The Long Road Home
A long awaited update
Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers; I'm just prostituting it for my amusement.
Summary: For all Cliffjumper's doubts of Mirage's loyalties, he would never guess the truth. Mirage was once a Decepticon. Jazz was an assassin for the Prime, and Prowl was just an Enforcer.
Warning: war, M/M robots
Pairings: Twins/ Ratchet, Jazz/Prowl, Optimus/Ironhide
Klik: One minute, 1.2 kliks
Breem: 8.3 minutes, 9-ish kliks
Joor: One Hour, not giving it a specific length, suffice it to say that Cybertron does not share the same orbit or rotation as Earth, an hour, a day would be different lengths from ours
Mega-cycle: One Day, 93 hours/ joors
Orn: One Week, 13 mega-cycles
Quartex: One Month, 4 orns
Stellar Cycle: One Year, 7.5 quartexes
Vorn: Length of Sparklinghood and Younglinghood: 83 stellar cycles.
No one was coming. The southern half of Tarn was nothing but twisted metal and guttered corpses. Shattered buildings had fallen in on each other making the roadways impassible. Only the most intrepid of survivors were venturing south and they weren't headed for the Gate. Jazz had been grim-faced when he had reported that the few living mechs and femmes he had seen were not clamouring to escape the beleaguered city, neither were they trying to rescue trapped neighbours. No. They were looting; they were looting the greyed.
In his processor, Ratchet had come to expect this. Not the looting, no that was hideously shocking, but the knowledge that no survivors would be coming to the Autobot camp. It had been erected within joors of the first missile strike on Tarn. The small Autobot force had arrived in time to see Tarn launch a retaliatory strike at Vos. In the day that had passed since their arrival missiles had continued to fire every few joors and not a single survivor had managed to climb over the wreckage that had once been the Southern Gate.
When no survivors had climbed the mass of ruined metal within a day of their arrival, Prowl had sent Jazz over the wall to investigate. Now, joors later, Jazz had only just reported back. The bulk of the missile strikes had hit the southern half of the city-state. While the north was in a state of ruin as well, the south was in much worse. What citizens had survived had gone north through the more navigable wreckage, right into Megatron's waiting arms.
It smelled like a plot. Lord Shockwave and the Wing Lords of Vos had both banned the Prime's Army, the Autobots, from entering their domains. The senator had not lifted the ban after the missiles had struck but given the calamity that faced the civilians, Optimus Prime had overruled Shockwave and had dispatched a sizable force to assist in search and rescue. The senator had made it clear that the Prime was not welcome, that his people were not welcome. And yet Megatron was?
No one had expected that. Perhaps no one should have, Shockwave was a senator; he was supposed to work with the Prime. Ratchet should have known better, no Ratchet had known better. He had known for a vorn what sort of mech Shockwave was.
To be fair, Optimus had had his own inklings. The new Prime had from the start voiced a strong disapproval of Tarn's practice of debt slavery. But he had been powerless to interfere in Tarn's governance without the approval of the entire senate. No senator voted in favour of intervention, but of course, they hadn't wanted to set a precedence.
But Ratchet had a far deeper understanding of the vileness of Shockwave's spark. Upon arriving in Iacon, upon receiving the promotion to Prime's Own Medic, Ratchet had done everything he could to ascertain the price of Sideswipe's and Sunstreaker's contracts. Their handler at the arena itself had refused to divulge the identity of the mech who had owned their debts, not even to one in the Prime's employ. They had been false debts and after some digging Ratchet had found the original contract buried in the records department of the city-state. The arena had paid for their adult upgrades. Their first tastes of combat had been only a few mega-cycles after they had become adults. There could have been no way the enormous debts they had been charged with paying through gladiatorial service could be their own. Younglings could not legal incur debts.
Worse still, these were debts no mech or mechs could ever hope to pay off. These special, beautiful split-sparks were meant to die in the area.
It had taken a stellar-cycle of snooping, but Ratchet had found that the Lord of Tarns, Senator Shockwave, was the owner the debts. The senator had quickly connected the medic enquiring about the gladiator twins to the Prime's medic. Shockwave had also proven himself to be a sadist. No. He would never sell the debts. But he would, personally send Ratchet updates on the Twins via a private comm-line, recordings of their most brutal fights, their more grievous, ill repaired injuries. When Ratchet had threatened to blackmail Shockwave, the senator had called his bluff. Would Ratchet dare risk the Prime learning that his personal physician was inclined towards one night affairs with gladiators? What would that say for Ratchet's respectability?
The medic could not possibly dare to risk his new position with the Prime, could he? The Prime had forgiven his past sins at his original hospital post but would really be willing to forgive such shameful behaviour as bedding debt slaves? There would be some many questions, issues of consent and the like. No, Ratchet would not breath a word of the false debts and false imprisonment, not if he valued his position. Shockwave had been a very perceptive politician. He had seen Ratchet for exactly what he had been, what he was, a coward.
Had he been half as brave as Ironhide, Ratchet would gone straight to the Prime and told him everything. It wouldn't have mattered to Ironhide that he had only served the Prime a stellar-cycle. Ironhide would never have let fear for his position stop him from speaking up. Pit, Ironhide had spoken up so often during his service to Sentinel Prime that he received punishment, often humiliating punishment, at least every few quartexes. No punishment and no humiliation had ever been enough to silence Ironhide.
Ratchet should have mirrored his sparklinghood friend. He should have had Ironhide's courage and he should have swallowed his pride and, if nothing else, at least spoken to Ironhide! But Ratchet had been afraid of his oldest friend's judgement too and he had tried to free the Twins on his own.
He had been so close too. Ratchet had squirrelled away an obscene amount of credits and he had done meticulous research on the various mercenary groups that operated on Cybertron. The first Ratchet had hired had run off with the credits and had left Ratchet seething for stellar-cycles. An agreement with a second team had been dragging on for the last nine stellar-cycles.
There would be no need to continue the negotiations. Ratchet felt hollow. His spark didn't even hurt. It felt as though the ember of his life had guttered under the twin weights of guilt and grief. He should have been packing up the mobile surgical hospital that he had so meticulously set up just a mega-cycle before because it would not be long before Prowl would be giving the order to disband the camp.
Instead Ratchet sat on one of the empty med-berths and wallowed in grief. Since setting up the mobile hospital, Ratchet had not left the tent. After that first sight of Tarn, Ratchet hadn't been able to cope with seeing the destruction again.
A vorn before, when Ratchet had first visited the city, he had observed that a mech saw the coliseum before he even saw the towering walls that surrounded Tarn. When he had returned this time, Ratchet had been stricken at the realization that the coliseum had been absolutely obliterated.
They couldn't have survived. Ratchet had promised to return and when he finally had, they were greyed beneath the ruins of their prison. The medic had been physically sick at the realization. He still felt sick.
