robothell | [network post--marked urgent]

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ratchet | asafepairofhands

[network post--marked urgent]

Hello? Yeah, all right, it looks like this thing is on.

[The vid flickers on and Ratchet's face fills it, somehow more exasperated and peeved than usual.]

Look, public service health announcement, stay away from the damn stupid flowers that are popping up everywhere. They're releasing a pollen that's hyperconductive that causes an allergic reaction in both organics and inorganics. Nobody's going to drop dead, unless you're set on being a medical miracle and being the first to die of overcharge, but if you're affected, for goodness' sake, be careful until it wears itself out. If you don't release the pent-up charge or whatever periodically it's possible you'll overheat.

If you absolutely need medical assistance, I'm going to be at the first medibay trying to figure out more precisely what the fresh smelting hell is going on.

Ratchet out.

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Hah. Hey, you deserve a little... distraction. Makes you look happy. Happier. Looks good on you.

[He's not trying for anything like what they'd been doing, at least. Just contact. Mapping out hands and arms suddenly strange to him. Different than he remembers.]

[The kiss is returned, equally, not without a smug little smirk at the end.]

Same here.

Oh.

[Ratchet clenches his teeth on a groan as Sixshot's teeth ease from his neck and shivers helplessly as a warm, slow tongue curls against the punctures. He can feel his body shifting around Sixshot as his engine thrums and he tries not to focus on it too much, fighting to relax in Sixshot's grip.]

Y'know, it's hard enough for me to walk as it is. [Ratchet's tone of voice is an odd mixture of amusement and irritation, still a little strained with static.] You might've warned me.

It's been hard to... communicate.

[Thinking had been even harder. It was like his mind had become a oozing glob of hungry, static laden heat. The overload had cleared a lot of it up, sediment settling on the bottom of a cooling lake, but the waters were still awful murky.]

Running on deep code. Heh.

[Slowly, Sixshot eases off a bit. Leaning back, he runs his hands down Ratchet's back, fitting his palm into the spot just above red hips and stroking over the plating there.]

Beginning to think I really was a beast mech before.

Yeah, I could tell--

[He stops, shivering softly all over as Sixshot pets down his back, the touch almost shockingly gentle compared to his rough desperation before. He bites his lip and tries not to squirm, his cooling fans whirring higher again as he looks over his shoulder.]

Feeling a bit better then, are we?

Saner.

[Which was kind of like feeling better? He's not entirely sure if 'better' was really a good description of his current state of mind.

Sixshot watches Ratchet shiver, startlingly youthful face set in a somewhat off-puttingly emotionless stare. There was interest in his eyes though, moreso in his touch, large fingers following seams in the Autobot's armor with idle curiosity.]

You?

Huh. I'll have a time patching this mess and popping these dents later.

[He stretches out a little under Sixshot, though, his body warm and relaxed and his mouth tilting up just slightly.]

But yeah. M'all right. [He arches slightly, optics flickering at Sixshot's slow, soft touch.] That feels good.

[Sixshot shutters his optics, Ratchet's movements causing his knot to shift. Ex-venting slowly, he slides a hand under Ratchet's chest and gently tugs the older mech up until he was resting comfortably atop the Sixer's lap.]

It's been a very strange day.

[Spinister's expression darkens and he turns away, shrugging again.]

I've got my end of a deal to keep.

Yeah, all right. [Amicably.] You're talented, is all. I think you could learn a lot, and vice versa. But I won't harass you about it.

[He lifts the sample and shakes it a little, leaning comfortably into one crutch.]

And I'll let you know if this helps. Or if we get any more information about this mess in general.

[Yeah, but coming over to help out the Autobots meant there wasn't much to keep Tarn from going after his teammates if they every arrived. However small the chances of that happening was anyways.]

... Think it's got anything to do with spark type? [This was a bit of a reach, but Spin honestly didn't have the slightest clue why he was immune at all.]

Mmmmm.

[Ratchet's vocalizer fritzes into static halfway through the noise and he shudders helplessly, heat clawing up the back of his throat before he swallows it down and cycles his vents hard.]

Not sure. I've been cross-referencing everything I can think of, including that, but it's affecting organics too, from what I can tell, and I can't think why that would make a difference. I certainly haven't ruled it out, though. [He sounds briefly, unbearably frustrated, both in body and mind.] I haven't ruled anything out. First Aid's a more experienced epidemiologist and he's been working on it too, but not much so far. I thought it was something about the pollen itself being conductive, but I don't think your ventilation systems are significantly different than anyone else's--not enough to cause immunity. People are variously affected, but you're the first one I've met who's come into close contact and escaped clean, no symptoms.

