[IDW] In the Family Way 01/06
Feb. 25th, 2019 06:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: In the Family Way
Characters: Ratchet/Sunstreaker, Ratchet/Bob, First Aid, Perceptor
Universe: Transformers MTMTE, Season One
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Mechpreg, Egg Laying Pregnancy, Oviposition, Semi-Bestiality, Dubious Consent
Description: Ratchet thought he was too old for this. And then the accidental heat charging through the Lost Light swept him up, too. If only he’d locked his door, then he wouldn’t be in this mess, but Sunstreaker stepping in to help him clean it up, that’s the best outcome he could have hoped for.
This is a commission for a wonderfully anonymous person. ^_^
Chapter One
For once, it wasn’t Rodimus’ fault.
Perceptor was going to carry the blame of this for decades. Perceptor and Brainstorm both, because Ratchet was rather certain that if Brainstorm hadn’t startled Perceptor, he wouldn’t have dropped the highly volatile liquid he was using in a highly volatile experiment. If he hadn’t dropped it, then there wouldn’t have been an explosion which knocked them both unconscious in a cloud of noxious fumes.
Which meant they wouldn’t have knocked their processors for a loop and woke in the middle of a voracious, demanding heat.
Containment became immediately necessary.
Containment was impossible.
On a ship with close quarters, full of mechs who hadn’t had a complete heat in centuries if not millennia because of the stress and rigors of war, the rampage of heat was inevitable.
It only took one spark to light the flame. And now Ratchet was up to his elbows in mechs whining, griping, and dripping lubricant.
All forward motion had been stalled. They’d set into orbit around Orthanx, which had an exceedingly long and complicated name in the language of the residents, but they were all creatures incapable of space-light and therefore wouldn't be a problem to orbiting Cybertronians.
Ratchet handed out anti-sparking supplements like candy and hoped the crew was smart enough to take them. At least, those who weren't interested in raising bits anyway. For all he knew, there were some mechs aboard who were ready to take on that responsibility, now that the war was semi-over. They weren't completely out of danger, but it was the closest they'd come in a long, long time.
Ratchet, meanwhile, was exhausted.
Heats were never fun for medics. They were especially not fun for medics who didn't have enough coworkers, and there were only three of them for a crew of two-hundred. Three because even their supplemental medics -- like Hoist -- had gone down in the first wave struck by heat. He was cloistered in a room and last Ratchet heard, Hoist was in the cool-down phase.
He'd be unhelpful for at least another week.
Ratchet thought he was safe. He thought his coding was up to snuff, and strong enough to stave off even the most insistent heat. He'd thought he was too damn old for this slag, too damn prepared, and too damn cranky.
He was terribly, horribly wrong.
It started small at first. A second glance at a mech he'd always known was attractive, but hadn't given another thought beyond that. A lingering appreciation of Smokescreen's thighs. A fantasy of being held by Ultra Magnus' very large hands. Of being touched by Fort Max's even larger fingers. Of being held down and spread wide.
He woke up from a stasis nap with slick on his thighs, and a sense of doom fell over Ratchet like a heavy shroud. He tried to stave it off. He scrambled up, took two doses of suppressant, and considered the matter solved.
It absolutely wasn't.
Most mechs stayed in their own quarters for the course of the heat. Those with complications, or who had opted to ride it out on their own but under observation, or needed to be implanted with anti-spark devices, they were the reason Ratchet was up to his elbows in hot, sticky crewmembers.
And they smelled divine. Their fields were sticky buzzes of arousal, clinging to his own and refusing to let go without a strong push. Ratchet's insides twisted and gnawed with heat, and his valve clenched and clenched, and his spike grew and throbbed. He swallowed suppressants until it was obvious they weren't having an effect.
After that, well, there was nothing left to do but give in to the inevitable.
He spat an excuse at First Aid.
Thinking back on it, Ratchet wasn't even sure if it made sense or if his apprentice believed him, or if he was coherent enough to give a good excuse. But he fled the medbay and dove into his quarters, managing to make it to his berth before his panels snapped open and lubricant dripped to the floor.
His first overload came like a burst of electric shock. He writhed on the berth, fingers passing over his swollen anterior node only twice before the ecstasy took him. It barely took the edge off the need, raging through him like an inferno.
He rolled over onto his belly, hand thrust beneath him, humping his fingers, the scent and taste of his overload thick on the air. He groaned like a desperate animal, rutting against his palms, overloading again within the span of a minute. His vision lit with sparks, his vents roared, and it wasn't enough, it wasn't nearly enough.
Ratchet shuttered his optics and snarled into the pillow, as he shoved his fingers deeper, curling to embrace every internal node he could reach. At this rate, he was in for the longest heat of his functioning.
Primus help him.
~
Bob was getting very, very tired of being locked up in Sunstreaker's room. It was a nice room. It was a clean room. It had a very comfortable bed and all of his toys, and most of the time, Sunstreaker could be found in it, too. They occasionally had visitors and Sunstreaker liked to keep the vidscreen on so Bob could watch shows when Sunstreaker was gone.
But there was only so much sleeping and playing and watching Bob could do before the boredom set in. He could usually tolerate a little boredom. It didn't happen often. Their ship always seemed to be getting in trouble one way or another.
Genuine boredom was very rare.
Right now, it wasn't boredom that had Bob pacing back and forth inside their room, staring hopefully at the door. It was restlessness. Because the ship hadn't been moving for several weeks now, and there were very, very interesting smells coming from the vents. Bob wanted to find these smells and figure out what they were, but Sunstreaker kept locking him in here, and nudging him away from the door.
