Enamorarse

Summary: Put it off to be being young, but they couldn't help that their sparks ached for the older mech. First TF fic: Ratchet/Jettwins, Slash. Rated M for some 'sticky' smut as it were
Rating: M

Originally posted on FF.net




C.M.D: This is quite literally the very first fanfic that I ever wrote for the Transformers fandom. I was familiar with G1, but had just recently hopped on the Animated bandwagon (belatedly, but of course) and was inspired to write a fic about the three characters I had thought most worth slashing within the show. Since then, I have been writing for the fandom all over and don't think I am to stop any time soon! XD

There was the soft whirring sounds of two systems rebooting, intakes catching for an astrosecond before falling back into their steady rhythm, metal brushing as two individuals pulled apart momentarily, static meshing through their vocalizers in a sort of groan. The light blooming between their bodies bubbled and flared, before it was quickly concealed again as different sets of colourful plating moved to cover the delicate glow, keeping the sensitive interior safe and protected once more.

“B-brother....,” one of the beings spoke, feeling his twin settle on the berth beside him. There came a chirrup, the equivalent of a human hum. Still feeling sluggish as his body flashed signals for immediate recharge despite his reboot, the mech rolled over and faced his brother. He ignored the feeling of his own and his twin's lubricant running down his thighs. Round, yellow optics focused on him; half-shuttered with exhaustion.

“Yes, brother?,” came Jetfire's voice. Jetstorm cycled an intake, shifting closer to his brother's form. The warmth and silent vibration of his engine calmed his restless self, making fighting off recharge an even harder task. “What be problem, Jetstorm?,” Jetfire prompted, a little testily, curling back into his twin's body all the same. “I tired.”

For a couple breems, Jetstorm couldn't find the words to speak. The darkness covered the two mechs, soothing them as they lay wrapped in each other's arms, systems fuzzy still from the recent overload they had shared. “You be thinking about him too, brother?,” the blue autobot finally asked. Jetfire shifted, unshuttering his optics and staring into the visor of his twin. He could see that Jetstorm was anxiously waiting for his reply.

“We be bonded, brother,” the orange-coloured mech sighed. “You be knowing my thoughts, as I be knowing yours. You doubt I too think of him?”

Jetstorm shook his head. “If wanting us too he ever will be, brother, is what I be wondering.....”

Jetfire could feel his twin's pain, because it was the same fueltank-dropping, clawing kind of grasp that squeezed around his own spark. The thoughts that their feelings might be rejected were a subject that the brightly coloured jet tried not to stray near. He didn't think he could bear it.... Jetstorm pressed closer to him, chassis melded together, their sparks whirling in their casings at the other's close proximity. To think that his love might never be wanted terrified Jetfire, but he pushed those anxieties aside for his brother's sake. He knew he had to comfort his more sensitive twin before the blue jet upset his systems with his worrying. A terrible thing to do, for sure, but making sure Jetstorm was better always made Jetfire feel marginally better as well.

The whole twin bond thing, and all.

The young mech brushed the metal antennas just above his brother's audios, shuttering his optics again and nuzzling his face into Jetstorm's neck cables. His twin stroked the round fixtures atop his helm in response, returning the much appreciated comfort. Through their bond, Jetfire poured his thoughts and feelings into the accepting 'bot, reminding him silently that all would be okay, and that things would work out in the end. “If you be saying so,” Jetstorm mumbled sleepily. He kissed the top of Jetfire's helm, the light in his visor dimming as he finally started slipping off to recharge. “My spark still sputter when I be thinking we going to see him will again. I hardly not wait.”

Jetfire revved his engine slightly in answer, systems almost completely hibernating by now. But he understood everything his brother was saying, and Jetstorm knew that he did. Content once again, the twins drifted into recharge, placated by the thought that they would be seeing Ratchet soon.

xxXxXxx

“I still don't see why we have to kiss up to that aft-face,” Ratchet grumbled, transforming to bipedal mode as they drew to a stop. The sun was shining brightly down upon the Earth, and the weather was a mild humid, which was in all actuality quite lovely, ensuring it would be a good day. Yet, despite the beautiful conditions, nothing could improve the aging CMO's mood. Beside him, Prime transformed out of his alt-mode, sighing at the medic's attitude.

