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Tarn and Pharma kiss, and Ratchet doesn't handle labor pangs well.
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Title: Candy From Strangers
Warning: Tarn and Pharma canoodling, in two far different degrees of consent. G1 Autobot medics being adorable.
Rating: Pg-13?
Continuity: IDW & G1
Characters: Kaon, Tarn, Pharma, Ratchet, Hoist, First Aid
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): A fantastic picture by FelixFellow ( : / felixfellow . tumblr post / 50507307518 / one-more-kiss-dear), a prompt off Tumblr, and something to help someone calm down.
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Pharma/Tarn - "one more kiss, dear"
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Tarn had taken his work home again.
Kaon didn't have to leave the bridge to watch, but he opened the door. He wanted to hear. The Peaceful Tyranny's surveillance system gave him an optic-full of lovely white wings and slim legs wrapped around Tarn's hips, but nothing could beat out the sounds. Those, he wanted to hear first-hand echoing down the corridors. Tarn's voice, as always, murmured in a constant flow that called fuel pumps to pound faster as he swept toward the inevitable crescendo. The dip and pull of that talented, deadly voice sweetly whirled even Kaon's spark ever upward until the gasps, the stuttering cries, the rolling sobs all dragged into a long, shrieking climax.
Then the purring rumble of a contented, smug tank engine thrummed through the air. The hushed echo of quiet words afterward made Kaon smile. His fuel pump hammered in his audios, his spark reached for a partner that wasn't there, but Kaon smiled. Because Pharma didn't leave. He could have, but didn't, and that made all the difference.
The volume gradually swept higher, and the Autobot's token objections vanished under the velvet onslaught that teased Kaon's own spark all the way from here. He could easily imagine what the caress of sound was doing to its intended recipient.
The second round riled the blind mech up further, but it also shattered the incoherent whimpering into begging words spoken through trembling lips. Pharma likely thought he was whispering harsh demands, but Tarn had the surgeon screaming before the exquisite suspense finally snapped and pleasure collapsed down upon them like a crackling avalanche.
The entire ship rocked as overload took the two. Tank and jet engines howled, and the warring vibrations rattled their metal to the framework. Pleasure prolonged until the smaller, weaker Autobot slumped, exhausted, exactly where he belonged: under a Decepticon. Pharma broke to pieces under the Tarn's heavy frame. Broke, and was reassembled, and - biting his lip against the pleas surging over his tongue - broke again in the brutal, unexpectedly gentle hands of an expert torturer and better lover.
Up in the bridge, Kaon leaned against the door frame and hummed with the excess charge as he rubbed his hand up one electrical coil. It was a glorious ache, waiting like this. Listening like this, as he watched Tarn work Pharma over with all the patience and sadism of honest desire. What had begun as an interesting twist on a bargain had rapidly become an exercise in sincere lust for the vocalist.
Pharma wanted the D.J.D. to leave his precious clinic alone, and for the deal he'd struck, Pharma allowed Tarn his toying. Necessity was the creator of innovation, and Tarn did have needs to inspire him. Carnal desire thrust the tank to new heights of passion, working the surgeon to clawing and wailing against Tarn's chest, because Tarn didn't need his little project to stay past the first overload. He just wanted it.
Thus, Kaon got his show.
And afterward, when Pharma's lusciously slender legs could support him again, Kaon got to watch through the ship's surveillance system as the surgeon wobbled toward the exit. Sleek wings were held proudly, if tiredly, but Tarn bypassed their tempting handholds to lean down and curl his arms around Pharma instead. Murmurs floated down the corridors. Fine surgeon's hands pushed impatiently at the sly groping sliding down over yellow canopy glass.
Tarn turned the protesting Autobot in his arms and coyly suggested something before cupping the back of Pharma's helm in one massive hand. The surgeon blinked, shocked, but had no chance to struggle before the tank bent down. Pharma stiffened into a rigid statue, optics whiting out in sheer indignation. Tarn nuzzled, turned his head, and pressed his mask to slack lips again. His other hand firmly gripped a pert aft and pulled, bringing the short flyer forward to grind slowly. Slow as the kiss, and just as heated.