Sunstreaker worked a lot more now, too. He took on twice as many shifts as he used to, so he was hardly here to pay attention to Bob. He kept Bob's food dish full, and they still recharged in a happy pile, but it wasn't the same. So Bob was bored and restless and lonely.
He might have watched Sunstreaker a bit too closely when his best buddy slipped out, and he might have pelted fast across the floor, sliding something into the gap so he could escape. Since Sunstreaker kept changing the lock code once he realized Bob could memorize. His best buddy was so smart.
Bob waited just long enough until he was sure Sunstreaker was out of sight, and then he slipped from their room, letting it lock behind him. He figured he had a few hours before Sunstreaker knew he was gone, or someone spotted him and informed Sunstreaker. A few hours of freedom was better than none.
Bob trundled down the hallway, following the various yummy scents soaking the air. They were everywhere, some with different flavors but all of them intriguing. The thicker scents were behind closed and locked doors. He recognized a lot of them. Lots of friends here.
Bob sniffed around the doors, his engine rumbling with delight at the warm, spicy scent. It reminded him of something, but he couldn't quite tap the right memory in his storage banks. He had trouble, sometimes, accessing those. Like the connections weren't always there.
He kept going, sneaking past the mess hall where people were likely to notice him, and even sneakier past Swerve's. He paused to listen, and heard nothing. It was oddly quiet in Swerve's. Usually it was very noisy and brimming with the multiple fields of everyone inside. Not so much today.
Weird.
The training room was empty. How disappointing. Usually he could find someone to play fetch with or get some wrestling practice in, but there was no one.
The hallways were deserted, too. It was eerily quiet. Even more so that the ship was docked or orbiting or something. Bob knew the normal noise of the Lost Light, and the sounds it made when it was in motion. The usual thrumming and humming had stalled.
What was going on?
Bob avoided the bridge. He knew better than to go anywhere near where Ultra Magnus might be. He was big, and he was angry, and he didn’t approve of Bob very much. He had an always-frown, and no matter how cutely Bob chirped or danced around his feet, he never loosened or unbent himself enough to offer Bob a pet.
Bob had even managed to charm Rodimus. But not Ultra Magnus. It was okay if Rodimus caught him, but not Ultra Magnus. Better to avoid the bridge altogether.
The smell grew stronger.
Bob paused in the middle of a t-section hallway. He turned in a slow circle, nasal sensors catching air currents, and pinpointed the direction of the interesting smell. It was coming from the medbay area, he was sure of it.
He followed.
The scent thickened and strengthened until he could taste it. The smoky, sweetness of it kept pinging at the back of his mind with familiarity. It was on the tip of his glossa how he knew it, but he couldn’t quite grasp it.
He passed by Ratchet’s door, and a waft of the scent caught his attention. He rose up on his hind legs and tried the handle. With a happy chirp, the door popped open for him. It wasn’t locked at all. Maybe Ratchet wanted him to visit? The medic gave really good behind the audial skritches, and he always had a lonely-look to him.
He probably didn’t know how much Sunstreaker looked at him either. Bob’s Sunstreaker could be silly sometimes, not going after the things he wanted even though he should have. Sunstreaker missed the way Ratchet looked back at him.
There were times Bob wished he could make the mechlanguage work for him, so he could tell both of them how silly they were being. Things weren’t nearly this complicated back in the Hive. But also, things weren’t as good in the Hive. This ship and this crew and Sunstreaker and his life, it was a lot better than the Hive.
Confusing.
But better.
Bob slipped into Ratchet’s room, and the door closed behind him. The panel beeped. He looked back, but it still glowed ready-green at him. Not locked.
A sound made his antennae shoot up straight. Ratchet’s room was very dim, but that was no trouble at all for an Insecticon.
He followed the noise, and didn't have to go far. Ratchet had bigger rooms than a lot of people on the ship, and he had a little private room for his bed off to the side. The door to it was ajar, and it only took a nudge from Bob's secondary arm for it slide open the rest of the way. There weren't any lights on in here either, except for the emergency ones, but the bright, pulsing glow of biolights were easy to pick out.
Ratchet was on the floor for some reason. He was on his knees, chest pressed to the ground, legs spread wide, aft pointed upward. He was groaning and panting and shaking, his armor clattering, and his field hot and wild. The spicy, interesting smell was coming from him. He didn't seem to notice Bob either. Which probably had something to do with the fact he was facing a different direction, but usually, Ratchet was very perceptive.
Right now, though, his engine rumbled, and his vents whirred, and his fans roared. He kept moaning and gasping and groaning, and making very wet sounds. Bob inched closer and realized why. Ratchet had his fingers between his legs, in his valve, and he was touching himself with abandon. The smell got even stronger.
Bob's spark spun a little faster. There were droplets on the floor; they glistened in his dark vision. He investigated them with a sniff and a lick, identifying lubricant. Very sweet and tangy and they matched the scent, but stronger. Vibrant.
His memory core pinged. Threads connected. He knew this scent. He remembered this smell. It was a ready-mate smell! The ship was in a breeding season, that was why it was so quiet and empty. Everyone was busy breeding, making a new clutch to help their family grow. And Ratchet was ready to mate, too. He was ripe and ready, and he was alone.
No. That was wrong. Ready-mates should never be alone. Ready-mates should always have someone to help them and pleasure them and fill them with eggs. Why was he alone? Ratchet was kind and strong and talented. He should have a line of mechs outside his door, ready to assist him.
This wouldn't do at all.
Bob's groin throbbed.
He shouldn't. He hadn't earned the right, but Ratchet groaned like he was in pain, and he should be! Ready-mates needed a partner! No one else was around, and Bob knew he should go find someone. Probably tell Sunstreaker, but damn it. They wouldn't be able to understand him because they didn't get his language. They might drag him back to his room without letting him show them what was wrong.
