[IDW] In the Family Way 04/06
Mar. 18th, 2019 06:11 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 Four
Time passed.
Ratchet wasn’t any better at caring for himself. But at least he started allowing Bob to take care of him. He took the energon Bob brought him without protest, and he sat down for a rest if Bob hovered at his feet and whined pointedly.
The bitlets within Ratchet grew and grew. He was larger than the other sparked mechs, even Ultra Magnus. Bob thought it was something to be proud of. Ratchet didn’t seem to think so. He grumped about it constantly, and one night, he and Sunstreaker hid themselves in the medical rooms.
Bob wasn’t allowed to go inside. He had to sit on the other side of the door and wait. So he planted his aft and growled at anyone who passed by. Well, not anyone. First Aid came by and lingered and gave Bob a good scratch behind his audials. Bob purred.
“Ratchet’s not answering me,” First Aid said as Bob barely kept from turning over on his back so First Aid could get that itchy spot on his belly. “What’re they doing in there, hm? I know they aren’t fooling around. Ratchet wouldn’t do that.”
Bob chirruped and bumped his head harder under First Aid’s fingers. Silly bigmechs. They always talked to him like Bob could talk back. They asked him questions, too. Bob wanted to answer but he couldn’t.
He would never understand bigmechs.
“I wish Ratchet would let me help him,” First Aid said with a soft sigh and a melancholy whiff in his field. He gave Bob another good scratch before he fully stood. “You come get me if they need help, all right?”
Bob nodded and wriggled his antennae.
First Aid chuckled and left him be. A few other mechs passed by, but no one stopped to knock or make an attempt to get through the door. Bob was a good guardian. No one wanted to cross him. He kept his mates safe.
When the door finally opened, Ratchet came out, and he looked smaller than he did before. His belly was flatter, and he only looked as far along as the other sparked mechs. Bob didn’t know what they’d done, but when he sniffed Ratchet and tasted his field, he was still sparked. That was the important part.
“We won’t be able to hide it forever,” Sunstreaker was saying as they came out and Ratchet started rubbing at his lower back.
“No. But the longer the better.” Ratchet scowled, but there wasn’t any anger in his field. Just fatigue and resignation.
Bob wished he were happy about adding more to their potential Hive. Ratchet was going to be a very good carrier, and Sunstreaker was going to be a very good mate-protector, and Bob was going to make sure they were all very safe. He wished he understood bigmechs sometimes.
“You have to trust someone,” Sunstreaker said.
Ratchet curled a hand around Sunstreaker’s arm and gave him a squeeze. “I’m trusting you.”
Bob watched them, their energy fields swirling together, mingling and warm and affectionate. They looked at each other with such love in their optics, but there was a weird distance. Bob wished he could tell them how they felt about each other. They were so blind to it right now.
Silly bigmechs.
They’d figure it out eventually.
Ratchet started taking the proper supplements – Bob could tell because he started smelling well-fed instead of undernourished. Bob kept bringing him energon anyway. It was his job to take care of his mate.
One time, he caught Ratchet napping at his desk. It was good! Ratchet needed far more rest than he allowed himself.
Bob didn’t want anything to disturb him. So he carefully borrowed one of the extra mesh blankets from the closet, and he crept back into Ratchet’s office, as quiet as when he snuck out of his and Sunstreaker’s room.
Bob gently tucked the blanket around Ratchet’s sleeping frame, and lightly stroked Ratchet’s back with his secondary arms. Ratchet made a really cute sound of comfort, and fell into a deeper recharge.
Bob chirred a quiet song and nuzzled Ratchet as much as he could, getting a good, curious sniff. Three little bitlets, three little ones for the Hive. He was so happy. They were getting stronger and stronger every day.
As much as he wanted to curl at Ratchet’s feet and nap himself, he couldn’t right now. He had to make sure no one disturbed Ratchet. Reluctantly, Bob sat outside Ratchet’s door instead, and barred anyone from going inside.
Ratchet needed his rest. That was most important. Bob refused to budge until hours later, when Ratchet himself rose from his nap, and opened the door, in the midst of folding the blanket Bob had brought for him.
“This was you?” he asked as Bob straightened and chirped up at him, head canted in greeting.
He patted Ratchet’s knee with one of his secondary hands and chirruped again, antennae twitching in the closest thing he had to a grin.
Ratchet smiled at him. He was so handsome when he smiled. Bob loved it when Ratchet smiled. He hoped Ratchet did it more often. He knew Sunstreaker loved it, too.
“Thank you.” Ratchet rubbed his fingers over Bob’s head, his field mingling with Bob’s. “You’re a good boy.”
Yes. Yes, he was.
The very best boy.
~
There was an itch.
It started in his valve and radiated out from there. It wasn’t an itch that needed scratching, it was an itch that needed fulfilling.
Heat gathered in his pelvis, spread outward, flooding his sensory net. Ratchet tried to focus on inventory, but couldn’t. His thoughts kept drifting toward pleasure. Toward the sensation of a spike filling his valve, or a wet glossa lapping at his anterior node, or clever fingers stroking his seams.
Specifically, Sunstreaker doing all of the above.
His face flooded hot. He shifted in place, trying to ignore the need clawing at him, up and down his backstrut. His vents came in shallow gasps, and lubricant started to pool against his valve panel, his sensors throbbing. His field flared wildly, out of his control.
Ratchet managed to ignore the need for about five minutes, though he made no progress in his counting, before he surrendered to the demands of his frame. He cursed his current circumstances and powered down his inventory pad.
“I’m taking a break,” he told Ambulon as he stormed out of the stock room and headed toward his quarters.
“A long one?” Ambulon called after him, and Ratchet could have sworn he sounded smug and amused.
He would be getting the worst tasks later.
Ratchet pinged Sunstreaker as he stomped into his quarters, making a beeline for his berthroom. He couldn’t decide if it was anger or need boiling in his lines. Maybe a bit of both.
“I hope to Primus you’re not on shift right now because I need a big favor,” Ratchet snarled into the comm.
“I’m not on shift.”