“It's not.... it's....,” the truck sighed again, pinching the bridge of his olfactory sensor as he struggled to reply without reinstating the very obvious and true statement that Ratchet had decided to refer to Sentinel with. “He still doesn't understand much about Earth, Ratchet, and for that reason in itself we should help him.”

“Not to mention that we don't want him to be giving us a bad rep,” Bumblebee piped up from between the two older mechs. “I mean, we don't want the humans to think we're some over-charged, ego maniac like Sentinel-jerk.” Optimus shot him a look, while Ratchet merely rolled his optics, grumbling under his intakes further.

Wanting to get back on task, and save their ever compassionate leader from a processor-ache, Prowl stepped forward. “We should head inside now, don't you think?,” he directed to Optimus, content that the larger mech finally pushed away his conflicting thoughts, settling on the present.

“Yes. Yes, you're right Prowl,” the red autobot smiled to the motorcycle. “C'mon everyone. Inside.” They followed his lead, albeit grudgingly, walking toward the waiting Elite Guard ship. As they approached, the doors opened and the boarding bridge lowered.

“So....,” came a pompous drawl as they entered the command center, “Dragged your tail pipes back here to apologize, have we?”

“Sentinel,” Optimus replied, before any of his teammates could open their mouths. “That's not why we're here. We've come to offer you any assistance that you might need during your stay on this planet.”

The captain's chair swiveled around, showing the ever smug Sentinel Prime -though one would have to wonder why he was always so smug, considering he failed at nearly everything that he did. Beyond him, Jazz turned away from the consoles, flashing a smile at the rag-tag team that had just walked in. This calmed everyone down for the most part.... before Sentinel opened his mouth again. “Whatever Optimus,” the blue-painted mech grunted, waving a hand in the air dismissively. “As if I would need your help. I've got this whole operation under control, so why don't you.... oh, I don't know.... go for a spin, or something.”

“Would be better than being here,” Ratchet grumbled lowly, crossing his arms over his chest. “You and your slagging ego take up too much atmosphere for my liking.”

“What was that you scrap-heap?,” Sentinel growled, jumping to his feet.

“You heard me!,” the CMO snapped back, glaring at the soldier.

“Why I oughta-”

“Listen,” Optimus cut in, stepping in between his team and his ex-comrade. “We're not here to fight, okay?” He fixed Ratchet with a stern look he only ever used on Bumblebee, before turning slightly apologetic optics to Sentinel. “We only want to help. Remember?”

Sentinel cycled out a short, heavy intake reminiscent of a snort. “Fine. Stay if you want,” the soldier snipped. “I'll be out doing patrol.” That said, the blue mech marched past Optimus and the others, not caring to stop and apologize when his shoulder plates clanged against Optimus'.

“Don't worry about SP so much,” Jazz said, walking up to the gang once Sentinel was out the door. His face plates were spread wide with a warm grin. “He's just aching to wrangle up some Decepticons since our target turned out not so traitorous in the end. Ya know, soothe his pride and all.”

“That would be just like Sentinel,” Optimus nodded his head in agreement.

“Still!,” Bumblebee protested behind the larger mechs. “Why does that tin-can gotta stay on Earth for? Wasp is gone now and there's no reason to chase after him considering he's not actually a traitor. So why can't that jerk go hunt Decepticons somewhere else, and away from here!”

“I have to agree with the kid on this one,” Ratchet spoke up. “It's already been half a deca-cycle since Wasp went off the radar. Shouldn't you be heading home then? To inform the council about Longarm being the real traitor?”

Jazz's shoulders slumped at this. “Yeah, well.... You know SP. It's his way or the highway, as the humans say. And he doesn't plan on returning until he has something to show for his trip here.”

“To soothe his ego,” was everyone's monotonous reply.

Optimus couldn't help the weary intake that escaped him. “Alright, well.... if there's anything we can help with Jazz, we'd be more than glad to do so.”

An “anything to get that jerk out of this galaxy” sounded from behind him, but the truck couldn't discern which 'bot said it and decided just to let it slide. After all, he knew more than well enough how much of a hassle Sentinel could be.

“You're the man, OP,” Jazz grinned at the offer. “If you're all really up for it, let's drop down to the bottom deck and get us rigged with some gear. Then we can all head for a patrol. It's a nice day, no?”