Then Ratchet would keep suffering, and Bob couldn't have that. He liked Ratchet a lot. And Sunstreaker did, too. Bob couldn't leave him to suffer.
He crept forward, with Ratchet seemingly taking no notice of him. He nudged the back of Ratchet's thigh, in-venting the sweet, tangy scent of him, his mating protocols springing into action as his interface panel snapped open. He nuzzled Ratchet's valve, his mouthplate getting soaked in lubricant before he made it slide aside, and he could lick a long path up Ratchet's valve, tasting his lubricant, tasting his readiness.
Oh, he was primed. He was eager. He needed to be mated.
Bob licked him again and again, and Ratchet moaned, his fingers falling away to claw the floor. He pushed back against Bob as if on instinct, head bowing, until something shivered in his field. Something like a moment of calm in the midst of a storm.
~
Ratchet wasn't dying.
Because he wasn't an idiot, and he was a trained medic, and he knew no one could die from lack of a partner during a heat, but Primus, it certainly felt like he was dying. One, two, five overloads weren't enough. The need clawed him from the inside out. He never made it to his toy chest. He didn't have the strength.
He was in agony. His hand was tired, his fingers ached, he drooled on the floor because he didn't have the energy to climb back into his berth. The temptation to call someone, anyone, was getting too strong for him to ignore.
Then he felt the hot, wet lick over his valve.
Ratchet moaned, delirious from need. He moved toward the source of his relief, as several more wet laps made him quiver, and his valve clench on nothing. He abandoned his valve to brace himself on the floor. A long and agile glossa slid over and into him, tickling his sensors and making them sing.
It occurred to him that there shouldn't be anyone in his room. There certainly shouldn't be anyone offering him pleasure. Through the haze of heat, a tiny light of sanity rose. He managed a brief scan, but for some reason, it pinged back unintelligible results. Maybe he couldn't read it in his current state. He didn't know. He was on fire, and could barely think straight as it was.
The glossa licked him again, curling up and under to flick over his node. Ratchet cried out, knees wobbling, fingers digging into the floor. He pushed back against the willing mouth, registered heat and another presence. Smelled the arousal, and felt the odd, buzzing energy field crashing against his own.
The glossa retreated. Weight abruptly landed on Ratchet's lower back and aft, slamming against the back of his thighs, and a blunt, dripping pressure nudged his valve. Ratchet braced himself against the weight, heard the sound of heavy fans and odd little chirps and rumbles.
Wait.
Chirps?
Ratchet forced his optics to online, without realizing he'd closed them, and glanced over his shoulder. It was dark in his room, but it was impossible to miss the large frame looming over him. Or the four, yellow optics blinking back at him, and the yellow and purple biolights.
... Bob?
Something firm nudged his valve again, applying a direct pressure to his folds and node, and Ratchet shivered, kneading at the ground. Pleasure spiked through his frame. Oh, he needed to pull away, he needed to tell Bob 'no'. He needed to do something more than just crouch here, subtly rocking back against what was obviously a spike.
He shouldn't let this happen.
Bob rocked against him again, breaching his valve with the bulbous tip of his spike, grinding against the inner ring of nodes. Ratchet moaned. His limbs wobbled. His forehead pressed to the floor, delight cresting through his frame. Primus, it felt so good though. Bob was tangibly thick, and he spread Ratchet's calipers with a delicious stretch.
Pleasure sang through his lines, his valve rippling and spilling lubricant. Ratchet rocked back and back, encouraging the thick spike deeper. He registered, distantly, that it was attached to Bob, and therefore, he should stop this now. Stop this before it was too late. Before Bob slid into him, deeper and deeper, so so so good against the mostly untouchable nodes.
Ratchet shuddered and ground his face against the floor, knees digging in, spark flaring and dancing with heat. His valve clamped down, calipers spiraling tight around Bob’s spike, refusing to allow him an easy retreat. It was a relief, a complete and utter relief to finally have someone inside him, someone with a spike throbbing with charge, seeking out his internal nodes and grinding heavy against them.
Another jolt of pleasure pushed Ratchet to the point of almost-overload. He panted, fogged the metal of the floor, fingers skreeling over it.
Bob chittered, paused, shifted, paused again.
Now. Now would be an excellent time to lift his head, to break the near-quiet with a firm command for Bob to stop. For Ratchet to dig his fingers and knees into the floor, pull off the plump thickness of Bob’s spike, and seek his relief elsewhere.
The words didn’t come.
Bob’s smaller hands grabbed him the waist, pulled him back in the same motion he thrust forward. Hard, claiming, metal against metal, and he pushed deep, deep enough to grind against Ratchet’s ceiling node.
He shattered into overload, vision and thoughts going white with static.
Ratchet slumped, panting, his frame twitching with the aftershocks. Need still rose within him, spiraling faster back toward overload, but Primus. Just the one had been ten times better than all the ones he’d managed with his own fingers.
Bob kept moving. He’d been slow and steady, but after Ratchet’s overload, suddenly his thrusts picked up pace. Deeper and harsher, and the base of his spike felt thicker, more swollen where it ground over his rim nodes.
Ratchet moaned, and his thoughts went fuzzy again. He braced against the floor, shoved back into Bob’s thrusts, and pleasure sparked through his lines like a lightning bolt. His valve rippled hungrily, his gestational port snapped open against the pressure of Bob’s spike, and a sharp cry of want escaped Ratchet before he could stop.
Frag it.
He didn’t want to stop. Not anymore.
No one had to know. No one ever had to know. He could take the pleasure for what it was, let the chips fall, let his heat finally be sated. And no one would ever have to know.
