A loud thud echoed through the cluttered room as Ratchet stretched his arms high above his head, then collapsed in his chair. With heavy optics, the medic rested his helm against his tattered chair's headrest. Every joint screamed in his stiff frame, threatening to seize up if asked to do more. These nights tend to put one in their place: they remind one of their advancing age.
Perhaps being Chief Medical Officer for so long was finally beginning to catch up to him.
The day started out like any other. Ratchet confidently strode into the med bay, a cup of hot energon in one hand while the other clutched a clipboard. Ambulon stood at the cleaning station, spraying sanitizer on tools before laying them on a blanket of towels. Without looking up, the night shift doctor blurted out the shift report. Nothing noteworthy was revealed: the night shift had passed without leaving much of a lasting impression.
First Aid strode in, chirping a good morning as he prepared for the day. Ambulon waved a hand, dismissing himself from his shift.
Everything appeared to be running smoothly, which any medical professional knows is a sign of trouble. And trust me, this day did not disappoint in that department.
Ratchet didn't even have the chance to consume his wake-up juice before the first disaster strode in.
With optics clenched tightly shut, Ratchet groaned at the mere memory of his shift. The med bay had become crowded with injured mechs of all types. No fatalities had been reported, but the sheer number of injured was alarming.
With stern questions and a demanding presence, Ratchet grilled the cause out of a timid mech. Apparently, Swerve's bar and Whirl were the culprits.
And it was way too early in the morning to care what exactly happened. The pair of medics just worked through the entire day to tend to the residents of the Lost Light.
This was what the life of a medic was, and Ratchet knew what he signed up for.
Karma, however, had a way of creeping in. With the steady influx of patients that did not ebb until the return of the night shift doctor, previous arrangements had to be changed. Ratchet's limbs weren't the only thing that hung heavy; his spark did as well.
Mind you, the medic did not regret his role in helping fellow mechs, but it sure sucked slag to have to cancel plans in his personal life.
Scheduling conflicts are inevitable for anyone trying to romance a doctor. Any respectable medic courting another bot would explain this unwanted perk, and Ratchet clearly stated this to his suitor. In fact, this topic was brought up shortly after the CMO had the ball-bearings to finally confess his affection towards Drift.
Tonight marked their second month anniversary of their courtship and was supposed to be their fifth date: Drift was keen on keeping tabs on these types of things. The third-in-command giddily explained a series of plans this night was to hold, which consisted of a secluded observation deck, an expensive bottle of engex, and quality time alone with just the galaxy to watch. Although the date sounded promising, the physician canceled last minute, needing to work late instead.
As Ratchet sat in his chair, looking at his nuked food, he wondered what was more troubling: the regretful sound of disappointment in his partner's voice, or his own feeling of isolation. In the end, the CMO did the right thing-he had to. He was needed by his patients and by First Aid- there was no way the other doctor would have survived on his own. Even though he had no regrets about his job, the solitude it caused him was intense.
A digital clock chimed, announcing the midnight hour. He imagined his date was all tucked in bed for the night- oh how Ratchet would love to be snuggled up next to him! But the medic chose not to bother him with a private com. Who would want to be pulled away from the seductive call of recharge? Instead, Ratchet looked to the reheated containers of leftovers for comfort. What better way to bury his feelings than with an overabundance of food?
So Ratchet ate. With each bite of rubbery, nuked energon, the solo mech thought of things that could have been and should have been. With each swallow of tough food, the medic imagined how comfy snuggling Drift would have been. With each cleared plate of lukewarm dinner, Ratchet yearned for the soft touches of his lover.
The CMO shook those thoughts from his processor: they only deepened the biting sting of how alone he was. Ratchet did not need any help with disappointment: the overly chewy, dry leftovers sufficed.
Speaking of which, the medic choked down a sizable portion of the unappealing food without much thought. One's body could perform amazing, extraordinary feats when needed. This included lifting a Constructicon to save a sparkling and apparently consuming a huge quantity of reheated leftovers that tasted like plastic.
Maybe fantasizing about your missed date had its upside.
Reaching for a glass of Energon, the medic felt something resting on his lap. This thing had some weight, but it wasn't a solid mass. Whatever rested upon his thighs was soft and warm.
Stealing a glance down, he discovered the aftermath of his binging. Perched on his thighs was a flabby, bloated belly. It looked like a partially deflated beach ball that was filled with thick gel instead of air. Poking a finger into his sides resulted in losing part of his finger in the soft, squishy mesh. Groping the underside of the round belly and shaking it resulted in waves rippling across its surface. The diagnosis was in- he had indeed engorged himself. He felt heavy, bloated, and large.
