[IDW] Lost and Lonely Space 09/12
Dec. 24th, 2018 07:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Commission fic for Cosmicdanger!
Happy Holidays!
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 nine
Ratchet lets Deadlock go.
Honestly, it’s the least he can do.
The Decepticon’s words echo in his processor and shame crests all over again. Because he knows, deep down, Deadlock is right. Not about the Decepticons, no. Of course not. Ratchet will never stand up and say the Decepticons are taking the right path and have the best of intentions.
But it’s not his place to judge Deadlock’s choices. It’s Deadlock’s right, his freedom, to decide. Ratchet has no business trying to change him, convince him otherwise. Has no right to be disappointed. None at all.
After all, it’s not Deadlock’s fault Ratchet himself doesn’t know what he wants.
He can’t keep having the same circular arguments. He can’t keep pushing when he has no right to push.
Ratchet sighs and turns back into the ship’s cabin. He’ll let Deadlock have his space, perhaps try to convince the Decepticon to come back inside once a few hours have gone by. Long enough he’s calmed. Long enough he might be willing to talk and accept… an apology.
Ratchet’s strong enough to admit when he’s wrong.
Until then, well, the ship is a mess. The detritus of their continued attempts to repair the ship litters the floor and the small table. The berthroom could use a wipedown, and Ratchet intends to rummage around and see if he can’t find a set of spare covers to swap them out.
This is going to be home for the indefinite future. He might as well make it relatively neat.
So Ratchet works.
He always functions better when he’s working anyway. He has less time to think because he focuses solely on the tasks at hand. He picks up the tools and spare parts, returning them to their respective boxes in the storage closet. He shoves the comms array to one side, out of the immediate path, metal scraping against the floor as he does so.
He finds an empty bin and uses it to gather up all the random bits and pieces of broken wires, plates, parts, anything that might be salvageable or that he can’t bear to toss because it might be useful at some point. He successfully locates a spare set of cloths in the storage closet and changes out the berth. He debates for several long moments before giving the soiled ones a quick scrub in the wash rack, squeezing them out, and hanging them to dry.
It might work. It might not. One can hope.
By the time he’s done, a couple hours have passed, the interior of the shuttle is cleaner than any habsuite Ratchet has ever owned, and he’s found not one, but two more bottles of hidden engex in the shuttle, both of differing flavors than the first, and one with a label so faded, it was probably on the shuttle long before the Decepticons seized ownership of the ship.
Deadlock still hasn’t returned.
So Ratchet grabs one of the bottles of engex as a peace offering and ventures outside. He doubts Deadlock has taken off or gone very far. Where would he go?
Ratchet circles around the ship, but it’s not until he spies Deadlock’s dangling feet that he realizes the Decepticon has taken perch atop the shuttle. There’s zero chance Ratchet can clamber up there. He’s not a nimble speedster.
“What do you want?” the question comes through the comm with zero inflection and not an ounce of warmth.
“I’ve come with a peace offering,” Ratchet replies, and holds up the bottle for Deadlock to see.
Deadlock stares at him, expression flat.
“And an apology,” Ratchet adds, grudging.
“I’m listening.” Deadlock tilts his head.
Ratchet cycles a steadying ventilation. “I have no right to judge you,” he says. “And it’s not my place to… recruit you either. Your choices are your own. We wear different badges, but we are in the same circumstance, and they don’t matter.” He draws heavily on Wheeljack’s charisma for this, wishing his best friend were here to make it easier. For a lot of things. “You’re Deadlock first, and a Decepticon second.”
Deadlock lifts his chin. “And?”
“And I am sorry,” Ratchet says through the comm, relieved it can’t translate the sound of his gritted denta.
Deadlock’s lips curve in a smirk. “You should have led with that.” He hops down from the shuttle, landing down with a puff of dust around him. “For what it’s worth, in return, I won’t brag about the Autobots I’ve killed. Or reference them so flippantly.”
“I appreciate that,” Ratchet replies. Relief loosens the clamp of his armor. “Are we good then?”
“Good enough.” Deadlock plucks the bottle of engex from his hand and examines the label. “I don’t recognize this.”
“I didn’t think you would. Think it’s been here since the shuttle was constructed.”
Deadlock turns the bottle over and over in his hands, examining it from all angles. He squints at the bottom of it. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Turmoil seized my ship from an old shipping yard to give it to me.”
“Would it offend you if I said that doesn’t surprise me?”
Deadlock tucks the bottle under his arm and cocks an orbital ridge. “Why would it? Turmoil is an aft. There’s no love lost there.” His mouth sets in a grim line. “Loathe is probably a better term.”
Ratchet folds his arms over his head. “Good to know.” He shifts and looks over Deadlock’s shoulder, squinting at the drifting asteroids around them. “You ready to come back inside, or would you rather stay out here and enjoy the view?”
Deadlock slants him a look before he taps the end of the bottle. “I think it’s time to pop this open.” He strides past Ratchet without a second word, and Ratchet makes the assumption they’re returning to the shuttle interior.
Minor crisis averted.
He follows Deadlock back into the shuttle, and they work together to close the rear hatch, the grate of the sliding mechanism informing them that the more they move it, the less it’ll move in the future. Ratchet supposes that doesn’t matter. Eventually, the batteries will run out of charge, and they won’t have atmosphere to produce anyway.
The door notches into place, and the atmospheric cyclers kick on with an audible whirr. Deadlock turns, dusting his hands, and blinks.
“You cleaned,” he says.
Ratchet plants his hands on his hips, unable to resist a grin of pride. “Yes.”
Deadlock moves further inside, slowly, like a newly adopted turbofox kit inspecting its new home. “As apologies go, that’s very effective.” He peers into the berth room and gives Ratchet an approving look over his shoulder. “Even changed the covers. I’m impressed.” He pauses to grin. “Almost feels like a seduction.”