Optimus smiled back. “Indeed it is.”

xxXxXxx

Jetfire and Jetstorm were in the middle of cleaning the lower decks, as per Sentinel's orders. Never mind that they had drones and other machines for that kind of menial labour; it was their 'punishment' as Sentinel said, for letting Wasp get away in the first place. Not that the twins minded so much. For the time being, they were staying on Earth -until their commander finally decided to return to Cybertron- giving the younglings plenty of time to chat among themselves and think about the mech that had their sparks all a flutter. Really, it was quite unfathomable why they would be feeling such things towards the grouchy, old CMO; and that confusion plagued them at this very moment.

“He be rude very much,” Jetstorm said, his face plates turned to the deck wall that he was currently buffing.

“Yes, brother,” Jetfire answered. “But he care about comrades and also other beings. He too be strong.”

The blue autobot smiled, visor dimming as he called forth the image of the medic. “Strong very,” he purred, lost in thought.

Jetfire looked up from his spot, kneeling on the floor as he tried to get a scuff mark to clear away, glancing at his twin. The astrosecond the words had left his brother's lip components, the orange mech was barraged by a stream of steamy feelings. He could see in his processor's eye, the same images that Jetstorm did; many of them recollections of that night when they had first touched down on Earth and set out for the fugitive Wasp. That had been the first time they had seen Ratchet as well. The current that had run through their systems was immediate. It left all their sensors tingling, making their thoughts lag as if they had suddenly been hit with a virus. And indeed, it had almost felt that way too when later, after learning that the red and white mech was an autobot as well, their plating began to heat up, leaving their sparks to spin about crazily in their casings. It was a rush that the twins had never felt before, despite all the stunts they had pulled, in the air and on the ground; a pleasantly queer sensation that they were growing used to fast.

As Jetstorm continued to idle still, the memories of a slick Ratchet making snappy remarks in the rain were replaced by other, more..... uncensored..... simulations. Jetfire felt a shock run down his spinal struts as his optics shuttered, lost in the sensations of a smooth, low growl whispering into his audios. He let loose a groan, intakes hitching, as servos trailed down his sleek form; petting and stroking the rapidly heating metal before cupping around his aft and pulling him close to a larger chassis. The servos at his backside touched everything within their reach, slipping into armour seams and plucking at sensitive wires there. The jet could feel Ratchet smirking against his audios, muttering something utterly naughty, as his skilled medic fingers brushed ever closer to the youngling's codpiece; promises of an overload like nothing he had ever felt before. Jetfire writhed in the CMO's grasp, gears grinding as they pushed for the desired contact that was being refused to him still, lubricant already beginning to seep into his valve.

Waiting, anxiously waiting, for the moment when the older mech would finally stop his teasing, remove his protective covering and-

“How many times do I have to call your attention before I actually get it?!”

Jetfire felt his systems grind to a painful stop, spark leaping about his chassis nervously as that cranky voice cut through his audios, disrupting the pleasant simulation he and his brother had been sharing. There was a crash and a choked intake as Jetstorm tripped over his pedes just behind his twin, snapped back to reality as well. Onlining his optics, the orange-coloured mech looked up in the direction of the voice, feeling energon rush through his audios. Ratchet was really here..... Ratchet was here!The jet felt his facial plating heat up, embarrassment boiling his energon to high levels. If the medic only knew what the twins had just been thinking of....

“Y-you.... was wanting something, s-sir?,” Jetstorm piped up from behind him. There was a tremor to his brother's voice, but all the same, Jetfire was glad that the other had responded. He didn't think he could get his vocalizer to even work yet.

Ratchet looked at them derisively, before shaking his head and cycling a heavy intake. “And here I thought you were all stuck in stasis-lock,” the ambulance mumbled to himself. “Anyways, never mind. Go back to your day-dreaming kids.”

The CMO started to turn away from the twins, which startled them even further than his presence had, and they shot to their pedes in a hurry, not wanting the mech to leave just yet. Quickly, they each raced to one side of the medic. “You should not be in so hurry,” Jetfire tried to protest, smiling up at Ratchet. The old grump glared at the youngling when he grabbed his arm, but did not shake him off thankfully. Jetstorm saw this, and took after his brother's lead.

“Yes, yes!,” he beamed, pressing closer to Ratchet. He struggled to stay focused though the heat from the CMO's internal systems threatened to daze him. “We be of assistance can, yes?”

