and rivets, and a couple more parts he might find helpful. He’s pushing aside a heavy box of spare duct tape when his fingers brush against a smooth container.
His orbital ridges lift when he draws it out and examines the label. High-quality engex. And relatively new for that matter.
“Well, well, well,” Ratchet murmurs. “What are you doing here?” He swishes the contents around, the thick purplish liquid glugging inside the bottle. He recognizes the label even, and his mouth fills with lubricant a little.
He hasn’t seen this label in decades.
He tucks it into his subspace. As far as he’s concerned, it’s his now.
Ratchet takes his haul of spare parts back to the comm, dropping the rattling box on the floor next to it. He briefly stops to poke at the command console, but all he manages to do is successfully identify the toggle that activates the communication array. He gives it a few testing flicks.
Nothing. Not even an indication it’s trying to connect to something that isn’t there.
Frag.
They’re going to have to tear apart the console, too. It’s probably any one of those loose cables there, dangling like pieces of string from the underside.
Ratchet trudges back to the comm array. He stands beside it, his shadow falling over it. Pieces scatter around it. Tools sit within reach, like he knows what he’s going to do with them.
He has no idea what the frag he’s doing.
The urge to punt the broken array out the rear hatch nearly overwhelms him. Ratchet has to cycle several ventilations, swallow down the rage, the helplessness. His hands form shaking fists. His vents come faster.
He turns his back on the array.
He’s losing his mind out here, that’s what it is. With only Deadlock for company, such a visceral reminder of a past failure and every one he’s made since then. With a Decepticon who’s spared his life too many times and even saved it. With a busted ship and dwindling supplies and zero chance of rescue.
It’s madness. It’s all madness.
Ratchet drops into the bench behind the table, burdened by bits and pieces of various equipment from around the shuttle. They don’t either of them know what they are doing, but they are apparently full of endless hope because they keep fragging trying like it’s going to make a difference.
He pulls the engex out of subspace and plops it down on the table. The liquid is so thick, it doesn’t slosh. Ripples barely disturb the surface.
He doesn’t have a cube and casts around for something suitable to use. Pickings are slim. He settles for the cap of an empty hydraulic fluid bottle. Someone hadn’t restocked the escape shuttles apparently, because this bottle is dry as an organic bone.
Ratchet pops the cork and fills his substitute cube to the brim. The scent rises to his sensors, chasing away the dull and flat metallic odor permeating the cabin of the spacecraft. It’s sharp and piquant, and Ratchet’s tanks rumble.
He can’t fix the damn comms array.
Bottoms up.
The first capful goes down easy. It’s smooth and silky over his glossa, the taste hot but the sensation icy-cool as it hits his sensors. It flows through his intake, settles like a happy glow in his tank.
Primus, but Ratchet’s missed this. Indulgence is yet another of so many things the war’s ripped from him.
He knows he should savor it. Perhaps conserve it since they will be trapped here indefinitely. Ratchet, however, doesn’t want to play it safe. He wants to forget. He wants to pretend he’s somewhere other than here.
He wants a tiny semblance of normal.
The second, third, and fourth capfuls slip into his tanks with ease, without a burn, without hesitation, without anything to make him want to slow. This engex is potent, brewed to perfection, and it’s another thing he misses from pre-war Cybertron.
They’ve lost so many things.
Like time. Ratchet stares into the fifth capful of engex, and he’s not sure how long it’s been since he started. He’s not intoxicated, but if he continues on this pace, he will be. He’s not entirely sure that’s a bad thing at this point.
A glint of some broken piece of equipment sits in his peripheral vision. It seems to be mocking him, reminding him he’s not making any forward motion. He has responsibilities. He’s supposed to be working, fixing, mending. But he’s a medic, not an engineer, and while theoretically, there shouldn’t be much different between the two…
There is.
Ratchet growls and flicks the object off the table. It clatters to the floor, and something else breaks off it, pinging against his foot. Bah. It doesn’t work anyway.
He starts to lift the fifth capful when the door to the recharge room opens, revealing Deadlock in the doorway. His optics are narrow, and he’s peering into the cabin, one hand drifting down toward his holsters.
He finds Ratchet immediately. Suspicion washes away in the wake of confusion. “What are you doing?” he asks.
“Celebrating failure,” Ratchet announces, and salutes him with the bottle of engex, now one-third less than it had been when he found it.
Deadlock’s orbital ridges draw down. “Is that my stash of Urayan Blue?”
“Yep.” Ratchet pops the word and draws another swig from the capful, swishing the viscous fluid around his mouth before swallowing it. “Weird place to hide it.”
Deadlock’s jaw twists. “I have a stash on every escape shuttle.” He stalks across the room, briefly glancing at the comms array, before pulling out a stool to sit. “Just in case.”
“Right. Saving it for a special day?” Ratchet snorts. No such thing as a special day anymore. Now it’s just the grind, grind, grind of death and more death.
“The end of the war,” Deadlock says.
Ratchet tips back the last half of the fifth capful and tilts the bottle to pour himself another. “That’s never happening. Might as well enjoy it now.” The bottle hits the table with a thunk and wobbles in place.
“By celebrating failure?” Deadlock’s frown starts to take on the edge of Optimus’ famous Disappointed Glower.
“Yep.” Ratchet tosses back the shot, and his processor swims a little in the engex. “I can’t fix the comm. Pretty sure you can’t. We have no comm. We’re utterly fragged.”
“Tell me something I didn’t know.” Deadlock kicks back in the chair, making himself comfortable, not that he was invited. He eyes Ratchet, and then snaps his fingers. “If you’re going to drink like that, at least share it.”
Ratchet casts around for something else to use as a cup. He rummages through the bits and pieces, only for the bottle to be plucked from his hand. His head jerks up, a glare narrowing his optics, because apparently Deadlock can’t be bothered with a cup. Instead, he wraps his lips around the bottle and tips it back, drinking straight.
He notices Ratchet watching and has the audacity to wink before he lowers the bottle and swipes his glossa over his lips. “Still my favorite,” he sighs.
“Good for you.” Ratchet raps his knuckles on the table, debating whether or not he’s capable of leaning over the top and snatching the bottle back. “The engine’s shot, too, you know. There’s nothing either of us can do.”
Deadlock peers into the bottle. “You act like that’s new information. Here’s a hint. It’s not.” He takes another drink, longer this time, intake bobbing as he swallows.
Ratchet’s internals lurch. He wishes he could call it disgust.