Ratchet paused and turned in the doorway to his berthroom, blinking at the sight of Sunstreaker behind him, sitting in a chair with a datapad in one hand and Bob snoozing at his feet. How had he missed them?
“What’s the favor?” Sunstreaker set his datapad aside and stood, concern shadowing his handsome face. “What’s wrong? What do you need? Are the bitlets okay?”
Ratchet held up a hand. “Calm down. It’s not that serious.” He shifted from foot to foot, indecision knocking at rationality before he threw the latter to the wind. “I’m carrying.”
Sunstreaker cycled his optics. “Um. Yes, you are…?”
Ratchet sighed and pinched the bridge of his nasal sensor. “I’m carrying, and my coding is going haywire, and I’m so aroused I can’t think straight. Would you mind…?” He couldn’t bring himself to look.
Sunstreaker stepped closer, footsteps audible across the ground. “Anything you need, Ratchet. I meant that.”
“I’m not about to assume that means you’re going to frag me whenever I ask,” Ratchet retorted, dropping his hand to give Sunstreaker a sour look. “I don’t want to be some kind of pity case or make you a… an interfacing toy.”
Sunstreaker’s hands landed on his shoulders, gentle as they slid inward, cupping Ratchet’s intake. “Anything you need,” he repeated as he brought their foreheads together and drizzled his field along Ratchet’s, the taste of a growing arousal humming against the desperate want in Ratchet’s lines. “What do you want? My mouth? My valve? My spike? I’m offering all of the above.”
Ratchet groaned. His knees wobbled as his groin gave a sharp throb, his vents quickening. He wanted it all, and Sunstreaker was going to make him choose. He clutched at Sunstreaker’s hips, his back hitting the door frame and dragging Sunstreaker with him.
“Do you need me to pick for you?” Sunstreaker asked, and where his tone had been plaintive before, it was now sultry and inviting. It tiptoed down Ratchet’s backstrut and set the pool of want in his belly to boiling.
Lips brushed over Ratchet’s chevron. He tightened his grip, a bolt of want sending a harsh throb through his entire frame. He hadn’t realized his chevron was so sensitive that a single kiss could make him weak.
“Just do something, frag it,” Ratchet managed, sounding far less gruff than he intended. It took all he had not to throw Sunstreaker to the ground, claw at his panels, and start devouring him.
Sunstreaker stroked the curve of his jaw. “Just tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured, and he slotted their mouths together. The kiss wasn’t at all gentle. It was the kiss of someone who wanted to claim, to taste, to take their partner straight to pleasure as soon as possible.
Ratchet moaned into it, clutching harder at Sunstreaker, stumbling off the door frame and backward toward the berth. Sunstreaker chased him, deepening the kiss, until the door closed behind him, trapping Bob in the outer room.
Ah, wise choice.
Ratchet tipped backward onto the berth with a bounce and a loud warning creak of the berth’s stabilizing frame. He expected Sunstreaker to fall down after him, but instead, Sunstreaker’s mouth abandoned him to slide down, ex-venting hot and wet over Ratchet’s chassis.
One hand dipped between Ratchet’s thighs, fingers rubbing over his hot panels in a flirting caress. “Open?” Sunstreaker asked, his ex-vents fogging Ratchet’s chestplate while his fingertips swirled an arousing pattern.
His panels snapped aside embarrassingly quick. Ratchet threw an arm over his optics, trying to hide the desperation in his face, though it was obvious in his field. His spike sprang into view, pressurizing in an instant, and wet drizzled out of his valve, his nodes engorged and flickering.
Sunstreaker’s engine rumbled with appreciation, and his field blanketed Ratchet’s with equal lust and arousal. He stroked Ratchet’s hips, his palms hot and careful, and then a hot mouth wrapped around Ratchet’s spike, suckling first at the tip before taking him to the root.
Ratchet shoved his knuckles into his mouth to muffle his shout. His hips rocked up, heels digging against the side of the berth, as he sank deeper into Sunstreaker’s mouth, the head of his spike squeezed around Sunstreaker’s intake.
Ratchet melted into the berth, pleasure erupting through his sensory lines in a charged burst. Overload shattered through his restraint, bowed his backstrut, and he spilled into Sunstreaker’s intake without a chance to give warning, his spike throbbing and pulsing on Sunstreaker’s glossa.
Ratchet moaned, burying as much of the noise behind his fist, though his fans noisily roared. Sunstreaker sucked him gently, through every last spurt of overload, his fingers gently stroking Ratchet’s inner thighs. Only then did he let Ratchet slip from his mouth, his glossa sweeping over his lips as he looked up at Ratchet.
“Better?”
“Primus, Sunstreaker.” Ratchet sucked in a few vents, processor spinning from the abrupt surge of pleasure. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.” He pressed a kiss to the join of Ratchet’s hip and thigh. “That wasn’t enough to clear your charge, was it?”
Ratchet worked his intake, trying to calm himself from the rampant surge of arousal still racing through his lines. “Well, no but--”
His reply died as Sunstreaker’s head dipped back down, and now lips and glossa were focused on Ratchet’s valve, lapping and laving him with moist softness. Sunstreaker mouthed at his anterior node, gave it a light suckle. He traced his glossa around Ratchet’s rim and flicked it over his exterior nodes.
Ratchet fisted the berthcovers and clamped his mouth shut, trying to seal his moans behind his denta. His vents came in sharper bursts as the heat in his groin flared into an inferno. His thighs quivered as Sunstreaker licked and sucked at him, paying the sweetest attention to Ratchet’s anterior node.
And then he slid two fingers into Ratchet, curving them at the perfect angle to rub-rub-rub on that interior sensor cluster, and Ratchet shattered all over again. He bucked up against Sunstreaker’s mouth, squeezed down on his fingers, and overloaded, valve spasming hungrily. Heat flushed his frame, spark strobing a pattern of need inside him.
Pleasure zipped through his sensory net. His spike was spent, but his valve continued to ripple and clench, and the coil in his abdomen twisted and tightened.
It wasn’t enough, Ratchet groaned.
