Fic - Foundations
First fic ever posted >_< for left-eye-better Happy birthday dear <3
Beta'd by magni_zeal
Standard robot porn warnings.
It had been yet another pointless skirmish. Just a stupid squabble over resources… such encounters occurred on an almost weekly basis, flaring up at regular hot zones where the Decepticons challenged the Autobots' right to guard and restrict access to the humans’ refineries and mining installations.
This one had erupted near the eastern border of Canada at an offshore drilling platform in Hudson Bay. The location was somewhat isolated, and by the time they’d arranged for transport and arrived, a sizable Decepticon force had already assembled and began energon cube conversion and production. They’d defended their stake fiercely- Skyfire had been injured before he could even land, and as his passengers disembarked the situation had only continued to deteriorate.
He had learned of all this second-hand, of course. It was standard procedure on these sorts of emergency missions for the CMO to stay behind on the Ark, and prepare the medbay to receive whatever injured mechs might result from the conflict.
And so, they’d told him what had happened, that it wouldn’t have mattered if more specialized medical care was available or not. That he’d offlined almost instantly, his spark chamber critically breached when he was impaled by a falling drill tower, its high tension supports ripped from their moorings during the conflict.
Afterwards, it had taken three mechs to pull free the jagged metal that pinned him to the deck.
Even now, Prowl’s still form lay behind him as if in state, perfectly repaired, the faded monochrome of his plating gleaming in the medbay’s dimmed lighting, his frame empty of anything that had made him the mech he had been in life.
Regardless of what anyone said, Ratchet knew with a certainty that resonated in his spark: if he had been there, things would have ended differently.
He raised the high grade he rarely indulged in to his dermas again, welcoming the distinctive burn as it surged down his intake as much as he welcomed the burden of guilt he felt, however illogical it might be. It was still better than examining the raw, jagged edges of his emotions, better than directing the highly tuned acumen that aided him in counseling his comrades towards his own pain.
“Ratchet…?”
The medic stiffened at the gentle inquiry from just behind him, his spinal struts clicking audibly, announcing his tension to anymech knowledgeable enough to understand their language. He hadn’t even heard the doors open. “Unless you’re bleeding out, the medbay’s closed until next cycle.”
Bluestreak paused a moment before he replied, his voice closer than before. The CMO could almost feel the weight of the younger mech’s gaze passing over the telltale empty energon containers that lay on the floor where he’d dropped them, careless reflections of his current state.
“I… thought you might like to talk. You seemed pretty upset earlier… or at least grumpier than usual, and that’s saying something.” The gunner’s voice softened, and Ratchet could hear the smile on his dermas. “You’re always there for the rest of us… if you want- need to unload a little, I’m willing to listen. Despite my reputation, I do know how to. Listen, that is.”
Ratchet sighed and set aside his half empty cube, still not looking back at the other mech. He was honestly afraid of what his expression might reveal in that moment, so close to an edge that he hadn’t approached since the war began. “I’m fine, Bluestreak. I just need some rest.”
“Oh…” The gunner’s tone was uncertain, but he pressed on. “I saw… When we came back, your expression. You looked as if someone had hit you. Not that anybot would, or anything- but…” he trailed off as the medic started shaking his helm.
“I told you, I’m fine.” Ratchet forced himself not to snap at the younger mech as he carefully stood and made his way to a nearby counter with only moderate disorientation. “You should go talk to Jazz, if you want to help. He and Prowl…” the fallen tactician's name came out with a light hitch, and he forced himself to continue as he leaned on the counter more heavily than he would have liked. “He and Prowl were very close.”
Why did dealing with pain always seem harder when someone was offering sympathy for it? Ratchet ‘s fists clenched on the countertop as memories flared insistently, drawn of their own volition from his archives, threatening to steal what little composure he had left.
“Just… go, Blue. I need to be alone right now. Please.”
The last was almost whispered, and the room fell silent until the medic felt arms curl around his waist, closely followed by the press of a warm frame against his back. Ratchet jerked in surprise, and the unexpected embrace tightened, wordlessly communicating the other mech’s unwillingness to release him. “What…what do you think you’re doing?”
Warm air vented against his audial as Bluestreak shifted closer. “I think I’m offering you what Prowl once gifted me a long time ago. When I had lost everything.”
