I saw you had spicy requests opened up again, and I wanted to request just something involving biting, whether it’s Dratchet or ratchlock 👉👈 it’s one of my favorite things to write with them
I got a bit carried away with a bit of wireplay but I hope you like it aaaahhh
MINORS DON’T READ THIS THANK YOU
Ratchet’s servos moved with practiced precision as he worked frantically to repair his comm-link.
Only moments earlier, he had come under heavy Decepticon fire while making his way toward a group of wounded Autobots, never imagining that, before long, he would find himself alone behind enemy lines.
The fact that he had survived at all was little short of miraculous; the explosion had thrown him clear of the battlefield, but not without consequence. His helm had struck the ground hard enough to damage his communications system, leaving him cut off from his team and with no way to tell them he was alive, or where to find him.
At least the blast had hurled him within reach of shelter.
The wreck of an old ship lay half-buried beneath years of sand and debris, its battered hull offering just enough protection from the battle raging outside.
Judging by the architecture and the obsolete technology scattered throughout its interior, the vessel had likely been built shortly before the war had begun.
Dim emergency lights, somehow still functioning after all those years, cast a cold glow across the abandoned corridors.
Ratchet sat on the metal floor, completely absorbed in his work. Without a mirror or a diagnostic scanner, repairing the damaged comm-link was far from straightforward, but fortunately, he still had partial access to the sensor array embedded in his forearm.
Carefully monitoring the feedback from those sensors, he began rerouting damaged connections one by one, too focused to notice the faint sound of footsteps echoing through the deserted ship.
Only when a shadow fell across the deck did Ratchet realize he was no longer alone.
Ratchet spun around sharply.
Deadlock stood over him, his imposing frame almost filling the narrow corridor. The ship's cold emergency lights glinted off the black plating of his armor, catching on the reinforced metal of his chassis. For a brief moment, Ratchet's vents stalled.
The Decepticon was armed.
His crimson optics -two glowing embers in the half-darkness- were fixed squarely on the medic.
“Well, well.” Deadlock drawled, taking a slow step forward. The weight of his frame echoed ominously through the abandoned ship.
Ratchet opened his mouth to speak. He was still sitting on the floor, several cables exposed in his forearm while his other servo continued working on them. He couldn't have been in a more vulnerable position.
“So, you survived the firefight after all, medic.” Deadlock said, closing the distance between them. “And I was the one who found you. I'd say this is your lucky cycle.”
A grin spread across Deadlock's face, revealing a row of sharp fangs. They were the first thing Ratchet noticed, and despite himself, a shiver ran down his back strut.
Then, to his surprise, Deadlock lowered his weapon and crouched in front of him.
“Just my luck.” Ratchet muttered, turning his attention back to the damaged circuitry in his forearm. “So, what is it? Did you come here to finish me off, or are you planning to stand there and watch while I patch myself up?”
He knew Deadlock wasn't going to hurt him.
Their relationship had taken a... peculiar turn since they had crossed paths again on the battlefield after so many years apart.
At first, they had simply chosen to spare one another.
Then came the stolen moments between battles.
And with every encounter, common sense had abandoned them a little more, until, more than once, they had given in to the forbidden attraction that seemed to draw them together despite the war raging around them.
Deadlock lowered himself to the floor beside him with a heavy metallic thud.
Ratchet shot him an irritated look.
“My comm system's damaged.” He replied, already turning his attention back to the exposed circuitry in his forearm. “I'm trying to find another way to get it working.”
He knew he shouldn't have told him even that much. Deadlock was still a Decepticon. Still the enemy.
And yet, when their optics met, Ratchet caught something in the crimson glow of Deadlock's gaze that looked remarkably like concern.
The medic muttered, returning to his work.
The firmness of Deadlock's voice made Ratchet glance back at him.
“I'm staying here to watch the perimeter. You repair whatever you need to. If any of my companions come this way, I'll make sure they don't.”
It wasn't even a discussion.
Deadlock had already decided what their roles would be: Ratchet would repair, Deadlock would stand guard.
Ratchet knew he should argue. He should remind himself that the mech sitting beside him was a Decepticon, that trusting him was reckless, perhaps even suicidal.