"Hey Ratch," Ironhide said as he entered the medics domain. "How're you doing?"
"Fine," Ratchet replied tersely. "Why?"
"Because yer locked away in this shack?" The guardmech answered with a question in his tone. "I haven't seen you since you finished setting up."
"Why would I want to look at that?" The red and white medic asked with all the anger crushing his spark directed at Ironhide. It wasn't deserved but Ratchet couldn't hold himself back. He lashed out with words and with his field. "All that death. It isn't even a battle. They aren't even soldiers and I can't even try to save a single one of them."
"Ah, Ratch," Ironhide sighed sympathetically, easily brushing off Ratchet's fury. Soothing the near hysterical rage assaulting his field. His was a steady and strong. It stood up to fury and pulsed sympathy and regret. "I wish it were different."
"Yeah," Ratchet grumbled. He didn't have the right to prostrate himself with grief. He didn't have the right to throw himself into his old friend's arms and cry and rage until the pain in his spark numbed. So he didn't. Ratchet considered it a self-imposed punishment for his failure.
"Here," the red gunner said. His arm was stretched out towards Ratchet, a cube in his servo, when Ratchet looked up. "You need it."
"Thanks," the medic replied, taking the cube. "I'm still amazed you came here. First time you've left Optimus' since he took the Matrix."
"He insisted that I keep an optic on you," Ironhide explained. "And Kup's in town and I trust him keep the Prime in line."
"Why the frag does Optimus think I need a sparkling sitter?" Ratchet asked. His voice was low, rough with static. The anger he was trying to surpress bubbled close to the surface.
"Because you looked like someone tore your spark out and ate it in front of you when you heard about this," Ironhide replied, making a sweeping gesture out towards the door. "What you thought we didn't notice? You thought I wouldn't notice?"
"This never should have happened," the red and white medic hissed. "A few thousand years ago and Tarns and Vos would have been talking with the Prime mediating. What the frag happened?"
Jazz made another trip over the wall. His team couldn't follow him. Only the Meister's magnets were strong enough to help him up the wall. Everyone else was stuck waiting in the camp. Ratchet wondered how Prowl coped with sending his mate off into the hostile unknown. The recently promoted SIC certainly didn't lean on anyone. Neither, did Prowl pace about the camp. Ratchet watched the Praxian as the camp waited for the saboteur's return. It was easier to watched Prowl than it was to stare out at the city.
No doubt Prowl realized he was being watched. For reasons unknown to Ratchet, the SIC had the good grace to ignore the attention. Ratchet didn't possess this grace and couldn't resist scowling or snarling every time he caught Ironhide watching him.
At the moment Ironhide was waiting for Jazz to reappear at the wall. In some ways it was a relief to be free of his careful attention. Ratchet had forced himself out of the temporary hospital and out into the open of the camp. It was all he could do not to scream with rage and self-hatred every time the city-state fell into the sight of his optics.
They had suffered a near miss only joors earlier. The hostilities between Tarn and Vos had not ended. A missile strike had hit just outside the Gate. It was only for Trailbreaker and his force field that the camp had not been destroyed by the shock wave and the explosion of debris.
Prowl had attempted to order the camp deconstructed and the force to return to Iacon but Jazz had been both stubborn and relentless and had managed to cajole Prowl into allowing him just one more trip over the wall. It hadn't surprised Ratchet in the least that the saboteur would demand this. The Autobot's Third-in-Command did not believe in no win scenarios.
Tarn was a no one scenario, no matter what happened now. The city-state was smoking rubble and millions of its citizens were grey in the ruins. Dozens of survivors could appear over the wall and it could still never be a victory.
Ratchet kept his processor sinking deeper into black despair by focusing his attention on Trailbreaker. The good-humoured, heavy armoured mech, who served under Prowl in the tactical division, was sluggish after projecting such a wide force field. At the best of time, his systems would have been strained by such a demand of his generator. But Trailbreaker had been shorting his rations again and creating such a wide field had taxed his energy reserves. Thankfully, the large black mech was not actually in stasis but it was a near thing. Before they returned to Iacon, Trailbreaker's force field would likely be needed again and Ratchet was working as quickly as he safely could to bring Trailbreaker's energy reading back up.
"You need to stop doing this," Ratchet scolded as he examined Trailbreaker's levels again. "Your spark will gutter under the strain one of these cycles."
"I go stellar-cycles without using my generator," Trailbreaker said, glumly. "Why should I keep pouring fuel into when it just burns off in a few joors?"
"Because your frame needs it," the medic replied with gentle sternness. "Forget that other frames, other mods need less fuel, listen to your own systems and give them what they need."
It was a conversation they had had before. Ratchet didn't often treat Trailbreaker. There were medics that tended to the greater expanse of the Autobot army but Trailbreaker's mod was unique and if he suffered extensive damage or went into stasis lock because of energon deprivation, it was Ratchet who tended to take care of him. He was nearly never injured. What brought to Ratchet attention was energon starvation. The first time it had happened, when Ratchet had been the medic on scene, he had beamed Trailbreaker's helm with a wrench and had given him the lecture of a lifetime about frame upkeep. The dent and the glossa lashing hadn't made any particular impression. A dozen or so stellar-cycles later, Trailbreaker had once again been brought in with the same issue as before. Gentleness, a soft word and a visit to Smokescreen hadn't convinced Trailbreaker to bend to his frame's needs. Someone had done a number on the friendly mech's self-confidence and self-worth. If Ratchet ever found out who, he would be tempted to turn their frames inside out.
Without a sun, there was no sunset or sunrise and thus no natural definition of light cycle and dark cycle. Cybertron had been thrown from His star's orbit millenia ago. The Cybertronians had adapted to the loss of their sun with the ease only possible in a society so highly advanced. Ambient lighting throughout the planet lit up Cybertron for sixty-eight joor a mega-cycle. For the remaining fifteen joor the ambient lighting dimmed and most of the great buildings would go dark.
There was no clear definition between light and dark cycle in the vicinity of Tarns. The ambient lighting of the city-state had been destroyed. Fires burnt throughout the ruins, bathing the once glorious city-state in an eerie, flickering orange glow. To prevent it from being an even more obvious target, the Autobot camp operated under minimal light. It wasn't as though any 'Bot needed ambient lighting to tell them if the dark cycle had come to pass. They were all built with chronometers in their frames after all.
Jazz and Ironhide returned to the camp halfway through the dark cycle. Prowl and Ratchet were the only mechs not on guard duty still up and about. The medic had tried to recharge early in the dark cycle but the ghosts of Sunstreaker and Sideswipe haunted his fluxes and there would be no rest for him. That last, spark wrenching flux had driven Ratchet from the seclusion of his mobile hospital and for the last several joors he and Prowl had kept each other company.