Ratchet shivered, somewhat startled at the strength of his response, his optics shuttering in mingled disbelief and despair. “I don’t want your pity.”
The mech behind him stilled. “Do you really think that he would have disrespected my losses… our losses, with pity? That pity could have helped me heal? You inspire many things within me, Ratchet… but pity isn’t, has never been, one of them.”
Gentle hands urged Ratchet to turn then, and he did, his gaze meeting the other Autobot's almost unwillingly. They were nearly of a height, he noted absently, and when Bluestreak’s fingertips drifted across his cheek he found himself given insight to a side of the younger mech that he’d had no idea existed.
Bluestreak’s expression held a strange and complex dignity that should have been too mature, too compelling for the guise he presented to the world. Almost effortlessly, Ratchet could sense the layers of it, and even deeper than that construction, the complexities of the gunner himself. The struggle that reaction had taken to build… and how fragile it could be. What courage it had required to extend it, to offer himself with no true reassurance that the overture would be appreciated.
He could no more disregard that hard-won, peaceful composure than he could have ignored a mech dying on his medbay floor. And truthfully… he didn’t want to.
Bluestreak took his hand when he didn’t pull away, and the medic remained silent as he was led to his own quarters adjacent to the medbay. They paused by the door, and Ratchet found himself entering his passcode, his unclaimed hand shaking so much it took several attempts, though the patient presence by his side remained steady, bolstering his shattered equilibrium.
When they entered, the gunner gently pushed him onto the berth that dominated the small, sparsely decorated room, and Ratchet lay down obediently, though his processor raced, nearly overwhelmed with the events of the cycle, his grief, and the connotations of Bluestreak’s actions.
“Quit thinking so hard.” The younger mech’s smile was affectionate as he crawled on the berth towards the medic with a graceful sensuality that Ratchet would have found difficult to attribute to him a breem earlier. “Or at least have the courtesy to be thinking about me.”
The gunner held Ratchet’s gaze as his hands slid up pale thighs, parting them so he could move between.
“Blue…” Somewhat disconcerted by the open anticipation in the other mech’s expression, Ratchet forced himself to try again as doubt swirled among the emotions that warred for dominance within him. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Oh, I know. You’ve been through worse. We all have.” Hips rocked against his own as the younger mech braced himself above the medic, and Ratchet couldn’t help but arch into the teasing contact, his ventilation hitching in surprise. “Enduring what we have doesn’t mean we don’t hurt when we lose the ones we love. And believe me when I say that I want this, all on my own.”
Heat flushed his plating as the gunner leaned closer, his pale blue gaze intent. “I care about you, and I want you. Very much.”
Their dermas were only a breath apart, and Bluestreak waited with admirable patience until Ratchet tilted his face up minutely, inviting the kiss that he suddenly longed for so strongly he ached.
It was one of the most difficult, yet liberating things the medic had ever done, allowing himself to finally let go of the burdens he bore for these moments in the gunner’s arms, to enjoy the weight of the younger mech’s frame atop his own, the excited revving of his high performance engine, his taste as they explored each other’s mouths with as much leisure as they could tolerate.
Heat rose steadily between them, and Ratchet shifted restlessly beneath the other mech, his ventilation system whirring wordless encouragement as Bluestreak pulled away enough to trail kisses lower, his dental plating scraping the delicate conduits of the medic’s neck. Ratchet shuddered as his hands slid across the younger mech’s frame in retaliation, deft fingers finding and invading the hinges of the datsun’s doorwings with all the skill that his training and experience with the frame style bestowed.
“Ratchet…” the gunner moaned, pressing back into his touch, his hands stroking lower, searching the medic’s frame until they found the slight depression of his interface panel. “Please,” Bluestreak’s fingertips stroked over the smooth, heated metal plaintively, “may I?”
One of Ratchet’s optical ridges rose in amusement as his panel slid open in response, and the younger mech looked down, optics flaring in desire as his fingers curled around the spike that immediately emerged from its housing. “Beautiful,” Bluestreak’s voice was soft as he slowly, almost reverently, smoothed lubricant down the medic’s length.
His own reply was distinctly breathy, a chuckle ending in a faint gasp as red hips rolled up eagerly, pressing into the other’s hand. “I… can’t say anymech’s ever called me that before.”
