[IDW] In the Family Way 06/06
Apr. 1st, 2019 06:19 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 Six
Ratchet jolted out of a light doze with a sharp, rippling clench radiating through his abdomen. He ground his denta, hiding a hiss behind them, as his hands instinctively went to his belly.
Sunstreaker looked up from a nearby chair, datapad in his lap, concern in his optics. "Everything okay?"
Ratchet waited, waited, waited for the tensing cables to seize, and then he cycled a ventilation. "I'm going to guess I'm going into labor," he said.
His valve panel popped without his consent. Liquid spilled between his thighs, immediately soaking the berth beneath him.
Ratchet cringed. There was no such thing as dignity when it came to being sparked. "Correction. I am most definitely going into labor."
Sunstreaker jerked up from the chair, nearly tossing his datapad across the room. "What? Now? Here?"
At his feet, Bob stirred and jumped up, skittering around in a little excited dance.
Ratchet grunted and pulled himself halfway upright, shoving a pillow behind his back. "Yes." He grimaced as another rippling surge of cramps radiated through his belly, much faster than he would have expected.
He felt around the berth, palpating the curve of his abdomen and between his legs. The liquid seeping from his valve was thick and viscous, not at all like lubricant. He was carrying eggs, not pods. Who knew how different that would make the birthing process?
"I'm going to get First Aid," Sunstreaker said.
"No!" Ratchet growled it out over another contraction. "We can do this without him."
Sunstreaker turned toward him, optics wide, hands up. "Ratchet, I'm not a medic. And you're not going to be in a state of mind to tell me what to do."
"I don't want him here!"
"Why not?" Sunstreaker's optics were pale with worry, and Bob kept dancing around his feet, raising the chaos of the moment.
Ratchet ground his denta, squeezing his optics shut through another painful seize of his abdominal cables. He groaned, long and low, backstrut sending a ripple of pain through his frame, while a wave of heat followed in its wake.
"Is it because they're eggs?" Sunstreaker asked in a moment of bright clarification. "Because that's ridiculous."
Ratchet glared at Sunstreaker, and pushed off Bob's all too interested face, the Insecticon trying to climb into the berth with him. "It's my choice."
"It's our choice, and I'm choosing to get help." Sunstreaker spun on a heel and darted out of the room before Ratchet could protest.
Damn it.
He growled and thumped a fist on the berth. Bob whined and wriggled his aft, antennae canting toward Ratchet with worry.
"I'm fine," Ratchet said, though his sharp intake vent belied it.
Bob chirped and leapt onto the berth, sniffing pointedly at Ratchet's abdomen. Ratchet sighed. He didn't have the energy to push Bob back off.
The Insecticon tried to nose between his thighs, and Ratchet clapped his knees together, giving Bob a firm glare. "I don't need your help, thank you very much," he said. “You’ve done enough.”
Bob chuffed. He scampered over to Ratchet’s other side and nosed at his belly, long glossa extending to lick at an expanded seam. Ratchet would have swatted him away, if not for another sharp contraction making him wheeze and almost double over, more tacky fluid gushing from his valve.
He had no idea if this was normal or not.
Another squeezing cramp squeezed a groan out of Ratchet. His vents rattled, and his optics fritzed with static.
Bob whined and nuzzled at his belly, giving it a lick.
"I'm fine," Ratchet groused.
The Insecticon huffed at him and darted away before Ratchet could swat at him. He scuttled down to the end of the berth, out of reach, and stuck his face uncomfortably near Ratchet's bared valve with another audible sniff.
Ratchet's head thunked against the pillow. "Why am I bothering to be shy now?" he grumbled. He flicked a hand. "Fine. Whatever. You know more about this than I do-- argh."
His vision flickered. His engine whined. It felt as though his entire abdomen had squeezed and pinched. He fisted the covers, back arching, thighs spreading of their own accord, and his valve calipers started to ripple in an undulating wave, stirring his internal sensors into sending low waves of heat through his groin.
This was much, much faster than the standard Cybertronian carry. He should have known Bob would make things complicated.
Maybe it was a good thing Sunstreaker had gone to get First Aid.
Ratchet reset his optics, forcing his vision to clarify, just in time to see Bob stick his face between Ratchet's legs and give his bare valve a long, wet slurp. Pleasure licked through Ratchet's sensor net as a rough Insecticon glossa lapped over his anterior node, unexpectedly bright and swollen.
Ratchet groaned a curse word, heat flooding his face. Conflicting sensations rattled through his frame as Bob licked him again and again, making him more wet, provoking more of the weird, thick lubricant to ooze from his valve. It felt like the contracting of his calipers was getting easier. Was there something in Bob's oral lubricant?
Pleasure coiled in Ratchet's abdomen, battling with the tight, clenching waves of his gestational walls contracting. He thought he should try and urge Bob away, because he had no idea if this was a good thing or bad thing, but his thoughts kept splintering in pieces every time he tried to gather them together.
He clung to an edge of coherence and pinged Sunstreaker.
"We're on our way, I'm not going to argue about this with you, Ratchet," Sunstreaker replied with a stern note.
Ratchet groaned. "I know. I get it. Whatever. Just... come in first and grab Bob before you let First Aid in, all right? This is humiliating enough as it is."
"Is he hurting you?"
"The opposite, in fact."
No sooner had he answered than did the door open, Sunstreaker sliding inside alone. His optics widened.
"He's insistent," Ratchet managed as another long, savoring lick made him twitch with pleasure, his hips unconsciously bucking up toward the warm, wet mouth. "And I can't tell if he's helping or if I'm imagining it to make myself feel better."
He felt... disassociated from the situation. He could probably pick apart his coding and figure out why, a defensive or protective mechanism for the sake of himself and the sparklings, but right now, as much as the contractions hurt and Bob's ministrations felt good, he couldn't muster any anxiety or worry. A touch of shame, but only because he felt he should be ashamed, not because it was actually there.
Sunstreaker's jaw worked. He took a step toward the berth and then hesitated, "Should I stop him?"
"If you want me to accept First Aid's help, then you damn well better." Ratchet's threat petered off into a groan, his denta clenching, a stronger, sharper contraction visibly rippling over his abdomen. He would have curled into himself, if he could, and another gush of fluid spilled out from between his thighs.
Bob made the weirdest sound, a cross between a burble and a chitter. He looked up at Ratchet, face smeared with fluids, and antennae quivering. If Ratchet had to guess, he'd say Bob was excited? Expectant?
"And quickly," Ratchet said. "Something tells me these eggs are coming sooner rather than later."
There was a shifting deep inside him, like the three masses in his tank were starting to move, pushed toward the port by the contractions of his gestational walls. Ratchet distantly tracked the odd sensation.
Sunstreaker nodded and approached the berth in full, reaching out for the Insecticon. "Bob. Come. You're in the way."
The Insecticon whined, but miracle of miracles, scuttled away from Ratchet and off the berth. He kept close, however, moving to the side of the berth on Ratchet's right, his primary arms braced on the edge. His strange field buzzed over Ratchet, unreadable.
"Come on in, Aid," Sunstreaker called out.
"I'm not decent!" Ratchet growled.
Sunstreaker gave him a look that was a startlingly decent reproduction of the glare Ratchet gave recalcitrant patients. "You're in labor."
The door opened, First Aid backing inside, dragging a cart full of equipment behind him.
"I'm offended that you think I'm not professional enough to care for you," First Aid said as the door closed, and he wheeled the cart closer. "Or worse, that you think I'm not skilled enough to do my job properly."
Ratchet grunted through another wave of contractions, and one of the eggs in his tank nudged against the port exit, stretching the rim. "That's not why I hesitated."
