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basementbots · 5 years ago

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A Little Scrap, Chapter 2

Can also find this on AO3!

Notes: Didn’t want to put the whole text on my main but I also like to have all my fics on tumblr, too, so here’s the compromise.

✨ ✨🚑💦💦🚚✨ ✨

Ratchet ran several more tests, the nature and importance of which were lost on Optimus. He tried to be supportive, nodding along whenever Ratchet stopped to explain what he was doing, but for the most part his processor was a tumbling code of something something heavy metals something something wavelengths something something sparkling—

And then a word from Ratchet’s rambling explanations would cut through the loops and he would be reminded, full-scale, the new reality of their situation. Any summarization Ratchet offered of his findings could be further condensed into the same conclusion: Ratchet was carrying their sparkling.

“But your code is telling you you’re the sire.” It wasn’t necessary for Optimus to repeat it, not when Ratchet had said it himself this many times already, but he wanted to assure his anxious bonded that he’d been paying attention through all the ranting jargon.

“Sire programming is modifying parameters within my actum synthesizer to improve survival statistics for the newspark,” Ratchet said. “So, essentially, yes.”

Optimus could have defined each of the words in that sentence individually, but the whole was greater than the sum of its parts and arithmetic was already a touchy subject for the archivist-turned-Prime.

“Could that be detrimental toward construction?” he asked, because that was what he really wanted to know.

Ratchet half-shook his head, paused. His fingers hovered over the terminal keyboard.

“Only in that, mid-crisis, instinct will demand I protect the perceived carrier,” he said. “But so long as we maintain normal duties and don’t put me on the field, that shouldn’t be an issue.”

Optimus swore he felt the Matrix tremble as the long-forgotten Fourteenth, Hubris Prime, shook with astral mirth.

“Otherwise, sparkling and protoform development are handled by the autonomic systems and aren’t affected by personality matrices. According to the tests, the sparkling is drawing energy at exactly the rate we would expect at this stage of development and my gestation chamber is in its final preparatory stages.” An unbusy hand drifted down to his midsection, hovering over the plating without making contact. Optimus watched it, feeling a twinge of bizarre envy: not to be the carrier, but to assert himself as the little one’s sire, defend his title against—against Ratchet?

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have his own coding checked up some time.

“Anything that could have gone wrong would have already,” Ratchet went on, oblivious. “We’re looking at a fairly standard gestation, provided the carrier is kept in good health, of course.”

That much, Optimus’ processor could handle.

“You mean yourself?” he clarified.

“I…” Ratchet froze again. Optimus couldn’t see his face, but his posture was that of a mech who’d just been cornered into considering self-care for the first time in millennia. “Yes, I sup—of course.”

This brought them to the point in the conversation Optimus had been most anxious to address. Naturally, in the spaces between tests, explanations of tests, and dumbing down of explanations, he’d prepared a speech.

“Concerning the sparkling,” he said while Ratchet’s typing resumed, “know that whatever your choice, you will have my full support, as your partner and your Prime. The tolls of gestation are—"

“I’m keeping it.”

Optimus’ spark stirred and joyous heat bloomed deep within him.

He was the Prime, bearer of the Matrix, symbol of Cybertronian life. Beyond that, the bond he shared with Ratchet was the sole treasure of his past life he’d managed to secret through all these years of warfare and destruction, and to see it coalesce into a new being was a gift greater than he felt he deserved. Excitement wound up into his coil of trepidation, a spring pulling tighter from within his spark.

“You’re certain, Ratchet?” he asked. “Is there the possibility that this is coding making the decision on your behalf?”

Ratchet stopped his work again, but this time he turned to face Optimus, expression difficult to parse. Their bond, though, zipped and echoed with the charge of their shared nervousness, though if Optimus focused, he could almost hear the deep hum of something vast and warm underneath.

“It’s impossible to determine which lines of code a decision can be traced back to,” Ratchet said, spoken with a confidence that didn’t match the tenor of emotions traversing the link between them. “Code builds on itself, conflicting protocols run simultaneously, and priority trees are constantly rewriting themselves to account for changes in the environment. Being a sire changes the way I consider the situation, but so does being an Autobot and an emergency vehicle. Maybe if the program had failed to integrate, my choice would be different, but it’s not my responsibility to make that kind of judgement.” He placed a hand over his spark and averted his gaze. “I’m keeping it.”