The gunner’s soft laugh was as sensual as his touch. “Well, you can be a bit… intimidating sometimes. Does break the mood to be assaulted while you're trying to shower a mech with compliments. But still.” Bluestreak’s dermas curved, and there was more than a hint of wickedness in his tone as he leaned even closer. “Their loss.”
Ratchet cried out as wet heat enveloped him, each flick of a sinful glossa sending shocks of molten sensation ricocheting along his sensory net. His body arched, held in place by Bluestreak’s steady hands as he reached blindly, fingers gripping, mapping the contours of the other's grey helm.
It was impossible to remain still beneath that assault, and Ratchet writhed in unselfconscious appreciation, moaning, whispering the gunner’s name until he was given respite, the meandering path of the younger mech’s dermas as he made his way back up the medic’s overheated frame.
Bluestreak leaned down to steal a kiss as his hand slipped between them, hesitant fingertips tracing the nodes embedded in the slick rim of his valve, inspiring another muted gasp of pleasure. “I never thought I’d have the chance to see you like this. I was afraid before, to say anything… everything seemed so complicated. With you, Jazz and Prowl. You have no idea what it does to me that you’re here, how long I’ve wanted you.”
The younger mech’s expression of hesitant wonder was humbling, and so sharp it stung against his grief, its architecture suddenly splayed out before him, another vulnerability the medic found he had no defense against. He reached up, hand trembling as he traced the familiar flange of the gunner’s proud chevron.
“I… think I might have an idea,” Ratchet murmured, his fingertips trailing down a smooth silver cheek. “But I’m here now.”
Bright optics flared even brighter above him as Bluestreak shifted, his own panel opening with a faint snick as he mounted his hips in a deft maneuver that dispelled any illusions of innocence the medic might still have held for him. “You are.”
And then he was taken, his gaze caught and held by the younger mech’s as he sank onto his spike, unable to look away, unable to hide what that fearless acceptance did to him. “Blue…”
Powerless to hold back as emotion threatened to eclipse sensation, Ratchet pressed up into the slick, tight heat that surrounded him, shifting with Bluestreak’s gentle movements. His hands found the gunner’s hips, and his spark flickered ardently in his chest, roused as sensation seemed to awaken within every conduit, pulsing outward from the heated slide of their connection.
Ratchet groaned as the younger mech’s valve rippled along his spike as if in reply to that swell of energy, and Bluestreak leaned closer, desire painting his features as their chest plating scraped evocatively.
“Please, merge with me?” He placed a hand on the medic’s windshield, fingers splayed beseechingly on the smooth glass as his own chest plating shifted slightly apart, the light within escaping faintly as if uncertain of its reception. “I need... to feel you. To know you.”
'As he did' was unsaid, but the words still echoed between them, lingering, seeking and offering a trust that shook him to his foundations.
Bluestreak’s voice caught as Ratchet arched into him in response, a choked sound of pleasure escaping his vocalizer as the spike he rode stroked against the nodes inset in the ceiling of his valve, sending the rising charge crackling through them both. “Please!”
The medic's own chest plates strained at the mechanisms that held them, and he hesitated as the gunner closed the last space between, their helms touching in a physical echo of that intimacy, the finest tendrils of the other's questing spark calling him, breaking him, until finally he was exposed as well.
They cried out involuntarily as their sparks met, their voices rising in unison, and Ratchet's hands slid lower across Bluestreak's plating, pressing them closer, gripping his aft as they found a new rhythm together. The younger mech's presence swelled within him, almost unbearably sweet, and the open edges of their chest compartments scraped as they moved, the friction grounding him in the moment as they began to sink into one another.
Their spark energies flirted and finally entwined as everything that Bluestreak was swelled around him, and they met somewhere in between, pleasure slowly consuming the edges of the brief timeless span that they were one.
They were... surprisingly balanced. The bleak flare of Ratchet's mourning was tempered with compassion, his crushing sorrow met with an equally powerful and empathic regret. The press of the almost unbearable weight of the vorns he'd existed was lightened, supported by the younger mech's vitality, his absolute will to survive... and his utter joy at being allowed this unexpected liberty.
It was a surprise when they were finally claimed by that insidious pleasure, immersed as they were in one another when their release rushed between them, and Ratchet moaned as he felt himself taken even as he was clenched in overload, the perfect duality of their response drawing out the moment until finally he knew nothing at all.
