BlueRev 💦

I am BEGGING you I am ovulating rn and I am jorking it crazy style to ur stuff it is activating my primeval lizard brain I am insatiable please please please (punches a hole in the drywall)

TFA Sentinel Valveplug Art

Full version link here ♡

(it was my Birthday gift for my friend)

Also, I wonder if Cliffjumper’s horns are sensitive perhaps 🤔 🤔

I hope I got it right aaaahh

In my head this could be their very first sticky meeting, so I imagined Ratchet still quite young and a bit less inexperienced (and a lot quite horny), like the war has already been going on for a while, but Deadlock has only recently joined the Decepticon and has already started making a name for himself (idk if this makes sense lmao)

PLEASE MINORS DONT READ IT

🔞

Every now and then, Ratchet had the distinct impression that Primus himself had decided to punish his lack of faith by throwing him into increasingly dire situations.

This was one of them.

The doctor had found himself trapped inside an old, abandoned laboratory, searching for documents that might shed light on the Decepticons’ plans. But while he was inside, a snowstorm had swept in, making it nearly impossible to leave.

And as if that weren’t enough, Ratchet wasn’t alone.

He’d had the incredible misfortune of running into Deadlock; feared sniper, assassin, and Decepticon with a capital D.

Fortunately for the medic, Deadlock was injured.

Apparently, he had been sent there for the same reason as Ratchet; to retrieve plans one of his brilliant comrades had managed to lose.

But the storm had reached him first. His ship had gone down in the blizzard.

Deadlock had made it as far as the lab, leaving a trail of energon in the snow, and if Ratchet hadn’t found him when he did, he likely would have bled out.

Which was how Ratchet ended up doing the one thing he absolutely shouldn’t have; helping a Decepticon.

Kneeling beside him, repairing the ugly, deep wound torn across his chest.

Deadlock sat with his back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, red optics fixed on Ratchet as if studying him from a distance.

Ratchet wasn’t afraid; not exactly, but there was a certain unease settling under his plating.

He knew who Deadlock was. He had known him even before he became Deadlock, and yet, he had never been this close to him.

The dark armor, the subtle vibration of his finials each time Ratchet’s digits brushed against the wound, the sharp lines of his faceplate, undeniably… handsome.

And the fact that Ratchet couldn’t remember the last time he had been touched by another mech without the intent to harm certainly didn’t help.

Deadlock must have noticed something, because at some point, he tilted his helm slightly, a slow, knowing motion, his sharp canines flashing in a smile that promised nothing good.

“I thought doctors were supposed to be gentle with their servos.”

For a moment, Ratchet stilled, meeting his gaze with cold intensity.

“Remind me again why I shouldn’t just throw you back out there to bleed in the snow.”

He muttered, irritation lacing his voice as he resumed his work.

Then, Deadlock’s servo caught his chin.

Not gentle, not careful, but firm, possessive; the touch of someone used to taking without asking.

Ratchet was pulled closer, forced to meet his gaze, trapped in that grip. For a moment, his vents stalled, his breath catching.

“Because,” Deadlock murmured, his voice low, “judging by the way your faceplate is flushing… you don’t seem to mind having me here.”

A pause.

“Do you?”

Ratchet opened his mouth, then closed it again. He pulled himself free from Deadlock’s hold and turned back to his work, or rather, used it as an excuse to avoid his gaze.

For a few moments, neither of them spoke.

The silence was broken only by the soft sound of Ratchet’s digits working against the metal of Deadlock’s chassis as he sealed the wound.

Then, suddenly, Deadlock’s servo found his back.

The touch was brief. Gentle. A single digit trailing slowly down his spine, but it was enough.

Ratchet shivered, his frame tensing, heat rushing to his faceplate as he looked up at him, optics wide.

At that expression, Deadlock let out a low laugh.

“Oh, come on.” He said, amusement lacing his voice. “Don’t tell me it takes that little to get you worked up.”

“It doesn’t!”

