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A third overload has First Aid feeling fairly spoiled, all things considered. He lays back in Ambulon’s berth, feels the last few shivers of charge flickering through his frame, and wraps his thighs around Ambulon, content enough to roll over into recharge like an oversized turbo-hound.
“Hey, you’re still plugged in, old bolts,” Ambulon says, laughing, and reaches for the data port in his thigh. “You can’t recharge with your cable still in me.”
“I can try,” First Aid says, voice dozy, grumbling with no real malice. “Hang on a klik –”
First Aid shuffles over, offlines the transfer protocol from his neural-net to Ambulon’s. Ambulon’s frame stutters with sudden fatigue, and First Aid rubs soothing circles against his chassis as the two of them come down from the sudden lack of additional space in their processors. Interfacing only gets better and better with the more firewalls they start to remove between them, and First Aid reluctantly unplugs his transfer cable from Ambulon’s thigh. Even with both of their processors being primed for information sharing through a gestalt bond, medical firewalls are primed to stay intact under the most intense of pressure. Relaxing them for interface is irresponsible but incredibly intimate, and First Aid watches as Ambulon traces his digit over the empty port, chasing the final vestiges of sensation.
“Miss you already,” Ambulon says, and First Aid smiles. “It’s so nice having you in me.”
“Tell me about it,” First Aid says, grinning. “Another digit in my valve and I might’ve broken something.”
“Yeah, well,” Ambulon says, shaking his head ruefully. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I still think about that time you broke my hip-strut all the time, you know –”
“We’re not doing that again,” Ambulon says, firmly. “My spark can’t take it.”
“Not even if I ask really nicely?”
“Not even then,” says Ambulon, rolling over in the berth.
“Hm,” First Aid says, smirking, stroking a lazy servo against Ambulon’s data port. “I think I could convince you.”
“Primus, Aid,” Ambulon says, laughing. “You can’t still be charged up after all that.”
“No, not this cycle,” First Aid says, placing a soft kiss at the base of Ambulon’s neck-struts. “But after a recharge? I’ll get my servos in your processor and work you up until you’re just desperate to sink some charge into me.”
“You are a menace to responsible medics everywhere,” Ambulon says, and First Aid hums in contented agreement.
First Aid wouldn’t say he spends all his time thinking about fragging, but Messatine is a slow-moving planet in peacetime, encased in ice and rust. The medibay at Delphi only ever has two or three berths occupied at any given time, and calls from other Autobot outposts across the solar system are as rare as discovering a fresh well of energon. Pharma scarcely speaks to him, haughty old jet that he is, so if the alternative to rattling around the empty halls of Delphi like a caged mechanimal is to sink a lot of charge into his ward manager, then yeah, sure, he spends a lot of time fragging. An undergraduate could handle most of the cases that stumble in. Plugging into Ambulon and seeing how quickly they can work one another into overload is better exercise for his medical aptitude than fixing the occasional t-cog.
It’s not as if Pharma lets them do anything more taxing in medibay than the rank-and-file jobs, anyway.
“You okay?” First Aid asks Ambulon, strokes a servo down his chassis. “You’re awfully quiet, big mech.”
“Yeah,” Ambulon says, softly. “Just thinking.”
“Oh, you don’t want to do too much of that,” First Aid teases. “Shanix for your thoughts?”
Ambulon shifts his weight in the berth, pulls his leg-struts up towards his chassis.
“You're not –” Ambulon begins, voxcoder quiet. “You're not bored of interfacing like this, are you?”
“What?” First Aid asks, his processor reeling. “Ambulon, hey, where's this come from?”
“I just think,” he says, shoulder-struts creaking, “that you might have more fun, if – if I had a proper panel.”
First Aid feels his vents kick on, his system overheating with sudden nerves.
“A proper panel?” First Aid says, voice tentative. “You mean, like –”
He offlines his voxcoder before he can say the word forged. Cold constructs aren’t onlined with anything but that which is required for their primary function, barbaric as it sounds; so to First Aid, it’s always made sense that Ambulon’s got a medical suite and a range of dataports to choose from in place of a spike or a valve. First Aid’s never thought of it as anything uncommon, in the scheme of things. However, if he’s misread the situation and that’s not what Ambulon is nervous about, he is not about to go putting that thought in Ambulon's helm.
