Danish Cookie

For ratchlock.

Top tier prompt thank you

—-

Ratchet couldn’t believe he had been captured; not by the Decepticons, but by an alien race openly hostile to both factions.

He had been reckless, and now he was being escorted to a cell. His captors had told him they needed time to decide what to do with him, and the medic had a strong feeling that nothing good would come of it.

“While the council makes a decision, you will be sharing a cell with one of your Decepticon friends.”

One of the aliens said it with a toothy grin, and Ratchet’s spark skipped a beat.

Perfect.

This significantly reduced his chances of survival.

Not that Ratchet couldn’t defend himself, but firing on a battlefield was very different from engaging in close combat with a Decepticon.

“Try not to kill each other while we make a decision.” The creature said as he opened the cell, while the other guards stepped forward, raising their weapons to prevent whatever was inside from coming out.

“Or do it. Two fewer Cybertronians at once.”

The aliens laughed, and Ratchet pressed his dermas into a thin line as he stepped into the cell that would house him for who knew how long.

The door slammed shut.

Ratchet looked up and- ah, slag.

“Well, well. Look who I’ll have the pleasure of sharing this place with.”

A familiar voice; deep, laced with sadistic amusement. A frame that filled most of the cramped space. Crimson optics that seemed to devour him whole.

Of all the mechs in the universe, of all the Decepticons… it had to be him.

“Deadlock.”

Ratchet said it simply, taking a step back, only to find himself pressed against the cell door as the Decepticon advanced, thoroughly entertained by the cruelty of fate.

“Nice to see you again, doc.”

Deadlock said, stopping just short of him, not close enough to touch, but close enough to make it clear that, within those cold walls, he was very much in control.

“I didn’t think things would get so… interesting.”

A glint flickered in his optics, sending a shiver down Ratchet’s spine.

He found himself hoping -desperately- that the guards would return and announce his execution. That would be a kinder fate than whatever was currently unfolding in Deadlock’s processors.

“How about this: you stay in that corner of the cell, and I stay in this one.”

Ratchet’s voice was firm, controlled.

He would not let the other mech intimidate him. Or at least, he wouldn’t let him see it.

After everything that had passed between them on the battlefield, being forced into this proximity made something painfully clear; they were not just enemies.

And that realization terrified Ratchet far more than any death sentence.

Deadlock chuckled, and did the exact opposite.

He closed the distance between them, placing a large servo against the cell door, right beside Ratchet’s helm.

Ratchet exvented sharply.

He was close.

Too close.

This was wrong. He should have been afraid, terrified, even. That was the correct response when a mech like Deadlock pinned you in place.

But something worse crept in instead.

Something that made his spark stutter violently in his chassis.

“I think I have a better idea.”

Deadlock’s voice dropped lower, his dermas curling into a slow, knowing smile.

“And I think you’re already thinking about it, too. Aren’t you?”

Ratchet could feel the heat of his vents washing over him as Deadlock’s other servo came up to cup his chin, forcing his gaze upward, leaving him nowhere to look but into those crimson optics.

A thumb brushed slowly over his trembling lower derma.

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.

Okay hear me out, Deadlock and Ratchet but our favourite medic got hit with some sort of aphrodisiac that works on cybertronians (original, I know), and then he tries to go out on the battlefield to help wounded faction members, but ends up getting snatched by Deadlock for his own safety, as Ratchet was getting all hazy and almost died out there, and then the sniper gotta help a desperate Ratty through the effects of the aphrodisiac :3c

I swear I’ve been thinking about this all day and I couldn’t wait to get home and write it aaaahh

So, it’s VERY explicit (minors please don’t read it), and honestly I could have written more, but I held back or it would’ve gotten way too long ahah

I really hope you like it ❤️

🔞

Damn.

Whoever had prepared the medical supplies before departure was a complete idiot.

There was no way Ratchet could be digging through the medbay for something to ease his shoulder pain, and come up with nothing.

Autobot logistics were definitely going to hear about this.

Then a sharp whistle cut through the ship.

Slag. Time to deploy.

Frustration tightening his frame, Ratchet began searching faster, pushing aside containers and datapads in a growing rush. He didn’t need much, just something to dull the ache. Something that would let him function on the battlefield and make it back in one piece.

Then, finally, he found it. A small vial. An older injectable compound, its molecular structure long since outdated.

Ratchet didn’t hesitate.

He pressed it against the exposed cables at the side of his neck and triggered the injection.

