Work Text:
There are a lot of things Ratchet finds himself able to ignore. His own needs and desires fall away in favor of becoming focused wholly on his duties. Distractions lose lives. He may not have many under his care, but every one of them is precious in their own way. Sparks for him to protect. Atonement, maybe.
So when one of those sparks makes himself the distraction, Ratchet becomes, understandably, flustered. Frustrated. Flattered, though he doesn't want to be. He's an old mech, with joints that creak and ache. The one thing he doesn't have the gears to handle is young sparks with a fetish for said old mechs.
Case point, Bumblebee.
The little scout seemed convinced that if he just shook his ass in Ratchet's direction enough, the mechanic would give in. Just bend that yellow brat over the nearest surface and stuff his valve to full capacity. Or shut that filthy intake up with his spike, making him take it until he couldn't take anymore. If he's going to act like shareware, sooner or later he's going to get treated like shareware.
Not by Ratchet, though. No, absolutely not. He wouldn't cross that line. He wouldn't give in to those tantalizing ideas for punishment, no matter what antics Bumblebee got up to.
At least, that's what Ratchet tells himself.
"I just don't get it. I'm absolutely fraggable. Don't you think I'm fraggable, doc?"
Ratchet peers over the edge of a datapad. He's been trying to catalogue medical supplies, but Bumblebee is clearly intent on doing everything in his power to prevent it. It's been almost an hour of non-stop chatter, starting off relatively normal (if anything Bumblebee says can be considered such) and devolving into a one sided conversation about whether or not he's cute enough to frag.
It's not a conversation Ratchet wants to be a part of. Not an answer he wants to give, because of course the answer is yes. And that will just lead to the inevitable teasing about why he's not doing it. Ratchet wants no part of that.
So, he ignores the question. He gives a little grunt of dismissal, ignores the ache behind his panels, and lifts the datapad back up. The only way to get Bumblebee to give up is to just let him tire out and get bored. He listens to Bumblebee try to get his attention before shifting around on the desk. Ratchet does his best to keep ignoring him, but when the little bot sets a pede on Ratchet's leg, he moves the datapad aside with a scowl.
"Alright, you little brat. Just what a- ah…"
Ratchet trails off, his optics latching on to Bumblebee, who has moved to perch directly in front of him on the desk. He's got one pede up on the surface, legs spread wide to show off his bare valve. As Ratchet stares, intake hanging open, Bumblebee circles a digit around his node before spreading the folds enticingly.
"Come on, doc. Who wouldn't wanna plough this pretty mini-valve? Even an old bag of bolts like you can't resist a tight little— whoa!"
Ratchet yanks Bumblebee down into his lap, forcing slender to spread wider. He sputters in surprise as Ratchet lets his spike spring free, already fully pressurized from the teasing. He really shouldn't give in to it, but the sight of the little menace stunned speechless over getting just what he's been asking for is oh so satisfying after being harassed so relentlessly.
"What's the matter, Bumblebee? Weren't you just begging for a spike in your 'pretty mini-valve'? Even I can't resist a tight little brat?"
Bumblebee gulps, bracing both of his servos against Ratchet's chest. Typical minibot overconfidence. Ratchet's about to let go, send the scout off with a warning to cut the scrap, when he notices something peculiar. Bumblebee is… drooling? All the while staring at Ratchet's spike with stars in his optics. Ratchet can't help but notice how Bumblebee's valve twitches and drools lubricant. He huffs softly, a small laugh.
"Didn't think you would get this far? Get on your knees and get my spike wet if you mean it. Or get out and stop tempting this old mech."
As soon as Ratchet lets go of Bumblebee's leg, the minibot is scrambling down onto his knees and between Ratchet's. For a moment, that scrap eating grin has him regretting his decision.
Thankfully that smug look disappears as Bumblebee runs his glossa up the underside of Ratchet's spike. Ratchet groans, running a servo over the little yellow helm. A bead of fluid wells at the tip of his spike, and Bumblebee quickly wraps his derma around the head to capture it, lapping at the fluid. Ratchet groans, rocking his hips and encouraging him to bring more into his intake.
