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DO NOT DISTURB UNLESS IT'S AN EMERGENCY, AND SOMEONE BETTER BE DYING.

He practically drilled this into all their heads before locking himself in his room, activating all security and soundproofing systems, and dimming the lights. This was one of the few instances where he had any time for himself, and he would take full advantage of it. He didn't plan on having ANY distractions, and he hoped to Primus that if the rest of team Prime had any sense left, they would leave well enough alone until he was ready to come out.

Releasing a heavy sigh, Ratchet took a moment to collect himself before going on his knees and rummaging under his berth for that special suitcase. Upon making contact, he immediately retrieved it and placed it on top of the slab. After unlocking the case, Ratchet opened it to reveal the hidden contents inside.

Three of his most private possessions lay nestled within velvet-like cloth, each varying in size. He eyed each one appreciatively, pleased that everything was still in prime condition—which wasn't surprising since he rarely had the time to use them.

Taking the first and smallest one into his servos, he held the spike at an optic level and traced a finger down its length. It was rose pink with traces of white and red running down its sides. Tiny ridges and grooves covered its surface. A simple model but one he enjoyed nonetheless, especially since—

It reminded him of her.

Standing, he walked to his desk, where he retrieved a bottle of lubricant. Returning to the berth, he situated himself at the center before uncapping the bottle. Ratchet squeezed some of its contents into his palm.

Snick

He rolled onto his back and brought a hand down to his open equipment. Cool, slick fingers gently caressed his valve lips, causing him to shudder. It had been ages since he had last done this, but his body still reacted with eager anticipation, activating dormant systems that missed the relieving practice of masturbation. Taking it slow, he began to prepare himself for the marathon interface ahead. All the while, he allowed carefully locked memories to resurface and take control of his processor, carrying him away to a world of ecstasy and longing.

"It looks to me that you won't need much work after all."

A second digit joined the first, spreading and scissoring his valve with ease. A copious amount of lubricant trickled out, pooling on the berth below.

"At the rate you're lubricating, I don't think it will take much time for me to spike you, Ratchet."

He snorted. "With the way you're running your intake, it sounds like you're the one who can't wait to get inside me."

A hoarse moan escaped him when two more digits suddenly entered him, thrusting with wild abandon. He couldn't help but raise his hips forward, trying to get more of that full sensation, but before he could reach it, those fingers pulled away. Valve empty and clenching on nothing, Ratchet groaned pitifully.

Arcee laughed at the wounded look the medic gave her. That giant pout and wide optics were foreign on the grumpy mech's features, but it was also damn cute.

"Look who's inpatient now?"

Huffing, Ratchet leaned back and spread his legs even wider, more than accommodating the femme between them. "Well, neither of us are getting any younger, so are you going to get on with it or what?"

Grinning wickedly, Arcee leaned forward until her spike lay right on top of that soaking, clenching valve. Instead of entering, however, she dragged the underside of her spike over those swollen lips and anterior node, wanting to give that final tease and driving the mech beneath her wild.

Throwing his head back, Ratchet moaned. He tried bucking into the stimulation in hopes of getting the femme to enter him finally, but a pair of servos kept an iron grip on his hips, hampering such movement. Eventually, he had enough.

"Quit stalling and fragging face me!" He snarled, baring his teeth at the smug femme.

If that wasn't enough of an invitation, then Arcee didn't know what was.

Giving one last grind, Arcee withdrew and plunged inside in one stroke.

Ratchet slapped a hand over his intake to silence the positively obscene sound that escaped him. Even though the soundproofing systems were active, he couldn't help but feel paranoid that one of Team Prime would hear what was happening within his quarters.

The thrill of doing something so scandalous behind private doors sent a bolt of charge down his frame and to his array.

Slowly, he eased the spike out until only the tip remained. His valve clenched needily, hungrily, creating squelching noises that caused the energon to rush to his cheeks as lubricant dribbled down his aft. He gave himself a moment to steady before plunging the spike back inside.

She set a smooth, steady pace. Not too slow, but not too rough either. Each thrust was heavy and purposeful, igniting as many nodes as she possibly could deep within his valve. Her spike was in the smaller range, but she certainly knew how to use it, making sure each one of her ridges and grooves set off a sensory node, igniting sparks of charge to race through his sensor net.

Ratchet could only lay back and make lewd sounds, spreading his legs even more to allow her to go deeper, harder, faster into him.

