Chapter 1: Jab
Chapter Text
The boar snuffles his datapad, head down on his bountiful burden of work like the one-tracked bot he was. Ah, dear Ratchet -Too smart to be approached directly, too focused to be distracted without a game plan.
The lynx sets her sights, calculating. You prowl the upper deck, perching yourself against the railing. Ratchet grunts his disapproval as whatever he types comes back red. He doesn't even see you, what you were banking on.
An ex-vent of pure unadulterated 'fucks sake' leaves his intake and you're bolstered. You've a target today. Never do you feel as much a poacher as you do trying to reign in the immovable.
Ratchet's frown pulleys his shoulders upwards, his optics shut and he pinches the crest of his helm.
For all his unimaginable years of knowledge, there was always something you grasped better than him.
Something that made you both his treat and his lynx and that was that when you stick your head so far into your work, eventually you're going to go noseblind. And an exhausted prey was an easily caught one.
Ratchet moves himself to the side of his desk, hunches ever further to type something, and lines up that long walk of broad shoulder just to what you were waiting for. You have exactly half a second to ponder if the predator metaphor comes across poorly for you before you vault it off the railing with the rest of you and land pretty damn elegantly on one of Ratchet's extraterrestrially gorgeous shoulders. A flowing action only successful on account of just how many times you've had to do this by now and dammit, do you own this feline tag with flying colors.
You embed the claws of your grip onto the ridge of red on his delts and climb your way up him. You're just dropping the ledge to stand on the flat of his traps when he finally turns a deadpan eye to his hunter.
One hand braced on his collar, the other on a hip, you stand posed like the fearsome, metaphorically feline temptress you were made to be and give him a smirk.
"Finally looked up, huh?"
Ratchet's optics swoop the amount of you that he can. His eyes, just like every time, are a cold blue shower of a moment's anxiety as much as a hot flash of intense attention.
There's a small voice somewhere in your head wondering if he likes what he sees before the rumble of his voice shakes you back on track.
"What did I tell you about climbing? I'm busy." Ratchet concludes, seeming to size up the lynx as just a short, fuzzy cat.
“If you weren't for climbing you shouldn’t have added steps.” You chitter back, patting at the red lining the outer sides of his shoulder plate.
You spot the smallest pull of his lips- close as you are to them- and know that he’s not yet escaped.
“Bullscrap. I’ve already told you all it will take is me so much as scratching my head without knowing you’re there and you’ll get knocked off - or worse,” Ratchet finishes the thought with the hallowed expression one would give a sour lemon. You think over the choice of telling him how that kind of makes you want to climb him more and decide he’ll probably actually knock you off and don’t.
“Hey, medical leave for my position is just getting to hang around base without having to file reports. Seems alright to me,” is the card you instead play.
“Then you’re a fool.” Ratchet retorts, bite in his tone as endearing as ever.
“Didn’t get stationed here by being scared of you, did I?” You smile with the innocence of someone trying to get charged by the boar.
(Un)Lucky for you Ratchet just scoffs, going back to his work.
As much as the two of you are pretty forthcoming, there’s an aura of pulled punches between the two of you. If he truly wanted his peace, there’d be a palm under you by now- or better yet a servo around your waist. Like a sparring session, you bob and weave each other with the unspoken acknowledgment that you’re looking each other in the eyes as you throw.
Logistics, precautions. Rarely will he take the offensive in this match.
But where he is a theoretical tactician, you are a confident fighter. He wants your irritation, and you’re always willing to give- that’s how this always goes. You stance yourself, and two of your arms cross on the top of his collar.
You’d never have claimed to be one for fate. But these giant alien robots just happen to have their equivalent of Satan be your planet, and Ratchet's collar happens to line up just low enough for you to slouch across it in a way that pushes your - and what you hope he thinks are- assets up and suddenly coincidence is looking more like stars crossing.
He doesn’t look fazed at the closer distance, you pretend to not be too. Instead, you also watch the screen. Cybertronian, chemical equations, smart people stuff written by metal Greek gods. It’s all lightyears beyond your league, but life’s taught you that a feint will always eventually land you a real hit.
“Synth-en,” you conclude like the knuckle-headed shoulder-parrot you are. Obviously, this statement doesn’t warrant a reply. You shift your view to his servos tapping at the keyboard. Ratchet stays begrudgingly silent, like he’s trying to will you out of existence before you can make your offense. But you didn’t get your knowledge in Cybertronian lingo without being a bit stubborn- and a 100% defense is nothing but a chance to train an efficient offense…
“You taken a break this solar-cycle?” you let the jab loose.
“One Earth solar-cycle of work is hardly enough for a break.” Ratchet grimaces, his response immediate- like he’d predicted it the nano-klik he’d noticed your presence.. A passive counter, a reactive response style, luckily you’ve got the slip of a hungry lynx.
“And one mega-cycle is hardly enough recharge.” You stand yourself at attention, cutting a defiant visage. Ratchet eye’s you like he’s just been scammed out the punch he threw, and with that you know you’ve weaved the hit. The boar huffs his frustration, circles around and attacks again:
“Do you even know what you’re saying means?” Ratchet’s exhausted eyes take a second to stare at the ceiling like he’s trying to fry the seat out from under Primus himself.
But as the momentum of the charge carries itself past you, the Lynx sees naught but an opening! You cross to the jaw with the force to stagger:
“Enough to know you look like shit,”
Ratchet has the ego to look offended for a second, before it melts into a tired look of acceptance. He’s dazed!
Finally- the showstopper- you hook, wide arc of ammunition striking home exactly how you planned:
“You gonna rest, or am I going to be hauling all this high-grade back to storage alone?”
Ratchet’s eyes widen and his head swivels towards you. Knockout!
You’re already meeting his eyes. Leant forwards again and coy like he’s the gargantuan mouse you’ve caught in tiny paws. A true devil on his shoulder, Ratchet knew he’d regret teaching you what high-grade was.
Eyebrows knit downwards, shoulders unwinding- you think you see the moment the boar hears the bell and realizes he’s been had.
“So that’s what this is,” Ratchet sighs, though his hands come away from the keyboard.
It’s a unanimous decision! We have a champion ladies and gentlebots! You give him a self-satisfied smirk, pat his collar, and step off onto the palm that he already has waiting for you.
With no current ‘THE WORLDS FUCKIN’ ENDING!’ events breathing down your necks, Optimus is quick to approve of you and Ratchet’s little excursion. It’s not your first time dragging Ratchet out of the base to “actually experience the planet he woke up on”- as you had chastised- and it wasn’t the first time you had left the base supply storage decently ravaged while doing so.
“It is important to rest your mind and body as much as it is to train it.” is the baritone melody of sweet reinforcement Prime feeds you both. “Just stay alert for any Deception presence.” He adds, quite apprehensively for his usual deadpan.
Optimus, the calm sonata of leadership that he is, never fails to respect your agency as one of the few adult humans they know. Yet as he quietly eyes your position on Ratchet’s palm you can’t help but feel like your teen self - awkwardly saying hi to the parents of the boy whose bed you inconspicuously sit right next to on with the tense knowledge that everyone in this interaction knows you’re going to make out the second the door closes and have already interrupted you doing so.
Honestly, when you think of it more like that you feel less bad about the feeling that the scan of blue optics leaves you with because if you get to make out with Ratchet, that’d be more of a victory than the embarrassment of having Optimus know it’s happening and maybe you should just knock next time.
“Knock?” Optimus asks, and both bots turn to you confused. You jolt out of your memory realizing you must have muttered that aloud.
“On… wood? Knock on wood. Or you’ll manifest a Decepticon ruining our time. It’s a human expression,” you stumble to save. Optimus looks pensively around the three of you, before giving you a disgustingly-apologetic look.
“I do not believe there’s much wood in the area-”
You wave him off and Ratchet just clears his throat in interjection,
“I’ll have my comms on, and we’ll be back before sunrise.”
Now you can’t tell if your face is heated because you’re a blubbering mess or if it’s the ridiculously long time frame Ratchet expects to be out alone with you for.
The drive to the next plateau over can’t be any shorter. You both don’t go far from base. It’d take an actual lasso to get Ratchet to agree to that, and an actual boxing match to get him into the city, but you make do with going to a point where at least you get some natural, silent privacy.
As pervy as it makes you feel you can’t help the heart rate spike that the seatbelt winding itself over you causes. It wasn’t so bad the first time you had climbed into Ratchet’s cabin- back when you weren’t so down bad, and you hadn’t known that this was 100% an extension of his body. You had nervously shifted in your seat the whole ride, and only when Ratchet finally yelled a gritted ‘Sit still!’ at you, had you realized he could feel the parts in here.
And when that top strap sits lightly on the middle of your chest like he’s being conscious that he’s even touching you there and like it’s a part of your body he knows should be treated differently to the strap over your legs, you can’t help your thoughts. Arcee was the only femme bot you really knew - Did Cybertronians have tits? Better yet- did they like tits? Was he cautious because he didn’t want to accidentally cop a feel or was it just that these two points were probably some of the most ‘alien’ parts to his masculine, metal self? Oh god. Your pits of Kaon would be the gutters of your own mind at this rate-
You bury the Cybertronian sex and anatomy questions by instead redirecting your questions to how his time had gone when you were off base with the rest of Team Prime and Ratchet promptly flies into a rant about the kids at a speed sure to blow your thoughts out of the way.
The sky’s clear, the nights warm and the drinks are unloaded. It’s perfect, you revel as you sit yourself a safe distance from the edge of the plateau and pat the space beside you on the mat you’d rolled out.
Ratchet cuts a quarter high-grade energon cube with a whole canister of unleaded gasoline before raising an eyebrow at your prompt in the world's most bizarre display of casually using a whole gasoline canister ever.
“Your processor must actually be as small as it looks if you think I’ll fit on that.” he scoffs as you're already halfway through rolling your eyes.
“Yes, yes. I get it, you’re grouchy-just sit down, rust bucket.” You titter, looking up to roam along the endless expanse of oceanic black sky. In the void of endless space, every stress you have seems to melt off into zero-gravity nothing. No Decepticons, no apocalypses, no stressed out team, half sabotaging itself with its indomitable work ethic. Ratchet seats himself as closely to you as he can, given the size difference. And as you watch the same fall away of stresses on him, your heart pangs in unspoken love that he’d actually taken a moment to rest with you.
Chapter Text
Lovely doing nothing stays that way for the first ten minutes.
The air is crisp and fresh, a wash of rejuvenation in comparison to the dust of the bunker. The sand is warmed from the long day of sun under your palms. The floor digs into your hip at a slightly uncomfortable angle. The hush of wind and silence is loud.
After the grace period, everything is too little as much as it is too much.
It’s not the comfortable type of silence that you sometimes slip into on drives either. Nor is it the stunted one following insincere fights…
It’s a calculating silence of evaluation, of what now?