After a moment, resistance melted away.
*"He's going to be late,"* Kaon said over the commline. Empty optic sockets hungrily watched blue hands gradually rise to sink skilled fingers into tank treads once more.
*"I do hope so,"* Tarn replied, amused.
Kaon left the door open.
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Pharma/Tarn - "one more kiss, dear" x2
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It was possible, although inadvisable, to deceive a Decepticon. Yes, even this one.
He couldn't have managed it if the lie weren't preceded by so many truths. When a mech had a reputation, it didn't take much to keep the façade up even as the exact opposite came true. The last thing anyone would expect was a 'Con-hating, uptight prude of a medic to have an optic for hefty groundframes with wide tires and loud engines. Combine that with a secret guilty pleasure for being pursued, and Pharma was sold.
There was something terribly exciting in how Tarn's optics watched him. They were hot and red, carnal and craving in a way that had nothing to do with the T-cogs being bargained over. He'd have found a way to introduce the idea even if the Decepticon hadn't suggested it first, but far be it from him to discourage Tarn from thinking he hated the addendum. Oh, yes, it was a filthy, disgusting chore. Mm-hmm, how horrible. He could barely stand to let those broad hands touch him.
It was a perfect little cover for how very much he enjoyed it. Better yet, the Decepticon seemed to believe the only way to keep him coming back for more was to make him writhe in pleasure every time. That suited Pharma just fine. He liked being coaxed from the sky by the thundering purr of an aroused engine, or chased until he finally relented and landed to suffer those hands on him. He liked being handled like he'd flee if not rendered senseless by as many overloads as physically possible.
So the dignified, wary surgeon let himself be seduced by the leader of the D.J.D., nervous wings ever ready to take flight, and Tarn was ever-so-pleased with his repeated, nonexistent conquest. Large hands caressed polished, warm metal, and Pharma feigned reluctance under them. Inside, he preened under the attention, positively reveling in how much effort Tarn put into convincing him to walk into the tank's arms. The harder he made Tarn work to convince him, the longer the insufferably arrogant glitch kept him once grounded, crying out in helpless bliss as the smug fragger taught him lesson upon lesson about the foolishness of resistance, until Pharma conceded him victory from utter exhaustion.
Then the 'Con stroked and praised and admired him, gloating but magnanimous in triumph. Every bit of the attention he deserved was turned upon him, pattering over him like a glorious rain, and Pharma soaked in it. Not that he showed it, however. The surgeon sulked in Tarn's greedy hands, practically twitching in his eagerness to escape and fly away, so of course those hands had to hold him all the tighter, now didn't they?
Nestled close to that powerful frame, wings vibrating as Tarn's engine roared, Pharma dug his fingers into those thick treads and held on as Tarn brought him precisely where he wanted to go. It was the best kind of deception: the kind where both sides won, fair and square.
Mutual lust served as a good distraction as well. Tarn would never forget about feeding his sick addiction, but he had a weakness for snarky banter. Once he had a box of T-cogs in hand, he could be somewhat absent-minded, especially if there were flirty wings defiantly keeping just out of reach. Let him get a hold on Pharma, and the box would be shuffled to the side to deal with later. A little recreational struggle to land his prize sealed the deal, and Tarn's attention would lock on the fluttering pulse of his pretty prey's spark instead of how many T-cogs were in that box.
It didn't always work, but Pharma didn't always let himself be chased down, either. The pursuit was more fun for both of them if the ending were uncertain. Tarn either seized him when he landed, or he got away. Usually that was enough to keep interest high.
Then there were the times when he had to get inventive. One or two shy of quota every few months, Tarn would let pass. Six T-cogs short in one month?
"You wouldn't be delaying, would you?" the Decepticon asked as long-fingered surgeon's hands whispered across his chest.