For a moment, nothing.

Then the throbbing in his shoulder faded -slowly, steadily- until it was gone.

Ratchet exvented, relief loosening the tension in his systems.

Good enough.

Without wasting another second, he turned and strode out of the medbay, already reaching for a weapon as he moved to join the others.

*

The battlefield was chaos.

Blaster fire tore through the air in every direction, orders were shouted over the commotion, and the cries of the wounded blended into a single, relentless noise. The sharp scent of burnt metal and energon hung heavy around him. Ratchet moved from one soldier to the next, servos steady despite the urgency; sealing wounds, locating entry points, doing whatever he could to keep them online.

And then, something changed.

A sudden heat bloomed in his frame; not the defensive surge against chill or infection, but a deep, insistent warmth radiating from his lower chassis. Right beneath his modesty panel.

His vents kicked into overdrive, leaving him frozen in place.

Primus, not now, he thought, his processors reeling. In the middle of a fragging battle?

Yet the sensation only intensified, coiling tighter in his core, demanding attention.

He forced his vents to cycle at full blast, expelling the building pressure, but it did little to quell the fire.

Something was very wrong.

He took a step forward, and his legs faltered.

For a split klik, the unintended friction made his systems spike, and a strained sound escaped him before he could stop it.

Ratchet immediately brought a servo to his mouth, optics flicking around to make sure no one had noticed.

But the battlefield swallowed the sound whole. No one heard.

Then, all at once, the image of the vial he had injected to dull the pain in his shoulder flashed through his mind.

An older compound, outdated, and -apparently- something he should have thought twice about before using.

He hadn’t even considered the possible side effects, too rushed, too frustrated to care as long as it worked. It was designed to suppress pain by redirecting sensory input elsewhere in the system, a dangerous shortcut. And, in some cases, it was also used as an aphrodisiac.

Slag.

Ratchet raised his weapon, firing back at a volley of incoming blaster shots, but his other servo instinctively went to his waist, bracing himself as his legs threatened to give out beneath him.

The heat inside him only grew stronger -intense, consuming- spreading through his circuits like a slow burn.

He’d been an idiot. And now that mistake was about to cost him.

His vents were working overtime, his breathing uneven, his faceplate flushed with heat. His aim wavered, the slight tremor in his servo enough to throw off his precision.

Primus.

He was in serious trouble.

*

One by one, the Autobots fell to Deadlock’s unerring aim.

Prone atop a ridge, he had a clear, uninterrupted view of the battlefield below. His sights shifted from one target to the next -steady, precise- then he fired.

Each shot found its mark. Each mech dropped before they even knew what had hit them.

Then, his scope settled on a different target, and his digit froze on the trigger.

Ratchet.

The Autobot CMO.

It wasn’t the first time their paths had crossed in battle; but their history went back further than that.

Deadlock had always felt… conflicted about him. On one servo, Ratchet was the mech who had once pulled him back from the brink in the Dead End, on the other he was Optimus Prime’s medic.

His digit tightened slightly on the trigger.

Hesitated.

And then… something was wrong.

Ratchet wasn’t moving like himself. He was hunched forward, weapon lowered -carelessly, dangerously- his legs unsteady, one servo pressed against his abdomen.

Injured?

Deadlock’s spark stuttered.

He adjusted the scope, zooming in on Ratchet’s face.

Flushed, vents working too fast, struggling.

This was the perfect moment; weak, exposed. He could end him now, clean and easy.

And yet, the sight of Ratchet there, still on the battlefield, still risking his life, made something snap.

Deadlock let out a low, frustrated sound as he pushed himself to his pedes.

Slag. That damned medic.

He slung the rifle across his back in one smooth motion and broke into a run, charging down the ridge without hesitation.

Below, Ratchet’s blue optics widened in shock, fear, recognition.

And then, in the span of a sparkbeat, Deadlock closed the distance and grabbed him, arms locking around him as he lunged.

The two of them tumbled down the hillside, kicking up clouds of dust in their wake. By the time they finally came to a stop, the sounds of gunfire had dulled into the distance.

Deadlock released his grip, just enough to look down at him. Ratchet was staring up at him, his face flushed, his expression difficult to read.

“Why the frag did you bring me here?”

The medic demanded, shoving at Deadlock's chassis in an attempt to push him off. But Deadlock held firm, his frame pinning Ratchet's to the ground.

