march will be good march will be good march will be good march will be good march will be good march will be good march will be good march will be good march will be good march will be good march will be good march will be good march will be good march will be good march will be good march will be good
The request: Could I please request a grumpy x sunshine but make it grandpa flavored with [Ratchet] x reader please? I was thinking along the lines of an ADHD reader (who thereby struggles with effective emotional regulation and so feelings and the resulting EMP waves are like MASSIVE) who basically thinks Ratchet is the coolest thing since sliced bread and as such, is DEDICATED to try to become his friend. Their EMP basically yelling “OMGIOSH LOVE THIS MECH AO MUCH IM GONNA EXPLODE” the entire time they interact with Ratchet. And poor Ratchet has to do deal with the sudden obvious attachment and affection of a human who is insatiably curious about all things Ratchet and Cybertron 😆
First commission piece is written! I haven't written for Ratchet before but I absolutely adore his character, and had a blast exploring his personality and inner dialogue here.
Thank you so much to @theanonymousninja247 for requesting this one. <3
Astonishingly enough, this is all Optimus’s fault.
Far be it from Ratchet to lay any semblance of blame at his leader’s pedes, even on his worst days, but there’s just something about this predicament he’s found himself in now that has Prime’s gentle meddling written all over it.
For the third time in as many minutes, Ratchet ex-vents a long-suffering sigh, sinking on all four of his tyres as he spares another, impatient glare at his chronometer.
The numbers blink back at him innocuously. ’17:37’
You’re seven minutes late.
There are far more pressing, productive uses of his time that you’re so carelessly wasting, and yet here he is; the only surviving Chief Medical Officer to the Autobots, idling on the curb, reduced to a mere taxi service for your convenience.
If he lets his chassis droop any further, he’ll hit the asphalt underneath him.
Optimus had made these little ‘excursions’ sound positively pleasant when he’d discuss them with Ratchet. He said it would do the medic some ‘good’ to take his place for a change, to put some wear in his tyres and get out of the base for a while… All a pretence.
Of course, it’s mere coincidence that you just so happen to need a ride from your place of work this evening, and wouldn’t it be a fine idea for Ratchet to take some interest in their charges’ lives every now and again?
Oh? Bulkhead, Arcee and Bumblebee are all busy on their own scouting missions? Not unheard of, but terribly convenient all the same.
Optimus himself has a meeting with Agent Fowler that’s likely to extend well into the evening, leaving him no time to pick you up as he typically would?
Pah!
He doesn’t rightly know which is more insulting; that Optimus thinks he’d fall for such a badly concealed ruse, or that he can read Ratchet well enough to know he’d need an excuse to save-face anyway.
He had to come and get you. Nobody else was available.
It’s only when the seven-minute mark ticks dutifully over to eight that Ratchet is forced to consider the possibility that he might, by some, microscopic sliver of a chance, have missed your departure.
He scoffs the notion away as soon as it occurs.
Setting aside the fact that he’s perfectly observant - despite what Miko might say - you are not the type of human who’s… easily overlooked.
In all the weeks he’s known you, Ratchet has never once seen you display anything less than the highest degree of exuberance.
Then again, perhaps your behaviour is all the more significant to him because you seem inclined to adhere yourself to his side at any given opportunity. And in truth, for all his ingenuity and extraordinary acumen, Ratchet has yet to fathom why in Primus’s name you seem to light up like a fragging solar flare every time you lay eyes on him.
So no, he decides, glaring heatedly at the glass doors of the building opposite, he can’t have missed your exit.
Which is why it comes as such a shock when he almost does.
Nine minutes after Optimus assured him that you’d be finishing for the day, one last human trickles sluggishly out through the swinging doors, head bent low on a slumping neck, face downcast to the pavement underfoot.
Ratchet’s optics are only drawn to the figure due to the similarities between you, and that’s when it hits him. The human isn’t just similar to you.
That is you.
And yet, you couldn’t look any less like yourself, or at least, less like the human he’s so accustomed to seeing around the base.
Out here in the cold light of day, with your shoulders bowed like the load heaped upon them is getting heavier with each, weary step, Ratchet sees an entirely different human.
His plates start itching at the thought that he’s a witness to something he was never supposed to see, like you’ve dropped your mask and he wasn’t polite enough to look away while you slipped it back on.
It wouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone observing that the CMO’s first suspicion is… ‘Are you hurt?’
Sleepily, a line of ancient code rears its head to grumble at some imperceptible threat.
You don’t seem to have spotted him here on the curb, watching you raptly from the other side of the road.
The foremost jarring change that he immediately zeroes in on is the curve of your mouth. On any typical day, it’s always open, letting a torrent of admiration spew forth and sweep him up in its tide like you’ve opened the proverbial floodgates.
And you're always smiling – predominantly at him.
But here, in the few steps you take from the shadow of the building, Ratchet can’t even catch a glimpse of that familiar, ridiculously cheerful grin that lights up your malleable features.
It occurs to him quite abruptly that this is the first time he hasn’t seen you smile.
It’s all so astounding in fact, that he barely even registers the sudden growl his engine kicks out as he slips seamlessly into his role as the team’s medic, performing a cursory scan of you from his post across the street.
You must have heard him though or felt his optics on you at the very least, because in the next second, your head shoots up and you instantly catch sight him, stopping in your tracks.
For several, terse seconds, you do nothing but stare, your face as blank as an empty data-pad. After a few beats of his spark, he realises why; This is the first time you’ve seen him in his vehicle mode… That, and you were likely expecting Optimus, not the crotchety old ambulance parked in his stead.
Ratchet is on the cusp of telling you he’s sorry to disappoint, when it happens.
You take one last look at him, squinting to make out the Autobot insignia on his grill… and then you simply come alive.
The change is immediate. He pinpoints the second your heartbeat bucks into a higher gear as you straighten your back, raising your head in delighted surprise, and your lips stretch out to their absolute limits, pushing at the apples of your cheeks as you send the old Autobot a blinding grin.
“Ratchet! Hi!” you cheer before bounding heedlessly into the street.
The spark in his chamber gives an almighty lurch as he scrambles to throw out a check for any oncoming vehicles.
By some miracle, the street seems relatively deserted for the time being, thank Primus…
He’d never hear the end of it if anything happened to you on his watch.
The agitated hiss of plating begins to settle down once you reach him, quieted by the return to normalcy.
Nothing’s wrong, you’re as chipper as always, and he would sooner tear out his own glossa than admit he’d come anywhere close to concerned.
His engine grumbles as you skid to a stop at his bumper, your fragile limbs quivering with unrestrained excitement.
“Oh my God! What a lovely surprise,” you laugh, sincerity packed into every word whilst your eyes dart over his vehicle mode, drinking in the side of him you’ve never seen before, until he finds himself shifting under your scrutiny. “What are you doing here? You never leave the base!”
For very good reason, he grouses to himself.
Aloud, he simply huffs, swinging open the passenger door for you and heaving out an aggrieved sigh. “Nobody else was available to pick you up. So, the burden fell to yours truly.” And then, with the exuberance of a dead fly… “Surprise.”
He shouldn’t ask…
He really shouldn’t – oh, Primus forsake him.
“If I may,” he grinds out through gritted dentae, rolling on his tyres to bring his open door closer to your side as he shoots a glare at the building behind you, “You didn’t seem… entirely yourself, when you left your work premises…”
You don’t reply for a moment, so he swallows his pride and gruffly adds, “Anything I should know about?”
He isn’t expecting the sudden warmth of a tiny body to drape itself so ardently against his bonnet, nor to feel the press of your cheek squashing into him with a ferocity that might have hurt if he were human. In response, the medic goes rigid on his struts, exhaust sputtering incredulously.
“Just had a bad day,” you assure him with a squeeze, “But not to worry. You’re the perfect cure.”
Ugh. He just knows that was deliberate, likely intended to plant yourself under his plating like a stubborn little parasite who refuses to be detached, no matter how hard he tries to root you out and hold you at arm’s length.
“Seriously. After the day I’ve had, you are the best person who could have turned up to save it,” you gush into the metal beneath you, “Literally, my hero.”
Now, there’s an aspect to your character that he has yet to wrap his processor around.
No matter what he says, however scathing or dismissive he tries to be, somehow, you’re never put off by it, never deterred by his outward aversion to your company and certainly never shy in the face of his cantankerous disposition.
It’s… quite infuriating.
