[IDW] In the Family Way 02/06
Mar. 4th, 2019 06:00 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 Two
Bob was missing.
Normally, this didn’t concern Sunstreaker too terribly.
Bob knew where their room was. He knew to come back. He had his favorites around the ship, those who gave him treats or the good audial skritches or played fetch or would wrestle him. Bob had a better social life than Sunstreaker did, honestly.
Sunstreaker would be jealous if Bob wasn’t so darned cute.
Right now, however. Right now was an absolutely terrible time for Bob to be missing. Half the ship was in a full-blown heat.
Sunstreaker himself was on double-duty. As one of the few mechs unaffected by heat -- it was largely believed he couldn't have one -- he found himself pulling a lot of extra shifts just to keep the Lost Light in working order. Granted, they were stationary at the moment, but there were still things to be done.
Sunstreaker was tired. He was ready to recharge for as long as he could. He didn't want to be wandering the halls of the ship, looking for his wayward pet. Yet, here he was. He hesitated to ask for help, because he wanted to avoid a lecture, but after an hour spent wandering, he conceded defeat.
Most of the habsuites were locked, their inhabitants either cloistered inside to avoid getting launched into a heat of their own, or elsewhere, paired up with someone in heat who wanted a partner.
Sunstreaker had one small point in his favor. Ultra Magnus, currently Minimus Ambus, was out of commission due to a heat of his own. Any lectures Sunstreaker might face wouldn't come from the stern former Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord.
Rodimus was in no condition to lecture anyone either, which left Drift being run ragged as the only reasonable mech left in command. Somehow, the heat didn't seem to affect him. Which left only one nagging voice to irritate Sunstreaker for decades.
Oh, well.
He sighed and activated his comm, pinging the security office. "Sunstreaker here. Anyone on watch with a pair of keen optics?"
"What'cha need Sunny?"
Oh, thank Primus. It was Inferno and not Red Alert.
"Bob's gone missing. You spot him on the vids anywhere?"
Inferno's grunt carried through the comms. "Give me a minute and lemme check."
Honestly, he should be pretty easy to find. The corridors had been deserted since the heat struck, so any movement would have triggered motion sensors. Sunstreaker had already checked all the usual spots -- the training room, Swerve's, the mess hall. He had a feeling Bob was hiding somewhere, so he wouldn't get locked back up in the room.
"Last motion trigger has him in the hall outside the medbay. Mighta gone to see Ratchet, you know he's soft for the bugger."
Sunstreaker snorted. "It's the only thing he's soft for."
"Unless you count Drift."
"Unless." Sunstreaker managed a smirk and shot a thumbs up toward the nearest camera, knowing Inferno could see it. "Thanks, 'ferno. I'll let you know when I find him."
“Got it.”
Sunstreaker started for the medical bay, keeping his optics peeled along the way. The halls were deserted, doors were closed and locked, and there was no sign of his missing pet. He braced himself before he went into the medical bay itself.
The heat had no effect on him, true. But it was hard to remember that when he walked through the door and was smacked in the face by a wave of layered heat, need, and want. He tasted the arousal immediately, and a shudder wracked his frame.
Sunstreaker paused, briefly dizzy, trying to catch his balance. He didn’t lose control of his senses, but it was a near thing.
First Aid appeared in the doorway that led deeper into the medbay. He looked frazzled, fluids spattering his frame, his optical band flaring, his hands busy juggling one too many items.
Sunstreaker rushed in to save him before he dropped a complicated and no doubt expensive machine of some kind.
“Oh, thanks,” First Aid said with a crackle in his vocals that suggested complete and utter exhaustion. “Are you here to help?”
“Technically, I’m off-shift right now. Before I collapse, according to Drift.” Sunstreaker swiveled and set the machine on the reception desk. “I take it things are going poorly.”
“You have no idea.” First Aid sighed and dropped his armful of equipment onto the desk as well. It clattered and clanked. “If you’re not here to help then why are you here?”
Sunstreaker leaned past First Aid, trying to peer down the hallway. “Looking for Bob. He got loose, and Inferno said he was last seen this direction.”
“That’s… not good.”
“Yeah. Tell me about it.”
First Aid sighed and slumped into a lean on the edge of the desk, his vents rattling. “I haven’t seen him.” He rubbed a hand down his faceplate. “I’ll keep a look out, but I can’t promise anything. It’s just me and Ambulon now.”
“What? Where’s Ratchet?”
“I don’t know. He mumbled something about needing a break and vanished, but that was hours ago.” First Aid waved a dismissing hand, only for something on his arm to start violently flashing. He groaned. “And that’s the end of that.” He shoved back upright, joints creaking, field fluttering around his frame with exhaustion.
Primus, maybe he should stick around and help. Bob would keep, right? No one was pinging the security desk, screaming about a rampaging Insecticon. It seemed like all the aid was needed here.
“I’ve got to get back to work,” First Aid said with a rattling sigh. “Think you could do me a favor?”
Sunstreaker hesitated. He was supposed to be resting right now.
“It’s about Ratchet,” First Aid added.
Well. That settled that.
“What do you need me to do?” Sunstreaker asked, weak as he always was when it came to the medic who seemed to be a part of his life in some shape or form. Wherever Ratchet was, Sunstreaker wanted to be, even if only in friendship. Maybe he didn’t deserve it, but a small part of him hoped he might be given that gift.
“Just check on him.” First Aid stared at the equipment assembled on the desk as if he couldn’t see it. “I mean, I have some suspicions about what’s wrong with him, but he’s a grown mech, and the last thing he’d want is me trying to doctor him.”
Sunstreaker snorted. “I hear that.”
"Yeah. Well." First Aid dug into his subspace and produced a datachip of some kind, which he handed over to Sunstreaker. "This'll get you into his habsuite. It's only a temporary access, so just toss it when you're done." He paused and scrubbed at his forehead. "I mean, he's going to yell at me anyway, so I might as well give him a reason to."
"He won't yell," Sunstreaker said. "Or if he does, I'll make him aim it at me."
First Aid chuckled, as tired as it sounded. "He always did love shouting at you and Sideswipe."
"Mm." Sunstreaker made a noncommittal noise. He didn't particularly want to think about his twin right now. Things between them had been strained for awhile, and he didn't anticipate them improving anytime soon.
Then again, him deciding to climb aboard the Lost Light and take off into nowhere might have had something to do with it.
“Good luck,” First Aid said. He vanished down the hallway with a parting wave, moving into a light jog as someone shouted his designation.
Sunstreaker was glad he was not a medic.
He headed for Ratchet’s habsuite, intending to use the medbay entrance rather than the main hall. He’d check on Ratchet, and then he’d go back to searching for Bob.
As it turned out, he didn’t need First Aid’s chip, because the door opened at a touch, as if Ratchet hadn’t bothered to lock it.
Curious.
Sunstreaker stepped inside, rapping his knuckles on the inner wall as he peered into the gloom. “Ratchet?”
Nothing answered him. Well, at least, not in words Sunstreaker understood. He heard shifting, the brush of metal over metal, a low moan and a shuddering ventilation.
Heat flooded Sunstreaker’s face. Clearly, Ratchet was busy. He clamped a hand over his mouth and slid back, intending to get the frag out of Ratchet’s habsuite before the medic realized Sunstreaker had snuck in.
A very, very familiar chirr floated to his audials. Sunstreaker froze.
He dialed up the gain, listening intently. Another sound floated to his audials, that of a chirping, rolling purr he knew all too well.