“Like a forged mech,” Ambulon says, quietly. “You don't ever wish I had a spike to frag you into the berth with? Or a valve for you to play with?”
“I don't wish,” First Aid says, firmly, “for anything other than your frame as it is, Ambulon. Primus, you – you gave me three overloads just now! I lifted my medical protocols for you! I’m so into you, it’s ridiculous.”
“And I know that,” Ambulon says, “and I love ‘facing with you, like this, but – I just thought it might be more fun if I had – parts.”
“It's not about what I want, or what I might find fun,” First Aid says, wraps his short arm as insistently as he can around Ambulon's chassis. “Do you want an interfacing panel?”
“I'm not –” Ambulon says, holding First Aid’s servo in his. “I'm not sure. I haven't really, I mean – it feels weird to picture myself with a spike, or anything. Not bad weird, just – different.”
“Well, for what it's worth,” First Aid says, moving his other servo down to Ambulon’s hip plating, “I love your frame just as it is.”
First Aid splays his servo in the space between Ambulon’s thighs, presses his digits into the slight seams between his hip-joints and pelvic plating. He rubs a digit against Ambulon’s data-port, still sensitive with charge, and watches as a full-frame shiver rushes through Ambulon's systems, hip-struts tensing with need.
“You don't have to do anything,” First Aid says, pressing his helm against Ambulon’s neck, placing gentle kisses against his neuro-spinal column. “You just lay back, and let me show you just what I can do with that plating of yours.”
“Aid,” Ambulon sighs, engine stirring under First Aid’s touch. “You don't have to if you don't want – it was just – ah! – an idea –”
“That's it,” First Aid says, pushing Ambulon gently by the hips onto his back, encouraging him to part his thighs. First Aid leans down between them, and licks a long, desperate line against the heat of Ambulon’s pelvic plating, rubbing soft circles into his dataport as he does so. Ambulon pants beneath him, bucking involuntarily into First Aid’s face-plate, and First Aid smiles, digits delving into the wiring between his seams with surgical precision.
“I could never get bored of you,” says First Aid, leaning his helm against Ambulon’s thigh. “You’re gorgeous, Ambulon.”
“Aid,” Ambulon says, voice thick with static. “You’re very sweet, and I feel very reassured – but please, please put your servos back in there –”
“Don’t have to ask me twice,” says First Aid, grinning, and curls his glossa into the wiring between Ambulon's hip-struts.
First Aid doesn’t stop thinking about it.
He does not stop thinking about the sudden glitch in Ambulon’s voxcoder, the way he sounded as if he was admitting culpability for the crime of so much as entertaining the idea. If First Aid knows Ambulon, which his berthroom escapades would indicate he does, Ambulon won’t want to speak about it, either. There are some things that Ambulon is rigid about, like the way he does not want his paint restored, no matter how many mechs have offered him a fresh lick of chrome; the way he listens to solar frequencies before recharge, as if he were afraid of being alone in the dark. The way he picks at his digits when under stress, so sternly it makes First Aid’s spinal-strut tense. He offers no explanation for any of these things, and First Aid is socially deft enough to understand that he never, ever, wishes to be asked. Such is part of the contract between them, one of the unspoken reasons the two of them get on as well as they do. Pharma is blunt, asking question after question with all the poise of a crash-landing warship. First Aid merely thinks the questions instead, new ones popping up in his processor cycle by cycle.
Would Ambulon like a spike? Would he like a valve?
Ambulon would never ask First Aid for something so – indulgent. Indulgent is Ambulon’s word, not his; it took them a good decacycle of interfacing before Ambulon stuttered out, almost overheating with embarrassment, that he would really like to be tied up, at least once, something First Aid – politely – told him was charmingly pedestrian. If Ambulon really does want to experiment with a new interfacing array, a sodding mnemosurgeon would have a hard time extracting such information from him. First Aid doesn’t stand a chance.