"Just like that… Come on, you're the one that was begging for it. Are you going to make me do all of the work?"
Bumblebee starts to pull back, some quip on that sharp glossa, but Ratchet catches him off guard and pushes his helm down. He brings his free servo up to join the other, guiding Bumblebee's helm down and making him take more.
Servos brace against Ratchet's thighs as Bumblebee gets into the groove. The faster he goes, the more lubricant splashes from his intake and runs down his chin. Ratchet releases his grip, letting Bumblebee set his own pace now that he's being good. The scout is much easier to tolerate with his intake stuffed full of spike.
Ratchet lets the silence, broken only by the wet sounds of his spike slipping in an out of Bumblebee's intake, linger. He's sure some smug comment is waiting in the brat's vocalizer for a chance to slip out. But, at the same time, Ratchet knows that if he's going to feel that soaked little valve he needs to give up the wet heat of his intake and subject himself to whatever teasing is waiting for him. After a few more moments of savouring the feel of Bumblebee's glossa working against his spike, he pushes the yellow helm back. A trail of oral lubricant connects Ratchet's spike to Bumblebee's derma as the minibot sucks in deep vents before giving Ratchet a cheeky grin.
"Told ya. I'm totally fraggable."
Rather than rising to the tease with a verbal response, Ratchet hauls Bumblebee back up onto the desk. He grumbles as he tries to pull Bumblebee into the position he wants, aft at the edge of the desk, but the smaller much seems just as determined to keep himself out of a manageable position.
"Bumblebee, hold still. If you're going to go to all of this trouble to have someone interface with you, at least make it easy on them."
Bumblebee makes a dismissive sound. "Come on, doc, I'm a hot commodity! Making it easy takes away all the fun. 'Facing without the chasing is like running a race without whee—!"
The sound of Bumblebee's voice cuts off abruptly as Ratchet squeezes around the scout's neck. It shouldn't affect his ability to vent properly, but just enough pressure in just the right place disrupts the current to his vocalizer. With Bumblebee in a stunned, forced silence, his smaller servos pawing at Ratchet's arm, the medic is able to use his free servo to get him into position. He runs his servo up Bumblebee's thigh, a reassuring gesture before continuing up to grip his hip as he stands and presses the shaft of his spike against that wet, plump valve.
Ratchet never really considered his spike to be, in a weird, attractive. There are mechs with much more going on in that department. But pressed up between Bumblebee's thighs? He feels a lot bigger than he knows he is. A mech his size might not feel it in his struts the next day, but he was going to make sure Bumblebee did. Either so the minibot would regret it and leave him alone or to keep him coming back for more. He rocks his hips, groaning as he feels the crackle of their combined charge when the underside of his spike drags against Bumblebee's node. Bumblebee's hips, in turn, buck as he tries to chase the friction, more lubricant running from his derma as he lets out soundless moans. Ratchet gives up his grip just a bit to hear the scout's vocalizer crackle out his designation and a single, desperate 'please'.
"That's more like it. Naughty minibots only get spike when they use their manners."
Rather than keep Bumblebee on his back, Ratchet releases his grip around the scout's neck to flip him over. He meets no resistance, pert little aft presented like a gift for the taking. As he presses the tip of his spike between slick, plump folds, Bumblebee tries to crane his helm to watch. Ratchet lets him as he sinks inside with a groan, watching the way his optics widen and his mouth hangs open in a picture of pleasure.
Ratchet could take his time. For the sake of his old joints, he really should. But Bumblebee is so tight around him and it's been so long since he's chased the heat of another frame. So instead of letting him ease into the fullness, Ratchet makes Bumblebee take it all in just a few short thrusts. He wraps his servo around the back of that slim little neck, gripping tightly for leverage as. Bumblebee's calipers protest around him, their moans of pleasure mixing as Ratchet savours the squeeze.