Oh.
Oh no.
Sunstreaker scurried forward, moving toward the shadowed opening he assumed led to a private berthroom, since the door opposite of him obviously led to the hallway. The sounds of metal on metal, wet slapping noises, gasps and moans, grew louder. Another series of chirps made his energon run cold.
He skidded to a stop in the doorway, optics wide with horror.
Bob was… he was…
Ratchet was on all fours on the floor, chestplate pressed down, head turned toward Sunstreaker, optics shuttered, lips parted, drool gathered beneath his mouth. His fingers weakly kneaded the floor, and his knees rocked back, pushing toward the weight draped on top of him.
The weight being Bob, who was rutting into Ratchet with short, stuttered humps, antennae waving and hips pushing. A puddle glistened beneath their combined frames, and the whole room stank of lubricant and overloads and the sweet, pungent aroma of a heat. Bob’s optics were bright, and he kept making that delighted, happy noise he made when Sunstreaker gave him his favorite treat. He licked the back of Ratchet’s neck, his smaller hands patting Ratchet’s armor.
For a moment, Sunstreaker was shocked into immobility, before he burst into motion, stumbling across the floor toward Ratchet and Bob.
“Bob, bad boy! Stop it!”
Ratchet’s optics snapped open, his head shooting up, staring at Sunstreaker in evident horror. Bob squeaked and reared back, little hands scrambling at Ratchet’s back, and the medic hissed with pain.
“He’s knotted,” Ratchet growled though denta visibly gritted.
“Primus, Ratchet. I’m so sorry,” Sunstreaker babbled, curling his fingers in Bob’s collar fairing and trying to pull the Insecticon backward. “I should have locked him in better, I should have done something. I’m sorry.”
He tugged.
Bob yelped.
Ratchet hissed and clawed at the ground.
There was a loud, wet pop and Bob skittered backward, a large… something bobbing between his back legs. It was glossy with fluids, strangely concave at the tip, and a large knob at the base of it. Sunstreaker caught a glimpse of Ratchet’s valve, swollen and dripping, agape as the rim contracted around nothing.
Bob keened and Sunstreaker wrestled him away, a much harder task than it should have been. Bob growled and fought him, trying to get back to Ratchet. Sunstreaker dragged him into the main room, throwing his weight around, snarling reprimands at his pet while Bob chirred and clicked and that obscene spike spattered fluid on the floor.
Sunstreaker yanked the leash out of his subspace, snapped it into Bob’s collar, and lashed the Insecticon to the sturdiest piece of furniture he could find. Thank Primus Ratchet’s desk was bolted to the floor, otherwise Bob would have dragged it with him in his desperation to get back to Ratchet. On instinct maybe? Sunstreaker knew nothing about his pet’s biology.
Frag, frag, frag.
Sunstreaker panted, his tank queasy at the sight of Bob’s shrinking spike, the thick bulge deflating with little spurts of fluid from the strangely concave tip. Bob started to whine, a low, mournful noise of loss. It made Sunstreaker’s spark ache with sympathy, combating the disgust tangled in his tanks.
Bob would be fine for now, Sunstreaker hoped. He turned his attention to Ratchet instead, who still huddled on the floor, face now turned and buried in his arms, knees still braced apart and hips making slow shifts backward. He visibly and audibly shivered, little rings of metal on metal, and his field was ripe with the scent of pleasure and heat.
"Ratchet?"
"You have timing that is both terrible and wonderful," came the response, thick with static, but coherent at least.
Ratchet's head turned, optics looking up at Sunstreaker blearily. His fingers curved against the ground as he tried to push himself upright, but his knees wobbled.
Sunstreaker moved to help him, careful where he put his hands, and Ratchet clattered backward, onto his aft, legs splayed. He sat in a puddle of fluids, valve still bared, and if it bothered him, there was no sign in his posture.
"Did he hurt you?" Sunstreaker asked.
Ratchet groaned and buried his face behind a hand. "This is humiliating."
"I'm sor--"
"Not your fault." Ratchet waved him off without even looking. "It's just a fragged up situation all the way around." His free hand reached blindly, fingers curling around Sunstreaker's upper arm. "I wasn't supposed to go into heat."
Sunstreaker glanced at Bob, who had stretched to the limits of the leash and was peering in at Ratchet, his optics bright and antennae canted. "And I should have locked him up better."
"Bob's smarter than we all give him credit." Ratchet sighed, a bit of a rattling, wet sound. "I'm just glad it was me and not someone else on the ship." He dropped his hand and his gaze, looking down between his thighs. "Primus, I'm a mess."
"Nothing a visit to the washracks won't fix." Sunstreaker tried to find a smile, but he was out of practice. "Give me a second, and I'll help."
"Not going anywhere," Ratchet muttered.
Sunstreaker stood and checked the doors, making sure they were closed, locked, and wouldn't allow anyone to enter or exit without Ratchet's express permission -- including Bob. He triple-checked Bob's leash and collar, not that Bob was fighting him anymore or even trying to get free. He seemed content to lay down and stare mournfully Ratchet's direction.
He pinged First Aid, let him know Ratchet was feeling ill and wouldn't be back, and got a distracted chirp of confirmation in reply. That saved him an explanation Sunstreaker wasn't sure he could fake.
Ratchet hadn't moved by the time Sunstreaker came back. He still sat on the floor, in a puddle of fluids, dazed, armor shivering, heat cloaking his frame in visible curls. His optics were pale, his face drawn with lines of stress.
"Come on." Sunstreaker urged Ratchet to his feet, grunting at the exertion. Medics were far heavier than they looked. "Let's get you cleaned up and get some energon in you, then you can recharge."
Ratchet made an unintelligible noise. He didn't seem to be fully aware, and Sunstreaker hoped that was normal. He didn't have much experience with mechs in the midst of their heats. Maybe he'd be fine after recharge. If not, Sunstreaker would get First Aid.
And pray Bob hadn't done irreparable damage. Sunstreaker would never forgive himself.
He wrestled Ratchet into the washracks, guided him to the fold out chair, and made Ratchet comfortable while he powered on the solvent and started to clean. This was easy. He was used to this. Once upon a time, he used to wash and detail his twin. And Ratchet already wasn't in the best of shape. He really needed a full strip and repaint and wax. He needed someone to take care of him. Wasn't Drift always lurking around? Why wasn't he doing his job?
Sunstreaker bit his glossa. Not his place, he reminded himself, not his place.
He gently sprayed Ratchet's array, still open and swollen, radiating heat. Sunstreaker carefully rinsed away the fluids, grimacing at the sight of the transfluid. There was so much of it.
Ratchet's engine thrummed in an idle. He watched Sunstreaker with hazy optics, but he didn't say much. He didn't protest either, so Sunstreaker hoped he wasn't overstepping his bounds. The spray gently passed over Ratchet's valve and main node, and Ratchet shivered, a low moan escaping from his intake.
"Sorry," Sunstreaker murmured.
"Don't be." Ratchet's voice was made of gravel. His field spiked, pushing at Sunstreaker's with heat and need. "Not your fault." He curled a hand around Sunstreaker's upper arm, his touch burning and firm. "Besides, I'm probably gonna have to apologize to you in a second."
Sunstreaker furrowed his orbital ridges. "What? Why?"
Ratchet tugged, pulling him off balance. Sunstreaker stumbled forward, close enough for Ratchet to cup the back of his head and pull him down into a kiss, one tasting of need and heat and want. It was an urgent kiss, and Ratchet's hold on the back of his neck was firm. Sunstreaker had to brace himself against the wall, lest he be yanked into Ratchet's lap.