FOR YOU: You’re setting yourself boundaries a mile a minute. Don’t say this! Don’t go there! You want to actually give the giant hunk a reprieve, keep it all unserious fun!
And no matter what -no matter how many drinks- keep your very much friendship-ruining, heart-consuming feelings for him in. Because you’re not even sure if Cybertronians have romantical code within the boundaries of their own planet, let alone outside of it.
For him? Well, all you can hope is that it’s not a “why did I waste my time coming out here.”
Once you’ve drawn the box you’ll stay in, you finally think of what comes after ‘sat down’ on the night's itinerary. But you had a thick thread of doubt that you’d get this far even when confidently pouncing his shoulder.
“Ratchet, I’m going to be honest I didn’t have anything planned besides the drinks.” You say, nursing your first beer of the night. He looks down at you with a done deadpan.
“You can’t just sit?” is his blunt question.
I mean, yeah. You dick. I’m wondering if you can.
“ ‘Smore fun if we’re doing somethin’ isn’t it?” is what you decide to use instead.
Because every scrap between you two is more a regular communication to him, he just shrugs and actually looks for something to do.
And because every match between the two of you is laced with ‘my god, I want to make out with you’ to you, you latch onto the first thing that comes to mind.
“Can you still use your radio in this form?” You unfold your legs, getting a little more comfortable.
Ratchet’s brows peek from under the helm of his bigger red ones in a tight-knit of “hmm”.
“I have never had a reason to try. Why? Are you trying to use me as a personal speaker?” Is his jeer, earning a grin out of you.
“‘Course.” You chirp. Ratchet nods one resentful ‘alright’ and then sets his eyes down at his chassis. Your sights slip there easier than what’s dignified too.
Immediately you can tell this isn’t going to work. It’s a miracle any song starts to come through- so far into the desert that you are- yet somehow the moment of fuzzing static switches into two short chords on a cheesy electric guitar. The kick of a snare…..
Hiw me wi- your -est shot! Comes the young voice of Pat Benatar.
The sound is drowned, obscured like it’s in a barrel of water; Coming from somewhere within Ratchet’s chest where it's been tucked with the intention of NOT using it in this form.
Go -n-nd - hit me wi- your -est shot!
In a little moment of surreal self-reflection, you wonder if maybe God can hear your incessant, internal rambling. Maybe they can hear that all you can seem to correlate yourself to is launching your two literary devices at people in incorporeal boxing. And that maybe they’re making fun of you.
You start giggling, just at the obscure in-joke you have with yourself. Ratchet clicks off the radio quickly, and his deathly serious ‘That’s enough of that.’ has you unfurling into actual laughter.
“No! No! That’s my anthem! I was listening to that!” You cheer. Ratchet folds his arms but the wonky tilt of his lips sings amused.
“Sorry to disappoint. You’re not getting any karaoke out of me.” He finalizes, eyes easy, “You have one of those mini comm devices Miko has, don’t you?”
“A phone? Yeah, but this little thing isn’t meant to be a music player and I’d have to play it right into your ear,” you explain, taking the flip phone you have out to show, “Surely you’ve had enough of me climbing all over you by now.” You give your voice a tone of innocent joking, but you know the answer you’re hoping for.
To your heart-racing, box-thinning surprise, Ratchet’s smirk remains on his face. No square line is drawn. No cut-off. No snarky remark. You get what you’re hoping for.
“I have not,” he casually shakes you, “but that sounds impractical, so let’s just talk.” Ratchet keeps the train chugging even as it crashes through one side of your mind and out through the other.
“Right.” You say limply, and he gives you what you’re SURE you're either mistaking or imagining as a foxy, smug look.
Whew. You're done for. Sincerely utterly done for.
Despite your preaching, it took only one coincidental intervention, and another beer for you to start thinking you’re not going to hear the music if you're walled off from it.
That’s all it takes to get you from avoiding the unknown territory that was cross-species pining to diving yourself down the unsubtle current of interstellar flirting.
It would be embarrassing if you hadn’t cast discretion to the wind the moment Ratchet had leaned himself towards you, arm arcing over your head to rest himself back on a palm planted close behind you.
Caged into him. You'd ditched a self-inflicted cube for a giant, sexy captors’. Honestly, your feral self can’t decide whether to purr or pounce.
You try to quell your apparent raging ovulation but it really, really doesn’t help that Ratchet’s just opened your eyes to the big, wide, and hopeful world of-
“A few million years of experience under your belt,” you whistle, “I bet you have some CRAZY ex stories.”
Cybertronian dating. A new concept to you so painfully obvious you were never sure why you doubted its existence.
“Yes, yes. I’ve had my fair amount of partners. Most were short-lived, but that’s just war. I didn’t drive you out here to wallow in my array of broken relationships.” Ratchet grumbles, taking his energon cube between his lips. The question of whether any of those partners were organic still looms, but how would you ask that normally? You instead shrug in a fair’s fair.
“A few million. Is that how old you think I am?” He tilts his cube towards you like a point, a wolfish grin of amusement on his face.
It's not lost on you the absurdity that pre-humanity is being used to insinuate youth. The astronomical scale of age play could rend you nauseous if you thought it out too hard. Pushing that out of the way, you see the buccaneering chance of open waters and smirk back at him.
“Coulda fooled me.” you churn out like a slick-haired 50’s wanna-be pulling up to DILF diner. “You don't look a solar-cycle over 2 million, baby.” You throw up a finger gun to really sell the bit and Ratchet chuckles in smooth, polished bubbles. It's a tragedy and a miracle that it's not a common sound from him because it has you wobbling with a surge of attraction.
“I am no sparkling,” Ratchet says with a confusing amount of suave for someone misinterpreting you, “I am a much older bot than that.” A playful lilt paints his voice and as much as you're trying to steer yourself into the mechanics shop of close, intimate valve town, you CANNOT resist the chance.
“So you’re saying you’re out of the race by now then, old man?” You snicker at him and the jab must bounce straight off that hard metal armour because-
“Oh, on the contrary,” Ratchet parries quickly, “you see, some… skills you only fine-tune with time.”
You think you hear the boat bell calling you back to your quarters because if you don’t pack it in now, get in bed, and dry off you never will.
It’s vague enough to count as a loss if you fluster but suggestive enough to make it a fight for your life. Did he mean sex? It seemed so… The nagging question of if he even dared to venture the path you’d willingly sprint down seemed to waver in your favor. If he’d never like an organic, he wouldn’t be so forthcoming right? Trying to find his gauge of what was too alien to him was almost as hard as just asking him what was.
You thank whatever higher power resides above that Ratchet has the mercy to keep his sights set on the desert landscape instead of you as you struggle.
“I bet.” You manage out like you’re trying not to obviously salivate. Your lighthouse of mercy shines once more, casual as he blindsides you,
“On the topic of doomed romance, have you found yourself a mate yet? Agent Fowler seems to take good pride in the work you do.” Ratchet finishes his sentence with a prying glance like he’s trying to gleam more knowledge out of your reaction. You’d think about his intentions if you weren’t currently dying over the amount of things he just spat at you. Caught between wanting to correct his animalistic use of ‘mate’, being offended at his ‘doomed romance’ comment, and wanting to just screech ‘HUH?’ at him, you instead wheeze,
“Fowler?!” You almost double over yourself and eat the sand you lounge on, “My boss?! You’re fucking with me, Ratchet, surely?”
Ratchet goes from lounging lazily to locking sights with you in what has to be the simultaneously coldest and hottest look you’ve ever seen. A mind-focusing thorough look of understand this. It’s almost enough to knock you overboard and have you drowning in wet frustration and before you can worry about how easy it is for him to do that to you he seals your fate.
“I assure you, you’d know if I was fragging with you.” is the lower, hushed sentence that leaves his ridiculously dorky and sexy face. He hadn’t even said what you’d hoped he had! Yet the last bubbles of oxygen leave your mouth and you clamber to stay above water because that ‘with’ was almost nonexistent…
WHAT do you even say to that?! You’re charting the seas blindly and trying your hardest to will the wind off of you so you can flusteredly panic at a slower speed.
“I-I’m not interested in Fowler! I'm into… bigger guys,” you blurt with confidence that a sentence like that does not deserve, “besides, he and June couldn’t be draping themselves over each other any more than they are!”
But mutiny means there are other sailors on this ship to mutual feelings and Ratchet saves you the nonexistent processing power of trying to find a way to smoothly follow that sentence up by continuing like he hadn’t just drowned you head to toe.
“I really don’t think Agent Fowler is small, even for your human standards.” Ratchet points out, as brazen as ever.
You sputter a ‘well’ awkwardly and try to take back the reins on this kite but you're quick to catch on that it’s not going up because the wind is slowing. “June… That does make sense now.” Ratchet mutters, an odd dissonance taking his tone.
Ratchet’s optics fade into the middle ground ever so slightly. He hunches once more like he’s stood over his shitty datapad again and you watch on in horror as the wind doesn’t just stop blowing, it bursts into an electric cloud sitting above your head.
Ratchet continues, “He was gratuitously touchy when Jack and Arcee were recovering Optimus’ memories.”
God, you must be drunk because the lightning strike of self-doubt comes down faster and harder than anything this metal, Greek god should be able to hurl. His tone is… afflicted. Like he’s finding a truth that hurts and in turn, so are you.
I mean, June was a nurse, he was a doctor. It'd make sense for them to get along… If there was anyone pretty enough to break galactic standards it’d be that caring lady and oh god maybe you were reverting back to a teen because that sounded SO jealous in your head- why’d he have to sound so disappointed?
Ratchet shifts his torso to face you better, eyelights beaming down at you in an unprepared alarm.
“Disappointed? No! What are you suggesting?” He balks. Shit. Wishing slower speed did NOT mean securely anchored in place! You try to salvage.
“You- Well-” Go on! Say something smooth! Something that doesn’t let up the internal screaming you’re doing! “You did sound a little disappointed…” FUCK. NOT SUBTLE NOT SUBTLE. But you can’t take back the words so you're stuck down this choice. And as your crappy talking skills have forced you here, they force you to ask,
“... You… interested in- in her?”
Ratchet scoffs, “No! Well-” Ratchet prepares another bolt, carved arm held high above a handsome face, “I was just under the impression that she was interested in Optimus. But perhaps it was presumptuous to think a human would be attracted to a bot…” Ratchet hurls with little effort, striking your bug self into a paste in the sand. I'm disappointed she doesn’t like Cybertronians. And I’m disappointed she doesn’t like me.
One: The lightning, the heart-clenching hurt.
Two: The thunder, the sound of the fully crashed boat into the dock that takes the form of a strangled ‘Oh’ from you like an auditory tombstone.
One and two aren’t completely adding together to three here but as Ratchet groans and moves his hand from behind you to pinch at his brows the growing distance is unmistakable.