Ratchet snorts, ignoring the twinge of heat coiling lazily in his lines. Emotional upheaval aside, his array remembers all too well the pleasure Deadlock had offered. They had shared a berth only just last night after all.
Once Ratchet gets over himself, he admits, he wouldn’t mind doing so again. Right now, their badges don’t matter. They’re not at war. They’re just two very attractive mechs, stranded together, relying on one another.
They can worry about the rest later.
“Interpret it however you like,” Ratchet says, careful to keep his tone casual.
“Thanks. I intend to.” Deadlock gives him a sidelong look before he continues on, dropping down into the pilot’s seat, which squeaks beneath him. He gestures to the other, finger crooked, and Ratchet takes that as an invitation.
The lid pops on the engex as Ratchet gingerly lowers himself into the chair. Deadlock pops one foot up on the console and takes a hearty swig of the engex before offering it to Ratchet with a smack of his lips.
“It’s good,” he says, and gives the bottle a wiggle. “Come now. We’re too intimate to bother with cups anymore.”
Well.
He’s got a point.
Ratchet takes the engex and gives it a sniff, his optics filling with lubricant at the bitter odor, a bit like stale hydraulic fluid. It’s going to burn, he’s sure of it.
Two seconds later, Ratchet’s intake seizes, and his tank rebels, and only sheer force of will keeps the first swallow down. Tankrot, he thinks, is the best term to describe this engex. It boils in his tank like volcanic fire, and sends a surge of overcharge through his lines.
He hands it back, his glossa tingling. “That’ll put a kick in your engine,” he grits out. “Maybe we should pour it on the fuel cells.”
Deadlock barks a laugh. “Too rough for your fancy system, I see.” He takes a hearty swig and winks. “Don’t worry. This leaker here will take care of it.”
A throb of guilt squeezes Ratchet’s spark. “Don’t,” he says, his voice purposefully hushed. “Don’t denigrate yourself like that. It’s not what I think.”
“Isn’t it?” Deadlock’s question cuts to the strut, for all that he’s grinning, and his head tilts, almost playful. “Isn’t that what you see when you look at me? One-part leaker, one-part Decepticon, one-hundred percent living proof of your failure?”
Ratchet’s hand clenches into a fist on his lap. His gaze drops. “I deserved that.”
“Yeah, you did.” Deadlock takes another swig and tips back in the chair, the spring of it squeaking as he pushes himself into a slow rock, testing the flexibility of the stabilizing column. “If it eases your conscience any, I was a leaker, and I probably still am, under the badge. I’m a Decepticon, too. I’m not anyone’s failure but my own, so you know, stop blaming yourself.”
Ratchet works his intake. “Right,” he says, his mouth dry, and the lump growing larger in his intake. “I’ll try, but blaming myself. It’s kind of my defining personality trait.” He quirks an off-balanced smile, trying to inject some levity back into the conversation.
Deadlock grins and offers the bottle of engex.
Ratchet accepts, and accepts even more the way it numbs his glossa, sits thin and fiery in his tank, makes his head spin in a manner he can’t decide if he enjoys or hates. He hands it back.
“Come on, Doc. I’m sure you have plenty of unappealing traits. Let’s not focus on the one,” Deadlock says with a laugh. He wraps his lips around the mouth of the bottle, intake bobbing as he takes several long gulps.
“More unappealing than appealing, that’s true,” Ratchet grunts. He rests one foot on the console, nearly mimicking Deadlock’s pose. “You know. The comm’s shot. The engines are dead. Our batteries will die sooner rather than later.”
Deadlock’s glossa flicks over his lips. Ratchet may or may not track the quick-wet motion. “You’re just full of that Autobot optimism today, aren’t you?”
“Hey.” Ratchet points a vaguely wobbly finger at the Decepticon. “If I can’t stereotype by badge, neither can you.”
“Fair enough.” Deadlock chuckles and swings the bottle toward Ratchet, half empty as it is. “I think I might have a solution to our problem.”
Ratchet snatches up the bottle and takes a hefty swig, swallowing it as quickly as possible. His mouth very much feels like he can’t shake the oily, sticky taste. He gags, and swallows down the urge to purge.
“Share,” he squeaks out, and ignores Deadlock’s amused look.
“I’m thinking… emergency beacon. That sort of thing. We can’t set up a two-way communication but maybe we can send out a signal.” Deadlock talks and gestures with the bottle the whole time, his grin getting lazier, the gleam of his optics a softer hue. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“It’s worth a shot,” Ratchet says.
“Sure is.” Deadlock’s glossa flashes whip-quick over his lips. He offers the bottle, and Ratchet declines, shaking his head.
The world shakes a little, too.
“Anymore and I’ll be worse off than I was last night,” Ratchet says.
Deadlock’s head swivels toward him. He gives Ratchet a long look before he takes a swig of the engex and sits up, setting the bottle on the console with a hearty thunk.
“It’s stronger,” Ratchet adds, not sure how to define the look on Deadlock’s face. There’s heat, certainly, and curiosity both.
He’s staring at Ratchet, optics drifting up and down, and the sound of his engine giving the tiniest of surges is far too loud in the still quiet of the downed shuttle.
“But you’re coherent,” Deadlock says as he stands, slowly, carefully, like a predator stalking prey. “Capable of making informed decisions?”
Ratchet squints. “… Yes?” Anticipation coils in his tanks. He doesn’t know if he’s reading Deadlock’s field right or not. Presumption has already made a fool of him thrice.
“Good.” Deadlock moves toward Ratchet, one hand bracing on the back of the chair, as he leans into Ratchet’s space and slants his mouth over Ratchet’s.