A low moan rattled in Ratchet's intake, and the sound of it stoked the flames of want in Sunstreaker's tanks. He leaned harder against the wall and deepened the kiss, the fall of the solvent pattering around them, filling the small space with a hot, damp mist.
Ratchet broke away ,and Sunstreaker resisted the urge to chase his mouth. "Sorry," the medic said, his vocals strained and raspy. "I'm sorry, I just--"
"Still in heat? It's okay." More than okay, but Sunstreaker didn't want to sound desperate. “Whatever you need.”
“I shouldn’t,” Ratchet said, but his hands were tight on Sunstreaker, trying to pull him closer, his field reaching out as well, hungry strings wrapping around Sunstreaker. “I shouldn’t. You don’t--”
Sunstreaker cut off his protest with another kiss. Maybe he offered under false pretenses, but Ratchet didn’t have to know. Ratchet needed it. The need yawing in his field felt like pain, and there was desperation in his kiss.
He staggered upward and pulled Sunstreaker with him, until Sunstreaker had him pinned against the wall. Ratchet rolled his hips, grinding against him, spike extended and valve slicking his thighs with lubricant again.
“Whatever you need,” Sunstreaker repeated. He curved a hand around Ratchet’s left leg, coaxing it to lift and wrap around him, opening Ratchet’s array up to him. “Take it from me. You can have it.”
Ratchet groaned, his fingers spasming where they gripped the back of Sunstreaker’s neck. “You don’t have to--”
“I know. I want to. I’m offering.” Sunstreaker popped his panel, his spike emerging, the head of it rubbing Ratchet’s slick, swollen pleats.
Ratchet shuddered and ground down. Sparks of charge danced over his armor. “I need your spark, I think. Maybe it’ll satisfy the heat.” He licked his lips, rubbed harder against Sunstreaker, his field clinging sticky and hot.
“Whatever you need,” Sunstreaker said, for the third time, and commanded his chestplates to open, letting the light of his spark spill into the space between them.
Ratchet looked up at him, optics hazy, and gratitude pulsed in his field. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, and stole Sunstreaker’s lips for another kiss, one that hinted of denta. He pulled Sunstreaker closer, grinding their chestplates together.
He had nothing to apologize for. But Sunstreaker would worry about that later. Right now, arousal spiked in his own frame, and he pinned Ratchet against the wall. He felt Ratchet’s chestplates part against his, the buzzing warmth of Ratchet’s spark flaring warm and tingling when it met his outer corona.
Sunstreaker shuddered and shifted his grip on Ratchet by a few inches, just enough he could finally slide home, his spike embraced by tight, rippling heat. Every ounce of effort he’d spent trying to ignore or cast aside his earlier arousal abruptly evaporated. Sunstreaker groaned, static shooting through his vision, as his spinal strut erupted in a burst of desperate charge.
He panted, dropping both hands to Ratchet’s hips, hefting the medic against the wall. Ratchet moaned, clawing at his back, arching up against him, grinding down on his spike, grinding their open chestplates together, bursts of charge dancing between their sparks.
Ratchet growled against his mouth, and his head tipped back, Sunstreaker chasing after his lips before mouthing over Ratchet’s cables, tasting the vibrations of his voice. He thrust fast and deep, grinding hard into Ratchet, a slick mess seeping out and staining his groin. Lubricant and Bob’s transfluid both, he knew.
Ratchet needed him. That was what mattered.
Sunstreaker pulsed his spark energy, felt Ratchet’s answer his in turn. He moaned, mouth returning to Ratchet’s for a kiss that swamped him with need. Ratchet rutted against him, valve clamping down tight, as the exchange of energies between their sparks became a rapid-fire pulse of pleasure, dragging Sunstreaker’s awareness out of his frame and into the fractured space between them.
He couldn’t catch Ratchet’s thoughts, the merge was too shallow for that. But he felt Ratchet’s emotions, the rampant need, the hint of embarrassment, the buried desire.
He clutched Ratchet harder, gave all he could spare and then some, pulsing hard and fast. Ratchet cried out against his mouth, valve squeezing down, spiraling tight. And then Ratchet was overloading, spasming between Sunstreaker and the wall, his spark flaring bright, encompassing Sunstreaker’s own.
Electric ecstasy flashed over Ratchet’s frame, and it backflowed into Sunstreaker’s. He jerked, knees wobbling, as overload washed over him. He spurted into Ratchet’s valve, charge zinging up and down his backstrut. He clutched Ratchet closer, riding the aftershocks, his spark pulsing with satisfaction.
Gradually, Ratchet’s frantic movements slowed, to something slower, more savoring, less full of desperation.
“Better?” Sunstreaker asked.
Ratchet’s valve convulsed around his spike. He cupped Sunstreaker’s face, their mouths in close contact. “Almost.”
“More?” Sunstreaker cradled his hips, bracing him against the wall, his knees locking into place.
A look of hesitation flickered over Ratchet’s face before he pressed their foreheads together, optics shuttering. “Please.”
“Anything you want,” Sunstreaker promised, his spark spinning into a dance of delight. “Anything you need.”
~
Ratchet onlined to comfort. The desperate, painful need was gone from his frame, leaving his thoughts clearer than they’d been in hours. He still ached, like his frame had been under strain for hours, but that should fix itself over another full recharge or two.
His senses returned to him in trickles, sensation first, that of a soft cloth sweeping over his armor, buffing him to a fine shine. A warm field embraced him, pulsing low level wafts of comfort and reassurance. Sound came next, the quiet purr of his engine, the clicks and ticks of another frame beside his. Sight emerged last, vision bristling with static before it clarified into a familiar, handsome face hovering over him.
“Sunstreaker?” he rasped.
Lips curved into a soft, indulgent smile. Primus, he had a beautiful smile. But then, everything about Sunstreaker was gorgeous. “How do you feel?”
“Sore.” Ratchet grunted. He sat up, but a wave of dizziness caused him to sway. Sunstreaker’s arm came around him then, helping him upright. “I think the heat is over. Thank Primus.”
“That’s good to hear.” Sunstreaker swiveled away and came back with a cup. “Here. You probably need this.”
A waft of coolant floated to Ratchet’s nasal receptors. His mouth was parched, his frame wrung dry, and it smelled like the most delicious treat in the universe.
Ratchet carefully sipped at the coolant as Sunstreaker held it up to his lips. “Thanks,” he croaked and cycled his sensory suites, rebooting them. He slumped against the wall, and as he did, more sound trickled in.
Soft, sad whining.
He looked past Sunstreaker’s shoulder, out the door of his berthroom, and caught biolights aglow in the main suite. Two sets of optics peered back at him, and above them, twitching antennae.
Oh, right. Wherever Sunstreaker was, Bob could be found as well.
Wait.
Bob.
Memory surged to the forefront. Ratchet shuttered his optics, shame crowding his spark. He remembered being desperate, to the point of despair. The building urge inside of him had been painful, unlike anything he’d ever felt before.
When Bob arrived, he hadn’t debated very long, had he? He’d have done anything to quell the thirst inside him.
“Ratchet?”
He sucked in a shuddering ventilation. “If you’re here, then I guess that means you found me.” He hid behind his palm. “I can’t imagine what you think of me.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s mine.” Sunstreaker took the coolant from Ratchet, and one of his hands rested on Ratchet’s shoulder. “I should have kept a better optic on him. Blame me. Hate me. Just don’t… don’t blame yourself.”