Ratchet takes a second to ex-vent deeply into his hand. You gulp what you can of your beer spectating the ship as it cracks in half and sinks down into the watery depths. Once he’s done making you suffer, Ratchet talks but doesn’t turn his helm to you.
“Three times her size, you scraplet” He slogs through the sentence, pulling a ‘you’ and speaking his thoughts out loud. He stares out at the horizon like he just found out he left his credit card in his gamer-child’s room. You stare up at his beautiful face like you just found out your pining is unrequited. The confirmation that not only had you missed the victory of him being attracted to humans, but that you weren’t the human he wanted squarely throws your mind back onto dry land.
And like a fish out of water, you flounder because as hurt as you are, you didn’t drag Ratchet out here just to make him hate himself because his human affection doesn’t like him back - even if that’s not you.
“I - Well I mean I get it. Ha. She’s super smart!” You fly into what has got to be the most cliche way of painfully getting friend-zoned. Ratchet grumbles out a “What?” but you’re so engrossed in digging into the dirt you spit out more like a big PEZ machine. “Don’t beat yourself up, it’s not like her and Fowler are actually dating!”
Now that you're trying to focus your speaking into something with actual calories you realize how hard doing that is. Are you…drunk?
“Y/N.” Ratchet tries to halt you, weakly looking down at you between the servos gripping his face.
“How long? Has that been going? I’m hurt you never told me!”
“Y/N! You’re not-”
“ I didn’t think you were even interested in humans-”
“Primus sake! Will you let me talk you glitch-brained slagger!” Ratchet finally caves, hands waving outwards with inebriated dexterity.
Seems he doesn’t account for the drink left over in his cube because you- to your own amusement- join the ACTUAL land of wetness as gasoline and alien whiskey douse your top and pants.
You’re both drunk.
You squeak and shoot up, looking at a very permanently ruined outfit. Ratchet gives you a horrified look of immediate regret and you wonder if unleaded gasoline is healthy for your skin.
It absolutely reeks. A deep and spiky smell that makes your nose feel completely cleared by the steam truck of an odor and also blocked entirely. The concoction burrows itself down to your skin in only a short 10 seconds, and it takes all of two seconds- when the contact is unusually cold- for you to start stretching your shirt as far out of the way of yourself whilst keeping as covered as possible.
Knocked from your hyper-speed typing, whoever’s in control of your NPC code just closed the heavy game of idiocy and decided to spam-click open something else because you're choking on what to do.
It’s silent between the two of you as you both assess the damage… Ratchet’s cyan-blue eyes meet your bewildered ones.
There’s a light tickle of wind, and you have to fuss your hair out of your face.
And with that, you finally, finally say something.
“I’m not the glitch-brained slagger.” You bark with zero gusto. Ratchet’s puzzled expression is quickly replaced with a grouchy one. Where that was an ocean, this was familiar waters.
“You ARE! You were just talking without listening to me!” Ratchet retorts.
“What are you even on about?” You say, stepping up to his towering frame.
“I’m trying to tell you I’m not attracted to Darby and you're rambling like you've got a circuit fried!” Ratchet’s voice borders on exhaustion.
“Then what- was all that!?! What WERE you on about?” Your voice mimics, accusatory hand flailing his general area.
“Nothing,” Ratchet says belligerently and he lets silence engulf the empty air between you.
But you refuse it, hearing the first toll of the ship bell.
“Nothing! Nothing- Bullshit. You got all depressed, what WAS that?”
Ratchet sits up into a kneel just so he can lean lower down and be head level with you as he jabs a servo forward.
“For Primus sake, why do you care?” Ratchet huffs.
The second toll, thundering like your heart as you try to find a friendzone-friendly way to respond.
“Why? It's my job, Ratchet. Base overseer here, team caretaker?” You remind him, voice rising as you cross your arms at him- then remember you're doused in gasoline and lift them off yourself with a frustrated growl.
Ratchet sits up only to roll his eyes as dramatically as he can,
“Team caretaker- I don't see you prying Bumblebee's data banks!”
Ratchet strikes you with self-doubting lightning once again. As you seize and flail under the electricity you bash a control on the ship you aren't meant to and before you can stop it, you say-
“That’s a cruel one, Ratchet. You know I have difficulty communicating with Bee.” You snarl, attempting to hug yourself- before remembering the gasoline again and having to uncurl your arms.
Ratchet looks stung and turns his helm away instantly. His scowls falls away to a quiet self-hating frown. In the aftermath, you see what you've done.
The final toll, echoing in the night. Your breath stalls, and it’s your turn to release it in deflating regret.
“I can’t forget that.” Is the wall-clawing, teeth-grindingly painful mutter Ratchet gives you.
That hurts- but what hurts more is the way he immediately turns himself away from you and if there was any lesson you were trying to teach this metal wall it was that he needed to stop burying his head in the ground!
You feel the fizzle of frustration as he scoops up his energon to throw back. Your gorgeous, idiot, space genius who can’t see his worth even in the few hours of rest he takes between slaving himself away for his family. The doctor who did and does everything for everyone he cares about and nothing for himself!
The 15-foot thorn in your heart that you’ve no intention to fix but to just make understand that there are people there for him as long as he isn’t hiding.
“God, Ratchet, please- please don’t tell me you still believe you’re at fault for Bee’s voice?”
He turns further away, till you’re looking at the side of his helm. While you drill holes into it you realize the water and boats were a dumb metaphor and that-
Ratchet shifts and sits down, cross-legged, facing the edge of the plateau. You stare right down his cold, hard shoulder.
-you’ve been standing in the ring this whole time.
Fight!
Ratchet has the Floyd Mayweather science of not letting you near him down. The master of defense, a fair match to your loose fists. You begin to think he’s not even going to answer you- and when he does you realize that despite his blockade, he’s got fists of thunder because he hooks you right in the gut while you're still preparing.
“How can I not, when I failed so plainly,” Ratchet says, voice loaded with choked-up anguish. It's like what you imagine yourself doing to his datapad from the top of the base plateau; Shoved words sent flying into frustrated freefall.
Still recovering from the clear shot to your ribs, you struggle to strategize. There’s no opening. You’re unprepared for any other assault he’ll take. So you clinch, and stomp up to him, planting your hands on his shin to shake what you can in a loose hug.
Your hands smear across his brilliant white plating with energon and oil like the tiny infection you try to be.
“Is that really what you think? That you didn’t do enough?” Your voice is dripping with appalled, more than you’d want.
“I’m not nearly doing enough!” He dislodges from his throat like he can’t help it, still unable to meet your face.
It’s like a car just stood up and announced itself an alien person all over again. You gape at him incredulously. You knew he thought it, but to HEAR him think it is something else. It’s an egregious, offensive overstep. Your engine roars to life, you step back and prepare to throw,
“NOT ENOUGH?! Ratchet!” You half-yell. “I just barely got two hours out of you tonight because you’d exhausted yourself enough to take me up on my offer!” Your fist collides with nothing but his bicep, blocked.
“I took a day's leave from base and when I returned late this evening you were STILL in the same place as when I left! I'm starting to fuckin’ think you despawn!” Ratchet swerves the uppercut, but you keep your assault going in the hopes he’ll just tire out.
“You couldn’t do more if Primus came down and transplanted godhood into you!” Ratchet gives you a look of that’s not culturally or contextually correct, but you ignore him. “What more than every waking second can you do?”
Ratchet stays frigid, walling you off by just remaining silent. If anyone’s tired out by this, it’s you. And now all you can do is step around him in headlock and think.
He’s gonna smoke up the base tearing through whatever dumpster fire he’s got in his processor and this small-ass team can’t afford to lose the big idiot. All you want is for the frustratingly perfect metal heap to realize his masterfully sexy hands are what keep this team FUNCTIONING. Every person on Team Prime stands as a guard for your planet but RATCHET holds it together. THAT is work rivaling what Optimus does! All you’ll EVER wish is that you were big enough to wrap your hands round those stupid ear antennas and make him look up at the family he helps cultivate because-
You must have been too busy shuffling coal into your steamboat of passionate rage because before you can even begin to duck your head out of the way, you finally notice the jab flying towards you.
For one, Ratchet now stands half his height- towering a good seven feet above you despite this. And secondly, his hands are darting for your head.
They wrap around YOUR ears and he steers your eyes directly down his blaring ones. Like the roar of the crowd, his engine rips the silence from the air.
And like looking right down the lighthouse lamp, its sweltering, suffocating intensity of-
Of-
Of affection.
…
Had- Had you said all that aloud again?
“You stubborn fragging nuisance- I thought my incorrect assumption of Darby’s attraction to Optimus was proof that no human would want a Cybertronian! - That you wouldn’t want me!”
He spits furiously out to the side, and you have no time to marvel at the fact that he can spit because Ratchet’s metaphorical fist collides your nose in a much more tangible way than metaphorical as he all but slams his face against yours and kisses you like Unicron is awakening again.
Knockout!
You stagger, stumble, and slump. Ratchet's hands move from their unorthodox hold to cradling the small of your back and the nape of your neck.
In practice, this kiss that you’d dreamed about is as alien as you’d expected. His face is a two-jointed curve of mostly flat metal so he’s more squishing his mouth against your lips than melding them to yours. But he’s warmer than you’d expected, and he deepens an already all-encompassing kiss by taking your lip between his denta before licking at you with his glossa - Which is familiar territory.
Now that you’re here, you realize it’s all familiar territory. It’s all home. And lord knows you’ve been out too long.
The curved divot of his forearm works well for slotting you into them. He doesn’t smell like much but with his tongue now taking up a good portion of your mouth he tastes like fiery chemicals. You’re glad he spat before he bird-fed you energon because though it's an addictive taste, it undoubtedly is not safe for consumption.
The heat rises more by the second, you dance your hands from their useless, shocked hang to different divots and lines of his paneling. Fingers strum his abdominal grating, they move upwards to glide the smooth polish of his upper pecs until you’re elbow into the gap between his collar and shoulder.
You usually stand there. Now you prop yourself up on them so you can drag him down to your height.
He explores you just as much as you do him. The hand cradling your neck circles a servo into your hair, feeling out the texture. The one on your back shifts around, charting the dimples of Venus before he tightens his grip on you and tests the doughy mold of your waist.
Your hands scramble to find purchase in this tangle and you claw to hold at his audial fins, sticking to the base so you don’t just swivel them your way. Perhaps you overestimate how much gentleness you can execute whilst desperately making out with your long-time pine because Ratchet immediately crunches you in his grip and grunts down your mouth. Fearing you’ve just done the equivalent of yanking his dick as hard as you could while kissing him you tear backward in worry.
“Shit!” You pant into his just as wrecked face. “I’m sorry! Did that hurt?”