Sunstreaker lifted his head, licking Ratchet’s lubricant from his lips, though his fingers continued to stroke Ratchet on the inside. He had the perfect pressure, too. Gentle enough not to overwhelm sensors, but firm enough to keep him hovering on the precipice of a future overload.
“That doesn’t look like it was enough,” Sunstreaker said, and he made the mistake of leaning in close enough for Ratchet to get a grip of his collar fairing and drag Sunstreaker into a hot, sloppy kiss. One that tasted of his own spill and his own lubricant.
Sunstreaker almost clattered down on top of him, but caught his weight on the berth at the last second. His hand vanished from Ratchet’s valve, which was quite all right because Ratchet drapced his thighs across Sunstreaker’s hips, dragging him close enough to rut against Sunstreaker’s panel.
“No, it wasn’t,” Ratchet said against Sunstreaker’s lips. “Frag me right now, if you don’t mind, or I’ll be forced to look elsewhere.”
Light flashed in Sunstreaker’s optics. “I’m here now,” he growled, the low, rumbling bass vibrating up and down Ratchet’s backstrut. “You don’t need anyone else.”
Ratchet moaned, the words tingling in his cortex, tapping away at all the things he wanted, but didn’t dare say aloud. He dragged Sunstreaker’s mouth to his, hips rocking and urging Sunstreaker to take him. A request Sunstreaker obeyed as his spike sank into Ratchet’s valve, slow and filling, igniting every sensory node along the way.
He buried the embarrassment. This was normal, he knew. An increased urge to interface was common with sparked mechs. Perhaps not to this level of intensity, but still. It was normal, and that was the hill he’d die on, and hopefully Sunstreaker knew it as well, so he wouldn’t be burdened with Ratchet’s desire for him.
Ratchet had asked for far too much already.
~
Sunstreaker twitched. His armor unconsciously drew taut to his frame. A presence loomed behind him, not threatening, but he was aware of it nonetheless.
“Something you need, sir?” he asked, erring on the side of respect, though it would always be odd to address Drift as such, considering Sunstreaker could still remember a battle he led against Deadlock, and how the Decepticon had slaughtered his unit.
Drift chuckled. “For you to never call me that again,” he said, and slid closer, into Sunstreaker’s space, within field-reading range. He lowered his vocals, perhaps to as not be heard. “And to say thank you.”
Sunstreaker blinked and looked up. “Thank you?” he repeated, forehead crinkling, confusion peppering his spark. He couldn’t think of a single thing he’d done to earn Drift’s gratitude.
Drift nodded slowly. He leaned against the console and pointed at the screen, as though they were discussing something official. “For assisting Ratchet in a way I can’t. He needs someone right now.”
“Oh.” Sunstreaker stared at the monitor, rather than Drift’s face, reeling in his field so Drift could read very little of it. “Ratchet is a friend. I owe him a lot. It’s the least I can do.” It was a little weird. He’d assumed for so long that Drift and Ratchet were romantically involved, and while Ratchet had debunked that, it still felt weird.
“Right.” Drift drummed his fingers on the top of the console, made a contemplative noise in his intake. “Just take care of him.”
“I will,” Sunstreaker said, swallowing down the anger from the implication that he’d do anything but.
Drift leaned back, patting him on the shoulder. “I knew you would.” He offered a reassuring smile, and then walked away, continuing his patrol around the interior of the bridge, passing by others on shift.
That sounded like approval, Sunstreaker supposed. Which was better than the alternative.
Drift was so fragging weird.
Sunstreaker gnawed on his bottom lip and got back to work.
~
The unusual symptoms didn’t stop with the sudden and impossible to ignore need for pleasure and company. If they had, perhaps he would have ignored them. But they didn’t, and the next time Ratchet drew his daily ration, flavored to his specifications, another odd symptom reared its ugly head.
It didn’t taste right, he realized after a sip. He wrinkled his nose. There was something missing, something he needed to chase away the bitterness.
“What’s wrong?”
Ratchet glared into the cube. “Something’s missing.” He moved to the minerals cabinet and rifled through it, skimming the labels until something called out to him.
Selenium? Why did that sound absolutely delicious? He’d never liked Selenium before. It wasn’t something carrying mechs craved either.
He wanted it, however. So he grabbed the vial and sprinkled some into his cube, giving the pale green a glittery, metallic look. He gave it a sniff, and his mouth filled with lubricant. Yes. This was it exactly.
“Selenium?” First Aid peered over his shoulder at the vial’s label. “Why in Primus’ name are you flavoring your energon with Selenium?”
Ratchet took a sip, and his tank grumbled appreciatively. “The bitlet wants it apparently.”
“That’s weird,” First Aid said. His field fluttered over Ratchet’s with confusion and concern. “How’re your scans coming out? Normal across the board?”
Ratchet gave his successor a raised orbital ridge. “I am a medic, you know.”
“And medics are the worst patients,” First Aid retorted with folded arms and a stubborn stance. “Especially you. Also, you didn’t answer my question. As a medic, you’d know our frames require Selenium only in trace amounts. If the bitlet wants it, there might be a problem.”
Ratchet finished off his energon and scowled. “Yes, thank you. What I needed with my morning energon was a lecture.” He set the cube aside, and First Aid tracked the motion, his field flexing out with a heavier concern. “I’ll run the scan now, sir.”
“Be grumpy with me all you want, it’s not going to stop me from worrying about you.” First Aid’s visor flashed, but the affection in his field did not waver. “Scan.”
Ratchet set his jaw, but First Aid wasn’t wrong, so he turned his focus inward and performed the scan. The wash of focus through his frame would never not be an odd sensation, and he waited with some impatience for the results to ping back.
When they did, his field flushed ice cold.
“What? What’s wrong?” First Aid asked, his arms unfolding.
Ratchet hadn’t been quick enough to retract the shock from his field. “Nothing,” he said, in a tone no one would have believed. He backpedaled, out of First Aid’s reach. “I’m fine, like I told you I was. I just remembered I have datawork I need to finish.”
First Aid’s visor narrowed. “That didn’t feel like nothing.” His field reached out, carefully touching the edges of Ratchet’s own.
