[TFP] Event Horizon - Chapter Twelve
Jun. 8th, 2012 08:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Special thanks to ryagelle for betaing this chapter.
Extra warnings this time around for angsty fluff, sparksex, and pnp.
Continuity: Transformers: Prime, post Season One
Pairings so far: Ratchet/Sunstreaker, Jazz/Bluestreak, Sideswipe/First Aid, past Megatron/Orion Pax, past Perceptor/Starscream, implied Bumblebee/Blaster
Rating: M
Warning: mechslash, language, possible violence, tactile smut, past spark play/merging, SPOILERS FOR SEASON ONE
Chapters: (01) (02) (03) (04) (05) (06) (07) (08) (09) (10) (11) (12) (Epi)
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Event Horizon
Chapter Twelve ----------------------------------
In the end, the decision is Jazz's to make. He takes Ratchet's and Sunstreaker's opinions into account but the fact remains they have neither the facilities nor the mechpower to hold a prisoner indefinitely. They could, in theory, keep Knock Out locked in an indefinite stasis, but it would be kinder to kill him.
Ratchet protests very strongly to the idea of offlining his younging. He will consent to abiding by Knock Out's decision and allowing him to return to the Decepticons. But he will fight blaster and sawblade before he'll allow the Autobots to callously offline his youngling. In this, he agrees with Sunstreaker.
Three sleepless solar cycles after they'd first taken Knock Out from the Decepticons, Jazz agrees to release him. Of course, some of the Autobots protest this. It doesn't seem a wise decision, to restore an enemy back to his own faction, increasing the number of mechs they'll face across the battlefield. Especially since Knock Out is a medic.
But what other choice do they have? Jazz asks this of them. No one offers a better alternative, or at least one that Ratchet and Sunstreaker will accept.
They've defied Cybertronian law once already. Threatening to outright offline their youngling is reason enough to go against their own allies.
Though the fact remains that, at some point, they will face Knock Out on the battlefield and there's little Ratchet can do then. If Knock Out falls, he will have to mourn his youngling's loss. Such is the way of things.
He wonders, in the end, which carries more mercy.
Since Knock Out refuses to be helpful in any manner, they choose neutral ground to set him free. Ratchet's sure he has some way to contact the Decepticons on his own, or at least his assistant. He'll be fine on his own.
Their group is small, only Jazz, Sunstreaker, and Ratchet present to see the Decepticon medic freed. Knock Out rubs his wrists where the cuffs had kept him mostly pliable, the look in his optics inscrutable. Oddly, he has no sharp retort or smart commentary to make. His gaze flickers between his genitor and his creator before he turns, breaks into a run, and then collapses into his alt-mode.
Dust trails rise up behind him as he speeds into the distance.
It hurts. There's no denying it. Ratchet feels as though Megatron has thrust his clawed hand into Ratchet's chest and squeezed his spark. Millennia spent searching for his youngling, and all he can do is watch Knock Out drive away. His youngling who is all but a stranger to him.
None of them are family anymore. This war has made them strangers.
Ratchet looks at Sunstreaker, his partner – or is that former partner? – has his optics locked on the horizon. His expression is unreadable, his energy field tightly contained. He doesn't spare a glance for Ratchet, as though determined to cast the medic from his life.
That hurts, too. More than Knock Out's eagerness to be away from his caretakers. He's already lost his youngling today. Does he really want to stand here and lose his partner, too? Lose what's left of his family?
“No point in stickin' around. Kid ain't comin' back,” Jazz says, his words cutting through the thick tension. He whirls on a heel and strides back toward the waiting Ground Bridge. “C'mon. War's still goin' and we got work to do.”
Ratchet turns to follow.
Sunstreaker lingers.
Jazz doesn't pause as he calls out to the yellow mech. “Let's go, Sunny. Nothin' left to do here.”
Expecting an irate retort or even a flare of anger, Ratchet finds himself surprised when Sunstreaker mutely agrees and starts to follow them toward the Ground Bridge. He finally looks at Ratchet, but it's more dismissal than acknowledgment.
Ratchet's spark gives another painful lurch.
Jazz enters the Ground Bridge first and Ratchet follows, with Sunstreaker bringing up the rear. They arrive back at the base to no fanfare, unsurprisingly, and the main command room is quiet. Bluestreak is at the controls, turning to greet them. No one else is present.
“Welcome back,” he says, words cheerful, but the set of his doorwings belies his cheer. Bluestreak was not as close to Knock Out, but he knows how much he meant to his caretakers.
“Thanks!” Jazz has a little pep in his step that Ratchet honestly can't tell if it's forced or not. Like he's trying to be cheerful to erase the simmering tension.
Movement out of the corner of his optic is a streak of yellow and Ratchet turns, ignoring Jazz and Bluestreak. It feels like one of those moments, now or never. Sunstreaker is stalking away, toward the hallway containing their rooms. He isn't sparing a glance for anyone else in the room. What Ratchet can sense of his energy field is dark, troubled. Hurting.
Ratchet calls out before logic stops him. “Sunstreaker.”
The yellow mech pauses, but doesn't turn to acknowledge him. “I have nothing more to say to you.” His tone is cold and sharp.
Ratchet continues before he can convince himself not to. “You don't have to talk,” he replies, keeping his vocalizer dialed down, though undoubtedly Jazz is listening. “Just listen.”
The tension in Sunstreaker's frame is only outdone by the tension in his energy field. “Fine.”
“Not out here.” Because Jazz and Bluestreak are making no efforts to hide the fact they are shamelessly eavesdropping, little gossip-mongers that they are.
Sunstreaker half-turns, giving him a sidelong look, but gestures for Ratchet to follow him anyway.
A moment of hesitation and Ratchet follows, feeling Jazz's optics on him the whole time. Mercifully, Jazz doesn't try to comm him. And he can only assume that Sideswipe is out on patrol, since the red twin hasn't popped up for the sake of commentary yet. Ratchet can half-imagine him here, standing on the sidelines and cheering them on.
He trails a few steps behind Sunstreaker as the yellow mech leads him to the quarters that had been assigned to him and his twin. Sunstreaker never once checks over his shoulder to ensure that Ratchet is behind him, and once they are inside the small space, the door closed shut behind them, the silence that descends feels heavy.
Sunstreaker's energy field is tightly contained, only bare wisps of it escaping and allowing Ratchet notice. The strongest of the emotions is pain, followed closely by regret and longing. The same which echo in Ratchet's own energy field. Sunstreaker's expression is closely guarded, something he has not done around Ratchet in millennia. As though they have that quickly become strangers.
Ratchet feels as though he is intruding somewhere he ought not to be.
Sunstreaker shifts with an audible clicking of armor plates. “Well?” he prompts.
“Give me a fraggin' second!” Ratchet snaps, reacting as he always does when cornered, with belligerence.
It becomes quickly obvious that his tactlessness is the wrong response when Sunstreaker's armor flattens and he straightens, moving to push past Ratchet. “I don't have that kind of time anymore, Ratchet,” he says curtly, paying the medic as little mind as though he were not worth considering.
Ratchet reacts before he thinks the action through – how very dangerous it can be, Sunstreaker is a frontliner after all – and his fingers close about Sunstreaker's elbow, keeping him from leaving. The simple touch is enough to cause Ratchet's energy field to flare, pushing hungrily at Sunstreaker's, who seems to lose all ability to contain his own.
They pulse, out of sync, but bearing the same painful emotion. Both thrumming with longing and need. It's enough to make Ratchet's spark flare within its armored chamber.
“Please,” Ratchet says, and surprises himself with how gentle, near begging, his tone emerges.
Sunstreaker doesn't pull his arm away, though he could with ease. He is significantly stronger than Ratchet. He ventilates audibly, as though performing a systems check in desperate urge to locate his composure.
“I'm tired,” Sunstreaker says, the glyphs accompanying his words speaking of a strut-deep fatigue. “And I just had to watch my youngling willingly return to the Decepticons. So if you don't mind--”
“I'm sorry.” It comes out in a rush, cutting off Sunstreaker's words because there's a sense of urgency here now.