Ratchet grumbles in laughter again, the testosterone-filled, mature shot of whiskey one. He pecks you on the lips again (Ow! My nose!) and pulls only a little away. You’ve got nowhere to look but at him.
“Audial fins are erogenous zones.” He phrases like a doctor at a clinic, the giant dorky jerk, but his voice drips sultry.
For all your amusement your eyes widen in a realizing victory of your own. The consolation prize of getting your face knocked in must be-
“In short, no. That very much did not hurt.” his voice drops lower- more hushed, more husky. The servos holding your back glide their way lower, and a pinky tests sitting on the crest of your ass.
Getting your pelvis knocked in.
The cheer of the one-woman crowd that is you. The exciting promise that you’ve got yourself signed for another match already and you’re determined to lose this one: The bots DEFINITELY have sex! And if your kissing is so similar, the rest is sure to be too- right?
Hoo. Bring it, Is what you try to project into his mind with your eyes because even if it’s unimaginably different, you wouldn’t care. It’s what you’ve enlisted for and you will fight without worry because the ambulance is going to already be on scene.
You dance a finger along the tip of one of his fins, pushing your softer give of flesh into his chassis.
Just as his gaze lids over into dangerous levels of getting down, you realize your skin is awfully cold.
You drop your gaze to see that you're both smeared in gasoline like war-painted veterans. You’d officially, finally, forgotten about it. And though it’s a mission accomplished that Ratchet’s brilliant white is ALSO smeared in your lovely mess- You are the harbinger of your own infective affection!!- you are ONE HUNDRED PERCENT going to get rashes if you don’t get this oil OFF of you RIGHT NOW.
You rush backward, only to rip your shirt up and over your head. Tummy, chest, and probably legs are washed with a black tint of NOT MEANT TO GO THERE.
Your partner stiffens and shivers for a moment.
“Frag! That was fast.” Ratchet curses like you’ve gone from kissing him for the first time to ripping your clothes off immediately. Which is what happened. And it would be to frag six ways to Sunday if you weren’t covered in toxics.
“No- Ratchet, oil is really not good for my skin!” You huff in laughter. He gives a quiet ‘oh’, then the doctor’s professionalism takes hold.
In endearing, cute attentiveness he skits off to swipe one of two water bottles you have the second his eyes land on it.
“Clean yourself off for now, we’ll have to get you back to base.” He prescribes seriously like his eyes aren’t glued to your boobs. You sigh in disappointment at a cut night, but beggars can’t be choosers, and winners shouldn’t complain, so you do the mature adult (NOT TEEN!) thing and agree.
Besides, it wasn’t like there was no privacy at base.
Notes:
I packed this bad boy with so many 1-2's and recurring metaphors I hope it's actually understandable XC
Chapter 3: Feint
Notes:
HELLO IM SORRY THIS IS STILL MORE FOREPLAY I AM A WHORE FOR THE TENSION BEFORE THE SEX AND YOU CAN REALLY TELL I PROMISE THEY'LL GET TO IT SOON.
(I wanna call this a 2.5 rather than a chapter 3)
Chapter Text
While you hose down, (dribble bottled water over yourself) Ratchet undoes what he explains is ‘mass shifting’. That’s enough to have your heart pounding in overloaded excitement- because you knew there had to be some crazy shit going on to get an ambulance to reach 15 foot, but finding out you can apply this to his normal height?
Ratchet had explained it so sweetly too. That you were ‘ compatible in more ways than personality’ . You should take him to court for attempted murder because if you weren’t blue-screening before, you were after. You sort yourself in a dead stupor, like the most happy catatonic zombie ever made.
Ratchet finally resuscitates you when he turns the second bottle of water on himself. Glistening and dripping translates to hot damn in any sentient species it appears.
When everything is cleaned away there's the problem of ruined clothes to contend with. Ratchet's small grimace of ‘sorry’ as he hands you the rug he has loosened the sand from is all he can offer.
Just as oil isn’t meant to be slathered on skin, and ambulances aren’t meant to be attractive, rugs aren’t made to be worn. It’s just itchy, it’s thick so it barely bends, and it’s narrow. Painfully narrow. Like cover half-titty to half-cooter all shitty-anime-fanservice style narrow. Your poor choice of underwear is loudly peaking and you know it.
Considering the mutual confession you just went through, it could be worse. There's an undercurrent of knowledge that you’ll have to get to that RPM again though, and with the mood paused it's a matter of how?
You try to take the still-very-present tension between you and Ratchet as a means of empowerment. Of God telling you to be the sexiest you you can be. But while you step into Ratchet’s cabin so distinctly aware that the action of lifting your leg hikes up the miniscule protection you have, then sit down and feel your full ass on his leather, you can’t help but mash your internal keyboard.
He’s cold on the bare of your legs, and the thrum of his engine reverberates through you like a drumbeat chanting “Dance! Dance! Dance!”
Nothing is really said between the two of you. Ratchet just straps you in with a seatbelt that you have always hyperfixated on but now flames across your senses and gets his four-wheeler driving. Is it… tighter than usual? The belt over your thighs is so securely hugging them.
You sit stiffly in your seat like one of those tiny, price-inflating figure accessories. Ratchet drives at a safe and slow speed like he’s trying to be the spitting image of a chauffeur.
Only five minutes ago you were tongue deep in his mouth, closing the gap between the two of you like you’d die if you didn't.
“Dance! Dance! Dance!” The beat calls to you like it's fucking Jumanji.
You have to block the beckon with a question, the nervous silence isn’t making for an easy freeway to romantic discovery.
“You reckon everyone’s gone to bed by now?” You ask.
“I’ve no doubt we will find Optimus still at his station.” Ratchet answers as he cruises the U-turn he’s making like you'll disintegrate if he's not careful enough.
You let out a groan,
“Another mech I need to work through the self-destructive tendencies of,” you say, careful to sit rigid lest you accidentally touch his internals and he dies.
“He never stops does he?” You say.
There's a moment of contemplation from Ratchet. Of stiff consideration on what to answer. It's awkward, it's unusual. Had you tore open a bag of new boundaries and had it spill out into a gaping gap between the two of you? Would you never be friends now that you had passed 1st base?
“As you’d say, ‘a tough egg to crack’.” Ratchet finally says, annoyingly breaking your worry with his dry, dry humor. Like he made you panic just because he was trying to remember such a stupid phrase.
“Optimus' dedication to duty is what makes him a Prime, but it makes him set in his ways.” He finishes. Ratchet sounds so deeply fond you can’t help but share his adoration. There’s a mutual sense of found family even between the humans and bots. Your dream proven. Head finally hits the headrest as you ease the tension in yourself. When it does Ratchet too let's up, pressing his accelerate down so slightly.
“Pot called the kettle.” You say snarkily.
“Another obscure, human idiom?” Ratchet jeers back, sounding that brand of faux-annoyed where you can just picture his little smile.
An endearing picture that you realize you can conjure with so much ease. Because this is new -infinitely new- but still just the same. Your romantic interest has grown in light of your friendship, not instead of it. It’s a freeing, and nerve-tempering thought that finally lets you move.
You shift forward, to drum a finger on his dashboard.
“I'm calling you both stubborn.” You explain with coy contempt.
A pause. Then-
It's like the starting gate finally bursts open.
Ratchet responds with one, good, hard squeeze of the seatbelt on you; A reminder that you’re sat flush against him. It pushes into the give of your thighs and stokes a fire simmering since he grunted down your throat. A smirk cracks your face without you thinking.
With the blockades to the race down, you can hear it again: The shift of Ratchet’s acceleration as you find the tarmac through the sandy plains. Just you two and the bass of his drumming engine.
“Dance! Dance! Dance!”
His rhythm encases you, nested in his cabin. Entirely surrounded by your affection in an odd, otherworldly fashion. You can't help but let yourself go. Let yourself stop fretting and start listening. And when you do you recognize the snare of a style you haven't heard in a while: Salsa.
The rug around you suddenly bursts into the shimmering flair of a tassled dress. His seat: the hand you take as you lead. His dash: A stage and the center lights on you. You find yourself without fear, just calm, sexy confidence.
Tap! Tap! Tap! Your fingers strut, like the 1-2-3 pace of preparation. You wait for a reprimand. It doesn’t come and you know Ratchet’s stepping to your stride.
As he is rarely the offensive boxer, you imagine he is rarely the salsa lead.
You swirl your hips and guide him into the rhythm by grinding your way back, flush against the seat.
His grip round your thighs constricts again, longer and harder in response.
You place your palms on the side of the seat and pretend to idly trace the seams there in a flair of the hand. You shift to sit with your legs slightly parted, so that everything is pushed against him in a show of footwork.
And finally, because dance is all about bravado, you give him a showing smirk.
“Can’t you go any faster, Ratchet?” A message to get home now , because he’s kept you waiting too long.
The belt around you shifts higher, loosens and bends inwards so that it's flush with the dip into your inner thigh.
“Why?” Is his strained response. Yet despite his questioning, Ratchet ups the ante. You creep into the lunatic section of the speedometer, gunning it down the desolate descent to the base entrance. The tempo heightens and you lean into it, hand clamping down on his seat as you set about switching place in a spinning, horny and metaphorical enchufa .
The momentum calls for his turn and the grope on your thighs melds against the give there, inching ever higher.
When his belt moves in such an odd way you can really start to appreciate that this was very much a part of his body. It's got an autonomy, a strength, that a seatbelt shouldn't have. Maybe it's blind luck, maybe it's millions of years of experience but that hard edge tickles over where your clit is and almost has you stumbling the dance.
My god, you’re never going to be able to sit in a car again without thinking about this moment. But introspection tossed out the window and left in the dust of Ratchet’s testy speed you reach over to trace the steering wheel. You’re careful to not get in the way of Ratchet’s movement, and mindful that this is probably as odd for him as it is for you. Yet even with the tiny, tiny touch you give, he still stalls for one fast chug.
The swerve round a bend is a loose arc, you hold Ratchet firm as he pivots.
“Do you want me to pull over now ?” Ratchet say’s in tightly strung, warning ambiguity. A threat as much as an offer. You can only hope you aren’t going to leave a damn puddle on his seat at this rate.
Will you fuck me if you do? You want to ask, like you don’t know the answer.
Ratchet called it, of course. Optimus is still standing at his podium, obsessively trying to discern what he may have decoded for the Decepticons when his identity took a paid vacation. You’re half surprised he bothers to check who’s driven in, considering he could recognize Ratchet’s engine a mile away. No doubt because they had known each other longer than your entire bloodline. But he does. And you're MORE surprised when his eyes stay on the two of you.
Oh. Wearing a rug. Yeah.
Optimus’ face never tells you much if you’re not the stubborn nuisance kind of friend, but you are and his lack of ‘greetings old friend’ to Ratchet is the equivalent of a full jump and a ‘Primus below!’.
He nods silently to the both of you - basically a ‘Vector give me strength!’.