When Ratchet’s servos came too close to his face, Deadlock reacted instantly, catching both wrists in one servo and pinning them above his helm.

He braced for a knee to the groin or some other desperate strike, but what came next caught him off guard completely. A soft, involuntary moan slipped from Ratchet's vocalizer, low and needy.

Deadlock's processors whirred as the pieces clicked into place: the heated glow on his cheeks, the intense spark in his optics, the radiating warmth pulsing from his frame... Ratchet wasn't injured. He was aroused.

Deadlock's optics widened in shock, his systems destabilized by the revelation, while Ratchet turned his helm away, as if to conceal the humiliating truth.

“Just deactivate me. Don't ask questions.”

The medic murmured in a low, strained voice. But the tremor that rippled through his frame as Deadlock leaned in closer was impossible to ignore.

“I had no idea battle did this to you.”

Deadlock rumbled, a spark igniting deep in his core, the thrill of having Ratchet pinned and vulnerable like this too tempting to resist.

“Not the battle,” Ratchet gritted out through clenched denta, his vents cycling at maximum capacity. “Wrong medication. Side effects. Now put me out of my misery.”

“This doesn't seem like something that should happen to a good medic like you.”

His voice faltered slightly at the end, tension threading through every word as he struggled to keep himself in check.

Then, without waiting for a response, he grazed a claw along the cables of Ratchet's neck, eliciting another small moan. His digit trailed down the glass of his chassis, then stopped on his belly.

Deadlock looked up, and what he saw made his spike, confined within its casing, throb painfully. Ratchet's dermas were parted, trembling, his expression a mixture of need and shame. It was clear the doctor was suffering.

“I've heard that the symptoms of an aphrodisiac disappear after an overload. Is this true?”

The Decepticon's voice exuded the need to possess the doctor, sudden and feral, and once again Ratchet looked away, sealing his dermas.

“So, it is true.” Deadlock murmured, leaning towards him to inhale the delicious scent of the other's arousal, impossible to hide. “Let me help you.”

Ratchet looked at him, his optics wide in shock.

“Absolutely not!”

But as he struggled to escape that grip, he pressed his own panel against Deadlock's leg, and the groan that escaped him this time was filled with the need for release. So, Deadlock made the decision for him, and he did so by fumbling with one servo to manually open Ratchet's modesty panel.

“What are you doing? Deadlock, stop!”

But his voice was thick with desire, and the Decepticon couldn't stop.

Then, finally, he found it. Ratchet hissed in protest, but his panel retracted, and Deadlock's optics widened hungrily at the sight: Ratchet's valve was white and pristine, a drop of lubricant sliding toward his aft, leaving a wet trail in its wake. His external node was red and throbbing, as if begging to be touched.

Ratchet tried to close his legs, but Deadlock's frame prevented him, pushing his legs further apart with his free servo, his own spike throbbing painfully at the sight, desperate for relief.

“Have you ever been told you're a vision, doc?”

But Deadlock didn't wait for an answer because his digit was already following that moist opening, touching its swollen and needy folds, while Ratchet's protests turned into a desperate moan.

Deadlock's digit delved deeper into the slick heat of Ratchet's valve, sliding past the outer folds to press against the inner walls.

The medic's frame tensed, a gasp escaping his dermas as the intrusion sent sparks of unwanted pleasure racing through his frame. But Deadlock didn't stop there; he withdrew his digit slowly, coated in glistening lubricant, and brought it to his mouth for a brief taste before lowering his helm.

His glossa extended, lapping flat against Ratchet's throbbing node first.

The contact made Ratchet jolt, his hips bucking involuntarily as a low, guttural moan tore from his vocalizer. Deadlock hummed in approval, the vibration rumbling against the sensitive cluster, before he dragged his glossa downward, tracing the seam of the valve in long, deliberate strokes. He savored the sweetness of Ratchet's arousal, his own spike straining harder against its sheath, demanding release.

Ratchet's protests dissolved into ragged breaths, his servos, finally free, fisting at his sides as he fought the building overload.

“D-Deadlock... nnh… s-stop.”

He managed, but the words lacked conviction, drowned out by the way his valve clenched around nothing, aching for more.

Deadlock ignored him, plunging two digits back inside the welcoming heath, curling them to stroke the ceiling node with precise, unrelenting pressure. He pumped them in and out, the wet sounds of lubricant echoing obscenely.