Ratchet mumbled something between gritted dental plating, before conceding slightly to the pair's pestering. “But don't you have work to do?,” he asked, glancing back at the cleaning solution that was now knocked all over the floor from the twin's startle earlier.

“We later do,” the orange one chirped.

“Beside, it Sentinel's order be. And what knows he does not, will hurt him not, no?,” the blue one replied just as smoothly. Ratchet's lip components quirked just a little at the subtle insubordination. Maybe something of Bumblebee was rubbing off on him, but anybody who thought Sentinel was a jerk was an okay mech in his books. Perhaps these younglings weren't so bad after all.

“Fair enough,” the medic gruffed, wiping the tiny smirk off his face. “If you want to help so bad, then get me to the med bay. These new, confounded Elite ships are a slagging maze.”

“Yes sir!,” the jettwins chorused, keeping their hold on each of the CMO's arms and leading all of them deeper into the ship's belly.

xxXxXxx

“I'll just take this, this.... Hmmm.... need some of this too. And that.”

 Ratchet puttered about the med bay, subspacing items left and right: those that he needed, and others that he simply wanted. He didn't really care that he was essentially stealing because 1)this was Sentinel's ship, and this was his form of revenge on the over-pumped youth, and 2) this ship would return to Cybertron again sometime soon, where it would be restocked anyhow as part of protocol. Ratchet knew he wouldn't be getting home anytime soon himself, so he figured he might as well take what he needed in the meantime. Normally he wouldn't feel so chagrined about doing such a necessary task if it wasn't for the two mechs, both standing silently at the door.

Cycling his intakes irritably, the medic turned his attention to the two jets, optics narrowing suspiciously. “Don't you two have something else to do other than stand there all day, watching me,” he harrumphed. To his further annoyance, the twins merely cocked their heads simultaneously, optics shuttering curiously in the case of the orange youngling.

“No,” they answered in unison. The simple reply rattled Ratchet's circuitry. He dutifully turned away from them again, returning to his previous task of gathering supplies for their Earthen base.

Behind him, Jetstorm and Jetfire continued to watch the older mech, feeling their sparks swirl in calm rotations; soothed by the CMO's mere presence. It was a strange action, for sure, but it just furthered the fact that they were irrevocably, unquestionably in love with Ratchet despite having known him only a few cycles. And even then, they didn't know everything about him. But they wanted to; oh, how they wanted to. The twins listened to the medic grumble as he searched the med bay, pulling open compartments and sifting through drawers, mood growing worse and worse as he continued to have troubling locating something. Seeing this, the ever sympathetic Jetstorm stepped forward, hands held out placatingly. “You liking some help would?,” he asked.

Ratchet slammed a compartment door shut, cursing lowly in Cybertronian. At the offer, his optics flashed up, settling on the suddenly nervous blue flyer. For a few astroseconds, it didn't appear that the medic would ever answer. Finally though, his jaw relaxed a bit with a sharp grind, the CMO standing to his full height. “If you can find me replacement intake components in this scrap-heap, then I'd be much obliged.”

“Mean you these?,” Jetfire spoke up. In his hands were two kits containing the parts that the ambulance had been searching for, pulled out of a drawer that had been near the flyer's left side. Realizing that the younglings had actually found him the components he had been searching for, Ratchet could only stand there, idling stupidly. The twins did not seem to mind that he did this; Jetfire walking forward with a bounce in his step, the kits held out in offering.

“Uh..... thanks,” the medic grumbled as his jumbled processor snapped back into action. He gathered the parts from the younger mech, subspacing them, before eyeing each of them warily. “You can move back anytime now.”

At his words, the twins pushed closer. Jetfire rubbed elbows with his brother as he once again wrapped his arms around the CMO's arm; Jetstorm being even slightly more bold and pressing himself flat against the medic's chassis. Perturbed at the invading mechs, Ratchet hurriedly stumbled back, starting to put space between himself and the younglings before he ran into a medical berth. Immediately the twins swarmed him again; the orange one pressing against his chassis this time, while his brother slipped behind his back, blue arms hugging him from there.

“Now see here!,” Ratchet growled, worming against the unwanted contact. “I'm giving you-”

“Do you like us not?,” Jetstorm mumbled imploringly from his spot at the medic's shoulder. Jetfire tightened his hold around Ratchet's chassis. “Because we be very liking you much,” he added.