Then he looks Ratchet right in the eyes for a slow, steady evaluation.
Ratchet greets him normally. The two were always too comfortable with each other for Ratchet to feel the aura of ‘getting caught’ that you did.
Your face reddens slightly as you think back to the last time you saw Optimus, on your way out of base. That singe of having the parents walk in is a lot more realized this time. But unlike then, you’re a matured person. Someone who’s felt the groove of Ratchet’s love and been on the dance floor before. You’ve got a newfound confidence.
Optimus slides his view down to you, just barely breaching Ratchet’s knee in height. Slightly disheveled, half-dressed, and fully flushed.
“Are you… certain this is safe?” Optimus mother-slaggin’ Prime asks you both.Obviously seeing the gigantic peril a vehicle-load of man can wreak on your tiny frame.
Should you feel this gratified that it’s obvious what’s about to go down? No? Should you reel back in horror that space Pope main character Prime is the one to be on the other end of this spectacle? Yes?
But because you are a little glitch-brained gremlin-
-And because half of the dance was the bravado-
-you give Prime the most doc-kissing, spike-slobbering grin of ‘ I will go down or GO DOWN TRYING’.
Ratchet sends you off for a shower and ‘ frame coverings not made for the floor ’ and you wisely leave him to talk with big boss before you can say anything incriminating.
You’d stared at the mech’s back enough to have it memorized by now. Ratchet’s got a giant pack on it; Spare parts of his alt mode that can’t fit into his sexy mode as he had explained once. Damn the fact that back kibble is unavoidable even to alien, shapeshifting fucking robots. How can you ride an ambulance if you won't be tall enough to get your knees resting on the bed even when he’s a third the size he usually is? He’ll be stacked up to the point that he’ll have to just shift you around. Not to mention that being the trained team caretaker has gotten you quite far in your stamina -The nightmares of out running Airachnid persist!- but not enough to be able to squat-ride the man and wow him into the world of Earth sex at the same time either.
These are the things you mull while you rush to get fresh. A solution better come quickly, because you're turning the shower off in no time.
You find your nicest underwear; A matching set with lots of lace, uncomfortable but so very flattering. Some frame covering made for the floor you could say. You stache that smart-ass comment for when you get back to Ratchet. And then think: for him, all of your clothes are made for the floor.
The fixated image of Ratchet tearing your clothes off into a pile is only interrupted by the idea that this horny fantasy could do you some use. His shape might make splaying the man on his back difficult on his berth - fuck knows how a metal slab is comfortable- but on yours? Pile up your covers and pillows, hollow out the center to sit his back into it and you’ve got a ring for the most heated wrestle this decade.
Chapter 4: Infighting
Chapter Text
Ratchet mass-shifts at the door and still has to duck his head through it. Whatever that says about your unyielding bravery is left presently unsaid as he follows you towards your bed.
Your room is the remodeled barracks of the bunker. What once was a ghostly tunnel of abandoned building, now serves as your lovely (and huge!) living quarters. You've strung up dollar-store fairy lights, got a desk with a PC, and pushed in a decent closet. The best you could do to the hard concrete floor is a few sheepskin rugs and candles for the dusty air. Of course, with the threat of Deceptions wanting to actually murder the Autobots, you couldn't get too comfortable- just in case- but you have grown quite proud of what you've made of this job assignment.
“Here it is. The mess Fowler got me…” You say, steps echoing off the walls of the tin-tube room.
Your bed is a king one, layered in throws and pillows to fight off poor, underground insulation. The patterning isn't pretty, it's all cheap polyester and it's a nightmare to wash. Ignoring the sour feeling of missing your well furnished home, you start at making your pre-planned wrestling ring out of your blankets.
“I've made do. You need anything first?” There's no response from your partner, and there's no response because:
Ratchets face is absolutely gobsmacked. His silent amazement has you do a double take to make sure you haven’t left something atrociously embarrassing out.
He doesn't speak, just pads up to the foot of your bed and pushes a palm into heavenly soft fabric. He skims the top like it’s silk and not something scraped from a bargain bin. Then, his dumb aft sinks the mattress slowly.
You give him the deadpan sigh this time.
He had told you once that fabrics and soft meshes were upper-class luxuries on Cybertron. more so during the war. The fact humans walked around draped in their version of gold had them baffled. Hell . The couch had been a learning experience.
Still feeling out the texture, he gives you the most ‘Bitch, you live like this?’ look.
“It stands to reason that there are perks to being organic…” Ratchet mumbles to himself. You scoff and fold your arms. His gaze returns to you again, quietly eager. They drag over you slowly. Intently.
“More than the obvious, that is.” He adds like caramelizing sugar.
That’s a rush that surges through you and straight over your maximum capacity. You spin and walk to your desk away from him- if only to fix your hair and show him your ass. His presence behind you is a strong one. Like always, his attention is so focusedly gripping you don’t even need to see it to feel the heat it leaves on you. Like the sun on it’s subjects.
“Everyone’s room looks like this - you need to experience Earth more.” You puff with weak snark. The sun god laughs at you from your cheaply made throne and you watch him in the mirror of your dresser. He’s not looking at your face.
As if someone is holding two spotlights on the both of you, it’s obvious that you’re alone. That you’re in your room. That he’s on your bed. And when you start to think like that you feel like two performers who-
“Then stop being a smartaft and come help me ‘experience Earth'.” Ratchet grunts as his hand drums the bed beside him.
-Like two performers who part to run in for the lift.
The beat is your own this time, your own flitting heart. A breath, quietly to yourself. Then the stagehands usher you on. You face him poised like a professional. Chin high, shoulders back. Ratchet squares you head on.
Each step you take towards him is a prowl that sways your hips. He widens his legs, leaving space for you as you strut towards him. Close to him now, the 7 foot stature is nothing to scoff at. Sat on your low bed he’s head level with you, and thrice wide.
You expect to take his arm first, be the lead in this tango, but when you reach him Ratchet places two hands on either side of your hips and pulls you flush. Your chin between two servos, you relinquish your role as he guides your lips to his.
You must have assessed his dancing wrong because this kiss is softer, but not gentle. His assertive hold on you, body and mind, is a firm grasp as Ratchet drapes you across his lap and leans you into a dip. You sit without protest, and arch without prompt when his palm cups round you and smoothes the flat of your back.
Your mind twirls when your tongues meet. A cha cha of flesh and harder, silicone-like tongue that chills the inside of your mouth. The warmth and subtle vibration of his spark pulse as you press up against him keeps your pace.
In the salsa he switches side across your body, gliding his hand round to the front of you. You go for the throat and ground yourself with his audial fins. Ratchet shivers at your touch and tilts you further into it. Dexterous, blocky fingers work your clothes off and huffing muffled moans feel their way from the two of you.
Exploratory hands and tongue pull away as you begin to dwindle for air. His smooth over your chest slowly, and his glossa your neck. You don't taste like much, maybe slightly salty, but you smell like flowers. Organic flowers. Something he knows is abundant on this planet but still makes him think of high-class hab-suites for the elite of Iacon. The moan you give him is a designer-drug to his spark. Catch of thin lacy underwear snags the cracks of his servos like the tinkle of jewels. Your skin gives under his unrelenting metal, softer than any protoform he has ever touched. It's like royalty bundled into one, small being. You are a contradiction on every account. So expensive, but so tacky. So grand, but so brash. So frustrating, so, so endearing .
‘You are a little luxury, aren’t you?’ Ratchet thinks to himself, watching your lashes flutter at him over alluring optics.
He gives your tits an experimental squeeze and pauses to think. You watch his hard-set face and realize he wears the same one while working. Calculating, documenting. You can see the cogs in his mind and you stew in the apprehension that he may be feeling the squishiness of your fleshy form and realizing he doesn't want sex-fueled manslaughter charges on his record.
“Too alien?” the faux-humorous tone doesn’t beat away any actual concern you have.
With startling precision your bra is undone from you and left to fall away. A doctor's dexterity.
“Hardly.” he says and if you forgot this was a lift, you haven’t now because he stands you up to let you step out of the rest of your clothes before laying on his back- into the nest you’d made- and takes you with him. You squeal and land flush against the flat of his chassis.
The hands supporting your lift move to your ass in an intimate swipe. Ratchet’s face nuzzles yours in an infinitely more intimate kiss.
You think you feel the bow of metal in an area you expect there to be a bulge, but it’s too hard to get any useful notes in your anatomy book when the teacher is groping as much of you as he can. Each kiss adds to a building pang of want. It doesn’t take long for you to be practically humping him.
Outside the realm of all your metaphors. Grounded against him and entirely serious. Ratchet stops.
“I have… Not interfaced with a femme in a good while. I won’t spare my own ego, I’m out of my element.” He says to you, baring this part of his spark with such unquestioning confidence it manages to do more for his sex-appeal than any falsified suave could. “Especially one that’s organic.”
“Well-... Will we… work together in that way? Everything so far has felt generally the same to me.” You start hesitantly, and though it’s crazy to be asking this this far in you say “Can we fuck?”
Ratchet chuckles, definitely thinking you the brash jewel. You get pushed further away from him, and two fingers tink against the rounded out metal plate of his groin. Look here , and you do so so easily.
“We can try.” Ratchet’s voice muses in sultry quiet.
A click like something setting into place. A hiss like something pressurizing. A gasp you don't realize comes from your lips.
The sleek gray metal of his crotch splits down the middle and folds outward to expose the muscled, black protoform your caught peeks of between his chassis. It’s like someone cut a perfect square from him. A hand moves you cautionarily even further out of the way (HOLY FUCK) and in the most exciting 5 seconds of metallic movement since Optimus transformed for the first time infront of you, the largest and thickest dick you have ever seen builds itself into the air like a sci-fi tower.
Smoothly paneled and sectioned into three, it finishes signing your death warrant when the ridges between the divides fill out with bands of dotted blue bio-lights. It matches his eyes, that bright cyan. It’s gorgeous.
I mean, he is 7 foot tall. But Jesus Christ. You’re dead. You are going to willingly split yourself in half on that thing and it’s going to be very awkward for Fowler to relay the casualty to superiors.
“Who’s Jesus?” Ratchet puzzles.
You can’t take your eyes off it. Alien space dick. That you are going to actually murder yourself on. Yeah. That’s exactly it, my love. Who IS Jesus?
Ratchet must realize you’re back on your bullshit because he just ignores that and asks,
“Your verdict? Will this work?”
You don't want to use up your stamina straddling him too early, so you sit with one leg up in a glorious stance of really, truly encompassing the feline temptress you thought yourself as all those hours ago. Like you've knelt at the altar of a god. And truly, can you really say you're exaggerating when the civilisations-old metallic sage runs his palms up your thighs and circles a servo teasingly around your unclothed core.