"W-wow, doc… Didn't think you'd be so direct!"
There's that smart mouth again, paired with a poor attempt at his usual smug grin. Ratchet scowls, moving his servo from Bumblebee's neck up to wrap it around his helm and shove his digits into the brat's intake. As Bumblebee tries to protest the intrusion, Ratchet starts a harsh pace that makes all of those half-baked thoughts dissolve into muffled moans. When those derma wrap around his digits, he pushes them deeper and groans as Bumblebee begins to suck and work his glossa over them like with his spike just a klik earlier. It only encourages him to thrust harder, leaning forward and pressing against the smaller mech's back to pin him.
Ratchet can't help but lose himself a bit, pounding into Bumblebee over and over. Every time he pulls out, it's like the tight, soft heat sucks him back in. Hips snapping forward with every thrust, he's sure he'll be feeling it just as much as Bumblebee long after the act is over. Bumblebee does his best to squirm under him, but angles his hips just right for Ratchet to strike a bundle of sensors that makes him go rigid with pleasure.
A glance at Bumblebee's face makes Ratchet shiver as he notes the small puddle of optical fluid and oral solvent mixing on the desk as Bumblebee drools and cries with pleasure. He pulls his digits free of the scout's dermal satisfied that Bumblebee would rather moan and gasp down deep vents than tease him. Ratchet slips a servo around Bumblebee's hips, palming at his spike panel. Even blissed out, he gets the hint and a rock hard spike quickly pressurizes into Ratchet's waiting servo. Wordless cries of pleasure fill the room as Ratchet strokes in time with his thrusts, wringing prefluid from the minibot with every pump.
By the flutter of calipers losing their rhythm around him, Ratchet knows Bumblebee is close. Just a little more. So, so very nearly there. Ratchet slips his free arm under the scout, holding him tight before tipping them both back. He lands in his chair, Bumblebee still impaled with spike in his lap. It takes very little encouragement for Bumblebee to match Ratchet's earlier pace, bouncing on the old mech's spike as their moans bounce off of the empty medbay walls.
Ratchet knows when Bumblebee overloads. Knows it by the way his calipers clamp down like a vice around his spike, almost painfully tight. Knows it by the way his balance falters and makes him take Ratchet's whole spike in one last seating. Knows it by the way Bumblebee absolutely wails as transfluid spills across Ratchet's servo. It's too much for Ratchet to bear, his arm around Bumblebee's chest tightening until he can practically hear the small frame creaking under strain as he bucks up into that sweet valve one last time to help his own overload crash over him. His vision scrambles into a mess of yellow pixels for a moment as his processor swims in the high.
Several moments pass before Bumblebee starts squirming, and Ratchet finally lets go so they can get their panels closed. He's not quite sure what he expected afterwards. Maybe for Bumblebee to run off and gossip about the encounter with Bulkhead. Or for the scout to regret the whole thing and beg him to never bring it up. He wholesale did not expect for Bumblebee to turn around in his lap and lay against him, optics shut and a look of utter content on his faceplate. Ratchet shifts a bit before setting a servo on Bumblebee back and rubbing gently. Who thought something as novel as a bit of cuddling after interface would be so awkward for him.
It's been so long, though, since he's done any of this. So long since he's let himself enjoy the softer parts of his frame and those of another. And, as he watches Bumblebee get comfortable on him, he can't help but think of how something similar might be waiting for the little yellow menace if things just go a little wrong. Even Ratchet was that young, once. Cocky and sure he was the hottest thing since smelted metal. He could endure Bumblebee's personality of it meant the scout could cling to that spark of joy that kept him so bright.
At least, Ratchet thinks that until he sees the corners of this grey derma quirking up into that fucking grin again.
"Hey, doc, think I could top next time? I promise my spike's just as magical~."
Ratchet shoves Bumblebee out of his lap and onto the floor, but the bright laughter that responds to his lashing out makes his spark soften. Next time, sure. So long as Bumblebee could learn how to shut up between now and then.