Yet he also felt safe and comforted. Suddenly, memories of his sparkling days flooded his processor like a mass data download. From the delicious smells that filled the downstairs habsuit to coming home from school to a freshly baked snack, food was always something that touched him deeply. His creators' home-cooked meals always brought a smile to his face- and a swell in his belly.
For as long as the medic could remember, he always found comfort in food. Apparently, he still did.
A burp escaped his mouth as servos traversed the pudgy midsection. How could he deny how much he consumed with this bloated mess weighing him down? At least there would be no problem sleeping tonight: being overstuffed always caused him to pass out in a food coma. That thought comforted him almost as much as touching his plush belly.
Three bangs rapped against the door, snapping the drowsy medic out of his trance. His hands quickly abandoned his belly and he sat up straight in his chair. Who would be knocking on his door at this late of an hour?
"Ahhh…" Ratchet called out in a tight voice. "W-Who is it?"
"Hey sweet spark, it's me."
That voice made Ratchet's spark flutter and brought a smile to his lips. Drift always managed to surprise him.
"May I come in?"
This time, the surprise was not so desired. The smile vanished from his lips and his optics flicked quickly around the mess upon his table. As happy as the CMO was to see Drift, he didn't wish to be seen with a flabby, protruding belly.
"It… It's late,. I… ah, I thought you'd be in bed by now," Ratchet stammered and attempted to hide the evidence of his binge. In his haste, plates slid off the table and clattered on the floor.
"Scrap!"
"Yeah, I know it is," he replied. "Is everything okay in there?"
"Yes, yes. Everything is fine!"
"I stopped by the med bay to check on you, but First Aid said you finished up your shift not too long ago- "
"Aid is still there?" Ratchet stalled with some time with idle chit-chat while he gathered the dirty dishes.
"He said he was gonna leave shortly," Drift explained. "And that's not all he said, Ratch."
"And just what else did Aid say?"
"That you skipped both your lunch and dinner break," Drift's voice called from behind the closed door. "He asked me to scold you for it."
"I…ahhh" Ratchet furrowed his brow. Screw Aid and his jaw flapping! He'll have to remember to yell at Aid for that tomorrow.
"Don't worry, I'm not here to scold you, but just to warn you, Aid probably will tomorrow," Drift replied with his usual calmness. "I did bring you supper though. Just gotta open up."
The CMO sat in his chair in a daze. Just thinking about spending quality time with his lover warmed his spark! But the thought of looking like a slob terrified him.
Would Drift see him as a glutton?
A disgusting blimp?
Thoughts of ridicule flooded his processor from his earlier years. Yes, he was a chubby mech growing up and the other bot's at school loved to remind him of his extra weight. Their entertainment entailed calling him harsh names and throwing various objects at his chubby midsection.
But his days of overeating were over now (or so he thought). No one teased him for being flabby, and Ratchet didn't want the hurtful words to return- especially from the mech he just started courting. Just why did he have to eat so much?
"Ratch?" Drift called out again. "Please? Open up… I want to see you tonight, even if it's just for a little bit."
A loud rumble cut through the air: his belly grumbled a long, demanding churn at the mere thought of food. Despite stuffing himself silly, he still felt hungry, and his belly clearly demanded more.
And it would be very nice to see Drift tonight.
"Yeah, c-come in." The CMO shifted his chair away from the door and idly scraped his fingers over his chin.
The door of the room swished open, and Drift entered, followed closely by the smell of freshly prepared meals. Taking a deep breath, Ratchet's mouth watered at the prospect of consuming more food. The scent of savory foods prompted another cry from the CMO's stomach and arms were thrown to muffle its demands.
"So, I wasn't sure what you really wanted," Drift began laying out several boxes on the table. "To tell you the truth, Ratch, I somehow knew you wouldn't eat even if Aid didn't spill the beans." The sportsmech began to open the boxes but suddenly froze in his tracks, like a cyber-deer mesmerized by headlights. "Oh… I see you have eaten already…?"
"If you can call this scrap much of a meal," Ratchet chuckled. "I nuked some leftovers."
"Was it good?" Drift crinkled his nose as he stacked the dirty plates in a tower at the end of the table.
"Depends". The medic's fingers idly picked at the back of his hand. "If you like your supper to taste like chewy, burnt rubber surrounded by dry seat cushions."
"Well then, you should be thankful I dropped by," The swordsmech winked. "Sounds like you require some home-cooked cuisine."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Ratchet answered but remained glued to his seat, trying to ignore all the food his partner was decorating the table with. "Thanks, Drift. You didn't have to put yourself through all this trouble."