Each touch he gives seems to be a logged one, Ratchet ‘Hmms’ in thought occasionally. Since his dick looked so familiar to you, you'd like to think you look close enough, but any quarrels Ratchet has, he has the power to mask- a steady hand makes for a trained doctor after all.
His metal is as hot as him -in places. Where it's backed by internal protoform like his chest and face, in the divots of your armored love’s chassis. His servos are cool in comparison. They tickle your senses and you find yourself digging at his abdominal grates like you're cleaning gutters.
“Still not too alien?” You ask from your godly podium atop him, this time genuinely joking.
The hand gliding the skin of your thighs runs up to grip your ass and kneads it. His engine revs, your breath shallows.
If you’re asking for a review, you may aswell showcase right? You push your hand under his, line your entrance up to your fingers and pull them apart in a vulgar display of your heat.
“Just enough.” Ratchet says with a clear appreciation of your bravado, eyes intensely wide and now definitely not looking into yours.
Your peripherals catch the sharp twitch of his cock as he takes you in. A bead of pink collects at the tip and your primate brain doesn’t even spare a second to think over if it’s body-safe because it’s just too good to see him just as eager as you. It gets you marveling in lustful awe at the beautiful thing again and clenching around nothing.
Ratchet gives you more of his approval in a firm thumbs up as the flat of his servo presses your clit. Small circles that have you whining.
The stifled nibble you have only let's up when he gently prods at putting two fingers into you. You're drenched, heavy petting so far seeing to that, so his servos slides in no issue. It’s a good confirmation that you are both recognizable to each other because no alien would guess to do that first try and not fuck it up.
His fingers are thick and boxy, not criminally so, but enough to feel like he’s Cool-Aid man’ed your intimate wall. You gasp slightly, balking because this is just his fingers and you might not have been exaggerating about dying tonight.
He beckons you into rocking, light press to your insides painting away the initial feelings like a smooth swash of pleasure. Ratchet keeps his hand so steady, moves so gently the tide just barely breaches dry sand. You bite your lip and watch your tall glass of water watch you in mutual worship. Encouragement falls from your lips until Ratchet’s thumb returns to its spot on your clit. And though it adds to the pool it’s not quite enough. You try to egg on the backwash by grinding down but the message doesn’t really come across. Only a strong patience can stop Miko from sprinting through groundbridges without zipties, but even with that badge earned you can’t withstand this. You goad him,
“You can be a little harder.” Your voice is quite, like advice whispered between dancers on a stage.
“You’re certain?” He answers, and you figure that he’s probably too scared of hurting you.
Both of your hands wrap his wrist and hilt him right against you. With a kind patience you show him how to spin you, how to dip and how to pull back in time. Your earnest moan spurs a shiver in the partner beneath your thighs. You sigh and close your eyes with the relief of someone who’s been given an inch. You tense around his servos with the wound-up rowdiness of someone who’s going to take a mile.
He’s a quick learner, and just to try and get one back for the tsunami of ‘ Fuck-fuck-fuck!’ he so easily crashes out of you, you reach back and stroke him. Having to arch to get to him, your free hand can only roam yourself so you toy with your chest, feeling your nipples pearl under your fingers. Ratchet responds in kind, hand not working you moving to press at divots in his helm.
It’s not like you’ve got a thing for pits, but when Ratchet lifts his arm to touch himself and you see the peak of protoform in the divot of his chassis, slanted in muscled lats like angel wings, you can’t help but think it’s a little hot. A boxy boar that somehow comes across stout for his stature. Smooth, sleek and polished, yet built like a brick shithouse. Smart as he is strong.
You both headily pant at each other, savoring the moment, savoring the respective views.
“Just like that. Stroke my spike- Frag-” He rambles, you let loose whatever dirty appreciation you have too.
His spike is padded in a similar material that his tongue was, if not just a little harder. It has some flexibility; It’s not just a cylinder stuck to him. But it’s undeniably a metal unlike anything you’d find on Earth. A baton of ‘going to bash your pelvis in’ that thrums with circulating energon, heated molten. It’s hot and heavy in your palm. You admire the divine way Ratchet dips the pool of both inorganic and person all at once because it twitches with excitement every time you clench in your own awe like the world's most worked-up feedback loop-
You must have dizzied yourself dancing in thoughts of his dick because you’re sat on the peak of the chorus without really knowing you had gotten this far in so fast. Rougher now you tangle together with fervor each trying to one-up each other as you dance around the stage like you’re trying to get the other to trip first.
Just as your footing threatens to unravel alongside the coil in your belly, Ratchet withdraws his fingers from you and makes you almost growl at him like a feral bitch.
“Eep! Eep! Eep!” He chastises, obviously not seeing that you are torn between fucking the shit out of him and fucking his shit up right now.
“If you’re going to overload, it’s going to be on my spike .” Ratchet commands with such certainty it turns his stupidity into stupidly sexy faster than you can line up his head to your entrance.
Just sitting the tip into you is hard enough, getting a couple inches in is like achieving fucking world peace. Back on both knees, you brace yourself against his chest and sink into gasping fullness inch by inch. You breathe deeply, move slowly and wince subtly.
“That's it, Sweetspark. That's it,” your impaler coos, stroking you tenderly, “Go slow. Don't hurt yourself.”
Ratchet’s words do a lot for making the process better. It's like a jolt of happiness runs its way down from your head to your join. A wash of encouragement that has you whimpering lightly as you keep going.
Something you'd take to the grave: You had bought a bigger toy a while ago. Once your delusion that it wasn't because you could imagine it was Ratchet had fully set in, and despite the shameful treacherous feeling that it had given you. A gunmetal grey one that’d give even Bad Dragon vets a pause, and that you had thought was ridiculously brave. But you really shouldn't have felt so bad because even that wasn't big enough to properly train you for this and the real thing makes you feel very under-practiced as you choke around his cock.
The end of you comes a lot further from the end of him than you'd like. But as you look into Ratchet's optics, that bore into your own as if you are the spectacle in this coupling, you find the courage to push a little further. It hurts. It's a flaming sting. But it's not unbearable.
Ass miraculously hits thigh as you hilt him fully and your hard effort rewards you with a gritted and drawn out ‘There you go…’ from Ratchet. His moan is so dirty, so good you find yourself jerking in suffocating horny but it's just so full you both immediately gasp at the miniscule movement.
Just that frazzled your nerve ending in mind-blasting hedonism. This was going to be good.
You plant yourself back on two palms and start grinding him into you. A consistent rocking of your hips that drags him across the upper side of your walls and right over that eye-crossing spot even with little movement. Ratchet makes himself busy with your front again, darker eyebrows dipping out from under his helm as he grits his teeth.
You rock him into you like you’re trying to saw yourself in half, hands trailing smeared prints across the white of his thigh. Ratchet scoops his feet up, not moving but planting himself steady. Two knee plates encapsulate your back, pointed tips threatening to jab if you give too far back like a warning that you’ve got this far- there’s no getting off. But just as you took a group of misfit children as your own, just as you embraced an alien species, and just as you welcome the potential to be hurt because there’d be so much (Long, thick and grey kind of much) that you’d be missing out on if you don't, you welcome the stamina challenge; You hold the tips of his knee cap like horns. The action cracks a smirk and a laugh by your bull, looking up at you over the mass of his broad chest like you’ve given him your own quest.
Ratchet takes the dare of bucking up to you, but you're not quite ready and the sensation of his dick slamming your cervix like a swat team makes you yelp and hold him down. It's radiating pain that spreads and you find the only way to numb it out is to replace it with pleasure again. You sway a little slower at first as fretting hands find you. Ratchet's concerned face only settles when you smile at him.
You definitely need more time before you can don the punchcard cosplay lest he leave no paper behind. As if you weren’t a donut already- you might just be able to see him shift you with each movement. A hand presses the soft of your underbelly and sure enough Ratchet presses back. Gone is the hiccup of pain. You push that spot further into the tip already bashing it in a way that empties your lungs and throws your head back. Surreal realization that the battering ram is feelable on both sides spreads pleasure through you because it must be a miracle he hasn’t killed you with that thing and if he stops doing that you will kill him. So stop trying to do anything else!
“Right! Right! I get it.” Ratchet snarls, smiling at your bite despite the frustrated tone. “I am sorry.” He groans, hands up in surrender. Then your body steals his attention too. He replaces your hand on your pouch before melting into utter horny surprise as he also realizes he can fucking clap through you.
“Primus! You're so soft!” He moans, throwing his head back mid sentence, “And tight- I -You're gorgeous!” Ratchet shouts like he doesn’t know which sentence to say first.
You were kissing the edge of heaven before you even mounted the man, it doesn't take much to bring you back there. You keep your movement going, he keeps flitting his hand over your clit, you keep climbing. A vine of intertwined romance that encircles the both of you grows from where your bodies meet. It burrows deep into your gut, filling out your room with shared moans like it's sprouting your own metallic Garden of Eden. It coils your thighs like thorns as they begin to tire, but the pent up pressure of tensing them winds the bud in your core ever smaller as it threatens to bloom and send you over. It snakes your spine, sitting into the base of your neck like the gentle embrace of a metal giant. Each draw back rakes through your system like a plow, trailing deep lines through your mind over and over again- God- just like that . If he keeps doing that you just might-
“Ratchet!” You wail.
Beautiful petals of oblivion burst open inside you and course a tremor through your bones. You raw your voice out as you cum, muscles tensing as much as releasing. Ratchet shouts lewdly too, unable to stop the few fucks into you he does that turns your wail into a cry. Tears prick your eyes at the sensation, but unlike last time it’s not a negative thing. You clench around his size like grass fluttering in the wind. Ratchet's hands crash the sheets and shred it like paper.
Whilst you're in the throws of your orgasm, Ratchet's trying not to thrash more at the feeling of you. He's had experience. He's had femmes before. But he's never had anything like this. It must be an organic perk the amount you can constrict around him, even as impossibly tight you are to begin with. Smothered in silk, and then wrung by it, Ratchet shudders at the sight of you finishing. Then realizes almost too late that whilst you careen eight light-years away, you've got his wrist in your grasp. Primus, he must have been pent up if he’s ready to blow so fast.
Ratchet has to tear out of you (again) just to not empty half his reserves into you right then and there. He lifts you off to the side like you weigh nothing, and it’d make you finish again just by concept if you weren’t still twitching through the last one. The sensation of being impossibly full to painfully empty is like another ram on the wall of your mind but Ratchet is quick to be merciful, replacing his dick with his hands again to finish the last drops of your climax.
When you still, you collapse forward. Ratchet catches you, scooping hair through his servos whilst you come back to the world of the living. If you're drooling, you can't tell.
“Why'd you-” you pant, “-pull out?” Honestly, refamiliarising yourself with your body isn't as quick as you'd thought, and you just barely make out Ratchet explaining something about ‘shorting’ but his voice is so laden with static and strain it's hard even if you weren’t trying to recover from cumming your brains out.