Back in Iacon, the youngling Prowl and Jazz shared would be recharging and Ratchet had suspected that the Autobot SIC was missing his creation as much as he was worrying for his reckless mate. Distracting Prowl from his worries had distracted Ratchet from his spark break. A symbiotic arrangement, really.
No mechs or femmes followed them and there was a dangerous air about the saboteur. His field was tucked in close to his frame but that only added to the atmosphere of disquiet that came with his return. When Jazz saw Prowl, he moved swiftly to his mate's side. The savage, claiming kiss the followed was completely out of character, in public at least. Ratchet looked to Ironhide for some sort of an explanation but all Ironhide offered was the shrug of his wide shoulders. After a klik, Jazz released Prowl and turned to the other mechs.
"They know Prowl's here," Jazz said, his tone was cold and promised destruction to any Decepticon that dared to move against the Praxian. "Cons are moving to the south. It was just a few random patrols at first. But then I saw Reflector and I heard chatter. The south's been cleared of any survivors and scavengers. They're going to attack the camp."
"When?" Prowl asked. His tone was free of tension but that was Prowl. There was a far off look to his optics that told Ratchet his battle computer had taken over.
"The army is expected to arrive in fifteen joor," the saboteur replied, circling his arm around that of his mate. "From the north, we're not supposed to see'm coming. The attack is planned for the next dark cycle. Not that it's goin' to get any darker but they want to take us by surprise."
"Wake everyone," the tactician ordered, his optics on Ironhide. "We must take down the camp and be gone before the troops arrive."
"Aye," Ironhide replied, heading immediately for the dormitory tent. After giving Jazz a quick once over and satisfying himself that the saboteur was undamaged, Ratchet turned to the med-tent. He was just steps away from the tent when he overheard Prowl's soft whisper to Jazz.
"I am sorry. I know you wanted to bring home survivors."
"I care a lot more about bringin' ya home safe," Jazz replied.
Without any secondary light sources, the camp came down with surprising speed and ease. The impending attack spurred the tired 'Bots on and before eleven joor had passed, the camp was dismantled and packed onto the transports. It was time to go. Fliers would be waiting for them at the extraction point. Already the bulk of the troops were heading off south towards Simfur, acting as a convoy, surrounding the slower transports. Prowl was somewhere towards the front of the convoy, guarded zealously Jazz. The Autobot SIC was not a popular mech with many of the troops but those selected for this mission were loyal to their commander and could be trusted to both obey and to guard him with the same zeal as they would the Prime.
Ratchet was the last mech still in root mode, still standing in the middle of what had been the camp. The last of the troops drove off after their comrades and the medic was alone. He couldn't help but linger, looking down at Tarn, focusing directly on where the Arena had once stood. Under that rubble were two mechs he had loved, two mechs he had failed. How long would it be before Ratchet's spark ceased to feel like it was being torn apart one thread at a time?
"I'm sorry," the white and red mech slumped as he whispered the words. "I'm so sorry."
The silence and the stillness were suddenly suffocating. Ratchet threw himself against the twisted metal tower that had marked the far right corner of the camp. Coolant tears poured from his optics and he slammed his fist into the unforgiving metal. His frame shuddered and shook as he sobbed. Pain from the dented metal of his highly sensitive servo went unnoticed.
A bream passed before Ratchet pulled away from the tower. He wriggled his digits and examined the self-inflicted damaged. The fine plating had split in two places at the base of his digits but the damage was more cosmetic than it was serious. It would not stop him from shifting his servos into the form of any number of tools. Still, the outburst had been reckless. His servos were everything to his function.
He would be missed soon. Ratchet shuttered his optics and dried his tears. When his ventilations had settled and coolant had stopped welling behind the shutters of his optics, Ratchet un-shuttered them and took one last look at Tarn. Before turning his back, he offered a prayer.
"You sure as frag didn't show them any favour in life," Ratchet spoke to a god he wasn't even sure he believed in. "They fought for someone else's profits and couldn't even claim to own their own sparks... I hope that you've welcomed those sparks into the Well and that you show them a lot more care there than you did here."
It wasn't much of a prayer, but it was the best Ratchet had in him. Transforming into his alt-mode, Ratchet sped off after the retreating Autobot force. They were in sight a few kliks later. The convoy was slow moving, Ratchet was not. A single red form had stopped, even as the rest of the force continued south. Ironhide. Ratchet supposed he would have to apologize for keeping him waiting, for worrying him... Maybe.
"Don't..." The word carried on the wind. It barely tickled his audial sensors. The whisper of a ghost, Ratchet ignored it.
"Please..." This time the plea was softer, even less intelligible but it stopped Ratchet in his tracks. He transformed to his root mode, turned his helm and listened.
"Please don't leave us here!" That voice... Ratchet at only heard it a few times over the course of one evening, in the vorn passed, but the medic would never forget it. He transformed and raced as fast as he could back towards Tarn.
"Ratchet!" Ironhide's familiar twang shouted over his internal comm. "Where the slag are you going?"
"Survivors!" Ratchet exclaimed, not caring that he was yelling into Ironhide's processor. "I can hear them calling."
There was a curse and a sudden burst of chatter over the central comm that connected the force. Ratchet muted it without thinking. He couldn't disobey the order to return, or to stop, if he didn't hear it. Some how, he managed to to quell the code deep urge to to blare his sirens. It was the latent response of all medics to inform the general populace that help was coming and to get the slag out of the way. But the last thing Ratchet wanted to do was draw Decepticon attention to the only just recently vacated camp.
The visual sensors of his alt mode caught sight of them and Ratchet's spark sang, euphoric. There they were, standing, leaning against each other, looking like they had dug themselves out of the Pit. When he was only metres away, Ratchet took his root mode and ran the last few steps to battered red and yellow gladiators.
Their leg struts gave out in unison and both Sideswipe and Sunstreaker fell against Ratchet as he stopped a step away from them. Their combined weight made Ratchet's own knees buckle and he sagged to the ground, an arm around each of them, their faceplates buried into his neck.
"You came," Sideswipe whispered in a hoarse voice. "You really came."
"About time," Sunstreaker rumbled, his voice just as hoarse. He clung to Ratchet all the harder. Ratchet almost laughed but smiled instead.
"Sunny," the red twin hissed. His digits dug into the seam at Ratchet's side.
"Shh, he's right, I'm really, really late," the world weary medic hushed. "Unforgivably late."
"You came," Sideswipe repeated. "All that matters is you came."
"Ratchet?" It was Ironhide, just a few metres behind Ratchet, who spoke. The Twins stiffened in Ratchet's arms and the medic felt his own frame stiffen. He hushed the Twins in the barest of a whisper before turning his helm and casting Ironhide a sidelong look.
"They're hurt," he said as if it somehow explained why he was hugging a pair of gladiators. "And you're going to help, Ironhide."