"Isn't it?" First Aid finally looked at him, and a scan hit Ratchet immediately. "Or do you just not trust me in general?"
Ratchet dragged in a heavy vent, his head dropping back against the pillow behind him. There was no point in being coy now. First Aid would find out the truth soon.
"They're not pods," he said as Sunstreaker moved to the other side of the berth, standing next to Bob and keeping a hand on the back of his collar fairing. "They're eggs."
First Aid turned and grabbed something from the cart behind him. "I know.” He popped the top of a cube and held it out to energon. "You trained me, Ratchet. Of course I know how to read an antenatal scan. I've always known they weren't pods."
Ratchet stared at him.
First Aid returned it evenly. "I'm offended you think I'm such a close-minded aft that I'd judge you and refuse proper medical care for a situation that's no business but yours." He huffed and stared at his datapad as the readings pinged back. "This is moving about as quickly as I expected."
"How do you know?" Sunstreaker asked.
"Because once I figured out Ratchet wasn't going to come to me for the medical advice he needed, I started doing research on my own to make sure we'd be prepared." First Aid didn't say 'duh' but there was something in his tone that implied it.
The retort on the tip of Ratchet's glossa died as another contraction seized his frame, longer and harsher than the ones before. The egg squeezed against the internal port, the contractions making it push, push, push through before it popped past the flexible rim. Ratchet groaned, vision briefly going white with static.
His entire gestational tract contracted and squeezed and rippled, guiding the egg through. Ratchet's backstrut arched, his denta grinding, legs spreading of their own accord.
"And here they come," First Aid said on the edge of Ratchet's awareness. "Sunstreaker, support him. Ratchet, I need you to ventilate."
Ventilate? Oh, that explained the honking overheat warnings at the back of his cortex.
"Just focus on ventilating," First Aid said as another spurt of fluid seeped out of Ratchet's valve. A hand grasped his, squeezing tight. Sunstreaker's maybe.
It was hard to tell. Most of his focus was on his internals, and the squeezing push of the egg as it squeezed through the gestational transition and pushed through his valve, rubbing against his valve lining and sensor clusters. The contracting was a dull ache, but pleasure spiked through his sensory net in confusing waves behind the egg's passage. His anterior node felt swollen and pulsing, ripe with impending pleasure.
The egg notched against his interior boundary and stalled, a touch too wide to make it past his rim, and Ratchet groaned. He squeezed Sunstreaker's hand, his valve trembling and rippling, the egg rubbing over and over against the cluster of nodes behind his rim. His hips rocked of their own accord, his vents coming in sharper gasps.
"Ratchet, I'm going to manually stimulate you," First Aid said, his tone perfectly clinical, and Ratchet clung to it as something steadfast in a tossing storm.
"Do... whatever you have to do," Ratchet managed, his voice thick with static, his optics shuttered as he struggled to maintain coherency, feeling as though he hovered on the cusp of overload while the egg stalled in place.
"Don't punch me, Sunstreaker," First Aid said, and before Ratchet could comprehend why he'd say that, there was a light, gentle touch to Ratchet's anterior node.
That was all it took to send him shuddering into overload, charge crawling over his frame, valve rhythmically spasming, pleasure shooting lightning through his lines. Ratchet moaned, arching into the pleasure, and the egg popped free of his valve with an audible sound, into First Aid's waiting fingers.
The forceful contractions eased, though his gestational system fluttered around the other two eggs, jostling them in his tank.
Ratchet panted, trying to focus on ventilating, unshuttering his optics to peer down at the egg First Aid cradled. It was smaller than he expected, with tesselated silver plates forming a smooth surface, currently slick with gestational fluid.
"... Is it...?"
"He's alive," First Aid said with a reassuring pulse of his field. His fingers gently tracked around the circumference of the egg. "I'm detecting a spark beat."
Bob chirped and skittered to First Aid's side. He'd been so quiet during the birthing, Ratchet had forgotten he was there, but now Bob was scrambling up, trying to see the egg.
"Let him see, Aid," Ratchet winced through a bruising contraction. "It's his spawn after all."
First Aid held out the sticky egg to Bob, who immediately sniffed it, and then licked it. His antennae twitched with delight, and before First Aid could react, Bob snatched the egg from him, tucking it under an arm. He scampered out of reach and scuttled toward the door, one nimble secondary hand punching it open.
He vanished into the outer room, and Ratchet briefly heard the sound of rummaging before the door shut.
"He's not going to eat it, is he?" Sunstreaker asked, tense where he sat next to Ratchet, as though unsure if he should give chase or not.
Ratchet worked his intake. "Bob's been building a nest for a reason. I doubt it's to make a nice place for dinner. Just let him do what he needs to do."
"Bob's fine," First Aid said, shaking himself out of distraction and focusing on Ratchet once again. "You need to focus on the two bitlets you have left."
Ratchet's gestational tank seized as though hearing First Aid's words. A second egg jostled into place, moving toward the exit port.
Sunstreaker squeezed his hand and leaned in, brushing his lips in an unexpectedly tender kiss to Ratchet's forehead. "You're doing great," he said. "You can do this."
"Of course I can," Ratchet groused, but he squeezed back, and focused on ventilating through the rapid increase of contractions once again.
The rest was a blur of pain and pleasure.
The second egg came much easier, emerging with an overload that tore a low moan from Ratchet's lips and an arch from his backstrut. He saw through static as it was handed first to Sunstreaker, and then to Bob, who who had returned long enough to retrieve it, and then scuttled away with it to his nest, like had the first.
Exhaustion kept trying to set in, but every time Ratchet thought he might give in to it, a new surge of energy swept through his frame. He hovered on the edge of overload, as if someone had a finger on his sensor net and kept caressing every one of his erotic hotspots.
It hurt, and it felt good. His engine revved, his fans spun so hard they ached, condensation gathered on his frame, and static crept into his vision, his audials, stealing away moments of time.
Distantly, he heard First Aid. "One more, Ratchet. One more. And it's the biggest, I think."
Of course it was.
Ratchet groaned, head lolling, and felt Sunstreaker's iron grip on his hand, the quiet murmurs in his audial, the soft stroke of his field. He concentrated on that instead of the tangled pain and pleasure as the egg worked through him, pushing and pushing, his insides contracting tiredly, his valve throbbing with mingled heat and hunger.
He ached, and his valve hurt, and First Aid was massaging the exterior of his valve, trying to coax him further open. It would have embarrassed him, if he wasn't so damn ready for this to be over, he couldn't care anymore.
“Let me help,” Sunstreaker murmured, his voice like a warm promise in Ratchet’s audial, his frame pressed against Ratchet’s side. His free hand skated down Ratchet’s abdomen, leaving curls of arousal in its wake.
“Please,” Ratchet begged, and he didn’t care how desperate he sounded. He wanted this done. He wanted to rest.
Sunstreaker nuzzled his cheek. His lips left a warm path, and so did his fingers, down, down, until they brushed over Ratchet’s anterior node with gentle caresses and surges of tingling pleasure.
“One more push,” First Aid urged. “One more.”
Ratchet groaned, long and low, clinging to Sunstreaker as his valve rippled and Sunstreaker’s gentle touch sent him into a third overload. His calipers contracted, his rim stretched wide, burning and threatening to tear, before the egg popped free, and Ratchet sagged back into the berth. His valve quivered weakly, the last overload thin and unsatisfactory.
Ratchet’s optics went to half-mast. He dragged in several shuddering vents, thighs still lying open, he didn’t have the wherewithal to care. His world was a haze, and he felt stretched raw and empty.