It could be a surprise, then. A gift. First Aid has plenty of free time, and little else to be spending it on other than updating his Wreckers fansite on The Big Conversation.
Could I – build one?
First Aid opens a fresh datapad, and hooks it up to his processor.
A valve would require surgical intervention, most likely – as far as First Aid can ascertain, it wouldn’t be too difficult from embedding a fresh data-port, just with a more complex neural interface to enhance sensation. Still, First Aid rules it out, and quickly – if Ambulon would jump out of his frame at the sight of a fresh spike, surprising him with the present of surprise surgery! would likely have him hailing the Autobot distress signal to escort him off Messatine for good. A spike, then – something like a strap-on, from organic porn. First Aid’s seen a bunch of holovids where humans seem to interface with additional parts. What’s to stop First Aid and Ambulon from doing the same?
He draws up a basic schematic, with little detail. Long enough for the spike to look proportionate to Ambulon’s height, short enough for First Aid to actually fit in his valve. Chrome red to match Ambulon’s paint, with the occasional golden biolight to accompany it. The amount of thought required makes the whole thing fairly unerotic. It’s hard to know what a spike should feel like on a cold-constructed array, with First Aid wanting it to have a sensory cohesiveness with the rest of Ambulon’s frame. If First Aid magnetises it to the wrong strut in Ambulon’s neurospinal column, it’ll go from pleasurable to awful pretty fragging quickly – and this whole endeavour is supposed to be something they can use for fun.
First Aid sighs, leans his elbow-struts against his steel-sheen desk, and opens up the Delphi databanks for its operating medics. There’s plenty of information about Ambulon’s spark-signature and operating system, but frustratingly little about his frame-type. Decepticon cold-construct – estimated third-issue (cycles 2500 - 3000), reads Ratchet’s notes. Medic resisted further examination under Subsection 5 of the Autobot Code - Post-Amnesty Capability Assessment. Assessed to be capable with medical array. Received upgrade to tactile interface in digits and neuromodule (operating VSS2000.33.) Deployed for assignment under POI446 desig. Pharma.
Thanks, Ratchet, thinks First Aid, petulantly. None of this helps me build a sex toy.
First Aid onlines his computer, and activates his encryption protocols. He’s experienced enough with his Wreckers frequency to know how to go looking for things Autobot high command would rather he didn’t find – if he can’t find anything internally about Ambulon’s frame-type, he’s got some ideas of where to look next. He’s turned a blind eye over the years to the few listeners of his that don’t bear an Autobot hailing frequency – the Wreckers are cool, even NAILs know that – but today, he traces the signature of one he’s positive is a Decepticon signal. It’s peacetime now, it’s not technically inter-faction fraternisation anymore, so If he follows the signal and mimics its solar location, it should give him access to –
Frag it, it’s quad-encrypted. First Aid sighs, and gets to hacking.
It takes him a fair few cycles, but once he’s in, it doesn’t take him long to find what he’s after. Ratchet’s assumption of Ambulon being third-issue helps a great deal; helps First Aid narrow down schematics by frame type until he’s found a folder that contains old MTO combiner specs, and First Aid whispers yes. He chooses the one that looks most immediately like Ambulon; takes some optical captures of his neurospinal interface in varying degrees of detail. Once he’s satisfied, he disconnects the frequency, and the folders disappear from his screen like fast-dying stars. He’s got what he came for, and has managed to slip out undetected.
First Aid gets to work. He returns to his datapad and tweaks his design – instead of connecting the spike to the primary opening in the base of the spinal column, it looks as if it needs to connect to the tertiary dataport he’s well acquainted with on Ambulon’s frame. Perhaps if he magnetised the spike to the dataport – but that could jeopardise Ambulon’s polarity, if the schematics are correct – perhaps it would be simpler to create a spike with a separate control unit, to plug directly into the processor –
His thoughts are brought to a grinding halt as an urgent comm fills his HUD, a bright welt of red in his vision. First Aid sees the incoming designation, and all but buries his helm into his servos.
URGENT: Data Breach under Autobot Code Secrets Act (s.113.12.30) >>desig. Prowl
“Primus alive,” whispers First Aid, and sighs as he reads.