"Oh hush, making sure you take care of yourself is no trouble at all," Drift replied as he continued pulling lids off the plates. "Plus, a lot of this was already planned."
The medic couldn't help but glance at the food containers. The aroma of the food wafted from each as it was opened to reveal a colorful display, just begging to be smelled. And eaten. The CMO tightened his arms around his stomach, attempting to quell his hunger.
Drift set a pair of fancy glasses on the table, followed by a bottle of Engex. "Want a glass?" A broad smile plastered the TIC's face and his optics gleamed. "I managed to get Swerve to part with this-" Drift cocked his head to the side, brows furrowed close together. "You okay Ratch? What's wrong?"
"Nothing! Nothing…" Ratchet muttered. "It's... late." A noise erupted from his belly with such force the medic swore he felt it quake. The room suddenly grew warmer as Ratchet quickly lowered his gaze and hugged his arms around himself. Curse Drift's home-cooked meal for having such an alluring scent!
"Sweetie..." Drift cooed and edged closer to his partner. "Come on." A servo gently caressed the CMO's back while the other pulled at the medic's stiff arm. "Are you hurt?" This time, when Drift pulled at the arm, it gave way, causing the stuffed belly to spill out onto the medic's lap.
"Oh my," Drift gasped with wide eyes as his engines hitched and nearly stalled.
And that burning in his cheeks? Just intensified tenfold. The medic's brows tightened, and his mouth gasped open and closed a few times. His body tensed and tears welled up in his optics as the CMO wanted nothing more than to hide away somewhere safe.
And alone.
Not only was he outed, but the wide-opticed stare on Drift's face was horrifying. Ratchet could only imagine how slobbish he must appear with a table now full of meals and him sitting in a chair like a fat pig. What is the appeal in that? The medic lowered his helm and bit his lip, regretting allowing Drift to come in: regretting allowing himself to stress eat just to get comfort.
And Ratchet knew what would come next. While sitting in the chair pouting, he waited for silly reasons for his lover to excuse himself. He had heard them all before, and the idea of hearing one from Drift made his spark ache.
But no words ever left his partner's mouth.
Instead, the popping of a cork sounded, followed by the refreshing glug of the Engex being poured into a glass.
With steeled courage, Ratchet slowly opened his optics to see a poured glass of Engex and a set of utensils set before him.
"Bon Appetit!" Drift smiled and patted the medic's shoulder before walking behind the mech.
This was it. This was when Drift would take his chance to give Ratchet the slip. A huff escaped the medic's lips as his gaze lowered to his stuffed belly as if silently blaming it for chasing his lover away. At least there was a consolation prize: he could pig out on all this delicious-looking food without judgment. The mere thought of eating caused lips to be licked and a tummy to rumble.
The medic nearly jumped out of his plating when a pair of arms wrapped around his waist and servos rubbed against his belly. The warmth of another body pressed against his back caused both fear and excitement. Just what was happening?
"Hush," Drift cooed. "I know, I know. Poor baby." Servos glided along the tummy's swell before gently kneading. "Does he not take proper care of you?" The swordsmech gently patted the belly's crest before continuing the babble.
Was Drift really baby-talking to his belly? Peering down, Ratchet watched as hands roamed all over the surface of his belly. The sensation was soft and soothing and when fingers gently pinched at the flab, Ratchet's optics shot open. A heat-like fire shot up his struts and Ratchet stifled a gasp: he never expected a pinch to elicit this feeling!
"Eat up, big boy," Drift whispered huskily into his lover's audial. "Or am I going to have to spoon-feed you?"
The medic's cooling fans immediately sputtered upon hearing that proposal: keeping them turned off was quite a feat. The mere thought of being fed by his lover sounded very erotic! Having Drift's warm breath ghosting over his neck cables just asking him to blow a fuse. Having hands groping at his belly as if it were a stress-release toy didn't help the situation either.
To distract himself, Ratchet picked up a fork and obeyed the TIC's orders. As hungry as he was, feeling the belly message just made him want to forget the feast and lean back to enjoy the ride. But if Ratchet wanted to control himself and not desperately throw himself on Drift, he better concentrate on the food.
Only one question remained: what to try first? Scanning all the food littering his table, Ratchet searched for what looked to be the most delicious. Drift was an artist at making the meals: the colors were bright and almost looked too good to consume. His belly blurted out its impatience and the medic rolled his optics: he did say almost after all.