“Newsflash, Autobot.” Deadlock lowers the bottle and points at Ratchet. “We’ve been fragged from the start. It’s always been hopeless. Honestly, though, I thought your Autobot optimism would hold out longer.”
“I failed that class.” Ratchet sneers and reaches for the bottle. Deadlock whisks it out from under his fingers with a shake of his head. “Luckily, it’s not a prerequisite.”
He makes another grab, and Deadlock smirks. “I think you’ve had enough, medic. You’re wobbling.”
“I am not,” Ratchet growls. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek, slamming his empty cap on the table, his tank warm from the engex.
Deadlock chuckles. “Sure.” He takes another swig of the bottle and then grabs the cork, popping it back in place.
“No one said you should cap that,” Ratchet says as he tilts forward, leaning against the edge of the table, and swaying a bit as he does so.
He’s absolutely not inebriated. But he’s floaty in a way he hasn’t been in decades, and it’s much better than the dull ache of loss and hopelessness that’s been creeping into his spark. They’re trapped here, together, and the engex almost makes it sound like an okay idea.
Deadlock blurs into Drift, and the heat in Ratchet’s tank filters lower, pooling molten in his groin.
He is struck with a terrible, awful, wonderful idea.
“I think you’ve had enough,” Deadlock says, through the tunnel of ideas bombarding Ratchet’s mind, chasing away all good sense. “At this rate, you’ll likely destroy the only shelter we have left.”
“I’m not an angry drunk,” Ratchet grumbles, and points a shaky finger at Deadlock. “Point of fact, I’m not drunk at all.” He pushes to his feet, bracing his weight on the table with one hand, and catches himself when a sway threatens to send him tumbling to the floor.
“Oh yes. You’re the picture of sobriety,” Deadlock drawls. He rolls his optics, sets the bottle on the table, and stands. “Come on. Time to recharge.”
“Are you taking me to berth?” Ratchet asks, aiming for a leer. He doesn’t know if he manages. He feels like it droops to one side.
Deadlock snorts. “I’m going to be a crutch. I don’t think it’s possible for me to carry you.” He circles around the table and snaps his fingers. “Come on.” He holds out a hand.
Ratchet is not as intoxicated as Deadlock thinks he is. Especially when he activates the system flush all medics are capable of using to remove contaminants from one’s system, storing it in a separate tank for later disposal.
He plays the part, however.
He makes a couple steps around the table, toward Deadlock, and he stumbles. Deadlock is there to catch him with a little grunt and a flash of annoyance in his field. Ratchet grasps at his shoulders, thumbs inches away from the spikes framing his face.
“Good catch,” Ratchet murmurs with Deadlock’s hands gripping his sides and their faces mere inches apart.
Amber optics are narrowed slits of suspicion. Deadlock’s glossa sweeps over his lips, his ex-vents smelling like the engex they’ve been sharing.
“What are you doing?” Deadlock asks, and there’s caution in his tone. Warning even. The irritation in his field slides into confusion.
“I’m overcharged,” Ratchet says innocently. “And I’m off-balance.”
“That’s not what you’re doing,” Deadlock retorts, tone flat.
“Mmm. Good point.”
Ratchet has a history of making bad decisions.
Right here, on the edge of an asteroid field with no help in sight, he’s prepared to make another one. He might as well. He’s going to rust to death out here. There’s no point in delaying the inevitable, or pretending that he doesn’t want deep down to his struts.
He leans in, waits for Deadlock to retreat, and when that doesn’t happen, the edges of Ratchet’s lips curl. He closes the distance, mouth sloppily pressing to Deadlock’s, because the flush isn’t happening quickly enough, and only half his imbalance is feigned. Lips crash together, denta knocking, and Ratchet makes a muffled noise before he re-aims and tries again.
Mouths meeting, lips moving, glossa slipping out to briefly taste Deadlock’s, who relents, a shiver racing across his frame. His field opens to Ratchet, confusion flicking to understanding and a frisson of heat sparking through it.
Ratchet wonders if Drift would have kissed like this, too. They’re the same mech, he knows. But Drift’s grip would not have been as strong as the one Deadlock has on his hips, squeezing tight enough to dent, were it not a medic he held.
“You’re overcharged,” Deadlock says against his lips, and it’s good to know that as much as the Decepticons are angry killers, they still respect the laws of consent.
Ratchet barks a laugh and leans back enough to see Deadlock’s expression. “Not as much as you think I am,” he says and one hand slides down Deadlock’s chest, his palm hiding the brand from view. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” Deadlock arches an orbital ridge and shifts his weight, sliding a knee between Ratchet’s thighs, nudging upward, a pressure against Ratchet’s groin. “Because I’m not going to suffer under a false accusation later.”
“That won’t be an issue.” Besides, there’s no one to file a complaint with. Ratchet licks his lips. “I need an excuse. That’s it.”
Deadlock barks a laugh. “Oh, so you’re going to blame it on the engex?” He rubs harder, and Ratchet’s array pings with heat, arousal throbbing through his lines. “Prime’s favorite medic can’t admit to wanting Megatron’s soldier, so he’s going to hide it behind the engex. How predictable.”
“Is that you saying no?” Ratchet asks.
Deadlock slants him a look. “You don’t trust me.”
“Don’t need trust for this,” Ratchet says. “I’m not letting you at my spark or anything.”
“Perish the thought.” Deadlock unravels himself from Ratchet, leaving Ratchet to wobble on his own feet, one hand braced against the table’s edge. “Just so we’re clear, you’re wanting to use me as an escape. Like the engex.”
He tilts his head, and there’s accusation in his tone.
Ratchet drags his fingers over the top of the table, a nonsense pattern. “We’ve got a lot of time to kill. Might as well get something good out of it.”
Deadlock palms his face and grins behind his fingers, lips curled back and showing off his pointed denta. “Autobots are insane.” He spins around, walks away, and for a moment, Ratchet thinks it’s rejection.
Except Deadlock goes to the door of the recharge room and pushes it open. He pauses, glances over his shoulder, expectant.
“Well? Let’s get this bad decision started,” he says, and vanishes inside.
It’s just like a Decepticon to turn the tables.
Ratchet turns, snags the bottle of engex, and flicks off the stopper. He takes a long swig of it, more than aware Deadlock’s lips had been last wrapped around it, and clatters it back to the table. He fumbles with the cork, returning it, before following Deadlock.
He doesn’t shut the door. What’s the point? They’re alone on this desolate rock, and Ratchet has no desire to be trapped in this tiny room as it is. The berth won’t fit two, not comfortably, but they aren’t here to recharge together.