Bob shoved into him, harsh enough to force Ratchet across the ground. He gasped, shoved back, and the knot – for Ratchet recognized what it was now – shoved into him, beyond the rim of his valve, which immediately clamped around the bulge.
Bob keened, an excited little chirp, and humped against Ratchet’s aft, faster and faster, plating clanging together. He grabbed Ratchet harder, and his spike swelled, filling every inch of Ratchet’s valve, grinding hard and electric over his nodes.
Ratchet overloaded again. He drooled against the floor, entire frame spasming. He would have been ashamed if it didn’t feel so damn good.
Bob continued to swell, straining the stretch of Ratchet's calipers, opening his valve wide, sensitizing his nodes to the point of absolute pleasure. He had a distant flicker of concern, that maybe Bob was too large, maybe he'd be hurting by the end.
It didn't matter right now. It felt too good. It was absolute bliss. It was relief.
If he'd known a smidgen more about Insecticon biology, Ratchet might not have been so steady.
~
Bob had forgotten how it felt to take a ready-mate.
He’d always been small, left behind, forgotten. He rarely won the dominance scuffles and had only taken a ready-mate twice in his entire functioning. That had been the epitome of bliss to him, but it had been a long time since.
Bob had been shoved out of the nest for every heat-week after that. The Queen demanded he run scouting and gather materials and protect the Hive. They didn’t want him to mate.
Ratchet was amazing. He felt so good, and his field was hot and molten, and he moaned and pushed back into Bob, asking for more. He was wet and tight, and his field tugged at Bob’s eagerly. He wanted more.
Bob chirred and thrust into him harder, giving Ratchet whatever he wanted, locking his knot in Ratchet’s valve and grinding against his nodes. Ratchet moaned and keened and shuddered around him in overload, charge spilling over his armor.
He was so pretty and so strong, he would make a good carrier for their eggs. They could have a family, a real one. Sunstreaker would be happy, too. Bob couldn’t wait to show him their new Hive.
Bob shuddered as he overloaded and pumped all of his transfluid into Ratchet, spurt after spurt after spurt, filling Ratchet’s valve and his tank, preparing him for the eggs. Bob didn’t have a lot. He was a runt, so he didn’t prepare many. But he had enough.
Ratchet moaned as Bob filled him, his frame quivering. Bob had to hold him to keep him somewhat upright. Heat poured off Ratchet in waves, his armor open and flexible to help him cool down. He was so loose and pliant in Bob’s arms.
Bob chirred appreciatively.
“I’m… never going to live this down,” Ratchet murmured, but he pushed back onto Bob’s spike anyway, his valve rippling around his rapidly deflating knot.
His ovipositor swelled in his array, ready to emerge and fill Ratchet with his eggs. Bob licked the back of Ratchet’s neck, tasting his arousal and his satisfaction. He purred and clicked, soothing Ratchet as much as he could, his entire frame vibrating to offer comfort and pleasure.
Ratchet groaned and sank a bit further on the ground, vents coming in sharp pants. He buried his face in his arms, his field tasting a bit of shame buried beneath the hunger. Poor Ratchet. It was hard for the mechs to embrace pleasure sometimes. They always thought too much about it.
Bob licked his neck again, stroked his sides with his secondary arms, and waited for the knot cycle to finish. He rocked his hips, teased Ratchet’s rim nodes, and savored every delighted shiver until his spike finally slipped free, sated.
He shifted.
Ratchet made as if to pull away, and Bob crooned a negative sound at him. No, no. They weren’t done. They had to finish or Ratchet wouldn’t have the eggs!
“… What?” Ratchet’s knees trembled as Bob hooked on a hip seam and pulled him back, rocking his groin against Ratchet’s aft. His ovipositor unfurled, bumping up against Ratchet’s aft and valve, teasing his swollen rim and exterior node.
Shhh. Shhh.
Bob tried to mimic the soothing sounds he’d heard other mechs made. He patted Ratchet’s side and back, lay licks all over his neck and shoulders.
Shhh. Shhh.
Ratchet groaned and went pliant again, his weight sinking into Bob’s grasp. “Fine,” he said, and his field opened up, molten and hungry. He went fully pliant in Bob’s embrace, his hips canting up and back, rim catching the concave head of Bob’s ovipositor.
Bob chirred his approval. He thrust, rocking against Ratchet over and over, until his ovipositor finally sank into the delicious heat of Ratchet’s valve. Ratchet groaned and his armor rippled, pleasure flowing through his field in sizzling waves. His valve clenched, rhythmically drawing Bob deeper.
He purred and thrust again. And again. And again. Until the head of his ovipositor nudged against the open port of Ratchet’s carry-tank.
Ratchet shuddered. His valve rippled around Bob’s ovipositor, milking him, and Bob chirred as heat and pleasure tangled together at the base of his spinal strut. Charge surged through his frame, and the eggs jostled at the base of his positor, eager to be planted.
Bob chittered and licked the back of Ratchet’s neck as he dug his feet into the ground and thrust again, the head finally popping past the port rim. He and Ratchet both shivered, and Bob’s engine growled, a volcanic heat building in his groin. Ratchet groaned something Bob didn’t catch, and his port tightened around the head of Bob’s ovipositor.
He was perfect.
Bob chirped and lovingly stroked Ratchet, soothing him with gentle pets and licks, as the first egg worked its way through the shaft and into Ratchet, passing with a tight squeeze through the narrow port. Ratchet shuddered through an overload, but his frame opened, pliant and eager, his field wound around Bob’s, seemingly drowning in sensation.
Good, good.
He was so strong, so smart, so brave. He was the perfect carrier. Bob was very honored. Sunstreaker would be very happy. They would have the best family. The strongest family. A new Hive for Bob to call home.