As Deadlock's glossa circled the external node again, flicking and sucking with increasing fervor, Ratchet's resolve shattered. A deep moan vibrated through his chassis, his legs spreading wider despite himself. Driven by the aphrodisiac's fire and the relentless assault on his sensors, he rocked his hips forward, grinding his valve against Deadlock's face.

The Decepticon's nasal ridge pressed into the slick folds, his glossa delving deeper to thrust alongside his digits as he growled in satisfaction, the sound muffled against Ratchet's overheating frame.

This -Ratchet chasing his touch, surrendering to the pleasure he provided- ignited a fierce triumph in his core. He doubled his efforts, digits scissoring to stretch the valve wider while his glossa lapped hungrily at the node.

Ratchet's moans grew louder, more desperate, his frame arching as overload crested.

“Yes... frag- right there.”

Ratchet whimpered, all shame forgotten in the haze of need. He pushed harder against Deadlock's mouth, valve fluttering around the invading digits, lubricant dripping down the Decepticon's chin. Deadlock's free servo gripped Ratchet's thigh, holding him steady as he drove him over the edge.

His glossa withdrew from Ratchet's valve with a wet sound, strings of lubricant connecting them briefly before snapping. He rose up on his knees, optics locked on the medic's flushed faceplate, where shame warred with raw hunger.

Ratchet's chassis heaved with ragged vents, his spike fully extended and leaking lubricant, but it was his valve -swollen, dripping, clenching around the digits still buried inside- that demanded his full attention.

Deadlock twisted those digits one last time, drawing a shattered cry from Ratchet, before pulling them free. He smeared the slickness across the medic's thigh, marking him, claiming him in this stolen moment.

His own panel retracted with a hiss, his spike surging forward, thick and ridged, already beading with lubricant.

It throbbed in the open air, heavy and insistent, as Deadlock gripped the base and aligned it with Ratchet's entrance. The medic's optics widened, a flicker of protest crossing his gaze, but his hips lifted instinctively, valve brushing the tip.

“Deadlock… no, we can't-”

Ratchet started, voice breaking into a whine as the broad head nudged his folds apart.

Deadlock didn't hesitate. He thrust forward in one smooth, powerful motion, burying his spike to the hilt inside Ratchet's tight heat.

His valve stretched around him, gripping like a vice. Ratchet's back arched off the ground, a strangled moan escaping his vocalizer as pleasure crashed over him.

His frame convulsed, valve contracting, lubricant gushing out to ease the way even as it soaked their joined frames.

But Deadlock held still, grinding deep, letting Ratchet ride out the peak. The medic's servos clawed at the dirt, optics shut, moans spilling unchecked.

“P-Primus... frag you...!”

Ratchet gasped, but his legs wrapped around Deadlock's waist, pulling him closer, deeper. The Decepticon's engines roared; satisfaction flooding his systems at the sight of Ratchet impaled on him, broken and open.

He started moving then, pulling back until only the tip remained, then slamming in again.

Deadlock set a brutal pace, hips snapping forward, spike dragging along every sensor cluster inside. He leaned down, capturing Ratchet's mouth in a messy kiss, glossa invading to taste the moans he devoured.

Ratchet kissed back fiercely, denta nipping at Deadlock's derma, his own spike trapped between their frames. The friction built pressure there too, but it was the relentless pounding in his valve that drove him wild.

“Harder!” He demanded against Deadlock's mouth, surprising them both. “Make it stop...”

Deadlock obliged, one servo pinning Ratchet's hip to the ground while the other braced beside his helm.

He angled his thrusts to hit that sweet spot as Ratchet's cries grew louder, frame trembling as overload built fast. Deadlock felt it too; his spike swelling, overload coiling tight in his core, the medic's valve too perfect, too hot around him.

“You're mine now.”

Deadlock growled, voice distorted with static. He drove in deeper, faster, chasing the edge, and with a final, savage thrust, Ratchet shattered; valve clamping down like a trap, pulling Deadlock over with him.

Deadlock's spike pulsed, transfluid erupting in thick spurts, mixing with the medic's own release.

Deadlock collapsed against Ratchet’s exhausted frame, both of them still, the only sound between them the heavy rhythm of their vents.

For a moment, nothing else mattered.

Not the battlefield, not the war, not the fact that they stood on opposite sides.

And then, as if none of it existed, Ratchet’s servos found the back of Deadlock’s helm, his touch slow, almost absentminded, gently tracing along the metal.

Deadlock stilled.