Ratchet freezes, stunned but not opposed, as Deadlock’s lips fall over his, warm and wet, his ex-vents tasting of the tankrot engex. His glossa flicks out, teasing the seam of Ratchet’s lips, before Deadlock pulls back, smirking. His field lazily slides over Ratchet’s, drizzling charge in its wake.
Ratchet licks his lips. “I take it you don’t hate me then,” he says, his voice thick with static until he reboots his vocalizer. He rubs his hands down his thighs, hunger coiling like smoke in the pit of his belly.
Deadlock chuckles. “This would be what I call the ‘making up’ part of our non-relationship. Unless you’re not interested.”
“I don’t understand you,” Ratchet sighs. His head spins a little, and he doesn’t know if it’s Deadlock’s proximity or the engex, or some heady mix of both.
“That’s not an answer either.” Deadlock hums, his hand sliding across the back of the chair until his thumb brushes the side of Ratchet’s intake, sending a frisson of heat down his spinal strut.
Ratchet’s engine revs. “No, I’m not protesting,” he grits out and grabs the back of Deadlock’s head, yanking him in for a kiss.
Their denta clang. Deadlock laughs against his mouth, but eagerly responds, turning the kiss fierce and hungry within the space of a sparkbeat. He nips at Ratchet’s lips, making them tingle, and his free hand drops to Ratchet’s thigh, sliding up and up with a slow glide of dermal metal on metal.
Ratchet pays too much attention to the track of that hand, and he makes a muffled sound of disappointment when it abandons his leg before reaching his groin.
Deadlock ends the kiss with a dark chuckle, his field rolling over Ratchet’s with tangible arousal. “There are better places for this,” he says, and in the next vent, grabs Ratchet’s free hand with his own and yanks, trying to pull Ratchet from the chair.
He succeeds, only because Ratchet isn’t suspecting it. He lurches up, stumbling against Deadlock, and they crash backward, impacting against the console. Something blats angrily at them, but Pit, the whole thing is broken, so what does it matter.
It’s unfair that Deadlock is seemingly unbothered by the engex, because he swings Ratchet around and his aft hits the console with another irritated beep. His hands go firm on Ratchet’s hips, holding him in place, and he dips his head, mouth latching onto Ratchet’s throat.
Ratchet groans, tips his head back, thighs obediently parting for the knee nudging between them. “Seems, ah, like you have something in mind.”
“You had it your way last time,” Deadlock says against his throat, denta grazing Ratchet’s cables, strengthening the charge clawing up his back strut. “Now it’s my turn.”
Ratchet’s hands grip the edge of the console as he’s trapped between it and the heat of Deadlock’s frame. Lust surges through his lines, his processor spinning with need. His groin throbs behind his array panels.
“Fair enough,” he manages to gasp as Deadlock’s denta latch onto his cables and bite down, not enough to draw energon, but enough to bruise.
Ratchet groans, his vents caught in his intake. His knees wobble.
He feels Deadlock smirk in his throat, and then Deadlock abruptly drops. Ratchet’s grip on the console is all that keeps him upright, while Deadlock’s hold on his hips pin him in place. Wet heat laps across Ratchet’s panel, followed by a puff of damp warmth.
Ratchet rolls his head down, and moans as he catches sight of Deadlock licking his panel again, grinning up at him with dark optics and bared denta.
“Gonna open up for me?” he asks, pressing his lips to Ratchet’s panel, the vibrations of his voice surging through the metal. “Or are you going to make me work for it?”
Ratchet’s fingers tighten on the edge of the console. He swears it creaks beneath his grip. He tries to think of something witty, but it’s lost to the rapid swipe of his panels sliding open, his array coming into view.
Deadlock chuckles, and the erotic sound of it does something hot and electric to Ratchet’s lines. His knees threaten to wobble against the console.
He blames it on the engex. It has absolutely nothing to do with how sexy Deadlock is, or how much Ratchet wants to feel those lips wrapped around his spike.
“Eager, are we?” he asks as he ex-vents hot and wet over the tip of Ratchet’s spike, already pressurizing with embarrassing pace toward the temptation of Deadlock’s mouth.
Ratchet rolls his hips, nudging the tip of his spike over Deadlock’s lips. “I only want what I’m being promised.”
“Impatient, too.” Deadlock closes his lips around the tip of Ratchet’s spike, his glossa prodding at the transfluid slit.
Ratchet’s head tips back, denta gritting, a wave of need sweeping through his frame. His spike fully pressurizes, firming against Deadlock’s tongue, pre-fluid beading up so swiftly he’s almost embarrassed. Or he would be, if it wasn’t for the engex swamping his processor, and the warm-wet-pressure of Deadlock’s mouth around his spike.
“Primus,” Ratchet groans, gripping the console to keep from gripping Deadlock’s head and thrusting deep.
Deadlock chuckles around his spike, sending vibrations through it, before he swallows Ratchet deeper, until the head of his spike bumps the back of Deadlock’s intake.
Ratchet moans, hips rocking into the warmth of Deadlock’s mouth, his spike throbbing and his valve clenching hungrily on nothing. Lubricant wells up, building behind his panel, and he simultaneously wants to spill down Deadlock’s intake, and overload with a spike nudging his ceiling node.
He pants, drawing in a desperate vent, the heat of Deadlock’s mouth a hungry embrace. Deadlock swallows around him, over and over, intake a rippling squeeze that drags out another pitiful squeak of pleasure. Ratchet’s knees wobble. He has to fight himself not to grip Deadlock’s head again.
Deadlock moans. The slick sound of lubricant floats to Ratchet’s audials. He looks down, and the flame of need in his belly flares into an inferno.
