I Can Never Make You Mine

[wyntir_knight]

Title: I Can Never Make You Mine
Rating: R
Series: G1: Pre-Earth
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Ratchet and Wheeljack
Summary: Wheeljack wrestles with his feelings, and his conscience, after Ratchet’s drunken night in Regrets.
Warnings: Slash and angst. Contains semi-graphic "Plug and Play" interface.
Disclaimer: Transformers belong to Hasbro and Takara, and are licensed to IDW and Dreamworks. My original characters are my own and any similarity between them and any existing characters from canon or fandom is purely coincidental. I claim no ownership by writing this work.
Author's Notes: This was originally written for the fanfic_100 challenge in response to the prompt “Lovers” (023) as well as the mecha_erotica July. 2007 challenge. It has been updated and polished slightly since its first posting.




Wheeljack helped Ratchet into his sleeping chamber. The medic swayed, leaning heavily on his friend’s shoulder, both the high grade and his grief conspiring to deny him of his mobility. Yesterday he had learned that the femme he loved, the femme he was to be bonded with, had been killed when the Decepticons had attacked the Stormchaser half a galaxy away. And earlier today he had thrown away all of his beliefs and ideals so that he could join the Autobots, so that he could destroy Decepticons. He was hurt, confused, and most importantly, he drunk to the intakes with low quality high grade that was probably just this side of solvent.

“C’mon, Ratch, you need to get some recharge, get this out of your system,” Wheeljack said softly.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Ratchet said slowly, his speech slurring slightly.

“It’ll all be better in the morning, you’ll see. You’ll feel better then,” Wheeljack whispered, helping Ratchet to lie down.

He moved to leave the room, intent upon cleaning up the living area that Ratchet had trashed, but stopped when he felt his best friend’s grip on his arm. He turned and found Ratchet sitting up, watching him intently, a look of infinite sadness and longing in his pale blue optics. The medic stood and closed the small distance between them.

“Please. I don’t want to be alone tonight,” Ratchet whispered.

Wheeljack’s breath caught in his intakes, his fuel pump seemed to stop for a moment as he felt Ratchet place his hands on his chest. He leaned in and wrapped his arms around the medic’s waist, shuttering his optics and losing himself to the feeling of the hands and body pressed against him. He inhaled Ratchet’s scent, a mixture of metal, electricity, heat, oil, and high grade. It was a heady mixture that made Wheeljack’s head spin.

“This is wrong! This is just so unbelievably wrong!” a little voice screamed in the back of Wheeljack’s mind. “He’s hurt, he’s drunk, and here you are taking advantage of his pain and vulnerability!”

The voice receded, however, as Ratchet’s hands moved over his chest, his lips brushing whisper soft kisses against his vocal indicators. None of those concerns mattered. All that mattered was that they were both here, now, and that they both wanted this. Wheeljack reached up, and stroked Ratchet’s back, applying the faintest pressure to seams and joints, drawing a ragged moan from the medic.

“Hmmm … yes, right there ... please …,” Ratchet whispered.

Wheeljack complied, moving over the area again, this time with a bit more force. He ran his fingers around Ratchet’s shoulders and into a gap he found there, brushing the wiring within with a delicate, feather light touch. Ratchet shuddered, then pulled Wheeljack closer, guiding them both back toward the berth.

Wheeljack allowed himself to be led, revelling in the feeling of Ratchet’s touch, trying desperately to ignore the voice that was screaming at him again.

“He’s just lost Arclight! This is not the time for this! Stop it! Stop taking advantage of him!”

“Shut up,” he muttered, the words almost swallowed by a gasp as Ratchet’s fingers found a particularly sensitive spot on his shoulder.

Ratchet pulled back, and looked at Wheeljack, puzzlement showing in his optics, optics that had turned deep indigo with lust.

“What was that?” Ratchet asked.

“Nothing,” Wheeljack said, pulling him close again. “It’s absolutely nothing.”

With skilled fingers Ratchet stroked Wheeljack’s face, before finding the catches on his mask, removing it completely. Leaning in, he kissed Wheeljack thoroughly and passionately, and for a moment, the inventor thought that his fuel pump would stop. It was better than he had ever imagined, better than he had ever thought it could be.

He broke off the kiss, smiling slightly at the reluctant noise that Ratchet made. He slowly trailed kisses down Ratchet’s jaw and neck, sending slight vibrations into the sensitive metal, relishing at the feeling of the medic squirming and moaning in his arms. Slowly he laid them both down on the berth, gently pinning Ratchet beneath him, watching as his lover writhed and gasped, every touch sending thrills through already overcharged systems. Wheeljack’s fingers moved over every joint, every seal, every inch of Ratchet’s prone body. He found every node and cluster, and in return, Ratchet set Wheeljack’s systems on fire.

“Stop this! You can’t do this! This is so far beyond wrong!” his conscience screamed at him.

“More … please Jack!” Ratchet moaned arching up against Wheeljack, his hands seeking out Jack’s port cover.

All of his doubts, his inner voice, his fears, all of it disappeared with those words. All that was left was the moaning, writhing mech beneath him.

Wheeljack leaned in; his engine revving, sending vibrations into Ratchet, feeling their energy fields begin to meld, merge, and synchronize. At the same time he opened Ratchet’s port and plugged himself in, gasping as he felt himself begin to move through the medic’s systems. Their bodies and minds became like one, their fields united in pure ecstasy as he pressed himself against each of Ratchet’s collapsing defences, until finally it became too much. Wheeljack gathered up his energy field, and plunged it deep into his partner while breaching the last of Ratchet’s firewalls.

Ratchet threw his head back and screamed Wheeljack’s name ...



Wheeljack woke with a start, his vents cycling air furiously, his engines gunning to the point of pain. He fell back to the couch, only slightly aware that it was damp with humidity and coolant.

This was just too much, too hard. He looked over at the room where Ratchet was sleeping off the high grade, probably dreaming of her, of Arclight. It was too soon after her death to even think about approaching Ratchet with anything but friendship, the wounds were far too fresh. But even if she had never been, even if he had acted on his feelings earlier, he knew, deep down he knew, that Ratchet would never see him as more than a friend.

“I can never make you mine, can I?” Wheeljack shuttered his optics and tried hard not to scream out his anguish.