The clanging of armor echoed. Accompanied by the sloshing of lubricant as it was dispelled from his valve by the force of her thrusts. It oozed and splashed between them, coating their armor—his aft, her hips, their thighs—in a sticky mess that made the experience more erotic. He tilted his hips forward eagerly, bucking in time with her movements.

Arcee chuckled. "Enjoying yourself, Ratch?"

A snarky remark was ready at the tip of his glossa—and then she rammed her hips forward, causing him to gasp and arch his back. He forgot his train of thought.

Fragging glitch.

"Come on, Ratchet, don't tell me you're going to overload already?"

He recovered enough to shoot her a glare. "If you keep running your mouth, I'll be nothing but rusted parts until I come. So, shut up and frag me silly!"

The femme had the gall to laugh.

Before he could retort with a scathing insult, a thumb rubbed over his anterior node. A high keen escaped him. If he were in the right mind, he would have been embarrassed, but his focus was reaching the highest levels of pleasure.

Finally, finally, Arcee picked up her pace. Hips slamming into his, the head of her spike reached his deepest depths, almost hitting his ceiling node at the top of his valve. He tried bucking back but ultimately gave up on such an action. All he could do was lay back and take everything.

Her derma crashed onto his, muffling a whine. She was soft and sweet, delicate against his own. She pulled away and pecked his lips when he keened.

"That's it, Ratch. Let it go." She cooed. "Let me do the work, alright? Promise I'll make it good for you."

And she did.

A plethora of lecherous sounds escaped him as he was given the pounding of a lifetime. Arcee was merciless. Sometimes slowing down, then speeding up; rough before smoothing out her thrusts, only to resume ruthlessly. And Primus, his valve, took it all.

"Cee…! 'Cee!!"

Charge crackled around them, dispelling both in the air and on each other. Ratchet felt overstimulated in ways he hadn't felt in ages. At this point, he was reduced to nothing but whimpers and whines, and—Blast it, Arcee had better gotten his message! It was the only way he could warn her of his impending overload.

Solus Prime bless her she did.

Without pause, she hunkered down and gave him a loving smooch on the lips. "Do it, Ratchet. Overload for me."

Her spike slammed multiple clusters of nodes with one final thrust, and he tumbled into a wave of ecstasy.

His chassis heaved with every invention, his spark spinning madly inside. Cooling fans were running high, trying to cool his overheated frame. Charge dissipated around him. He sank back on the covers and waited until he was near a semblance of normalcy.

He slowly removed the spike from inside him, moaning as his valve twitched from the extra stimulation. Setting it aside, he sighed. All the while, the corners of his lips crooked upwards, his field was buzzing in pleasure.

Man, that was a good overload, hadn't had one of those in a LONG while. Too long, it seemed.

He ran fingers over his frame, brushing overheated plating and sensitive wiring, sending little buzzes of pleasure. His digits made absentminded circles, caressing armor like a lover.

Then his fingers brushed against his spike, and his venting hitched. Previously neglected, his spike gave excited twitches as he finally paid attention to it. He rubbed smooth, long strokes over its length, taking special care to all the nodes buzzing to life under his touch. When his fingers reached the head, he gave a delightful squeeze, feeling transfluid ooze out and down his hand. He gave another squeeze and moaned in ecstasy.

He took his time, wanting to prolong the pleasure as long as he could. And he did.

The overload was shorter than the first but no less pleasurable. Ratchet groaned as his spike throbbed in his grip, spewing precious transfluid over his abdomen and windshield. All the while, his valve squeezed the toy inside, amplifying the pleasure even more. He sighed as his frame sagged into the berth.

He allowed his systems to recover slowly, pleasantly, before ultimately sitting up in no particular rush.

He pulled the spike from inside him and tossed it to the side. Shifting to the edge of the berth where the suitcase was, he reached for his next prize.

It was a more considerable spike, blue with white strokes down its sides. The tip had a flare to it. Its armor curved outwards, each plating flared more open as it ran down the base. Pseudo bio lights ran from tip to base, orange in color, and functioned more for presentation. White lines twisted and curved down its sides, creating a pattern with lascivious connotations. It was another reminder of a lover from the past.

A flamboyant jet. A fellow medic. An old friend.