He couldn’t wait.
*
Characters: Ratchet/Sunstreaker, Ratchet/Bob, First Aid, Perceptor
Universe: Transformers MTMTE, Season One
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Mechpreg, Egg Laying Pregnancy, Oviposition, Semi-Bestiality, Dubious Consent
Description: Ratchet thought he was too old for this. And then the accidental heat charging through the Lost Light swept him up, too. If only he’d locked his door, then he wouldn’t be in this mess, but Sunstreaker stepping in to help him clean it up, that’s the best outcome he could have hoped for.
This is a commission for a wonderfully anonymous person. ^_^
For once, it wasn’t Rodimus’ fault.
Perceptor was going to carry the blame of this for decades. Perceptor and Brainstorm both, because Ratchet was rather certain that if Brainstorm hadn’t startled Perceptor, he wouldn’t have dropped the highly volatile liquid he was using in a highly volatile experiment. If he hadn’t dropped it, then there wouldn’t have been an explosion which knocked them both unconscious in a cloud of noxious fumes.
Which meant they wouldn’t have knocked their processors for a loop and woke in the middle of a voracious, demanding heat.
Containment became immediately necessary.
Containment was impossible.
On a ship with close quarters, full of mechs who hadn’t had a complete heat in centuries if not millennia because of the stress and rigors of war, the rampage of heat was inevitable.
It only took one spark to light the flame. And now Ratchet was up to his elbows in mechs whining, griping, and dripping lubricant.
All forward motion had been stalled. They’d set into orbit around Orthanx, which had an exceedingly long and complicated name in the language of the residents, but they were all creatures incapable of space-light and therefore wouldn't be a problem to orbiting Cybertronians.
Ratchet handed out anti-sparking supplements like candy and hoped the crew was smart enough to take them. At least, those who weren't interested in raising bits anyway. For all he knew, there were some mechs aboard who were ready to take on that responsibility, now that the war was semi-over. They weren't completely out of danger, but it was the closest they'd come in a long, long time.
Ratchet, meanwhile, was exhausted.
Heats were never fun for medics. They were especially not fun for medics who didn't have enough coworkers, and there were only three of them for a crew of two-hundred. Three because even their supplemental medics -- like Hoist -- had gone down in the first wave struck by heat. He was cloistered in a room and last Ratchet heard, Hoist was in the cool-down phase.
He'd be unhelpful for at least another week.
Ratchet thought he was safe. He thought his coding was up to snuff, and strong enough to stave off even the most insistent heat. He'd thought he was too damn old for this slag, too damn prepared, and too damn cranky.
He was terribly, horribly wrong.
It started small at first. A second glance at a mech he'd always known was attractive, but hadn't given another thought beyond that. A lingering appreciation of Smokescreen's thighs. A fantasy of being held by Ultra Magnus' very large hands. Of being touched by Fort Max's even larger fingers. Of being held down and spread wide.
He woke up from a stasis nap with slick on his thighs, and a sense of doom fell over Ratchet like a heavy shroud. He tried to stave it off. He scrambled up, took two doses of suppressant, and considered the matter solved.
It absolutely wasn't.
Most mechs stayed in their own quarters for the course of the heat. Those with complications, or who had opted to ride it out on their own but under observation, or needed to be implanted with anti-spark devices, they were the reason Ratchet was up to his elbows in hot, sticky crewmembers.
And they smelled divine. Their fields were sticky buzzes of arousal, clinging to his own and refusing to let go without a strong push. Ratchet's insides twisted and gnawed with heat, and his valve clenched and clenched, and his spike grew and throbbed. He swallowed suppressants until it was obvious they weren't having an effect.
After that, well, there was nothing left to do but give in to the inevitable.
He spat an excuse at First Aid.
Thinking back on it, Ratchet wasn't even sure if it made sense or if his apprentice believed him, or if he was coherent enough to give a good excuse. But he fled the medbay and dove into his quarters, managing to make it to his berth before his panels snapped open and lubricant dripped to the floor.
His first overload came like a burst of electric shock. He writhed on the berth, fingers passing over his swollen anterior node only twice before the ecstasy took him. It barely took the edge off the need, raging through him like an inferno.
He rolled over onto his belly, hand thrust beneath him, humping his fingers, the scent and taste of his overload thick on the air. He groaned like a desperate animal, rutting against his palms, overloading again within the span of a minute. His vision lit with sparks, his vents roared, and it wasn't enough, it wasn't nearly enough.
Ratchet shuttered his optics and snarled into the pillow, as he shoved his fingers deeper, curling to embrace every internal node he could reach. At this rate, he was in for the longest heat of his functioning.
Primus help him.
Bob was getting very, very tired of being locked up in Sunstreaker's room. It was a nice room. It was a clean room. It had a very comfortable bed and all of his toys, and most of the time, Sunstreaker could be found in it, too. They occasionally had visitors and Sunstreaker liked to keep the vidscreen on so Bob could watch shows when Sunstreaker was gone.
But there was only so much sleeping and playing and watching Bob could do before the boredom set in. He could usually tolerate a little boredom. It didn't happen often. Their ship always seemed to be getting in trouble one way or another.
Genuine boredom was very rare.
Right now, it wasn't boredom that had Bob pacing back and forth inside their room, staring hopefully at the door. It was restlessness. Because the ship hadn't been moving for several weeks now, and there were very, very interesting smells coming from the vents. Bob wanted to find these smells and figure out what they were, but Sunstreaker kept locking him in here, and nudging him away from the door.
Sunstreaker worked a lot more now, too. He took on twice as many shifts as he used to, so he was hardly here to pay attention to Bob. He kept Bob's food dish full, and they still recharged in a happy pile, but it wasn't the same. So Bob was bored and restless and lonely.