Sunstreaker’s warmth started to withdraw and Ratchet pawed at him blindly, managing to find Sunstreaker’s forearm somehow. “Don’t go,” he mumbled.
“I’m not.” Sunstreaker’s lips brushed his forehead. “I’ll be right here. For however long you need me.”
Forever, Ratchet wanted to say. He bit his glossa instead.
“Recharge,” First Aid said from somewhere at the end of the berth. He patted Ratchet’s ankle, his field urging calm. “We’ll take care of the rest.”
“We’ll talk later,” Sunstreaker murmured. He squeezed Ratchet’s hand, his field settling warm and soft like a blanket.
“We’d better,” Ratchet murmured, before he let the pull of recharge sweep him away.
~
Ratchet slept.
Sunstreaker worried.
The eggs were fine. Bob had tucked them away in his nest and was now purring as he perched over them, licking them clean and turning them with his secondary hands. Bob had been a fierce guardian of Sunstreaker, so he had little doubt the Insecticon would be an even fiercer guardian to his sparklings.
“We won’t be able to hide their nature,” First Aid commented.
Sunstreaker turned from the doorway, back to the berthroom, was First Aid packed up the medical equipment he’d brought. They’d already carefully cleaned Ratchet and tucked cleaner berth covers around the medic’s frame. Ratchet hadn’t stirred the entire time, though First Aid assured him that was to be expected and perfectly normal.
He looked at ease, face smoothed over with peace, vents quietly snuffling, frame loose and lax as he lay curled against the berth. His abdomen was still somewhat rounded, but again, First Aid reassured him that Ratchet’s frame would contract and smooth over in a few days.
“The sparklings,” First Aid clarified as he cleaned a tool Sunstreaker couldn’t identify. “Everyone will be able to tell they are of Insecticon origin.”
“I’ll kill anyone who tries to hurt them,” Sunstreaker said. This was a given. He didn’t have to think about it.
He had no idea what kind of sparklings Ratchet and Bob would end up with. Maybe they wouldn’t even survive. He didn’t know. But he wasn’t going to let some idiot with a prejudice kill them on principle alone. They were Ratchet’s sparklings. They were Bob’s. And maybe, if Sunstreaker was really lucky, he’d get to be a part of their life, too.
First Aid nodded slowly, seemingly focused on the task at hand. “Granted,” he said. “I’m just warning you. I have no idea what they’ll look like or how intelligent they’ll be. The only thing I’m sure of is that they already look neither mech nor Insecticon and that shows.”
“I don’t care. No one hurts them.”
“I’m sure it won’t come to that.” First Aid’s field trickled out, offering a medic’s comfort and reassurance.
Sunstreaker rebuffed him. He didn’t want it from First Aid.
“If I might ask, did you and Ratchet sparkmerge?”
Sunstreaker blinked out of his stupor, casting a confused glance at the other medic, who still seemed perfectly distracted by his tools. “We aren’t actually together.”
“Oh, I knew that.” First Aid knew a great many things apparently. “That doesn’t answer my question though.”
Sunstreaker’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “Then what’s the point?”
First Aid’s visor shifted toward him, and acute sense of assessment behind the glowing brightness. “Did you participate in his heat at all?”
“Yes.”
“Then the sparklings are partially yours as well,” First Aid said, his tone so matter of fact considering his words had sunk into Sunstreaker’s cortex.
He cycled his optics. “What?”
“It’s uncommon, but not impossible.” First Aid set down the cleaned tool and started closing up the sides of the box, latching it shut. “I can run tests to be sure, but in most cases, all mechs who contributed to the heat have a genetic stake in the offspring.”
First Aid pushed the cart to the door and paused near Sunstreaker, his head tilted to look up. “They’re as much your sparklings as they are Ratchet’s and Bob’s. Don’t forget that, please.”
Sunstreaker straightened. “You’re leaving?”
A small chuckle rose out of First Aid’s intake. “Well, Ratchet is resting comfortably, I’ll probably lose a hand if I try to take an egg from Bob, and you’re here to look after all of them. There’s really nothing left for me to do.”
“Oh.”
“You can call me if you need me.”
First Aid pushed the cart toward the doorway, giving Bob a wide berth, which Sunstreaker didn’t blame him for, considering the way Bob stared at him from under the desk. It wasn’t threatening, but it was definitely watchful.
“Thanks,” Sunstreaker blurted out before First Aid managed to leave. He crossed his arms, shifting from foot to foot. “For helping and not… not judging.”
“What’s to judge?” First Aid asked, and then he was gone, the door swooshing open and shut, locking behind him.
What’s to judge? Right.
Sunstreaker checked on Bob, who looked up at him, antennae waggling, far less guarded then he’d been with First Aid. Sunstreaker crouched down, peering into the nest of assorted cloths and bits. The three eggs were nestled together, carefully defended beneath Bob’s bulk.
“You’re going to keep them safe, right?” Sunstreaker asked.
Bob chirruped and hunched down, neatly concealing the egglets. His optics blinked in arrhythmic succession.
“Good boy.” Sunstreaker smiled, but didn’t try and pet Bob. He didn’t want to push his luck. “They’re our family now. Them and Ratchet. We gotta protect them all, don’t we?”
Bob dipped his head and chirped.
Agreement. Good.
Sunstreaker stood and puttered around Ratchet’s quarters. He’d been here long enough to be considered living here, and evidence of his and Bob’s relocation were scattered all around the suite, intermingled with Ratchet’s belongings as well. His polishing supplies and Ratchet’s abandoned tinkering projects. Bob’s boxes of treats and Ratchet’s energon flavorings.
They’d somehow turned it into a home.
Sunstreaker hoped they could keep it that way.
He grabbed a tray and arranged some cubes on it, coolant and energon and anything else he thought Ratchet might want or need. This he carried into the berthroom, and not a moment too soon either as Ratchet started to stir.
Suntreaker set the tray on a nearby table and sat on the edge of the berth as Ratchet’s optics unshuttered open and he ex-vented a soft groan.
“I feel like I got run over by Trypticon,” Ratchet said as he pulled himself up against the wall, sitting upright.
“Pain? Or just soreness?” Sunstreaker offered him a cube of energon, which Ratchet accepted, immediately popping it open and downing half of it in one go.
“Soreness,” Ratchet answered once he’d lowered the cube. “I’ll get over it.” He glanced around the room. “Where are the bitlets?”
“With Bob. In his nest. They haven’t hatched yet. If hatching is what they do.” Sunstreaker rolled his shoulders and reached for Ratchet’s hand, relieved when Ratchet offered it to him.
He rubbed Ratchet’s palm, putting all of his focus into the light massage, rather than look into Ratchet’s face. He wasn’t sure what he’d find there, and he was too much of a coward to find out.
“Ah.” Ratchet cycled a noisy ventilation. “Thanks, by the way, for your help.” He loosed a wry, dry laugh. “Note to self, overloading is apparently necessary for Insecticon birth.”
“Necessary and normal,” Sunstreaker agreed. “First Aid said so.”
“Of course he did.” Ratchet grunted and finished off the rest of his cube, setting it off to the side. “It’s still odd.”
Sunstreaker rubbed Ratchet’s palm gently, focusing intently. “First Aid said something else, too.” He cycled a ventilation, unsure why he felt nervous, save that something in the air was shifting, and he didn’t know if it would be accepted or not. “He said there’s a good chance the bitlets are partly mine as well.”
“Yes, I’d considered that possibility. It’s very likely. Which, in my opinion, is a good thing. It can only help.” Ratchet’s hand turned in his and he tangled their fingers together.
Sunstreaker nodded, staring hard at their joined hands. “You just have to tell me, Ratchet. If you want me and Bob to leave, to give you your space, we’ll do it. I know this wasn’t really your choice.”