Pharma glanced up and away, expression somewhere between coy and grumpy. It wasn't often that he initiated anything. It was a dead give-away when he did, although the tank didn't know how deliberate the ploy really was. "Delaying what?"
One finger caught his chin and forced his head up, and Tarn's mask came down to nudge his mouth in a parody of a kiss. Surprised and unsure, Pharma hesitated, and the hand slid back to capture his helm before he could pull away. "Delay me counting your tithe," Tarn said, and the purring whisper poured down the Autobot's throat to pile silken, syrupy pressure on top of the vulnerable spark trembling behind yellow canopy glass.
The flyer's vocalizer betrayed him, and Tarn chuckled darkly as a moan slipped from Pharma's forcibly opened lips. Instead of attempting to answer in a somewhat dignified manner - and artfully dodging answering at all - Pharma dipped down to venture a lick at the mask slit venting hot air at him.
The tank jolted, and the Autobot carefully didn't smirk. That hadn't been expected, hmm? Good.
They both played their games, but Pharma rarely showed when he held the upper hand. It caught Tarn by surprise every time, which was exactly how the surgeon wanted it. It couldn't be exploited often without losing effect, but when he wanted the rank taken off-guard?
His optics hardened, and his jaw worked for a second before the surgeon licked again, catching a slippery flick against a tongue that unconsciously slid out to meet it. Tarn's optics narrowed to fiery red slits of demand made from liquid desire and a foggy, waking yearning he probably didn't feel blooming under his armor until the hand on the back of Pharma's helm softened from a hard hold to a gentle, urging pressure. When was the last time this fanatic killer had kissed someone? That mask was welded on.
Any thought of it had likely been ignored. Tarn wasn't the type to sigh after what was lost. Possibly he'd convinced himself such intimacies were better pushed aside in favor of duty.
Pharma smirked against the mask. A mech didn't know what he'd forgotten until the ache of absence was brought back to tease him with.
He opened his mouth further and turned his head to thrust the tip of his tongue through the slit, licking along the inside edge while a larger, more desperate tongue chased, trying to curl around, trying to grasp contact Tarn probably hadn't even realized he'd missed. It was hunger more than thought, a purely physical craving. Pharma dimmed his optics and slid his lips from one side to the other, cycling deep, hot vents that the Decepticon panted back at him in turn, and sides of their tongues brushed slickly. The fleeting touch rocked the tank, sending that huge grounder engine revving out of control at the exotic, erotic sensation. Pharma could feel how tension stabbed through the larger mech like a bolt of electricity had just shocked him.
The surgeon's hands came up to cradle that vicious mask, then grab the sides in a vise grip as he plunged his tongue in as far in as it would go.
A nearly pained groan rumbled out underneath the sudden soft explosive whirr of fans switching to full bore. Tarn's arms dropped to wrap around the flyer, crushing Pharma to him in a possessive embrace. The Autobot shifted inside it, not uncomfortable but pretending discomfort in order to feel how their armor scraped together. The tank's frame enfolded him in a heated, heavy hold that pulled him closer as if the hint of wanting to escape made him yet more desirable. He was the Decepticon's captive, and it left his spark excited in a way that other lovers had never managed. Hot plating fit into and against hot plating, and Pharma had to override his own ventilation system to keep his breathing regulated enough to pass off as reluctant.
Badly-repaired lips hidden by the mask mouthed after the moist tongue tip just barely able to reach far enough in to trace over them, and Pharma took quick little licks at them. The sensitive tip of his tongue kept catching on weld-scars, and he kept pressing it to them like he could map out the mech's concealed face with his tongue alone. Tarn's notorious vocalizer could only produce a quiet, needy rasp when the surgeon thrust a fraction more tongue through the slit of his mask. Those scarred lips pursed, trying to close on it, catch it, suck frantically on it. When Pharma's tongue stayed still to allow it, Tarn's tongue lapped along the underside, against the sides, over every single bit of the surgeon Tarn could reach like he couldn't have enough.