-oOo-
When awareness slowly returned, Ratchet tensed as he found their frames still entwined, the gunner's face pressed trustingly to one pauldron, the pale grey arms curled about him as if the younger mech feared he might escape, even in recharge. His expression was completely without guard, peaceful and so lovely that something inside him shifted. Slowly, he relaxed beneath Bluestreak's frame, allowing the comfortable lassitude that tempted him, for once, to hold sway.
He drifted like that for at least half a dozen breem before the younger mech's optics slowly brightened, and Ratchet couldn't help but return the smile that lit up his face as the other focused on him, his genuine delight sending something fluttering in the medic's chest that he thought had retired long ago.
"Hey there," murmured the gunner as he stretched languorously and moved to look down at him, his expression shifting almost immediately to something more uncertain. His mouth opened as if to speak, but he closed it again after a few moments before finally managing to get anything out, his voice low and uneven..
"I want to thank you. For sharing with me, for allowing me in. I'll never for- mmmph!"
Ratchet's dermas quirked, and he slipped a hand behind the younger mech's helm and drew him down into a slow, thorough kiss that left both their ventilation systems humming industriously when he finally allowed Bluestreak to draw back. His fingers curled beneath the gunner's chin, and he forced the other mech to meet his gaze as he finally spoke.
"Thank you. For showing an old, cranky, pessimistic mech that there's more to live for than war or pain. For sharing your love for Prowl," Ratchet's optics dimmed, and he smiled in remembrance of the mech that had held such an important part of both their sparks, "and for me."
The gunner blinked several times before his gaze focused back on the medic's face, his expression almost comically intent as emotions flashed across his face like clouds before the sun. "Does that mean...?"
Bluestreak sat up suddenly on the berth and looked down at the medic, his expression determined, more than a little scared, and so endearing that Ratchet couldn't even give in to the urge to tease the younger mech a little.
"Ratchet. I know this isn't exactly the way a mech would commonly offer his petition, but... will you allow me to court you?" Uncertainty made the gunner far more concise than usual, and Ratchet smiled again, clearly amused, as he reached up to pat the other mech's cheek plating.
"Relax, Blue. I think you passed the evaluation."
Beta'd by magni_zeal
Standard robot porn warnings.
It had been yet another pointless skirmish. Just a stupid squabble over resources… such encounters occurred on an almost weekly basis, flaring up at regular hot zones where the Decepticons challenged the Autobots' right to guard and restrict access to the humans’ refineries and mining installations.
This one had erupted near the eastern border of Canada at an offshore drilling platform in Hudson Bay. The location was somewhat isolated, and by the time they’d arranged for transport and arrived, a sizable Decepticon force had already assembled and began energon cube conversion and production. They’d defended their stake fiercely- Skyfire had been injured before he could even land, and as his passengers disembarked the situation had only continued to deteriorate.
He had learned of all this second-hand, of course. It was standard procedure on these sorts of emergency missions for the CMO to stay behind on the Ark, and prepare the medbay to receive whatever injured mechs might result from the conflict.
And so, they’d told him what had happened, that it wouldn’t have mattered if more specialized medical care was available or not. That he’d offlined almost instantly, his spark chamber critically breached when he was impaled by a falling drill tower, its high tension supports ripped from their moorings during the conflict.
Afterwards, it had taken three mechs to pull free the jagged metal that pinned him to the deck.
Even now, Prowl’s still form lay behind him as if in state, perfectly repaired, the faded monochrome of his plating gleaming in the medbay’s dimmed lighting, his frame empty of anything that had made him the mech he had been in life.
Regardless of what anyone said, Ratchet knew with a certainty that resonated in his spark: if he had been there, things would have ended differently.
He raised the high grade he rarely indulged in to his dermas again, welcoming the distinctive burn as it surged down his intake as much as he welcomed the burden of guilt he felt, however illogical it might be. It was still better than examining the raw, jagged edges of his emotions, better than directing the highly tuned acumen that aided him in counseling his comrades towards his own pain.
“Ratchet…?”
The medic stiffened at the gentle inquiry from just behind him, his spinal struts clicking audibly, announcing his tension to anymech knowledgeable enough to understand their language. He hadn’t even heard the doors open. “Unless you’re bleeding out, the medbay’s closed until next cycle.”