Ironhide stepped cautiously towards the trio. Ratchet recognized the posture and it made his bristle. The guardmech was battle ready, ready to attack the Twins if he thought he had provocation. If Ironhide wanted to live to see the next cycle, he would keep his infernal guns to himself.
The Twins pulled away from Ratchet. It was a pathetic, spark breaking sight. They struggled to crouch on their peds, their plating flared. Both had to balance with their servos just to remain upright. Ratchet saw Ironhide's expression and his posture soften and he thanked Primus for Ironhide's keen understanding.
Without giving any of the three warning, Ironhide snatched Sunstreaker's right arm from Ratchet's side and slung it around his own neck. The red guardmech wrapped his left arm around the gladiator's waist and hulled the taller mech upright. Sunstreaker was surprised enough do no more than vent sharply. Mercifully, he didn't fight Ironhide.
"Can ya transform?" Ironhide asked Sunstreaker as the yellow mech tried to find his balance.
"No," Sunstreaker replied. The expression on his faceplates was puzzled, maybe annoyed, mostly exhausted. "No T-cogs."
"We have to move, Ratch," the guardmech said urgently. "Reports just came in that the last strike at Vos took out the Wing Lords. The fliers are throwing everything they have left at Tarn. There's no stopping it."
"You take Sunstreaker, I'll take Sideswipe," Ratchet replied. "Inside, move it."
Though their frames held no bells or whistles, both Ratchet and Ironhide had powerful engines to move their frames. They put every bit of power to use as they raced to join the convoy. As the great lumbering mass of alt modes was soon in sight and Ratchet finally thought to re-activate his comm. The retreat had gained speed and urgency, with the transports pushing forward at their highest speed. Nonetheless, the convoy was not moving especially fast and worried voices murmured over the comm.
Ironhide and Ratchet, with their burdens, rejoined the convoy a klik or two later. Trailbreaker had now taken up the rear position. Ratchet didn't need to asked why. He drove up as close as he could, his alt mode nearly touching the larger alt mode of Trailbreaker.
"Don't slagging use it unless you have to," Ratchet ordered. "I will make your processor ring for a vorn if you frag yourself over unnecessarily."
"I promise," Trailbreaker replied. Fragging Pit his voice sounded strained just from pushing his frame to the speed of the retreat. Ratchet settled into position just a metre from Trailbreaker's left side.
::What's wrong with him?:: Sideswipe asked from within Ratchet's hold. Of course, his field was projecting inwards, as it always did in his alt mode. The red gladiator could feel his concern and frustration.
::He's low on energy,:: Ratchet replied. His field focused in on the mech in his hold, giving the medic a quick summary of Sideswipe's overall condition. ::Much like you.::
::Except I'm not driving,:: the red twin added. ::You're worried his going to go into stasis lock?::
::I'm worried he's going to gutter his spark doing something stupid and noble,:: the medic explained. :: If he get's into trouble, I'm going to have to get to work on him fast so be ready to get the frag out fast, okay?::
::You can count on me,:: Sideswipe promised. There was a lazy smile in his voice that made Ratchet's spark flutter.
The ground shuddered violently, tossing the retreating force about on their treads just as they reached the waiting fliers. Only the transports drove straight on, the rest of the force took their root modes in order to make space for everyone.
Ratchet transformed once Sideswipe was sitting safely on the rumbling ground. The medic looked to the north as soon as his optics were revealed. A mushroom cloud, framed by blinding light filled the skyline, glowing red and gold. Sideswipe kept his optics averted from the city-state as Ratchet helped him to his peds. When Ratchet looked to his right and saw Sunstreaker, he saw the yellow twin averting his gaze as well.
"Prowl's coming," Ironhide announced as he steadied Sunstreaker. Ratchet looked up to see the former Enforcer walking towards them. He kept his field and his expression steady. If Prowl wanted to lecture him, that was fine, payback was fair game.
"Can they travel?" The SIC asked, looking back and forth between the battered gladiators with his typical expressionless gaze.
"Yes," Ratchet replied, a little surprised by Prowl's question. "They need extensive repairs but nothing's life threatening."
"Good," Prowl said, nodding his helm with approval. "Get on board the third shuttle. See if you can make them comfortable."
"Yes, sir," the medic replied. He snarled inwardly at his own deferential words. Generally he spoke to Prowl like he was any mech. As a medic, Ratchet technically outranked everyone when it came right down to it. At least if you asked him. But Prowl officially outranked all but the Prime and if he saw fit to put Ratchet in his place, he could.
"Who was that?" Sunstreaker asked, leaning unashamed against Ironhide's sturdy frame.
"Prowl, Second-in-Command of the Autobots," Ratchet explained.
"H'uh," Sideswipe hummed next to Ratchet's audial. "The Prime sent his SIC to Tarn?"
"He would've come himself but the senate put a wash on that idea," Ironhide replied.
"Shockwave put a wash on it," Sunstreaker corrected. "Or am I wrong?"
"Y'er no wrong," Ironhide rumbled. "Now can you walk or do I have to carry you?"
"Don't even try it," Sunstreaker hissed menacingly. Though he was probably about as threatening to Ironhide as a freshly sparked cyber-kitten.
Sunstreaker did manage to walk, though Ironhide had to more than half drag him along. His twin was no better off. Both mechs were stubborn to their cores and when they reached the far back of the shuttle, they sank to the floor with victory in their fields. Ironhide smiled and shook his helm before patting Ratchet's shoulder and leaving him with his patients.
"So," Sideswipe broke the silence. "Ironhide is...?"
"A sparklinghood friend," Ratchet replied. "Happens to be a weapons specialist and guard to the Prime."
"So, not competition?" Sideswipe asked. There was a tease to his voice, but his field rippled briefly with apprehension.
"Frag no," the medic replied quickly. He shook his helm and made a face. "Frag no, never, ever... Really... Sideswipe, that is where your processor is at?"
"We missed you," the red twin said with a wicked little smile. Sunstreaker rolled his optics when Ratchet looked in his direction but then smiled himself.
"I missed you, slaggers, too," Ratchet sighed. "When I've got you both repaired we can talk about that."
"Or we can talk while you repair us and get that out of the way," Sunstreaker suggested.
Ratchet laughed. He really laughed. Just a joor ago he had been in the depth of the blackest grief, his spark fractured. Now? Now, he was jubilant, ecstatic. His spark was close to bursting with frenzied mirth.
And yet, Ratchet was also terrified. The Twins still wanted him? This was a joy, not a horror, and yet Ratchet was afraid. He was not afraid of them, never them, but for the life of him he couldn't think of what to do next. There was that familiar fear. Medics did not consort with gladiators, certainly not the Prime's medic. But how could Ratchet say no? How could he walk away? It wasn't enough that they were alive, Ratchet wanted, no needed, to be with them.