Tarn tasted of oily fuel, his energon tainted by the thick lubricants required by his frame. Pharma muffled a groan of his own and yanked the purple mask even closer. He pulled his mouth away despite the immediate, disappointed growl, but the protest cut off when he used his hold to jerk Tarn down to kiss the weld lines, the battle damage. His tongue darted through the optic holes to give tiny licks to the metal around the red glass. It was messy and wet, and the Decepticon made a strangled noise full of raw lust as Pharma tasted him, explored what couldn't been seen, and raked teeth down the front of his mask in a grating squeal of metal on metal as if to punish what was visible. Engines howled, and it was impossible to tell whose was running harder, now.
When the surgeon's hands released the sides of his mask and pushed violently against his chest, the massive tank sank back without a fight under the Autobot. Pharma followed him down.
The missing T-cogs were never mentioned, after that.
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De-stressing comment fic
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"Breathe," the nurses had told Carly, over and over. "Breathe with me. In, out. In, out. Come on, one more breath. In - can you breathe in? Good, good. Now out. Good."
Cybertronians couldn't breathe, per se, but the three Autobots huddled together were taking the advice anyway. "You're doing great," Hoist said, patting Ratchet on the shoulder.
"Of course I'm doing great. I'm doing fantastic. I'm good. Grand. I'm just dandy." Metal squealed as the Ark' CMO gritted his teeth together, and Hoist exchanged a glance over his chevron with First Aid.
Who took over shoulder-patting duties without a hitch. "No one ever said you weren't," was spoken soothingly in time with the pats. "Can you give me a deep breath in?"
"Don't tell me to breathe in," Ratchet grumbled, breathing in. "Ventilation systems don't work like that." Hoist's cautious tugging eased him a bit further back into the most comfortable piece of furniture they'd been able to find for this. They'd apologize to Prowl later for what Ratchet was doing to his office chair. There were grooves scored down the arms now as anxious fingers had tightened more and more as the hours passed.
To be fair, this wasn't a procedure Ratchet had endured often. Three times since arriving on Earth, to be precise, and this was the first time it'd been planned instead of a frantic emergency. Turned out that planning ahead didn't reduce the pain of waiting. Delivery was a tedious pressure spiked by nervous surges of energy with nowhere to go. A new life hung in the balance. The crotchety old mech was tweaked to the Pit and back on helplessness, because there was nothing more he could do to aid that tiny scrap clinging with a fragile grip to life. He'd done everything possible up until this point, but now the actual procedure was in the capable hands of someone other than him, because he was stuck in this chair tensing and relaxing in turns.
Hence the reason First Aid had Ratchet under his patient care, patting away. First Aid was a professional patter. Not that Ratchet needed help to get through this, oh no. Nobody would ever say that (out loud), because nobody was that stupid.
Well, the Dinobots had offered, but the Dinobots had thick plating. They'd also asked when their new sibling would be ready to meet them.
Ratchet's strained little noises had been accompanied by strangling motions. Swoop, Grimlock, and Snarl had hugged him in response, as a small, suspiciously Wheeljack-like birdie had apparently told them that the expecting medic needed frequent expressions of support to get through what looked like a long, possibly difficult labor. And maybe Ratchet had hugged the trio of supportive Dinobots back, but they were big enough to have kept anyone else from getting photographic evidence so he admitted nothing.
"Good, that's wonderful," the younger medic praised him now, definitely not acting as moral support at all. "Again?"
"I'll show you again."
"Here, let me breathe with you. In."
Ratchet sucked in a huge gulp of air, and a bolt pinged loose somewhere deep in his overstressed ventilation system. "I don't want to breathe! I'm sick of this slag, and tired, and I just want it to be over!"