Ratchet sighed. “I don’t hate you.” He touched his chestplate – recently shined at that. “Though you might hate me.” He seemed to remember all but forcing himself on Sunstreaker after another wave of painful need swept through him. “Thank you, by the way, for sharing your spark with me. I know it had to be difficult.”
Sunstreaker’s gaze dropped. His face shaded pink. “You’ve saved mine and Sideswipe’s sparks a lot. It seemed right that I return the favor.”
“Still.”
Sunstreaker shook his head. “I’d do it again. Really, Ratchet. I’m glad I could help.” He paused and glanced over his shoulder at Bob, who straightened, antennae cocking forward, making another pull at the leash keeping him lashed to something in Ratchet’s suite. “Besides, it’s my fault Bob attacked you.”
“I didn’t do a good job of saying no, to be honest.” Ratchet’s face heated. He squirmed. “What a mess.”
“We don’t have to tell anyone.” Sunstreaker tipped the cube back toward Ratchet’s mouth, encouraging him to finish drinking. “I won’t tell anyone, I mean.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” Ratchet muttered. He drank the coolant in one quick gulp and handed it back.
Sunstreaker traded it for a different cube, this one filled with midgrade energon, flavored to Ratchet’s specifications no less. “There isn’t? You ran a scan?”
Oh, Primus. He hadn’t. He’d just assumed. Bob was an Insecticon. Their interfacing shouldn’t have produced anything. But then, if it couldn’t, why would Bob’s transfluid help feed the heat? Or was it Sunstreaker’s help in the last round that satisfied his programming’s requirements?
Ratchet didn’t know. There was no precedence. The whole incident was unexpected.
“No. I didn’t.” Dread pooled heavy in Ratchet’s armor.
He worked his intake and initiated the scan, free hand tangling in the berth cover, twisting it in his fingers. Warmth fell over his hand, and Ratchet managed a faint smile as he tangled his fingers with Sunstreaker’s.
Ratchet sipped the energon while he waited, anxiety growing and growing, threatening to stall his fans. The scan pinged.
Ratchet’s vents caught.
He was sparked.
Primus.
Ratchet downed the rest of the energon, wishing it was engex or high grade instead. His frame couldn’t process it in his current state, but he wanted it anyway.
“I’m sparked,” he said.
Sunstreaker squeezed his hand. He didn’t say anything. Maybe it was better that he didn’t, because Ratchet himself didn’t know what to say. Or how to feel. Centuries of war had gone by, and he’d never once thought to spark. He’d been too young before the war started, too young to think about caretaking and settling down.
Now he was too old for it, and he’d resigned himself ages ago to that kind of peaceful life being out of his reach. He didn’t know if he wanted it anymore – family and sparklings and responsibility.
He also didn’t have much of a choice.
“Should I congratulate you?” Sunstreaker asked, after a moment of quiet. “Or should I get on my knees and grovel for forgiveness?” His tone was tight, anxious, a shiver of unease in his field.
Ratchet squeezed his hand. “I’m not sure about the first, but definitely not the second.” He looked at Sunstreaker and cycled a ventilation. “We’ll figure it out.”
“I’ll take responsibility,” Sunstreaker said, and there was something at once bleak and solemn in his tone. “Bob never has to come into the picture. If anyone asks, it was me. All me. They’ll believe it easily enough.” The last came with a touch of bitterness and self-castigation.
“Hey. Stop that.” Ratchet flicked Sunstreaker’s forehead. “None of that. You made a mistake, Sunny. We’ve all made mistakes. I don’t hold it against you.”
“Well, you should.” Sunstreaker’s tone turned fierce. He made as if to pull away, but Ratchet’s grip on his hand prevented it. “I know what I did. You don’t have to pretend it’s okay.”
Primus, well wasn’t this a fragging pit slag of a situation?
Ratchet sighed and scrubbed his forehead. “I’m fine with telling mechs I was with you for my heat. As far as anyone is concerned, I asked and you agreed.”
“That won’t upset Drift?”
Ratchet blinked. “Why would it?”
Sunstreaker shifted, discomfort flickering in his field. “Well, aren’t you two… together?”
Ratchet snorted. “Primus, no. It’s not like that.” He scrubbed his forehead again, exhaustion still tugging at the edges of his conscious, but he needed to get this cleared up before it caused other problems.
“Drift is… we have a shared connection. We’re very close, I realize that, and I know other people have noticed. But it’s not romantic. It’s something else. It’s important and real, but it’s not romance. I don’t know what else to call it.” He huffed, out of frustration more than anything else. He didn’t like not having the words he needed to express himself.
“It’s okay. I think I get it.” Sunstreaker audibly ex-vented, and the tension rippling in his frame loosened, his seams unclamping. “So you’re… uhhh… unspoken for?”
“As I’ve always been.” They weren’t going to talk about Pharma. That was a clusterfrag of epic proportions Ratchet didn’t want to talk about it. “So if you don’t mind, I’m going to lean on you.”
“I don’t mind.” Sunstreaker squeezed his hand again, and when he moved to withdraw, Ratchet let him. Sunstreaker stood. “Do you need anything? I should check on Bob.”
Ratchet waved him off. “I’ll be fine for a few minutes. Check on the bug. Let him know I’m not mad.”
It’s hardly Bob’s fault at any rate. Ratchet couldn’t blame the Insecticon for following through on his instincts. They knew next to nothing about Insecticons, especially ones who were the products of mad scientific experiments. Frag, sometimes they weren’t even sure how intelligent Bob actually was.
Ratchet sank further into the berth and watched Sunstreaker, his spark squeezing. Contemplation reared its ugly head, and Ratchet batted it aside. He rested a hand over his chassis, thinking of the new spark growing within him, but his thoughts were still a tangled mess.
Sunstreaker crouched by Bob, murmuring words Ratchet couldn’t hear, offering his pet skritches and cuddles, bringing out some energon for Bob to consume. Bob offered Sunstreaker most of his attention, but he kept straining toward the berthroom, straining toward Ratchet. Maybe he could sense something they couldn’t.
Ratchet sighed.
Complications. He hated complications. He couldn’t think of anything more complicated than this.
Sunstreaker returned, more energon in hand. “Bob’s fine,” he said. “But you should probably get more recharge, and I’m sure you don’t want us around anymore.”
“You should stop making assumptions.” Ratchet accepted the energon, swallowing it down quickly. He’d need to consume a lot more, he knew, now that he was sparked.
He’d have to get Aid to look him over, help him extrapolate a birthdate. He’d have to take care of a lot of things, but tomorrow. Exhaustion tugged at every cable, and all Ratchet wanted to do was sink into the berth and recharge for another day or so. It was normal, he knew, for a mech post-heat. Especially a mech who had been successfully sparked.
“What do you mean?” Sunstreaker cocked his head, confusion swirling around him like a pale miasma.
“Stay.” Ratchet slipped further into the berth, the pull of recharge like an irresistible tug. “If you want to. I’d appreciate it.” Honestly, he didn’t want to be alone right now.
Sunstreaker cycled his optics, looking startled. “Oh. Um. Sure.” He moved to the berth, resting a hand on Ratchet’s arm. “Whatever you want.”
Ratchet managed a smile, a flush of relieved warmth spreading through his frame. He fell into recharge like that, with Sunstreaker’s hand on his arm.
Safe. Protected. Maybe even loved.
