#tfss2015

Can’t say this enough! Thanks all for participating to make #TFSS2015 as amazing as it was! It was so much fun to organize but I am relieved it’s finally wrapped up!

THANK YOUUUUU to all the wonderful Backup Santas who filled in, you were total life savers and such great sports for filling in last minute and putting up with my constant nagging (is it done yet? is it done? sorry to be a pest, but is it done?)! 

With that, I will be logging off this account for a bit, but you can find me over at my other blogs in the meantime, @hellovivirose @goodnightvivirose @bonjourvivirose or @the-robot-doctor-is-in

Sorry this took so long, but I’m your Backup Santa and here is your gift, @ekgthe1st!

An emergency fill for @tformers-secret-santa. tinybott, I’m so sorry you’ve waited so long for your gift! I hope this begins to make up for it.

It ended up being some romantic Prowl/Jazz with that “kidnapping” to save Prowl from being overworked. The fic got a bit long, so you can find it here on AO3.

For: @notlennox

Oh my god, I am so sorry for the obscenely late Christmas gift. Hey, maybe it can count for a Valentine’s Day gift instead? In your wishlist, you asked for Ratchet/Wheeljack TFP fic drama with these two, fighting or starting a relationship with each other because it sure ain’t easy. I tried to combine the two for you! (I’ve never had a chance to write for these characters before, so I hope I did alright - *queue Iron Man gif*) Anyways, Merry (LATE AF) Christmas, Happy (LATE) New Years, and all the best!

Ratchet/Wheeljack (TFP)

1,685 words

Little bit of fighting, little bit of hurt, little bit of comfort - a lot of shippy feels….

******************

                                                           Something More

With a click and a hiss the dwelling’s door slid open, and the maverick Wrecker trudged inside, grumbling and muttering to himself between haggard ventilations. Once white plating now dripped with neon green ship fluids, and fresh Energon. Whether or not the Energon was his was anyone’s guess, though the bleeding lip component assured at least one speculation: he had a run in with a Con – again. That was enough to get Ratchet’s circuits whirring, and behind a hardened jawline denta gritted as the Wrecker closed the door.

“Where in the Pit have you been?” The Medic snarled, looking up from his report.

The Wrecked rolled his optics with a huff, crouching to raid a nearby storage unit in hopes of finding a rag.

“You’re really gonna do this now, huh?”

“When else am I supposed to? You’re never here.” The Medic spat back, before going back to reading his report angrily. Wheeljack groaned audibly, snatching a rag from the bottom of the unit roughly, before rising back to his pedes incredulously.

“What do ya want from me? Tell Magnus or Prime I can’t go out ‘cause my bumper buddy said so?”

Now, the medical report is slammed against the berthside table, resounding in a loud clank that echoed throughout the small dwelling.

“Is that what you think I am?”

“Come on Doc– ”

“I said not to call me that!” Ratchet spat again, rising from the berth angrily. “Now, answer me.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Wheeljack grumbled, wiping the blue and green fluids from his fascia.

“Do I? You certainly haven’t proved to me otherwise…”

The rag tears away from scarred faceplates, optical ridges furrowing into a narrowed glare, never wavering from the Medic.

“Proved to you? What the hell does that mean?”

“You know what it means, don’t insult me.”

The Wrecker rolled his optics again, throwing the rag to the side as he turns back for the door. Ratchet muttered to himself, starting after him hastily.

“So you’re just going to leave again?”

“Yeah. I’m not gonna stick around and listen to this slag– ”

Ratchet picked up his pace, shoving the Wrecker out of the way, before pressing his back against the door – disallowing his partner to pass.

“Move.” Wheeljack huffed, shoulder pauldrons visible tensed.

“No.” Ratchet answered shortly, meeting the burning gaze with one of his own. “You can’t keep avoiding me, or running away when you–”

“Running away – running away?” The Wrecker cut in with a raised tone. Faceplates hardened into a scowl as he leaned closer to the other. “You have some nerve–”

Servos immediately pushed against the Wrecker’s chassis, shoving him back harshly – strongly – with a growl.

“I’ve got nerve? You’re one to talk.”

Wheeljack took a step back to catch himself at the abrupt shove, and once equilibrium had been restored he shrugged the Medic’s servos off his scathed chassis.

“Why don’t you just say it, Sunshine. What’s really grinding your gears?” As he spoke the gash to his lip bled more. Bright blue beads of Energon trickled down his fascia, cresting at his chinplate before falling to the white chassis.

Ratchet’s optics watched carefully, his innate sense of caretaking, of healing threatening to take over – but he resisted. At this moment, his own anger and irritation with the mech overthrew that of compassion and worry, at least, so he told himself. He could feel the small rising pang in his spark, the familiar aching that plagued him for so long.