Deadlock perches on the edge of the berth, leaning back on his arms, knees spread, head cocked, expectant.
“I was waiting for you to change your mind,” he says, optics glinting with heat. His lips curve into a smirk. “Guess you’re braver than I thought.”
Brave?
Ratchet sets his jaw. He crosses the floor in a few strides, and straddles Deadlock in a quick motion, knees digging into the berth, his groin flush against Deadlock’s belly, his valve throbbing hot and insistent between his legs. He puts his hands on Deadlock’s shoulder and pushes.
He doesn’t know if Deadlock relents, or if he has the superior strength, but Deadlock’s hands slip out from behind him, and his back hits the berth. Ratchet follows him down, hands landing to either side of Deadlock’s head to brace himself, as warmth lands on his hips, sweeping up and down.
“I’m not in here to play games,” Ratchet growls as he rolls his hips, grinding down on Deadlock’s panel, feeling the heat rising up beneath him. Arousal is a warm taste in Deadlock’s field, and Ratchet shivers at the sensation, meeting it with his own.
“Didn’t know Decepticons were your taste, medic,” Deadlock replies with a challenging grin and a quirk of his orbital ridge.
“Are you looking for a compliment?”
Deadlock chuckles, dark and dirty and lust slithers down Ratchet’s backstrut. His fingers curve into the berthcovers. “Don’t need them. I know how pretty I am.” He winks, and his hands curve around to Ratchet’s aft.
He rolls up, feet braced on the floor, a mimicry of what they intend to do.
“Tell me again,” Deadlock says as he tilts his chin.
Ratchet swallows thickly, glossa slicking his lips. “How pretty you are?”
“No. That you want this.” Crimson optics narrow as the rumble of Deadlock’s engine vibrates the narrow berth. “I can taste the engex on your glossa. I’m many things, but I don’t take the unwilling.”
Ratchet leans down and steals Deadlock’s mouth for another kiss, deeper and more intoxicating than before, far headier than the engex. Deadlock’s response is hungrier, his glossa slipping into Ratchet’s mouth, sweeping around, tasting him. His fingers tighten on Ratchet’s hips, and something hot and wet bumps up against the inside of his thigh.
He hadn’t even heard the click of Deadlock’s panel.
“Does that answer your question?” Ratchet demands as he rocks down, shivers at the sensation of a wet spike brushing over his armor, leaving streaks of pre-fluid behind.
“It’s a start.”
Deadlock leans up, snatches his lips again, denta leaving impressions behind. He pulls Ratchet down, arches up, rocking against Ratchet’s yet closed panel. His field crashes against Ratchet’s, a wave of hunger, and it’s not new. It’s deeper, heavier, like a hidden desire suddenly brought to life.
Ratchet moans.
Arousal throbs through Ratchet’s lines, hot and heavy. Lubricant pools behind his panel, his valve aching with need.
Ratchet holds back. He’s not sure why, but there’s something about the tease of it that licks lightning through his lines. He digs into the berth with fingertips and knees, riding the rise and fall of Deadlock’s hips, the small space filling with heat from their rapid ex-vents.
Deadlock’s head tips back with a growl. “Open up,” he demands, rutting against Ratchet’s panel insistently.
Ratchet chuckles. “I don’t know. I think I like you like this.” His mouth wanders, finding one of those dangerous spurs on Deadlock’s head, giving them a lick.
A shiver rushes through Deadlock’s field. Oh, he likes that.
Ratchet bites down, enough to count as a nibble, not to dent, and Deadlock gasps, a sound that darkens into a growl. One hand slides free of Ratchet’s waist and shoves between their hips, fingers stroking a firm path over Ratchet’s panel. They’re clever, those fingers, as they prod against his seams and find the tiny, outer nodes, giving them a flick-flick-flick that makes Ratchet’s backstrut arch.
His panel snaps aside.
So much for restraint.
Deadlock’s fingers plunge inside, two at once, hooking to prod at the ring of sensors behind his rim.
Ratchet shudders, hips jerking down on Deadlock’s fingers, lubricant seeping out, sticky in Deadlock’s joints. A thumb rubs circles on his anterior node, and little sparks of need jab up and down Ratchet’s spinal strut.
“What do you know,” Deadlock drawls with a smugness to his voice. “I think you like this even more.”
Ratchet growls and rides the motions of Deadlock’s fingers, his valve cycling tight, trying to draw them tighter. “Give me your spike,” he demands as another curve of Deadlock’s fingers makes his knees wobble, and his valve ache.
“As you wish, sir,” Deadlock purrs and Primus, it should not arouse Ratchet as much as it does, to hear the sir roll off Deadlock’s glossa.
But it does.
He groans, backstrut arching, fingers clenching in the berthcovers. He whines when Deadlock’s fingers withdraw, sticky with his own lubricant, and the whine deepens as Deadlock pops them into his mouth. His glossa sweeps around them, lascivious and hungry, as if he can’t bear to waste a single drop of Ratchet’s taste.
Primus.
Ratchet’s engine revs. He lowers his hips, blindly seeking the head of Deadlock’s spike. It brushes over his folds, teasing the rim of his valve, before he catches it and sinks down in one fell swoop. Pleasure licks through his valve like lightning, the thick spike stroking over every interior sensor before it nudges up against his ceiling node with a hot pressure.
Deadlock’s optics roll back, his lips tightening around his fingers. He pulls them free with a loud pop and hisses a curse. He grips Ratchet’s hips, pulling down until he’s buried to the root.
There’s a thickness at the base of his spike. A palpable knob of thickness that grinds against Ratchet’s valve rim and teases the small sensors located in a ring around it.
Ratchet shudders, grinds down, hips moving in circles and rocking back and forth, keeping Deadlock worked deep. His ceiling node throbs with heat, and his lower half tenses, tanks twisting with need.
“Better?” Deadlock asks, sly.
“Shut up,” Ratchet snarls. He keeps at the pace, slow and steady, dragging Deadlock over his nodes, making them sing.
He could do this rough and tumble. He could make it hurt, make it quick. He could do all that to remind himself that this is Deadlock, a Decepticon, and Ratchet’s making a very bad decision.
He can’t bring himself to do it, though.
Instead, he savors. He builds the pleasure up to a slow crescendo, lets Deadlock’s spike taste his valve in increments, shifting his hips in all directions, until the walls of his valve spasm with hunger, his nodes sparking and feeding charge into Deadlock’s spike.