Ratchet shut that down so fast, First Aid reared back as if he’d been slapped. No. Absolutely not. No one could know about this.
Or at least, no one could know as long as Ratchet could keep the secret. At the very least, he had to tell Sunstreaker first.
“It’s personal, and it’s private,” Ratchet snapped. “Don’t you have inventory to be doing?”
First Aid visibly hesitated before he took a step back. “I finished that last week, but sure, I’ll go do it again. Why not?” He spun on a heelstrut and gave Ratchet a backward wave. “When you feel like accepting someone else’s help, you know where to find me.”
Ratchet did not feel guilty for long. Anxiety settled about him in waves. He spun opposite of First Aid and made a beeline for his office, pinging Sunstreaker’s comm as he did. Whether or not Sunstreaker was on shift didn’t matter. This couldn’t wait.
Bob lifted his head when Ratchet burst into his office, chirping a mournful, worried sound at Ratchet. He scuttled out from the nest he’d built himself in the corner, and half-climbed into Ratchet’s lap after Ratchet dropped heavily into his chair.
Ratchet sighed and buried his face in one hand, letting the other rub gently over Bob’s head, taking comfort in the Insecticon’s nearness.
“It’s your fault,” he murmured, but it was with fatigue rather than anger. He could no more blame Bob for obeying his instincts, than Ratchet could blame himself for the push of his own coding. “None of us could have known.”
~
Sunstreaker’s vents caught. He stared at Ratchet as if he’d never seen the medic before, and he rebooted his audial sensors on the off chance he’d misheard the medic.
“… What?”
Ratchet sighed.
Lines of stress and fatigue creased his face. He had Bob half in his lap, the Insecticon making distressed noises of concern. He kept bringing Ratchet energon and blankets and treats, as if he thought one of them might help, and when none of those worked, he planted himself in Ratchet’s lap and didn’t move.
It would have been cute, if the situation weren’t so absurd and disastrous.
“I’m not carrying a pod,” Ratchet said, slowly and carefully, as if Sunstreaker’s confusion stemmed from incomprehension. “I’m carrying three eggs. Three which are no doubt Insecticon in nature because Cybertronians don’t birth eggs.”
Sunstreaker swallowed over a lump in his intake. “Maybe it’s just three pods?” he asked, tentative, hopeful, desperate even. He scrubbed the heels of his hands down his thighs.
Ratchet shook his head. He stared at the desk, absently petting Bob’s finials. “No. They are mature enough now that I can scan their coding. They are eggs, and they are most definitely partially Insecticon.”
“I didn’t know that was possible,” Sunstreaker said.
“None of us did.” Ratchet rubbed his forehead with his free hand. “But that’s the reality of the situation. I’m carrying three hybrid bitlets.”
Sunstreaker gnawed on his bottom lip. “What do you want to do?” he asked, and hoped he was not being indelicate, and Ratchet understood what he was asking.
“I’m keeping them, obviously. Barring the fact our population is dangerously low, I want them,” Ratchet said. His free hand dropped down to his abdomen, cupping the slight rise behind his grill protectively. “Starting a family this way had never been in the plans, but then, neither had a planet-wide, millennia long war.”
How true.
Sunstreaker’s unease lightened. He wasn’t sure if he could call it relief. It was too soon to tell.
“If you’re okay with it, I’d like to continue with the ruse that they are yours. At least, as long as I can anyway,” Ratchet said. His gaze went a little distant, unfocused as he stared out toward the medbay proper. “Once they’re born, the truth might be impossible to hide, but maybe we’ll have a plan of action then.”
Sunstreaker nodded, though Ratchet couldn’t see it. “Whatever you want,” he said, because it was the easiest answer he had to give. “Even after they’re born, too. I mean. Bob and I, we’re responsible, so whatever you need, whatever you want, we’ll do it.”
Ratchet cycled a ventilation and dragged his gaze back to Sunstreaker. “Thank you.” He absently rubbed his abdomen again. “Though this does explain why I expanded more quickly than the others. They’re only carrying a single pod. I’ll get far bigger than them eventually.”
“Will that make it obvious?” Sunstreaker asked.
“It might.” Ratchet tilted his head, optics dimming. “I can remove more of the duplicate internals to make more room for their growth. First Aid and Ambulon might ask curious questions, but no one else will be aware enough to ask questions.”
Sunstreaker chewed on his bottom lip. “I’m a twin. You could always tell people they’re twins. That’s believable. Isn’t it?”
Ratchet’s expression brightened. “Sunny, you’re brilliant,” he declared, and his lips curved in a relieved grin. “Yes, that’s perfect. Between that and removing my extra equipment, no one should be none the wiser.”
Sunstreaker hoped the heat flushing his body didn’t carry to his face, betraying his embarrassment. “Anything I can do to help.”
“Does that include moving in with me?”
Sunstreaker blinked. Bob looked up at Ratchet as well, antennae canted forward, releasing a little chirrup of confusion.
“What?”
Ratchet leaned back in the chair, giving Bob more room to take up residence in his lap, his back feet scrabbling against the floor. Sometimes, Bob just didn’t realize how much larger he was than them.
“Bob stalks me as it is,” Ratchet said, though at least his tone was fond as Bob chittered at him and nuzzled against his belly. “And eventually, I’m going to get to the point I’ll need help, as much as I hate admitting that,” the last was added with a grumble. “And if you two were here, all of that would be easier.”
“It would help with your cover story, too,” Sunstreaker said.
Ratchet nodded. He didn’t look at Sunstreaker though, he focused on Bob instead. His armor slicked tight to his frame, almost as if he were embarrassed or worried. He had nothing to be ashamed about.
This was all Sunstreaker’s fault.
“If you want us here, we’ll be here.” Sunstreaker spread his hands and aimed for a reassuring smile. He didn’t know if he managed it. “Whatever you want, Ratchet.”
Ratchet’s armor loosened by a few noticeable degrees. His field licked out, warm with affection and comfort. “Thank you.”
He didn’t owe them any gratitude. If anything, Sunstreaker and Bob owed him a lifetime of apologies. Whatever he wanted, he could have.
