if you insist on falling in love- you've killed me, you've killed me
transformers ;; ratchlock ;; wc: 767 ;; NSFW, dub-con, gunplay sort of.
back to writing! read it on tumblr!
The gun at his helm– roughly at his helm– shakes. Even at such a close distance, if Deadlock were to pull the trigger, Ratchet wasn’t sure it would actually hit.
Ratchet held the welder to the wound Deadlock had commanded him to fix, his other servo braced against the Decepticon’s midriff. Every now and then he’d let out a grunt and shift, and after doing so for the fifth time, Ratchet tsks, and forces the ‘con into place, gripping his middle tighter. “If you want me to do this, you need to hold still. It’s gonna be a slipshod job if you don’t.”
Deadlock bared his fangs, engines rumbling in something like a growl. “You better watch your mouth, doc.”
“Or what?” Ratchet scoffs, “You’ll shoot me? And go running back to your ship with a half-patched wound?” A small smirk stretches across his face. “Do the ‘cons even have medics?”
Again, Deadlock’s engines make that growling noise. “Better medics than you, yeah.”
Ratchet quickly looks down, certain that his actual hurt was written all over his faceplates, not wanting the larger to see. He huffs, returning to the task at hand. “If they’re such good medics, get them to fix you. Don’t need to get me to do it.”
Deadlock huffed back in response. “Maybe I like having you like this, huh?” He grins. “At the end of my barrel.”
“On my knees?” Ratchet asks, raising an optical ridge.
“That’s not–” Deadlock started, engine momentarily stalling. (Which it shouldn’t, Ratchet noted, and then quickly forced himself to stop thinking about.) The medic looks up again and sees that the assassin is actually… blushing. “That’s not what I meant,” he grit out, clenching his dentae, and that was when Ratchet heard it.
Very faintly, cooling fans hummed, just barely audible over the noise of the surrounding battle. A quick scan of Ratchet’s systems confirmed his suspicions; they’re not his.
“Deadlock,” the medic starts, “are you–”
“Don’t. Don’t say anything,” Deadlock barks at him, “just ignore them.”
Except that’s basically a confirmation, and now Ratchet can’t ignore it, and he’s suddenly extremely aware of his helm being perfectly level with Deadlock’s crotch. “You’re thinking about it,” he asks, though it isn’t really a question. He lowers his welder. “How long have they been running?”
“They aren’t running,” Deadlock hisses, “I said to just ignore them.”
Against his better judgement, and despite multiple thought trees in his processor telling him not to, Ratchet, very gently, runs a servo over the ‘cons thigh. “It’s a normal reaction to have,” he starts, attempting to soothe the larger. Why is he doing this. He should not be doing this. “Lots of mechs can be…” he resets his vocalizer. “Affected, by medical treatment.”
The problem is that it isn’t the medical treatment itself that got Deadlock worked up, and really, both of them know that (though Ratchet finds it a bit hard to believe.) “Ratchet,” he exvents, as though he’s about to threaten the medic, though no actual threat comes.
Ratchet’s processor is working against him. This is bad. This is very bad. This is treason. Deadlock has killed countless Autobots, some of them being mechs Ratchet knew. Some of them were mechs Ratchet had worked on personally. Deadlock is a brutal Decepticon, hand-picked by Megatron-himself. Deadlock is a murderer.
“I can help,” Ratchet says anyway.
Deadlock heaves a heavy exvent, engine stalling once more (still worrying,) and then his panels fold back and his spike extends. And. Oh.
It makes sense, really, that he would have mods. That part isn’t really surprising. A little intimidating, with the spines and the suggestion of a knot at it’s base, but that’s not what gets him. What really makes Ratchet’s eyes go wide is the size. It’s big enough to make Ratchet think it can’t be natural, though when he thinks about it, it’s still within the realm of belief for Deadlock’s frame size. One way or another, natural or not, it bobs in front of the medic, and his thought trees quickly stop being about how this is a bad idea and instead hone in on put it in your mouth.
Ratchet tentatively licks the tip, and Deadlock lets out the smallest, quietest whimper. He slowly takes the head into his mouth, glancing up at the larger to see that he’s shoved his fist into his mouth, attempting to stifle any noise. If the medic’s intake weren’t stretching around the spike, he’d be smiling.
Deadlock’s other servo comes to rest on the back of Ratchet’s helm, and the medic lets himself relax into it.