What a wonderful thought.
****
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. ^_^
Bob was missing.
Normally, this didn’t concern Sunstreaker too terribly.
Bob knew where their room was. He knew to come back. He had his favorites around the ship, those who gave him treats or the good audial skritches or played fetch or would wrestle him. Bob had a better social life than Sunstreaker did, honestly.
Sunstreaker would be jealous if Bob wasn’t so darned cute.
Right now, however. Right now was an absolutely terrible time for Bob to be missing. Half the ship was in a full-blown heat.
Sunstreaker himself was on double-duty. As one of the few mechs unaffected by heat -- it was largely believed he couldn't have one -- he found himself pulling a lot of extra shifts just to keep the Lost Light in working order. Granted, they were stationary at the moment, but there were still things to be done.
Sunstreaker was tired. He was ready to recharge for as long as he could. He didn't want to be wandering the halls of the ship, looking for his wayward pet. Yet, here he was. He hesitated to ask for help, because he wanted to avoid a lecture, but after an hour spent wandering, he conceded defeat.
Most of the habsuites were locked, their inhabitants either cloistered inside to avoid getting launched into a heat of their own, or elsewhere, paired up with someone in heat who wanted a partner.
Sunstreaker had one small point in his favor. Ultra Magnus, currently Minimus Ambus, was out of commission due to a heat of his own. Any lectures Sunstreaker might face wouldn't come from the stern former Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord.
Rodimus was in no condition to lecture anyone either, which left Drift being run ragged as the only reasonable mech left in command. Somehow, the heat didn't seem to affect him. Which left only one nagging voice to irritate Sunstreaker for decades.
Oh, well.
He sighed and activated his comm, pinging the security office. "Sunstreaker here. Anyone on watch with a pair of keen optics?"
"What'cha need Sunny?"
Oh, thank Primus. It was Inferno and not Red Alert.
"Bob's gone missing. You spot him on the vids anywhere?"
Inferno's grunt carried through the comms. "Give me a minute and lemme check."
Honestly, he should be pretty easy to find. The corridors had been deserted since the heat struck, so any movement would have triggered motion sensors. Sunstreaker had already checked all the usual spots -- the training room, Swerve's, the mess hall. He had a feeling Bob was hiding somewhere, so he wouldn't get locked back up in the room.
"Last motion trigger has him in the hall outside the medbay. Mighta gone to see Ratchet, you know he's soft for the bugger."
Sunstreaker snorted. "It's the only thing he's soft for."
"Unless you count Drift."
"Unless." Sunstreaker managed a smirk and shot a thumbs up toward the nearest camera, knowing Inferno could see it. "Thanks, 'ferno. I'll let you know when I find him."
“Got it.”
Sunstreaker started for the medical bay, keeping his optics peeled along the way. The halls were deserted, doors were closed and locked, and there was no sign of his missing pet. He braced himself before he went into the medical bay itself.
The heat had no effect on him, true. But it was hard to remember that when he walked through the door and was smacked in the face by a wave of layered heat, need, and want. He tasted the arousal immediately, and a shudder wracked his frame.
Sunstreaker paused, briefly dizzy, trying to catch his balance. He didn’t lose control of his senses, but it was a near thing.
First Aid appeared in the doorway that led deeper into the medbay. He looked frazzled, fluids spattering his frame, his optical band flaring, his hands busy juggling one too many items.
Sunstreaker rushed in to save him before he dropped a complicated and no doubt expensive machine of some kind.
“Oh, thanks,” First Aid said with a crackle in his vocals that suggested complete and utter exhaustion. “Are you here to help?”
“Technically, I’m off-shift right now. Before I collapse, according to Drift.” Sunstreaker swiveled and set the machine on the reception desk. “I take it things are going poorly.”
“You have no idea.” First Aid sighed and dropped his armful of equipment onto the desk as well. It clattered and clanked. “If you’re not here to help then why are you here?”
Sunstreaker leaned past First Aid, trying to peer down the hallway. “Looking for Bob. He got loose, and Inferno said he was last seen this direction.”
“That’s… not good.”
“Yeah. Tell me about it.”
First Aid sighed and slumped into a lean on the edge of the desk, his vents rattling. “I haven’t seen him.” He rubbed a hand down his faceplate. “I’ll keep a look out, but I can’t promise anything. It’s just me and Ambulon now.”
“What? Where’s Ratchet?”
“I don’t know. He mumbled something about needing a break and vanished, but that was hours ago.” First Aid waved a dismissing hand, only for something on his arm to start violently flashing. He groaned. “And that’s the end of that.” He shoved back upright, joints creaking, field fluttering around his frame with exhaustion.
Primus, maybe he should stick around and help. Bob would keep, right? No one was pinging the security desk, screaming about a rampaging Insecticon. It seemed like all the aid was needed here.
“I’ve got to get back to work,” First Aid said with a rattling sigh. “Think you could do me a favor?”
Sunstreaker hesitated. He was supposed to be resting right now.
“It’s about Ratchet,” First Aid added.
Well. That settled that.
“What do you need me to do?” Sunstreaker asked, weak as he always was when it came to the medic who seemed to be a part of his life in some shape or form. Wherever Ratchet was, Sunstreaker wanted to be, even if only in friendship. Maybe he didn’t deserve it, but a small part of him hoped he might be given that gift.
“Just check on him.” First Aid stared at the equipment assembled on the desk as if he couldn’t see it. “I mean, I have some suspicions about what’s wrong with him, but he’s a grown mech, and the last thing he’d want is me trying to doctor him.”
Sunstreaker snorted. “I hear that.”
"Yeah. Well." First Aid dug into his subspace and produced a datachip of some kind, which he handed over to Sunstreaker. "This'll get you into his habsuite. It's only a temporary access, so just toss it when you're done." He paused and scrubbed at his forehead. "I mean, he's going to yell at me anyway, so I might as well give him a reason to."
"He won't yell," Sunstreaker said. "Or if he does, I'll make him aim it at me."
First Aid chuckled, as tired as it sounded. "He always did love shouting at you and Sideswipe."
"Mm." Sunstreaker made a noncommittal noise. He didn't particularly want to think about his twin right now. Things between them had been strained for awhile, and he didn't anticipate them improving anytime soon.
Then again, him deciding to climb aboard the Lost Light and take off into nowhere might have had something to do with it.
“Good luck,” First Aid said. He vanished down the hallway with a parting wave, moving into a light jog as someone shouted his designation.
Sunstreaker was glad he was not a medic.
He headed for Ratchet’s habsuite, intending to use the medbay entrance rather than the main hall. He’d check on Ratchet, and then he’d go back to searching for Bob.
As it turned out, he didn’t need First Aid’s chip, because the door opened at a touch, as if Ratchet hadn’t bothered to lock it.
Curious.
Sunstreaker stepped inside, rapping his knuckles on the inner wall as he peered into the gloom. “Ratchet?”
Nothing answered him. Well, at least, not in words Sunstreaker understood. He heard shifting, the brush of metal over metal, a low moan and a shuddering ventilation.
Heat flooded Sunstreaker’s face. Clearly, Ratchet was busy. He clamped a hand over his mouth and slid back, intending to get the frag out of Ratchet’s habsuite before the medic realized Sunstreaker had snuck in.
A very, very familiar chirr floated to his audials. Sunstreaker froze.
He dialed up the gain, listening intently. Another sound floated to his audials, that of a chirping, rolling purr he knew all too well.
Oh.