Bluestreak paused a moment before he replied, his voice closer than before. The CMO could almost feel the weight of the younger mech’s gaze passing over the telltale empty energon containers that lay on the floor where he’d dropped them, careless reflections of his current state.
“I… thought you might like to talk. You seemed pretty upset earlier… or at least grumpier than usual, and that’s saying something.” The gunner’s voice softened, and Ratchet could hear the smile on his dermas. “You’re always there for the rest of us… if you want- need to unload a little, I’m willing to listen. Despite my reputation, I do know how to. Listen, that is.”
Ratchet sighed and set aside his half empty cube, still not looking back at the other mech. He was honestly afraid of what his expression might reveal in that moment, so close to an edge that he hadn’t approached since the war began. “I’m fine, Bluestreak. I just need some rest.”
“Oh…” The gunner’s tone was uncertain, but he pressed on. “I saw… When we came back, your expression. You looked as if someone had hit you. Not that anybot would, or anything- but…” he trailed off as the medic started shaking his helm.
“I told you, I’m fine.” Ratchet forced himself not to snap at the younger mech as he carefully stood and made his way to a nearby counter with only moderate disorientation. “You should go talk to Jazz, if you want to help. He and Prowl…” the fallen tactician's name came out with a light hitch, and he forced himself to continue as he leaned on the counter more heavily than he would have liked. “He and Prowl were very close.”
Why did dealing with pain always seem harder when someone was offering sympathy for it? Ratchet ‘s fists clenched on the countertop as memories flared insistently, drawn of their own volition from his archives, threatening to steal what little composure he had left.
“Just… go, Blue. I need to be alone right now. Please.”
The last was almost whispered, and the room fell silent until the medic felt arms curl around his waist, closely followed by the press of a warm frame against his back. Ratchet jerked in surprise, and the unexpected embrace tightened, wordlessly communicating the other mech’s unwillingness to release him. “What…what do you think you’re doing?”
Warm air vented against his audial as Bluestreak shifted closer. “I think I’m offering you what Prowl once gifted me a long time ago. When I had lost everything.”
Ratchet shivered, somewhat startled at the strength of his response, his optics shuttering in mingled disbelief and despair. “I don’t want your pity.”
The mech behind him stilled. “Do you really think that he would have disrespected my losses… our losses, with pity? That pity could have helped me heal? You inspire many things within me, Ratchet… but pity isn’t, has never been, one of them.”
Gentle hands urged Ratchet to turn then, and he did, his gaze meeting the other Autobot's almost unwillingly. They were nearly of a height, he noted absently, and when Bluestreak’s fingertips drifted across his cheek he found himself given insight to a side of the younger mech that he’d had no idea existed.
Bluestreak’s expression held a strange and complex dignity that should have been too mature, too compelling for the guise he presented to the world. Almost effortlessly, Ratchet could sense the layers of it, and even deeper than that construction, the complexities of the gunner himself. The struggle that reaction had taken to build… and how fragile it could be. What courage it had required to extend it, to offer himself with no true reassurance that the overture would be appreciated.
He could no more disregard that hard-won, peaceful composure than he could have ignored a mech dying on his medbay floor. And truthfully… he didn’t want to.
Bluestreak took his hand when he didn’t pull away, and the medic remained silent as he was led to his own quarters adjacent to the medbay. They paused by the door, and Ratchet found himself entering his passcode, his unclaimed hand shaking so much it took several attempts, though the patient presence by his side remained steady, bolstering his shattered equilibrium.
When they entered, the gunner gently pushed him onto the berth that dominated the small, sparsely decorated room, and Ratchet lay down obediently, though his processor raced, nearly overwhelmed with the events of the cycle, his grief, and the connotations of Bluestreak’s actions.
“Quit thinking so hard.” The younger mech’s smile was affectionate as he crawled on the berth towards the medic with a graceful sensuality that Ratchet would have found difficult to attribute to him a breem earlier. “Or at least have the courtesy to be thinking about me.”
The gunner held Ratchet’s gaze as his hands slid up pale thighs, parting them so he could move between.