Anything.
***
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. ^_^
Time passed.
Ratchet wasn’t any better at caring for himself. But at least he started allowing Bob to take care of him. He took the energon Bob brought him without protest, and he sat down for a rest if Bob hovered at his feet and whined pointedly.
The bitlets within Ratchet grew and grew. He was larger than the other sparked mechs, even Ultra Magnus. Bob thought it was something to be proud of. Ratchet didn’t seem to think so. He grumped about it constantly, and one night, he and Sunstreaker hid themselves in the medical rooms.
Bob wasn’t allowed to go inside. He had to sit on the other side of the door and wait. So he planted his aft and growled at anyone who passed by. Well, not anyone. First Aid came by and lingered and gave Bob a good scratch behind his audials. Bob purred.
“Ratchet’s not answering me,” First Aid said as Bob barely kept from turning over on his back so First Aid could get that itchy spot on his belly. “What’re they doing in there, hm? I know they aren’t fooling around. Ratchet wouldn’t do that.”
Bob chirruped and bumped his head harder under First Aid’s fingers. Silly bigmechs. They always talked to him like Bob could talk back. They asked him questions, too. Bob wanted to answer but he couldn’t.
He would never understand bigmechs.
“I wish Ratchet would let me help him,” First Aid said with a soft sigh and a melancholy whiff in his field. He gave Bob another good scratch before he fully stood. “You come get me if they need help, all right?”
Bob nodded and wriggled his antennae.
First Aid chuckled and left him be. A few other mechs passed by, but no one stopped to knock or make an attempt to get through the door. Bob was a good guardian. No one wanted to cross him. He kept his mates safe.
When the door finally opened, Ratchet came out, and he looked smaller than he did before. His belly was flatter, and he only looked as far along as the other sparked mechs. Bob didn’t know what they’d done, but when he sniffed Ratchet and tasted his field, he was still sparked. That was the important part.
“We won’t be able to hide it forever,” Sunstreaker was saying as they came out and Ratchet started rubbing at his lower back.
“No. But the longer the better.” Ratchet scowled, but there wasn’t any anger in his field. Just fatigue and resignation.
Bob wished he were happy about adding more to their potential Hive. Ratchet was going to be a very good carrier, and Sunstreaker was going to be a very good mate-protector, and Bob was going to make sure they were all very safe. He wished he understood bigmechs sometimes.
“You have to trust someone,” Sunstreaker said.
Ratchet curled a hand around Sunstreaker’s arm and gave him a squeeze. “I’m trusting you.”
Bob watched them, their energy fields swirling together, mingling and warm and affectionate. They looked at each other with such love in their optics, but there was a weird distance. Bob wished he could tell them how they felt about each other. They were so blind to it right now.
Silly bigmechs.
They’d figure it out eventually.
Ratchet started taking the proper supplements – Bob could tell because he started smelling well-fed instead of undernourished. Bob kept bringing him energon anyway. It was his job to take care of his mate.
One time, he caught Ratchet napping at his desk. It was good! Ratchet needed far more rest than he allowed himself.
Bob didn’t want anything to disturb him. So he carefully borrowed one of the extra mesh blankets from the closet, and he crept back into Ratchet’s office, as quiet as when he snuck out of his and Sunstreaker’s room.
Bob gently tucked the blanket around Ratchet’s sleeping frame, and lightly stroked Ratchet’s back with his secondary arms. Ratchet made a really cute sound of comfort, and fell into a deeper recharge.
Bob chirred a quiet song and nuzzled Ratchet as much as he could, getting a good, curious sniff. Three little bitlets, three little ones for the Hive. He was so happy. They were getting stronger and stronger every day.
As much as he wanted to curl at Ratchet’s feet and nap himself, he couldn’t right now. He had to make sure no one disturbed Ratchet. Reluctantly, Bob sat outside Ratchet’s door instead, and barred anyone from going inside.
Ratchet needed his rest. That was most important. Bob refused to budge until hours later, when Ratchet himself rose from his nap, and opened the door, in the midst of folding the blanket Bob had brought for him.
“This was you?” he asked as Bob straightened and chirped up at him, head canted in greeting.
He patted Ratchet’s knee with one of his secondary hands and chirruped again, antennae twitching in the closest thing he had to a grin.
Ratchet smiled at him. He was so handsome when he smiled. Bob loved it when Ratchet smiled. He hoped Ratchet did it more often. He knew Sunstreaker loved it, too.
“Thank you.” Ratchet rubbed his fingers over Bob’s head, his field mingling with Bob’s. “You’re a good boy.”
Yes. Yes, he was.
The very best boy.
There was an itch.
It started in his valve and radiated out from there. It wasn’t an itch that needed scratching, it was an itch that needed fulfilling.
Heat gathered in his pelvis, spread outward, flooding his sensory net. Ratchet tried to focus on inventory, but couldn’t. His thoughts kept drifting toward pleasure. Toward the sensation of a spike filling his valve, or a wet glossa lapping at his anterior node, or clever fingers stroking his seams.
Specifically, Sunstreaker doing all of the above.
His face flooded hot. He shifted in place, trying to ignore the need clawing at him, up and down his backstrut. His vents came in shallow gasps, and lubricant started to pool against his valve panel, his sensors throbbing. His field flared wildly, out of his control.
Ratchet managed to ignore the need for about five minutes, though he made no progress in his counting, before he surrendered to the demands of his frame. He cursed his current circumstances and powered down his inventory pad.
“I’m taking a break,” he told Ambulon as he stormed out of the stock room and headed toward his quarters.
“A long one?” Ambulon called after him, and Ratchet could have sworn he sounded smug and amused.
He would be getting the worst tasks later.
Ratchet pinged Sunstreaker as he stomped into his quarters, making a beeline for his berthroom. He couldn’t decide if it was anger or need boiling in his lines. Maybe a bit of both.
“I hope to Primus you’re not on shift right now because I need a big favor,” Ratchet snarled into the comm.
“I’m not on shift.”