Oh no.
Sunstreaker scurried forward, moving toward the shadowed opening he assumed led to a private berthroom, since the door opposite of him obviously led to the hallway. The sounds of metal on metal, wet slapping noises, gasps and moans, grew louder. Another series of chirps made his energon run cold.
He skidded to a stop in the doorway, optics wide with horror.
Bob was… he was…
Ratchet was on all fours on the floor, chestplate pressed down, head turned toward Sunstreaker, optics shuttered, lips parted, drool gathered beneath his mouth. His fingers weakly kneaded the floor, and his knees rocked back, pushing toward the weight draped on top of him.
The weight being Bob, who was rutting into Ratchet with short, stuttered humps, antennae waving and hips pushing. A puddle glistened beneath their combined frames, and the whole room stank of lubricant and overloads and the sweet, pungent aroma of a heat. Bob’s optics were bright, and he kept making that delighted, happy noise he made when Sunstreaker gave him his favorite treat. He licked the back of Ratchet’s neck, his smaller hands patting Ratchet’s armor.
For a moment, Sunstreaker was shocked into immobility, before he burst into motion, stumbling across the floor toward Ratchet and Bob.
“Bob, bad boy! Stop it!”
Ratchet’s optics snapped open, his head shooting up, staring at Sunstreaker in evident horror. Bob squeaked and reared back, little hands scrambling at Ratchet’s back, and the medic hissed with pain.
“He’s knotted,” Ratchet growled though denta visibly gritted.
“Primus, Ratchet. I’m so sorry,” Sunstreaker babbled, curling his fingers in Bob’s collar fairing and trying to pull the Insecticon backward. “I should have locked him in better, I should have done something. I’m sorry.”
He tugged.
Bob yelped.
Ratchet hissed and clawed at the ground.
There was a loud, wet pop and Bob skittered backward, a large… something bobbing between his back legs. It was glossy with fluids, strangely concave at the tip, and a large knob at the base of it. Sunstreaker caught a glimpse of Ratchet’s valve, swollen and dripping, agape as the rim contracted around nothing.
Bob keened and Sunstreaker wrestled him away, a much harder task than it should have been. Bob growled and fought him, trying to get back to Ratchet. Sunstreaker dragged him into the main room, throwing his weight around, snarling reprimands at his pet while Bob chirred and clicked and that obscene spike spattered fluid on the floor.
Sunstreaker yanked the leash out of his subspace, snapped it into Bob’s collar, and lashed the Insecticon to the sturdiest piece of furniture he could find. Thank Primus Ratchet’s desk was bolted to the floor, otherwise Bob would have dragged it with him in his desperation to get back to Ratchet. On instinct maybe? Sunstreaker knew nothing about his pet’s biology.
Frag, frag, frag.
Sunstreaker panted, his tank queasy at the sight of Bob’s shrinking spike, the thick bulge deflating with little spurts of fluid from the strangely concave tip. Bob started to whine, a low, mournful noise of loss. It made Sunstreaker’s spark ache with sympathy, combating the disgust tangled in his tanks.
Bob would be fine for now, Sunstreaker hoped. He turned his attention to Ratchet instead, who still huddled on the floor, face now turned and buried in his arms, knees still braced apart and hips making slow shifts backward. He visibly and audibly shivered, little rings of metal on metal, and his field was ripe with the scent of pleasure and heat.
"Ratchet?"
"You have timing that is both terrible and wonderful," came the response, thick with static, but coherent at least.
Ratchet's head turned, optics looking up at Sunstreaker blearily. His fingers curved against the ground as he tried to push himself upright, but his knees wobbled.
Sunstreaker moved to help him, careful where he put his hands, and Ratchet clattered backward, onto his aft, legs splayed. He sat in a puddle of fluids, valve still bared, and if it bothered him, there was no sign in his posture.
"Did he hurt you?" Sunstreaker asked.
Ratchet groaned and buried his face behind a hand. "This is humiliating."
"I'm sor--"
"Not your fault." Ratchet waved him off without even looking. "It's just a fragged up situation all the way around." His free hand reached blindly, fingers curling around Sunstreaker's upper arm. "I wasn't supposed to go into heat."
Sunstreaker glanced at Bob, who had stretched to the limits of the leash and was peering in at Ratchet, his optics bright and antennae canted. "And I should have locked him up better."
"Bob's smarter than we all give him credit." Ratchet sighed, a bit of a rattling, wet sound. "I'm just glad it was me and not someone else on the ship." He dropped his hand and his gaze, looking down between his thighs. "Primus, I'm a mess."
"Nothing a visit to the washracks won't fix." Sunstreaker tried to find a smile, but he was out of practice. "Give me a second, and I'll help."
"Not going anywhere," Ratchet muttered.
Sunstreaker stood and checked the doors, making sure they were closed, locked, and wouldn't allow anyone to enter or exit without Ratchet's express permission -- including Bob. He triple-checked Bob's leash and collar, not that Bob was fighting him anymore or even trying to get free. He seemed content to lay down and stare mournfully Ratchet's direction.
He pinged First Aid, let him know Ratchet was feeling ill and wouldn't be back, and got a distracted chirp of confirmation in reply. That saved him an explanation Sunstreaker wasn't sure he could fake.
Ratchet hadn't moved by the time Sunstreaker came back. He still sat on the floor, in a puddle of fluids, dazed, armor shivering, heat cloaking his frame in visible curls. His optics were pale, his face drawn with lines of stress.
"Come on." Sunstreaker urged Ratchet to his feet, grunting at the exertion. Medics were far heavier than they looked. "Let's get you cleaned up and get some energon in you, then you can recharge."
Ratchet made an unintelligible noise. He didn't seem to be fully aware, and Sunstreaker hoped that was normal. He didn't have much experience with mechs in the midst of their heats. Maybe he'd be fine after recharge. If not, Sunstreaker would get First Aid.
And pray Bob hadn't done irreparable damage. Sunstreaker would never forgive himself.
He wrestled Ratchet into the washracks, guided him to the fold out chair, and made Ratchet comfortable while he powered on the solvent and started to clean. This was easy. He was used to this. Once upon a time, he used to wash and detail his twin. And Ratchet already wasn't in the best of shape. He really needed a full strip and repaint and wax. He needed someone to take care of him. Wasn't Drift always lurking around? Why wasn't he doing his job?
Sunstreaker bit his glossa. Not his place, he reminded himself, not his place.
He gently sprayed Ratchet's array, still open and swollen, radiating heat. Sunstreaker carefully rinsed away the fluids, grimacing at the sight of the transfluid. There was so much of it.
Ratchet's engine thrummed in an idle. He watched Sunstreaker with hazy optics, but he didn't say much. He didn't protest either, so Sunstreaker hoped he wasn't overstepping his bounds. The spray gently passed over Ratchet's valve and main node, and Ratchet shivered, a low moan escaping from his intake.
"Sorry," Sunstreaker murmured.
"Don't be." Ratchet's voice was made of gravel. His field spiked, pushing at Sunstreaker's with heat and need. "Not your fault." He curled a hand around Sunstreaker's upper arm, his touch burning and firm. "Besides, I'm probably gonna have to apologize to you in a second."
Sunstreaker furrowed his orbital ridges. "What? Why?"
Ratchet tugged, pulling him off balance. Sunstreaker stumbled forward, close enough for Ratchet to cup the back of his head and pull him down into a kiss, one tasting of need and heat and want. It was an urgent kiss, and Ratchet's hold on the back of his neck was firm. Sunstreaker had to brace himself against the wall, lest he be yanked into Ratchet's lap.
