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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Kind of! Like I said, if he hadn't woken up at the time he did, we'd have cut him up for scrap after I'd disabled his payload. He was going to be the find of the day!

Buuut he was alive and he lied to us and got the DJD on our tails, but he made up for it by trying to blow himself up to save us. It was hilarious.

Lucky for him twice, then, if he--

[Ratchet stops mid-sample-gathering and stares up at Spinister, then jerks his optics back down to finish quickly and patch the small puncture in the line.]

Wait, you disabled his payload? Do you have any idea how difficult a surgery that's supposed to be? They're rigged to go off if tampered with, that's the only reason K-Cons stick around to get tossed out of shuttles in the first place!

[Spinister stares at Ratchet. The stare turns into a vaguely suspicious squint as he retracts his arm once the other medic was done patching it up. He breaks eye contact for a few seconds to check over the patch before looking back up at Ratchet with a marginally less suspicious expression and a blase shrug.]

Yeah?

[Ratchet just looks at him, a little longingly, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the pollen clogging his vents.]

Are you sure you wouldn't consider coming to work with us here? It doesn't even have to be all the time, just--y'know. Door's open.

[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.]

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.

[Spinister watches him for just a few seconds longer before lazily pushing off of the medical berth. He makes a show of stretching his arms, fingers interlocked and palm out, looming over Ratchet with all the height and mass of a front line fighter.

The touch on the Autobot's thigh was gentle however, thumb brushing playfully over the edges of Ratchet's kneecap.]

You the kind of fellow who likes having a queue?

[Ratchet looks up at him, frank and fearless, a grin tugging up at the corner of his mouth.]

Not particularly. Gets in the way of my work, having a parade of people in here wanting to swap paint. [He wriggles, then bites down on a laugh, twitching as Spinister strokes at his knee.] I'm going to end up kicking you by accident if you keep that up.

Wow, so, the legendary Autobot CMO is ticklish, huh?

[Because Spinister is definitely not going to immediately exploit the heck out of that. Nope. He's just going to-

Yeah, no, he's pretty much just going to tickle the hell out of that knee.]

[Ratchet yelps and hops back, knocking over a stool and managing to catch himself against a berth, hoisting himself up onto the edge of it semi-frantically while he waves his other crutch at Spinister in a warding gesture.]

Don't! [His voice is sharp and just very slightly too high.] Damn it, if you were going to annoy the charge out of me why did you offer me a handjob first!

[Spinister cackles, the most delighted and evil noise that had ever come out of his dusty vocalizer, even as he grabs at Ratchet to make sure he didn't fall and hurt himself- in spite of the crutch being waved at his face.]

I'm using my hands and it's doing the job, isn't it?

[Of course, now he's kneeling in front of Ratchet and the tone of his voice takes on a decidedly lewd twist. Spin's hands find Ratchet's hips and he pushes the smaller medic up onto the berth proper, leaning in to press his mask against white abdominal armor with a playful engine hum.]

You are a monster.

[But Ratchet's choking on a low laugh too, shivering a little in Spin's grip and trying not to let his engine rev at how easily Spinister lifts him. He reaches down and touches Spin's helm gently, almost petting, his teeth digging into his lower lip.]

Spinister... [He draws in a shaking vent of cool air.] ...can I do anything for you?

Squirm a lot?

[The touch on his helm draws a pleased noise from Spinister and he peers up at Ratchet from under his chevron. Tracing a teasing line down from the very top of the Autobot's pelvic armor, down over to the plates covering his valve, he then rubs his fingers in firm, swirling strokes.]

Make lots of noises.

Not--not what I mean--nnnn--

[Ratchet arches as Spinister strokes against sensitive plating, his thigh trembling and his panel snapping aside unbidden. He cries out quietly as his spike extends, his optics wide as he leans back hard on his elbow and arches his back, his hips still as Spinister's fingertips press against him.]

[Ratchet's spike popping up between them makes Spinister's optics light up in delight. His thumb finds the smaller medic's exposed anterior node in short order and he curls one thick index finger into the slick heat of his valve.]

What do you mean then?

[Of course, just to make things easier for Ratchet, Spin is nuzzling showily against his cord, dragging the edge of his mask up to the very tip. There's a quiet sound of plates sliding apart, and then the heli-former was slowing pushing the head of the length down his fuel intake.]

You--

[But then his spike is pushed into dense, slick heat and he gives up, tipping his head back and moaning desperately. His hands find Spinister's shoulders and squeeze hard, fumbling up to his helm, but his touch there is gentle and slow, stroking deliberately even as he writhes and curses and struggles to keep his hips still.]

More. [His voice is ragged and he clenches down around the finger Spin pressed into him, pushing his hips lower without really thrusting up. His fingertips trace down the side of Spinister's helm, following gently along the edge as he shudders.] Come on, not going to break.

[The edges of Spinister's split mask touches Ratchet's pelvic armor and the big heli hums a low, pleased noise. It's takes a moment to get used to the slight stretch again and then he sucks, lazy and slow.]

Mmhf. [That was either a rude disagreement on Ratchet's ability not to break or a very pleased noise induced by the gentle touches on his helmet. It's really up for interpretation there.

Either way, Spinister's sliding a second finger into Ratchet, curling both digits against sensitive bundles of sensors. He starts picking up a rhythm, stroking and thrusting in time with the bob of his head.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[network post--marked urgent]

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