What is Primus' name was he going to do? Cavort in secret? Like they were something to hide? Even if, in all technicality, they were, Ratchet thought better of them. He couldn't expect them to stay with him if he treated them as something shameful. Even if they didn't think it themselves, they deserved better than that.
"Ratchet, how are our survivors?" Optimus asked. Ironhide was back in his usual place behind the Prime. Ratchet hadn't thought much of it back at the camp but seeing Ironhide in his element, Ratchet realized that Ironhide had been on edge the entire time they had been away from Iacon.
"They need consistent refuelingand recharge more than anything else," Ratchet replied. "No question, they need extensive repairs. They've suffered vorns of ill-repair but if it hasn't slagged them yet, it won't now."
"They were debt slaves then," the Prime said. He vented a long soft sigh. "How are their dispositions?"
"Well, they're quirky," the medic chose his words with exceptional care. "Sideswipe is friendlier than Sunstreaker on the surface. If offended, Sunstreaker will deal with it immediately. Generally by fighting. On the other servo, Sideswipe will stew. He takes the time to plot a calculated revenge and he hold grudges. They received their final upgrades in the arena, and that was three vorns ago. They're used to fighting for every polluted cube. They will put up a tough front for everyone because being vulnerable in the arena was never an option... But they don't look for trouble..."
"It appears to me that they've had difficult functions thus far," Optimus mused. "They sound no more problematic than Cliffjumper."
"They want to join the Autobots," Ratchet explained. "Once I'm finished their repairs, because I'm not letting them out of my sight until then."
"We would be lucky to have them," the Prime replied. Ratchet was almost surprised by the reaction of the Matrix Bearer. "To survive three vorns in the arena, never mind the sort of younglinghood that would have had them sold into it in the first place, they have to have strong sparks and strong wills. The Autobots need more of both."
"I'll pass it on," the red and white ambulance said. "Anything else?"
"No," Optimus replied. He smiled warmly and gestured to the door, granting Ratchet leave. "Be sure you recharge at some point, Ratchet. I am more than well aware that you tend to get distracted when you've patient occupying med-berths."
"Smart-aft," Ratchet grumbled. "Thanks."
"Is there a story between Ratchet and those gladiators?" Optimus asked. It wasn't the ideal pillow talk but it wasn't often that they had time for private conversation outside of the berth. As it was, Ironhide was half into recharge against his side and there was no better time to ask.
"I don't know," Ironhide replied. His optics brightened from their dimmed state and he roused a little. "When I got to the three of'em they were clinging to each other but I don't know if that was the young mechs latching on to their rescuer. But since we've been back'n Iacon Ratchet's been spending all his waking joors in the med-wing fussing over them."
"Which isn't out of character per say," the red and blue truck bot said. "He was stationed near Tarn before I named him my personal medic... He likely returned to Tarn and expected seas of patients only to find but two. It would be in his nature to pour everything in his spark into them as a consequence."
"As long as they aren't a danger to him, I don't think anybot should interfere," the smaller red truck replied. "Ratchet's already steaming thanks to the council... If anyone actually interferes, you'll be down a medic when it's all over. I promise you that."
"You know Ratchet better than I," Optimus offered. "I trust you to now if and when intervention is required."
"Thanks," Ironhide tilted his helm up and gave Optimus a lazy smile. He dragged his digits lazily against the glass of Optimus' chest plates until Optimus caught his servo and drew it up to his mouth and kissed each digit. Ironhide dragged himself up onto his elbows and chuckled at the Prime. "Got more energy to burn off?"
"Only if you do as well," the larger mech replied. He drew Ironhide up, onto his chassis and kissed his guardmech with considerable tenderness. What would the senate think if they ever discovered the true depth of his relationship with Ironhide. No doubt they would try to have him replaced as Prime. It was all good and proper for the Prime to work out his charge in the frame of his guard(s), it was quite another to be in a love affair with him. But they would never know. And if they did find out? The Matrix was not removed so easily."
"I do," Ironhide rumbled, breaking the kiss for just a klik. "Missed you."
"As I missed you," Optimus replied. Foreplay was not especially necessary only breams after their last interface but Optimus could never resist a chance to run his servos over every centimetre of his red plated lover's frame and quickly set to the pleasant business of showing Ironhide again just how much he had missed the guardmech.
Whether or not it was in the Palace of the Prime, the med-wing was Ratchet's exclusive domain and he ruled it as he saw fit. He allowed for no interference and he answered to no one. This was his defence to the voice of caution in his processor when he set up a second cot, next to the first that was always in place in his office. Two orns had passed since the Twins had been rescued from the outskirts of Tarn. Their systems had largely recovered from the strain of not just digging themselves out of the rubble of the arena but of walking all the way around the shattered city from the Northern Gate. Fresh damage that spoke of servo to servo combat. If the Twins preferred to recharge in the med-berths were Ratchet had them confined for the length of their recovery, then that was fine. But if they wanted/insisted on joining him then Ratchet needed to make certain there was room.
It didn't look terribly comfortable, the joined cots that is. Ratchet ran a servo over the back of his neck, pressing his digits firmly into the tense struts. The med-berths were considerably more comfortable than the cots. Most med-berths weren't much better than cots but this was the Prime's palace and it had been equip with not expense spared. Cots just weren't comfortable; that was the reality of their design.
"You're over thinking," Sunstreaker said from just steps behind Ratchet. The medic jerked in surprise. He hadn't heard the brothers approach. Ratchet turned to see the pair of them crowding the door to his office, shoulder to shoulder.
There was no colour left on Sideswipe's frame. The plating of his servos and helm were simple black and the components of his protoform were the standard matte grey. His brother had a hint of his normal colour in the plating of his audial fins and his servos. Other than the small places of colour, without plating, Sunstreaker's and Sideswipe's protoforms were basically identical.
The fact that the sight of them standing there, blocking his exit, without a stitch of armour covering their plating made Ratchet's valve lubricate was almost embarrassing. Scratch that, it was embarrassing, slagging embarrassing. He'd been working on repairing old, poorly repaired damage, to various part of their protoforms for joors without a single stir of arousal. Why was the sight of them now make him feel like an untested youngling?
"You should be resting," Ratchet complained rather pathetically. He felt as though he was going to crawl out of his plating.
"We'd rather be with you," Sideswipe countered. "All we've done is rest. You said it yourself, our energy levels are completely normal. You're just fussing over old scars. You can't even call them wounds."
"I..." The medic tried to offer some argument, some resistance, just out of principle but his processor drew a blank. This was, of course, because he wanted the hard-helmed slaggers in his berth.
And ideally in him.
"Please?" Sideswipe asked in a low voice. "We missed you. Miss you."
"Okay," Ratchet sighed. Truly, he did not know why he was protesting, except perhaps to punish himself. "Okay, but sit down, lay down..."