Ratchet shot back immediately, his flush deepening.

Part of him was tired of this; of the tension, the games, the way everything seemed to teeter on the edge of something dangerous. He couldn’t wait for the storm to pass, for this to be over.

But another part of him craved it. Craved the contact.

He knew it was wrong. Deadlock was a Decepticon. A killer. And most likely, he was just playing with him like a predator toying with its prey, and yet the way his gaze seemed to devour him, the lingering warmth of his servo on his back, the firm grip on his chin… every gesture felt like an invitation.

“If it helps,” Deadlock added, voice softer now, “you look good when you blush.”

That was something he absolutely shouldn’t have said.

Not now, not like this, not when Ratchet already felt like he was standing on the edge of something he couldn’t control.

“And I bet you’d look even better if you kept your mouth shut.”

Ratchet shot back through gritted denta.

But he hadn’t noticed, he had moved closer.

Too close.

Close enough that Deadlock’s crimson gaze flicked briefly to his dermas.

“Then go on.” Deadlock murmured. “Shut me up.”

And Ratchet, foolishly, did.

His vents hitched, a shaky exvent escaping him as he leaned in, hesitant at first, before his dermas finally met Deadlock’s.

The contact was tentative, a soft press that sent a jolt through his circuits, making his servos clench at his sides.

Deadlock didn’t hesitate. His laugh rumbled low in his chassis, vibrating against Ratchet’s frame as he surged forward, capturing the medic’s dermas in a kiss that was anything but gentle; it was hungry, demanding, his glossa pushing past Ratchet’s dermas with a possessive swipe, tasting the fear on his intake.

Ratchet’s optics widened in shock, a muffled whine escaping him as Deadlock’s glossa explored his intake, hot and insistent. He was felt overwhelmed; the warmth of the kiss clashing with the chill seeping through the lab’s walls, his frame trembling under the intensity.

Part of him wanted to shove Deadlock away, to retreat behind his professional walls, but the hunger in that touch pinned him, stirring something deep in his spark that he’d long suppressed.

His servos hovered uncertainly, finally settling on Deadlock’s shoulders; not pushing, but gripping, as if anchoring himself against the storm raging both outside and within.

Deadlock growled into the kiss, the sound vibrating through their joined dermas, his free servo trailing up Ratchet’s side, claws scraping lightly over the medic’s plating in a way that made Ratchet arch involuntarily.

The Decepticon was ravenous, devouring every hesitant response, every soft gasp, as if he’d been starving for this connection amid the isolation of the blizzard. He nipped at Ratchet’s lower derma, drawing a sharp intake from the doctor, before soothing it with a slow, deliberate lick; his crimson optics half-lidded, burning with unrestrained want.

Ratchet broke the kiss first, pulling back just enough to vent raggedly, his faceplate flushed a deep blue, optics darting away in embarrassment.

“This… this is a mistake.”

He whispered, voice shaky, but his frame betrayed him, leaning closer.

Deadlock’s smile was predatory, his glossa darting out to trace his own dermas.

“Then why does it feel so right, doc?”

He murmured, pulling Ratchet back in for another kiss; this one slower, but no less hungry, his servo slipping lower to press against the medic’s hip, testing the boundaries with a firm squeeze.

Ratchet’s protest died on his dermas as Deadlock’s mouth claimed his again, the kiss deepening with a fervor that made his circuits overload in sparks of heat. Deadlock’s glossa tangled with his, stroking and teasing, drawing out soft, involuntary sounds from Ratchet’s intake.

The medic’s frame trembled, his servos clutching at Deadlock’s shoulders for support, digits digging into the Decepticon’s plating as if to ground himself amid the whirlwind of sensation.

Deadlock broke the kiss just long enough to growl, his voice rough with need.

“You’re shaking, doc. Let me take care of that.”

Before the medic could respond, Deadlock’s servos gripped his waist, strong and unyielding, lifting him effortlessly. Ratchet let out a startled exvent, his optics widening as he was maneuvered, his frame light in the assassin’s grasp despite his protests.