First Aid,
May I remind you that access to quad-encrypted files held on external or historic Decepticon databases requires a level of Developed Vetting security clearance or higher. Any unauthorised exploration of files is a criminal offence, and directly contravenes the Autobot Code Secrets Act, subsection 113, article 12.30, Safeguarding of Decepticon Information. This legislation also applies to unregistered frequencies, encrypted frequencies and emergency frequencies.
Further investigation will result in criminal prosecution. I trust I shall not have to warn you again.
Regards, Prowl of Petrex Sub-Commander, Autobot High Command Chief Data Officer, Autobot Intelligence Division
It’s fine, First Aid thinks, not panicking in the slightest. It’s fine! Nobody saw him do it apart from Prowl, and Prowl surely has more important things to be doing than disciplining junior medics for their intellectual curiosity about historic MTO frame-types. Surely.
Surely.
The long-knife shadow of a jet against the door looms into First Aid’s office.
“Would you kindly care to explain to me,” Pharma says, coolly, “just why I’ve been receiving word of you accessing quad-encrypted Decepticon files?”
First Aid jumps, jostling a host of datapads from his desk onto the floor. He moves lightning-fast to pick them up, instinctively throwing his arms over the pile of incriminating research.
“I’d – um,” First Aid says, his face-plate hot with embarrassment. “I’d really rather not.”
Pharma raises a servo, coldly, and gestures for First Aid to move aside. First Aid grimaces as Pharma leans over his pile of datapads, and picks the top one up, looking at First Aid’s hastily drawn spike with his usual forensic stare. He hums, as if in thought, and looks closer.
First Aid might offline himself entirely, after this. As a treat.
After a silence that feels long enough to be a stay of execution, Pharma speaks.
“You wouldn’t need protoform for this part, here,” Pharma says, impassively; points at the base of the shaft where First Aid had scrawled tungsten protocarbide??? in messy doctor's hexplate. “I think your logic is sound, though. Magnetisation is far too risky. You’ll want to program a separate module and think of the spike as its hardware, so to speak.”
First Aid has to manually restart his voxcoder.
“Right,” First Aid says, in disbelief. “Thank you?”
“You will need to provide a written statement for Prowl, however,” Pharma says. “I can’t appease him for long. Get to it whenever you’re finished moulding Ambulon’s spike.”
“Pharma!” First Aid hisses in embarrassment. “Come on –”
“Well,” Pharma says, extends a deliberate glance up and down First Aid’s frame. “I presume it isn’t for you. And it certainly isn’t for me.”
“It’s private, alright?” First Aid says. “It’s meant to be a surprise.”
“A gift that just keeps on giving,” Pharma says, snidely. “Well, you’re certainly blowing your cover, alerting half of Autobot high command in what I presume was your hunt for his schematics.”
“Primus,” whispers First Aid, covering his helm in his hands. “You won’t tell him, will you?”
“I had very much intended to return to medibay and erase all recollection of this conversation entirely,” says Pharma, with his usual disdain. “I certainly shan’t spoil your little surprise. Although –”
Pharma folds his arms, and his wings twitch with thought.
“What paint and sealant are you using?” he asks. “You won’t want chrome, it’ll flake the instant it gets inside a valve. Let me see.”
First Aid raises his servos in surrender as Pharma takes the datapad, studying it.
"What are you –"
"If something is worth doing, it's worth doing properly," Pharma says, already making amendments to First Aid's schematics. "Would you not agree?"
First Aid simply watches, mouth agape behind his face-plate, as Pharma adds a host of new inputs into his design. New materials, new paint, new lines of code for the suggested neuromodule. He walks across the room to First Aid’s collection of salvage, and returns with specific metals, laid out in order of density. He is, First Aid realises with a growing horror, experienced at this.
Practiced, even.
“You’re, um,” First Aid comments, voice quiet. “You’re – you’re awfully good at this.”
Pharma’s wings rise proudly, positively preening at the compliment.
“Yes, well,” Pharma says, with unbearable smugness. “There’s only so many times your CMO can return to berth without his panel before one starts learning to fix the problem first-hand.”