Deadlock’s got his own spike in hand, jerking himself off furiously, little drips of pre-fluid spattering down on the floor beneath him. His field reaches up, twining with Ratchet’s, sharing a buzzing surge of desire. It’s almost suffocating, the blazing heat of Deadlock’s need, and it coils in Ratchet’s belly and surges up to nestle in his spark.
Ratchet breathes a curse and blindly paws at Deadlock’s head, wrapping his fingers around one of the protruding finials. “Get up here,” he snarls as another fierce suck makes his legs quiver, and he slumps back against the console. “Get up here and frag me now, damn it.”
Deadlock chuckles around his spike, the vibrations sending a surge straight to Ratchet’s nodes. He looks up at Ratchet, grinning with a mouthful of spike, and pulls off slow, achingly slow, suckling as he does, like he’s trying to suck the very overload out of him.
Ratchet growls through his denta, back curving, vents roaring, until Deadlock mouths only the tip, glossa prodding at his slit. The curve of his lips is a smirk, there’s challenge in his optics, and the tickle of his field drags through Ratchet’s with teasing fingers.
“Deadlock!”
The Decepticon lets him slip free with a slurp, and licks his lips. He rises, hands shifting to glide up Ratchet’s legs, leaving a smear of his own pre-fluid on Ratchet’s armor.
“I have to admit, I enjoy the sound of you begging,” Deadlock says with a laugh. He leans in, licks the corner of Ratchet’s mouth.
“I think that was more of a demand,” Ratchet growls. He lifts his legs around Deadlock’s waist, bearing his weight against the useless console behind him, tugging the Decepticon against him.
Deadlock’s spike nestles over his valve, the head of it rubbing his rim, skating up to glance across his anterior node, and a shiver of near-overload zings down Ratchet’s spinal strut. He grits his denta, holds back, feels pre-fluid painting over his array.
“Stop being a tease,” Ratchet adds as he knocks his heels against Deadlock’s thighs, pulling him even closer. “Show me that mod of yours this time.”
Deadlock leans into him, hands bracketing Ratchet’s sides, bearing him backward onto the console, which creaks alarmingly beneath them. “Not yet.” His mouth travels lower, lips and denta finding Ratchet’s intake, nibbling on delicate cables. “I think you need to trust me a bit more for that.”
“Stop being so damn mysterious – ah!” Anger splutters out into a moan as Deadlock thrusts into him, filling him in one push, the thick glide of spike over his sensitized nodes making Ratchet jolt.
His thighs tighten around Deadlock’s waist. He topples back, elbows hitting switches on the console, making something beep annoyingly. Denta pinch down on his cables, sending pain and pleasure into a chaotic mix through his lines.
Deadlock pushes him into him quickly, no more tease, just a need for release in the harsh motions, raking charge within Ratchet’s valve with every thrust. Ratchet gasps, lights dancing behind his optics, his processor spinning, the damp head of his spike grinding against Deadlock’s abdomen, leaving smears of his own pre-fluid behind.
Overload snatches him in a sudden grip, and he thrashes, valve clamping down on Deadlock, rippling around his spike, surges of charge dancing over his armor and spilling down into the console below. Pleasure spurs his vents into the fastest spin, whirring, his thighs squeezing hard enough to cause Deadlock’s armor to groan from the pressure.
Deadlock’s mouth seals over his, glossa shoving inside, and Ratchet tastes himself in the kiss, hot metal and his own transfluid, and it sends a surge of lust through his lines. He bucks up against Deadlock, valve still rippling and spilling charge, and feels the hot splash of transfluid inside him as Deadlock spills his overload.
Ratchet groans, grabbing Deadlock’s head, holding him place to deepen the kiss. Licking and nipping, sucking on his glossa, his processor spinning. He rolls up, valve hungrily cycling, wanting more, feeling like it’s not enough.
“Hold on,” Deadlock growls into his mouth, and Ratchet tightens his thighs as Deadlock grabs his hips and lifts.
He staggers, hydraulics groaning, and Ratchet expects them to go toppling to the ground, but Deadlock manages one backward step, then two, each one jostling his still-pressurized spike in Ratchet’s valve.
“You’re not going to make it to the berth room,” Ratchet says.
“Good thing that’s not where I’m going then,” Deadlock retorts, and backs up one final step before he drops down, aiming for the chair behind him.
They tumble into it, Ratchet’s feet moving aside at the last second so as not to be crushed. The chair groans in warning, but holds, and Ratchet moans as Deadlock is better seated inside of him, the head of his spike grinding hot and hard over his ceiling node.
“And here I was all set to mock you for your stamina,” Ratchet pants, his feet finding purchase on the floor, enabling him to lift and drop himself on Deadlock’s spike, building the pleasure within him all over again.
Deadlock scoffs, one hand snaking between their frames to curl around Ratchet’s spike and give him a fair squeeze. “If anyone’s to be doing any mocking, it’s me.”
“How’s that?” Ratchet asks as his grips Deadlock’s shoulders, fingers digging in to Deadlock’s seams, teasing the cables beneath.
“Why don’t you tell me?” Deadlock bites at Ratchet’s intake. “Are you going to have another attack of conscience in the morning?”
Oh.
Fully deserved that.
Ratchet barks a laugh. “Only if you don’t keep up your end of the bargain tonight. You’d better frag me silly.”
Denta latch onto his cable, biting down, just shy of drawing energon, and lightning streaks jagged up Ratchet’s backstrut. He arches against Deadlock, valve spooling tight, pleasure spiraling outward from the pressure of the denta.
“I think I can do that,” Deadlock purrs against his intake before stealing his lips, smothering him in another one of those deep, claiming kisses.
Ratchet groans and gives himself over to it.
He’s on vacation, after all, and it doesn’t have to mean a thing.
