Accidentally deleted this when I was cleaning out all my old files. It's back again, and so is the sequel. Read on, my slash fans!
Night shift again. Guard duty. How predictably boring.
This wasn't Ironhide's style. He needed action—he needed movement. He needed to shoot some poor 'Con in the face and he needed to do something other than driving in circles all night. His processors were rattling from boredom as they often did when he got stuck on night shift. Because of his active nature, this was not assigned to him often, but Ironhide could barely stand it when it was. He tried to look on the bright side of things: he usually had nothing else to do anyway, and it was better than sitting around in an office filing data pads. But…it was…ugh…guard duty.
And tonight, it was especially dull, because the 'Cons weren't up to any of their typical no-good. Thus, Ironhide had no feasible excuse for firing shots into the night sky. He desired motion, but stopped driving because it only served to remind him of just what an awful lot he hated this particular job. Irritably, Ironhide checked his internal clock again and again, waiting for the moment when a programmed signal would chime the end of this veritable torture.
It wasn't but a few cycles before he drifted into sleep, drumming his fingers on one drawn-up knee.
In the fleeting blackness of recharge, something stirred him—a pleasant, light scratching sensation, vibrating against his arms. His body shuddered but he did not wake. The feelings strengthened as time passed in a space where it held no meaning. A press here, a sliding caress there; remaining unaware in his present state, Ironhide couldn't tell where they were coming from or what parts of him were being stimulated, but he liked it. A lot. The blackness began to seep away from his vision, throbbing with light. Heat wrapped around him and he arched like a needy sparkling, haunting erotic moans filtering through his audios, and he was still sleeping. Ecstasy shocked him in a wave and his consciousness dropped like a stone.
Deep blue optics flickered online beneath the crest of a red helm, and Ironhide became aware. His head was spinning and he ached with wantonness everywhere and by Primus, his systems were hotter than the sun! What had happened just—
He caught a glimpse of light, and looked down. His chestplates were open, baring his spark chamber to a slate-white mech with medic emblems on his shoulders, blinking innocently up at him with his hands wrist-deep in sensory wires.
Ironhide dragged Ratchet close to him and kissed him hard and deep; the medic didn't complain.
"Now, Ratchet. You know it's not as fun for me when I can't make you squirm like that."