“Blue…” Somewhat disconcerted by the open anticipation in the other mech’s expression, Ratchet forced himself to try again as doubt swirled among the emotions that warred for dominance within him. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Oh, I know. You’ve been through worse. We all have.” Hips rocked against his own as the younger mech braced himself above the medic, and Ratchet couldn’t help but arch into the teasing contact, his ventilation hitching in surprise. “Enduring what we have doesn’t mean we don’t hurt when we lose the ones we love. And believe me when I say that I want this, all on my own.”
Heat flushed his plating as the gunner leaned closer, his pale blue gaze intent. “I care about you, and I want you. Very much.”
Their dermas were only a breath apart, and Bluestreak waited with admirable patience until Ratchet tilted his face up minutely, inviting the kiss that he suddenly longed for so strongly he ached.
It was one of the most difficult, yet liberating things the medic had ever done, allowing himself to finally let go of the burdens he bore for these moments in the gunner’s arms, to enjoy the weight of the younger mech’s frame atop his own, the excited revving of his high performance engine, his taste as they explored each other’s mouths with as much leisure as they could tolerate.
Heat rose steadily between them, and Ratchet shifted restlessly beneath the other mech, his ventilation system whirring wordless encouragement as Bluestreak pulled away enough to trail kisses lower, his dental plating scraping the delicate conduits of the medic’s neck. Ratchet shuddered as his hands slid across the younger mech’s frame in retaliation, deft fingers finding and invading the hinges of the datsun’s doorwings with all the skill that his training and experience with the frame style bestowed.
“Ratchet…” the gunner moaned, pressing back into his touch, his hands stroking lower, searching the medic’s frame until they found the slight depression of his interface panel. “Please,” Bluestreak’s fingertips stroked over the smooth, heated metal plaintively, “may I?”
One of Ratchet’s optical ridges rose in amusement as his panel slid open in response, and the younger mech looked down, optics flaring in desire as his fingers curled around the spike that immediately emerged from its housing. “Beautiful,” Bluestreak’s voice was soft as he slowly, almost reverently, smoothed lubricant down the medic’s length.
His own reply was distinctly breathy, a chuckle ending in a faint gasp as red hips rolled up eagerly, pressing into the other’s hand. “I… can’t say anymech’s ever called me that before.”
The gunner’s soft laugh was as sensual as his touch. “Well, you can be a bit… intimidating sometimes. Does break the mood to be assaulted while you're trying to shower a mech with compliments. But still.” Bluestreak’s dermas curved, and there was more than a hint of wickedness in his tone as he leaned even closer. “Their loss.”
Ratchet cried out as wet heat enveloped him, each flick of a sinful glossa sending shocks of molten sensation ricocheting along his sensory net. His body arched, held in place by Bluestreak’s steady hands as he reached blindly, fingers gripping, mapping the contours of the other's grey helm.
It was impossible to remain still beneath that assault, and Ratchet writhed in unselfconscious appreciation, moaning, whispering the gunner’s name until he was given respite, the meandering path of the younger mech’s dermas as he made his way back up the medic’s overheated frame.
Bluestreak leaned down to steal a kiss as his hand slipped between them, hesitant fingertips tracing the nodes embedded in the slick rim of his valve, inspiring another muted gasp of pleasure. “I never thought I’d have the chance to see you like this. I was afraid before, to say anything… everything seemed so complicated. With you, Jazz and Prowl. You have no idea what it does to me that you’re here, how long I’ve wanted you.”
The younger mech’s expression of hesitant wonder was humbling, and so sharp it stung against his grief, its architecture suddenly splayed out before him, another vulnerability the medic found he had no defense against. He reached up, hand trembling as he traced the familiar flange of the gunner’s proud chevron.
“I… think I might have an idea,” Ratchet murmured, his fingertips trailing down a smooth silver cheek. “But I’m here now.”
Bright optics flared even brighter above him as Bluestreak shifted, his own panel opening with a faint snick as he mounted his hips in a deft maneuver that dispelled any illusions of innocence the medic might still have held for him. “You are.”
And then he was taken, his gaze caught and held by the younger mech’s as he sank onto his spike, unable to look away, unable to hide what that fearless acceptance did to him. “Blue…”
Powerless to hold back as emotion threatened to eclipse sensation, Ratchet pressed up into the slick, tight heat that surrounded him, shifting with Bluestreak’s gentle movements. His hands found the gunner’s hips, and his spark flickered ardently in his chest, roused as sensation seemed to awaken within every conduit, pulsing outward from the heated slide of their connection.