“Look on the bright side,” Arcee had teased him once as she sauntered past his med-bay whilst you sang his praises to a highly amused Optimus from the gantry, “At least you’re someone’s favourite.”
He’d scoffed at her then like he’d scoff at her now.
He was perfectly happy being the humans’ least favourite Autobot. The unfriendly one. The cynical grouch. Gruff and unpalatable and not worth getting to know.
They don’t get attached, and he can pretend he isn’t scared half to death that every trip through the Ground Bridge will be their last.
It was fine. It was working.
But then, you came along, as dogged in your pursuit of his company as he was in avoiding yours.
Unstoppable force, meet Immoveable object.
Ratchet is suddenly wrenched from his stupor when an old truck rattles past along the sun-warmed road, reminding him that not only is he suffering the indignity of a hug, but he’s also suffering it in public.
“Wh-! Will you get inside this instant!” he hisses venomously, only losing the tightness in his vocaliser after you peel yourself off his bonnet and skip to the open door, swinging yourself into his sterile interior with a jaunty little ‘hup!’
The medic has to throw several firewalls around the circuits in his optics to prevent them from rolling up towards the darkening sky overhead. How can one tiny body possibly hold so much bounce?
He stubbornly ignores the warmth still seeping into one particular spot on his metal frame.
Your hands are eager on the seatbelt, too preoccupied with inspecting the rest of his interior to pay much attention to what you’re doing, and you end up missing the socket several times until Ratchet gives a brisk tut and manoeuvres the catch in himself.
Primus… He can feel you buzzing against his frame, every ounce of your alien biology thrumming like a youngling’s unfettered EM field.
… This is sure to be a long and arduous ride…
“So~” you sing-song, clasping your hands between your knees to keep them still as he pulls away from the curb, drifting smoothly onto the road out of Jasper, “How’s my favourite Autobot?”
Ha. Favourite…
It doesn’t matter how many times he hears you say it, the words will always sound incongruous to everything he knows about himself, like an arachnophobe saying spiders are their favourite animal. So, he does what he always does when presented with your incessant onslaught of fondness.
He tries to ignore it.
“Optimus?” he hedges coolly, “In a meeting with Agent Fowler… He apologises for missing your usual rendezvous.”
A boisterous laugh erupts from your chest, loud and high, thrilled at the banter. It’s something else he realises he’s slowly become accustomed to, no longer inclined to wince at the discordance of it.
“Much as I love the big guy,” you tell him, planting a hand over your chest in a crude rendition of solemnity, “He doesn’t take top spot. That’s a V-I-P position reserved for you alone, I’m afraid.”
Ratchet is immensely glad you can’t see his expression at the moment, so you miss the look of consternation crushing his brow plates together and twisting his dermas into a bewildered scowl.
Why in Primus’s good name would he be your-?
Before the CMO can ponder on it any longer though, you’re shifting forwards in your seat and shooting a sunny grin at his rearview, heedless of the suburbs blurring lazily past outside his window.
“While I’ve got you… Will you tell me more about Cybertron?” you blurt, though the way your fingers clasp tightly to the edge of the leather under your thighs tells him that you’re ready to beg if he declines, “You never finished that story about how Optimus used to sneak into the Hall of Records.”
“You-…” Trailing off, Ratchet angles his mirror down to capture you centrally within the glass, his vocaliser turning uncharacteristically soft with surprise before he can smother it. “… You remember that?”
He’d begun that tale weeks ago, long enough for a young human to have absorbed and promptly expunged any information they’d been given. He hadn’t finished it because Miko had grown so disinterested, she flopped back onto the sofa cushions and pretended – in her usual flair – that she was ‘literally dying of boredom!’
Ratchet refused to say another word to any humans all day.
“What’re you kidding me?” you laugh, trying and failing to suppress a grin by biting down on your lower lip before it slips free with your next words, “I remember everything you tell me!”
That’s…
Oh.
Admittedly, at the time, he hadn’t been paying enough attention to tell if you were paying any attention.
More fool him, he supposes.
“Well, I… Mm… Ahem.” Clearing some static out of his voice box, he cautiously ventures, “What exactly would you like to know?”
As it turns out, ‘everything,’ was not a mere over-exaggeration of your curiosity, intended more for embellishment than to be taken literally.