Sunstreaker can't wait anymore; Ratchet can't blame him for that. But Ratchet also can't honestly remember the last time he apologized for something. He's old, he's been around the universe a few times. He's made plenty of mistakes and he's learned from them. His certainty of self has always ensured that there's very little anymore he considers worthy of an apology.
And yet, it has become necessary here.
Sunstreaker startles, as surprised by the apology as Ratchet. He turns his helm and actually looks at Ratchet, as though seeing him for the first time this solar cycle. He still hasn't pulled away.
Ratchet gathers his courage and soldiers on. This is his chance. He'd best not waste it.
“I'm old, Sunstreaker.” He gentles his hold on Sunstreaker's arm, letting his fingers pick up a soft, soothing stroke. “I'm old, crotchety, and beyond romantic notions. My spark's no different. And I was afraid. No. No, I am afraid.”
No lies. Not this time. He owes Sunstreaker as much.
Besides, the truth is spilling out of him faster than he can manage anyway. He feels a bit like Bluestreak, but maybe that's for the better. “Afraid because it's permanent. Because I don't know what'll happen. Because I am who I am and you are you and I can't possibly be enough.”
Ratchet shakes his head, frame feeling weirdly tight and too-small to contain his spark and systems. “Pit, that doesn't even make sense.”
A gentle touch on the side of his helm and Ratchet looks up, into Sunstreaker's optics.
“It makes sense to me,” Sunstreaker replies, and the dizzying churn of his energy field starts to even out, still pulsing dark emotions, but not as nauseating anymore. “I'm an orphaned gladiator with an artistic spark. Beyond that, I'm a cursed twin. What do I have to offer the CMO of the Autobots?”
Ratchet's systems stutter in revelation.
They are the same, he and Sunstreaker, so sure that they are not enough for the other. Why was he ever afraid of this?
Why did he ever hesitate?
Ratchet's free hand rests on his chestplate, feeling the pulsing spin of his spark behind the thick armor and the kibble of his alt-mode. “Bond with me.”
Sunstreaker's optics spiral outward, betraying his surprise. “What?”
“I've already lost my youngling,” Ratchet replies and the certainty in his voice shocks even himself. “I'm not losing you, too.”
“Our,” Sunstreaker corrects.
Ratchet smiles softly. “Yes. Our youngling.” He reaches up, curling a hand against Sunstreaker's face, one digit brushing his helm finials. “Bond with me?”
Sunstreaker ventilates noisily, but his energy field betrays the true depth of his emotions. Ratchet is bombarded with pleasure and relief and an underlying tremor of sheer joy.
“You're only asking because you feel guilty.”
Ratchet's thumb strokes the soft metal of Sunstreaker's faceplate. “No, I'm not. But if you don't believe me, you'll know the truth when you feel my spark.”
In all their millennia of being partners, they've only shared sparks a grand total of two times. Once before Ratchet allowed his spark-carrying protocols to be reactivated, and then again after. Each of those two times had been shallow merges, bare brushes of the outer edges of their spark corona. At most, they had been able to sense the other's immediate motions and trade pleasure. And somehow, that shallow merge had been enough to activate the fostering protocols, causing Ratchet to spin off a piece of his spark and Sunstreaker to do the same, both budded whirls of spark energy swirling into an entirely newspark.
A spark merge with the intent of bonding, however, is quite different. Nothing is left hidden. It hurts as much as it is pleasurable. Ratchet's spark will all but disassociate in order to blend with Sunstreaker's spark energies, leaving the both of them forever changed. The bond Ratchet intends will be permanent, the most absolute kind. Nothing will be able to break it.
There are other, shallower bonds, to be sure. Ones similar to what they had utilized when merging to create Knock Out. But Ratchet refuses to do anything half-welded anymore. For Sunstreaker, it will be all or nothing. He doesn't want anyone else, never has, and it's time Ratchet showed that.
“All right,” Sunstreaker says. “Let's do this.” He turns in toward Ratchet, one hand grabbing for Ratchet's free arm and pulling the medic closer to him. “I'll bond with you.”
Relief races across Ratchet's shoulders. “Good,” he says, and drops his hands, reaching with one to unspool the cables to either side of his thoracic cavity. “Open your chestplates then.” If his fingers tremble a bit, well, Ratchet will call it anticipation.
Sunstreaker laughs, cupping Ratchet's face and pressing their forehelms together. “Hold on a moment, Ratchet. You'd like to enjoy this, wouldn't you?”
If he were any younger, he'd feel his faceplates heat with embarrassment. “I thought that was a given, considering it's you.”
Treated to the rare sight of Sunstreaker's smile. “Mmm. I'll take that compliment with grace. I meant, however, that wouldn't you rather such a thing was automatic rather than manual.”
Confusion echoes in Ratchet's energy field. “Automatic?”
“Foreplay, Ratchet. By Primus, you're not that ancient!” Sunstreaker shutters his optics, pulsing want and affection through his energy field. “You want to prove you mean it, I get that. But let's try to enjoy ourselves, yes?”
“Yes,” Ratchet agrees, a thrum in his vocalizer. He sets a hand on Sunstreaker's hip plating, tugging Sunstreaker closer to him. “Shall we move to the berth?”
He hears Sunstreaker's fans kick on in approval. It is all the answer Ratchet needs. Though reluctant, he withdraws from Sunstreaker long enough to turn toward the berth, which is just barely large enough to fit the two of them. It takes an awkward moment of position deciding and clambering over each other and the berth before they find something that'll accommodate them both.
Ratchet straddles Sunstreaker's larger frame, the yellow mech using the wall behind him as a support. It's perfect, really, because this way their hands are free and Ratchet is welcome to touch as much as he wants to. And vice versa.
And touch he does, the flat of his palms dragging over Sunstreaker's armor, delving into sensitive seams and brushing against delicate wires. Ratchet's own vents kick on with a vengeance and he flares his energy field outward, trying to set up a feedback loop.
Sunstreaker is no less busy, though his touches are more focused, exploring the unfamiliar terrain of Ratchet's new alt-mode. Artist’s fingers trek over Ratchet's dorsal kibble, and Sunstreaker's energy field coils toward Ratchet with intent.
“Remember the last time we did this?” Ratchet finds himself asking, before he can stop the words, though the memory probably only holds pain now. “Or well, close enough to this anyway.”
“It had a purpose then, too,” Sunstreaker replies, optics spiraling inward as though he's bringing up the memory file and replaying it internally. “Except we called it a trial run.”
Ratchet chuckles. “A trial that gave us Knock Out.”
Sunstreaker pauses, one hand shifting to pull Ratchet closer so that their chestplates bump. “Is that what you want?”
“No,” Ratchet answers honestly, fingers provoking a shudder of pleasure. “I want it all this time. No turning back.”
Sunstreaker's grip is near-painful, hard enough to leave dents, but Ratchet doesn't protest. He just arches into the touch.
“Are you sure?” Sunstreaker asks, and the need in his vocalizer makes Ratchet's spark skip.
“Yes, I'm sure!” Tired of being questioned, Ratchet reaches for a gap in Sunstreaker's plating, fingers teasing his left thoracic port. “Connect with me and I'll show you.”
The yellow mech's answer is to draw out his interfacing cable and hold it out, no hesitation, only trust in his movements. Neither of them has ever been hacked, at least to Ratchet's knowledge in Sunstreaker's case, but it is still a matter of trust. Taking Sunstreaker's cable in hand, Ratchet sends the command for a piece of his own plating to shift aside, allowing him to plug Sunstreaker into his right thoracic port.
It is an eerie sensation, if indeed one can assign physical sense to an entirely intangible act, to feel another mech move into your systems. Medics rarely perform such a connection while their patient is conscious. Ratchet, himself, has only medically linked to one conscious bot in his entire existence – Jazz – because the Special Ops mech has an.... aversion to being unconscious during a link.
Story for another time.