The brothers stepped fully into the room and the door slid shut silently behind them. In an odd sort of unison, they looked over the smaller room. Unison, because they both looked, shifting their helms in the same subtle manner. But not true unison because they each looked over a different side of the room, neither bothered to glance at the parts of the room the other brother had already looked over.
In the end, Sunstreaker's optics settled over the conjoined cots.
"This is something at least," he said. There was something in his tone... Frustration? Irritation? It raised Ratchet's hackles and he bristled, his plating flaring our as he fought the urge to snap, to overreact really, at the comment. Still, he couldn't keep the sharp edge of his voice as he spoke.
"What?" Ratchet asked with a hiss. A dark scowl cover his faceplates as his plating flared a little more. "Just what are you suggesting?"
"I'm not suggesting anything," Sunstreaker replied. A glint of his dangerous temper flashed in his field. "You're avoiding us. You won't look at us."
"What the slag are you on about!?" Ratchet snarled. His servos clutched the wrench he had unconsciously withdrawn from his subspace. "I've spent almost every single joor with you! Looking at you!"
"Repairing us!" The gladiator snapped back. "You aren't looking at us, you're looking at our frames, at our scars. The klik you finish up you look away, over our shoulders, to the side. You won't meet our optics. You aren't now."
Ratchet swallowed his retort at the realization that Sunstreaker was right. He wasn't meeting the taller mech's optics, hadn't been all this time. What was this weakness, this cowardice that had caught hold of him? With far more difficulty than Ratchet could ever have imagine, he forced his gaze up, first to look at the uncharacteristically quiet Sideswipe, then to the antagonizing Sunstreaker. It took every bit of will he possessed not to shy away again.
He didn't like what he saw. Or maybe he did, on a physical level. Sideswipe was giving him a lopsided smile that didn't meet his optics, while Sunstreaker was trying so slagging hard to scowl that he looked more like a whipped turbo-puppy than he did a menacing gladiator. Primus, they were beautiful, even when they were so hurt. Ratchet had been so focused on repairing and nourishing their frames that he had missed the needs of their sparks.
They wanted him... Him! But why? Because he had shown them a kindness over a vorn ago and they had clung to the memory? Once they were out in the open world, surrounded by mechs their own age, many warriors like them. Would that memory fade? Would the desire? How long could his appeal possibly last? This was the source of his cowardice, his resolve, the desperate desire to protect himself from hurt. And yet his resolve was already failing. As it did, Ratchet found himself staring at his peds.
"Look at us," Sideswipe not quite pleaded, not quite commanded. "And talk to us. We don't know what's going on in that processor of yours."
"How can you just... forget that I left you in that Primus forsaken Pit for more than a vorn?" Ratchet whispered, static crackled over his vocalizer. He couldn't look at his peds now. Sideswipe had gently but firmly taken hold of his chin and tilted his helm up.
"One vorn, three orn, six mega-cycles," the normally red mech corrected. "Ratch... We'd already done two vorns in the Arena before you came. No one gave one frag about either of us in those first vorns. We survived because... Because we had to but we were just going through the motions, barely more than drones. Then you came and you gave a frag. You really cared, even when we wanted nothing to do with you. When we insulted you, you wouldn't let up."
"I left you there," anguish filled the medic's voice and his field. His frame reeled with the force of his black guilt.
"Shh," Sunstreaker hushed Ratchet's self-recrimination, sliding up beside red and white mech and wrapping his arms around the shaking mech's frame. "We know you didn't just abandon us... Shockwave told us you'd tried to buy our contracts... The Prime's own medic..."
"Why would he tell you that!?" Ratchet asked in a tone that bordered on hysteric. "Why would he..."
"He thought it would break us completely, Ratch," Sideswipe explained. "We were already frayed. Sunny was already fighting death matches. We were desperate to earn the extra credits those matches paid out... Not that it would ever had been enough. We'd just realized that, you know. That it would never be enough. We would never be free. It should have been the last straw. But it gave us hope. We hadn't had hope for anything since we were younglings."
"I don't understand," the medic said, confusion overrode the guilt in his field.
"Shockwave mocked us," the yellow twin continued with the explanation. "And he bragged. The slagger was so pleased with himself. Not even the Prime's medic could get us out. Nothing short of an Imperial order would get our debts cleared and you would never risk speaking to the Prime..."
"He was right! I couldn't, wouldn't!" Ratchet exclaimed. "I knew what was happening to you, what he was making you do and I was too much of a coward to speak up."
"If the Prime wants you for his medic, you must be fragging amazing," Sideswipe offered. "But you were in a remote garrison? Why?"
"My slagging temper," the medic explained, looking down and his servos as he wrung them together. "I lost a patient... No. I didn't lose him, the senior medic on call made a mistake. I knew it was a mistake. I said as much. Believe me, I was loud, stubborn, disrespectful and I was overruled. The patient greyed In autopsy, it was discovered I'd been right and I tracked down that medic and gave him a very large, loud piece of my mind. My contract was terminated and I was black listed from every hospital from Iacon to Praxus to Crystal City and just about everywhere else. The only work I could get was as an army medic and only because of a favour from a friend."
"Why black list you if you were right?" Sunstreaker asked. "That makes no sense."
"There's a hierarchy to a hospital, amongst other things and I had no respect for it," Ratchet said. "It was my lack of respect that got be blacklisted. The army couldn't stand me either and buried me as far away from civilization as possible."
"It was destroying you," Sideswipe noted.
"How would you know?" Ratchet asked, his frame tense and his tone defensive.
"You're broadcasting" the red brother explained. "Ratch, you let yourself be taken to the Arena as a reward. Just watching one fight had you drowning in guilt and seeking us out."
"And yet I left you there!" Ratchet snapped. "I felt sick for ever stepping a ped in that Pit and yet I left you there to rot!"
"Stop it, Ratchet," Sunstreaker ordered. "We know you didn't give up on us. We know you kept after Shockwave. It wasn't hard to bribe some bot to keep us up to date."
"So you could have, should have guttered in the rubble of Tarn up to date!" The guilt ridden medic snapped. "I don't know how you can just accept my failure so willingly. If I'd swallowed my pride and gone to the Prime I would have had you out of there more than a vorn ago."
"Let it go," Sunstreaker ordered. "Maybe, maybe you could have got us out. Or maybe Shockwave would have had us guttered and sent you a vid for your troubles."
"Primus," Ratchet moaned in horror at the thought. But Sunstreaker wasn't done.
"And just maybe you would have been thrown into the streets by the Prime," he continued, his tone steely and unrelenting. "Without even the army to fall back on. We wouldn't have had a hope of rescue then. Stop dwelling on what ifs."
"It isn't that easy," the medic countered.
"Then let us help," Sideswipe asked, no pleaded. He may barely have managed to keep the plea from his voice but it was all too present in his optics. He wrapped his strong black servos, firmly but gently around Ratchet's wrists. "Please?"