When you said ‘everything,’ you meant everything. Hardly a quantity he could ever hope to cover in the half-hour’s drive from Jasper to the silo.
Still… he relented, finding that the words come easier when he’s been prompted to talk about his home.
By the time he rolls slowly into the base, your eyes are sparkling with wonder for a world you’ll likely never see, and Ratchet is…
… He’s at a loss.
You weren’t just listening to him indulge in his own grief by blethering on about Cybertron, about the ‘good old days’ before the war. You threw yourself into the conversation right alongside him, hungry for any scrap of information he’d give you.
Loathe as he is to admit it, it… made a refreshing change, having a human speak to him without their eyes glazing over or their jaws splitting apart in an obnoxious yawn.
Chugging to a stop near the gantry stairs, Ratchet opens his door with a heavy clunk, half expecting you to come flying out to tell Jack, Miko and Rafael all about your unexpected lift from the world’s surliest conversationalist.
Such is his lot.
All he can hope is that you don’t tell them about the laugh that leapt off his glossa without warning when you said he reminds you of perseverance personified, or the way his engine nearly stalled on the highway after something else you said whilst your fingers tapped a happy rhythm against his seat.
“I wish I could have seen Cybertron. It sounds incredible!”
He’d only murmured his response. “… It was…”
“Of course it was,” you agreed, aiming a hearty smile up at his rearview, “You were there.”
… Why do you have to be so damnably genuine?
It makes maintaining his cold indifference a lot more complicated.
Bewildered, he watches you, still bursting with life as you slide out through his open door and move yourself to the foot of the stairs, granting him the space to transform to his full, stocky height.
“Wow,” you breathe, gazing up at him awestruck when he rolls his sturdy shoulder panels and blinks down at you, that all-too natural scowl thudding resolutely back into place.
“What?” he snips, bristling out of habit rather than offence at being stared at.
Offering him an innocent shrug, you simply beam up at him, neck craned all the way back to meet his cerulean optics. “Nothing,” you tell him amicably, “Just wanted to say thanks for the lift. You’re the best.”
He only grunts in response at the wrongness of your statement, using a servo to loosely shoo you away. But you don’t leave as he expects you to, not yet.
“Hey, um, can I just…” you start, casting a quick, backwards glance over your shoulder up the stairway. Somewhere high above, you can hear Jack and Miko bickering over the TV remote, interrupted by Raf’s softer voice as the boy attempts to mediate.
Absently picking at the nail on your thumb, you let out a hard breath, trying to expel some of the lingering energy that still burns through your body as you return your attention to Ratchet and stammer, “I-I just-! It means a lot that you came to pick me up.”
“Optimus’s orders,” he reiterates as bluntly as he can, turning on a heel to stalk across the silo towards his screens, seeking an immediate escape from your suffocating friendliness and trying to ignore the ‘trit-trot’ of tiny shoes padding along in his wake.
He’s careful then, treading with lighter pede-falls as he reaches his station.
The softest touch to his ankle guard has him going stiff with alarm before his systems ease coolant through his racing circuitry.
Schooling his expression into something fierce, he whips his helm down to glare at you, though it falters pitifully when he sees you standing by his pede, your diminutive figure almost lost on the vast expanse of the silo’s floor. One of your arms is held aloft, and you have your palm pressed flat to the metal just above his tyre.
And your face - unfathomably open, and bright like a carbon star - grins up at him so starkly he forgets that it was less than one Earth hour ago when he saw you without a smile.
His sensors pick up the astonishingly tenacious beat of your pulse against his frame, fragile but persistent. Just like you. It’s the proof of your fondness for him. You can’t hide it any more than he can ignore it. The human pulse is an intrinsic part of your biology – the part that he checks over and over again to make sure it’s still beating away below your epidermis – the part that always, always gathers momentum and runs at a gallop when you’re near him.
Scientifically, it’s a response to the release of dopamine, and while he’s no expert on humans, he’s absorbed enough to know that the chemical is usually associated with feeling happy.
So, therein lies his irrefutable evidence.
Ratchet, the most curmudgeonly mech to ever set foot on planet Earth, makes you happy. And there isn’t a Pit-forsaken thing he can do to refute the fact because the proof is staring him in the face every day.