Optimus was so moved he couldn’t bring himself to ruin the moment by mentioning the slip-up. He offered a hand to Ratchet who took it as if by instinct, meeting Optimus’ gaze once more with a flare more akin to flame than circuitry.

“Your courage is enviable, dear spark,” Optimus said. “It would be my honor to join you in guiding this new being to life.”

The look he received wasn’t quite the grateful exuberance he’d expected.

“Of course you’re going to,” Ratchet snipped (almost a snap, but without the full disappointment). “It’s going to be your job to explain to the others when I’m guzzling twice my share of energon and somehow half as pleasant to be around.”

There: a humorous flicker in his optics. Optimus had barely a moment to appreciate it before strong arms were wrapping around his middle and Ratchet’s lips were pressing against the seam in his windshield.

“I love you,” his bondmate murmured against the metal.

Optimus returned the hug with one arm while the other hand cupped Ratchet’s cheek, tilting his helm up so they were optic-to-optic again.

“I love you, as well.”

“Both of you.”

They froze, moments from a kiss that would have knocked their gyros out of alignment.

“Did we—”

“Say that at the same time? Yeah.” Ratchet huffed, the annoyed sound useless to cover the amused glint in his optics. “I’m going to look into it, but I can’t make any—mmf!”

Optimus didn’t want to hear more about coding, or spark maintenance, or scrap, any of it! Ratchet’s lips were right there, extremely kissable, and by now it would be nothing short of a failure on his part to miss the opportunity to capture them with his own. Now that they had some (limited) idea of what the future had in store, it was like a switch had been flipped in his processor and every algorithm kept spitting out the same solution: Ratchet. That beautiful frame that had shielded and cared for Optimus all this time, the processor of unbelievable sophistication and power, both geared toward the most incredible task of fostering their sparkling. The hand that had been cradling Ratchet’s jaw now dropped to his chassis, fingers delving for the warmth of a living spark. It was right there, protected, nurtured, the safest place Optimus could imagine for it, and the thought caused his engine to rev on the spot, shocking a burst of laughter and twin growl from Ratchet’s own frame.

Ratchet pushed the kiss deeper while his hands reached up, searching for leverage so he could draw their frames closer together. Optimus relocated the hand that had been between them to the back of Ratchet’s neck so they could stand chest-to-chest while their glossae danced together. Optimus drew in the taste of Ratchet and felt something inside him start to go soft, their bond threatening to take on a spongey texture before a crafty hand sent electric fire up his backstrut, goopy emotions shocked into something much more urgent. Their fans both clicked on. Optimus felt Ratchet smirk into their kiss, the new excitement building up as it bounced between them.

They ended up on the floor: not a conscious decision on either of their parts, but by the time Optimus realized his aft had landed on something other than the medical berth he was too caught up in the feeling of Ratchet nibbling along his jawline to care.

Optimus underneath, Ratchet splayed on top, hands exploring downward, sliding over Optimus’ windshield, dipping into the seams between armor plates. Optimus’ engine growled when one stroked the near-invisible parting of his modesty cover and he allowed it to release, spike pressurizing immediately into Ratchet’s waiting hand. Slow, luxurious interfacing had its place in their relationship.

Right now, they needed to fuck.

A few beads of pre-fluid dotted the tip of Optimus’ excited spike. Ratchet picked them up as he swirled his fingers over the head, wrapping his hand around so he could smear the shine down in two short pumps. Optimus shivered as he felt plating glide over the smooth, sensitive metal, and he unshuttered his optics (he’d closed them? oops) to watch Ratchet’s hand rub along his spike. It was nice, but not what either of them were really looking forward to, and a single glance between them brought Ratchet’s hand down to the base, then lower, shifting so his fingers traced the lips of Optimus’ valve.

Optimus, wanting to reciprocate, reached toward Ratchet’s own modesty cover, but his attempt was thwarted by Ratchet leaning down capture him with his clever mouth.