Ratchet could only nod. Though his poisonous guilt told him that he didn't deserve the pair standing in front of him, he surrendered to them. Primus but he wanted them, needed him. They were the only mechs capable of saving himself from the blackness that threatened to engulf him. As Sideswipe released Ratchet's wrists, Sunstreaker stepped away and sat on conjoined cots with his back against the wall. Without speaking, the handsome yellow mech looked up into Ratchet's pale blue optics and stretched out one yellow servo to him. The medic's frame moved independent of conscious command. One red servo reached to clasp the beckoning yellow one and Sunstreaker drew him down.
Once again, Ratchet was wrapped in powerful arms and hugged close to Sunstreaker's warm frame. The heat of the larger frame and the thrum of the spark within against his plating soothed the built up stress from Ratchet's frame and the medic relaxed almost completely. He needed this so much, this contact, needed more of it. Sunstreaker turned Ratchet around on his lap and the smaller mech found himself automatically leaning back against the gladiator's unarmoured chassis. As he relaxed further, Sunstreaker drew each of Ratchet's legs fully up onto the makeshift berth. Ratchet placed his peds on the edge of the berth as Sunstreaker bade he part his legs between the yellow mech's own thighs.
Sideswipe knelt on the floor, rested his arms on the berth, his servos touching the insides of Ratchet's thighs while Sunstreaker left his servos on the medic's knees. The touch of the split-sparks remained innocuous for the moment. But only for the moment.
"How is this going to help?" Ratchet asked even as his field loudly proclaimed his anticipation and the arousal that had his plating warming.
"We're going to make you forget your designation," Sunstreaker promised, his voice deep and his ventilation hot against Ratchet's audial. A shiver ran down the bi-coloured medic's spinal struts. The cocky smile Sideswipe offered from between his legs only added another shiver.
"You think you're up for that?" He goaded as he forced himself not to squirm with impatience. This was exactly what he needed. The act of interfacing would surely silence the guilt.
"Oh yeah," Sideswipe purred before leaning it and kissing and sucking down the side of Ratchet's thigh, just along the gap in his armour plating. He tasted his way down to the apex of the older mech's thighs before giving Ratchet's other thigh the same treatment, completely ignoring the modesty plating that shielded Ratchet's interface equipment.
And yet Ratchet's valve positively throbbed in anticipation of what was to come. He hadn't interfaced since he'd left Tarn and the memory of that delicious, processor shattering stretch was enough to get him running hot already. The mouth on the point of his chevron and the glossa teasing the transformation seams of his legs only added to the heat coiling in his abdomen.
"Been fluxing of you," Sideswipe murmured as his lavished attention on the various components of Ratchet's hips and pelvis. Still, he paid no mind to Ratchet interface equipment. "Not gonna be a flux anymore."
"I've fluxed of you too," Ratchet replied with a breathy moan as Sideswipe blew a quick vent against his hot panel. It slid apart without so much as a "by your leave."
They hadn't all been good fluxes. In the last stellar-cycles most of the memory fluxes had been truly spark wrenching. But all of that was forgotten as Sunstreaker's mouth teased its way down his neck and Sideswipe's hot ventilation blew over his pressurizing spike and wet valve. Ratchet started to reach to caress Sideswipe's helm but Sunstreaker caught hold of both wrists before the medic could reach the red twin. Gently, Sunstreaker brought Ratchet's left servo to his mouthplates and lightly sucked the medic's index digit. A full frame shudder and a flare of intense pleasure from the smaller mech's field was his reward.
Sunstreaker's engine rumbled as silent communication passed between them. Ratchet was too far gone to notice anything more than the twin engines rumbling in unison. Wicked intent pulsed in their fields as they twined them together around Ratchet's. The normally yelow twin curled his glossa around the digit still trapped in his mouth before sucking the sensitive digit and nibbling on its tip. Ratchet moaned and squirmed between the split-sparks. Sideswipe took hold of the medics legs and draped them over his shoulders before he slid his servos under the medic's bright red aft, tilting it up to allow him unfettered access Ratchet's valve. As another shudder of pleasure wracked Ratchet's frame, Sideswipe dove in and lapped up the hot rush of lubricants that dripped from the medic's valve as Sunstreaker lascivious assault on his all too sensitive digits.
Ratchet screamed and pressed his back, hard against Sunstreaker chassis as his whole frame contracted with the force of his overload. He was deaf and blind to anything but the current of charge that coursed over his plating. It went on and on as Sideswipe plunged his glossa into Ratchet's spasming valve, swallowing every drop of lubricant that poured out with his overload. His optics shorted out for a klik as he sagged back, strutless. Sunstreaker released his digits and Ratchet left them fall limp to his side. Sideswipe lifted his helm from the pleasure slacken mech's valve. Patiently, they allowed Ratchet a bream to recover, even as their own systems ran hot with need.
"Do you still remember your name?" Sunstreaker asked, static and lust made his voice that much rougher, that much deeper.
"Yes," Ratchet replied, his auxiliary intakes working hard cool his frame, making his response sound like a pant.
"Are you up for more?" His yellow lover asked.
"Yes," Ratchet hissed. As good as that had been, as processor blowing as that had been, Ratchet needed more. He needed everything they could give him.
They were happy to oblige. Sideswipe returned his attention to Ratchet valve. Every brush of his talented glossa sent a shiver of pleasure up Ratchet's spinal struts. It would take longer to draw an overload out of Ratchet's frame now that his charge had largely been spent but the Twins were all too happy to take their time and to lavish love on Ratchet's frame.
Sunstreaker took hold of Ratchet's re-pressurizing spike and smoothed his servo, memorizing every ridge, and node at his leisure. The firm, slow pressure was tantalizing and Ratchet could not resist arching into the yellow servo. Sideswipe followed him as he arched, never pausing in his worship of the white and red medic's smouldering valve. All Ratchet could do was rock back and forth against the twinned onslaughts.
A second overload was steadily building, arousal flowed through Ratchet's energon lines, carry the waves of heat to settle blow his fuel tank. His servo roamed, mindlessly, touching, kneeding his lovers' protoforms, wherever he could reach. Thoughts of anything but pleasure were ebbing in his processor.
"Stroke your spike," Sunstreaker ordered as he released Ratchet's now pressurived and throbbing spike. The medic did as he was commanded; Ratchet hissed and the near overpowering bolts of charge that crackled between his spike and his palm. His primary intakes flared open, the rumble of his systems, loud, and growing faster. He whined as Sideswipe lifted up from his valve. Damn it, he was so close.
Suddenly, Sunstreaker had his digits inside Ratchet's sopping valve, stretch the walls apart. Two digits from each servo opened Ratchet wide. Sideswipe was there again, burying his faceplates between his brother's digits. His glossa reached nodes deep with Ratchet.