Checkmate.
… If this is the Universe’s idea of a joke, there’d better be a damn good punchline.
“Seriously,” you beam, ignorant of his inner-turmoil, “Thank you, Ratchet.”
And a sharp crack lances down the wall of his unassailable resolve.
Don’t do that… Don’t make his spark rumble appreciatively from something so trite as a simple ‘thank you.’
coming from a place of love btw i still have to remind myself this often. i’m very autistic i know what it’s like to think of yourself as like a lovable character with quirky flaws because your sense of identity comes from fiction but you are a Living Person and that’s not how it works to be a living person
Ratchet finally comes home from working all day at the med bay, the poor medic is tired as hell and just wants to relax in the comfort of his own berth. Fortunately enough, ratchet owns an exotic pet. A human he has grown fond of. They are fully trained and even have their own collar (with the message “Please return to Ratchet if lost” written on it), they have also learned how to help Ratchet de-stress by letting him use their hole as his personal flesh light <3 His happy little human loves becoming his cum dump to help him get his frustrations out, such a helpful little pet <33
any continuity of ratchet is fine (pick ur fav!), afab but gender neutral reader please and thank you moni 🙏❤️🩹
A Sight For Sore Optics - Human Pet AU
IDW/MTMTE Ratchet x human! afab! gn!Reader
Hi Gem! Thank you so much for your request, I was literally foaming at the mouth ready to write this. To make this more anatomically possible, Ratchet's spike transforms to a more "safer" size. So I hope this is good please be good (I haven't finished reading mtmte yet so forgive me). Also if I have missed any tags please let me know!
Warnings: Xenophilia, Size Kink, Collaring, Oral (both receiving and giving), Masturbation, Praise Kink, Cum Dumping, Mild Dubious Consent (?)
Word Count: 2.3k
18+ ONLY MINORS DNI
Another day, another few thousand miles of endless space, another few sickly bots. Additionally, a few unkempt humans requiring attention due to poor conditions from their previous owners. With the new organic additions to the Lost Light at the captain's approval, Ratchet had found himself biting off more than he could chew, looking after bots and humans. Oh, how he wished he took up an organic health course or something other than primarily relying on Brainstorm's fervent research on the tiny creatures. Between juggling it all, Ratchet was unsure how much more his threadbare servos could take. Still, there was one thing the old medic was unmistakable about. He was tired.
One good thing, he must admit, is that he gets to return to you. His own human pet, a personal 'Thank you' gift on behalf of the entire crew for his selflessness and hard work, provided with you a basket with fundamental necessities. But the basket had long since been used up, and he had transformed it into a makeshift cot for you. It'll do for now, he had thought.
He was initially still trying to figure out what to think of you. Apart from very rudimentary health checkups and nutritional foods, there wasn't much that Ratchet could provide for you. There's not many enriching activities for such a tiny human like yourself. Until that is, he discovered something quite unusual that had been exhibited in almost every human adopted by the crew so far.
You have an insatiable libido.
Ratchet was unsure, if not downright nervous if other owners were to discover how incredibly beneficial humans could be. Whether or not they had already learned was an entirely different story. It wouldn't surprise Ratchet if that was the very reason why human pets were approved, though it seems shocking. It all seemed so innocent enough, adopting humans for the cuteness factor for the mechs on board. But as with most things, there's always more than just the surface level of what the optic sees. And Ratchet was already way too far below the surface.
Punching in the code for his hab suite, Ratchet waits eagerly for the door to open with twitching digits. He steps inside, tossing whatever work essentials he has on hand on the first bench he sees. He'll worry about reorganising later. Right now, he needs some pet therapy and a well-overdue overload. The dull ache behind his panels only gets stronger as his pedes carry him to his berthroom to you, curled up on his berth. It looked as if you neglected your rudimentary cot, choosing to sleep on his berth instead. The medic can't help the softened expression as he melts at the sight. Of all the things he didn't think he deserved, he never once expected it to be such an adorable little thing like you.
He lets his pedes wander over to you, like countless times before, careful and delicate. He always told himself that this 'fling' he had with you was only temporary and that it was purely for his curiosity, but he tends to find himself aching for you repeatedly. He can't help how his racing neurocircuits seem to fizzle out and calm down when he lies with you.