“Shorting is a bit alarming for your first time… I've got to watch my reserves…Are you okay to continue?” is what you gather Ratchet asking as he tilts your head towards him to kiss you. You nod your head stupidly, just managing to dump what's left of your smarts back into your head.
“Yeah- Yes.”
“Maybe you’re the one shorting,” Ratchet laughs, looking proud as much as loving.
His laugh is that of a free man and it shoves away any of his words from your mind. No work, no stress, just your bodies and your love. You give him a lopsided smile, the one full of teeth and gums, and kiss him again.
“Yes?” You say, not really understanding. Ratchet rolls his eyes,
“Come here.”
Ratchet beckons you off of him, sits up to tragically scoop away your blanket castle, then goads you to lay down on your stomach.
Two sculpted legs pin you down from behind. Two hands cage your head.
You feel the warmth of standing so close beneath the sun god and the 7-foot-looming presence of a very horny boar who's ready to charge tingle over your senses. Then Ratchet splits you open again.
Cool aid man got bullied, got a gym membership, and took tren because sweet, metallic LORD does this angle feel like he's kissing your guts. You claw-fist the sheets beneath you and let out a wanton moan. Ratchet doesn't edge himself in this time, just deems you can take it and drives home at a steady but cautious pace.
His thrusts are not a piledrive, but they don't lack power. Each swing forward a stamp- either of claim or of hoof, you can't tell because the way he fucks you silly makes your mind melt away with all your little symbols. You arch into a feline curve and the change of angle has you clawing, scratching and biting the bed beneath you.
Ratchet grunts with gruff baritone like he'd growl if he could. As you shift higher you draw your ass more towards him. He scoops you up onto your knees, hugging you close as he ruts into you.
“Look at that-” Ratchet marvels, single palm leaving your hip to smooth over the muscles in your back. Like shifting velvet . “The way you stretch .” You only get louder at his words, delving further into feral haziness. He continues, “You're taking my spike so well- So well.” Soft plush of ass hits the firm of his thigh. You welcome him with ease, multitasking as you milk him with your inner muscles. You had struggled so badly sitting him into you, now you meet his thrusts in the middle with vigor. “All it took was perseverance- a little work. Look at how eager you are now. You’re- hn- perfect. ”
In some distant world, beneath the fog of your mind, you feel like there's something to that. That maybe your capability to make batons disappear (eventually) has somehow gratified the frustrated workaholic. But that world is distant , because Ratchet grits out a-
“I am close, Sweetspark. Keep doing that and I'm going to overload.”
You've never had such a surge of ambition, and you'd scrapped with Deceptions trying to hurt your kids.
In two slams that obliterate your senses and knock you further face down into the mattress, Ratchet hangs his head and melts into you.
“F-FUCK!” You shout, despite getting dick-winded.
“Y/N!” Ratchet also yells.
Stuffed is like calling ash ‘lightly toasted’ because his transfluid seeps from you and over the bed beneath freely like he just dumped half a carton over you. Bright pink, mostly glowing (Woah), and semi-translucent. It's viscous and hot, a kind of hot that, like most of tonight, toes the line of too much like finely crafted divinity. It's a feeling that swells the pit of your stomach in comfortable knowledge that there's something of him in you .
Rapture is no easy thing to simply move on from, you sit in stasis posed like the raunchiest renaissance painting ever meticulously crafted. Arched back, open bare. He’s hunched draped over you like the tarp to a statue.
Finally you start to ease, settling back down onto the bed in a sticky and drenched mess. Ratchet collapses besides you, sitting upright but still keeping a hand stroking you like you’ll bolt the second he stops contact.
You both heave in collective satisfaction, sitting in stunned awe that you both just got through that, after all the uncertainty and all the pining.
Notes:
I've no idea if this is good since I'm not so used to writing let alone writing good ol smut so please be gentle. These two somehow aren't done, even I don't know how.
Anyways, thank you for reading! Comments are always ecstatically welcomed!
Chapter Text
You stretch spent legs out over a frankly fucked matress cover, digging your face into the fabric. The heated throb of your quads tries to wind itself down, and like a cat in the sun you sigh happily. The pleasant buzz of your whole lower half barely makes you register the cool of sticky transfluid that smears your ass.
That was amazing. That was stellar . You cannot wait to do it again. Right, Ra-
…
As you look over to your lover from under a lazy arm you cannot help the draw to still twinkling bio lights.
“Oh my fuck,-
-he’s still hard.” you balk as you sit up in shock.
Ratchet blows out his amusement and then takes gentle hold of your shoulder, trying to sit you back again. In all fairness, moving your legs is not easy, not after the ride you just took, but you’re too engrossed in ogling his sparkly blue cock to be stopped by your own fatigue. He doesn’t have a refractory period? Of course he doesn’t, what kind of porn would this be if he did-
“No, no. Don’t overexert yourself, I am more than-” Ratchet tries to placate, easy to give when you push him flat and dive between two large thighs. The words die in his vox, eyes wide as they drink in your eager face.
You sit between two white walls of sexy, paneled and decorated in red runways to his hatch. Sitting square in your vision, in most of your vision, that gorgeous dick glistens with your and Ratchets handiwork. No true introduction to Earth can be done without one good blowjob. And though some may find this an off putting idea, tasting yourself off of him- You’d call it cleaning up after yourself.
Yeeaah , there’s something there- you’re sure it's not just frazzled nerves. There’s a hum, something faint that buzzes your senses as you wrap smaller fingers around his thick base. Hot cyan eyes eat the sight of you sporadically, tasting the look of your plush lips as you part to taste him. You lick at his head, playing your tongue around the divot in the center and barely noting the tang of yourself over his grunts. The sizzle of static is definitely there but not a bother, you decide, as you waste little time to try to get him into your mouth.
You’re not totally reckless, but you are the kind to cut straight to jamming him down your throat as soon as you know he’s ready. You’re also the kind to learn every lesson the hard way, because several things happen when you try to eat him whole:
Firstly, that static is more a current that zips to meet your lips the second you get a quarter of an inch down his tip. A small strand of white crackle that links instantly to your mouth and turns you into the earth wire. Oh, fuck. You squeal, but it’s not enough of a shock to have you seize - not that your teeth’d do much against metal.
Secondly,
“Oh, frag!” Ratchet jolts with a groan. His head flies back and hits the metal wall of your bunker like a gong and- bless him you know it’s not on purpose- his hips jerk up and knock tears into your eyes as you hack.
You cough, cough again, and wipe at your eyes, only able to hear Ratchet’s “Are you okay?!” over the walls reverberating because he’s panickedly yelling it at your face. Sniffling lightly, you nod at him, still clearing your throat as you do.
“I- ehem- yeah.” You reassure, collapsing your head onto one of his thighs. “Don’t worry.” Your voice evens out again finally, “ What- What was that?” Ratchet eyes his dick like it’s a live snake before stiffly watching you again.
“Mech’s have a tendency to share charge after an overload but it’s never done- that!” His hands cups your cheek, eyeing you for injury but you take fretting servos in hand to calm them.
“....So you always taze your partners after you cu-”
“No!” He interrupts, not bearing to hear you speak it so brashly, “It’s just a thrum! A light vibration!” Ratchet’s shocked face looks flustered if you’ve ever seen one, “That was- Unicron transforming in his grave!” You can only be convinced he means this negatively for all of half a second because his cock- that’s still standing securely down your sights- twitches at the memory.
“Usually it’s offset by the other mech’s…Must be a… human… factor…” Ratchet finishes his dead-end thought with a tapered inhale as your fingers wrap him again. You can’t help it, when it begs for your attention you take him back into hand immediately. The fizzle of static returns, humming like a muted frequency through your fingers.
So this feeling isn’t normal. But it’s not bad. At least not to Ratchet . You hadn’t really stayed on long enough to tell how strong of a current that was-
Ratchet watches you hold him, letting you dictate where this goes. He lets out a shaky breath while you tug him.
Could you do this? Electro-play was not your usual warfare.
Blue eyes glaze over lightly. A bead of fluid twitches out of a weeping dick like it’s begging you.
…
Trial by fire , you suppose.
You shut your eyes in concentration as you put your mouth back around him, braced for the initial impact. And it comes just as expected, zapping electric just as it had the first time, and jolting you both just the same. But this time you're securely riding the wave, prepared. Your head follows the jerk of Ratchet’s hips before he can try to knock the eyes from your skull.
The shock blows through you like a sheet whipped straight, upturning all of your senses and contracting your heart into a thundering drum. It’s instinctual, this slight fear. But the sheet snaps back down as fast as it rose into a graceful fall and the clench of alarm works itself down to your pussy.
What was a prickling grab lessons into a thrum, like his dick is vibrating but not actually moving and that is concretely a good feeling. Because it’s a fry directly to your nerve endings and not a surface-to-surface that happens to hit nerve endings. Like wiring the sensation right into you instead of transmitting it through third parties.
Your moan is shaky as you suck at his tip, working what you can with your hands. His is just slutty.
“You’re certain?” manages to come through the garble of letters that Ratchet drools and you answer with a daring dip down his length.
Two strong hands brace your shoulders. The melodic jitter of electricity hits a part of your throat you're sure is never meant to really feel anything. It’s a miracle you don’t gag. At least- after the first two times.
There’s no way in hell you’d ever get all of him into your maw, but you make a bloody good effort and hand at the rest to which Ratchet watches briefly before darting his gaze away with a hiss like he could cum from the sight of you so-
-Well, fuck, you’re kinda into this-
Ratchet was never one to appreciate your general lack of self preservation- especially when expending yourself for those you care about- but, damn, are you sure he is now, because you get impressively close to his hatch. And - he can thank that your general irresponsibility to your own health extends to how you brush the FUCK out of your teeth- Because you swallow around him (House secret!) and he just about thrashes.
“Thats it- Frag! That’s it!” He mumbles, crunching towards you as if to stop himself from fucking your throat. Up, and back down. Hollow your cheeks. Make sure your teeth aren’t near- Soon the thought dissolves and the action becomes just movement. Hazed in foggy horniness, it’s natural to make him feel like this- to taste the sort-of-brine of warm metal and become the alternating current of a shared moment that’d blow the ticker off of any ammeter. Just as you’d pictured. Just as you’d needed.
“Mmph!” You groan, feeling your mess worsen between your thighs.
You’ve got to breathe at some point. Your jaw is agonizingly sore by now. You can't be more eager to get beneath him, and have him ram full throttle into you. Which, your smart prince, he takes the lead and does just that.
The electricity, the size, the smothering kiss (MY FUCKING NOSE, RATCHET). Straight. Fucking. Heaven. You wrap yourself tightly around him and hold on for dear life while he plugs you in.
Your bed creaks precariously somewhere in the distance as he jacks into you.
