Author's Note: I had a bet going on with myself that I would finish and post this long-dormant fic before this year is out, and guess what: I won ;-) Part 2 turned out a little different from what I originally planned, but then again, most of my stories do that. Happy New Year, everyone, and have fun reading!

In Merciful Hands

Part 2

xxx

They rested together for a while, giving Jazz' cooling fans time to cycle down before Ratchet produced a clean chamois from his subspace and began to wipe the excess fluids off his charge's array. Jazz stretched languidly as he relished in his lover's gentle care, and relaxed even further when Ratchet deftly closed and withdrew the speculum. As pleasurable as the game was, it always felt good when all the tiny chucks and gears in there were allowed to return to their proper positions.

There was some quiet movement, and then the sensation of a warm, solid weight hovering above him. Onlining his visor, Jazz found Ratchet leaning over him, optics glowing and field alight with desire. "Still good?" he murmured.

Somehow, the rough static in his voice seemed to bypass Jazz' audios and to go straight to his valve instead. He breathed a quiet sigh when the mesh lining tingled pleasantly, and Ratchet smiled down at him. "I'll take that as a yes."

Jazz arched his back, deliberately showing off his curves as he pushed himself up into that shimmering field. "Not gonna argue, Doc," he purred back, and delighted in the spark of mischievous amusement he felt from his lover in response. Ratchet's index finger drew a soft, tantalizing line from Jazz' chest plates across his headlights and down over his abdominal cabling.

"Good," he breathed. "Because I still have a manual exam to do."

Jazz groaned as heat flushed his lines and his calipers clenched reflexively. Pit, he just hoped that Ratchet didn't plan on drawing things out for too long. Judging by the gentle pulsing of his valve, there was a second overload in store for him, and he preferably wanted that to happen with the medic's spike snugly sheathed inside him.

He swallowed an impatient huff when Ratchet picked up the half-full syringe from the work bench to coat his fingers in another generous layer of the clear lubricant. An action performed simply for the sake of authenticity, no doubt. And still, admittedly, a rather delicious sight to behold.

Shifting back into position, Ratchet placed one hand flat on Jazz' lower abdominal plates while he rested his middle and index finger against the soft rim of his valve. "You'll feel some pressure," he cautioned. While Jazz appreciated the well-intended warning, it was hardly necessary, for after their fooling around with the speculum, the smooth, gliding sensation of the medic's fingers slipping into him registered as extremely satisfying on Jazz' sensors.

And boy, did it feel good after all that stretching to finally have his calipers actually grab on to something. Previously untouched sensor nodes came to sweet life as Ratchet gently twisted and scissored his digits, letting his thumb ghost over the anterior node every now and then. Jazz wriggled a bit deeper into the chair so he could let his thighs fall further open while his frame heated and his fans sped up again. Ratchet took the hint and pushed deeper so his fingers scraped across a particularly sensitive cluster of sensors, triggering a full-body shiver. Jazz smiled to himself as he let his visor flicker offline again. Oh yes, this would be a nice, slow -

The charge washed through his lines with such abruptness it forced a startled squeak from his vocalizer. He jumped in surprise, but Ratchet's hand on his middle steadied him. A deep, intense wave of pleasure ignited tiny blue sparks that danced along his seams while he shuddered and moaned his way through the unexpected climax.

Ratchet's fingers kept moving, prolonging the feeling until the little flares of sensation became more annoying than pleasant. With a weak groan, Jazz reached down to swat at the annoying digits - not a very elegant form of communication, but it got his point across.

"Look at you," Ratchet purred as he instantly complied with the unspoken request. "Such a good patient you are."

Jazz wasn't in any shape yet to do more that stare at him, panting heavily through wide open vents. What. The frag. Had that been?!

He prided himself on some experience when it came to multiple overloads, but he'd never gone off a second time that fast from just a little bit of fingering. Ratchet was either a far more skilled lover than Jazz recalled - or the slagger had invented the mother of all aphrodisiacs.

There were times when, even after thousands of vorns, Jazz' Spec Ops programming still managed to surprise him. Why it chose now of all possible times to act up perplexed him no less than the unexpected overload itself, though that didn't help the actual matter. Uncalled-for, a series of automatic defense protocols cycled online, raising firewalls and firing up combat subroutines.

It took him barely an astrosecond to manually override the execution sequence, but that time, short as it was, obviously sufficed for his lover to pick up on the brief discomfort. Ratchet's field reached out immediately, arousal dampened by a sharp sting of contrition as he projected a string of It's fine and You're safe and I've got you. A message alert popped up on Jazz' HUD, and when he accessed it, he found it containing the safe word they had agreed upon for sessions such as this.

A deep affection for his lover immediately replaced all self-anger. Poor, dear Ratchet, beating himself up as if Jazz' saboteur programming was his fault. He placed his hand on the medic's arm and stroked the smooth metal gently with his fingertips, waiting for his lover to look at him. When he did, Jazz opened his field frequencies wide, letting his emotion and reassurance seep in for Ratchet to feel it.

"No offense, Doc," he murmured in that shy little patient voice his role dictated. "Don't mean to tell you your job or anything, but... I think you may have missed something. I'm feeling a bit... off here, you know."