A roughened servo brushes over your hair to slowly stir you. It looked like you had been napping for some time now, which he believes is a good thing. Brainstorm did say that humans tend to sleep better in environments they consider comfortable. The gentle brushing causes you to stir and lift your head to greet him, though in a language yet to be deciphered. It's a pleasant greeting, and Ratchet can tell they're happy to see him. Something along the lines of 'I missed you,' he'd like to think.
"Hey, squishy. I missed you too," Ratchet smiles warmly. He brushes the hair away from your neck to reveal a collar, "You haven't ripped it off yet. Seems like you like it, hm?"
A slight, sleepy nod in confirmation, you've grasped at what he said. Ratchets' digits trail down to the collar, a small silver plate that reads 'Please Return to Ratchet If Lost - HabSuite ###" engraved in Cybertronian. Not that you tend to wander off, but more or less a just in case. Plus, he gets a thrill seeing his name attached to you. He thumbs it gently, admiring his handy work.
"I'm glad you do. It took me quite some time to make," Ratchet tugs at it softly, beckoning you to come closer. He watches you climb onto his lap, "Such tiny adornments are complex to create, 'specially with hands like mine." A servo cups your back, his thumb moving to play with your soft chest. He shivers when he hears a tiny whimper from you, and you seem eager to play with him already.
"I've had a busy day," A mechanical noise of shifting gears as his spike slides out of its housing, "I think you know what I need." It's well and truly bigger than you, much bigger than your tiny body could ever take. But the way your eyes light up in excitement assures Ratchet that you are more than pleased, already desperately taking off your quirky frame coverings. He eyes off your cute organic valve, notices how dripping wet it is, and staves off a moan.
"C'mere for a second," Ratchet scoops you into his servo to bring you closer to his face. He gets a whiff of your arousal, so earthy and addicting. The more you spread your thighs for him, the more he can smell. He brings you to his intake and licks one hearty stripe up your folds.
Oh yes, he thinks. Better than energon. Better than any high grade to ever pass his dermas, like a warm drink that soothes and revitalises his senses. It thickens on his glossa, groaning at the taste as he swirls it around your little node. He watches intently as you squeal in delight, your thighs trembling around his cheeks and how your little face contorts into one of pleasure. Well, he had always presumed it was in pleasure; you've never exactly shied away from his glossa. He hums when you feel him grinding, desperate little ruts chasing the vibrations.
Ratchet licks one last time at your slick, pulling away to observe. Oral lubricants coat your valve thickly, the sensitive area reddened from his torment. His optics wander up; your soft skin is already flushed and glistening with sweat. He wonders how close you were to overloading; it wouldn't have taken much longer if he had kept going. But his spike grows restless, throbbing against his abdominal plating, begging to be touched by much softer palms than his own.
"Do you want my spike? Hm?" Ratchet teases, "My big spike?" He knows you can't fully understand him, but he can't help but vocalise his salacious fantasy. Holding onto you carefully, he lounges back onto the berth. He bites his bottom derma and lowers you to his lap, showing you his engorged spike, "Go on then, have at it. I'll frag your little brains out soon."
With an encouraging nudge from Ratchet, you straddle the shaft. To anyone else, it looks ridiculous. A tiny human desperately attempting to wrap their arms around a spike that's two times taller than they are. But to any depraved fleshy fragger, it's a sight to behold. Ratchet once thought of snapping a picture to potentially maybe sell it to the highest bidder for those who crave the feeling of such a soft body grinding on them, for he is sure there's a market out there somewhere, probably more than half of the crew onboard. Still, the shame of it all prevents him. There's an image to uphold being the resident medic.
Besides, he'd much prefer to keep you and that curious tongue all for himself.
He feels your little licks along him, a tiny tongue wiggling through the grooves and smooth surface, reaching crevices with hidden nodes that cause his pedes to curl. Soft ruts of your hips press your soaked valve right up against him. He knows what you want. The medic brings a servo to grip around his spike with you squished between, only tight enough to keep you in place as he begins self-servicing himself. He hears you letting out a surprised gasp, then a muffled moan, feeling your grip tighten around him.
"Yeah? You like that, squishy?" Ratchet moans, moving his servo slightly faster, "I bet you-nghh do. You look so cute like that. So tiny pressed against my spike."