“Yeah. Just what I thought – all talk, no bite.” Wheeljack huffed, moving forward again towards the door. And as before, the Medic blocked his path, blocking out the relentless thoughts whirring about in his processors.

“If you walk out that door – don’t expect me to let you back in.” He vented firmly, cyan searching cerulean – searching for what? A multitude of things, really, and to his dismay he found none.

It was always this way, giving and giving yet never receiving anything in return. Maybe they were just too different – old and young, caretaker and wrecker; on every level they proved contradictory, and Ratchet had been so naïve as to believe perhaps they could find a balance. But at the same time, hadn’t Wheeljack been just as naïve, too?

“C'mon, don’t be like that…” The Wrecker started, taking another step closer so that the radiating heat from their frames mixed and mingled together. “You’d miss me too much.”

Ratchet shifted, taking a step to the side, if the Wrecker wanted to leave then so be it – who was he to hold onto something that wasn’t there? As he passed, he made certain to jar the mech with his shoulder, another slight shove as he stalked to the berth.

“Leave then.” He muttered solemnly, reaching for his medical report before perching on the berth’s edge. “See if I am bluffing.”

Several seconds of silence followed as Wheeljack’s servo hovered over the keypad, his mind told him to leave, yet his body disallowed him such an action. Marred digits curled into a slight fist, ridges furrowing further as the war raged on relentlessly under the surface. Just once he would like to come to his dwelling without a fight waiting for him. What did Ratchet expect? He was a fighter – he couldn’t stay locked up in the base all day, and it would be ridiculous to ask him to do so.

“I thought we had an agreement…?” He finally vented, back still turned to the Medic as optics fell to the ground. Even now, he could feel the Energon seeping from his lower lip, but he made no move to deter its path; his thoughts were occupied on something else, someone he had grown to care desperately for.

The tension in the room could be cut with a knife, palpable and growing more unforgiving with every second that passed. After what felt to be an eternity a tired vent escaped the Medic, black digits pinching at the bridge between his optics.

“Well, forgive me for wanting more than just fragging– ” He muttered quietly, optics still downcast at the report, despite not having read a single word.

Wheeljack shifted his weight from pede to pede, turning now to face the Medic, expression wearing a myriad of emotions; shocked, disbelieving, but mostly… intrigued. When first they had started this pairing of sorts, it was purely physical – all the fun and benefits of a companionship without the responsibilities. But then, there came a shift – at least, he thought he had been the only one to have noticed it. In the late hours of the evening, after they had exhausted themselves, in the few moments before falling into recharge, Wheeljack craved for more, to be closer, to hold the Medic in his arms, to have someone he could trust.

To love.

Something, he had never quite had before – something he had never pictured to come across and call his own in his lifecycle. Not until he had joined Team Prime; not until the first night he and Ratchet had been intimate.

“… Really?” Wheeljack finally asked, voice low and gravelly – worn from the day’s battle. Still his faceplates remained hardened, but for a new reason entirely, hoping that what the Medic had said was true.

Ratchet quietly scoffed, shaking his helm as a digit tip flicks across the reports screen.

“Never mind.” He muttered again.

Wheeljack took several steps closer, now only an arms length away from the Medic.

“C'mon, Doc…”

“Stop calling me that.” Ratchet snapped, glaring at the Wrecker, before pulling his gaze away once again, focusing half-heartedly on the report in his lap.

How could be possibly tell him? Wheeljack was a wrecker, a maverick, someone who would have flings but nothing more. And wasn’t this just another fling? Ratchet cursed himself, for letting his spark get the better of him, for letting his loneliness consume him, to the point where he would seek for attention wherever it could be found – from whoever was willing to give it to him.

Wheeljack rounded the berth, setting himself on the surface alongside the orange mech. A servo slowly made its way over, ghosting over the Medic’s arm plate, yet never making contact until it hovered over the other’s servo. Ridges furrowed, and Wheeljack took Ratchet’s servo, holding it firmly, tightly, as though at any moment he would be torn away forever. He wasn’t going to let go – not ever.

“Ratchet,” Wheeljack started quietly, vocal register lowered to a barely audible whisper. There was an unfamiliar honesty in his voice, a gentleness Ratchet hadn’t know the mech could possess. “Please…” A gentle squeeze was given to the Medic’s worn servo, and at the contact, optics again met in the dim lighting.

“I’m too old to play these games…” He answered, optics falling to find their connected servos, as digits slowly interlocked like clockwork.

“I don’t wanna play games anymore.”

Ratchet could feel himself leaning forward, mirroring the Wrecker’s actions as helms now nearly met, the radiating heat from their frames again mingling and mixing in the small space between them. There were so many questions he held, wondering if this was just another ploy, yet also knowing that it wasn’t. This was real, he could feel the others want and desperation as clearly as his own, and the looks in his optics told him everything he needed to know.