But he couldn't bring himself to object.
Maybe because restoring his comm system was a matter of life and death, or maybe because Deadlock's presence no longer frightened him.
If anything, it did the opposite.
Having him so close awakened something Ratchet refused to acknowledge; something he stubbornly kept buried beneath layers of reason, duty, and common sense.
So, he said nothing. He simply returned to his work.
Ratchet had no idea how much time had passed in that fragile balance.
Deadlock paced slowly up and down the abandoned corridor, occasionally glancing through one of the battered portholes to keep watch outside.
Every now and then, Ratchet caught him looking back at him, his crimson optics lingering just a little longer than necessary.
And yet, the silence between them was anything but empty.
Ratchet knew he should have felt cornered; constantly alert, waiting for the moment Deadlock might decide to turn on him, but instead, the Decepticon's presence had become something far more unsettling.
The realization sent a wave of irritation through him. Deadlock was the enemy. He had no business finding comfort in his presence.
Grinding his denta together, Ratchet buried himself in his work, determined to silence the thought before it could take root.
Then, at last, his voice broke the silence.
The Decepticon was beside him almost instantly, moving with a speed that made Ratchet blink in surprise. For the briefest moment, it almost seemed as though Deadlock had been waiting for an excuse to come closer.
“I'm finished.” Ratchet said, finally looking up from the circuitry in his forearm. “But I need your help.”
As Ratchet turned toward him, he watched Deadlock's optics widen in unmistakable surprise.
“To finish repairing my comm system, I need your help reconnecting a cable so the emergency signal can bypass the damaged channel.”
Ratchet tilted his helm back slightly, exposing the bundle of cables running along his neck before disappearing beneath the edge of his jaw plating.
“There's a thinner one,” he continued, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. “It has a small red ring around it.”
His optics remained fixed on the ceiling.
He couldn't believe he was giving Deadlock permission to rummage through the cables in his neck.
He felt exposed, vulnerable.
Offering his throat to a Decepticon went against every instinct he possessed. Nor did he miss the subtle change in Deadlock's vents, which cycled just a little faster, as though the other mech had realized the significance of the gesture as well.
“You'll need to disconnect it from its current port and plug it into the socket beside it.” Ratchet said. “It should be marked with a small white stripe.”
Instead, his clawed digits moved carefully between the delicate cables lining Ratchet's neck.
Ratchet had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from making a sound.
He could feel those long digits working with surprising precision, gently easing bundles of wiring aside to avoid damaging them.
When Deadlock finally found the cable Ratchet had indicated, his touch lingered for the briefest moment before giving it a careful tug.
And the instant it did, an entirely unexpected reaction rippled through Ratchet's frame.
A jolt that had nothing to do with electricity.
It shot through him like lightning, bypassing every rational processor and landing directly in his modesty panel. His vents hitched, and he had to clamp his denta together to suppress the sound that threatened to escape.
Deadlock's clawed digits were surprisingly gentle as they worked, carefully separating the bundle of cables. Every brush of his digits sent another wave of sensation rippling through the medic’s systems.
Ratchet's optics squeezed shut, his spark beating faster within its chamber as Deadlock's vents exhaled warm air against the exposed cables of his neck, and he could feel the other mech leaning in, studying the intricate network of wiring with an intensity that sent another shiver racing down his back strut.
Heat radiated from the Decepticon's frame, and Ratchet found himself acutely aware of every place where their frames nearly touched.
“There it is.” Deadlock murmured, his voice low. “The little red ring.”
His digits brushed against the cable in question, and Ratchet's frame seized. A soft sound escaped his vocalizer before he could stop it; a half-suppressed moan that made his faceplates burn with embarrassment.
For a long, charged moment, neither of them moved. Ratchet could feel those red optics boring into him; could sense the shift in the air between them. Then Deadlock's grip on the cable tightened, just slightly, and Ratchet's hips bucked involuntarily.
“Interesting.” Deadlock said, his voice dropping even lower. “Sensitive there, doc?”