The medic spluttered at the admission. Anxiously, he wormed in the twins' hold, feeling his systems jolt as they pressed all the more closer. “Listen,” he tried to explain to the smaller mechs, voice gruff with growing uncertainty. A part of him wanted to just fling the younglings off him, but he knew that would not go over very well, and the last thing he ever wanted to do -deep, deep down of course- was break their sparks so cruelly. He wasn't a Decepticon. So, Ratchet was stuck with negotiating with the twins, squirming to get away from their too-personal touches. “Y-you're young; you don't know any better. There's no way that-”

“No!,” the blue one shouted, cutting off the CMO. Ratchet winced at the vocal protest, having it blasted right into his audio receptor. He felt Jetstorm stiffen against his backside, arms curled about his neck tightly as the flyer pressed his face plates into his shoulder plating; spouting strained words in a Cybertronian dialect that the medic wasn't entirely familiar with. Not that he would have been able to understand anyhow, not with the speed that Jetstorm was speaking -a speed that would probably put even Blurr to shame. Despite not knowing exactly what the young flyer was saying, Ratchet could still feel the coolant splashing about his shoulder plating.

Before him, Jetfire pushed closer, optics just as glazed over with coolant. “You not say that!,” he protested, vocalizer trailed with a stream of static and intakes hitching. “You know not how we be feeling. You saying we young be, but old enough we be for Elite Guard. Old enough to be knowing when our sparks be knowing right what is. A-and you.... it saying you the only one being the right.”

Anger vanishing momentarily, the orange mech weakened, his heated frame melding perfectly against  Ratchet's front. Wait, heated?!

Ratchet's optics flared as the news hit him like the guard rail, processor scrambling for answers. When it grasped one, his professional side kicked in. “Kid, you're overheating!,” the CMO cried, reaching out and grabbing the flyer's shoulder plating. Jetfire's vocalizer's hiccuped at the contact, core temperature increasing a couple more notches. “Slaggit,” Ratchet growled. “You've got a rampant charge bouncing through your circuitry. If you strain your systems any further you'll end up crashing!”

This was not the kind of situation Ratchet wanted to find himself in. He knew the charge was the result of a halted overload, and though a thing like that could lie dormant or easily pass within a few joors, the fact that he was the source of charge and the sudden stress to the twin's systems made a simple annoyance a suddenly dangerous CPU shut-down code. So far along, there was only one thing the medic could really do....

“Get on the berth.”

“Wha-?” Jetfire felt his equilibrium chips rattle as he was suddenly lifted off his pedes and slammed into a berth, leaving scraps in his paint job that he could just feel. Processor trying to catch up on what had just occurred, the orange mech was surprised when his brother was dropped to the berth beside him; a squeak slipping past his lip components. Before he could even ask if his brother was alright, large, battle-worn servos were sliding down his frame, stroking his sides and dipping into armour seams. “Oooh.....,” the flyer whimpered, arching into the rough touches. “R-ratchet, sir?”

Ratchet knew this was necessary. Over-charged mechs like this, too far gone, had to be pushed into overload quickly. Waiting for a systems crash, which was an alternative to the whole “touching” aspect of interfacing, was an unfair and cruel action that Decepticons were more likely to do than Autobots, if because of the simple fact that waiting until a 'bot's CPU booted down in such a brutal way meant permanent damage to processor and spark both. Still, knowing all this, the medic couldn't help the dull start-up chugging of his interface systems as he ran his servos down the spunky little flyer; the orange youngling arching up into his touch with an expression that easily belied his pleasure at the CMO's stroking. He cursed himself silently inside, feeling his systems begin to heat with a growing charge he shouldn't really have been feeling at all.

“Open,” he meant to say, but the order came out more like a purr-like growl and Jetfire practically whimpered at the seductive sound. His codpiece retracted with a rapid click, exposing his spike and valve to the gruff medic. 'Already well lubricated,' Ratchet noted, intakes hitching at the highly sexual sight. He tried to shake it off, intent on keeping this professional. Soldiers used to interface quite a bit during the Great War. It helped psychologically and physically; giving soldiers a moment's reprieve from the horror all around them and reinstating that there was indeed life aside from their own amidst the hail of laser fire. The twins were just another pair of soldiers, and as CMO, it was Ratchet's duty that they stayed in top physical form. Yeah.... just another duty of an ex-soldier.....