His Decepticon’s head tosses back, lips peeled back over denta bared in a snarl. He’s panting through his denta, sharp whistles of his air, his hips jutting up in small thrusts. All he can manage with the weight of Ratchet keeping him down.
“This isn’t… a slow dance,” he gasps out.
“No, it’s a battlefield,” Ratchet agrees with a huffed laugh because his arms tremble, and his knees shake, and overload hovers in his periphery, daring him with completion. “And I’m taking the measure of my enemy.”
“The measure. Hah.” Deadlock barks a laugh, his gaze rolling up to Ratchet, gleaming with hunger, triumphant with humor. “It seems we’re evenly matched. For now.”
“We’ll see.” Ratchet’s head hangs. He glances between their bodies, watching his valve swallow Deadlock’s spike, leaving pearls of lubricant behind, slick and sloppy between them.
He rises up, their connected units framed by the vees of their bodies, and sees for a moment, the thickening at the base of Deadlock’s spike. It’s a bulge, adding a broadness to the base Ratchet is unfamiliar with. It feels good against his rim, catching and tugging on the swollen folds, however.
“What have you done to your spike?” Ratchet asks, amazed he’s able to hold enough coherency to do so.
Deadlock chuckles, and it’s dark and deep, slithering down Ratchet’s spinal strut to tiptoe into his groin and take up residence with a volcanic pool of want. “That’s not something you meet at first introduction. Maybe later.”
His feet hit the floor, he thrusts up, slamming deep and firm into Ratchet. Curiosities about Deadlock’s spike evaporate in the wake of a flush of heat through his lines. Ratchet’s arms wobble, dropping him down to his elbows. The change in angle makes him moan, his anterior nub catching on a rise in Deadlock’s armor and adding to the cacophonous pleasure of the persistent rub of Deadlock’s spike against his ceiling node.
Deadlock hooks an elbow around the back of his neck, pulling him down, the kiss fierce and brutal, denta nipping at Ratchet’s lips. And then he buries his face against Ratchet’s neck, denta staking a claim, mouth pulling in a hard suck.
Ratchet’s frame goes taut, spark quivering. Overload erupts in his system like a hail of chargestorm, and he slams down, valve tightening and rippling around Deadlock’s spike. The lingering traces of overcharge burn out of his system, and Ratchet groans as the pleasure nearly strips him raw, leaving him strutless on top of Deadlock.
“My turn,” the Decepticon growls in his audial.
He grabs Ratchet’s hips, draws his feet up onto the berth, and starts to thrust upward, not with the force Ratchet expected, but with long, deep pushes of his hips. He grinds deep, shuddering tangibly, spike throbbing within the lubricated mess of Ratchet’s valve. He licks and sucks at Ratchet’s intake, mouthing over the mark he’d made.
Ratchet would help, if he were capable of doing anything more than slumping down on top of Deadlock, pleasure running in lingering throbs through his lines, his knees like gelatin, and his arms weak.
Not that it matters. Because Deadlock growls against his throat, thrusting several more times in sharp succession before he pushes deep and spills, the hot splashes of his overload teasing Ratchet’s sensitive ceiling node. He pants as his hips make tiny jerks, spike spurting several times before it ceases.
Deadlock sinks into the berth with a satisfied groan, releasing his trip on Ratchet’s neck. The berth is too small to do anything but rest his forehead on Deadlock’s shoulder, trying to get his sparkrate to a normal rhythm.
“You’re heavy,” Deadlock says.
“I’m a medic,” Ratchet replies.
“I can’t ventilate.”
“Liar.” Ratchet, however, cycles a ventilation and through extraordinary effort, manages to pull off Deadlock and climb fully onto the berth. He’s damp between his thighs, Deadlock seeping tepid and sticky from his valve.
Right now, he doesn’t care. He feels wrung out and exhausted, the lingering traces of overload humming through his lines. The anger from earlier is gone. It’ll be back tomorrow, but for now, it’s a dull thud in the back of his processor, hidden behind a curtain of pleasure.
The berth creaks and shifts. Deadlock flops down onto the narrow space beside him, fitting his back against Ratchet’s.
“If you think I’m recharging on the floor, you’re mistaken,” he says as he climbs into Ratchet’s space as though he belongs there, tangling their limbs together, as if trying to meld their rather large frames into a small enough form to fit on the berth.
Ratchet grunts. “Do what you want,” he says.
He pretends it doesn’t feel nice to have another frame slotted next to his. That the hum and click and quiet thrum of another mech isn’t comforting or welcome. He shouldn’t want this.
Deadlock is a Decepticon. This is, technically, fraternization with the enemy.
Then again, at this rate, he’s never going to see home again.
In the long run, it doesn’t really matter at all.
It’s not really a comforting thought that chases Ratchet into recharge. But it’s not like there’s a lot of comfort to be had right now. So he’ll take what he can get.
***
a/n: Feedback, as always, is welcome, appreciated, and encouraged.
Title: Lost and Lonely Space
Universe: IDW, Pre-Death of Optimus Prime
Characters: Ratchet, Deadlock, Alien Original Character(s)
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Canon Divergence
Description: While on a sabbatical from the war, Ratchet runs into a spot of trouble that lands him in close company with a familiar face, the famed Decepticon Deadlock.
The broken communications array takes point of pride in the middle of the floor in front of the rear bay doors because there’s no place else to put it. They’d tried resting it on the work table, but it had crackled under the weight, and threatened to snap in half.
Ratchet is far too old to be sitting on the floor, crouching over a broken piece of comm equipment. But it’s their only chance to get out of here.
He has no idea what he’s doing. But he has to try.
It takes fifteen minutes of Deadlock hovering before Ratchet has to snap at him to leave the tool box and take a hike. Or a nap. Or something other than looming over Ratchet with an impatient click of his armor.
Deadlock huffs and drops down at the console. Ratchet doesn't know what he's working on over there, and frankly doesn't care, so long as it means he's not hovering.
Eventually, he gets up and vanishes into the washrack. Ratchet only acknowledges this peripherally, trying this best to stay focused on the comms array.
Primus, but he wishes Wheeljack were here. Wheeljack could have fixed this with a snap of his fingers. Could have built one out of scraps and duct tape and thin air.
Ratchet's spark aches.
He understands why Optimus sent him on this vacation, this sabbatical. He’d felt the tenuous threads of his sanity fraying to the point of snapping. He even understands why he had to go it alone.
He still misses his friends, his allies, his fellow soldiers. Wheeljack’s warm humor and Perceptor’s dry wit and Hoist’s steady calm and First Aid’s sharp glossa. He misses them terribly, with an ache in his chassis, and as much as he wishes he could run from the war forever, he doesn’t think he can leave them behind.