First Aid hears his engines kick on with a frustrated whine. He is not going to think about Ratchet the Hatchet fragging his departmental head so hard his spike falls off. He is not.
“I –” First Aid ex-vents, frame tense. “I hate that I know this.”
“Yes, I’m sure you do,” says Pharma, drily. “Pass me that wrench, would you? This plating material looks sound, but we’ll need to do some stress testing.”
None needed, thinks First Aid, miserably. I’m stressed enough as it is.
“You wanted to see me?” says Ambulon, voice apprehensive.
After a decacycle or so of refinement, Ambulon’s new spike is finished, wrapped up in a box to surprise a mech with its contents, the way Tetrahexians do for the Starlight Festival once every stellar cycle. It’s sentimental, but First Aid wants Ambulon to unwrap his gift properly, even if it’s entirely the wrong season on entirely the wrong planet for it.
“Yeah, come in!” says First Aid, clearing his voxcoder. “I got something for you. Well, made something for you, really, but –”
“Aid!” Ambulon says, beaming. “What’s brought this on?”
“You’ll see when you open it,” First Aid says, and hands the box to Ambulon, who smiles down at the wrapping.
As Ambulon takes the box in his servos, First Aid is gripped by a sudden, all-encompassing anxiety. First Aid is a mech used to making impossible decisions in impossible time. His emergency medical tacnet leaves no margin for doubt; when nanokliks of deliberation can determine whether a mech lives or dies, he has to make a decision immediately, and stick to it. This is how he approaches most things in life, and most things, apparently, includes the assumption that his friend would want to receive a bespoke spike tailored entirely to his frame specifications.
Away from his single-minded focus, away from his systems trying to solve a problem with emergency-responsive speed, First Aid realises that after everything, this present is extremely fragging weird.
The invasiveness with which First Aid took it upon himself to research Ambulon's very frame, the megacycles he has spent imagining what Ambulon's spike should even look like, the fact that Pharma of all mechs has weighed in on it – none of this is normal friend behaviour. First Aid feels his engine churn with nerves as Ambulon opens the box, and holds his servos tightly together to stop them from shaking.
Ambulon feels his present, and his optics widen.
“Is that –?”
“Yeah, it's –” First Aid says, and straightens his spine. “The spike’s detachable, so you can wear it or – or not wear it.”
Ambulon lifts it from the box gingerly, inspecting it with the delicacy of an active nanobomb.
“It's like –” First Aid says, his face-plate hot with embarrassment. “It’s like a strap-on. Like in organic porn, you know?”
“Oh, oh yeah,” Ambulon says, nodding knowledgably. “A strap-in. I know all about those.”
First Aid cannot help but laugh, the tension abating in waves.
“You'll show me how to use it,” Ambulon says, shyly, optics dimming. “Right?”
First Aid smiles, and leans over to drape his arms around Ambulon's shoulders.
“There's a neuromodule to go with it,” First Aid says, teasing a servo against Ambulon's central neurospinal port at the back of the neck. “Should give you full tactile sensation with the spike. Let me?”
Ambulon nods, and First Aid cannot help but be moved slightly by his unthinking trust. It's one thing to plug into someone else's neurospinal interface the way they've been doing, but it's another thing entirely to allow a kitbashed piece of foreign code in, no questions asked. Even from a mech medically trained, it is an act of sheer trust. First Aid plugs the datachit into Ambulon’s central port, and then moves to plug the spike in against Ambulon’s pelvic panel. It clasps against his panel with a frisson of charge, and First Aid smiles as everything goes largely as anticipated.
“Doing okay?” First Aid asks. “You might need to free up some space in your processor for a klik –”
Ambulon slumps against the berth as his systems are thrashed for a moment. He ex-vents, deep, and his optics flare. The datachit pings with a satisfied green light.
“How does it feel?” asks First Aid, voice frayed with excitement.
First Aid looks at Ambulon, spike between his thighs, and allows himself to feel momentarily very proud of his handiwork. Ambulon looks obscenely good, the spike matching his size-class perfectly, biolights drawing attention to all the nodes he’s added to give Ambulon a world of brand-new sensation. Primus, he’s gorgeous. First Aid needs it inside him desperately, but first –
“Try and stroke it,” First Aid encourages, and Ambulon moans.