Ratchet groaned as the younger mech’s valve rippled along his spike as if in reply to that swell of energy, and Bluestreak leaned closer, desire painting his features as their chest plating scraped evocatively.
“Please, merge with me?” He placed a hand on the medic’s windshield, fingers splayed beseechingly on the smooth glass as his own chest plating shifted slightly apart, the light within escaping faintly as if uncertain of its reception. “I need... to feel you. To know you.”
'As he did' was unsaid, but the words still echoed between them, lingering, seeking and offering a trust that shook him to his foundations.
Bluestreak’s voice caught as Ratchet arched into him in response, a choked sound of pleasure escaping his vocalizer as the spike he rode stroked against the nodes inset in the ceiling of his valve, sending the rising charge crackling through them both. “Please!”
The medic's own chest plates strained at the mechanisms that held them, and he hesitated as the gunner closed the last space between, their helms touching in a physical echo of that intimacy, the finest tendrils of the other's questing spark calling him, breaking him, until finally he was exposed as well.
They cried out involuntarily as their sparks met, their voices rising in unison, and Ratchet's hands slid lower across Bluestreak's plating, pressing them closer, gripping his aft as they found a new rhythm together. The younger mech's presence swelled within him, almost unbearably sweet, and the open edges of their chest compartments scraped as they moved, the friction grounding him in the moment as they began to sink into one another.
Their spark energies flirted and finally entwined as everything that Bluestreak was swelled around him, and they met somewhere in between, pleasure slowly consuming the edges of the brief timeless span that they were one.
They were... surprisingly balanced. The bleak flare of Ratchet's mourning was tempered with compassion, his crushing sorrow met with an equally powerful and empathic regret. The press of the almost unbearable weight of the vorns he'd existed was lightened, supported by the younger mech's vitality, his absolute will to survive... and his utter joy at being allowed this unexpected liberty.
It was a surprise when they were finally claimed by that insidious pleasure, immersed as they were in one another when their release rushed between them, and Ratchet moaned as he felt himself taken even as he was clenched in overload, the perfect duality of their response drawing out the moment until finally he knew nothing at all.
-oOo-
When awareness slowly returned, Ratchet tensed as he found their frames still entwined, the gunner's face pressed trustingly to one pauldron, the pale grey arms curled about him as if the younger mech feared he might escape, even in recharge. His expression was completely without guard, peaceful and so lovely that something inside him shifted. Slowly, he relaxed beneath Bluestreak's frame, allowing the comfortable lassitude that tempted him, for once, to hold sway.
He drifted like that for at least half a dozen breem before the younger mech's optics slowly brightened, and Ratchet couldn't help but return the smile that lit up his face as the other focused on him, his genuine delight sending something fluttering in the medic's chest that he thought had retired long ago.
"Hey there," murmured the gunner as he stretched languorously and moved to look down at him, his expression shifting almost immediately to something more uncertain. His mouth opened as if to speak, but he closed it again after a few moments before finally managing to get anything out, his voice low and uneven..
"I want to thank you. For sharing with me, for allowing me in. I'll never for- mmmph!"
Ratchet's dermas quirked, and he slipped a hand behind the younger mech's helm and drew him down into a slow, thorough kiss that left both their ventilation systems humming industriously when he finally allowed Bluestreak to draw back. His fingers curled beneath the gunner's chin, and he forced the other mech to meet his gaze as he finally spoke.
"Thank you. For showing an old, cranky, pessimistic mech that there's more to live for than war or pain. For sharing your love for Prowl," Ratchet's optics dimmed, and he smiled in remembrance of the mech that had held such an important part of both their sparks, "and for me."
The gunner blinked several times before his gaze focused back on the medic's face, his expression almost comically intent as emotions flashed across his face like clouds before the sun. "Does that mean...?"
Bluestreak sat up suddenly on the berth and looked down at the medic, his expression determined, more than a little scared, and so endearing that Ratchet couldn't even give in to the urge to tease the younger mech a little.
"Ratchet. I know this isn't exactly the way a mech would commonly offer his petition, but... will you allow me to court you?" Uncertainty made the gunner far more concise than usual, and Ratchet smiled again, clearly amused, as he reached up to pat the other mech's cheek plating.
"Relax, Blue. I think you passed the evaluation."