Ratchet shakes his head, tries to focus on the comms array, not that he knows what he’s doing. He’s stripped away the broken parts and made a list of what he thinks needs replacing. Pieces he’s pretty sure he can slot in and out of place easily enough. If this works, someone will need to climb on top of the ship and re-mount it, but small steps.
He’s got to get it functioning again first.
Deadlock emerges from the washrack, still somewhat dripping. “Any progress?” he asks.
Ratchet grinds his denta. Something about the Decepticon’s voice grates on his patience. “The moment there is, you’ll be the first to know,” he says, just as a bolt pings off and goes flying across the room, narrowly missing Deadlock’s head.
Damn. The one time he doesn’t have decent aim.
Deadlock holds up his hands and backs toward the recharge room. “Clearly.” He points a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll just go recharge then.”
“You do that,” Ratchet grunts.
The door rattles shut behind Deadlock.
Peace and quiet reign for as long as it takes for Ratchet to give up on finding the lost bolt. He mutters a curse subvocally and leans back on his heels, rubbing a palm down his face.
At some point, he’s got to admit he has no idea what he’s doing.
Ratchet hauls himself up and starts digging into the supply cabinet. Not that there’s much to dig through. The dented med kit takes pride of place on the top shelf. The second shelf holds spare fluids, coolant, hydraulic, lubricating oils, and the like. The third shelf contains their energon rations, medgrade, low grade, and a few solid energon bars for extended release. The bottom two shelves contain the sole entirety of their spare parts stock.
Ratchet bends down and starts to dig. He pulls out a few coils of spare wire, a whole bin of loose nuts and bolts and screws and rivets, and a couple more parts he might find helpful. He’s pushing aside a heavy box of spare duct tape when his fingers brush against a smooth container.
His orbital ridges lift when he draws it out and examines the label. High-quality engex. And relatively new for that matter.
“Well, well, well,” Ratchet murmurs. “What are you doing here?” He swishes the contents around, the thick purplish liquid glugging inside the bottle. He recognizes the label even, and his mouth fills with lubricant a little.
He hasn’t seen this label in decades.
He tucks it into his subspace. As far as he’s concerned, it’s his now.
Ratchet takes his haul of spare parts back to the comm, dropping the rattling box on the floor next to it. He briefly stops to poke at the command console, but all he manages to do is successfully identify the toggle that activates the communication array. He gives it a few testing flicks.
Nothing. Not even an indication it’s trying to connect to something that isn’t there.
Frag.
They’re going to have to tear apart the console, too. It’s probably any one of those loose cables there, dangling like pieces of string from the underside.
Ratchet trudges back to the comm array. He stands beside it, his shadow falling over it. Pieces scatter around it. Tools sit within reach, like he knows what he’s going to do with them.
He has no idea what the frag he’s doing.
The urge to punt the broken array out the rear hatch nearly overwhelms him. Ratchet has to cycle several ventilations, swallow down the rage, the helplessness. His hands form shaking fists. His vents come faster.
He turns his back on the array.
He’s losing his mind out here, that’s what it is. With only Deadlock for company, such a visceral reminder of a past failure and every one he’s made since then. With a Decepticon who’s spared his life too many times and even saved it. With a busted ship and dwindling supplies and zero chance of rescue.
It’s madness. It’s all madness.
Ratchet drops into the bench behind the table, burdened by bits and pieces of various equipment from around the shuttle. They don’t either of them know what they are doing, but they are apparently full of endless hope because they keep fragging trying like it’s going to make a difference.
He pulls the engex out of subspace and plops it down on the table. The liquid is so thick, it doesn’t slosh. Ripples barely disturb the surface.
He doesn’t have a cube and casts around for something suitable to use. Pickings are slim. He settles for the cap of an empty hydraulic fluid bottle. Someone hadn’t restocked the escape shuttles apparently, because this bottle is dry as an organic bone.
Ratchet pops the cork and fills his substitute cube to the brim. The scent rises to his sensors, chasing away the dull and flat metallic odor permeating the cabin of the spacecraft. It’s sharp and piquant, and Ratchet’s tanks rumble.
He can’t fix the damn comms array.
Bottoms up.
The first capful goes down easy. It’s smooth and silky over his glossa, the taste hot but the sensation icy-cool as it hits his sensors. It flows through his intake, settles like a happy glow in his tank.
Primus, but Ratchet’s missed this. Indulgence is yet another of so many things the war’s ripped from him.
He knows he should savor it. Perhaps conserve it since they will be trapped here indefinitely. Ratchet, however, doesn’t want to play it safe. He wants to forget. He wants to pretend he’s somewhere other than here.
He wants a tiny semblance of normal.
The second, third, and fourth capfuls slip into his tanks with ease, without a burn, without hesitation, without anything to make him want to slow. This engex is potent, brewed to perfection, and it’s another thing he misses from pre-war Cybertron.
They’ve lost so many things.
Like time. Ratchet stares into the fifth capful of engex, and he’s not sure how long it’s been since he started. He’s not intoxicated, but if he continues on this pace, he will be. He’s not entirely sure that’s a bad thing at this point.
A glint of some broken piece of equipment sits in his peripheral vision. It seems to be mocking him, reminding him he’s not making any forward motion. He has responsibilities. He’s supposed to be working, fixing, mending. But he’s a medic, not an engineer, and while theoretically, there shouldn’t be much different between the two…
There is.
Ratchet growls and flicks the object off the table. It clatters to the floor, and something else breaks off it, pinging against his foot. Bah. It doesn’t work anyway.
He starts to lift the fifth capful when the door to the recharge room opens, revealing Deadlock in the doorway. His optics are narrow, and he’s peering into the cabin, one hand drifting down toward his holsters.
He finds Ratchet immediately. Suspicion washes away in the wake of confusion. “What are you doing?” he asks.
“Celebrating failure,” Ratchet announces, and salutes him with the bottle of engex, now one-third less than it had been when he found it.
Deadlock’s orbital ridges draw down. “Is that my stash of Urayan Blue?”
“Yep.” Ratchet pops the word and draws another swig from the capful, swishing the viscous fluid around his mouth before swallowing it. “Weird place to hide it.”
Deadlock’s jaw twists. “I have a stash on every escape shuttle.” He stalks across the room, briefly glancing at the comms array, before pulling out a stool to sit. “Just in case.”
“Right. Saving it for a special day?” Ratchet snorts. No such thing as a special day anymore. Now it’s just the grind, grind, grind of death and more death.