“W-wait- Deadlock, what are you-”

Ratchet’s words faltered, his faceplate burning with a mix of embarrassment and anticipation.

He was positioned astride Deadlock’s hips, the Decepticon reclining back against the wall with a satisfied smirk, his crimson optics locked on Ratchet’s flushed faceplate.

“Shh…”

Deadlock murmured, his servos sliding up Ratchet’s thighs. “Just feel it. You’ve been fighting this long enough.” His touch was insistent, claws tracing the edges of Ratchet’s interface panel.

Ratchet’s vents hitched, his frame arching slightly as the panel opened, exposing his valve; already slick with arousal, dripping lubricant in betrayal of his hesitance.

Deadlock’s optics darkened at the sight, a hungry rumble vibrating through his chassis. He reached down, his own panel retracting with a mechanical whir, his spike pressurizing fully; thick, ridged, and throbbing with need. It stood rigid against his abdomen, the tip beading with lubricant, begging for friction.

“Look at you.” Deadlock breathed, his servo wrapping around his spike, stroking it once, twice, before guiding Ratchet’s hips lower. “So ready for me, even if you won’t admit it.”

Ratchet’s optics flickered down, a whimper escaping him at the sight of Deadlock’s spike, so close, so insistent.

His valve clenched emptily, aching for the fill he both craved.

“This is insane.”

He whispered, voice trembling, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his servos braced on Deadlock’s chassis -careful not to touch the wound- feeling the rapid pulse of the Decepticon’s spark beneath the metal.

Deadlock chuckled, one servo steadying Ratchet’s hip while the other aligned his spike with the medic’s entrance.

“Insane is my specialty, doc. Now show me how much you want this.”

With a gentle but firm push, he urged Ratchet down, the blunt head of his spike breaching the valve’s rim, stretching it slowly.

Ratchet gasped, his frame tensing as the intrusion began; hot, thick pressure filling him inch by inch.

His walls fluttered around the invading length, gripping tightly as Deadlock’s spike sank deeper, sending jolts of pleasure through his circuits.

“Ah! Deadlock-”

He moaned, optics offline, helm tipping back as he adjusted to the fullness.

It was overwhelming, the stretch bordering on too much, yet it ignited every sensor in his valve, making his own spike twitch.

Deadlock groaned, his grip tightening on Ratchet’s hips, fighting the urge to thrust up.

“That’s it… so tight around me. Move, Ratchet.”

His voice was a low command, laced with raw hunger, his optics devouring the sight of the medic above him; faceplate flushed, dermas parted.

Hesitant at first, Ratchet lifted his hips experimentally.

He sank back down, slower this time, grinding at the base to feel every ridge.

The pleasure built steadily, coiling in his spark. His servos roamed Deadlock’s chassis, tracing scars and seams, as he found a rhythm; up and down, rolling his hips in tentative circles that made transfluid slick the connection.

Deadlock’s servos roamed freely now, one cupping Ratchet’s aft to guide his movements, the other stroking the medic’s spike in time with his rides.

“Primus, you feel perfect.”

He growled, thrusting shallowly up to meet each descent, the slap of metal on metal echoing in the dim lab. His kiss from earlier lingered in Ratchet’s thoughts, hot and claiming, fueling the fire as he rode harder, chasing the peak.

Ratchet’s pace quickened, his valve clenching rhythmically around Deadlock’s spike, until overload crashing over him in waves; his spike erupting, spilling as cries tore from his intake.

Deadlock followed with a guttural roar, his spike pulsing deep inside, flooding Ratchet’s valve with hot transfluid until it overflowed, dripping down their joined frames.

They stilled, vents heaving in unison, Ratchet collapsing forward onto Deadlock’s chest, the Decepticon’s arms wrapping around him possessively.

Whirl: If anyone objects to this union, raise your hand-”.

Getaway: *raises hand*

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