“Like this?” he asks, and Ambulon places a delicate servo around his spike, strokes once from base to tip, and the effect is instantaneous. Ambulon gasps with delight, makes the same kind of noises it normally takes him at least one overload to make unashamedly. Ambulon whines as he strokes himself, the way he’s stroked First Aid’s spike dozens of times, and First Aid has to engage every measure of self-restraint to stop himself from launching himself into Ambulon’s lap at the speed of light.
“Oh, Aid,” Ambulon whines, oral lubricant dripping from his mouth onto his chassis. “Aid, it – it feels so good –”
His helm hangs heavy as if on his way to an overload. First Aid feels his panel open unwittingly, just by watching him play with himself. Watching him play with the spike First Aid built, for him.
“Ambulon, frag,” sighs First Aid. “You look incredible.”
“How –” Ambulon whimpers, stroking the head of his spike, “– how do you get anything done with one of these? Oh, Primus!”
Ambulon’s frame shivers with charge, and First Aid falls to his knees.
“Aid,” Ambulon says. “Aid, touch me, please –”
First Aid would never deny Ambulon anything, staring at him with hazy optics, face-plate flushed. He leans into Ambulon’s lap, and closes his servo over Ambulon’s, guiding Ambulon’s servo into a rhythm that has Ambulon whining desperately, bucking his hips into their servos with stuttering, needy rhythm. Ambulon cries out, unabashedly loud, and as First Aid rubs a digit around the head of Ambulon’s spike, he overloads, spilling bright transfluid over both their servos.
Ambulon stares at First Aid, but not with the embarrassment he anticipates.
“How did you –?” Ambulon says, in awe. “It has transfluid and everything?”
First Aid nods, laughing, suddenly bashful in his pride.
“Oh, Aid,” Ambulon says, his face-plate beaming. “You shouldn't have.”
First Aid retracts his face-plate instantly, because if he doesn’t kiss Ambulon in the next klik he fears he may overclock his processor. He leans up and places a soft kiss on Ambulon’s face-plate, and Ambulon pulls him close, licks his glossa into First Aid’s mouth until the two of them are panting against each other, and First Aid can feel Ambulon’s spike pressurising hard against his chassis.
“So eager,” First Aid says, smiling against Ambulon’s lips. “What would you like, sweetspark?”
Ambulon’s lips quiver with an embarrassment that he quickly swallows.
“I want to frag you,” he says, immediately, and First Aid feels Ambulon’s face-plate heat against his.
“Oh?” First Aid asks, grinning, and lifts himself up onto the berth. He lays back, wraps his hip-struts around Ambulon, and splays his thighs apart on either side of the berth. “That’s what you want?”
First Aid parts his swollen valve mesh, and shows Ambulon his soaking valve.
“You want to frag this?” First Aid says, and teases his node, digits still coated in Ambulon’s transfluid. “You want to frag this tight little valve?”
“Please,” Ambulon says, voice thick with static. “Aid, please, I –”
First Aid guides Ambulon between his thighs, guiding the spike to his valve. Ambulon’s spike drips transfluid, twitching eagerly, and once again, First Aid is delighted with how realistic the mod is once activated. Any self-congratulation vanishes, however, as Ambulon teases the head of his spike against First Aid’s anterior node, and First Aid gasps with delight.
“Ambulon,” First Aid says, grinding his node up against Ambulon. “You tease!”
“I’ve thought –” Ambulon says, sliding a digit into First Aid’s valve. “I’ve thought about this a lot. You don’t know how many times.”
First Aid feels his processor spark with emotions so dizzying he scarcely knows what to do with them. He kisses Ambulon on his chevron, traces a tender servo against his helm.
“Show me, then,” whispers First Aid, soft in Ambulon’s audial, and gasps as Ambulon pushes his spike into him.