He might have watched Sunstreaker a bit too closely when his best buddy slipped out, and he might have pelted fast across the floor, sliding something into the gap so he could escape. Since Sunstreaker kept changing the lock code once he realized Bob could memorize. His best buddy was so smart.
Bob waited just long enough until he was sure Sunstreaker was out of sight, and then he slipped from their room, letting it lock behind him. He figured he had a few hours before Sunstreaker knew he was gone, or someone spotted him and informed Sunstreaker. A few hours of freedom was better than none.
Bob trundled down the hallway, following the various yummy scents soaking the air. They were everywhere, some with different flavors but all of them intriguing. The thicker scents were behind closed and locked doors. He recognized a lot of them. Lots of friends here.
Bob sniffed around the doors, his engine rumbling with delight at the warm, spicy scent. It reminded him of something, but he couldn't quite tap the right memory in his storage banks. He had trouble, sometimes, accessing those. Like the connections weren't always there.
He kept going, sneaking past the mess hall where people were likely to notice him, and even sneakier past Swerve's. He paused to listen, and heard nothing. It was oddly quiet in Swerve's. Usually it was very noisy and brimming with the multiple fields of everyone inside. Not so much today.
Weird.
The training room was empty. How disappointing. Usually he could find someone to play fetch with or get some wrestling practice in, but there was no one.
The hallways were deserted, too. It was eerily quiet. Even more so that the ship was docked or orbiting or something. Bob knew the normal noise of the Lost Light, and the sounds it made when it was in motion. The usual thrumming and humming had stalled.
What was going on?
Bob avoided the bridge. He knew better than to go anywhere near where Ultra Magnus might be. He was big, and he was angry, and he didn’t approve of Bob very much. He had an always-frown, and no matter how cutely Bob chirped or danced around his feet, he never loosened or unbent himself enough to offer Bob a pet.
Bob had even managed to charm Rodimus. But not Ultra Magnus. It was okay if Rodimus caught him, but not Ultra Magnus. Better to avoid the bridge altogether.
The smell grew stronger.
Bob paused in the middle of a t-section hallway. He turned in a slow circle, nasal sensors catching air currents, and pinpointed the direction of the interesting smell. It was coming from the medbay area, he was sure of it.
He followed.
The scent thickened and strengthened until he could taste it. The smoky, sweetness of it kept pinging at the back of his mind with familiarity. It was on the tip of his glossa how he knew it, but he couldn’t quite grasp it.
He passed by Ratchet’s door, and a waft of the scent caught his attention. He rose up on his hind legs and tried the handle. With a happy chirp, the door popped open for him. It wasn’t locked at all. Maybe Ratchet wanted him to visit? The medic gave really good behind the audial skritches, and he always had a lonely-look to him.
He probably didn’t know how much Sunstreaker looked at him either. Bob’s Sunstreaker could be silly sometimes, not going after the things he wanted even though he should have. Sunstreaker missed the way Ratchet looked back at him.
There were times Bob wished he could make the mechlanguage work for him, so he could tell both of them how silly they were being. Things weren’t nearly this complicated back in the Hive. But also, things weren’t as good in the Hive. This ship and this crew and Sunstreaker and his life, it was a lot better than the Hive.
Confusing.
But better.
Bob slipped into Ratchet’s room, and the door closed behind him. The panel beeped. He looked back, but it still glowed ready-green at him. Not locked.
A sound made his antennae shoot up straight. Ratchet’s room was very dim, but that was no trouble at all for an Insecticon.
He followed the noise, and didn't have to go far. Ratchet had bigger rooms than a lot of people on the ship, and he had a little private room for his bed off to the side. The door to it was ajar, and it only took a nudge from Bob's secondary arm for it slide open the rest of the way. There weren't any lights on in here either, except for the emergency ones, but the bright, pulsing glow of biolights were easy to pick out.
Ratchet was on the floor for some reason. He was on his knees, chest pressed to the ground, legs spread wide, aft pointed upward. He was groaning and panting and shaking, his armor clattering, and his field hot and wild. The spicy, interesting smell was coming from him. He didn't seem to notice Bob either. Which probably had something to do with the fact he was facing a different direction, but usually, Ratchet was very perceptive.
Right now, though, his engine rumbled, and his vents whirred, and his fans roared. He kept moaning and gasping and groaning, and making very wet sounds. Bob inched closer and realized why. Ratchet had his fingers between his legs, in his valve, and he was touching himself with abandon. The smell got even stronger.
Bob's spark spun a little faster. There were droplets on the floor; they glistened in his dark vision. He investigated them with a sniff and a lick, identifying lubricant. Very sweet and tangy and they matched the scent, but stronger. Vibrant.
His memory core pinged. Threads connected. He knew this scent. He remembered this smell. It was a ready-mate smell! The ship was in a breeding season, that was why it was so quiet and empty. Everyone was busy breeding, making a new clutch to help their family grow. And Ratchet was ready to mate, too. He was ripe and ready, and he was alone.
No. That was wrong. Ready-mates should never be alone. Ready-mates should always have someone to help them and pleasure them and fill them with eggs. Why was he alone? Ratchet was kind and strong and talented. He should have a line of mechs outside his door, ready to assist him.
This wouldn't do at all.
Bob's groin throbbed.
He shouldn't. He hadn't earned the right, but Ratchet groaned like he was in pain, and he should be! Ready-mates needed a partner! No one else was around, and Bob knew he should go find someone. Probably tell Sunstreaker, but damn it. They wouldn't be able to understand him because they didn't get his language. They might drag him back to his room without letting him show them what was wrong.