Rolling onto his stomach, Ratchet reached behind him to rub the length over his valve. Those ridges felt delightful between his lips, reactivating sensors that had just recovered from the last interface. Lubricant coated the spike within seconds, and Ratchet felt mournfully empty.

Finally, he allowed the penetration. Humming, the medic was in pure rapture as each flared ridge entered him, each hooking and scraping against a swollen node inside his valve. Lubricant leaked between his lips and ran down his front, pooling onto the wet berth below.

Eventually, the base met his aft, and the tip lay flushed against his ceiling node. Ratchet keened as his hips rolled upwards, trying to grind against the hips of his imaginary lover.

"Desperate, aren't we?."

Pharma's gaze was lecherous. "My, you're quite the sight. So desperate for an interface, you're willing to frag yourself on my spike without me having to do the work."

Ratchet only half-listened as he continued rolling his hips backward, trying to shove that spike deeper inside him. He groaned as the tip ground against his ceiling node and twisted his hips to feel more of that mindblowing pleasure.

"Needy thing. Aren't you Ratchet?"

"Only because you're a lazy aft who won't fragging move!"

The medic shot a baleful glare at the laughing jet—the gall of this fragging mech! After a long shift like the one they had, Ratchet needed this frag. Needed to let lose in both mind and frame. If only Pharma would stop slagging teasing and start—

"OOH…!!"

Hips suddenly pistoned into his own, igniting nodes throughout his valve and sending mind-blowing sensations. Charge crackled across his frame, and he felt the rising overload just out of reach. Just a couple more~

"SLAG IT, PHARMA!!"

This time he gave a nasty kick to the jet when he heard the first cackle. He was only mildly satisfied at the yelp from the other medic, but his frame whined at an overload denied. Charge continued to race throughout his sensor net, waiting to expel in an all-consuming finish.

Ratchet contorted himself until he was able to face the other medic and shoot a menacing look. "If you don't fragging finish what YOU started—"

"Alright, alright, Mr. Grouchy puss. I didn't know you needed this overload that severely." Pharma squeezed the plump hips in a reassuring grip. "Relax. Let me take care of you now. I'll give you what you need."

Whatever retort Ratchet had in mind was blown away, just like the pleasure suddenly igniting in his valve and throughout his frame. No longer feeling the need to fight, he allowed himself to be swept away in the tide.

Time blended, and so did everything else. He didn't know which way was up or down—left or right—whether minutes passed or years. None of it mattered.

When it came, it came like a supernova. Powerful. Massive. Radiant. All-encompassing. Spectacular.

It took a long, long time for Ratchet to return to the present. His fans ran at a maximum, trying to bring his temperature down. Vents were blown wide open. His systems tried everything to get his frame back to a semblance of normalcy.

Ratchet panted on the berth while coolant dripped down his faceplates and the rest of his frame. The aftershocks of that last overload still ran rampant. Charged crackled and dispelled into the air. He was a debauched mess and knew it.

And he didn't fragging care. He enjoyed every bit of it.

The overloads, the aftermatch, the charge, the soreness, every single bit of it—Ratchet couldn't get enough of it. If he could feel this way every day, he would do it in a sparkbeat. In better circumstances, he would have. If it weren't for his responsibilities or the war, he might even do it for a living.

Huffing to himself, Ratchet shook his head and sat up once he was able. As always, post-overload made his processor fuzzy. A couple of cycles of recharge would fix that up, no problem. But before that—

He grabbed his last prize.

It was the biggest spike in his collection.

The toy was long and thick, dark grey and black with hints of red. It was lined with ridges and tiny spines that jutted outwards along its base. A large, bulbous knot made up the base with a magnet attached to the bottom.

The sight made his oral intake salivate.

Years ago, he thought about throwing this one out, but he still kept it despite it all. This one gave him more than good memories, more than mind-blowing sensations. It was the history behind it. The tension. The longing. The pain and gratification.

The unregrettable mistakes.  

His spark spun in its casing as he magnetized it onto the berth. His hands squeezed the base in a tight grip—a slight tremble in his fingers.

Ratchet vented slowly. There was no need to get ahead of himself. This was just pleasure. Nothing more.

He grabbed the bottle of lubricant thrown to the side and poured a generous amount in his palm.

Once he was ready, he allowed the memories to resurface.

"Are you afraid?"

His optics nearly rolled to the back of his helm. "Do I look afraid to you?"