Only a taste of your warmth is given through your body, like the little tease you are. Ratchet feels the perspiration dripping off you, likely due to the rise of his internal temperature and the energon being solely diverted to his array. It makes for a mediocre yet acceptable lubrication. He could spike you with it alone, but Ratchet prefers to use alternate practices in the interest of your health. Primus knows how careless other Cybertronians can be with their pets.
The medic is becoming increasingly aware of his overload and yours by the looks of things, your little optics squeezed shut, and your limbs clamped tight around his girth. He consciously decides to stop before you reach it. The idea of you squirming on his spike played on his processor a bit too well. He hears your soft whine at the loss of friction, which Ratchet can't help but chuckle at.
"I know, I know. I'm so mean, aren't I? Hold on, squishy." Ratchet lets you rest against his palm while his weeping spike whirs and clunks inwards to a much more manageable size for a human. His spike may be smaller, but there's not much difference in sensation. Thank Primus for the minicon-compatability modes, "You alright?"
A small squeak from you, yes. The medic watches intently as you waste no time climbing on, guided by his careful servo. You press your little valve against the tip, hissing as it barely slips through. Ratchet digs his pedes into the berth at the intense sensation, gritting his dentae as you bottom out. The feeling is incomparable to anything else; it's uniquely organic, warm, and so, so much softer than mesh.
He then wraps his entire servo around you, effectively turning you into one perfect spike sleeve only for him. Perfectly snug inside you, his grip clenches and unclenches around your torso before gently unsheathing himself from you again.
Ratchet is always careful when he uses you in this manner, ensuring his grip isn't too tight. He pushes you back down again, and he feels you melt into his servo. He hears your little whimpers and cries for him, to go faster, he believes. He learned a long ago that he doesn't need to understand your verbal mumbles when your fleshy hips try to hastefully force yourself down onto him, only halted by his own hand. His grip ever so tightens and gives in to your desperation, or more or less his own.
"You're so good for me, squishy. Hah- Lettin' me use your little valve like a toy." Ratchet mewls, his helm lolling off to the side as his optics flick between your face and the way his spike disappears inside you, "Such a helpful little pet you are."
He feels your velvet walls clamp down on him with each and every praise he gives, your little arms draped over the top of his thumb, clinging on for dear life. Every now and then, he massages your breasts pressed up against it, eliciting more dirty moans from you. Such softness that he can't help but take advantage of.
"So- ngh- tight," Ratchet vents heavily, "Primus, you've ruined me for my own race."
He felt a twinge of shame hearing himself; it was as if he had entirely let himself go. But he knows he can no longer turn back, not when you're the best little creature to ever stumble into his life. Despite him having you wrapped around his digits, it is indeed him wrapped around yours. The relief you bring to him after every gruelling shift, after every stressful day upon this damned ship, had him truly addicted.
And with an internal affirmation of decadence and with your soft little valve clenching and pulsing around his spike, he's sent right over the edge.
"Frag yes, sweetspark!-" He glitches out, pressing you down on his thick shaft as far as your soft little body can tolerate. His energon pulses deeply and shocks his entire body with an overload, shooting gush after gush of transfluids into you. His frame lurches forward, his hips driving into the berth as he milks his throbbing spike, his servo driving it deeper into you in a lust-filled daze. Your whines and cries only spur him on more, and he doesn't stop until you're shaking like a leaf in his hold.
It takes only a few more moments for a spent Ratchet to collapse back with you still in his grip, albeit slumped against his thumb. You're panting hard, and he can only just feel your tiny heart pounding against him. You must have had your own overload by the looks of it if the bliss-filled smile on your soft lips is anything to go by. His optics linger down to your soft, distended stomach and the dripping mess that splatters across your thighs and onto his pelvic plating. Now that truly is a sight for sore optics, he thinks to himself.
Ratchet huffs, bringing his other servo to pat the top of your head, "Now there's my happy little human, huh?" He smiles warmly when he feels you leaning into his touch, "How 'bout I fill you up some more?"
If this was what it took for the old medic to de-stress and relax, then so be it. If he were to be exposed to the rest of the crew, then may he join the rest of them. In secret, for now, he will proudly declare himself a lover of organic flesh.
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