“Stop.”
Sunstreaker clamped his mouth shut.
“Look at me, Sunny.”
He reluctantly lifted his gaze. Ratchet’s free hand cupped his face, palm warm and gentle.
“Don’t talk to me about not having a choice,” Ratchet said, his tone somehow both firm and affectionate. “There are things I didn’t get to choose, but choosing you is not one of them.”
Sunstreaker worked his intake. “What do you mean?”
The corner of Ratchet’s mouth curved upward. “Stop telling me what I don’t want. I’m going to choose you, and you’re not allowed to try and change my mind.”
Ratchet’s words filtered into his cortex and hit a wall of confusion. Sunstreaker stared.
“Unless, of course, that’s the opposite of what you want,” Ratchet corrected with a squeeze to Sunstreaker’s hand. “In which case, I apologize for making the wrong assumption. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”
Sunstreaker shook his head. “No, no. I just...” He trailed off and leaned in closer to Ratchet, leaning into the gentle touch against his cheek. “Choose me, if you want. I chose you a long time ago.”
Emotion flickered across Ratchet’s face, too quick for Sunstreaker to read. “We’re a bunch of blind idiots,” he murmured before he pulled Sunstreaker toward him, their lips slotting together in a gentle kiss that would have been sweeter, if Ratchet didn’t taste like the medical grade Sunstreaker had fed him.
It was worth it.
“So let’s just go ahead and make this official,” Ratchet said as he pressed their foreheads together. “You and me.” He paused and amended, “And Bob and whatever our sparklings turn out to be.”
Sunstreaker smiled, his spark throbbing brightly in his chassis. “Sounds perfect.”
~
Bob chirred a quiet melody to himself as he licked his newsparks clean and kept turning them slowly, encouraging them to unfurl. He could hear their little sparks beating and hear their movements inside the protective sphere.
Four little ones!
He was so excited he felt he might burst. He’d thought there were only three, but there were four! How exciting! Four new ones to add to the Hive, to the family. He had the strongest carry-mate, to carry and birth four sparks so strong and vibrant and beautiful.
Bob couldn’t wait to see them unfurl. He wondered what they’d look like. He wanted to teach them all sorts of things.
He hoped they were a little smarter. Maybe they could learn the weird mechspeak and could help translate so Bob’s mates would be able to understand him. It would be nice to finally communicate properly.
Bob settled over them, tucking them against his belly, into the cradle of warmth, and let his power core rumble. The vibrations would soothe them.
Sound pulled his attention outward. Ratchet and Sunstreaker emerged from the berth room, smiling, their fields peppering the air with happiness and affection. Ratchet still felt a little tired, and Sunstreaker had to support him, but he looked in overall good health. Such a strong carry-mate!
They nuzzled each other and pressed their mouths together in an affectionate kiss. That swirl of unease and sadness they’d always carried around each other seemed to be gone now.
Finally!
Bob was starting to worry they’d never realize the truth. Bob, of course, figured it out a long time ago. But he supposed the big-mechs couldn’t help it. They didn’t have powerful nasal sensors or field sensors or as many optics as Bob did. They couldn’t see the obvious.
Movement stirred beneath Bob’s belly. He chirped and scuttled upward, peering down at the base of the nest. One of the eggs, the bigger one, rocked back and forth, the plates of the protective shell twitching and clicking.
Hatching!
Bob chirruped louder, trying to get Ratchet and Sunstreaker’s attention. He danced in place, nudging the eggs a bit out of the nest so they’d be in view, but not in danger. The big one twitched harder, almost jumping, and now the other two stirred as well, quiet clicks and grinds coming from the interior.
“Bob?”
“What’s up, bug?”
Bob patted the big egg with his smaller hand, chirring at the egglet. Come out, come out, he told the little one. We want to see you.
An answering pair of chirps echoed from within.
“Is it hatching?” Sunstreaker asked.
“Do I look like an expert on Insecticon biology?” Ratchet grumped, but they both crouched into view anyway, peering curiously down into the nest.
Silly big-mechs. Always arguing about something.
Bob nosed at the unfurling egg, and chirred with delight when the plates finally tesselated apart, ever so slowly. Limbs emerged, barely armored and completely undecorated. They were protoform silver because their colors hadn’t come in yet, but they would eventually.
The sphere unfurled and fell apart into two separate hatchlings, identical in appearance, their blue optics online but dim. Antennae sprouted from their heads and little nubbins on their back suggested they’d have wings. Bob was a little jealous. He didn’t have wings.
They immediately reached for each other cuddling together, and started nomming on each other’s shoulders. Bob urged them closer and licked the tops of their heads, so they’d know his scent as sire-mate.
“Twins,” Sunstreaker murmured. “I didn’t even know it was possible.”
Ratchet leaned in, resting a head on Sunstreaker’s shoulder. “And you were doubting whether or not you contributed.”
Sunstreaker lifted a hand, but he hesitated, curling his fingers back inward. “Bob, can I hold them?”
Of course he could. Such a silly question.
Bob chirred and scooped up the little twins, holding them out to Sunstreaker. They wriggled in his hands, protesting the lift, but Sunstreaker took them gently, a look of wonder on his face.
Another egg started to click and twitch, so Bob moved his attention to that one. Oh, both of them actually. Both were wriggling, their plates shifting as they tried to unfurl.
“First Aid was right,” Sunstreaker said as he held the bitlets close and they squirmed in his hands. “There’ll be no hiding that they’re part Insecticon.”
“It doesn’t matter. They’re ours and if someone has a problem with it, they can take that up with me,” Ratchet replied. Peripherally, Bob saw him lean in, stroking a finger over one of the bitlet’s tiny arms.
“If I could claim them on my own, I would.”
Ratchet sighed a ventilation. “One, it’s you and me now so no more of that. And two, yes, it’s a bit humiliating, but I’ll survive it.” His voice softened, turning warm and fond. “When these are the end result, well, I’m not too upset.” He chuckled. “Or maybe that’s just my active carrier coding, I don’t know.”
One of the bitlets unfurled, and Bob chirred as he licked the little mechlet. No wings this time he noticed. The mechlet looked more mech than Insecticon sadly. He could already see the beginnings of mounts for wheels, and he had no spike nubbins or antennae. Oh, well. Bob would love him still.
Ratchet leaned in, reaching, and Bob offered the non-bug mechlet to Ratchet, while the third egg started to quiver.
“That one looks like you,” Ratchet said, to Sunstreaker.
Sunstreaker smiled gently, his optics shimmering with some emotion. “Apparently I had more influence on these bits than we thought.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
Bob smiled at their flirting and turned his full attention back to the last emerging hatchling, his plates unfolding much faster and smoother than the other two. What unfurled was larger than all the others, his protoform a darker silver. He had little spike nubbins and antennae and four eyes and what was maybe a secondary set of arms growing in under his primary pair.
Aw. He was adorable.
Bob purred and cuddled the biggest bitlet close, nuzzling the hatchling and cooing as he cleaned off the last of protoform fluid from his frame. The bitlet squeaked and squirmed before giving in to the affection with a huff.
“That one is definitely an Insecticon,” Sunstreaker commented.
Bob looked up and chirruped at his other mates.
“He’s ours. That’s all that matters,” Ratchet said as he produced a small cube from his subspace and was dipping a finger into it, trying to offer the dripping finger to the sparkling he cradled. “We’re family.”
Sunstreaker’s face outright softened. “Yeah. We are.” He smiled and leaned in to kiss Ratchet, their mouths coming together sweetly.
Bob purred approval and nuzzled the bitlet in his arms. His new Hive and his new family.