A dark chuckle answered him. Claws teased at his valve lips before spreading them. A copious amount of lubricant oozed out, soaking the wide pelvis he was straddling.

"No," answered Deadlock, a smirk playing at his lips.

"Then I think we're ready to get this show on the road." Ratchet scoffed, partly annoyed and completely horny.

The warframe laughed again. "If I knew you wanted spike so badly, I woulda fragged you ages ago." He petted the voluptuous red hips within his grasp reverently. "You're more desperate than dead-end pleasure bot."

Smack .

 "Keep running your mouth like that, and you'll never get to know!" Ratchet snarled.

"Alright! Alright! Slag."

Before Ratchet could open his intake, he found himself lifted into the air with astonishing ease. Suddenly there was something round and scorching near the entrance of his open valve. For a moment, he thought he was about to be dropped like a sack of bolts, but a squeeze to his pelvis shook him. He looked at the other mech.

Red optics burned into blue.

"Are you sure you want this?"

Ratchet thought about throwing another retort, but the tone of voice and the look on the bounty hunter's face made him pause. There was genuine concern etched on Deadlock's face; his handsome features pinched into a frown.

It made something tug in the deepest parts of Ratchet's spark.

Before he thought better of it, he leaned up and kissed the larger mech. He didn't withdraw until those features finally smoothed out and reciprocated.

"If I didn't want this, I wouldn't hesitate to say so." He reached up a hand to caress the long faceplate. "And if that wasn't convincing enough, maybe this will."

He dropped onto the spike below.

And his sensors ignited in a flurry of charge.

Ratchet threw his head back and howled. Capillars palpitated rapidly; lubricant gushed out in a long wave; charge cackled throughout his frame.

He was in complete euphoria.

Every ridge, spine, and metallic plate collided with his sensor nodes deep within his valve, even fueling nodes previously left untouched. His own lubricant mixed with the artificial, creating a sticky mess that made his descent that much easier. It was absolutely divine.

"Frag, yeah."

Ratchet shifted his gaze to Deadlock's face, noting that the speedster laid back against the berth with his optics offline.

Deadlock groaned again as the medic shifted his hips and took more of the spike inside him. The sight made the medic smirk in satisfaction because he had reduced the usually stoic bounty hunter to such a state.

He twisted his hips again and again and again, taking more of the spike until his hips met the base: a (currently) dormant knot ready to be activated on command. The anticipation made Ratchet keen.

"Slag." Deadlock onlined his optics to look down at the panting medic. "You're so fragging hot." The larger mech ground his pelvis into the medic's, earning a mewl from both of them. "You're perfect, Ratch. You're slagging perfect."

Time passed in a blur, with the world around them melting away—both insignificant to what was happening between the two mechs.

Charge crackled. Vents flung open. Heat dispelled from their frames in buckets. Lubricant gushed between them. It was heavenly. It was intoxicating. It was magnificent.

Ratchet didn’t know who lost control first, whether Deadlock’s swelling knot or his engorged node being pounded into by said knot—what mattered was that their timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

One thrust. Two. Three. Four.

A loud pop.

Ratchet howled. Deadlock roared.

Then Perfection.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Hearing returned much sooner than sight, but eventually, that too returned. The first thing Ratchet saw when he activated his vision were numbers on his HUD. It took him an embarrassingly long minute to figure out their purpose.

An alarm. He had 12 hours left of his off-shift.

Good timing. That meant Ratchet had 12 hours to clean and recover from his little escapade and pretend he had done something completely mundane compared to what he had actually done. But first—

Grunting, he reached down between his legs and detached the toy from his valve. He made sure to properly deflate the thing before pulling out (something he had learned the hard way). He threw the item to the side where his other toys were located. They would need to be thoroughly cleaned before their subsequent use whenever that would be. But before even that—

A long nap was in order.

Ratchet sighed before making himself comfortable, rolling over to the side of the berth least soaked with lubricant. He would have to clean that too.

Shifting one last time, Ratchet sighed again, fully sagging onto the berth and shuttering his optics closed.

Before recharge took him, he allowed the deepest depths of his mind to take over once again. This time, he conjured not a memory but an image.

Arcee flowering delicate kisses over his faceplate. Pharma whispering sweet nothings into his audio. Deadlock cuddled from behind, petting his side with gentle claws.

Sweet perfection.