Ratchet isn't sure what to expect from Sunstreaker, but this almost-hesitant yet eager sliding inside of him is far from the top of the list. His entrance is accompanied by a dizzying burst of pleasure, an attack on two fronts, his energy field and riding along the surge between their connection. Ratchet shudders, one hand struggling to balance itself by gripping Sunstreaker's shoulder, while the other shakily draws free his own cable.
Sunstreaker takes it from him, almost over-eager, and plugs Ratchet into his left thoracic port. Ratchet's optics offline as his focus shifts, their connections pulsing back and forth in an attempt to synchronize. His grip on Sunstreaker's shoulder tightens as he pushes into Sunstreaker's systems, affection flaring to him when he realizes that Sunstreaker has dropped everything – firewalls and protective protocols – without having to be asked. He's completely open to Ratchet in such a way that few mechs ever dare to be. With this much access, Ratchet could do anything he wanted and Sunstreaker wouldn't be able to stop him. He could reprogram his partner, destroy him from the inside-out, shut off his spark containment, anything.
That level of trust is humbling. Terribly humbling.
At once, Ratchet feels ashamed for clinging to his deepest firewall, the one that protects his most important data, access to his processors, and his locked memories. (Though to be fair, if there's one thing he can never allow Sunstreaker to access, it's all the files he has on his fellow Autobots and patients. There are medical ethics involved in that.) It's pure reflex for Ratchet to protect those things. Part of him hadn't even acknowledged that those security codes were still in effect.
“Trust has never been the issue,” Sunstreaker says, aloud, having caught the edges of Ratchet's thoughts due to their connection. “You do know that you're the only medic Sides and I trust, right? Other than First Aid.”
Well, he knows it now.
Ratchet lifts his free hand, caressing the thin seam in Sunstreaker's chestplates. A thrum of pleasure arcs through their connection and Ratchet shudders.
“I should have done this millennia ago,” Ratchet says, and feels the ache of his regret, and he's a mech who's tried to live a lifetime without such a useless thing. “Before we ever left a dying Cybertron.”
Sunstreaker's fans whirr louder, heat pouring through his systems, bringing up multiple overheating warnings that Ratchet can see through their link. He's been ignoring his own systems ping for some time now.
“Yeah, but maybe it's better this way, too,” Sunstreaker replies, twitching when Ratchet's exploring fingers dip between gaps in his plating, stroking thick cabling.
Affection overwhelming him, Ratchet pushes a surge of pleasure and need across the cables, pelting Sunstreaker with the arousing emotions. Sunstreaker arches toward him, a wordless sound escaping him. The yellow mech retaliates with a burst of trust-want-please.
With a nearly audible click, Ratchet feels their systems synchronize, and then it seems like the emotions bombard him from all directions. He presses closer to Sunstreaker, shuddering as electricity crawls across his plating, stimulating his systems, making him tingle everywhere. He feels surrounded on all sides by Sunstreaker, his partner, his soon to be bonded, and he feels safe. Wanted. Loved.
Yes. Love.
For all that Ratchet is beyond romantic notions, he can recognize this. The feeling that Sunstreaker transmits to him. A sense of owning and belonging and protecting and defending and treasuring and wanting nothing more than to online every solar cycle next to Ratchet.
“Primus, Sunstreaker!” he groans, again carrying that sense of inadequacy. That Sunstreaker deserves someone much more than this irascible, bitter, and jaded medic.
--No-- Sunstreaker transmits across their link, giving him the equivalent of an intangible stroke. --Not bitter. Honest. Not irascible. Blunt.--
And then he sends Ratchet a memory of himself, through Sunstreaker's optics, of the orn they first met, when Sunstreaker had dragged in the broken, leaking body of his brother, limping on one twisted ankle himself with an arm dangling from a broken shoulder strut.
Ratchet sees himself seeing the two twins stumbling in, leaking energon all over his freshly cleaned floor, and immediately starts bellowing. He yells at them for being stupid gladiators, complaining that he doesn't have the time to be fixing mechs foolish enough to keep getting themselves broken over and over again.
He sees himself rapping Sunstreaker upside the helm when the yellow mech tries to protest, when Sunstreaker snarls, bears his denta, protesting as Ratchet tugs away the more injured Sideswipe.
He feels what Sunstreaker feels. The surprise. The shock. The anger. The approving respect.
Ratchet sees himself fixing Sideswipe while Sunstreaker looms over him like a threatening golem and Ratchet snapping for Sunstreaker to get on a berth because he's next. That'd he'd better not so much as twitch an armor panel until Ratchet fixes his equally foolish brother, because he knew, of course he knew, at first glance what they are to each other.
There's no hesitation on Ratchet's part. There's wide-opticked staring on Sunstreaker's part.
That Ratchet hadn't thrown them out the moment he recognized them to be spark twins surprised Sunstreaker. That he'd consented to fixing them shocked Sunstreaker further.
That he'd punted them out the door the next cycle without so much as demanding a cred in payment nearly locked up Sunstreaker's processor.
He sees when Sunstreaker decides that from now on, they would always return to Ratchet's clinic for their repairs.
And then, the memory ends and Ratchet finds himself back in real time.
“Blunt,” Sunstreaker repeats, this time aloud, “is good. You don't play word games and I get it. I get you.”
Ratchet's spark hums behind his chestplates, lurching in its confines, as though eager to join with Sunstreaker's. He pushes all of his crowding feelings into their link, his desire to be with Sunstreaker, his love for their youngling, his regret for his hesitation, everything.
And Sunstreaker returns those honest emotions with more pleasure. With acceptance and desire and understanding.
Electricity crackles across Ratchet's frame and leaps across the mere inches between he and Sunstreaker, crawling over yellow plating insistently. Another sparkfelt groan escapes Sunstreaker and one hand hooks around Ratchet, pressing against his dorsal plating and pushing them together with a grate of metal on metal.
“Primus, I want you,” Ratchet manages to grit out, with that blunt honesty that Sunstreaker seems to appreciate so greatly. “Always have. Always will.”
Blue optics flare brightly at the admission and Sunstreaker's fingers delve into gaps in Ratchet's dorsal plating, pressing firmly against sensor bundles, making Ratchet arch against him.
An audible click echoes in Sunstreaker's quarters before Ratchet's face is bathed in a golden-white gleam, the glow of Sunstreaker's spark pouring out of the thin part in his chestplates. Captivated, Ratchet lifts a hand, stroking a finger down the gap and watching as Sunstreaker's chestplates shift further apart, completely baring him to Ratchet's optics.
Beautiful is the first word that comes to mind. Every mech's spark is a little different. The colors change. The shape. The frequency. The patterns of pulse. No scientist really understands why, but theories have been made regarding personality and spark memories and the like.
Ratchet recalls all of this clinically, even while the greater part of him can observe only that Sunstreaker's spark is beautiful. He's seen it before, an amount of times he can count on the fingers of one hand. But that's usually in the midst of some life-saving procedure, when Ratchet's been terrified of losing Sunstreaker and struggling to fix him. And their prior merges had been so shallow, chestplates cracked, a bare gleam seeping through.
Not like this. Never like this. Each quiet flare a testament to Sunstreaker's emotions, the baring of his spark an open invitation. The off-white corona that reaches with curling tendrils for Ratchet's fingers as his hand hovers over the perfectly spherical spark.
Sunstreaker shudders, intense almost-painful pleasure, transmitting through their link at Ratchet's tentative touch.
“Good?” he asks in what humans would call a breathless anticipation.
Sunstreaker's helm tilts in a nod, his fingers squeezing in their grip on Ratchet. “Indescribably.” His optics gleam brighter, nearly white, his plating giving a tangible shiver. “Please, Ratch.”
The pleading, the shortening of his name makes Ratchet shudder. He ever-so-gently curls his fingers, stroking the surging energies of Sunstreaker's spark. A deeply aroused moan echoes in Sunstreaker's vocalizer, laced with static, his upper body surging toward Ratchet. Energy crackles across his frame and Ratchet trails his fingers over the pulsing spark again, captivated by the sight of his partner in the throes of pleasure.