It was everything he ever wanted.
***
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. ^_^
Ratchet jolted out of a light doze with a sharp, rippling clench radiating through his abdomen. He ground his denta, hiding a hiss behind them, as his hands instinctively went to his belly.
Sunstreaker looked up from a nearby chair, datapad in his lap, concern in his optics. "Everything okay?"
Ratchet waited, waited, waited for the tensing cables to seize, and then he cycled a ventilation. "I'm going to guess I'm going into labor," he said.
His valve panel popped without his consent. Liquid spilled between his thighs, immediately soaking the berth beneath him.
Ratchet cringed. There was no such thing as dignity when it came to being sparked. "Correction. I am most definitely going into labor."
Sunstreaker jerked up from the chair, nearly tossing his datapad across the room. "What? Now? Here?"
At his feet, Bob stirred and jumped up, skittering around in a little excited dance.
Ratchet grunted and pulled himself halfway upright, shoving a pillow behind his back. "Yes." He grimaced as another rippling surge of cramps radiated through his belly, much faster than he would have expected.
He felt around the berth, palpating the curve of his abdomen and between his legs. The liquid seeping from his valve was thick and viscous, not at all like lubricant. He was carrying eggs, not pods. Who knew how different that would make the birthing process?
"I'm going to get First Aid," Sunstreaker said.
"No!" Ratchet growled it out over another contraction. "We can do this without him."
Sunstreaker turned toward him, optics wide, hands up. "Ratchet, I'm not a medic. And you're not going to be in a state of mind to tell me what to do."
"I don't want him here!"
"Why not?" Sunstreaker's optics were pale with worry, and Bob kept dancing around his feet, raising the chaos of the moment.
Ratchet ground his denta, squeezing his optics shut through another painful seize of his abdominal cables. He groaned, long and low, backstrut sending a ripple of pain through his frame, while a wave of heat followed in its wake.
"Is it because they're eggs?" Sunstreaker asked in a moment of bright clarification. "Because that's ridiculous."
Ratchet glared at Sunstreaker, and pushed off Bob's all too interested face, the Insecticon trying to climb into the berth with him. "It's my choice."
"It's our choice, and I'm choosing to get help." Sunstreaker spun on a heel and darted out of the room before Ratchet could protest.
Damn it.
He growled and thumped a fist on the berth. Bob whined and wriggled his aft, antennae canting toward Ratchet with worry.
"I'm fine," Ratchet said, though his sharp intake vent belied it.
Bob chirped and leapt onto the berth, sniffing pointedly at Ratchet's abdomen. Ratchet sighed. He didn't have the energy to push Bob back off.
The Insecticon tried to nose between his thighs, and Ratchet clapped his knees together, giving Bob a firm glare. "I don't need your help, thank you very much," he said. “You’ve done enough.”
Bob chuffed. He scampered over to Ratchet’s other side and nosed at his belly, long glossa extending to lick at an expanded seam. Ratchet would have swatted him away, if not for another sharp contraction making him wheeze and almost double over, more tacky fluid gushing from his valve.
He had no idea if this was normal or not.
Another squeezing cramp squeezed a groan out of Ratchet. His vents rattled, and his optics fritzed with static.
Bob whined and nuzzled at his belly, giving it a lick.
"I'm fine," Ratchet groused.
The Insecticon huffed at him and darted away before Ratchet could swat at him. He scuttled down to the end of the berth, out of reach, and stuck his face uncomfortably near Ratchet's bared valve with another audible sniff.
Ratchet's head thunked against the pillow. "Why am I bothering to be shy now?" he grumbled. He flicked a hand. "Fine. Whatever. You know more about this than I do-- argh."
His vision flickered. His engine whined. It felt as though his entire abdomen had squeezed and pinched. He fisted the covers, back arching, thighs spreading of their own accord, and his valve calipers started to ripple in an undulating wave, stirring his internal sensors into sending low waves of heat through his groin.
This was much, much faster than the standard Cybertronian carry. He should have known Bob would make things complicated.
Maybe it was a good thing Sunstreaker had gone to get First Aid.
Ratchet reset his optics, forcing his vision to clarify, just in time to see Bob stick his face between Ratchet's legs and give his bare valve a long, wet slurp. Pleasure licked through Ratchet's sensor net as a rough Insecticon glossa lapped over his anterior node, unexpectedly bright and swollen.
Ratchet groaned a curse word, heat flooding his face. Conflicting sensations rattled through his frame as Bob licked him again and again, making him more wet, provoking more of the weird, thick lubricant to ooze from his valve. It felt like the contracting of his calipers was getting easier. Was there something in Bob's oral lubricant?
Pleasure coiled in Ratchet's abdomen, battling with the tight, clenching waves of his gestational walls contracting. He thought he should try and urge Bob away, because he had no idea if this was a good thing or bad thing, but his thoughts kept splintering in pieces every time he tried to gather them together.
He clung to an edge of coherence and pinged Sunstreaker.
"We're on our way, I'm not going to argue about this with you, Ratchet," Sunstreaker replied with a stern note.
Ratchet groaned. "I know. I get it. Whatever. Just... come in first and grab Bob before you let First Aid in, all right? This is humiliating enough as it is."
"Is he hurting you?"
"The opposite, in fact."
No sooner had he answered than did the door open, Sunstreaker sliding inside alone. His optics widened.
"He's insistent," Ratchet managed as another long, savoring lick made him twitch with pleasure, his hips unconsciously bucking up toward the warm, wet mouth. "And I can't tell if he's helping or if I'm imagining it to make myself feel better."
He felt... disassociated from the situation. He could probably pick apart his coding and figure out why, a defensive or protective mechanism for the sake of himself and the sparklings, but right now, as much as the contractions hurt and Bob's ministrations felt good, he couldn't muster any anxiety or worry. A touch of shame, but only because he felt he should be ashamed, not because it was actually there.
Sunstreaker's jaw worked. He took a step toward the berth and then hesitated, "Should I stop him?"
"If you want me to accept First Aid's help, then you damn well better." Ratchet's threat petered off into a groan, his denta clenching, a stronger, sharper contraction visibly rippling over his abdomen. He would have curled into himself, if he could, and another gush of fluid spilled out from between his thighs.
Bob made the weirdest sound, a cross between a burble and a chitter. He looked up at Ratchet, face smeared with fluids, and antennae quivering. If Ratchet had to guess, he'd say Bob was excited? Expectant?
"And quickly," Ratchet said. "Something tells me these eggs are coming sooner rather than later."
There was a shifting deep inside him, like the three masses in his tank were starting to move, pushed toward the port by the contractions of his gestational walls. Ratchet distantly tracked the odd sensation.
Sunstreaker nodded and approached the berth in full, reaching out for the Insecticon. "Bob. Come. You're in the way."
The Insecticon whined, but miracle of miracles, scuttled away from Ratchet and off the berth. He kept close, however, moving to the side of the berth on Ratchet's right, his primary arms braced on the edge. His strange field buzzed over Ratchet, unreadable.
"Come on in, Aid," Sunstreaker called out.
"I'm not decent!" Ratchet growled.
Sunstreaker gave him a look that was a startlingly decent reproduction of the glare Ratchet gave recalcitrant patients. "You're in labor."
The door opened, First Aid backing inside, dragging a cart full of equipment behind him.
"I'm offended that you think I'm not professional enough to care for you," First Aid said as the door closed, and he wheeled the cart closer. "Or worse, that you think I'm not skilled enough to do my job properly."
Ratchet grunted through another wave of contractions, and one of the eggs in his tank nudged against the port exit, stretching the rim. "That's not why I hesitated."