"I know," First Aid patted away. All three of the Autobot medics were tired after sitting through this rollercoaster of an event, but Ratchet was exhausted. It was obvious in the slight tremor of his hands. That didn't surprise either of the medics sitting with their friend. The old mech had poured so much of himself into this frail kindling of hope that First Aid couldn't even bear to think about what would happen if things took a turn for the worse. In the wider scheme of an eons-long war and two conflicted worlds, one newborn life didn't seem like much, but it was enough to heal an experience-embittered spark - or break it. "We all do, but these things need to happen naturally. Now out. Can you breathe out with me? There we go."
Hoist had bent closer while they breathed, so he was the first to notice. "I see a head! There's a head!"
Suddenly, Ratchet was no longer a gruff, older model being placated by two young upstarts. Instead, he was a nervous wreck inside a tornado of elbows and more knees than seemed physically possible. "Out of the way! I want to see - First Aid, move your wheels - "
"Ah, ah, we agreed," First Aid said, so calm it was clear he was trembling with excitement. He kept his hands firm, however, pinning his mentor's shoulders down, and Ratchet squirmed like a mech a fourth his age. "You stay right there, because otherwise you'll throw things or pick a fight with Ironhide. Remember? Stay down."
Ratchet nearly whined, "But I want to see!"
'And you will." Soothe, soothe, soothe.
Grumble mutter curse. "I'll fraggin' well see what I want to see when I want to see it. Who's in charge here, anyway?"
Hoist ignored them both in order to continue watching, optics shining and a hand outstretched as if afraid to touch a dream. It was illogical, but he feared this moment might burst like a bubble. Instead, he just cooed softly, "Ohh, look at it. So small and new. Ratchet, look what you did!"
Relief swept in to wipe away the anxiety and tension as if it'd never been. The elder medic started squirming again, this time in embarrassed pleasure. "I didn't do anything. It was all Prime."
"Prime contributed," First Aid corrected him gently, refusing to let him brush aside well-deserved acknowledgement. "You're the one who went through the effort. You have been the one who stubbornly tried to hide this until it grew too much to carry yourself and you finally let us help. It hurt my spark to see you lash out after the failures, and I was right there with you when everything finally went right. We've all seen you bear this burden for months, now, and here's the fruit of your labor."
Ratchet looked up at him, optics wide and profoundly humbled by the truth of his words.
Never had an interruption been so well timed to save someone's reputation as a hard-aft. Not that the interruption helped, as it came in the form of Hoist squeaking slightly, outstretched hand retracting to ball up and press to his face. "Two! There's two! That's - holy Primus, that's incredible! What're the odds?"
Megatron himself couldn't have kept Ratchet down. "Move it!" He sat forward, pushing aside his friend and the calming hands that took to rubbing the back of his neck. Then he looked down and saw, and it knocked the bluster right out of him "Oh. Oh. I…did I...?"
He would never, ever admit to the delicate shell of wonder that spread across his face. One of his own hands fumbled, searching for something secure in the dizzying upsweep as the ground fell out from underneath him, and he flew. There was life, and it was wonderful, and he'd brought it into a wartorn universe that constantly saturated him in death. Guilt and joy collided.
Hoist was right there to hold him steady, both hands holding his own between them, and Ratchet clung to him. He still couldn't manage keep his voice level. "Are those mine?"
"Breathe," their younger coworker reminded his fellow medics even as he beamed proudly. "Yes, Ratchet. Those are yours. Yours, and Prime's."
On the screen they all stared at so avidly, a man in overalls stepped into view and smiled back at the cluster of mesmerized Cybertronian medics. "Yes, they're 'yours,' Mr. Ratchet, and we here at the San Diego Zoo would like to thank you again for your contributions to the Black Rhino Breeding Program. As you can see," the sparse crowd of veterinarians and aids clapped quietly in the background as the second baby slid out, "your generous donation has brought another critically endangered species back one step further from the edge of extinction. We'd like to think that makes you the surrogate father to these little pieces of our planet." His smile turned understanding as the Autobot in the center of the cluster rested shaking fingers against the screen, and the look on the old, old medic's face was indescribable. "Your adopted children thank you for the gift of life, as does all of Earth."
Ratchet buried his face in his hands, overwhelmed.
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