Ratchet paused and turned in the doorway to his berthroom, blinking at the sight of Sunstreaker behind him, sitting in a chair with a datapad in one hand and Bob snoozing at his feet. How had he missed them?
“What’s the favor?” Sunstreaker set his datapad aside and stood, concern shadowing his handsome face. “What’s wrong? What do you need? Are the bitlets okay?”
Ratchet held up a hand. “Calm down. It’s not that serious.” He shifted from foot to foot, indecision knocking at rationality before he threw the latter to the wind. “I’m carrying.”
Sunstreaker cycled his optics. “Um. Yes, you are…?”
Ratchet sighed and pinched the bridge of his nasal sensor. “I’m carrying, and my coding is going haywire, and I’m so aroused I can’t think straight. Would you mind…?” He couldn’t bring himself to look.
Sunstreaker stepped closer, footsteps audible across the ground. “Anything you need, Ratchet. I meant that.”
“I’m not about to assume that means you’re going to frag me whenever I ask,” Ratchet retorted, dropping his hand to give Sunstreaker a sour look. “I don’t want to be some kind of pity case or make you a… an interfacing toy.”
Sunstreaker’s hands landed on his shoulders, gentle as they slid inward, cupping Ratchet’s intake. “Anything you need,” he repeated as he brought their foreheads together and drizzled his field along Ratchet’s, the taste of a growing arousal humming against the desperate want in Ratchet’s lines. “What do you want? My mouth? My valve? My spike? I’m offering all of the above.”
Ratchet groaned. His knees wobbled as his groin gave a sharp throb, his vents quickening. He wanted it all, and Sunstreaker was going to make him choose. He clutched at Sunstreaker’s hips, his back hitting the door frame and dragging Sunstreaker with him.
“Do you need me to pick for you?” Sunstreaker asked, and where his tone had been plaintive before, it was now sultry and inviting. It tiptoed down Ratchet’s backstrut and set the pool of want in his belly to boiling.
Lips brushed over Ratchet’s chevron. He tightened his grip, a bolt of want sending a harsh throb through his entire frame. He hadn’t realized his chevron was so sensitive that a single kiss could make him weak.
“Just do something, frag it,” Ratchet managed, sounding far less gruff than he intended. It took all he had not to throw Sunstreaker to the ground, claw at his panels, and start devouring him.
Sunstreaker stroked the curve of his jaw. “Just tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured, and he slotted their mouths together. The kiss wasn’t at all gentle. It was the kiss of someone who wanted to claim, to taste, to take their partner straight to pleasure as soon as possible.
Ratchet moaned into it, clutching harder at Sunstreaker, stumbling off the door frame and backward toward the berth. Sunstreaker chased him, deepening the kiss, until the door closed behind him, trapping Bob in the outer room.
Ah, wise choice.
Ratchet tipped backward onto the berth with a bounce and a loud warning creak of the berth’s stabilizing frame. He expected Sunstreaker to fall down after him, but instead, Sunstreaker’s mouth abandoned him to slide down, ex-venting hot and wet over Ratchet’s chassis.
One hand dipped between Ratchet’s thighs, fingers rubbing over his hot panels in a flirting caress. “Open?” Sunstreaker asked, his ex-vents fogging Ratchet’s chestplate while his fingertips swirled an arousing pattern.
His panels snapped aside embarrassingly quick. Ratchet threw an arm over his optics, trying to hide the desperation in his face, though it was obvious in his field. His spike sprang into view, pressurizing in an instant, and wet drizzled out of his valve, his nodes engorged and flickering.
Sunstreaker’s engine rumbled with appreciation, and his field blanketed Ratchet’s with equal lust and arousal. He stroked Ratchet’s hips, his palms hot and careful, and then a hot mouth wrapped around Ratchet’s spike, suckling first at the tip before taking him to the root.
Ratchet shoved his knuckles into his mouth to muffle his shout. His hips rocked up, heels digging against the side of the berth, as he sank deeper into Sunstreaker’s mouth, the head of his spike squeezed around Sunstreaker’s intake.
Ratchet melted into the berth, pleasure erupting through his sensory lines in a charged burst. Overload shattered through his restraint, bowed his backstrut, and he spilled into Sunstreaker’s intake without a chance to give warning, his spike throbbing and pulsing on Sunstreaker’s glossa.
Ratchet moaned, burying as much of the noise behind his fist, though his fans noisily roared. Sunstreaker sucked him gently, through every last spurt of overload, his fingers gently stroking Ratchet’s inner thighs. Only then did he let Ratchet slip from his mouth, his glossa sweeping over his lips as he looked up at Ratchet.
“Better?”
“Primus, Sunstreaker.” Ratchet sucked in a few vents, processor spinning from the abrupt surge of pleasure. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.” He pressed a kiss to the join of Ratchet’s hip and thigh. “That wasn’t enough to clear your charge, was it?”
Ratchet worked his intake, trying to calm himself from the rampant surge of arousal still racing through his lines. “Well, no but--”
His reply died as Sunstreaker’s head dipped back down, and now lips and glossa were focused on Ratchet’s valve, lapping and laving him with moist softness. Sunstreaker mouthed at his anterior node, gave it a light suckle. He traced his glossa around Ratchet’s rim and flicked it over his exterior nodes.
Ratchet fisted the berthcovers and clamped his mouth shut, trying to seal his moans behind his denta. His vents came in sharper bursts as the heat in his groin flared into an inferno. His thighs quivered as Sunstreaker licked and sucked at him, paying the sweetest attention to Ratchet’s anterior node.
And then he slid two fingers into Ratchet, curving them at the perfect angle to rub-rub-rub on that interior sensor cluster, and Ratchet shattered all over again. He bucked up against Sunstreaker’s mouth, squeezed down on his fingers, and overloaded, valve spasming hungrily. Heat flushed his frame, spark strobing a pattern of need inside him.
Pleasure zipped through his sensory net. His spike was spent, but his valve continued to ripple and clench, and the coil in his abdomen twisted and tightened.
It wasn’t enough, Ratchet groaned.