Jetfire arched on the berth, servos scrambling at the metal, gouging and marking it, as one of those glorious servos wrapped about his spike, stroking it roughly. The pleasure that rode through his systems from the simple contact was so good it was practically painful. Transfluid gathered at the tip already, smearing the metal in little rivulets, and Jetfire knew he wouldn't be able to hold off his overload. Before that though, he wanted Ratchet to be inside him; fragging him, just as he had simulated many times past. His intakes faltered and shuddered as seeking digits pressed along the outer rim of his valve, coating themselves in lubricant before pushing inside. The orange mech let out a keening moan, feeling his valve clasp tightly around the intrusive contact, pushing the digits against his sensor nodes harshly.

“P-please!,” the flyer begged, vocalizer mostly static as his sensitive systems were wracked with another wave of pleasure, overload quickly approaching. “I can wait not! P-please, Ratchet, s-sir, I want inside your spike. Aah, p-pleeeeeeease!”

“Y-you're not ready yet,” Ratchet replied, as if he knew what Jetfire had said. Which he really hadn't, too much static in the youngling's vocalizer and the whirr of his systems as they raced for completion too loud for him to properly discern what the orange mech had pleaded. The CMO was too concerned anyhow, fighting off the urge to retract his own codpiece and plunge his spike into the flyer's waiting valve. “N-not ready for a spike....”

“No, he be ready!,” Jetstorm whimpered beside his twin, watching with a dull visor as his brother was pleasured; feeling an echo of the same thing drift between their bond. “Brother be doing with me the interfacing often. Take spike he can!”

Ratchet wished the blue twin hadn't opened his slagging dental plates. As soon as the other youngling had said those words, the medic's reservations were thrown out the window; codpiece pulling back and revealing his aching spike to the atmosphere for barely an astrosecond before it was buried deep within Jetfire's valve. The orange twin's vocalizer practically fizzed out as his jaw dropped wide open, silently screaming at the CMO's plundering. Immediately his legs were wrapped about Ratchet's waist, keeping the ambulance close as they ground against each other, the old mech's hips snapping into a series of heavy thrusts. Jetfire whimpered at the thrusts, feeling Ratchet's spike stretch him deeper than he had ever been before, brushing sensor nodes that rattled his riled systems further and made his optics flash in random, disjointed colorful bursts. Almost as soon as the medic had entered, overload came crashing over the orange jet, dragging another choked scream from his vocalizer as his form spasmed almost violently; warm, transfluid flooding his valve's passage before his entire system shut down, flashing warning signs and aching spark quieting completely.

Jetstorm had to hold himself steady as his equilibrium was affected by his brother's overload; pleasure flooding through him, too phantasmal for him to reach his own completion and instead leaving him aching for more. He kept his visor fixated on Jetfire and Ratchet, watching as his twin almost immediately fell into recharge after his mind-blowing overload; lubricant and transfluid pouring down his thighs as Ratchet withdrew. Seeing the medic's spike and knowing the things it could do buried in his own valve, made the blue jet let out a wanton whimper, his own plating overheated. At the sound, Ratchet glanced in his direction, the CMO swearing in Cybertronian under his intakes.

“Slaggit.... I'm too old for this,” Ratchet grumbled as he straightened up a little, looking from the spent Jetfire to his twin. The blue jet was just as equally overcharged, probably more now that he had witnessed and no doubt felt a fraction of his brother's own overload. Still, despite the youngling's need for completion, that still did not address the issue at hand: that Ratchet was much to old to be interfacing two young, needy mechs with a lot more mileage and fuel in their pumps than he could ever hope to have. But he couldn't just leave Jetstorm to suffer....

Ratchet sat himself on a berth, looking at the waiting youngling seriously, before crooking a digit and gesturing for the jet to come to him. Jetstorm did so almost immediately; scrambling off the other berth and into the medic's lap. His codpiece was already retracted, spike and valve dripping lubricant. “Impatient, aren't you?,” Ratchet couldn't help but to comment, one optic ridge arched as he watched the blue mech grind against his pelvic plating.

“Ahhhh..... I-i.... I too need overload. B-badly so,” Jetstorm keened, digits scrapping against Ratchet's chassis.

