untitled still
transformers ;; ratchlock ;; wc: 967 ;; NSFW, ratchet solo mostly.
back to writing! read it on tumblr!
Ratchet is tired.
He is, honest! He’s tired and he’s trying to recharge. He gets exactly 8 hours of off-time, not one second more, and he’s attempting to use every single one of those hours to sleep. After a long day of patching wounds and almost getting shot, he deserves it.
But he can’t. The fact he can’t makes him angry at himself, which in turn makes him more awake, but really, there’s a very simple reason he can’t sleep.
That was him.
That’s the thought, running back and forth in Ratchet’s processor as he stares up at the ceiling of his hab. That was him. He was there. He saw me, I saw him, we saw each other. That was him. He didn’t try and shoot me. That last part felt important, for some reason. Maybe it was just that he– Drift, Deadlock– couldn’t get a good shot from where he was, but Ratchet really had a feeling that if the ‘con wanted to shoot him, he would’ve.
But they saw each other. They locked optics. For one moment, one planet-shattering moment, Ratchet was back in the clinic, fresh out of university, staring at the most handsome mech he’d ever met– who apparently went on to make the worst decision of his life. They saw each other, they locked optics, and there was no mistaking that recognition on both ends. Deadlock recognized Ratchet as much as Ratchet recognized him.
In an absolutely awful move, a small part of Ratchet’s processor grabs onto that fact. He recognized me, with an air of flattery surrounding that knowledge. Staring up at the ceiling, Ratchet felt his faceplates heating up, and then got even angrier with himself for this line of thinking. You spoke once, and now he’s a ‘con, and he’s probably gonna try to kill you pretty soon to get rid of his “emotional attachments” or something– if he even has an attachment. He’s chastising himself in hopes that the thoughts will leave his processor and just let him recharge.
Alas, leave his processor they do not. Instead, that small part becomes so much more insistent. He could’ve shot you, and he didn’t, which must mean something, right? It says, and then all hell breaks loose. That single thought is all it takes for the rest of Ratchet’s processor to start generating other things; the ‘con coming to him, them talking in a battlefield. Deadlock being happy to see him, Deadlock becoming an Autobot (as if). Deadlock taking a hold of Ratchet’s servos, and looking at him in the eye, locking optics once more.
Leaning down, and– and–
Ratchet physically smacks himself. Don’t think about it. Sleep.
His processor continues. Deadlock’s servos around his waist. Deadlock pulling him closer, flush against his larger frame. Deadlock’s servos trailing down, further, further–
Stop! Stop it, stop thinking about it!
Ratchet feels his paneling shift, and his valve is exposed before he’s aware his interfacing programs ever came online. He groans, turning over, burying his helm into the berth. He attempts to offline those programs and close his valve, but finds that he can’t.
Frustrated, he hesitantly trails a hand down, running a finger over his slit. He startles feeling just how wet he actually is– seriously, this worked up? Just from a few mental images?
Biting his lip, and realizing that he’s probably not going to be able to sleep until he takes care of himself, he dips a finger inside, gasping at the feeling. It’s been a good few-hundred-thousand years since he’s done anything like this; turns out, being a war medic kills all your free time and your sex drive. The sensation is familiar, but blessedly refreshing, and soon he’s rocking his hips into it, slowly pushing in a second next to the first, using his other hand to rub his node.
His processor continues to work. He imagines his digits being a bit sharper, and imagines himself pressed against the large body of the ‘con. Drift did have a nice voice, Ratchet remembered, and his processor attempted to warp what he remembered of that handsome, low voice into encouragement for the medic. No doubt, he would sound a bit different now, but Ratchet could overlook that.
Such a good mech, imaginary-Deadlock said to him, taking my fingers so well for me. You love being stretched out like this, don’t you?
“Yes,” Ratchet gasped, offlining his optics, allowing himself to fall full-on into the fantasy.
You like being treated like this? By a ‘con? Like that I’m the one doing this to you?
“Yes!” Ratchet repeats, a bit louder this time, and he’s suddenly so glad his hab is soundproofed.
Could take you with me, back to the ‘cons, the voice says, and in the recesses of Ratchet’s mind he knows he’s really saying it to himself (which is probably worrying), but he’s too far gone to care. Could keep you in my hab, could treat you like the slut you are. You want that, Ratch?
“Deadlock,” Ratchet lets out, panting, fucking himself on his two fingers in earnest, picking up his speed. “Deadlock, yes, I– I want–”
You wanna overload?
“I want, I want to overload–”
Do it for me, Ratch. Overload while getting fingered by a ‘con.
A moment later, Ratchet’s joints lock up, and he falls forward, moaning into the berth. His valve clenches and unclenches around his fingers, transfluid dripping between them, down his servo.
Finally, his processor begins to calm, and he groans, removing his servo from himself. He should seriously go wash up, but as he thinks that, all of his exhaustion catches up with him, and he finds he cannot actually move.
Sighing, he figures, I’ll just do it before my next shift, and allows recharge to finally, finally claim him.