"Isn't it?" First Aid finally looked at him, and a scan hit Ratchet immediately. "Or do you just not trust me in general?"
Ratchet dragged in a heavy vent, his head dropping back against the pillow behind him. There was no point in being coy now. First Aid would find out the truth soon.
"They're not pods," he said as Sunstreaker moved to the other side of the berth, standing next to Bob and keeping a hand on the back of his collar fairing. "They're eggs."
First Aid turned and grabbed something from the cart behind him. "I know.” He popped the top of a cube and held it out to energon. "You trained me, Ratchet. Of course I know how to read an antenatal scan. I've always known they weren't pods."
Ratchet stared at him.
First Aid returned it evenly. "I'm offended you think I'm such a close-minded aft that I'd judge you and refuse proper medical care for a situation that's no business but yours." He huffed and stared at his datapad as the readings pinged back. "This is moving about as quickly as I expected."
"How do you know?" Sunstreaker asked.
"Because once I figured out Ratchet wasn't going to come to me for the medical advice he needed, I started doing research on my own to make sure we'd be prepared." First Aid didn't say 'duh' but there was something in his tone that implied it.
The retort on the tip of Ratchet's glossa died as another contraction seized his frame, longer and harsher than the ones before. The egg squeezed against the internal port, the contractions making it push, push, push through before it popped past the flexible rim. Ratchet groaned, vision briefly going white with static.
His entire gestational tract contracted and squeezed and rippled, guiding the egg through. Ratchet's backstrut arched, his denta grinding, legs spreading of their own accord.
"And here they come," First Aid said on the edge of Ratchet's awareness. "Sunstreaker, support him. Ratchet, I need you to ventilate."
Ventilate? Oh, that explained the honking overheat warnings at the back of his cortex.
"Just focus on ventilating," First Aid said as another spurt of fluid seeped out of Ratchet's valve. A hand grasped his, squeezing tight. Sunstreaker's maybe.
It was hard to tell. Most of his focus was on his internals, and the squeezing push of the egg as it squeezed through the gestational transition and pushed through his valve, rubbing against his valve lining and sensor clusters. The contracting was a dull ache, but pleasure spiked through his sensory net in confusing waves behind the egg's passage. His anterior node felt swollen and pulsing, ripe with impending pleasure.
The egg notched against his interior boundary and stalled, a touch too wide to make it past his rim, and Ratchet groaned. He squeezed Sunstreaker's hand, his valve trembling and rippling, the egg rubbing over and over against the cluster of nodes behind his rim. His hips rocked of their own accord, his vents coming in sharper gasps.
"Ratchet, I'm going to manually stimulate you," First Aid said, his tone perfectly clinical, and Ratchet clung to it as something steadfast in a tossing storm.
"Do... whatever you have to do," Ratchet managed, his voice thick with static, his optics shuttered as he struggled to maintain coherency, feeling as though he hovered on the cusp of overload while the egg stalled in place.
"Don't punch me, Sunstreaker," First Aid said, and before Ratchet could comprehend why he'd say that, there was a light, gentle touch to Ratchet's anterior node.
That was all it took to send him shuddering into overload, charge crawling over his frame, valve rhythmically spasming, pleasure shooting lightning through his lines. Ratchet moaned, arching into the pleasure, and the egg popped free of his valve with an audible sound, into First Aid's waiting fingers.
The forceful contractions eased, though his gestational system fluttered around the other two eggs, jostling them in his tank.
Ratchet panted, trying to focus on ventilating, unshuttering his optics to peer down at the egg First Aid cradled. It was smaller than he expected, with tesselated silver plates forming a smooth surface, currently slick with gestational fluid.
"... Is it...?"
"He's alive," First Aid said with a reassuring pulse of his field. His fingers gently tracked around the circumference of the egg. "I'm detecting a spark beat."
Bob chirped and skittered to First Aid's side. He'd been so quiet during the birthing, Ratchet had forgotten he was there, but now Bob was scrambling up, trying to see the egg.
"Let him see, Aid," Ratchet winced through a bruising contraction. "It's his spawn after all."
First Aid held out the sticky egg to Bob, who immediately sniffed it, and then licked it. His antennae twitched with delight, and before First Aid could react, Bob snatched the egg from him, tucking it under an arm. He scampered out of reach and scuttled toward the door, one nimble secondary hand punching it open.
He vanished into the outer room, and Ratchet briefly heard the sound of rummaging before the door shut.
"He's not going to eat it, is he?" Sunstreaker asked, tense where he sat next to Ratchet, as though unsure if he should give chase or not.
Ratchet worked his intake. "Bob's been building a nest for a reason. I doubt it's to make a nice place for dinner. Just let him do what he needs to do."
"Bob's fine," First Aid said, shaking himself out of distraction and focusing on Ratchet once again. "You need to focus on the two bitlets you have left."
Ratchet's gestational tank seized as though hearing First Aid's words. A second egg jostled into place, moving toward the exit port.
Sunstreaker squeezed his hand and leaned in, brushing his lips in an unexpectedly tender kiss to Ratchet's forehead. "You're doing great," he said. "You can do this."
"Of course I can," Ratchet groused, but he squeezed back, and focused on ventilating through the rapid increase of contractions once again.
The rest was a blur of pain and pleasure.
The second egg came much easier, emerging with an overload that tore a low moan from Ratchet's lips and an arch from his backstrut. He saw through static as it was handed first to Sunstreaker, and then to Bob, who who had returned long enough to retrieve it, and then scuttled away with it to his nest, like had the first.
Exhaustion kept trying to set in, but every time Ratchet thought he might give in to it, a new surge of energy swept through his frame. He hovered on the edge of overload, as if someone had a finger on his sensor net and kept caressing every one of his erotic hotspots.
It hurt, and it felt good. His engine revved, his fans spun so hard they ached, condensation gathered on his frame, and static crept into his vision, his audials, stealing away moments of time.
Distantly, he heard First Aid. "One more, Ratchet. One more. And it's the biggest, I think."
Of course it was.
Ratchet groaned, head lolling, and felt Sunstreaker's iron grip on his hand, the quiet murmurs in his audial, the soft stroke of his field. He concentrated on that instead of the tangled pain and pleasure as the egg worked through him, pushing and pushing, his insides contracting tiredly, his valve throbbing with mingled heat and hunger.
He ached, and his valve hurt, and First Aid was massaging the exterior of his valve, trying to coax him further open. It would have embarrassed him, if he wasn't so damn ready for this to be over, he couldn't care anymore.
“Let me help,” Sunstreaker murmured, his voice like a warm promise in Ratchet’s audial, his frame pressed against Ratchet’s side. His free hand skated down Ratchet’s abdomen, leaving curls of arousal in its wake.
“Please,” Ratchet begged, and he didn’t care how desperate he sounded. He wanted this done. He wanted to rest.
Sunstreaker nuzzled his cheek. His lips left a warm path, and so did his fingers, down, down, until they brushed over Ratchet’s anterior node with gentle caresses and surges of tingling pleasure.
“One more push,” First Aid urged. “One more.”
Ratchet groaned, long and low, clinging to Sunstreaker as his valve rippled and Sunstreaker’s gentle touch sent him into a third overload. His calipers contracted, his rim stretched wide, burning and threatening to tear, before the egg popped free, and Ratchet sagged back into the berth. His valve quivered weakly, the last overload thin and unsatisfactory.
Ratchet’s optics went to half-mast. He dragged in several shuddering vents, thighs still lying open, he didn’t have the wherewithal to care. His world was a haze, and he felt stretched raw and empty.
Sunstreaker’s warmth started to withdraw and Ratchet pawed at him blindly, managing to find Sunstreaker’s forearm somehow. “Don’t go,” he mumbled.