“The end of the war,” Deadlock says.
Ratchet tips back the last half of the fifth capful and tilts the bottle to pour himself another. “That’s never happening. Might as well enjoy it now.” The bottle hits the table with a thunk and wobbles in place.
“By celebrating failure?” Deadlock’s frown starts to take on the edge of Optimus’ famous Disappointed Glower.
“Yep.” Ratchet tosses back the shot, and his processor swims a little in the engex. “I can’t fix the comm. Pretty sure you can’t. We have no comm. We’re utterly fragged.”
“Tell me something I didn’t know.” Deadlock kicks back in the chair, making himself comfortable, not that he was invited. He eyes Ratchet, and then snaps his fingers. “If you’re going to drink like that, at least share it.”
Ratchet casts around for something else to use as a cup. He rummages through the bits and pieces, only for the bottle to be plucked from his hand. His head jerks up, a glare narrowing his optics, because apparently Deadlock can’t be bothered with a cup. Instead, he wraps his lips around the bottle and tips it back, drinking straight.
He notices Ratchet watching and has the audacity to wink before he lowers the bottle and swipes his glossa over his lips. “Still my favorite,” he sighs.
“Good for you.” Ratchet raps his knuckles on the table, debating whether or not he’s capable of leaning over the top and snatching the bottle back. “The engine’s shot, too, you know. There’s nothing either of us can do.”
Deadlock peers into the bottle. “You act like that’s new information. Here’s a hint. It’s not.” He takes another drink, longer this time, intake bobbing as he swallows.
Ratchet’s internals lurch. He wishes he could call it disgust.
“Newsflash, Autobot.” Deadlock lowers the bottle and points at Ratchet. “We’ve been fragged from the start. It’s always been hopeless. Honestly, though, I thought your Autobot optimism would hold out longer.”
“I failed that class.” Ratchet sneers and reaches for the bottle. Deadlock whisks it out from under his fingers with a shake of his head. “Luckily, it’s not a prerequisite.”
He makes another grab, and Deadlock smirks. “I think you’ve had enough, medic. You’re wobbling.”
“I am not,” Ratchet growls. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek, slamming his empty cap on the table, his tank warm from the engex.
Deadlock chuckles. “Sure.” He takes another swig of the bottle and then grabs the cork, popping it back in place.
“No one said you should cap that,” Ratchet says as he tilts forward, leaning against the edge of the table, and swaying a bit as he does so.
He’s absolutely not inebriated. But he’s floaty in a way he hasn’t been in decades, and it’s much better than the dull ache of loss and hopelessness that’s been creeping into his spark. They’re trapped here, together, and the engex almost makes it sound like an okay idea.
Deadlock blurs into Drift, and the heat in Ratchet’s tank filters lower, pooling molten in his groin.
He is struck with a terrible, awful, wonderful idea.
“I think you’ve had enough,” Deadlock says, through the tunnel of ideas bombarding Ratchet’s mind, chasing away all good sense. “At this rate, you’ll likely destroy the only shelter we have left.”
“I’m not an angry drunk,” Ratchet grumbles, and points a shaky finger at Deadlock. “Point of fact, I’m not drunk at all.” He pushes to his feet, bracing his weight on the table with one hand, and catches himself when a sway threatens to send him tumbling to the floor.
“Oh yes. You’re the picture of sobriety,” Deadlock drawls. He rolls his optics, sets the bottle on the table, and stands. “Come on. Time to recharge.”
“Are you taking me to berth?” Ratchet asks, aiming for a leer. He doesn’t know if he manages. He feels like it droops to one side.
Deadlock snorts. “I’m going to be a crutch. I don’t think it’s possible for me to carry you.” He circles around the table and snaps his fingers. “Come on.” He holds out a hand.
Ratchet is not as intoxicated as Deadlock thinks he is. Especially when he activates the system flush all medics are capable of using to remove contaminants from one’s system, storing it in a separate tank for later disposal.
He plays the part, however.
He makes a couple steps around the table, toward Deadlock, and he stumbles. Deadlock is there to catch him with a little grunt and a flash of annoyance in his field. Ratchet grasps at his shoulders, thumbs inches away from the spikes framing his face.
“Good catch,” Ratchet murmurs with Deadlock’s hands gripping his sides and their faces mere inches apart.
Amber optics are narrowed slits of suspicion. Deadlock’s glossa sweeps over his lips, his ex-vents smelling like the engex they’ve been sharing.
“What are you doing?” Deadlock asks, and there’s caution in his tone. Warning even. The irritation in his field slides into confusion.
“I’m overcharged,” Ratchet says innocently. “And I’m off-balance.”
“That’s not what you’re doing,” Deadlock retorts, tone flat.
“Mmm. Good point.”
Ratchet has a history of making bad decisions.
Right here, on the edge of an asteroid field with no help in sight, he’s prepared to make another one. He might as well. He’s going to rust to death out here. There’s no point in delaying the inevitable, or pretending that he doesn’t want deep down to his struts.
He leans in, waits for Deadlock to retreat, and when that doesn’t happen, the edges of Ratchet’s lips curl. He closes the distance, mouth sloppily pressing to Deadlock’s, because the flush isn’t happening quickly enough, and only half his imbalance is feigned. Lips crash together, denta knocking, and Ratchet makes a muffled noise before he re-aims and tries again.
Mouths meeting, lips moving, glossa slipping out to briefly taste Deadlock’s, who relents, a shiver racing across his frame. His field opens to Ratchet, confusion flicking to understanding and a frisson of heat sparking through it.
Ratchet wonders if Drift would have kissed like this, too. They’re the same mech, he knows. But Drift’s grip would not have been as strong as the one Deadlock has on his hips, squeezing tight enough to dent, were it not a medic he held.
“You’re overcharged,” Deadlock says against his lips, and it’s good to know that as much as the Decepticons are angry killers, they still respect the laws of consent.
Ratchet barks a laugh and leans back enough to see Deadlock’s expression. “Not as much as you think I am,” he says and one hand slides down Deadlock’s chest, his palm hiding the brand from view. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” Deadlock arches an orbital ridge and shifts his weight, sliding a knee between Ratchet’s thighs, nudging upward, a pressure against Ratchet’s groin. “Because I’m not going to suffer under a false accusation later.”
“That won’t be an issue.” Besides, there’s no one to file a complaint with. Ratchet licks his lips. “I need an excuse. That’s it.”