~
a/n: As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated. ^_^
Happy Holidays!
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.
Ratchet lets Deadlock go.
Honestly, it’s the least he can do.
The Decepticon’s words echo in his processor and shame crests all over again. Because he knows, deep down, Deadlock is right. Not about the Decepticons, no. Of course not. Ratchet will never stand up and say the Decepticons are taking the right path and have the best of intentions.
But it’s not his place to judge Deadlock’s choices. It’s Deadlock’s right, his freedom, to decide. Ratchet has no business trying to change him, convince him otherwise. Has no right to be disappointed. None at all.
After all, it’s not Deadlock’s fault Ratchet himself doesn’t know what he wants.
He can’t keep having the same circular arguments. He can’t keep pushing when he has no right to push.
Ratchet sighs and turns back into the ship’s cabin. He’ll let Deadlock have his space, perhaps try to convince the Decepticon to come back inside once a few hours have gone by. Long enough he’s calmed. Long enough he might be willing to talk and accept… an apology.
Ratchet’s strong enough to admit when he’s wrong.
Until then, well, the ship is a mess. The detritus of their continued attempts to repair the ship litters the floor and the small table. The berthroom could use a wipedown, and Ratchet intends to rummage around and see if he can’t find a set of spare covers to swap them out.
This is going to be home for the indefinite future. He might as well make it relatively neat.
So Ratchet works.
He always functions better when he’s working anyway. He has less time to think because he focuses solely on the tasks at hand. He picks up the tools and spare parts, returning them to their respective boxes in the storage closet. He shoves the comms array to one side, out of the immediate path, metal scraping against the floor as he does so.
He finds an empty bin and uses it to gather up all the random bits and pieces of broken wires, plates, parts, anything that might be salvageable or that he can’t bear to toss because it might be useful at some point. He successfully locates a spare set of cloths in the storage closet and changes out the berth. He debates for several long moments before giving the soiled ones a quick scrub in the wash rack, squeezing them out, and hanging them to dry.
It might work. It might not. One can hope.
By the time he’s done, a couple hours have passed, the interior of the shuttle is cleaner than any habsuite Ratchet has ever owned, and he’s found not one, but two more bottles of hidden engex in the shuttle, both of differing flavors than the first, and one with a label so faded, it was probably on the shuttle long before the Decepticons seized ownership of the ship.
Deadlock still hasn’t returned.
So Ratchet grabs one of the bottles of engex as a peace offering and ventures outside. He doubts Deadlock has taken off or gone very far. Where would he go?
Ratchet circles around the ship, but it’s not until he spies Deadlock’s dangling feet that he realizes the Decepticon has taken perch atop the shuttle. There’s zero chance Ratchet can clamber up there. He’s not a nimble speedster.
“What do you want?” the question comes through the comm with zero inflection and not an ounce of warmth.
“I’ve come with a peace offering,” Ratchet replies, and holds up the bottle for Deadlock to see.
Deadlock stares at him, expression flat.
“And an apology,” Ratchet adds, grudging.
“I’m listening.” Deadlock tilts his head.
Ratchet cycles a steadying ventilation. “I have no right to judge you,” he says. “And it’s not my place to… recruit you either. Your choices are your own. We wear different badges, but we are in the same circumstance, and they don’t matter.” He draws heavily on Wheeljack’s charisma for this, wishing his best friend were here to make it easier. For a lot of things. “You’re Deadlock first, and a Decepticon second.”
Deadlock lifts his chin. “And?”
“And I am sorry,” Ratchet says through the comm, relieved it can’t translate the sound of his gritted denta.
Deadlock’s lips curve in a smirk. “You should have led with that.” He hops down from the shuttle, landing down with a puff of dust around him. “For what it’s worth, in return, I won’t brag about the Autobots I’ve killed. Or reference them so flippantly.”
“I appreciate that,” Ratchet replies. Relief loosens the clamp of his armor. “Are we good then?”
“Good enough.” Deadlock plucks the bottle of engex from his hand and examines the label. “I don’t recognize this.”
“I didn’t think you would. Think it’s been here since the shuttle was constructed.”
Deadlock turns the bottle over and over in his hands, examining it from all angles. He squints at the bottom of it. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Turmoil seized my ship from an old shipping yard to give it to me.”
“Would it offend you if I said that doesn’t surprise me?”
Deadlock tucks the bottle under his arm and cocks an orbital ridge. “Why would it? Turmoil is an aft. There’s no love lost there.” His mouth sets in a grim line. “Loathe is probably a better term.”
Ratchet folds his arms over his head. “Good to know.” He shifts and looks over Deadlock’s shoulder, squinting at the drifting asteroids around them. “You ready to come back inside, or would you rather stay out here and enjoy the view?”
Deadlock slants him a look before he taps the end of the bottle. “I think it’s time to pop this open.” He strides past Ratchet without a second word, and Ratchet makes the assumption they’re returning to the shuttle interior.
Minor crisis averted.
He follows Deadlock back into the shuttle, and they work together to close the rear hatch, the grate of the sliding mechanism informing them that the more they move it, the less it’ll move in the future. Ratchet supposes that doesn’t matter. Eventually, the batteries will run out of charge, and they won’t have atmosphere to produce anyway.
The door notches into place, and the atmospheric cyclers kick on with an audible whirr. Deadlock turns, dusting his hands, and blinks.
“You cleaned,” he says.
Ratchet plants his hands on his hips, unable to resist a grin of pride. “Yes.”
Deadlock moves further inside, slowly, like a newly adopted turbofox kit inspecting its new home. “As apologies go, that’s very effective.” He peers into the berth room and gives Ratchet an approving look over his shoulder. “Even changed the covers. I’m impressed.” He pauses to grin. “Almost feels like a seduction.”