This was more than either of them had intended – and each wanted to proceed accordingly.

The already minimal space between them had lessened tenfold, and with every word, lip plating brushed and grazed against the others; softly, earnestly, hungrily.

“Before things proceed, there is something I have yet to do.” Ratchet finally vented, free servo rising to wipe away the drying Energon from the others wound with a thumb.

“What’s that?” Wheeljack rumbled, leaning further into the touch.

“Fix your injuries.”

Wheeljack chuckled in partial amusement, taking Ratchet’s resting servo from the side of his fascia to press a kiss to the worn palm.

“You already have, Doc.”

“Don’t call me that.”

____

Thank you all so much for joining this little gift exchange! I’ve had a lot of fun organizing this and I’m already looking forward to next year’s exchange (although I’ll probably be looking for an assistant! ^^; )

Thank you to all who submitted your gifts already! Can’t thank you enough for submitting on time!

IF YOU HAVE NOT SUBMITTED A GIFT YET... Thanks if you have reached out to me to let me know of any delays, but please be sure to get your gift in as soon as you can. If you have not contacted me and have not submitted a gift, I will be following up with you, and you will potentially be blacklisted from future exchanges.

IF YOU HAVE NOT YET RECEIVED A GIFT.... My apologies for the delay, please bear with me! Your Secret Santa is still working hard on your gift! And if they’re not, then I’m working hard to get one for you!

IF YOU VOLUNTEERED AS A BACKUP SANTA... Please stay tuned as I may be reaching out to you over the next few days for help with fulfilling gifts!

***

(prompt: drift/percy fluff)

  Drift honestly hadn’t expected Perceptor to go for it; he’d figured best case scenario would be getting laughed at. Which, hey, getting Perce to laugh was no small task.

So when Perceptor instead inclined his helm and said, “Very well. I will endeavor to accurately follow your instruction on the matter,” Drift had been more than a little nonplussed.

But what was he going to say? ‘Sorry, I don’t actually know how to teach someone to meditate, I’ve never gotten this far because everyone else rolled their optics at me’? That wasn’t going to cut it.

He’d just have to do his best and hope Wing wasn’t laughing at him in the Well.

  ***

  (prompt: drift/ratchet fluff)

  “Oh, just try to keep up, kid.”

He rolled his optics and reached out to take the proffered hand, only to have Ratchet spin up against him once they made contact. Curled in Drift’s arms, his frame felt heated and powerful, easily springing back into motion to sweep Drift into the center of the dance floor.

To his mortification, Drift stumbled, losing his balance–and Ratchet gracefully caught him and turned it into a dip. The fierce and triumphant grin about an inch from his own looked unbearably kissable, but he didn’t have time to react before Ratchet swung him back up to his pedes.

Apparently the party ambulance could dance.

  ***

  (prompt: percy/brainstorm fluff)

  “Cultivating a strain of Viscum album to be especially toxic to most organic life-forms does not seem enough in line with the overall theme of the holiday to count as ‘super-charged’–”

Brainstorm waved a dismissive hand at Perceptor. “Close enough, right? And besides, it’s mistletoe either way! That means it counts for a kiss, at least!”

“Very well.” Perceptor leaned forward, but Brainstorm scrambled back.

“Wait! Wait, I’ve still got my mask on, I’m not ready, hold on–”

“Do you wish me to kiss you or not? I have experiments waiting if–”

“Okay! Okay, mask off, ready to smooch, all set!”

Perceptor spent a long, quiet moment watching the heated pink flush of energon rise in Brainstorm’s cheeks as he fidgeted. Just when Brainstorm opened his mouth to speak–on what topic, Perceptor could hardly guess–Perceptor leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

It was for Brainstorm’s own sake that he hadn’t agreed to ‘make out’ with him. The peck alone was enough to make him pass out.

  ***

  (prompt: cygate fluff)

  Tailgate hummed in his sleep. It had been an annoyance in the early days of their cohabitation; after years of silence and solitude, any sound was enough to keep him up at night. The tuneless humming didn’t follow any particular melody–at its most defined it sounded like the lullabies a postnatal might use to soothe a protoform.

And then Hedonia. He offered to teach Tailgate to sing, but he didn’t expect it to reach his dreams. And yet, at night, soft refrains of old songs long forgotten by the rest of their too-young crew filled the silence of their habsuite.

As the months passed, when nightmares woke Tailgate, all it took was a few bars of a song–any song–to send him back to a peaceful sleep.

“Will you sing to me?” Tailgate asked–this time not from his berth in their habsuite, not from a spot across the time. From his deathbed. Dying of old age when he’d ignited only two weeks before their journey.

Cyclonus couldn’t sing. The words wouldn’t come.

After the spark infusion, after the cure, Cyclonus woke in the medbay to the sound of humming.

_______