A low moan rattled in Ratchet's intake, and the sound of it stoked the flames of want in Sunstreaker's tanks. He leaned harder against the wall and deepened the kiss, the fall of the solvent pattering around them, filling the small space with a hot, damp mist.
Ratchet broke away ,and Sunstreaker resisted the urge to chase his mouth. "Sorry," the medic said, his vocals strained and raspy. "I'm sorry, I just--"
"Still in heat? It's okay." More than okay, but Sunstreaker didn't want to sound desperate. “Whatever you need.”
“I shouldn’t,” Ratchet said, but his hands were tight on Sunstreaker, trying to pull him closer, his field reaching out as well, hungry strings wrapping around Sunstreaker. “I shouldn’t. You don’t--”
Sunstreaker cut off his protest with another kiss. Maybe he offered under false pretenses, but Ratchet didn’t have to know. Ratchet needed it. The need yawing in his field felt like pain, and there was desperation in his kiss.
He staggered upward and pulled Sunstreaker with him, until Sunstreaker had him pinned against the wall. Ratchet rolled his hips, grinding against him, spike extended and valve slicking his thighs with lubricant again.
“Whatever you need,” Sunstreaker repeated. He curved a hand around Ratchet’s left leg, coaxing it to lift and wrap around him, opening Ratchet’s array up to him. “Take it from me. You can have it.”
Ratchet groaned, his fingers spasming where they gripped the back of Sunstreaker’s neck. “You don’t have to--”
“I know. I want to. I’m offering.” Sunstreaker popped his panel, his spike emerging, the head of it rubbing Ratchet’s slick, swollen pleats.
Ratchet shuddered and ground down. Sparks of charge danced over his armor. “I need your spark, I think. Maybe it’ll satisfy the heat.” He licked his lips, rubbed harder against Sunstreaker, his field clinging sticky and hot.
“Whatever you need,” Sunstreaker said, for the third time, and commanded his chestplates to open, letting the light of his spark spill into the space between them.
Ratchet looked up at him, optics hazy, and gratitude pulsed in his field. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, and stole Sunstreaker’s lips for another kiss, one that hinted of denta. He pulled Sunstreaker closer, grinding their chestplates together.
He had nothing to apologize for. But Sunstreaker would worry about that later. Right now, arousal spiked in his own frame, and he pinned Ratchet against the wall. He felt Ratchet’s chestplates part against his, the buzzing warmth of Ratchet’s spark flaring warm and tingling when it met his outer corona.
Sunstreaker shuddered and shifted his grip on Ratchet by a few inches, just enough he could finally slide home, his spike embraced by tight, rippling heat. Every ounce of effort he’d spent trying to ignore or cast aside his earlier arousal abruptly evaporated. Sunstreaker groaned, static shooting through his vision, as his spinal strut erupted in a burst of desperate charge.
He panted, dropping both hands to Ratchet’s hips, hefting the medic against the wall. Ratchet moaned, clawing at his back, arching up against him, grinding down on his spike, grinding their open chestplates together, bursts of charge dancing between their sparks.
Ratchet growled against his mouth, and his head tipped back, Sunstreaker chasing after his lips before mouthing over Ratchet’s cables, tasting the vibrations of his voice. He thrust fast and deep, grinding hard into Ratchet, a slick mess seeping out and staining his groin. Lubricant and Bob’s transfluid both, he knew.
Ratchet needed him. That was what mattered.
Sunstreaker pulsed his spark energy, felt Ratchet’s answer his in turn. He moaned, mouth returning to Ratchet’s for a kiss that swamped him with need. Ratchet rutted against him, valve clamping down tight, as the exchange of energies between their sparks became a rapid-fire pulse of pleasure, dragging Sunstreaker’s awareness out of his frame and into the fractured space between them.
He couldn’t catch Ratchet’s thoughts, the merge was too shallow for that. But he felt Ratchet’s emotions, the rampant need, the hint of embarrassment, the buried desire.
He clutched Ratchet harder, gave all he could spare and then some, pulsing hard and fast. Ratchet cried out against his mouth, valve squeezing down, spiraling tight. And then Ratchet was overloading, spasming between Sunstreaker and the wall, his spark flaring bright, encompassing Sunstreaker’s own.
Electric ecstasy flashed over Ratchet’s frame, and it backflowed into Sunstreaker’s. He jerked, knees wobbling, as overload washed over him. He spurted into Ratchet’s valve, charge zinging up and down his backstrut. He clutched Ratchet closer, riding the aftershocks, his spark pulsing with satisfaction.
Gradually, Ratchet’s frantic movements slowed, to something slower, more savoring, less full of desperation.
“Better?” Sunstreaker asked.
Ratchet’s valve convulsed around his spike. He cupped Sunstreaker’s face, their mouths in close contact. “Almost.”
“More?” Sunstreaker cradled his hips, bracing him against the wall, his knees locking into place.
A look of hesitation flickered over Ratchet’s face before he pressed their foreheads together, optics shuttering. “Please.”
“Anything you want,” Sunstreaker promised, his spark spinning into a dance of delight. “Anything you need.”
Ratchet onlined to comfort. The desperate, painful need was gone from his frame, leaving his thoughts clearer than they’d been in hours. He still ached, like his frame had been under strain for hours, but that should fix itself over another full recharge or two.
His senses returned to him in trickles, sensation first, that of a soft cloth sweeping over his armor, buffing him to a fine shine. A warm field embraced him, pulsing low level wafts of comfort and reassurance. Sound came next, the quiet purr of his engine, the clicks and ticks of another frame beside his. Sight emerged last, vision bristling with static before it clarified into a familiar, handsome face hovering over him.
“Sunstreaker?” he rasped.
Lips curved into a soft, indulgent smile. Primus, he had a beautiful smile. But then, everything about Sunstreaker was gorgeous. “How do you feel?”
“Sore.” Ratchet grunted. He sat up, but a wave of dizziness caused him to sway. Sunstreaker’s arm came around him then, helping him upright. “I think the heat is over. Thank Primus.”
“That’s good to hear.” Sunstreaker swiveled away and came back with a cup. “Here. You probably need this.”
A waft of coolant floated to Ratchet’s nasal receptors. His mouth was parched, his frame wrung dry, and it smelled like the most delicious treat in the universe.
Ratchet carefully sipped at the coolant as Sunstreaker held it up to his lips. “Thanks,” he croaked and cycled his sensory suites, rebooting them. He slumped against the wall, and as he did, more sound trickled in.
Soft, sad whining.
He looked past Sunstreaker’s shoulder, out the door of his berthroom, and caught biolights aglow in the main suite. Two sets of optics peered back at him, and above them, twitching antennae.
Oh, right. Wherever Sunstreaker was, Bob could be found as well.
Wait.
Bob.
Memory surged to the forefront. Ratchet shuttered his optics, shame crowding his spark. He remembered being desperate, to the point of despair. The building urge inside of him had been painful, unlike anything he’d ever felt before.
When Bob arrived, he hadn’t debated very long, had he? He’d have done anything to quell the thirst inside him.
“Ratchet?”
He sucked in a shuddering ventilation. “If you’re here, then I guess that means you found me.” He hid behind his palm. “I can’t imagine what you think of me.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s mine.” Sunstreaker took the coolant from Ratchet, and one of his hands rested on Ratchet’s shoulder. “I should have kept a better optic on him. Blame me. Hate me. Just don’t… don’t blame yourself.”