“It's…” Ratchet's voice cracked. He cleared his vocalizer, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. “It's a standard physiological response. The cables in that area are densely packed with sensory points. It's nothing.”
“Nothing.” Deadlock repeated, and there was amusement in his tone. “Right. Nothing.”
He tugged gently on the cable, and Ratchet's entire frame shuddered.
His servos clenched at his sides as he fought to control his reaction.
The sensation was overwhelming; not quite pleasure, but something close. Something that made his processor go blank and his spark flutter.
Deadlock's digits traced along the cable's length, following it to its port, and Ratchet could feel the Decepticon's gaze on his neck, could feel the heat of his ventilation as he leaned in closer.
Deadlock said, his mouth so close to Ratchet's cables that the medic could feel the words vibrate through his frame.
His denta grazed against the sensitive cables of Ratchet's neck.
The medic's optics flew open.
Not hard enough to break through the cables, but enough to send a shock of pain through Ratchet's frame.
The medic cried out, his body arching instinctively, but Deadlock's other servo was already on his shoulder, holding him in place. The pressure of those denta increased, just slightly, and Ratchet felt the faintest trickle of energon escape.
“Deadlock…” His voice was strained, caught between protest and something else entirely. “What are you-”
The Decepticon didn't answer. Instead, he released his grip, his glossa tracing over the wound he'd left. The touch was surprisingly tender, lapping at the energon that had beaded there.
Ratchet's vents were ragged, his spark pounding in his chassis, his frame caught between fight and flight and something far more dangerous.
But Ratchet didn't push him away.
Instead, he felt his valve lubricate, felt his spike pressurize in its housing. The pain had faded into a dull throb, and beneath it, a wave of heat was building.
Deadlock pulled back, his optics dark with hunger.
“You let me.” He said, his voice rough. “You didn't stop me.”
“I-” Ratchet's vocalizer failed him. He tried again. “I don't know why.”
“Yes, you do.” Deadlock's digits found his chin, tilting his helm up to meet his gaze. “You liked it.”
Ratchet couldn't deny it.
His frame was trembling, his spark pulsing, his valve aching with emptiness.
He was aroused, unmistakably so, and the shame of it only seemed to fuel the fire.
“Deadlock.” He said, and his voice came out as a plea. “I need-”
“Need what?” The Decepticon's thumb traced along his jaw, then following the line of his neck cables. “Need me to stop? Need me to keep going?”
The cable Deadlock had been holding dangled loose, forgotten. The comm system remained unrepaired, but Ratchet couldn't bring himself to care.
“I need you to finish what you started.”
He said, the words escaping before he could stop them.
Deadlock's optics flared with heat. His denta gleamed, sharp and dangerous, and Ratchet felt a thrill of fear mixed with desire.
“Careful what you ask for, doc.” Deadlock murmured, his frame pressing closer. “I might just give it to you.”
His mouth found Ratchet's neck again, and this time, when he bit down, Ratchet didn't try to hold back his cry.
The second bite was harder than the first; Deadlock's denta sinking deeper into the sensitive cables of his neck. Energon welled up, warm and wet, and Ratchet felt his processor swim with a dizzying mix of pain and pleasure.
Deadlock's glossa lapped at the wound immediately, soothing the sting before his mouth moved lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of Ratchet's throat.
“I want to taste every inch of you.” Deadlock growled against his plating, his claws dragging down Ratchet's chassis, scoring light lines into the paint. “I want to leave my marks on you, doc.”
Ratchet's protest died in his vocalizer as Deadlock's servo found the glass of his chassis.
“You don't what?” Deadlock pulled back just enough to meet his optics, and Ratchet saw the hunger there; raw, primal, barely restrained. “You don't belong to me? Then why are you letting me do this?”
Ratchet's faceplate burned.
He couldn't deny it; his frame was betraying him in every conceivable way, responding to Deadlock's touch like it had been starved for exactly this.
“Shut up.” He managed, his voice weak. “Just…”
“Just what?” Deadlock's denta grazed his shoulder. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to frag me.” The words tumbled out before Ratchet could stop them, raw and desperate. “I want you to frag me until I can't think.”