Deadlock barks a laugh. “Oh, so you’re going to blame it on the engex?” He rubs harder, and Ratchet’s array pings with heat, arousal throbbing through his lines. “Prime’s favorite medic can’t admit to wanting Megatron’s soldier, so he’s going to hide it behind the engex. How predictable.”
“Is that you saying no?” Ratchet asks.
Deadlock slants him a look. “You don’t trust me.”
“Don’t need trust for this,” Ratchet says. “I’m not letting you at my spark or anything.”
“Perish the thought.” Deadlock unravels himself from Ratchet, leaving Ratchet to wobble on his own feet, one hand braced against the table’s edge. “Just so we’re clear, you’re wanting to use me as an escape. Like the engex.”
He tilts his head, and there’s accusation in his tone.
Ratchet drags his fingers over the top of the table, a nonsense pattern. “We’ve got a lot of time to kill. Might as well get something good out of it.”
Deadlock palms his face and grins behind his fingers, lips curled back and showing off his pointed denta. “Autobots are insane.” He spins around, walks away, and for a moment, Ratchet thinks it’s rejection.
Except Deadlock goes to the door of the recharge room and pushes it open. He pauses, glances over his shoulder, expectant.
“Well? Let’s get this bad decision started,” he says, and vanishes inside.
It’s just like a Decepticon to turn the tables.
Ratchet turns, snags the bottle of engex, and flicks off the stopper. He takes a long swig of it, more than aware Deadlock’s lips had been last wrapped around it, and clatters it back to the table. He fumbles with the cork, returning it, before following Deadlock.
He doesn’t shut the door. What’s the point? They’re alone on this desolate rock, and Ratchet has no desire to be trapped in this tiny room as it is. The berth won’t fit two, not comfortably, but they aren’t here to recharge together.
Deadlock perches on the edge of the berth, leaning back on his arms, knees spread, head cocked, expectant.
“I was waiting for you to change your mind,” he says, optics glinting with heat. His lips curve into a smirk. “Guess you’re braver than I thought.”
Brave?
Ratchet sets his jaw. He crosses the floor in a few strides, and straddles Deadlock in a quick motion, knees digging into the berth, his groin flush against Deadlock’s belly, his valve throbbing hot and insistent between his legs. He puts his hands on Deadlock’s shoulder and pushes.
He doesn’t know if Deadlock relents, or if he has the superior strength, but Deadlock’s hands slip out from behind him, and his back hits the berth. Ratchet follows him down, hands landing to either side of Deadlock’s head to brace himself, as warmth lands on his hips, sweeping up and down.
“I’m not in here to play games,” Ratchet growls as he rolls his hips, grinding down on Deadlock’s panel, feeling the heat rising up beneath him. Arousal is a warm taste in Deadlock’s field, and Ratchet shivers at the sensation, meeting it with his own.
“Didn’t know Decepticons were your taste, medic,” Deadlock replies with a challenging grin and a quirk of his orbital ridge.
“Are you looking for a compliment?”
Deadlock chuckles, dark and dirty and lust slithers down Ratchet’s backstrut. His fingers curve into the berthcovers. “Don’t need them. I know how pretty I am.” He winks, and his hands curve around to Ratchet’s aft.
He rolls up, feet braced on the floor, a mimicry of what they intend to do.
“Tell me again,” Deadlock says as he tilts his chin.
Ratchet swallows thickly, glossa slicking his lips. “How pretty you are?”
“No. That you want this.” Crimson optics narrow as the rumble of Deadlock’s engine vibrates the narrow berth. “I can taste the engex on your glossa. I’m many things, but I don’t take the unwilling.”
Ratchet leans down and steals Deadlock’s mouth for another kiss, deeper and more intoxicating than before, far headier than the engex. Deadlock’s response is hungrier, his glossa slipping into Ratchet’s mouth, sweeping around, tasting him. His fingers tighten on Ratchet’s hips, and something hot and wet bumps up against the inside of his thigh.
He hadn’t even heard the click of Deadlock’s panel.
“Does that answer your question?” Ratchet demands as he rocks down, shivers at the sensation of a wet spike brushing over his armor, leaving streaks of pre-fluid behind.
“It’s a start.”
Deadlock leans up, snatches his lips again, denta leaving impressions behind. He pulls Ratchet down, arches up, rocking against Ratchet’s yet closed panel. His field crashes against Ratchet’s, a wave of hunger, and it’s not new. It’s deeper, heavier, like a hidden desire suddenly brought to life.
Ratchet moans.
Arousal throbs through Ratchet’s lines, hot and heavy. Lubricant pools behind his panel, his valve aching with need.
Ratchet holds back. He’s not sure why, but there’s something about the tease of it that licks lightning through his lines. He digs into the berth with fingertips and knees, riding the rise and fall of Deadlock’s hips, the small space filling with heat from their rapid ex-vents.
Deadlock’s head tips back with a growl. “Open up,” he demands, rutting against Ratchet’s panel insistently.
Ratchet chuckles. “I don’t know. I think I like you like this.” His mouth wanders, finding one of those dangerous spurs on Deadlock’s head, giving them a lick.
A shiver rushes through Deadlock’s field. Oh, he likes that.
Ratchet bites down, enough to count as a nibble, not to dent, and Deadlock gasps, a sound that darkens into a growl. One hand slides free of Ratchet’s waist and shoves between their hips, fingers stroking a firm path over Ratchet’s panel. They’re clever, those fingers, as they prod against his seams and find the tiny, outer nodes, giving them a flick-flick-flick that makes Ratchet’s backstrut arch.
His panel snaps aside.
So much for restraint.
Deadlock’s fingers plunge inside, two at once, hooking to prod at the ring of sensors behind his rim.
Ratchet shudders, hips jerking down on Deadlock’s fingers, lubricant seeping out, sticky in Deadlock’s joints. A thumb rubs circles on his anterior node, and little sparks of need jab up and down Ratchet’s spinal strut.
“What do you know,” Deadlock drawls with a smugness to his voice. “I think you like this even more.”
Ratchet growls and rides the motions of Deadlock’s fingers, his valve cycling tight, trying to draw them tighter. “Give me your spike,” he demands as another curve of Deadlock’s fingers makes his knees wobble, and his valve ache.
“As you wish, sir,” Deadlock purrs and Primus, it should not arouse Ratchet as much as it does, to hear the sir roll off Deadlock’s glossa.
But it does.
He groans, backstrut arching, fingers clenching in the berthcovers. He whines when Deadlock’s fingers withdraw, sticky with his own lubricant, and the whine deepens as Deadlock pops them into his mouth. His glossa sweeps around them, lascivious and hungry, as if he can’t bear to waste a single drop of Ratchet’s taste.