It's a strange sensation, touching a spark, like cool energy licking at his fingertips. A tingle settles in the sensitive sensory nodes of his hand, like tiny static shocks. But more pleasing is watching Sunstreaker's reactions, watching the proud frontliner shudder in ecstasy, frame shifting beneath Ratchet, cooling fans whining in their struggle to dispel the heat in his circuits.
Beautiful.
Sunstreaker's hand shifts, stroking down Ratchet's chestplate, struggling to speak through the shudders wracking his frame. “You going to show me, too?”
He answers without words, sending the command for his chestplates to shift aside, the extra kibble of his alt-mode also moving up and out of the way. Three separate layers of armor part along a central seam, sliding aside to reveal the silver-green glow of his spark, less bright than Sunstreaker's, but still enough to illuminate the room.
Sunstreaker makes a noise of approval, his fingers dipping into the tendrils emerging from the core of Ratchet's spark. Pleasure instantly shoots across Ratchet's sensory net. He jerks out of surprise. No wonder Sunstreaker had reacted so strongly. It felt as if Sunstreaker had touched every sensitive seam in his plating simultaneously.
A smirk curves Sunstreaker's lip plates. “Good?” he asks, just as Ratchet had asked earlier, leaning closer toward Ratchet's open chassis, his fingers toying with the clinging tendrils of spark and making energy crackle over Ratchet's circuits.
“Tease!” Ratchet gasps, joints and struts tensing at the bursts of pleasure, pushing him closer and closer to overload. Even stranger than touching Sunstreaker's spark, is the feel of another mech touching his own.
It doesn't have sensation, like one could really name sensation. For instance, there aren't any sensors within the coalesced energy of his spark. But somehow, every time Sunstreaker twitches his fingers in the silver-green corona, Ratchet can feel it in the very core of it. His entire frame thrums with heat and need.
And then Sunstreaker leans forward and mouths the edge of Ratchet's parted chest seam, face achingly close to Ratchet's spark. He makes a noise that's made of static, lurching forward, fingers dragging over yellow paint and scraping off flecks. He can't describe the pleasure that rockets through him.
“Primus,” Sunstreaker breathes, looking up at him with optics gone white. “I could tease you like this for an orn.”
“Please don't,” Ratchet gasps out, tones strained, pushed to the very limits of his endurance. He's shuddering from helm to pede.
The frontliner nudges them closer together, enough that the outer edges of their sparks reach for each other, the most distant flares brushing together.
“But I could,” Sunstreaker says, his vocalizer carrying a strong surge of lust. “I could pin you down, make you overload over and over again... Primus! That would be incredible.” He can feel the yellow mech's lust like a powerful wave, surging over their hardline connection. It completely swamps over Ratchet's thoughts.
Ratchet groans, inarticulate, the image building in the back of his processor. The sound of it both intoxicating and appealing.
“You'd offline me for sure!” he manages to get out, through a vocalizer laced with static. “Blow a few circuits definitely!”
Sunstreaker nuzzles against Ratchet's chestplates. “You used to like that,” he says, tone a mixture of longing and affection.
“I still would. Just...” Ratchet reaches out, lays a hand on Sunstreaker's helm, fingers caressing the side finials. “I want to bond with you. Right now.”
Sunstreaker's engine revs and he straightens, putting their open chestplates in closer proximity, enough that Ratchet gives another shudder of pleasure. “No more waiting,” he agrees.
Ratchet shifts as well, so that their sparks are in perfect alignment, already hungrily reaching for each other. The bare brushes of energy send tingles across Ratchet's circuits, and he can see energy visibly crackling across his plating and Sunstreaker's.
This is it.
There's a fantasy, a rumor, that merges with the intent of bonding allow Cybertronians to see anything and everything about their potential bonded's lifetime. This is both true and false. The spark doesn't carry data the same way a processor or memory bank does. It's as tangible as it is intangible.
What one partner sees in the other is not the perfect recollection of viewing memory files, but rather, the distorted, hazy emotional impressions of spark memory. Understanding the very core of a Cybertronian. The very nature of the mech or femme.
It's the hardline connection that allows the other access which preempts the rumor, but the spark merge itself is all about impressions. Gauzy shadows. Feeling not yourself but someone else and it's natural, normal.
Ratchet shudders as the edges of their spark coronas touch, tendrils of silver-green reaching for the pulsing waves of white-gold. His optics shutter closed as he tilts his helm toward Sunstreaker, their forehelms coming together with a soft clang. He can feel Sunstreaker's energy field pulsing in time with his, as though they have become of one mind about this, perfectly in sync.
A yellow-plated arm curls around Ratchet tighter, drawing him closer, narrowing the gap between their open chestplates inch by electrifying inch. It's a strange sensation, their spark energies knitting together, as pleasurable as it is unpleasant, like a ghost crawling in his sensors that's only eased by drawing his fingers over it. The relief is wonderful, but the sensation continues to nag.
Ratchet's fans are a loud whine in the room, nearly drowned out by the sound of Sunstreaker's. Part of him is concerned they'll both overheat before they're through, but their programming works as it is supposed to. The charge in Ratchet's circuits grows stronger and stronger, electricity dancing between their plating now. His grip on Sunstreaker's plating tightens, denting, and neither of them care.
A few more inches gained and Ratchet groans, pleasure more than pain now, feeling Sunstreaker's more vibrant spark eagerly twining about his own. There's a moment right before their chestplates come flush together, their spark cores a mere-half inch away. Anticipation sends Ratchet's thoughts awhirl.
And then he's Sunstreaker. And he's Ratchet. Somehow, both at once.
He's a little copper youngling, looking longingly at his brother's brilliant scarlet paint and definitive finials, feeling such love and jealousy that the emotions become hopelessly entangled.
He's a bright-opticed and eager-servoed mech about to set foot into the famed Medical University of Protihex, expectation heavy on white shoulders.
He's sleeping somewhere warm, protected by the mech in blue. His brother is warm at his back, their systems in perfect, opposite synchronization.
He's tasting high grade for the first time, the bright bubble-fresh taste of it dancing on his glossa, the sweet burn in his tanks something to savor.
He's in the center of the ring, the crowd’s cheers echoing in his audials, thrumming from the energon-soaked floor into his pedes, pulsing in tune with his spark.
He's ducking to avoid the piece of memorabilia tossed at his helm, shattering against the wall behind him, the vicious words of anger pounding at his audials.
He's in the middle of a tiny clinic tucked away in the shadows of Uraya, watching his brother being put back together by the only mech he's ever let in outside of his twin.
He's looking down at the sparkling in his arms, protoform lovingly designed by he and his partner, painted to perfection, not a single piece of plating out of place. Recharging peacefully, beautiful gold-green spark a dim glow before he closes Knock Out's chestplates.
Their sparkling. Their child.
He's looking at his partner who's looking back at him. Smiling.
And then there's pleasure. It jolts through his entire system, makes him jerk and twitch. His spark whirls faster and faster, vertigo rushing in. He might be falling, but he's not doing it alone so he'll be all right.
His armor is too heavy; he leaves it behind. His weapons, too. In fact, leave it all. Plating and frame and circuits and sensors and cydraulics and energon lines. Warnings and errors pop up, but he dismisses them without so much as glancing at the messages.
This is what's right. This is how things are supposed to be.
His spark surges and swells, completely enmeshed in the spark of another. Energy fields hum in perfect harmony. And for a single moment, they are someone else entirely. And then the overload crashes over them, a swamping wave of electrified pleasure that bursts across their sensor net and makes their frames rattle.
Their awareness turns to shades of grey, frames locked in the repeated swell of overload. Fans struggling to cool. Auxiliary systems shut down, unneeded at the moment. Focus given only to the new sensation of spark returning to frame, but different now. A little heavier, a bit brighter. Pulsing to a new, shared beat.
Shutdown Imminent.
One warning refuses to be dismissed. It flashes over and over in his HUD. His fans struggle to drag in cooler air. He's strutless, completely without strength, his spark stretched taut and too large to be confined to his own chamber.
Reboot Required.