Then Ratchet would keep suffering, and Bob couldn't have that. He liked Ratchet a lot. And Sunstreaker did, too. Bob couldn't leave him to suffer.
He crept forward, with Ratchet seemingly taking no notice of him. He nudged the back of Ratchet's thigh, in-venting the sweet, tangy scent of him, his mating protocols springing into action as his interface panel snapped open. He nuzzled Ratchet's valve, his mouthplate getting soaked in lubricant before he made it slide aside, and he could lick a long path up Ratchet's valve, tasting his lubricant, tasting his readiness.
Oh, he was primed. He was eager. He needed to be mated.
Bob licked him again and again, and Ratchet moaned, his fingers falling away to claw the floor. He pushed back against Bob as if on instinct, head bowing, until something shivered in his field. Something like a moment of calm in the midst of a storm.
Ratchet wasn't dying.
Because he wasn't an idiot, and he was a trained medic, and he knew no one could die from lack of a partner during a heat, but Primus, it certainly felt like he was dying. One, two, five overloads weren't enough. The need clawed him from the inside out. He never made it to his toy chest. He didn't have the strength.
He was in agony. His hand was tired, his fingers ached, he drooled on the floor because he didn't have the energy to climb back into his berth. The temptation to call someone, anyone, was getting too strong for him to ignore.
Then he felt the hot, wet lick over his valve.
Ratchet moaned, delirious from need. He moved toward the source of his relief, as several more wet laps made him quiver, and his valve clench on nothing. He abandoned his valve to brace himself on the floor. A long and agile glossa slid over and into him, tickling his sensors and making them sing.
It occurred to him that there shouldn't be anyone in his room. There certainly shouldn't be anyone offering him pleasure. Through the haze of heat, a tiny light of sanity rose. He managed a brief scan, but for some reason, it pinged back unintelligible results. Maybe he couldn't read it in his current state. He didn't know. He was on fire, and could barely think straight as it was.
The glossa licked him again, curling up and under to flick over his node. Ratchet cried out, knees wobbling, fingers digging into the floor. He pushed back against the willing mouth, registered heat and another presence. Smelled the arousal, and felt the odd, buzzing energy field crashing against his own.
The glossa retreated. Weight abruptly landed on Ratchet's lower back and aft, slamming against the back of his thighs, and a blunt, dripping pressure nudged his valve. Ratchet braced himself against the weight, heard the sound of heavy fans and odd little chirps and rumbles.
Wait.
Chirps?
Ratchet forced his optics to online, without realizing he'd closed them, and glanced over his shoulder. It was dark in his room, but it was impossible to miss the large frame looming over him. Or the four, yellow optics blinking back at him, and the yellow and purple biolights.
... Bob?
Something firm nudged his valve again, applying a direct pressure to his folds and node, and Ratchet shivered, kneading at the ground. Pleasure spiked through his frame. Oh, he needed to pull away, he needed to tell Bob 'no'. He needed to do something more than just crouch here, subtly rocking back against what was obviously a spike.
He shouldn't let this happen.
Bob rocked against him again, breaching his valve with the bulbous tip of his spike, grinding against the inner ring of nodes. Ratchet moaned. His limbs wobbled. His forehead pressed to the floor, delight cresting through his frame. Primus, it felt so good though. Bob was tangibly thick, and he spread Ratchet's calipers with a delicious stretch.
Pleasure sang through his lines, his valve rippling and spilling lubricant. Ratchet rocked back and back, encouraging the thick spike deeper. He registered, distantly, that it was attached to Bob, and therefore, he should stop this now. Stop this before it was too late. Before Bob slid into him, deeper and deeper, so so so good against the mostly untouchable nodes.
Ratchet shuddered and ground his face against the floor, knees digging in, spark flaring and dancing with heat. His valve clamped down, calipers spiraling tight around Bob’s spike, refusing to allow him an easy retreat. It was a relief, a complete and utter relief to finally have someone inside him, someone with a spike throbbing with charge, seeking out his internal nodes and grinding heavy against them.
Another jolt of pleasure pushed Ratchet to the point of almost-overload. He panted, fogged the metal of the floor, fingers skreeling over it.
Bob chittered, paused, shifted, paused again.
Now. Now would be an excellent time to lift his head, to break the near-quiet with a firm command for Bob to stop. For Ratchet to dig his fingers and knees into the floor, pull off the plump thickness of Bob’s spike, and seek his relief elsewhere.
The words didn’t come.
Bob’s smaller hands grabbed him the waist, pulled him back in the same motion he thrust forward. Hard, claiming, metal against metal, and he pushed deep, deep enough to grind against Ratchet’s ceiling node.
He shattered into overload, vision and thoughts going white with static.
Ratchet slumped, panting, his frame twitching with the aftershocks. Need still rose within him, spiraling faster back toward overload, but Primus. Just the one had been ten times better than all the ones he’d managed with his own fingers.
Bob kept moving. He’d been slow and steady, but after Ratchet’s overload, suddenly his thrusts picked up pace. Deeper and harsher, and the base of his spike felt thicker, more swollen where it ground over his rim nodes.
Ratchet moaned, and his thoughts went fuzzy again. He braced against the floor, shoved back into Bob’s thrusts, and pleasure sparked through his lines like a lightning bolt. His valve rippled hungrily, his gestational port snapped open against the pressure of Bob’s spike, and a sharp cry of want escaped Ratchet before he could stop.
Frag it.
He didn’t want to stop. Not anymore.
No one had to know. No one ever had to know. He could take the pleasure for what it was, let the chips fall, let his heat finally be sated. And no one would ever have to know.