Primus.
Ratchet’s engine revs. He lowers his hips, blindly seeking the head of Deadlock’s spike. It brushes over his folds, teasing the rim of his valve, before he catches it and sinks down in one fell swoop. Pleasure licks through his valve like lightning, the thick spike stroking over every interior sensor before it nudges up against his ceiling node with a hot pressure.
Deadlock’s optics roll back, his lips tightening around his fingers. He pulls them free with a loud pop and hisses a curse. He grips Ratchet’s hips, pulling down until he’s buried to the root.
There’s a thickness at the base of his spike. A palpable knob of thickness that grinds against Ratchet’s valve rim and teases the small sensors located in a ring around it.
Ratchet shudders, grinds down, hips moving in circles and rocking back and forth, keeping Deadlock worked deep. His ceiling node throbs with heat, and his lower half tenses, tanks twisting with need.
“Better?” Deadlock asks, sly.
“Shut up,” Ratchet snarls. He keeps at the pace, slow and steady, dragging Deadlock over his nodes, making them sing.
He could do this rough and tumble. He could make it hurt, make it quick. He could do all that to remind himself that this is Deadlock, a Decepticon, and Ratchet’s making a very bad decision.
He can’t bring himself to do it, though.
Instead, he savors. He builds the pleasure up to a slow crescendo, lets Deadlock’s spike taste his valve in increments, shifting his hips in all directions, until the walls of his valve spasm with hunger, his nodes sparking and feeding charge into Deadlock’s spike.
His Decepticon’s head tosses back, lips peeled back over denta bared in a snarl. He’s panting through his denta, sharp whistles of his air, his hips jutting up in small thrusts. All he can manage with the weight of Ratchet keeping him down.
“This isn’t… a slow dance,” he gasps out.
“No, it’s a battlefield,” Ratchet agrees with a huffed laugh because his arms tremble, and his knees shake, and overload hovers in his periphery, daring him with completion. “And I’m taking the measure of my enemy.”
“The measure. Hah.” Deadlock barks a laugh, his gaze rolling up to Ratchet, gleaming with hunger, triumphant with humor. “It seems we’re evenly matched. For now.”
“We’ll see.” Ratchet’s head hangs. He glances between their bodies, watching his valve swallow Deadlock’s spike, leaving pearls of lubricant behind, slick and sloppy between them.
He rises up, their connected units framed by the vees of their bodies, and sees for a moment, the thickening at the base of Deadlock’s spike. It’s a bulge, adding a broadness to the base Ratchet is unfamiliar with. It feels good against his rim, catching and tugging on the swollen folds, however.
“What have you done to your spike?” Ratchet asks, amazed he’s able to hold enough coherency to do so.
Deadlock chuckles, and it’s dark and deep, slithering down Ratchet’s spinal strut to tiptoe into his groin and take up residence with a volcanic pool of want. “That’s not something you meet at first introduction. Maybe later.”
His feet hit the floor, he thrusts up, slamming deep and firm into Ratchet. Curiosities about Deadlock’s spike evaporate in the wake of a flush of heat through his lines. Ratchet’s arms wobble, dropping him down to his elbows. The change in angle makes him moan, his anterior nub catching on a rise in Deadlock’s armor and adding to the cacophonous pleasure of the persistent rub of Deadlock’s spike against his ceiling node.
Deadlock hooks an elbow around the back of his neck, pulling him down, the kiss fierce and brutal, denta nipping at Ratchet’s lips. And then he buries his face against Ratchet’s neck, denta staking a claim, mouth pulling in a hard suck.
Ratchet’s frame goes taut, spark quivering. Overload erupts in his system like a hail of chargestorm, and he slams down, valve tightening and rippling around Deadlock’s spike. The lingering traces of overcharge burn out of his system, and Ratchet groans as the pleasure nearly strips him raw, leaving him strutless on top of Deadlock.
“My turn,” the Decepticon growls in his audial.
He grabs Ratchet’s hips, draws his feet up onto the berth, and starts to thrust upward, not with the force Ratchet expected, but with long, deep pushes of his hips. He grinds deep, shuddering tangibly, spike throbbing within the lubricated mess of Ratchet’s valve. He licks and sucks at Ratchet’s intake, mouthing over the mark he’d made.
Ratchet would help, if he were capable of doing anything more than slumping down on top of Deadlock, pleasure running in lingering throbs through his lines, his knees like gelatin, and his arms weak.
Not that it matters. Because Deadlock growls against his throat, thrusting several more times in sharp succession before he pushes deep and spills, the hot splashes of his overload teasing Ratchet’s sensitive ceiling node. He pants as his hips make tiny jerks, spike spurting several times before it ceases.
Deadlock sinks into the berth with a satisfied groan, releasing his trip on Ratchet’s neck. The berth is too small to do anything but rest his forehead on Deadlock’s shoulder, trying to get his sparkrate to a normal rhythm.
“You’re heavy,” Deadlock says.
“I’m a medic,” Ratchet replies.
“I can’t ventilate.”
“Liar.” Ratchet, however, cycles a ventilation and through extraordinary effort, manages to pull off Deadlock and climb fully onto the berth. He’s damp between his thighs, Deadlock seeping tepid and sticky from his valve.
Right now, he doesn’t care. He feels wrung out and exhausted, the lingering traces of overload humming through his lines. The anger from earlier is gone. It’ll be back tomorrow, but for now, it’s a dull thud in the back of his processor, hidden behind a curtain of pleasure.
The berth creaks and shifts. Deadlock flops down onto the narrow space beside him, fitting his back against Ratchet’s.
“If you think I’m recharging on the floor, you’re mistaken,” he says as he climbs into Ratchet’s space as though he belongs there, tangling their limbs together, as if trying to meld their rather large frames into a small enough form to fit on the berth.
Ratchet grunts. “Do what you want,” he says.
He pretends it doesn’t feel nice to have another frame slotted next to his. That the hum and click and quiet thrum of another mech isn’t comforting or welcome. He shouldn’t want this.
Deadlock is a Decepticon. This is, technically, fraternization with the enemy.
Then again, at this rate, he’s never going to see home again.
In the long run, it doesn’t really matter at all.
It’s not really a comforting thought that chases Ratchet into recharge. But it’s not like there’s a lot of comfort to be had right now. So he’ll take what he can get.
a/n: Feedback, as always, is welcome, appreciated, and encouraged.