“I’m not.” Sunstreaker’s lips brushed his forehead. “I’ll be right here. For however long you need me.”
Forever, Ratchet wanted to say. He bit his glossa instead.
“Recharge,” First Aid said from somewhere at the end of the berth. He patted Ratchet’s ankle, his field urging calm. “We’ll take care of the rest.”
“We’ll talk later,” Sunstreaker murmured. He squeezed Ratchet’s hand, his field settling warm and soft like a blanket.
“We’d better,” Ratchet murmured, before he let the pull of recharge sweep him away.
Ratchet slept.
Sunstreaker worried.
The eggs were fine. Bob had tucked them away in his nest and was now purring as he perched over them, licking them clean and turning them with his secondary hands. Bob had been a fierce guardian of Sunstreaker, so he had little doubt the Insecticon would be an even fiercer guardian to his sparklings.
“We won’t be able to hide their nature,” First Aid commented.
Sunstreaker turned from the doorway, back to the berthroom, was First Aid packed up the medical equipment he’d brought. They’d already carefully cleaned Ratchet and tucked cleaner berth covers around the medic’s frame. Ratchet hadn’t stirred the entire time, though First Aid assured him that was to be expected and perfectly normal.
He looked at ease, face smoothed over with peace, vents quietly snuffling, frame loose and lax as he lay curled against the berth. His abdomen was still somewhat rounded, but again, First Aid reassured him that Ratchet’s frame would contract and smooth over in a few days.
“The sparklings,” First Aid clarified as he cleaned a tool Sunstreaker couldn’t identify. “Everyone will be able to tell they are of Insecticon origin.”
“I’ll kill anyone who tries to hurt them,” Sunstreaker said. This was a given. He didn’t have to think about it.
He had no idea what kind of sparklings Ratchet and Bob would end up with. Maybe they wouldn’t even survive. He didn’t know. But he wasn’t going to let some idiot with a prejudice kill them on principle alone. They were Ratchet’s sparklings. They were Bob’s. And maybe, if Sunstreaker was really lucky, he’d get to be a part of their life, too.
First Aid nodded slowly, seemingly focused on the task at hand. “Granted,” he said. “I’m just warning you. I have no idea what they’ll look like or how intelligent they’ll be. The only thing I’m sure of is that they already look neither mech nor Insecticon and that shows.”
“I don’t care. No one hurts them.”
“I’m sure it won’t come to that.” First Aid’s field trickled out, offering a medic’s comfort and reassurance.
Sunstreaker rebuffed him. He didn’t want it from First Aid.
“If I might ask, did you and Ratchet sparkmerge?”
Sunstreaker blinked out of his stupor, casting a confused glance at the other medic, who still seemed perfectly distracted by his tools. “We aren’t actually together.”
“Oh, I knew that.” First Aid knew a great many things apparently. “That doesn’t answer my question though.”
Sunstreaker’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “Then what’s the point?”
First Aid’s visor shifted toward him, and acute sense of assessment behind the glowing brightness. “Did you participate in his heat at all?”
“Yes.”
“Then the sparklings are partially yours as well,” First Aid said, his tone so matter of fact considering his words had sunk into Sunstreaker’s cortex.
He cycled his optics. “What?”
“It’s uncommon, but not impossible.” First Aid set down the cleaned tool and started closing up the sides of the box, latching it shut. “I can run tests to be sure, but in most cases, all mechs who contributed to the heat have a genetic stake in the offspring.”
First Aid pushed the cart to the door and paused near Sunstreaker, his head tilted to look up. “They’re as much your sparklings as they are Ratchet’s and Bob’s. Don’t forget that, please.”
Sunstreaker straightened. “You’re leaving?”
A small chuckle rose out of First Aid’s intake. “Well, Ratchet is resting comfortably, I’ll probably lose a hand if I try to take an egg from Bob, and you’re here to look after all of them. There’s really nothing left for me to do.”
“Oh.”
“You can call me if you need me.”
First Aid pushed the cart toward the doorway, giving Bob a wide berth, which Sunstreaker didn’t blame him for, considering the way Bob stared at him from under the desk. It wasn’t threatening, but it was definitely watchful.
“Thanks,” Sunstreaker blurted out before First Aid managed to leave. He crossed his arms, shifting from foot to foot. “For helping and not… not judging.”
“What’s to judge?” First Aid asked, and then he was gone, the door swooshing open and shut, locking behind him.
What’s to judge? Right.
Sunstreaker checked on Bob, who looked up at him, antennae waggling, far less guarded then he’d been with First Aid. Sunstreaker crouched down, peering into the nest of assorted cloths and bits. The three eggs were nestled together, carefully defended beneath Bob’s bulk.
“You’re going to keep them safe, right?” Sunstreaker asked.
Bob chirruped and hunched down, neatly concealing the egglets. His optics blinked in arrhythmic succession.
“Good boy.” Sunstreaker smiled, but didn’t try and pet Bob. He didn’t want to push his luck. “They’re our family now. Them and Ratchet. We gotta protect them all, don’t we?”
Bob dipped his head and chirped.
Agreement. Good.
Sunstreaker stood and puttered around Ratchet’s quarters. He’d been here long enough to be considered living here, and evidence of his and Bob’s relocation were scattered all around the suite, intermingled with Ratchet’s belongings as well. His polishing supplies and Ratchet’s abandoned tinkering projects. Bob’s boxes of treats and Ratchet’s energon flavorings.
They’d somehow turned it into a home.
Sunstreaker hoped they could keep it that way.
He grabbed a tray and arranged some cubes on it, coolant and energon and anything else he thought Ratchet might want or need. This he carried into the berthroom, and not a moment too soon either as Ratchet started to stir.
Suntreaker set the tray on a nearby table and sat on the edge of the berth as Ratchet’s optics unshuttered open and he ex-vented a soft groan.
“I feel like I got run over by Trypticon,” Ratchet said as he pulled himself up against the wall, sitting upright.
“Pain? Or just soreness?” Sunstreaker offered him a cube of energon, which Ratchet accepted, immediately popping it open and downing half of it in one go.
“Soreness,” Ratchet answered once he’d lowered the cube. “I’ll get over it.” He glanced around the room. “Where are the bitlets?”
“With Bob. In his nest. They haven’t hatched yet. If hatching is what they do.” Sunstreaker rolled his shoulders and reached for Ratchet’s hand, relieved when Ratchet offered it to him.
He rubbed Ratchet’s palm, putting all of his focus into the light massage, rather than look into Ratchet’s face. He wasn’t sure what he’d find there, and he was too much of a coward to find out.
“Ah.” Ratchet cycled a noisy ventilation. “Thanks, by the way, for your help.” He loosed a wry, dry laugh. “Note to self, overloading is apparently necessary for Insecticon birth.”
“Necessary and normal,” Sunstreaker agreed. “First Aid said so.”
“Of course he did.” Ratchet grunted and finished off the rest of his cube, setting it off to the side. “It’s still odd.”
Sunstreaker rubbed Ratchet’s palm gently, focusing intently. “First Aid said something else, too.” He cycled a ventilation, unsure why he felt nervous, save that something in the air was shifting, and he didn’t know if it would be accepted or not. “He said there’s a good chance the bitlets are partly mine as well.”
“Yes, I’d considered that possibility. It’s very likely. Which, in my opinion, is a good thing. It can only help.” Ratchet’s hand turned in his and he tangled their fingers together.
Sunstreaker nodded, staring hard at their joined hands. “You just have to tell me, Ratchet. If you want me and Bob to leave, to give you your space, we’ll do it. I know this wasn’t really your choice.”