Sunstreaker lifted his head, licking Ratchet’s lubricant from his lips, though his fingers continued to stroke Ratchet on the inside. He had the perfect pressure, too. Gentle enough not to overwhelm sensors, but firm enough to keep him hovering on the precipice of a future overload.
“That doesn’t look like it was enough,” Sunstreaker said, and he made the mistake of leaning in close enough for Ratchet to get a grip of his collar fairing and drag Sunstreaker into a hot, sloppy kiss. One that tasted of his own spill and his own lubricant.
Sunstreaker almost clattered down on top of him, but caught his weight on the berth at the last second. His hand vanished from Ratchet’s valve, which was quite all right because Ratchet drapced his thighs across Sunstreaker’s hips, dragging him close enough to rut against Sunstreaker’s panel.
“No, it wasn’t,” Ratchet said against Sunstreaker’s lips. “Frag me right now, if you don’t mind, or I’ll be forced to look elsewhere.”
Light flashed in Sunstreaker’s optics. “I’m here now,” he growled, the low, rumbling bass vibrating up and down Ratchet’s backstrut. “You don’t need anyone else.”
Ratchet moaned, the words tingling in his cortex, tapping away at all the things he wanted, but didn’t dare say aloud. He dragged Sunstreaker’s mouth to his, hips rocking and urging Sunstreaker to take him. A request Sunstreaker obeyed as his spike sank into Ratchet’s valve, slow and filling, igniting every sensory node along the way.
He buried the embarrassment. This was normal, he knew. An increased urge to interface was common with sparked mechs. Perhaps not to this level of intensity, but still. It was normal, and that was the hill he’d die on, and hopefully Sunstreaker knew it as well, so he wouldn’t be burdened with Ratchet’s desire for him.
Ratchet had asked for far too much already.
Sunstreaker twitched. His armor unconsciously drew taut to his frame. A presence loomed behind him, not threatening, but he was aware of it nonetheless.
“Something you need, sir?” he asked, erring on the side of respect, though it would always be odd to address Drift as such, considering Sunstreaker could still remember a battle he led against Deadlock, and how the Decepticon had slaughtered his unit.
Drift chuckled. “For you to never call me that again,” he said, and slid closer, into Sunstreaker’s space, within field-reading range. He lowered his vocals, perhaps to as not be heard. “And to say thank you.”
Sunstreaker blinked and looked up. “Thank you?” he repeated, forehead crinkling, confusion peppering his spark. He couldn’t think of a single thing he’d done to earn Drift’s gratitude.
Drift nodded slowly. He leaned against the console and pointed at the screen, as though they were discussing something official. “For assisting Ratchet in a way I can’t. He needs someone right now.”
“Oh.” Sunstreaker stared at the monitor, rather than Drift’s face, reeling in his field so Drift could read very little of it. “Ratchet is a friend. I owe him a lot. It’s the least I can do.” It was a little weird. He’d assumed for so long that Drift and Ratchet were romantically involved, and while Ratchet had debunked that, it still felt weird.
“Right.” Drift drummed his fingers on the top of the console, made a contemplative noise in his intake. “Just take care of him.”
“I will,” Sunstreaker said, swallowing down the anger from the implication that he’d do anything but.
Drift leaned back, patting him on the shoulder. “I knew you would.” He offered a reassuring smile, and then walked away, continuing his patrol around the interior of the bridge, passing by others on shift.
That sounded like approval, Sunstreaker supposed. Which was better than the alternative.
Drift was so fragging weird.
Sunstreaker gnawed on his bottom lip and got back to work.
The unusual symptoms didn’t stop with the sudden and impossible to ignore need for pleasure and company. If they had, perhaps he would have ignored them. But they didn’t, and the next time Ratchet drew his daily ration, flavored to his specifications, another odd symptom reared its ugly head.
It didn’t taste right, he realized after a sip. He wrinkled his nose. There was something missing, something he needed to chase away the bitterness.
“What’s wrong?”
Ratchet glared into the cube. “Something’s missing.” He moved to the minerals cabinet and rifled through it, skimming the labels until something called out to him.
Selenium? Why did that sound absolutely delicious? He’d never liked Selenium before. It wasn’t something carrying mechs craved either.
He wanted it, however. So he grabbed the vial and sprinkled some into his cube, giving the pale green a glittery, metallic look. He gave it a sniff, and his mouth filled with lubricant. Yes. This was it exactly.
“Selenium?” First Aid peered over his shoulder at the vial’s label. “Why in Primus’ name are you flavoring your energon with Selenium?”
Ratchet took a sip, and his tank grumbled appreciatively. “The bitlet wants it apparently.”
“That’s weird,” First Aid said. His field fluttered over Ratchet’s with confusion and concern. “How’re your scans coming out? Normal across the board?”
Ratchet gave his successor a raised orbital ridge. “I am a medic, you know.”
“And medics are the worst patients,” First Aid retorted with folded arms and a stubborn stance. “Especially you. Also, you didn’t answer my question. As a medic, you’d know our frames require Selenium only in trace amounts. If the bitlet wants it, there might be a problem.”
Ratchet finished off his energon and scowled. “Yes, thank you. What I needed with my morning energon was a lecture.” He set the cube aside, and First Aid tracked the motion, his field flexing out with a heavier concern. “I’ll run the scan now, sir.”
“Be grumpy with me all you want, it’s not going to stop me from worrying about you.” First Aid’s visor flashed, but the affection in his field did not waver. “Scan.”
Ratchet set his jaw, but First Aid wasn’t wrong, so he turned his focus inward and performed the scan. The wash of focus through his frame would never not be an odd sensation, and he waited with some impatience for the results to ping back.
When they did, his field flushed ice cold.
“What? What’s wrong?” First Aid asked, his arms unfolding.
Ratchet hadn’t been quick enough to retract the shock from his field. “Nothing,” he said, in a tone no one would have believed. He backpedaled, out of First Aid’s reach. “I’m fine, like I told you I was. I just remembered I have datawork I need to finish.”
First Aid’s visor narrowed. “That didn’t feel like nothing.” His field reached out, carefully touching the edges of Ratchet’s own.