"How neglected you are," Drift frowned as he pressed firm, small circles on the groaning belly. "Nearly starves you to death, doesn't he?"
"I eat just fine. I can assure you that! " Ratchet spat, feeling betrayed when his tummy quaked and churned.
"We beg to differ," Drift huffed, grabbed a handful of the malleable flab, and jiggled the belly as if it was made of jello. "Just look at the rubbish you were feeding this paunch. I'd certainly be unhappy too."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Ratchet mumbled and picked up his first dish, miniature bowtie noodles drenched in thick, white sauce. Colorful flakes of red, green, and yellow peppered the top of the dish while warm steam wafted its delicious scent upwards.
"Good choice," Drift responded. "The noodles are made from a hydrogen base, not glycerol. Much healthier choice. This sauce is a homemade, creamy concoction of calcium and talc, garnished with barite and feldspar." His servo's gently patted at the CMO's belly. "It is a bit on the thick side, but I'm sure this bad boy will appreciate it. Hopefully, your mouth will too."
Once a forkful of the noodles was captured and placed in his mouth, Ratchet agreed: this dish was rich with flavor. The noodles were so fresh they melted in his mouth. The sauce flooded his taste receptors with the strong flavor of the calcium and the sweet taste of the feldspar.
Once swallowed, his belly rumbled out a satisfied groan, confirming the swordsmech's words. The only complaint that could be made was how quickly the dish disappeared.
"Much better," Drift purred as he pinched at the belly, babbling encouraging words as his lover polished off the dish.
"Yummy?"
"Amazing," Ratchet said as he set the empty plate back on the table. "When did you learn to cook this good?"
"Here and there," Drift grinned, stood tall, and pushed out his chest. "I'm glad you like it. I tried to pick recipes that you would love. Which do you wish to try next?"
"I dunno," Ratchet confessed as he searched for his next option. An assortment of colorful foods proved this to be a challenge. "They all look so tempting."
"Oh, I wasn't asking you, sweet spark," Drift snickered, drumming his fingertips gently on the belly, which gurgled its answer. "Ohhhh… yes. That is a smart choice."
"Don't tell me, you speak belly?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do." The swordsmech abandoned playing with the medic's belly in favor of selecting the next dish. "This is what he wants."
"What is it?" Ratchet shifted himself in his seat and narrowed his optics.
"Does it matter?" Drift smirked, peering over his shoulder. "I'm sure it looks... hmm... good enough to eat?" The medic peered into the dish and saw two rolls that were cooked to a golden, light-brown crisp.
Whatever the platter was, it was guaranteed to be greasy, unhealthy, and delicious!
The medic's belly jiggled as a chuckle exploded from his mouth. "It certainly does." Ratchet selected one of the rolls and eagerly took a bite. His lover was right. The outer shell had a pleasant crunch, while the inside had a smoother, softer texture. Taste sensors lit up with a salty flavor before giving way to a much sweeter one. "Hmm...It's good. What is it?"
"Fried petroleum rolls," Drift smiled as he watched the medic enjoy the dish. "While I don't care much for the unhealthiness of deep-fried foods, this one piqued my interest. The outer layer is constructed from chloride-flavored coquina."
"That explains the crispiness," Ratchet mused before popping the rest of the bite in his mouth.
"Yes. But I used a lighter blend of oil to fry them in, so they are a smidge healthier, yet still tasty." Drift walked across the room. "The center is a petroleum-based whipped gel, flavored with agate." A pillow was grabbed from the berth, carried over, then dropped on the ground at the medic's pedes. "Admittedly, I slightly altered the original recipe according to your likes."
"How so?"
"Well, I added more sweetener to it," Drift half-smiled. "Move your chair out. And spread your legs."
"Kaff Kaf. Koff. Kack." Rachet sputtered and stared at Drift slack-jawed and wide-opticed. "What?" The medic's cheeks warmed up as well as his entire face.
And so did Drift's- his lower lip was nibbled until he was able to regain his composure. A cheeky smile appeared on his face as a finger was playfully wagged. "Don't be such a pervy old man, old man." An optic winked. "I'm not after that."
Ratchet never even had a chance to be embarrassed by his presumptuous thoughts before a pair of servos press against his thighs to force them open. The swordsmech used his pede to guide the pillow into position, then knelt down. The medic's legs were used as armrests and to Ratchet's embarrassment, Drift's face was, well, face to face with his belly. Without words, the medic just arched a brow at his kneeling lover.
"I just want the best seat in the house." Drift sheepishly grinned with pink cheeks. "Don't mind me. Enjoy your meal."