“I see....” Ratchet grabbed the jet about the shoulder plating, picking him and sitting him down again in the medic's lap before the youngling could even protest. With his back to him now, Ratchet was comfortable enough to lean forward, olfactory sensors brushing against the blue twin's neck cables. Hitching intakes told him that the action was appreciated. But it wasn't enough. Jetstorm was grinding his aft against the CMO's interface equipment, vocalizer whimpering with need. Ratchet doubted he could get it up again so soon for the young mech, but knew that the flyer wouldn't be able to handle the dangerous charge for much longer. Quickly his fingers hooked under Jetstorm's knee joints, pulling the  youngling's legs wide apart and anchoring them on either side of Ratchet's own limbs. The jet moaned as he was exposed, servos grasping at whatever he could reach. Eventually they curled themselves rigidly around the medic's forearms as his own servos stroked down Jetstorm's heaving frame and to his waiting valve.

The resounded screech was too be expected, as Ratchet's fingers immediately delved into the hot valve, swirling among the pooling lubricant and brushing against sensor nodes roughly. His free servo clasped the youngling's spike, stroking it in time with the alternating twists and clawing his digits made in the aching mech's valve. Jetstorm's entire form rattled against his chassis, indiscernible moans falling past the flyer's lip components in rapid succession; frame bucking wildly into Ratchet's hands as his over-charged systems plunged towards overload. Another deft twist inside the youngling's valve had the blue jet arching into overload, his vocalizer cutting off the erotic scream that escaped him as his systems finally shut down, sated and safely. Ratchet withdrew his fingers, feeling lubricant and transfluid trail down between his own thighs from the recharging youngling. Without apparent thought, he pressed against Jetstorm's pelvic plating, the action causing the flyer's codpiece to cover his interface equipment once more.

For a few kliks, Ratchet was content to just sit there, the recharging youngling held securely in his arms. But then the medic realized how foolish that was, and scowling to himself, he rose to his pedes, depositing the blue twin beside his brother on the other berth. He made sure Jetfire was covered up and himself as well, before taking a heating blanket out of one of the med bay drawers and draping it over the recharging younglings. Certain they would be safe there, the CMO quietly left the med bay in search for the ship's wash racks.

It took him several kliks more to realize the steady humming he could hear was the sound of his own cooling fans.

xxXxXxx

“Brother....”

Jetstorm shifted a little at the voice, intakes catching almost painfully as he slowly came back online. His whole frame thrummed as his system rebooted, diagnostic screens flashing in front of his visor before they all faded away, pixels formatting to show his current surroundings. He was immediately greeted by his brother's face, before he noticed that they were lying on a berth in the med bay. “Brother.... wha...?”

“Ratchet,” was all Jetfire said, as if that was answer enough. And after an astrosecond it was. Jetstorm launched himself upright, cringing slightly as his sluggish joints protested at the movement, helm turning about as he searched for the CMO. He was nowhere to be seen and the blue jet felt his spark ache inside at the medic's absence.

“Brother. Not be crying, yes?,” Jetfire tried to soothe, sitting up as well and wrapping his arms about his twin. He felt his brother cry over their bond, and returned the other's sorrow with comforting waves of his own. “No crying need, see? Ratchet here gone, but he be with us interfacing and making comfortable we be sure when left.”

Jetstorm blinked back the coolant gathering under his visor, turning to see what Jetfire was talking about. He noticed then that both their codpieces had been replaced, a heating blanket wrapped snugly around their frames. Immediately, the blue jet felt better, his spark pulsing happily in its casing. “See?,” Jetfire purred, nuzzling his twin's neck as his own spark pulsed contently. “Ratchet, sir, reject us not. So, being happy is response, right?”

“Yes, brother,” Jetstorm replied, returning the other's affections. “And Ratchet be doing the bonding with us one day, maybe?”

“I do see not why.”

“TWINS!!!” The roar over their comm links made both younglings flinch, interrupting their happy moment and leaving audio receptors ringing even when Sentinel's voice had cut off. It was easy to see that their commander was upset, probably about the cleaning job they had abandoned in favour of wandering the ship with Ratchet. Cycling air through their weary intakes, the twins got to their pedes, heading for the med bay's exit.

Hopefully Ratchet was still around....