Ratchet shut that down so fast, First Aid reared back as if he’d been slapped. No. Absolutely not. No one could know about this.
Or at least, no one could know as long as Ratchet could keep the secret. At the very least, he had to tell Sunstreaker first.
“It’s personal, and it’s private,” Ratchet snapped. “Don’t you have inventory to be doing?”
First Aid visibly hesitated before he took a step back. “I finished that last week, but sure, I’ll go do it again. Why not?” He spun on a heelstrut and gave Ratchet a backward wave. “When you feel like accepting someone else’s help, you know where to find me.”
Ratchet did not feel guilty for long. Anxiety settled about him in waves. He spun opposite of First Aid and made a beeline for his office, pinging Sunstreaker’s comm as he did. Whether or not Sunstreaker was on shift didn’t matter. This couldn’t wait.
Bob lifted his head when Ratchet burst into his office, chirping a mournful, worried sound at Ratchet. He scuttled out from the nest he’d built himself in the corner, and half-climbed into Ratchet’s lap after Ratchet dropped heavily into his chair.
Ratchet sighed and buried his face in one hand, letting the other rub gently over Bob’s head, taking comfort in the Insecticon’s nearness.
“It’s your fault,” he murmured, but it was with fatigue rather than anger. He could no more blame Bob for obeying his instincts, than Ratchet could blame himself for the push of his own coding. “None of us could have known.”
Sunstreaker’s vents caught. He stared at Ratchet as if he’d never seen the medic before, and he rebooted his audial sensors on the off chance he’d misheard the medic.
“… What?”
Ratchet sighed.
Lines of stress and fatigue creased his face. He had Bob half in his lap, the Insecticon making distressed noises of concern. He kept bringing Ratchet energon and blankets and treats, as if he thought one of them might help, and when none of those worked, he planted himself in Ratchet’s lap and didn’t move.
It would have been cute, if the situation weren’t so absurd and disastrous.
“I’m not carrying a pod,” Ratchet said, slowly and carefully, as if Sunstreaker’s confusion stemmed from incomprehension. “I’m carrying three eggs. Three which are no doubt Insecticon in nature because Cybertronians don’t birth eggs.”
Sunstreaker swallowed over a lump in his intake. “Maybe it’s just three pods?” he asked, tentative, hopeful, desperate even. He scrubbed the heels of his hands down his thighs.
Ratchet shook his head. He stared at the desk, absently petting Bob’s finials. “No. They are mature enough now that I can scan their coding. They are eggs, and they are most definitely partially Insecticon.”
“I didn’t know that was possible,” Sunstreaker said.
“None of us did.” Ratchet rubbed his forehead with his free hand. “But that’s the reality of the situation. I’m carrying three hybrid bitlets.”
Sunstreaker gnawed on his bottom lip. “What do you want to do?” he asked, and hoped he was not being indelicate, and Ratchet understood what he was asking.
“I’m keeping them, obviously. Barring the fact our population is dangerously low, I want them,” Ratchet said. His free hand dropped down to his abdomen, cupping the slight rise behind his grill protectively. “Starting a family this way had never been in the plans, but then, neither had a planet-wide, millennia long war.”
How true.
Sunstreaker’s unease lightened. He wasn’t sure if he could call it relief. It was too soon to tell.
“If you’re okay with it, I’d like to continue with the ruse that they are yours. At least, as long as I can anyway,” Ratchet said. His gaze went a little distant, unfocused as he stared out toward the medbay proper. “Once they’re born, the truth might be impossible to hide, but maybe we’ll have a plan of action then.”
Sunstreaker nodded, though Ratchet couldn’t see it. “Whatever you want,” he said, because it was the easiest answer he had to give. “Even after they’re born, too. I mean. Bob and I, we’re responsible, so whatever you need, whatever you want, we’ll do it.”
Ratchet cycled a ventilation and dragged his gaze back to Sunstreaker. “Thank you.” He absently rubbed his abdomen again. “Though this does explain why I expanded more quickly than the others. They’re only carrying a single pod. I’ll get far bigger than them eventually.”
“Will that make it obvious?” Sunstreaker asked.
“It might.” Ratchet tilted his head, optics dimming. “I can remove more of the duplicate internals to make more room for their growth. First Aid and Ambulon might ask curious questions, but no one else will be aware enough to ask questions.”
Sunstreaker chewed on his bottom lip. “I’m a twin. You could always tell people they’re twins. That’s believable. Isn’t it?”
Ratchet’s expression brightened. “Sunny, you’re brilliant,” he declared, and his lips curved in a relieved grin. “Yes, that’s perfect. Between that and removing my extra equipment, no one should be none the wiser.”
Sunstreaker hoped the heat flushing his body didn’t carry to his face, betraying his embarrassment. “Anything I can do to help.”
“Does that include moving in with me?”
Sunstreaker blinked. Bob looked up at Ratchet as well, antennae canted forward, releasing a little chirrup of confusion.
“What?”
Ratchet leaned back in the chair, giving Bob more room to take up residence in his lap, his back feet scrabbling against the floor. Sometimes, Bob just didn’t realize how much larger he was than them.
“Bob stalks me as it is,” Ratchet said, though at least his tone was fond as Bob chittered at him and nuzzled against his belly. “And eventually, I’m going to get to the point I’ll need help, as much as I hate admitting that,” the last was added with a grumble. “And if you two were here, all of that would be easier.”
“It would help with your cover story, too,” Sunstreaker said.
Ratchet nodded. He didn’t look at Sunstreaker though, he focused on Bob instead. His armor slicked tight to his frame, almost as if he were embarrassed or worried. He had nothing to be ashamed about.
This was all Sunstreaker’s fault.
“If you want us here, we’ll be here.” Sunstreaker spread his hands and aimed for a reassuring smile. He didn’t know if he managed it. “Whatever you want, Ratchet.”
Ratchet’s armor loosened by a few noticeable degrees. His field licked out, warm with affection and comfort. “Thank you.”
He didn’t owe them any gratitude. If anything, Sunstreaker and Bob owed him a lifetime of apologies. Whatever he wanted, he could have.
Anything.