Vibration was probably the best term for it, because it feels like so many different things. A heart beat. A buzz. A pull. A magnet if it wrapped your whole being and pulled from an area instead of a point. Surreal and extraterrestrial but just like the fantasies a toy evokes except realised because this man was fucking born with a vibration function.
Little bits of what you can only guess is steam escape Ratchet’s mouth like he's salivating at you. In a moment of raw animalistic thought, you teeter caving to widening your mouth for him to blow it into yours- but you’re both so preoccupied with clanking together it’s just too slow of an action to have happen at that moment.
You work a hand on yourself, circling your conductor with fervent fingers. It’s instant feedback . The sensation bursts through you with the force to knock doors down but the softness of running through halls that have already been barged through- it’s your second one after all. Ratchet shifts to kneeling, lifting your comparatively small frame up by your hips like you have become the toy in this comparison. The angle changes, presses further towards the upper side of your walls and quakes against the gold spot. Now not restricted to the bounce of your mattress Ratchet can really fuck into you. And perhaps in that freedom he starts to forget himself because your back goes unsupported. Left to hang, the blood rushes to your head as you get thrown around as your lover sees fit. Now, that’s a hot concept. But you’re sure your face is quickly reddening, and the slap of obscenity muffles at an inching rate of ‘ going to pass out like this ’ so you have to desperately reach to hold yourself up on palms above your head. Arched into a pretty impressive crab pose considering you're also getting ravaged, you constrict tighter around him, molten coil of ecstasy winding and winding and-
“Ratchet!” You find yourself testing the hand of God by trying to sway into him, “Yes! Ah-” trying to desperately rock into any more contact than you have, despite the extreme stretch you’ve already achieved, “Hm! Ah! Don’t stop-” as if you can scrape a few more watts of eye-rolling pleasure, “Keep doing that. Babe, fuck, I’ll-”
He sings your praise in kind. Pinched voice filtered through pants. Your name is in there, chanted again and again and again over exerted groans. Barrelling on in single-minded fervour to chase his own release, he drags you with him.
-
You're both so loud. I’m so sorry, Bulkhead. His room is closest and this is an UNDERGROUND bunker. It’s a fucking echo chamber.
-
Ratchet’s eyes are closed in focus, you glimpse the sight of it over the sway of your own chest.
“Again! I’m going to-” He grunts, unique baritones of his voice breaking off into his heaving engine.
There's barely enough room for his dick let alone all-
This is the hardest, longest and easiest you have ever, ever finished. Like a surge of charged electricity that floods every corridor of your being. It crashes each wall as it winds corners. Encompasses every nerve ending. Flexes every muscle to its max and then leaves you deflating into a sopping, weak mess.
Ratchet collapses over, dropping you back onto the flat of the bed and catches his head against the forearm spanning your chest-to-head and open mouth puffs an ‘Hah!’. Steam- definitely steam- billows against your sweat-sheened face as he juts against the dying throes of his own orgasm.
How long you stay there, with him burying you over capacity- no one knows. The only sign you have is the eventual burn of your abs as you tilt your hips into sitting flush with him, savouring the feeling of being so full.
You let yourself down slowly. Still moaning in satisfaction as the excess of what can’t stay in you ruins your bed further. Ratchet doesn’t move.
The fog dissipates, your mind clears into the ‘Life is good!’ positivity of post-mind-breaking-sex afterglow.
“You okay, Ratchet?” You heave, sweeping hair from your face. No response comes, not at first. Then,
“I am-” He doesn’t even finish the sentence, just lets his expression speak it. “But my reserves.” Ratchet tilts onto one arm, as if clearing the way for something. “My reserves are most certainly-”
You have the reactive speed to shift upwards and take him out of you as he collapses sideways. Onto his side like a petrified statue. Horrifically, heart-stoppingly, out cold.
“RATCHET?!” You balk, trying to scramble yourself out of the covers to get immediate help because What the FUCK what The FUCK
It’s only a second. He’s only out for a second. Then Ratchet fizzes to life in an uncharacteristically mechanical way.
A hand catches your arm, getting your stunned self into gaping at him against the bed instead of half off it.
“What in the bloody HELLS WAS THAT?!” You say, freeing energy by skittering them against his face. To which the annoyingly, self-important dick just smiles. Smiles in the most sated and carefree way you have ever seen on his perpetually scrunched face.
“I haven't outed like that in a whole vorn- Primus- you drained me.”
You make some gargled noise from your frozen-terror expression.
That’s… good? Yeah? That’s a good thing!
You crumple over him, speaking through cheeks squished against his chassis.
“Thanks for the warning.” You grumble, realising this must have been the 'shorting' he had mentioned earlier. You'd ask him about it later.
You retire to his room, almost dying at first of dejected shock to the suggestion that he’d just leave after you're done. Which Ratchet is quick to fix, just putting it simply that, “You can’t leave me empty and expect me to hold up my mass displacement.” Which tickles at your happy pride and turns you around to the idea of sneaking back to his dorm.
He wraps two metallic hands around your waist and hauls you onto his berth with a kiss. Like a kitten, raised from your pits and held to his face. Like a lynx you nip at his lips, biting happily into the meal you have caught for yourself.
The size difference now not halved, you find yourself piled up with your duvet beside Ratchet's head. Two cyan eyes heat your form in a soft affection that really is quite strong for the first night together. But one you reciprocate at 110%. Because he really is gorgeous. And smart. And funny, even when he’s not trying to be.
The next morning is a rough one. A really really rough one.
Your stomach is sore. Your delts ache from having to hold yourself up. Your hips barely stretch far before they remind you of the extremes you took them to. There’s a grogginess in your temple from the alcohol. You- Well, you won't even start on the used feeling your entire groin constantly exudes at your consciousness.
You’re out in the base kitchen near noon, heart warmed to see the bean bag set up on the railing beside Ratchet's workstation. He gives you a silent nod, head buried back into his work, but shallow enough to see you smile back at him.
The team is just returning from whatever excursion they have gone on with the kids as you stir the milk into your instant coffee. They roll into base through the entrance tunnel, looking just as hero-like as usual. They transform, easing into the room.
“Hey!” Miko chirps, skipping the leap from Bulkhead's palm to the floor beside you.
Raf steps from Bee’s passenger, careful as he guides his door closed and giving you a trepid smile.
Jack starts ascending the stairs behind you, making for the fridge.
You greet them all, so sure you look disheveled and tired despite the honestly happy face you give.
“Finally up?” Miko sings as she assaults your headache. “I’ve never seen you sleep in.” She says this with the innocence of a 15 year old, playful but not aware of what panic she sets off in you.
“I stayed up late,” You explain away calmly, adding sugar to your drink, “I found two Decpticreeps prowling the base last night and had to fight them off with hand-to-hand.” You make a shitty chopping motion at her, deathly serious in that playful sarcasm you know she always likes to play on. “Barely survived. They were eighty-foot tall. But I won.”
“Please don’t joke about Decepticons right now.” Jack adds, smoothing a hand through the locks covering his face. That peaks your worry, and you turn to question him. But Arcee cuts you off,
“Yeah, okay. I’ve seen storage.” She raises a strong hand to hip, sitting herself down on one of Ratchet's tables and pointedly nodding at him; Who deliberately does not look away from his typing.
“Hungover?” Asks Bee (Courtesy of Raf’s translation) to which Arcee, bless thine cool-lipped heart , says,
“As usual.”
Now with the kids it’s easy to play it off. There’s some dynamic of being a guardian that mentally blocks all embarrassment under the role of being parental. With the bots? These are adults. Which you now know know about sex. Which you’re acutely aware have relationships pretty similarly to you. Which you KNOW will sniff the apprehension in your voice as you try to steady it-
“Yeahhhhh…. Hungover…..” Bulkhead says with a servo rubbing at his helm, so obviously experiencing the exact same thought line as you, “Good for you.”
Oh, Jesus. The echo-chamber may have been a broadcast center. You feel the room focus on this weird interaction.
“Indeed.” Prime unhelpfully adds, “Good for you.”
You can HEAR that smirk, you tall bastard . You think this is funny ? You’ll kill him.
Everyone else looks confused, and you watch Arcee trying to connect the dots in her beautifully smart mind.
Kill me now.
You clear your throat, turning your attention to Jack and looking him over.
“Did something happen while you were out?” You hand off your coffee to Ratchet, who puts it down next to your beanbag for you to return to later. Leading Jack to the sofa by the TV, the other two children follow to add their own input. That’s your answer.
“Are you guys alright?” You turn serious, caching away the apology you’ll need to give Bulkhead for later.
Jack sighs, edgily waving your concern off before starting his explanation. As you listen -as you scan the three kids and then turn hurriedly to the bots who protected them- you’re faced with Ratchet’s very loving watch. Adoration, shared between carers. Love for protection by those who know the deepness of it.
And you spare a moment to return it, despite the equation adding up in Arcee’s face. Because you cannot be embarrassed about love. A philosophy you’d take a hit for, that you'd fight for.
Notes:
This is my first multi-chapter fic I've finished ever. Crazy that it's wild and unhinged porn but also I am not surprised with myself XD
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SS_Shitstorm on Chapter 1 Sun 23 Jun 2024 02:38PM UTC
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SS_Shitstorm on Chapter 1 Sun 25 Aug 2024 01:46PM UTC
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otakme on Chapter 2 Sun 26 May 2024 09:16AM UTC
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SS_Shitstorm on Chapter 2 Wed 03 Jul 2024 01:11PM UTC
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SS_Shitstorm on Chapter 3 Sat 06 Jul 2024 01:01AM UTC
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Companion_TARDIS_passenger on Chapter 3 Tue 12 Nov 2024 10:47AM UTC
Last Edited Tue 12 Nov 2024 10:48AM UTC
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WorkingOnWeekends on Chapter 4 Sun 23 Jun 2024 11:29PM UTC
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otakme on Chapter 4 Mon 24 Jun 2024 03:10AM UTC
Last Edited Mon 24 Jun 2024 03:10AM UTC
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Angelxc_Vixlet on Chapter 4 Mon 24 Jun 2024 07:49AM UTC
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saturnhas82moons on Chapter 4 Mon 24 Jun 2024 10:50AM UTC
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Basic_BeeOtch on Chapter 4 Tue 25 Jun 2024 08:08PM UTC
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SS_Shitstorm on Chapter 4 Sat 06 Jul 2024 01:10PM UTC
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omniipotentbeiing on Chapter 4 Sat 03 Aug 2024 02:34AM UTC
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acardier on Chapter 4 Tue 06 Aug 2024 01:57AM UTC
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Strawbella_Dreams on Chapter 4 Mon 09 Sep 2024 08:32PM UTC
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Brakerstein on Chapter 4 Fri 18 Oct 2024 03:59AM UTC
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Drexee on Chapter 4 Tue 29 Oct 2024 05:16AM UTC
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