Bob shoved into him, harsh enough to force Ratchet across the ground. He gasped, shoved back, and the knot – for Ratchet recognized what it was now – shoved into him, beyond the rim of his valve, which immediately clamped around the bulge.
Bob keened, an excited little chirp, and humped against Ratchet’s aft, faster and faster, plating clanging together. He grabbed Ratchet harder, and his spike swelled, filling every inch of Ratchet’s valve, grinding hard and electric over his nodes.
Ratchet overloaded again. He drooled against the floor, entire frame spasming. He would have been ashamed if it didn’t feel so damn good.
Bob continued to swell, straining the stretch of Ratchet's calipers, opening his valve wide, sensitizing his nodes to the point of absolute pleasure. He had a distant flicker of concern, that maybe Bob was too large, maybe he'd be hurting by the end.
It didn't matter right now. It felt too good. It was absolute bliss. It was relief.
If he'd known a smidgen more about Insecticon biology, Ratchet might not have been so steady.
Bob had forgotten how it felt to take a ready-mate.
He’d always been small, left behind, forgotten. He rarely won the dominance scuffles and had only taken a ready-mate twice in his entire functioning. That had been the epitome of bliss to him, but it had been a long time since.
Bob had been shoved out of the nest for every heat-week after that. The Queen demanded he run scouting and gather materials and protect the Hive. They didn’t want him to mate.
Ratchet was amazing. He felt so good, and his field was hot and molten, and he moaned and pushed back into Bob, asking for more. He was wet and tight, and his field tugged at Bob’s eagerly. He wanted more.
Bob chirred and thrust into him harder, giving Ratchet whatever he wanted, locking his knot in Ratchet’s valve and grinding against his nodes. Ratchet moaned and keened and shuddered around him in overload, charge spilling over his armor.
He was so pretty and so strong, he would make a good carrier for their eggs. They could have a family, a real one. Sunstreaker would be happy, too. Bob couldn’t wait to show him their new Hive.
Bob shuddered as he overloaded and pumped all of his transfluid into Ratchet, spurt after spurt after spurt, filling Ratchet’s valve and his tank, preparing him for the eggs. Bob didn’t have a lot. He was a runt, so he didn’t prepare many. But he had enough.
Ratchet moaned as Bob filled him, his frame quivering. Bob had to hold him to keep him somewhat upright. Heat poured off Ratchet in waves, his armor open and flexible to help him cool down. He was so loose and pliant in Bob’s arms.
Bob chirred appreciatively.
“I’m… never going to live this down,” Ratchet murmured, but he pushed back onto Bob’s spike anyway, his valve rippling around his rapidly deflating knot.
His ovipositor swelled in his array, ready to emerge and fill Ratchet with his eggs. Bob licked the back of Ratchet’s neck, tasting his arousal and his satisfaction. He purred and clicked, soothing Ratchet as much as he could, his entire frame vibrating to offer comfort and pleasure.
Ratchet groaned and sank a bit further on the ground, vents coming in sharp pants. He buried his face in his arms, his field tasting a bit of shame buried beneath the hunger. Poor Ratchet. It was hard for the mechs to embrace pleasure sometimes. They always thought too much about it.
Bob licked his neck again, stroked his sides with his secondary arms, and waited for the knot cycle to finish. He rocked his hips, teased Ratchet’s rim nodes, and savored every delighted shiver until his spike finally slipped free, sated.
He shifted.
Ratchet made as if to pull away, and Bob crooned a negative sound at him. No, no. They weren’t done. They had to finish or Ratchet wouldn’t have the eggs!
“… What?” Ratchet’s knees trembled as Bob hooked on a hip seam and pulled him back, rocking his groin against Ratchet’s aft. His ovipositor unfurled, bumping up against Ratchet’s aft and valve, teasing his swollen rim and exterior node.
Shhh. Shhh.
Bob tried to mimic the soothing sounds he’d heard other mechs made. He patted Ratchet’s side and back, lay licks all over his neck and shoulders.
Shhh. Shhh.
Ratchet groaned and went pliant again, his weight sinking into Bob’s grasp. “Fine,” he said, and his field opened up, molten and hungry. He went fully pliant in Bob’s embrace, his hips canting up and back, rim catching the concave head of Bob’s ovipositor.
Bob chirred his approval. He thrust, rocking against Ratchet over and over, until his ovipositor finally sank into the delicious heat of Ratchet’s valve. Ratchet groaned and his armor rippled, pleasure flowing through his field in sizzling waves. His valve clenched, rhythmically drawing Bob deeper.
He purred and thrust again. And again. And again. Until the head of his ovipositor nudged against the open port of Ratchet’s carry-tank.
Ratchet shuddered. His valve rippled around Bob’s ovipositor, milking him, and Bob chirred as heat and pleasure tangled together at the base of his spinal strut. Charge surged through his frame, and the eggs jostled at the base of his positor, eager to be planted.
Bob chittered and licked the back of Ratchet’s neck as he dug his feet into the ground and thrust again, the head finally popping past the port rim. He and Ratchet both shivered, and Bob’s engine growled, a volcanic heat building in his groin. Ratchet groaned something Bob didn’t catch, and his port tightened around the head of Bob’s ovipositor.
He was perfect.
Bob chirped and lovingly stroked Ratchet, soothing him with gentle pets and licks, as the first egg worked its way through the shaft and into Ratchet, passing with a tight squeeze through the narrow port. Ratchet shuddered through an overload, but his frame opened, pliant and eager, his field wound around Bob’s, seemingly drowning in sensation.
Good, good.
He was so strong, so smart, so brave. He was the perfect carrier. Bob was very honored. Sunstreaker would be very happy. They would have the best family. The strongest family. A new Hive for Bob to call home.
He couldn’t wait.