Medical Recharge Initiated in Three, Two, One--
****
a/n: Only the epilogue left, but don't worry, I posted it, too. Feedback is welcome!
Extra warnings this time around for angsty fluff, sparksex, and pnp.
Continuity: Transformers: Prime, post Season One
Pairings so far: Ratchet/Sunstreaker, Jazz/Bluestreak, Sideswipe/First Aid, past Megatron/Orion Pax, past Perceptor/Starscream, implied Bumblebee/Blaster
Rating: M
Warning: mechslash, language, possible violence, tactile smut, past spark play/merging, SPOILERS FOR SEASON ONE
Chapters: (01) (02) (03) (04) (05) (06) (07) (08) (09) (10) (11) (12) (Epi)
Event Horizon
In the end, the decision is Jazz's to make. He takes Ratchet's and Sunstreaker's opinions into account but the fact remains they have neither the facilities nor the mechpower to hold a prisoner indefinitely. They could, in theory, keep Knock Out locked in an indefinite stasis, but it would be kinder to kill him.
Ratchet protests very strongly to the idea of offlining his younging. He will consent to abiding by Knock Out's decision and allowing him to return to the Decepticons. But he will fight blaster and sawblade before he'll allow the Autobots to callously offline his youngling. In this, he agrees with Sunstreaker.
Three sleepless solar cycles after they'd first taken Knock Out from the Decepticons, Jazz agrees to release him. Of course, some of the Autobots protest this. It doesn't seem a wise decision, to restore an enemy back to his own faction, increasing the number of mechs they'll face across the battlefield. Especially since Knock Out is a medic.
But what other choice do they have? Jazz asks this of them. No one offers a better alternative, or at least one that Ratchet and Sunstreaker will accept.
They've defied Cybertronian law once already. Threatening to outright offline their youngling is reason enough to go against their own allies.
Though the fact remains that, at some point, they will face Knock Out on the battlefield and there's little Ratchet can do then. If Knock Out falls, he will have to mourn his youngling's loss. Such is the way of things.
He wonders, in the end, which carries more mercy.
Since Knock Out refuses to be helpful in any manner, they choose neutral ground to set him free. Ratchet's sure he has some way to contact the Decepticons on his own, or at least his assistant. He'll be fine on his own.
Their group is small, only Jazz, Sunstreaker, and Ratchet present to see the Decepticon medic freed. Knock Out rubs his wrists where the cuffs had kept him mostly pliable, the look in his optics inscrutable. Oddly, he has no sharp retort or smart commentary to make. His gaze flickers between his genitor and his creator before he turns, breaks into a run, and then collapses into his alt-mode.
Dust trails rise up behind him as he speeds into the distance.
It hurts. There's no denying it. Ratchet feels as though Megatron has thrust his clawed hand into Ratchet's chest and squeezed his spark. Millennia spent searching for his youngling, and all he can do is watch Knock Out drive away. His youngling who is all but a stranger to him.
None of them are family anymore. This war has made them strangers.
Ratchet looks at Sunstreaker, his partner – or is that former partner? – has his optics locked on the horizon. His expression is unreadable, his energy field tightly contained. He doesn't spare a glance for Ratchet, as though determined to cast the medic from his life.
That hurts, too. More than Knock Out's eagerness to be away from his caretakers. He's already lost his youngling today. Does he really want to stand here and lose his partner, too? Lose what's left of his family?
“No point in stickin' around. Kid ain't comin' back,” Jazz says, his words cutting through the thick tension. He whirls on a heel and strides back toward the waiting Ground Bridge. “C'mon. War's still goin' and we got work to do.”
Ratchet turns to follow.
Sunstreaker lingers.
Jazz doesn't pause as he calls out to the yellow mech. “Let's go, Sunny. Nothin' left to do here.”
Expecting an irate retort or even a flare of anger, Ratchet finds himself surprised when Sunstreaker mutely agrees and starts to follow them toward the Ground Bridge. He finally looks at Ratchet, but it's more dismissal than acknowledgment.
Ratchet's spark gives another painful lurch.
Jazz enters the Ground Bridge first and Ratchet follows, with Sunstreaker bringing up the rear. They arrive back at the base to no fanfare, unsurprisingly, and the main command room is quiet. Bluestreak is at the controls, turning to greet them. No one else is present.
“Welcome back,” he says, words cheerful, but the set of his doorwings belies his cheer. Bluestreak was not as close to Knock Out, but he knows how much he meant to his caretakers.
“Thanks!” Jazz has a little pep in his step that Ratchet honestly can't tell if it's forced or not. Like he's trying to be cheerful to erase the simmering tension.
Movement out of the corner of his optic is a streak of yellow and Ratchet turns, ignoring Jazz and Bluestreak. It feels like one of those moments, now or never. Sunstreaker is stalking away, toward the hallway containing their rooms. He isn't sparing a glance for anyone else in the room. What Ratchet can sense of his energy field is dark, troubled. Hurting.
Ratchet calls out before logic stops him. “Sunstreaker.”
The yellow mech pauses, but doesn't turn to acknowledge him. “I have nothing more to say to you.” His tone is cold and sharp.
Ratchet continues before he can convince himself not to. “You don't have to talk,” he replies, keeping his vocalizer dialed down, though undoubtedly Jazz is listening. “Just listen.”
The tension in Sunstreaker's frame is only outdone by the tension in his energy field. “Fine.”
“Not out here.” Because Jazz and Bluestreak are making no efforts to hide the fact they are shamelessly eavesdropping, little gossip-mongers that they are.
Sunstreaker half-turns, giving him a sidelong look, but gestures for Ratchet to follow him anyway.
A moment of hesitation and Ratchet follows, feeling Jazz's optics on him the whole time. Mercifully, Jazz doesn't try to comm him. And he can only assume that Sideswipe is out on patrol, since the red twin hasn't popped up for the sake of commentary yet. Ratchet can half-imagine him here, standing on the sidelines and cheering them on.
He trails a few steps behind Sunstreaker as the yellow mech leads him to the quarters that had been assigned to him and his twin. Sunstreaker never once checks over his shoulder to ensure that Ratchet is behind him, and once they are inside the small space, the door closed shut behind them, the silence that descends feels heavy.
Sunstreaker's energy field is tightly contained, only bare wisps of it escaping and allowing Ratchet notice. The strongest of the emotions is pain, followed closely by regret and longing. The same which echo in Ratchet's own energy field. Sunstreaker's expression is closely guarded, something he has not done around Ratchet in millennia. As though they have that quickly become strangers.
Ratchet feels as though he is intruding somewhere he ought not to be.
Sunstreaker shifts with an audible clicking of armor plates. “Well?” he prompts.
“Give me a fraggin' second!” Ratchet snaps, reacting as he always does when cornered, with belligerence.
It becomes quickly obvious that his tactlessness is the wrong response when Sunstreaker's armor flattens and he straightens, moving to push past Ratchet. “I don't have that kind of time anymore, Ratchet,” he says curtly, paying the medic as little mind as though he were not worth considering.
Ratchet reacts before he thinks the action through – how very dangerous it can be, Sunstreaker is a frontliner after all – and his fingers close about Sunstreaker's elbow, keeping him from leaving. The simple touch is enough to cause Ratchet's energy field to flare, pushing hungrily at Sunstreaker's, who seems to lose all ability to contain his own.
They pulse, out of sync, but bearing the same painful emotion. Both thrumming with longing and need. It's enough to make Ratchet's spark flare within its armored chamber.
“Please,” Ratchet says, and surprises himself with how gentle, near begging, his tone emerges.
Sunstreaker doesn't pull his arm away, though he could with ease. He is significantly stronger than Ratchet. He ventilates audibly, as though performing a systems check in desperate urge to locate his composure.
“I'm tired,” Sunstreaker says, the glyphs accompanying his words speaking of a strut-deep fatigue. “And I just had to watch my youngling willingly return to the Decepticons. So if you don't mind--”
“I'm sorry.” It comes out in a rush, cutting off Sunstreaker's words because there's a sense of urgency here now.