Ratchet snorts, ignoring the twinge of heat coiling lazily in his lines. Emotional upheaval aside, his array remembers all too well the pleasure Deadlock had offered. They had shared a berth only just last night after all.
Once Ratchet gets over himself, he admits, he wouldn’t mind doing so again. Right now, their badges don’t matter. They’re not at war. They’re just two very attractive mechs, stranded together, relying on one another.
They can worry about the rest later.
“Interpret it however you like,” Ratchet says, careful to keep his tone casual.
“Thanks. I intend to.” Deadlock gives him a sidelong look before he continues on, dropping down into the pilot’s seat, which squeaks beneath him. He gestures to the other, finger crooked, and Ratchet takes that as an invitation.
The lid pops on the engex as Ratchet gingerly lowers himself into the chair. Deadlock pops one foot up on the console and takes a hearty swig of the engex before offering it to Ratchet with a smack of his lips.
“It’s good,” he says, and gives the bottle a wiggle. “Come now. We’re too intimate to bother with cups anymore.”
Well.
He’s got a point.
Ratchet takes the engex and gives it a sniff, his optics filling with lubricant at the bitter odor, a bit like stale hydraulic fluid. It’s going to burn, he’s sure of it.
Two seconds later, Ratchet’s intake seizes, and his tank rebels, and only sheer force of will keeps the first swallow down. Tankrot, he thinks, is the best term to describe this engex. It boils in his tank like volcanic fire, and sends a surge of overcharge through his lines.
He hands it back, his glossa tingling. “That’ll put a kick in your engine,” he grits out. “Maybe we should pour it on the fuel cells.”
Deadlock barks a laugh. “Too rough for your fancy system, I see.” He takes a hearty swig and winks. “Don’t worry. This leaker here will take care of it.”
A throb of guilt squeezes Ratchet’s spark. “Don’t,” he says, his voice purposefully hushed. “Don’t denigrate yourself like that. It’s not what I think.”
“Isn’t it?” Deadlock’s question cuts to the strut, for all that he’s grinning, and his head tilts, almost playful. “Isn’t that what you see when you look at me? One-part leaker, one-part Decepticon, one-hundred percent living proof of your failure?”
Ratchet’s hand clenches into a fist on his lap. His gaze drops. “I deserved that.”
“Yeah, you did.” Deadlock takes another swig and tips back in the chair, the spring of it squeaking as he pushes himself into a slow rock, testing the flexibility of the stabilizing column. “If it eases your conscience any, I was a leaker, and I probably still am, under the badge. I’m a Decepticon, too. I’m not anyone’s failure but my own, so you know, stop blaming yourself.”
Ratchet works his intake. “Right,” he says, his mouth dry, and the lump growing larger in his intake. “I’ll try, but blaming myself. It’s kind of my defining personality trait.” He quirks an off-balanced smile, trying to inject some levity back into the conversation.
Deadlock grins and offers the bottle of engex.
Ratchet accepts, and accepts even more the way it numbs his glossa, sits thin and fiery in his tank, makes his head spin in a manner he can’t decide if he enjoys or hates. He hands it back.
“Come on, Doc. I’m sure you have plenty of unappealing traits. Let’s not focus on the one,” Deadlock says with a laugh. He wraps his lips around the mouth of the bottle, intake bobbing as he takes several long gulps.
“More unappealing than appealing, that’s true,” Ratchet grunts. He rests one foot on the console, nearly mimicking Deadlock’s pose. “You know. The comm’s shot. The engines are dead. Our batteries will die sooner rather than later.”
Deadlock’s glossa flicks over his lips. Ratchet may or may not track the quick-wet motion. “You’re just full of that Autobot optimism today, aren’t you?”
“Hey.” Ratchet points a vaguely wobbly finger at the Decepticon. “If I can’t stereotype by badge, neither can you.”
“Fair enough.” Deadlock chuckles and swings the bottle toward Ratchet, half empty as it is. “I think I might have a solution to our problem.”
Ratchet snatches up the bottle and takes a hefty swig, swallowing it as quickly as possible. His mouth very much feels like he can’t shake the oily, sticky taste. He gags, and swallows down the urge to purge.
“Share,” he squeaks out, and ignores Deadlock’s amused look.
“I’m thinking… emergency beacon. That sort of thing. We can’t set up a two-way communication but maybe we can send out a signal.” Deadlock talks and gestures with the bottle the whole time, his grin getting lazier, the gleam of his optics a softer hue. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“It’s worth a shot,” Ratchet says.
“Sure is.” Deadlock’s glossa flashes whip-quick over his lips. He offers the bottle, and Ratchet declines, shaking his head.
The world shakes a little, too.
“Anymore and I’ll be worse off than I was last night,” Ratchet says.
Deadlock’s head swivels toward him. He gives Ratchet a long look before he takes a swig of the engex and sits up, setting the bottle on the console with a hearty thunk.
“It’s stronger,” Ratchet adds, not sure how to define the look on Deadlock’s face. There’s heat, certainly, and curiosity both.
He’s staring at Ratchet, optics drifting up and down, and the sound of his engine giving the tiniest of surges is far too loud in the still quiet of the downed shuttle.
“But you’re coherent,” Deadlock says as he stands, slowly, carefully, like a predator stalking prey. “Capable of making informed decisions?”
Ratchet squints. “… Yes?” Anticipation coils in his tanks. He doesn’t know if he’s reading Deadlock’s field right or not. Presumption has already made a fool of him thrice.
“Good.” Deadlock moves toward Ratchet, one hand bracing on the back of the chair, as he leans into Ratchet’s space and slants his mouth over Ratchet’s.