“Nuh-uh-uh,” was murmured between kisses. “I’m taking care of you right now.”

Optimus’ processor tried to flag something in the statement, but before he could devote thought to it, Ratchet’s hand started to explore deeper and he was distracted again, an expert finger slipping inside him, followed closely by another. His valve quaked at their touch and his hips bucked up to the sensation before being pressed down under Ratchet’s weight.

“Ratchet—please—”

“We’re getting there, Optimus, I promise.” The fingers pushed deeper, eliciting a whine from Optimus as they caressed the buried sensors—Primus he was sensitive, had it really been that long since they’d last done this?—and pulled back out, tracing their path along the inner edge of Optimus’ valve. They pushed in again, and from there Ratchet started up a rhythm, in and out, fingers spreading and hooking to catch every node along the way. His other hand explored Optimus’ neck, feeling along the tender cables.

It was good, very good, but Optimus knew what Ratchet was capable of and felt an impatient, undignified sound bleat out of his vocoder.

“That charged already?” Was that wonder in Ratchet’s voice? No, didn’t matter, because those delightful fingers were leaving Optimus’ valve and whatever happened in the next five seconds would determine whether Ratchet was his favorite person in the world or a Prime-appointed slagsucker. His own hands grasped at the seams of Ratchet’s pelvis, feeling into those spaces that exposed the delicate wires underneath.

As it turned out, his attention span couldn’t even last that long, because at three and a half seconds he felt himself yank Ratchet down in a clatter of plating and lust that communicated his desires far more effectively than he was capable of saying with words by that point.

“Sorry,” he said, hoping he could be heard over his own groaning fans.

“Me, too,” Ratchet said, and Optimus didn’t know whether it was apology or agreement before he heard Ratchet’s modesty cover transforming away.

The feeling of Ratchet’s spike finally sliding into him was blessed, Primus-ordained, a miracle of nature, proof that good could exist in the universe. When his hips moved this time, he managed to keep himself from bucking, rolling against the pressure as Ratchet pushed himself further inside. Optimus continued to play with Ratchet’s hips, but he could feel his movements growing clumsier as he dealt with both the motion and the sensations within him. He almost lost his hold completely and cried out when the base of Ratchet’s spike pressed flush against his valve lips, then felt himself clench as the luxurious, slow withdrawal sucked against every sensor along the way.

“O-Optimus…” Ratchet’s vocoder clicked out.

He picked up the pace, diving into Optimus with a new sense of fervor as he drove them toward climax. He could see it coming, but it still came as a shock to Optimus when he hurtled off the edge, digging into Ratchet’s frame as overload crashed into him. Ratchet’s thrusts did not relent, carrying Optimus through and then on as he chased down his own overload.

Optimus was content with this at first, the feeling of Ratchet’s spike never unpleasant, but time drew on and it became difficult to discern whether Ratchet’s movements were excited or frustrated. He removed his hands from Ratchet’s hips and leveraged himself up on his elbow joints, trying to catch his lover’s attention.

“Ratchet?”

“J-just give me a minute.” His vocoder kept popping with static that forced him to reset it. “I can f-feel it, I’m… I’m almost…”

His cooling fans were roaring and his movements growing jerky when the effort it was taking him to keep up the pace, and even then, Optimus could see his frame forcing him to slow down, optics unfocusing as his processor redirected attention to the needs of his spike.

Concerned, Optimus sat up further, freeing one arm to lay a calm but forceful hand on Ratchet’s pelvis, stilling him.

“Easy, old friend,” he murmured, the few words that had ever had any success drawing Ratchet’s attention when he’d become fixated on something, though a true Ratchet Scowl™ took the place of his prior frustration.

“I’m so close,” he grumbled.

“I know,” Optimus said, rubbing his shoulder; not erotic, just comforting. “Maybe we can try something else?”

“I just don’t understand,” he went on, perhaps oblivious to Optimus’ suggestion. “Physically, everything should be in—”

He stopped, hand slapping to his mouth as his optics flared.

“Ratchet?”