Sunstreaker can't wait anymore; Ratchet can't blame him for that. But Ratchet also can't honestly remember the last time he apologized for something. He's old, he's been around the universe a few times. He's made plenty of mistakes and he's learned from them. His certainty of self has always ensured that there's very little anymore he considers worthy of an apology.
And yet, it has become necessary here.
Sunstreaker startles, as surprised by the apology as Ratchet. He turns his helm and actually looks at Ratchet, as though seeing him for the first time this solar cycle. He still hasn't pulled away.
Ratchet gathers his courage and soldiers on. This is his chance. He'd best not waste it.
“I'm old, Sunstreaker.” He gentles his hold on Sunstreaker's arm, letting his fingers pick up a soft, soothing stroke. “I'm old, crotchety, and beyond romantic notions. My spark's no different. And I was afraid. No. No, I am afraid.”
No lies. Not this time. He owes Sunstreaker as much.
Besides, the truth is spilling out of him faster than he can manage anyway. He feels a bit like Bluestreak, but maybe that's for the better. “Afraid because it's permanent. Because I don't know what'll happen. Because I am who I am and you are you and I can't possibly be enough.”
Ratchet shakes his head, frame feeling weirdly tight and too-small to contain his spark and systems. “Pit, that doesn't even make sense.”
A gentle touch on the side of his helm and Ratchet looks up, into Sunstreaker's optics.
“It makes sense to me,” Sunstreaker replies, and the dizzying churn of his energy field starts to even out, still pulsing dark emotions, but not as nauseating anymore. “I'm an orphaned gladiator with an artistic spark. Beyond that, I'm a cursed twin. What do I have to offer the CMO of the Autobots?”
Ratchet's systems stutter in revelation.
They are the same, he and Sunstreaker, so sure that they are not enough for the other. Why was he ever afraid of this?
Why did he ever hesitate?
Ratchet's free hand rests on his chestplate, feeling the pulsing spin of his spark behind the thick armor and the kibble of his alt-mode. “Bond with me.”
Sunstreaker's optics spiral outward, betraying his surprise. “What?”
“I've already lost my youngling,” Ratchet replies and the certainty in his voice shocks even himself. “I'm not losing you, too.”
“Our,” Sunstreaker corrects.
Ratchet smiles softly. “Yes. Our youngling.” He reaches up, curling a hand against Sunstreaker's face, one digit brushing his helm finials. “Bond with me?”
Sunstreaker ventilates noisily, but his energy field betrays the true depth of his emotions. Ratchet is bombarded with pleasure and relief and an underlying tremor of sheer joy.
“You're only asking because you feel guilty.”
Ratchet's thumb strokes the soft metal of Sunstreaker's faceplate. “No, I'm not. But if you don't believe me, you'll know the truth when you feel my spark.”
In all their millennia of being partners, they've only shared sparks a grand total of two times. Once before Ratchet allowed his spark-carrying protocols to be reactivated, and then again after. Each of those two times had been shallow merges, bare brushes of the outer edges of their spark corona. At most, they had been able to sense the other's immediate motions and trade pleasure. And somehow, that shallow merge had been enough to activate the fostering protocols, causing Ratchet to spin off a piece of his spark and Sunstreaker to do the same, both budded whirls of spark energy swirling into an entirely newspark.
A spark merge with the intent of bonding, however, is quite different. Nothing is left hidden. It hurts as much as it is pleasurable. Ratchet's spark will all but disassociate in order to blend with Sunstreaker's spark energies, leaving the both of them forever changed. The bond Ratchet intends will be permanent, the most absolute kind. Nothing will be able to break it.
There are other, shallower bonds, to be sure. Ones similar to what they had utilized when merging to create Knock Out. But Ratchet refuses to do anything half-welded anymore. For Sunstreaker, it will be all or nothing. He doesn't want anyone else, never has, and it's time Ratchet showed that.
“All right,” Sunstreaker says. “Let's do this.” He turns in toward Ratchet, one hand grabbing for Ratchet's free arm and pulling the medic closer to him. “I'll bond with you.”
Relief races across Ratchet's shoulders. “Good,” he says, and drops his hands, reaching with one to unspool the cables to either side of his thoracic cavity. “Open your chestplates then.” If his fingers tremble a bit, well, Ratchet will call it anticipation.
Sunstreaker laughs, cupping Ratchet's face and pressing their forehelms together. “Hold on a moment, Ratchet. You'd like to enjoy this, wouldn't you?”
If he were any younger, he'd feel his faceplates heat with embarrassment. “I thought that was a given, considering it's you.”
Treated to the rare sight of Sunstreaker's smile. “Mmm. I'll take that compliment with grace. I meant, however, that wouldn't you rather such a thing was automatic rather than manual.”
Confusion echoes in Ratchet's energy field. “Automatic?”
“Foreplay, Ratchet. By Primus, you're not that ancient!” Sunstreaker shutters his optics, pulsing want and affection through his energy field. “You want to prove you mean it, I get that. But let's try to enjoy ourselves, yes?”
“Yes,” Ratchet agrees, a thrum in his vocalizer. He sets a hand on Sunstreaker's hip plating, tugging Sunstreaker closer to him. “Shall we move to the berth?”
He hears Sunstreaker's fans kick on in approval. It is all the answer Ratchet needs. Though reluctant, he withdraws from Sunstreaker long enough to turn toward the berth, which is just barely large enough to fit the two of them. It takes an awkward moment of position deciding and clambering over each other and the berth before they find something that'll accommodate them both.
Ratchet straddles Sunstreaker's larger frame, the yellow mech using the wall behind him as a support. It's perfect, really, because this way their hands are free and Ratchet is welcome to touch as much as he wants to. And vice versa.
And touch he does, the flat of his palms dragging over Sunstreaker's armor, delving into sensitive seams and brushing against delicate wires. Ratchet's own vents kick on with a vengeance and he flares his energy field outward, trying to set up a feedback loop.
Sunstreaker is no less busy, though his touches are more focused, exploring the unfamiliar terrain of Ratchet's new alt-mode. Artist’s fingers trek over Ratchet's dorsal kibble, and Sunstreaker's energy field coils toward Ratchet with intent.
“Remember the last time we did this?” Ratchet finds himself asking, before he can stop the words, though the memory probably only holds pain now. “Or well, close enough to this anyway.”
“It had a purpose then, too,” Sunstreaker replies, optics spiraling inward as though he's bringing up the memory file and replaying it internally. “Except we called it a trial run.”
Ratchet chuckles. “A trial that gave us Knock Out.”
Sunstreaker pauses, one hand shifting to pull Ratchet closer so that their chestplates bump. “Is that what you want?”
“No,” Ratchet answers honestly, fingers provoking a shudder of pleasure. “I want it all this time. No turning back.”
Sunstreaker's grip is near-painful, hard enough to leave dents, but Ratchet doesn't protest. He just arches into the touch.
“Are you sure?” Sunstreaker asks, and the need in his vocalizer makes Ratchet's spark skip.
“Yes, I'm sure!” Tired of being questioned, Ratchet reaches for a gap in Sunstreaker's plating, fingers teasing his left thoracic port. “Connect with me and I'll show you.”
The yellow mech's answer is to draw out his interfacing cable and hold it out, no hesitation, only trust in his movements. Neither of them has ever been hacked, at least to Ratchet's knowledge in Sunstreaker's case, but it is still a matter of trust. Taking Sunstreaker's cable in hand, Ratchet sends the command for a piece of his own plating to shift aside, allowing him to plug Sunstreaker into his right thoracic port.
It is an eerie sensation, if indeed one can assign physical sense to an entirely intangible act, to feel another mech move into your systems. Medics rarely perform such a connection while their patient is conscious. Ratchet, himself, has only medically linked to one conscious bot in his entire existence – Jazz – because the Special Ops mech has an.... aversion to being unconscious during a link.
Story for another time.
Ratchet isn't sure what to expect from Sunstreaker, but this almost-hesitant yet eager sliding inside of him is far from the top of the list. His entrance is accompanied by a dizzying burst of pleasure, an attack on two fronts, his energy field and riding along the surge between their connection. Ratchet shudders, one hand struggling to balance itself by gripping Sunstreaker's shoulder, while the other shakily draws free his own cable.