Ratchet freezes, stunned but not opposed, as Deadlock’s lips fall over his, warm and wet, his ex-vents tasting of the tankrot engex. His glossa flicks out, teasing the seam of Ratchet’s lips, before Deadlock pulls back, smirking. His field lazily slides over Ratchet’s, drizzling charge in its wake.
Ratchet licks his lips. “I take it you don’t hate me then,” he says, his voice thick with static until he reboots his vocalizer. He rubs his hands down his thighs, hunger coiling like smoke in the pit of his belly.
Deadlock chuckles. “This would be what I call the ‘making up’ part of our non-relationship. Unless you’re not interested.”
“I don’t understand you,” Ratchet sighs. His head spins a little, and he doesn’t know if it’s Deadlock’s proximity or the engex, or some heady mix of both.
“That’s not an answer either.” Deadlock hums, his hand sliding across the back of the chair until his thumb brushes the side of Ratchet’s intake, sending a frisson of heat down his spinal strut.
Ratchet’s engine revs. “No, I’m not protesting,” he grits out and grabs the back of Deadlock’s head, yanking him in for a kiss.
Their denta clang. Deadlock laughs against his mouth, but eagerly responds, turning the kiss fierce and hungry within the space of a sparkbeat. He nips at Ratchet’s lips, making them tingle, and his free hand drops to Ratchet’s thigh, sliding up and up with a slow glide of dermal metal on metal.
Ratchet pays too much attention to the track of that hand, and he makes a muffled sound of disappointment when it abandons his leg before reaching his groin.
Deadlock ends the kiss with a dark chuckle, his field rolling over Ratchet’s with tangible arousal. “There are better places for this,” he says, and in the next vent, grabs Ratchet’s free hand with his own and yanks, trying to pull Ratchet from the chair.
He succeeds, only because Ratchet isn’t suspecting it. He lurches up, stumbling against Deadlock, and they crash backward, impacting against the console. Something blats angrily at them, but Pit, the whole thing is broken, so what does it matter.
It’s unfair that Deadlock is seemingly unbothered by the engex, because he swings Ratchet around and his aft hits the console with another irritated beep. His hands go firm on Ratchet’s hips, holding him in place, and he dips his head, mouth latching onto Ratchet’s throat.
Ratchet groans, tips his head back, thighs obediently parting for the knee nudging between them. “Seems, ah, like you have something in mind.”
“You had it your way last time,” Deadlock says against his throat, denta grazing Ratchet’s cables, strengthening the charge clawing up his back strut. “Now it’s my turn.”
Ratchet’s hands grip the edge of the console as he’s trapped between it and the heat of Deadlock’s frame. Lust surges through his lines, his processor spinning with need. His groin throbs behind his array panels.
“Fair enough,” he manages to gasp as Deadlock’s denta latch onto his cables and bite down, not enough to draw energon, but enough to bruise.
Ratchet groans, his vents caught in his intake. His knees wobble.
He feels Deadlock smirk in his throat, and then Deadlock abruptly drops. Ratchet’s grip on the console is all that keeps him upright, while Deadlock’s hold on his hips pin him in place. Wet heat laps across Ratchet’s panel, followed by a puff of damp warmth.
Ratchet rolls his head down, and moans as he catches sight of Deadlock licking his panel again, grinning up at him with dark optics and bared denta.
“Gonna open up for me?” he asks, pressing his lips to Ratchet’s panel, the vibrations of his voice surging through the metal. “Or are you going to make me work for it?”
Ratchet’s fingers tighten on the edge of the console. He swears it creaks beneath his grip. He tries to think of something witty, but it’s lost to the rapid swipe of his panels sliding open, his array coming into view.
Deadlock chuckles, and the erotic sound of it does something hot and electric to Ratchet’s lines. His knees threaten to wobble against the console.
He blames it on the engex. It has absolutely nothing to do with how sexy Deadlock is, or how much Ratchet wants to feel those lips wrapped around his spike.
“Eager, are we?” he asks as he ex-vents hot and wet over the tip of Ratchet’s spike, already pressurizing with embarrassing pace toward the temptation of Deadlock’s mouth.
Ratchet rolls his hips, nudging the tip of his spike over Deadlock’s lips. “I only want what I’m being promised.”
“Impatient, too.” Deadlock closes his lips around the tip of Ratchet’s spike, his glossa prodding at the transfluid slit.
Ratchet’s head tips back, denta gritting, a wave of need sweeping through his frame. His spike fully pressurizes, firming against Deadlock’s tongue, pre-fluid beading up so swiftly he’s almost embarrassed. Or he would be, if it wasn’t for the engex swamping his processor, and the warm-wet-pressure of Deadlock’s mouth around his spike.
“Primus,” Ratchet groans, gripping the console to keep from gripping Deadlock’s head and thrusting deep.
Deadlock chuckles around his spike, sending vibrations through it, before he swallows Ratchet deeper, until the head of his spike bumps the back of Deadlock’s intake.
Ratchet moans, hips rocking into the warmth of Deadlock’s mouth, his spike throbbing and his valve clenching hungrily on nothing. Lubricant wells up, building behind his panel, and he simultaneously wants to spill down Deadlock’s intake, and overload with a spike nudging his ceiling node.
He pants, drawing in a desperate vent, the heat of Deadlock’s mouth a hungry embrace. Deadlock swallows around him, over and over, intake a rippling squeeze that drags out another pitiful squeak of pleasure. Ratchet’s knees wobble. He has to fight himself not to grip Deadlock’s head again.
Deadlock moans. The slick sound of lubricant floats to Ratchet’s audials. He looks down, and the flame of need in his belly flares into an inferno.