"Don't stop stroking yourself," the yellow mech ordered as he held Ratchet flush to his frame with the digits buried between the small mech's thighs. Ratchet flung his helm back against Sunstreaker's shoulder. The interwoven cables and wires of his protoform made an unexpectedly comfortable pillow.
"You've got no idea how hot you look," Sunstreaker purred huskily into his smaller lover's audial. "Squeezing your spike while Sideswipe eats out your valve."
"Unh" Ratchet groaned, his intakes panting. He was unable to articulate any coherent response. He was so very close to overloading.
"I can't wait to bury myself inside you," the gladiator growled. "You're so hot, so wet. So ready."
"Please," the medic's plea morphed into a static-laced keen as his second overload blazed through his systems. His joints locked up. The force of the charge racking his frame knocked his optics and then his upper processor offline.
Awareness returned in pieces. Ratchet had no real idea how much time he had been offline, he had not been tracking the time when the Twins had been worshiping his frame. There was no other word for what they had done to him, for him. He was perfectly relaxed, perfectly content and he was laying on the makeshift berth, cuddled between to very warm frames, the vibration of two rumbling engines made his loose plating rattle gently.
"I still remember my designation," Ratchet said as he squirmed free of the two pairs of arms wrapped around his chassis.
"Is that your way of saying you want more?" Sideswipe asked. He nuzzled his faceplates into the crook of his lover's neck.
"I want you both inside of me," the medic's voice oozed welcome and arousal. He savoured the sexual hunger radiating from the mechs in berth with him. He savoured heightening that hunger. "I want to feel your overloads in my valve."
"Oh yeah," Sideswipe exclaimed, voice smooth and rich like hot oil. He rolled onto his back, and pulled Ratchet along with him. A smarmy smile crossed his pale faceplates. Ratchet dimmed his optics and chuckled dryly and he crouched over the tall bare mech, straddling his hips. The thin protoform plating that concealed their interface hardware made no sound as it slid away.
Black servos roamed over Ratchet's aft, groping red plating that was still slick with Ratchet's appreciative groan came from behind Ratchet as Sideswipe tilted the smaller mech's aft, giving Sunstreaker an excellent view of their lover's shimmering, wet valve. Ratchet arched his helm back and offlined his optics as Sideswipe rocked his hips, and pulled him down.
Ratchet's mouthplates gaped just so and he moaned low as his lover's ridged spike filled him. It was good, very good. Sideswipe filled him and withdrew in even, languid strokes. Some other cycle Ratchet would delight in nothing more the glide of those ridges against the nodes of his valve. Just as he would delight in the taste of the each twins' turgid spike as it slid down his throat tubing. But now, one brother was not enough. Ratchet needed them both, both within him at once, stretching him so very wide, filling him completely.
He had been well prepared and it wasn't a great trial to take the digits that had just begun to push into his valve, along with Sideswipe's thick spike.
"Yes," Ratchet moaned in greedy anticipation. This was more like it, the stretch that haunted Ratchet's recharge. But just as soon as those sweet digits began to spear him, along with that hot spike, they were gone. A frustrated whine broke from Ratchet's vocalizer. Sideswipe raised Ratchet up so that only the very head of his spike remained in the medic's hot sheath. A second set of servos gripped Ratchet's hips. The digits in his valve held him open as a second hard, ridged spike head pushed into him, alongside its twin.
"Oh Primus," Ratchet moaned at the longed for burn and stretch. Digits wet from his lubricants dug into the gaps of Ratchet's back plating both teasing pleasure from hidden wires and components and pinning Ratchet to the grey components Sideswipe's bare chassis.
"Frag yes," the Twins swore. The harsh growl of one brother, echoing the low rasp of the other.
Ratchet was overwhelmed. The twin spikes stretched him to capacity. Every withdrawal and return thrust of the heavy rods sent a jolt of pleasure/pain from his overstretched valve rim down the winding ring of sensors that lined his valve lining and into his very spark. He swore, screamed, pleaded with each drag of his lovers' spikes along his over-stimulated sensors. Before this frag was over, a good chunk of them will have burnt out but it was so very worth it. Ratchet pleaded for more, for his lovers to drive deeper, for them to drive harder, faster into him.
He needed to feel it, feel them. He needed the ridges of their hot spikes permanently engraved on his tender valve.
They didn't want to hurt him, not that any intelligible words were being exchanged at this point. The pronouncement was clear in their field, tightly wound around they blazing lust. But they gave him what he begged for, what he needed. When Ratchet came online at first light, unable to step without aching, it would be worth it.
The compact, red and white mech dragged his digits through the mesh of cables that covered Sideswipe's shoulder struts and surrounded his spark chamber. Pinned between his lovers, Ratchet could barely buck his hips into either invading spike. Electricity crackled over and around the three heated frames. Ratchet's small office was several degrees hotter than it had been just breams before and the combined scents of mech-fluids and heated metal hung thick in the air. Cries, moans, curses and groans mixed with the rhythmic clang of frame against frame as the three lovers chased their overloads.
Yellow servos kept a firm grip on Ratchet's red hips and black ones gripped his aft, taking control over Ratchet's writhing frame. Each upward and downward thrust was a calculate attack, intent on driving Ratchet over the precipice of ecstasy. The side of his chevron dug into Sidewipe's spark chamber as Ratched twisted his helm to watch Sunstreaker pound into him, alongside his brother, bared protoform hunched over his own largely white frame.
A third, or perhaps forth overload wracked through Ratchet's systems. It was all he could do to dig his digits into the mass of cables that made up Sideswipe's arms and keen in unfathomable bliss. Over his keen, Ratchet heard Sideswipe's and Sunstreaker's answering howls.
Ratchet groaned low as sensors within his well used valve sparked weakly as the Twins' depressurized spikes withdrew. A copious mixture of lubricants and transfluids flowed out after the spikes. He couldn't be bothered to clean the mess of sticky fluids from his plating, instead Ratchet wriggled off of Sideswipe and collapsed on his side on the makeshift berth.
"You aren't going to be happy if that dries to your plating," Sideswipe chided. A tired rumble was his only reply. Ratchet was not moving. Not for anything.
"I have a clothe," Sunstreaker said.
"You always have a clothe, Sunshine," his brother snickered.
"Quiet... and don't call me that!" The mocked brother growled. Sunstreaker turned his attention to their lover who was already more than half in recharge. "Let me clean you up, Ratchet."
"Who?" The medic asked, the better part of his systems were already offline.
Had he been more aware, Ratchet would have properly heard the question. As it was, the sound of his lovers' ruckus laughter was the last sound he heard before his audials powered down, followed by the last of his systems.
End Chapter 2
AN: This chapter has been "done" save for the editing for about a week. Unfortunately sinus infections do not inspire me to proofread, a chore I disdain at the best of time. But I bundled myself in blankets and put aside my procrastinate nature.
I hope the length of the update and the smut, make up for the long delay. :)