Sunstreaker takes it from him, almost over-eager, and plugs Ratchet into his left thoracic port. Ratchet's optics offline as his focus shifts, their connections pulsing back and forth in an attempt to synchronize. His grip on Sunstreaker's shoulder tightens as he pushes into Sunstreaker's systems, affection flaring to him when he realizes that Sunstreaker has dropped everything – firewalls and protective protocols – without having to be asked. He's completely open to Ratchet in such a way that few mechs ever dare to be. With this much access, Ratchet could do anything he wanted and Sunstreaker wouldn't be able to stop him. He could reprogram his partner, destroy him from the inside-out, shut off his spark containment, anything.
That level of trust is humbling. Terribly humbling.
At once, Ratchet feels ashamed for clinging to his deepest firewall, the one that protects his most important data, access to his processors, and his locked memories. (Though to be fair, if there's one thing he can never allow Sunstreaker to access, it's all the files he has on his fellow Autobots and patients. There are medical ethics involved in that.) It's pure reflex for Ratchet to protect those things. Part of him hadn't even acknowledged that those security codes were still in effect.
“Trust has never been the issue,” Sunstreaker says, aloud, having caught the edges of Ratchet's thoughts due to their connection. “You do know that you're the only medic Sides and I trust, right? Other than First Aid.”
Well, he knows it now.
Ratchet lifts his free hand, caressing the thin seam in Sunstreaker's chestplates. A thrum of pleasure arcs through their connection and Ratchet shudders.
“I should have done this millennia ago,” Ratchet says, and feels the ache of his regret, and he's a mech who's tried to live a lifetime without such a useless thing. “Before we ever left a dying Cybertron.”
Sunstreaker's fans whirr louder, heat pouring through his systems, bringing up multiple overheating warnings that Ratchet can see through their link. He's been ignoring his own systems ping for some time now.
“Yeah, but maybe it's better this way, too,” Sunstreaker replies, twitching when Ratchet's exploring fingers dip between gaps in his plating, stroking thick cabling.
Affection overwhelming him, Ratchet pushes a surge of pleasure and need across the cables, pelting Sunstreaker with the arousing emotions. Sunstreaker arches toward him, a wordless sound escaping him. The yellow mech retaliates with a burst of trust-want-please.
With a nearly audible click, Ratchet feels their systems synchronize, and then it seems like the emotions bombard him from all directions. He presses closer to Sunstreaker, shuddering as electricity crawls across his plating, stimulating his systems, making him tingle everywhere. He feels surrounded on all sides by Sunstreaker, his partner, his soon to be bonded, and he feels safe. Wanted. Loved.
Yes. Love.
For all that Ratchet is beyond romantic notions, he can recognize this. The feeling that Sunstreaker transmits to him. A sense of owning and belonging and protecting and defending and treasuring and wanting nothing more than to online every solar cycle next to Ratchet.
“Primus, Sunstreaker!” he groans, again carrying that sense of inadequacy. That Sunstreaker deserves someone much more than this irascible, bitter, and jaded medic.
--No-- Sunstreaker transmits across their link, giving him the equivalent of an intangible stroke. --Not bitter. Honest. Not irascible. Blunt.--
And then he sends Ratchet a memory of himself, through Sunstreaker's optics, of the orn they first met, when Sunstreaker had dragged in the broken, leaking body of his brother, limping on one twisted ankle himself with an arm dangling from a broken shoulder strut.
Ratchet sees himself seeing the two twins stumbling in, leaking energon all over his freshly cleaned floor, and immediately starts bellowing. He yells at them for being stupid gladiators, complaining that he doesn't have the time to be fixing mechs foolish enough to keep getting themselves broken over and over again.
He sees himself rapping Sunstreaker upside the helm when the yellow mech tries to protest, when Sunstreaker snarls, bears his denta, protesting as Ratchet tugs away the more injured Sideswipe.
He feels what Sunstreaker feels. The surprise. The shock. The anger. The approving respect.
Ratchet sees himself fixing Sideswipe while Sunstreaker looms over him like a threatening golem and Ratchet snapping for Sunstreaker to get on a berth because he's next. That'd he'd better not so much as twitch an armor panel until Ratchet fixes his equally foolish brother, because he knew, of course he knew, at first glance what they are to each other.
There's no hesitation on Ratchet's part. There's wide-opticked staring on Sunstreaker's part.
That Ratchet hadn't thrown them out the moment he recognized them to be spark twins surprised Sunstreaker. That he'd consented to fixing them shocked Sunstreaker further.
That he'd punted them out the door the next cycle without so much as demanding a cred in payment nearly locked up Sunstreaker's processor.
He sees when Sunstreaker decides that from now on, they would always return to Ratchet's clinic for their repairs.
And then, the memory ends and Ratchet finds himself back in real time.
“Blunt,” Sunstreaker repeats, this time aloud, “is good. You don't play word games and I get it. I get you.”
Ratchet's spark hums behind his chestplates, lurching in its confines, as though eager to join with Sunstreaker's. He pushes all of his crowding feelings into their link, his desire to be with Sunstreaker, his love for their youngling, his regret for his hesitation, everything.
And Sunstreaker returns those honest emotions with more pleasure. With acceptance and desire and understanding.
Electricity crackles across Ratchet's frame and leaps across the mere inches between he and Sunstreaker, crawling over yellow plating insistently. Another sparkfelt groan escapes Sunstreaker and one hand hooks around Ratchet, pressing against his dorsal plating and pushing them together with a grate of metal on metal.
“Primus, I want you,” Ratchet manages to grit out, with that blunt honesty that Sunstreaker seems to appreciate so greatly. “Always have. Always will.”
Blue optics flare brightly at the admission and Sunstreaker's fingers delve into gaps in Ratchet's dorsal plating, pressing firmly against sensor bundles, making Ratchet arch against him.
An audible click echoes in Sunstreaker's quarters before Ratchet's face is bathed in a golden-white gleam, the glow of Sunstreaker's spark pouring out of the thin part in his chestplates. Captivated, Ratchet lifts a hand, stroking a finger down the gap and watching as Sunstreaker's chestplates shift further apart, completely baring him to Ratchet's optics.
Beautiful is the first word that comes to mind. Every mech's spark is a little different. The colors change. The shape. The frequency. The patterns of pulse. No scientist really understands why, but theories have been made regarding personality and spark memories and the like.
Ratchet recalls all of this clinically, even while the greater part of him can observe only that Sunstreaker's spark is beautiful. He's seen it before, an amount of times he can count on the fingers of one hand. But that's usually in the midst of some life-saving procedure, when Ratchet's been terrified of losing Sunstreaker and struggling to fix him. And their prior merges had been so shallow, chestplates cracked, a bare gleam seeping through.
Not like this. Never like this. Each quiet flare a testament to Sunstreaker's emotions, the baring of his spark an open invitation. The off-white corona that reaches with curling tendrils for Ratchet's fingers as his hand hovers over the perfectly spherical spark.
Sunstreaker shudders, intense almost-painful pleasure, transmitting through their link at Ratchet's tentative touch.
“Good?” he asks in what humans would call a breathless anticipation.
Sunstreaker's helm tilts in a nod, his fingers squeezing in their grip on Ratchet. “Indescribably.” His optics gleam brighter, nearly white, his plating giving a tangible shiver. “Please, Ratch.”
The pleading, the shortening of his name makes Ratchet shudder. He ever-so-gently curls his fingers, stroking the surging energies of Sunstreaker's spark. A deeply aroused moan echoes in Sunstreaker's vocalizer, laced with static, his upper body surging toward Ratchet. Energy crackles across his frame and Ratchet trails his fingers over the pulsing spark again, captivated by the sight of his partner in the throes of pleasure.