Ratchet sighed. “I don’t hate you.” He touched his chestplate – recently shined at that. “Though you might hate me.” He seemed to remember all but forcing himself on Sunstreaker after another wave of painful need swept through him. “Thank you, by the way, for sharing your spark with me. I know it had to be difficult.”
Sunstreaker’s gaze dropped. His face shaded pink. “You’ve saved mine and Sideswipe’s sparks a lot. It seemed right that I return the favor.”
“Still.”
Sunstreaker shook his head. “I’d do it again. Really, Ratchet. I’m glad I could help.” He paused and glanced over his shoulder at Bob, who straightened, antennae cocking forward, making another pull at the leash keeping him lashed to something in Ratchet’s suite. “Besides, it’s my fault Bob attacked you.”
“I didn’t do a good job of saying no, to be honest.” Ratchet’s face heated. He squirmed. “What a mess.”
“We don’t have to tell anyone.” Sunstreaker tipped the cube back toward Ratchet’s mouth, encouraging him to finish drinking. “I won’t tell anyone, I mean.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” Ratchet muttered. He drank the coolant in one quick gulp and handed it back.
Sunstreaker traded it for a different cube, this one filled with midgrade energon, flavored to Ratchet’s specifications no less. “There isn’t? You ran a scan?”
Oh, Primus. He hadn’t. He’d just assumed. Bob was an Insecticon. Their interfacing shouldn’t have produced anything. But then, if it couldn’t, why would Bob’s transfluid help feed the heat? Or was it Sunstreaker’s help in the last round that satisfied his programming’s requirements?
Ratchet didn’t know. There was no precedence. The whole incident was unexpected.
“No. I didn’t.” Dread pooled heavy in Ratchet’s armor.
He worked his intake and initiated the scan, free hand tangling in the berth cover, twisting it in his fingers. Warmth fell over his hand, and Ratchet managed a faint smile as he tangled his fingers with Sunstreaker’s.
Ratchet sipped the energon while he waited, anxiety growing and growing, threatening to stall his fans. The scan pinged.
Ratchet’s vents caught.
He was sparked.
Primus.
Ratchet downed the rest of the energon, wishing it was engex or high grade instead. His frame couldn’t process it in his current state, but he wanted it anyway.
“I’m sparked,” he said.
Sunstreaker squeezed his hand. He didn’t say anything. Maybe it was better that he didn’t, because Ratchet himself didn’t know what to say. Or how to feel. Centuries of war had gone by, and he’d never once thought to spark. He’d been too young before the war started, too young to think about caretaking and settling down.
Now he was too old for it, and he’d resigned himself ages ago to that kind of peaceful life being out of his reach. He didn’t know if he wanted it anymore – family and sparklings and responsibility.
He also didn’t have much of a choice.
“Should I congratulate you?” Sunstreaker asked, after a moment of quiet. “Or should I get on my knees and grovel for forgiveness?” His tone was tight, anxious, a shiver of unease in his field.
Ratchet squeezed his hand. “I’m not sure about the first, but definitely not the second.” He looked at Sunstreaker and cycled a ventilation. “We’ll figure it out.”
“I’ll take responsibility,” Sunstreaker said, and there was something at once bleak and solemn in his tone. “Bob never has to come into the picture. If anyone asks, it was me. All me. They’ll believe it easily enough.” The last came with a touch of bitterness and self-castigation.
“Hey. Stop that.” Ratchet flicked Sunstreaker’s forehead. “None of that. You made a mistake, Sunny. We’ve all made mistakes. I don’t hold it against you.”
“Well, you should.” Sunstreaker’s tone turned fierce. He made as if to pull away, but Ratchet’s grip on his hand prevented it. “I know what I did. You don’t have to pretend it’s okay.”
Primus, well wasn’t this a fragging pit slag of a situation?
Ratchet sighed and scrubbed his forehead. “I’m fine with telling mechs I was with you for my heat. As far as anyone is concerned, I asked and you agreed.”
“That won’t upset Drift?”
Ratchet blinked. “Why would it?”
Sunstreaker shifted, discomfort flickering in his field. “Well, aren’t you two… together?”
Ratchet snorted. “Primus, no. It’s not like that.” He scrubbed his forehead again, exhaustion still tugging at the edges of his conscious, but he needed to get this cleared up before it caused other problems.
“Drift is… we have a shared connection. We’re very close, I realize that, and I know other people have noticed. But it’s not romantic. It’s something else. It’s important and real, but it’s not romance. I don’t know what else to call it.” He huffed, out of frustration more than anything else. He didn’t like not having the words he needed to express himself.
“It’s okay. I think I get it.” Sunstreaker audibly ex-vented, and the tension rippling in his frame loosened, his seams unclamping. “So you’re… uhhh… unspoken for?”
“As I’ve always been.” They weren’t going to talk about Pharma. That was a clusterfrag of epic proportions Ratchet didn’t want to talk about it. “So if you don’t mind, I’m going to lean on you.”
“I don’t mind.” Sunstreaker squeezed his hand again, and when he moved to withdraw, Ratchet let him. Sunstreaker stood. “Do you need anything? I should check on Bob.”
Ratchet waved him off. “I’ll be fine for a few minutes. Check on the bug. Let him know I’m not mad.”
It’s hardly Bob’s fault at any rate. Ratchet couldn’t blame the Insecticon for following through on his instincts. They knew next to nothing about Insecticons, especially ones who were the products of mad scientific experiments. Frag, sometimes they weren’t even sure how intelligent Bob actually was.
Ratchet sank further into the berth and watched Sunstreaker, his spark squeezing. Contemplation reared its ugly head, and Ratchet batted it aside. He rested a hand over his chassis, thinking of the new spark growing within him, but his thoughts were still a tangled mess.
Sunstreaker crouched by Bob, murmuring words Ratchet couldn’t hear, offering his pet skritches and cuddles, bringing out some energon for Bob to consume. Bob offered Sunstreaker most of his attention, but he kept straining toward the berthroom, straining toward Ratchet. Maybe he could sense something they couldn’t.
Ratchet sighed.
Complications. He hated complications. He couldn’t think of anything more complicated than this.
Sunstreaker returned, more energon in hand. “Bob’s fine,” he said. “But you should probably get more recharge, and I’m sure you don’t want us around anymore.”
“You should stop making assumptions.” Ratchet accepted the energon, swallowing it down quickly. He’d need to consume a lot more, he knew, now that he was sparked.
He’d have to get Aid to look him over, help him extrapolate a birthdate. He’d have to take care of a lot of things, but tomorrow. Exhaustion tugged at every cable, and all Ratchet wanted to do was sink into the berth and recharge for another day or so. It was normal, he knew, for a mech post-heat. Especially a mech who had been successfully sparked.
“What do you mean?” Sunstreaker cocked his head, confusion swirling around him like a pale miasma.
“Stay.” Ratchet slipped further into the berth, the pull of recharge like an irresistible tug. “If you want to. I’d appreciate it.” Honestly, he didn’t want to be alone right now.
Sunstreaker cycled his optics, looking startled. “Oh. Um. Sure.” He moved to the berth, resting a hand on Ratchet’s arm. “Whatever you want.”
Ratchet managed a smile, a flush of relieved warmth spreading through his frame. He fell into recharge like that, with Sunstreaker’s hand on his arm.
Safe. Protected. Maybe even loved.
What a wonderful thought.