It fits just as wonderfully as First Aid expected, enough of a stretch to push his calipers into the pleasure-pain that only a good frag can give him. Ambulon thrusts deep, losing himself in First Aid’s valve, and First Aid whines with desperate charge as the biolights on the underside of Ambulon’s spike throb inside his valve. There is no elegance as Ambulon all but ruts into First Aid, sobbing at the sensation, and First Aid will scarcely last with Ambulon fucking him desperate enough to slam his gestation tank in tow.
“Aid, please can I –” Ambulon gasps, frame quaking on the edge of overload. “Please can I come inside your valve, can I fill you, please –”
“Asking for permission?” First Aid teases, charge spiking immediately at Ambulon delaying his overload, for him. “Such a good bot. Of course you can.”
Ambulon thrusts into First Aid’s valve desperately, and First Aid clenches his valve tight around Ambulon’s spike. He cries out as he fills First Aid with transfluid, and First Aid kisses him, moans into his audial as Ambulon’s spike gushes inside him. He rubs a digit against his node, once, twice – and he is gone, frame stuttering with overload. First Aid feels his processor all but offline for a moment as he fizzes with charge, and as Ambulon falls into First Aid’s chassis, strutless with a second overload, he cannot help but hold him closer, and laugh.
First Aid manages to disentangle himself from Ambulon, gently manoeuvering himself onto his side to hold Ambulon in his arms. Ambulon’s EM-field positively shimmers with slow, contented pulses, relaxed in a way that First Aid has scarcely seen on Ambulon before. It suits him, this lack of pressure, this lack of thought. First Aid places his helm between Ambulon’s shoulder struts, and runs a teasing servo against his spinal dataport.
“Good gift?” asks First Aid, and Ambulon makes a noise so sincere and exhausted that it makes First Aid laugh all over again. “Oh, I’m so glad.”
“You’re a genius, Aid,” says Ambulon, voice muffled by the berthcovers. “Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure,” First Aid says. “But – you know this isn’t –”
First Aid sits up, placing his servos delicately on Ambulon’s helm, facing him with wide optics.
“This isn’t me preferring your frame a particular way, you know?” First Aid says, soothingly. “It’s a new way to have fun, but I promise it’s nothing more than that. Humans put them on for interfacing, and take them off afterwards, and it’s like – it’s part of a game, you know? For pleasure, not for anything else. I still love fragging your dataports just as much as I loved this, and –”
“Aid,” Ambulon says, softly interrupting. “You’re so thoughtful, and I appreciate it so much. But I promise, I don’t feel – I don’t feel like you’re trying to make me into something I’m not.”
Ambulon reaches for First Aid’s servo in reassurance.
“It was amazing, and hot as slag,” Ambulon says, “and once my processor capability’s less fragged you’re going to tell me all about how you made it.”
Ambulon places his servo absently against the datachit in his neck-struts, smiling.
“Like, the coding in this is unreal,” Ambulon says, optics deep in thought. “You did an incredible job. A separate module? My first thought would have been to magnetise the pelvic panel, or something –”
“That was mine too!” First Aid says, nodding with enthusiasm. “But after some consideration this was a far more elegant solution. You know, initially, I’d considered scrapping the spike idea altogether and thought about ways to install a valve instead – it’s basically the same as putting in a fresh dataport, really, and –”
“A valve?” Ambulon whispers, face-plate flushing with fresh arousal. “Oh, slag.”
First Aid’s optics narrow, mischievously.
“That charge you up?” First Aid teases, feeling Ambulon’s spike harden against his thigh. “You want me to put a valve in?”
Ambulon’s fans kick back on with a furious rush of charge.
“You want to wake up on my slab, all empty and needy?” First Aid says, grinning. “With a fresh new hole, just desperate to be filled?”
“Uh,” whimpers Ambulon, panting, his spike straining against First Aid’s thigh, dripping with fresh transfluid. “Uh, I –”
“It sounds like you do,” First Aid says, kissing Ambulon gently on his chevron, as he wraps a servo around Ambulon’s spike. “You want me to build you one of those, too?”
“Aid,” Ambulon moans, whining desperately into First Aid’s audial. “Please, please –”
“Don’t you worry, sweetspark,” says First Aid, serenely. “You keep making those lovely noises for me, and I’ll build you anything you want.”