“Stop.”
Sunstreaker clamped his mouth shut.
“Look at me, Sunny.”
He reluctantly lifted his gaze. Ratchet’s free hand cupped his face, palm warm and gentle.
“Don’t talk to me about not having a choice,” Ratchet said, his tone somehow both firm and affectionate. “There are things I didn’t get to choose, but choosing you is not one of them.”
Sunstreaker worked his intake. “What do you mean?”
The corner of Ratchet’s mouth curved upward. “Stop telling me what I don’t want. I’m going to choose you, and you’re not allowed to try and change my mind.”
Ratchet’s words filtered into his cortex and hit a wall of confusion. Sunstreaker stared.
“Unless, of course, that’s the opposite of what you want,” Ratchet corrected with a squeeze to Sunstreaker’s hand. “In which case, I apologize for making the wrong assumption. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”
Sunstreaker shook his head. “No, no. I just...” He trailed off and leaned in closer to Ratchet, leaning into the gentle touch against his cheek. “Choose me, if you want. I chose you a long time ago.”
Emotion flickered across Ratchet’s face, too quick for Sunstreaker to read. “We’re a bunch of blind idiots,” he murmured before he pulled Sunstreaker toward him, their lips slotting together in a gentle kiss that would have been sweeter, if Ratchet didn’t taste like the medical grade Sunstreaker had fed him.
It was worth it.
“So let’s just go ahead and make this official,” Ratchet said as he pressed their foreheads together. “You and me.” He paused and amended, “And Bob and whatever our sparklings turn out to be.”
Sunstreaker smiled, his spark throbbing brightly in his chassis. “Sounds perfect.”
Bob chirred a quiet melody to himself as he licked his newsparks clean and kept turning them slowly, encouraging them to unfurl. He could hear their little sparks beating and hear their movements inside the protective sphere.
Four little ones!
He was so excited he felt he might burst. He’d thought there were only three, but there were four! How exciting! Four new ones to add to the Hive, to the family. He had the strongest carry-mate, to carry and birth four sparks so strong and vibrant and beautiful.
Bob couldn’t wait to see them unfurl. He wondered what they’d look like. He wanted to teach them all sorts of things.
He hoped they were a little smarter. Maybe they could learn the weird mechspeak and could help translate so Bob’s mates would be able to understand him. It would be nice to finally communicate properly.
Bob settled over them, tucking them against his belly, into the cradle of warmth, and let his power core rumble. The vibrations would soothe them.
Sound pulled his attention outward. Ratchet and Sunstreaker emerged from the berth room, smiling, their fields peppering the air with happiness and affection. Ratchet still felt a little tired, and Sunstreaker had to support him, but he looked in overall good health. Such a strong carry-mate!
They nuzzled each other and pressed their mouths together in an affectionate kiss. That swirl of unease and sadness they’d always carried around each other seemed to be gone now.
Finally!
Bob was starting to worry they’d never realize the truth. Bob, of course, figured it out a long time ago. But he supposed the big-mechs couldn’t help it. They didn’t have powerful nasal sensors or field sensors or as many optics as Bob did. They couldn’t see the obvious.
Movement stirred beneath Bob’s belly. He chirped and scuttled upward, peering down at the base of the nest. One of the eggs, the bigger one, rocked back and forth, the plates of the protective shell twitching and clicking.
Hatching!
Bob chirruped louder, trying to get Ratchet and Sunstreaker’s attention. He danced in place, nudging the eggs a bit out of the nest so they’d be in view, but not in danger. The big one twitched harder, almost jumping, and now the other two stirred as well, quiet clicks and grinds coming from the interior.
“Bob?”
“What’s up, bug?”
Bob patted the big egg with his smaller hand, chirring at the egglet. Come out, come out, he told the little one. We want to see you.
An answering pair of chirps echoed from within.
“Is it hatching?” Sunstreaker asked.
“Do I look like an expert on Insecticon biology?” Ratchet grumped, but they both crouched into view anyway, peering curiously down into the nest.
Silly big-mechs. Always arguing about something.
Bob nosed at the unfurling egg, and chirred with delight when the plates finally tesselated apart, ever so slowly. Limbs emerged, barely armored and completely undecorated. They were protoform silver because their colors hadn’t come in yet, but they would eventually.
The sphere unfurled and fell apart into two separate hatchlings, identical in appearance, their blue optics online but dim. Antennae sprouted from their heads and little nubbins on their back suggested they’d have wings. Bob was a little jealous. He didn’t have wings.
They immediately reached for each other cuddling together, and started nomming on each other’s shoulders. Bob urged them closer and licked the tops of their heads, so they’d know his scent as sire-mate.
“Twins,” Sunstreaker murmured. “I didn’t even know it was possible.”
Ratchet leaned in, resting a head on Sunstreaker’s shoulder. “And you were doubting whether or not you contributed.”
Sunstreaker lifted a hand, but he hesitated, curling his fingers back inward. “Bob, can I hold them?”
Of course he could. Such a silly question.
Bob chirred and scooped up the little twins, holding them out to Sunstreaker. They wriggled in his hands, protesting the lift, but Sunstreaker took them gently, a look of wonder on his face.
Another egg started to click and twitch, so Bob moved his attention to that one. Oh, both of them actually. Both were wriggling, their plates shifting as they tried to unfurl.
“First Aid was right,” Sunstreaker said as he held the bitlets close and they squirmed in his hands. “There’ll be no hiding that they’re part Insecticon.”
“It doesn’t matter. They’re ours and if someone has a problem with it, they can take that up with me,” Ratchet replied. Peripherally, Bob saw him lean in, stroking a finger over one of the bitlet’s tiny arms.
“If I could claim them on my own, I would.”
Ratchet sighed a ventilation. “One, it’s you and me now so no more of that. And two, yes, it’s a bit humiliating, but I’ll survive it.” His voice softened, turning warm and fond. “When these are the end result, well, I’m not too upset.” He chuckled. “Or maybe that’s just my active carrier coding, I don’t know.”
One of the bitlets unfurled, and Bob chirred as he licked the little mechlet. No wings this time he noticed. The mechlet looked more mech than Insecticon sadly. He could already see the beginnings of mounts for wheels, and he had no spike nubbins or antennae. Oh, well. Bob would love him still.
Ratchet leaned in, reaching, and Bob offered the non-bug mechlet to Ratchet, while the third egg started to quiver.
“That one looks like you,” Ratchet said, to Sunstreaker.
Sunstreaker smiled gently, his optics shimmering with some emotion. “Apparently I had more influence on these bits than we thought.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
Bob smiled at their flirting and turned his full attention back to the last emerging hatchling, his plates unfolding much faster and smoother than the other two. What unfurled was larger than all the others, his protoform a darker silver. He had little spike nubbins and antennae and four eyes and what was maybe a secondary set of arms growing in under his primary pair.
Aw. He was adorable.
Bob purred and cuddled the biggest bitlet close, nuzzling the hatchling and cooing as he cleaned off the last of protoform fluid from his frame. The bitlet squeaked and squirmed before giving in to the affection with a huff.
“That one is definitely an Insecticon,” Sunstreaker commented.
Bob looked up and chirruped at his other mates.
“He’s ours. That’s all that matters,” Ratchet said as he produced a small cube from his subspace and was dipping a finger into it, trying to offer the dripping finger to the sparkling he cradled. “We’re family.”
Sunstreaker’s face outright softened. “Yeah. We are.” He smiled and leaned in to kiss Ratchet, their mouths coming together sweetly.
Bob purred approval and nuzzled the bitlet in his arms. His new Hive and his new family.
It was everything he ever wanted.