Deadlock’s got his own spike in hand, jerking himself off furiously, little drips of pre-fluid spattering down on the floor beneath him. His field reaches up, twining with Ratchet’s, sharing a buzzing surge of desire. It’s almost suffocating, the blazing heat of Deadlock’s need, and it coils in Ratchet’s belly and surges up to nestle in his spark.
Ratchet breathes a curse and blindly paws at Deadlock’s head, wrapping his fingers around one of the protruding finials. “Get up here,” he snarls as another fierce suck makes his legs quiver, and he slumps back against the console. “Get up here and frag me now, damn it.”
Deadlock chuckles around his spike, the vibrations sending a surge straight to Ratchet’s nodes. He looks up at Ratchet, grinning with a mouthful of spike, and pulls off slow, achingly slow, suckling as he does, like he’s trying to suck the very overload out of him.
Ratchet growls through his denta, back curving, vents roaring, until Deadlock mouths only the tip, glossa prodding at his slit. The curve of his lips is a smirk, there’s challenge in his optics, and the tickle of his field drags through Ratchet’s with teasing fingers.
“Deadlock!”
The Decepticon lets him slip free with a slurp, and licks his lips. He rises, hands shifting to glide up Ratchet’s legs, leaving a smear of his own pre-fluid on Ratchet’s armor.
“I have to admit, I enjoy the sound of you begging,” Deadlock says with a laugh. He leans in, licks the corner of Ratchet’s mouth.
“I think that was more of a demand,” Ratchet growls. He lifts his legs around Deadlock’s waist, bearing his weight against the useless console behind him, tugging the Decepticon against him.
Deadlock’s spike nestles over his valve, the head of it rubbing his rim, skating up to glance across his anterior node, and a shiver of near-overload zings down Ratchet’s spinal strut. He grits his denta, holds back, feels pre-fluid painting over his array.
“Stop being a tease,” Ratchet adds as he knocks his heels against Deadlock’s thighs, pulling him even closer. “Show me that mod of yours this time.”
Deadlock leans into him, hands bracketing Ratchet’s sides, bearing him backward onto the console, which creaks alarmingly beneath them. “Not yet.” His mouth travels lower, lips and denta finding Ratchet’s intake, nibbling on delicate cables. “I think you need to trust me a bit more for that.”
“Stop being so damn mysterious – ah!” Anger splutters out into a moan as Deadlock thrusts into him, filling him in one push, the thick glide of spike over his sensitized nodes making Ratchet jolt.
His thighs tighten around Deadlock’s waist. He topples back, elbows hitting switches on the console, making something beep annoyingly. Denta pinch down on his cables, sending pain and pleasure into a chaotic mix through his lines.
Deadlock pushes him into him quickly, no more tease, just a need for release in the harsh motions, raking charge within Ratchet’s valve with every thrust. Ratchet gasps, lights dancing behind his optics, his processor spinning, the damp head of his spike grinding against Deadlock’s abdomen, leaving smears of his own pre-fluid behind.
Overload snatches him in a sudden grip, and he thrashes, valve clamping down on Deadlock, rippling around his spike, surges of charge dancing over his armor and spilling down into the console below. Pleasure spurs his vents into the fastest spin, whirring, his thighs squeezing hard enough to cause Deadlock’s armor to groan from the pressure.
Deadlock’s mouth seals over his, glossa shoving inside, and Ratchet tastes himself in the kiss, hot metal and his own transfluid, and it sends a surge of lust through his lines. He bucks up against Deadlock, valve still rippling and spilling charge, and feels the hot splash of transfluid inside him as Deadlock spills his overload.
Ratchet groans, grabbing Deadlock’s head, holding him place to deepen the kiss. Licking and nipping, sucking on his glossa, his processor spinning. He rolls up, valve hungrily cycling, wanting more, feeling like it’s not enough.
“Hold on,” Deadlock growls into his mouth, and Ratchet tightens his thighs as Deadlock grabs his hips and lifts.
He staggers, hydraulics groaning, and Ratchet expects them to go toppling to the ground, but Deadlock manages one backward step, then two, each one jostling his still-pressurized spike in Ratchet’s valve.
“You’re not going to make it to the berth room,” Ratchet says.
“Good thing that’s not where I’m going then,” Deadlock retorts, and backs up one final step before he drops down, aiming for the chair behind him.
They tumble into it, Ratchet’s feet moving aside at the last second so as not to be crushed. The chair groans in warning, but holds, and Ratchet moans as Deadlock is better seated inside of him, the head of his spike grinding hot and hard over his ceiling node.
“And here I was all set to mock you for your stamina,” Ratchet pants, his feet finding purchase on the floor, enabling him to lift and drop himself on Deadlock’s spike, building the pleasure within him all over again.
Deadlock scoffs, one hand snaking between their frames to curl around Ratchet’s spike and give him a fair squeeze. “If anyone’s to be doing any mocking, it’s me.”
“How’s that?” Ratchet asks as his grips Deadlock’s shoulders, fingers digging in to Deadlock’s seams, teasing the cables beneath.
“Why don’t you tell me?” Deadlock bites at Ratchet’s intake. “Are you going to have another attack of conscience in the morning?”
Oh.
Fully deserved that.
Ratchet barks a laugh. “Only if you don’t keep up your end of the bargain tonight. You’d better frag me silly.”
Denta latch onto his cable, biting down, just shy of drawing energon, and lightning streaks jagged up Ratchet’s backstrut. He arches against Deadlock, valve spooling tight, pleasure spiraling outward from the pressure of the denta.
“I think I can do that,” Deadlock purrs against his intake before stealing his lips, smothering him in another one of those deep, claiming kisses.
Ratchet groans and gives himself over to it.
He’s on vacation, after all, and it doesn’t have to mean a thing.
a/n: As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated. ^_^