“The frame halts transfluid production to redirect resources to the sparkling,” he said through loose fingers. “I can’t use my spike.” The hand dropped, true horror dawning on the medic’s face. “I’m not going to be able to use my spike for quartexes.”

“I’m sorry,” Optimus said, and meant it, thought a part of his processor was considering specifying Ratchet’s definition of the word use. “Perhaps you will be able to find a workaround?” The look he received was not one that could be characterized as hopeful. “For now, would you like to finish another way?”

“Hm.” The far-away look in Ratchet’s optics had been reeled in but had settled into a glare that he directed at his own spike, as though he would be able to bully the misbehaving mechanism back into obedience.

“Ratchet.” Optimus lowered the pitch of his vocoder, turning it silky in a way that always managed to catch his bonded’s attention, and supplemented it with a finger under the chin; even then, there was a beat’s hesitation before Ratchet’s optics met his own. “Let’s get off the floor.”

Ratchet shivered; his plating rattled. Optimus felt a bloom of pride as he scooped up his lover and maneuvered them onto the relative dignity of the medical berth. The charge was still hot and high through his systems, the plating so warm Optimus was sure he would be able to hear the crackle of excess energy if he leaned close enough. That couldn’t be comfortable to be holding onto, and more than his own pleasure, Optimus wanted to make sure Ratchet could be relieved of the charge.

“No spike,” Ratchet said. “Anything else, do whatever it takes.”

“Whatever you like,” Optimus said, closing the distance between their lips.

Their movements were slower this time, more intentional as they eased Ratchet back into bliss. Glossae dipped and swiped over each other as they properly reacquainted themselves with one another’s taste, and Optimus swallowed the other’s hum of pleasure as his hand started to travel down Ratchet’s front. His fingers, designed to cradle, to shield, skipped past Ratchet’s spike and slipped those several inches lower, kneading at the hot, soft folds of Ratchet’s valve. Ratchet squirmed and shifted so he was sitting in Optimus’ lap, rolling his hips in time with Optimus’ movements.

He broke the kiss so he could mouth at the juncture of Optimus’ neck and collar faring.

He murmured something like, “Please,” though it was slightly unclear between the lapping and sucking.

“Whatever you like,” Optimus repeated, allowing himself to neither be distracted by nor ignore the affection. He pressed a kiss to the top of Ratchet’s helm and started to press inside the familiar warmth of his partner, leaving his thumb outside to continue swirling around his anterior node. A heady flare of need whipped from Ratchet’s field as he stiffened, then relaxed, leaning heavier on Optimus as the latter curled his fingers against a sensor patch.

“Mm, r-right there,” Ratchet said, the air pouring from his vents heating up. “Right—mm.”

Optimus could feel Ratchet starting to slide down a bit, lost in the twin sensations of pleasure and exhaustion. He wrapped his free arm around the mech’s back and readjusted him, keeping them steady with one arm while the other hand continued its ministrations. Ratchet’s hands scrabbled like he wanted to help, but in the end, he just managed to reach around Optimus’ back and cling to his shoulders, letting the larger partner keep them both steady. Optimus could feel Ratchet’s spike pressing against him, almost throbbing with the same rhythm as his movements. He changed from a pumping motion to a swirl, feeling Ratchet’s calipers ripple in response to the new stimulus.

“Good, good, good,” Ratchet was saying, punctuated by hot, open-mouthed kisses against Optimus’ neck cables. “I’m so close, I’m, I’m—ah!”

His body stiffened as Optimus felt the calipers squeeze around his fingers. He continued to move, trying to draw out Ratchet’s overload, only stopping when he felt Ratchet slump his whole weight against him. His hand slipped out of Ratchet’s valve and went to his waist to help support him.

They didn’t speak, just held each other as their bodies cycled down. Ratchet’s fans spun smoothly, the air they exvented cooling down to a sweet breeze that mingled with Optimus’ own.

“I—”

It didn’t matter who had been about to speak, or what they intended to say. At the same moment, both became aware of the incessant, anxious pinging coming from the central console in the command hub.

The team was (had been for some time) ready for extraction.

#valveplug

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