[This is actually helping--working through the problem out loud takes his mind off the throbbing ache between his legs and steadies him considerably.]

[Ratchet bites his lips on a stifled little cry, shuddering as he's impaled on Sixshot's spike, his own weight pressing Sixshot slightly deeper. He just vents raggedly against Sixshot's chest for a moment before forcing himself to relax, still feeling the knot stretching him achingly wide.]

Tell me about it. [His voice is thin with static, resisting the urge to reach down and touch again. He's trying to keep his systems cool in the wake of his overload, even with something still pressed inside him and holding him open like this. His success is varying.] This going to go down any time soon, d'you think? It's... distracting.

If it's really how conductive the pollen is then the electrostatic buildup'd be less of a problem once we get ground ourselves anyways. Far as I see it though, grounding doesn't seem to do much good, so we're basically back to pressure hosing anyone who doesn't like the symptoms, I guess.

[Spinister rests his chin atop his knuckles and watches Ratchet as the other doctor struggles with the onset of said symptom. It was a valiant effort, but it looked kind of uncomfortable.]

... Do you want a hand job too?

[Ratchet snorts a laugh--then nearly chokes at Spin's offer, his optics widening helplessly. He collects himself after a moment, watching Spin almost curiously.]

You don't have to do that. I mean--obviously. [His cooling fans kick on a little higher and another shudder rips through him, making his vocalizer hitch. He tries hard not to think of Spinister's thick, clever fingers on his hands or his hips or his--]

I'll be fine. [His voice is strained.] Like I said, nobody's exactly dropping dead of this, right?

Well, nnnoooo, but you still look like you could use a good rub off. And if I didn't want to do it, I wouldn't have offered.

[Does he look a little bit too entertained by this? Maybe.]

[He picks up on that, but it actually seems to ease him, his optics narrowing and his mouth tugging up at one corner.]

That your professional medical opinion, then? How very kind. [He softens a little.] Its not like there's a queue of people out the door clamoring to assist, y'know. But--I. If you'd like, then--yeah. All right. [He swallows, trying to keep his head clear, but manages to meet Spinister's optics.]

Please.

[Ratchet chuffs a short, derisive sound and refuses to meet Ironhide's optics, thoroughly embarrassed.]

You don't want to hear what I think you deserve, flatterer.

[But he squeezes Ironhide's hands when they slide against his, his face softening a little and his optics dimming, curled close.]

[That makes Sixshot laugh, a low and breathless sound against the back of Ratchet's helm.]

It's usually five minutes.

[His hands are wandering over the medic's midriff, stroking over the inside of a pale thigh, touches growing more and more urgent by the second. The Sixer's temp was starting to hike again and Primus but that hadn't been a long break at all.]

It's been edging on fifteen ever since the flowers.

[Ratchet laughs, thin and staticky as he squirms, arching as much as he can into Sixshot's hands and tipping his head back, body clenching weakly.]

Yeah, not gonna be able to keep charge down for that long. [He does reach down, then, his fingers slipping past his spike and in, rubbing gently at taut mesh, against his anterior node. He arches a little and bites his lip on a desperate little sound, a hard shudder wracking him.] This is going to ache like hell later, but it feels good now.

What? How come?

[He tilts his head, trying to look the other bot in the face, expression still mild, still warm.]

[His hands don't stop. Constantly squeezing, reassuring.]

Huh. [Ratchet grimaces a little, then pulls one of Ironhide's hands in to nibble at the tip of a finger, shivering slowly under him.]

Well I'd need both my legs back, for starters.

Uh.

You would?

[Whatever Ironhide was expecting, clearly that is not the answer. He blinks, breaking into an amused chuckle at the attention to his hand.]

You'll find out later.

[Ratchet cups Ironhide's hand against his face, leans in and presses a soft kiss to his palm.]

Mmm. S'nice though. This.

Oh, yeah?

[He grins at him, though, that... dumb, happy expression reserved for people who are head-over-heels or something dorky like that.]

Good. If I'm deservin' something with your legs then... you're deserving this.

Or something. Sounded better before I said it.

[Ratchet kisses the backs of Ironhide's fingers lightly, trying not to grin right back.]

Glad to hear you think so.

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