Deadlock's optics widened.
A low growl rumbled in his chassis, and in one fluid motion, he had Ratchet pressed against the floor, his frame covering the medic's, his hips grinding down against Ratchet's modesty panel.
His mouth descended on Ratchet's, claiming and demanding.
Ratchet opened for him, letting Deadlock's glossa plunder his mouth, tasting his own energon on the other mech's dermas.
Deadlock bit his lower derma, and Ratchet moaned into the kiss.
The Decepticon pulled back, a thin trail of energon connecting them.
“On your front. I want to see your aft.”
Ratchet scrambled to obey, turning onto the floor and pushing his aft up. His panel clicked open, revealing his valve, already slick with lubricant.
He heard Deadlock's vents cycle sharply, felt the heat of his gaze on his most intimate part.
“Primus.” Deadlock breathed. “You're beautiful like this. So ready for me.”
His claws traced down Ratchet's back strut, making the medic shiver, before settling on his aft. Deadlock leaned in, and Ratchet felt his glossa drag along the length of his valve, tasting him.
“So sweet.” Deadlock murmured against his folds. “Taste like a good mech who needs to be claimed.”
Then his glossa delved inside, his denta scraping against the sensitive rim.
Ratchet cried out; Deadlock's glossa was talented, curving and thrusting, exploring every ridge and seam of his inner channel.
“Deadlock- I'm-” Ratchet's voice broke as Deadlock bit down lightly on his exterior node. “Please, I need-”
Deadlock pulled away, and Ratchet whimpered at the loss. But then he felt the Decepticon's spike pressurize against his valve, felt the thick, hot length of it nudging at his entrance.
“You need this?” Deadlock's voice was rough, strained. “Need me inside you, doc?”
Deadlock thrust forward, and Ratchet cried out, his frame gripping tight around the intruding length, Deadlock groaning above him.
“So tight. So perfect.” Deadlock's claws dug into Ratchet's hips as he began to move, slow at first, letting the medic adjust.
Ratchet could only moan in response, his processor consumed by the sensation of being filled, stretched, used.
Deadlock set the rhythm; each thrust driving deeper, hitting that spot inside Ratchet that made his optics roll back.
And then Deadlock leaned forward, his mouth finding Ratchet’s neck again, and bit down. Hard.
The pain was sharp, exquisite, cutting through the haze of pleasure like a blade.
Ratchet screamed as his overload crashed over him, his valve clenching around Deadlock's spike, his frame convulsing beneath the Decepticon.
Deadlock didn't stop. He kept thrusting through Ratchet's overload, his denta still buried in the medic's neck, and Ratchet felt a second wave building, impossibly fast.
“That's it.” Deadlock growled against his neck cables, his voice muffled by the bite. “Overload for me again, let me feel you.”
Ratchet's second overload hit him harder, his frame going rigid as pleasure ripped through him.
He felt Deadlock's grip tighten, felt the Decepticon's frame shudder above him, and then hot transfluid flooded his valve as Deadlock bit down one last time, sinking deep and holding as he emptied himself into Ratchet.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Deadlock's denta remained embedded in Ratchet's neck, his spike still buried deep, his frame heavy and warm against the medic's back.
Ratchet's ventilations were ragged, his processor struggling to form coherent thoughts.
Finally, Deadlock pulled out, his denta releasing Ratchet's neck. He licked the wound gently and pressed a kiss to the spot.
“You're mine, doc.” He murmured, his voice soft but certain.
Ratchet should have argued.
He should have denied it.
He should have clung to whatever shred of common sense he still possessed and reminded himself that, once again, he had given in to something not only terribly inappropriate, but potentially dangerous.
Yet none of those thoughts ever reached his vocalizer.
Instead, he simply lay there, every circuit in his frame humming with a quiet sense of contentment.
“Shut up.” He muttered at last. Then, after a brief pause, he added, “Hurry up and fix my comm system before one of your Decepticon friends decides to walk in.”
Deadlock chuckled, a low, warm sound, and nuzzled against Ratchet's neck.
“Whatever you say, doc. But first...”
He bit down again, just lightly, a promise of more to come.
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