It's a strange sensation, touching a spark, like cool energy licking at his fingertips. A tingle settles in the sensitive sensory nodes of his hand, like tiny static shocks. But more pleasing is watching Sunstreaker's reactions, watching the proud frontliner shudder in ecstasy, frame shifting beneath Ratchet, cooling fans whining in their struggle to dispel the heat in his circuits.
Beautiful.
Sunstreaker's hand shifts, stroking down Ratchet's chestplate, struggling to speak through the shudders wracking his frame. “You going to show me, too?”
He answers without words, sending the command for his chestplates to shift aside, the extra kibble of his alt-mode also moving up and out of the way. Three separate layers of armor part along a central seam, sliding aside to reveal the silver-green glow of his spark, less bright than Sunstreaker's, but still enough to illuminate the room.
Sunstreaker makes a noise of approval, his fingers dipping into the tendrils emerging from the core of Ratchet's spark. Pleasure instantly shoots across Ratchet's sensory net. He jerks out of surprise. No wonder Sunstreaker had reacted so strongly. It felt as if Sunstreaker had touched every sensitive seam in his plating simultaneously.
A smirk curves Sunstreaker's lip plates. “Good?” he asks, just as Ratchet had asked earlier, leaning closer toward Ratchet's open chassis, his fingers toying with the clinging tendrils of spark and making energy crackle over Ratchet's circuits.
“Tease!” Ratchet gasps, joints and struts tensing at the bursts of pleasure, pushing him closer and closer to overload. Even stranger than touching Sunstreaker's spark, is the feel of another mech touching his own.
It doesn't have sensation, like one could really name sensation. For instance, there aren't any sensors within the coalesced energy of his spark. But somehow, every time Sunstreaker twitches his fingers in the silver-green corona, Ratchet can feel it in the very core of it. His entire frame thrums with heat and need.
And then Sunstreaker leans forward and mouths the edge of Ratchet's parted chest seam, face achingly close to Ratchet's spark. He makes a noise that's made of static, lurching forward, fingers dragging over yellow paint and scraping off flecks. He can't describe the pleasure that rockets through him.
“Primus,” Sunstreaker breathes, looking up at him with optics gone white. “I could tease you like this for an orn.”
“Please don't,” Ratchet gasps out, tones strained, pushed to the very limits of his endurance. He's shuddering from helm to pede.
The frontliner nudges them closer together, enough that the outer edges of their sparks reach for each other, the most distant flares brushing together.
“But I could,” Sunstreaker says, his vocalizer carrying a strong surge of lust. “I could pin you down, make you overload over and over again... Primus! That would be incredible.” He can feel the yellow mech's lust like a powerful wave, surging over their hardline connection. It completely swamps over Ratchet's thoughts.
Ratchet groans, inarticulate, the image building in the back of his processor. The sound of it both intoxicating and appealing.
“You'd offline me for sure!” he manages to get out, through a vocalizer laced with static. “Blow a few circuits definitely!”
Sunstreaker nuzzles against Ratchet's chestplates. “You used to like that,” he says, tone a mixture of longing and affection.
“I still would. Just...” Ratchet reaches out, lays a hand on Sunstreaker's helm, fingers caressing the side finials. “I want to bond with you. Right now.”
Sunstreaker's engine revs and he straightens, putting their open chestplates in closer proximity, enough that Ratchet gives another shudder of pleasure. “No more waiting,” he agrees.
Ratchet shifts as well, so that their sparks are in perfect alignment, already hungrily reaching for each other. The bare brushes of energy send tingles across Ratchet's circuits, and he can see energy visibly crackling across his plating and Sunstreaker's.
This is it.
There's a fantasy, a rumor, that merges with the intent of bonding allow Cybertronians to see anything and everything about their potential bonded's lifetime. This is both true and false. The spark doesn't carry data the same way a processor or memory bank does. It's as tangible as it is intangible.
What one partner sees in the other is not the perfect recollection of viewing memory files, but rather, the distorted, hazy emotional impressions of spark memory. Understanding the very core of a Cybertronian. The very nature of the mech or femme.
It's the hardline connection that allows the other access which preempts the rumor, but the spark merge itself is all about impressions. Gauzy shadows. Feeling not yourself but someone else and it's natural, normal.
Ratchet shudders as the edges of their spark coronas touch, tendrils of silver-green reaching for the pulsing waves of white-gold. His optics shutter closed as he tilts his helm toward Sunstreaker, their forehelms coming together with a soft clang. He can feel Sunstreaker's energy field pulsing in time with his, as though they have become of one mind about this, perfectly in sync.
A yellow-plated arm curls around Ratchet tighter, drawing him closer, narrowing the gap between their open chestplates inch by electrifying inch. It's a strange sensation, their spark energies knitting together, as pleasurable as it is unpleasant, like a ghost crawling in his sensors that's only eased by drawing his fingers over it. The relief is wonderful, but the sensation continues to nag.
Ratchet's fans are a loud whine in the room, nearly drowned out by the sound of Sunstreaker's. Part of him is concerned they'll both overheat before they're through, but their programming works as it is supposed to. The charge in Ratchet's circuits grows stronger and stronger, electricity dancing between their plating now. His grip on Sunstreaker's plating tightens, denting, and neither of them care.
A few more inches gained and Ratchet groans, pleasure more than pain now, feeling Sunstreaker's more vibrant spark eagerly twining about his own. There's a moment right before their chestplates come flush together, their spark cores a mere-half inch away. Anticipation sends Ratchet's thoughts awhirl.
And then he's Sunstreaker. And he's Ratchet. Somehow, both at once.
He's a little copper youngling, looking longingly at his brother's brilliant scarlet paint and definitive finials, feeling such love and jealousy that the emotions become hopelessly entangled.
He's a bright-opticed and eager-servoed mech about to set foot into the famed Medical University of Protihex, expectation heavy on white shoulders.
He's sleeping somewhere warm, protected by the mech in blue. His brother is warm at his back, their systems in perfect, opposite synchronization.
He's tasting high grade for the first time, the bright bubble-fresh taste of it dancing on his glossa, the sweet burn in his tanks something to savor.
He's in the center of the ring, the crowd’s cheers echoing in his audials, thrumming from the energon-soaked floor into his pedes, pulsing in tune with his spark.
He's ducking to avoid the piece of memorabilia tossed at his helm, shattering against the wall behind him, the vicious words of anger pounding at his audials.
He's in the middle of a tiny clinic tucked away in the shadows of Uraya, watching his brother being put back together by the only mech he's ever let in outside of his twin.
He's looking down at the sparkling in his arms, protoform lovingly designed by he and his partner, painted to perfection, not a single piece of plating out of place. Recharging peacefully, beautiful gold-green spark a dim glow before he closes Knock Out's chestplates.
Their sparkling. Their child.
He's looking at his partner who's looking back at him. Smiling.
And then there's pleasure. It jolts through his entire system, makes him jerk and twitch. His spark whirls faster and faster, vertigo rushing in. He might be falling, but he's not doing it alone so he'll be all right.
His armor is too heavy; he leaves it behind. His weapons, too. In fact, leave it all. Plating and frame and circuits and sensors and cydraulics and energon lines. Warnings and errors pop up, but he dismisses them without so much as glancing at the messages.
This is what's right. This is how things are supposed to be.
His spark surges and swells, completely enmeshed in the spark of another. Energy fields hum in perfect harmony. And for a single moment, they are someone else entirely. And then the overload crashes over them, a swamping wave of electrified pleasure that bursts across their sensor net and makes their frames rattle.
Their awareness turns to shades of grey, frames locked in the repeated swell of overload. Fans struggling to cool. Auxiliary systems shut down, unneeded at the moment. Focus given only to the new sensation of spark returning to frame, but different now. A little heavier, a bit brighter. Pulsing to a new, shared beat.
Shutdown Imminent.
One warning refuses to be dismissed. It flashes over and over in his HUD. His fans struggle to drag in cooler air. He's strutless, completely without strength, his spark stretched taut and too large to be confined to his own chamber.
Reboot Required.
Medical Recharge Initiated in Three, Two, One--
a/n: Only the epilogue left, but don't worry, I posted it, too. Feedback is welcome!