The hand still lying on Jazz' abdomen moved, slid away and took a firm hold of his right hip. Still glistening with residual lubricant, Ratchet's other hand mirrored the action on the opposite side, while his optics, smoldering like dark blue embers, stared down into Jazz' visor.

"Describe the symptoms," he ordered, voice husky.

Jazz felt a surge of genuine relief wash over him. Despite two mind-blowing overloads, his original wish hadn't been satisfied yet, and the momentary lapse in mood seemed to have given the matter a whole new urgency. He had to grip the chair's armrests tightly to not reach out and stroke Ratchet's chevron. "Feels hot," he breathed instead. "And tingly. And empty."

Ratchet's gaze dropped down to linger between Jazz' legs once more. One of his hands followed that path and gently circled the rim of the still exposed valve, which gave a wistful twitch at the touch. "I see," he murmured. "Well, there is a special treatment for such cases, but I normally only prescribe that to my... special patients."

Had Jazz not felt the blazing, honest desire in the medic's field, he might have felt a tiny bit offended at the casual tone the words were spoken in. Just where the heck did that mech take his self-control from? "Please, Doctor," he whispered. "Won't you try? I'll be good, I promise."

As if in answer, the soft, scratching sound of a retracting panel reached his audio receptors. He couldn't resist a glance downward, and was rewarded with the sight of the medic's spike standing at proud attention, colored in red and white like the rest of Ratchet and just the right size to fill a poor, empty valve. He felt a sly smile creeping across his faceplates, but Ratchet chose that moment to push himself to his feet and position himself snugly between Jazz' thighs, close enough that he could feel the heat of that delicious spike against his own array. His fans kicked in again as he shivered in anticipation. Ratchet loomed above him, looking for all intents and purposes like a predator ready to feast on his prey. "Anything for my patients," he rasped.

"Should I dampen my pain receptors, Doctor?" Jazz couldn't help it; the chance was just too perfect to miss.

He grunted in surprise when Ratchet, in lieu of an answer, yanked him forward by the hips so his aft ended up balancing precariously on the chair's edge. He flailed a bit, equilibrium sensors doing their best to counterbalance, but between Ratchet's firm grip and solid chassis, he quickly found himself unable to go anywhere.

What was more, gravity now practically plastered their arrays together, causing the medic's spike to rub across the mesh lining of Jazz' valve, which clearly appreciated the stimulation quite a bit.

"Don't worry," Ratchet growled. "I shall strife to make this agreeable for you."

Jazz tried to laugh, but what came out of his vocalizer sounded more like a groan, because Ratchet was finally, finally pushing into him, and Primus below, the slow, steady stretching felt amazing. His calipers took hold of the intruder on their own account, and Jazz could have sworn that his valve was trying to pull Ratchet in. Sensors lit up all along his channel like a string of tiny explosions, and for one dizzying moment, Jazz' processor registered nothing except raw, primal pleasure.

Before he knew it, Ratchet was fully sheathed inside him, and the gentle pressure his spike's head exerted on the ceiling node had Jazz squirming in place. "Good Lord," he breathed.

Ratchet above him sagged forward, vents at full blast and field alight with an urgent desire and a not inconsiderable amount of smug pride. "That agreeable?" he panted.

A flash of impatient anger tugged at Jazz' spark. He dug his fingers into the medic's hip plates and yanked him forward with unmistakable force. "Frag it, Doc," he growled. "Just do me already!"

"Greedy little thing, aren't you," Ratchet murmured, and snapped his hips forward.

It took no more than two or three thrusts for them to fall into a rhythm. Ratchet set a fairly moderate pace of firm but even thrusts, and Jazz groaned in appreciation. All the lubrication from their extensive foreplay now made their movements smooth and easy, like a piston sliding in and out of a well-oiled cylinder. He clamped his thighs around his lover's hips as tight as his position would allow, reveling in the rough friction of metal on metal, while each stroke pushed a bit more charge into his lines until his circuits positively sang with it.

"Feels good, Doc," he panted.

"Hmm," Ratchet hummed back. "CMO concurs..." He leaned down, just as much as possible without losing his rhythm, as if compelled by an unspoken desire to be closer, and Jazz was seized by a sudden urge to wrap his arms around him, to pull him down and to swipe his glossa over that lustrous chevron... But such things were not in the script, at least not tonight, so he contented himself with fondling as much of Ratchet's hips and thighs as he could reach, sighing and moaning his pleasure just as he knew his lover liked it.

Overload began to creep up on him from around the corner, and the thought chagrined him, for they had barely even started, for Pit's sake! He flung a warning glyph at his lover, close/slow down, but that only caused Ratchet to grab his hips tighter and to increase the speed of his thrusts. Go ahead, his surging field sent back.

Jazz whined in half lust, half frustration, and that was pretty much everything he had time for.

It started as a warm tingle deep inside his valve, almost gentle this time, but quickly spread to turn into a full-body experience. It seemed to Jazz that even the smallest of his wires glowed with the releasing charge. Ratchet changed the angle of his thrusts, hitting the ceiling node dead on, and Jazz couldn't have kept his vocalizer down if his spark had depended on it.

The pleasure crested, higher than he'd imagined possible after two overloads, but just as the sensation approached the threshold to pain it began to ebb, letting him down as gently as it had swept him up. Jazz sank back, shuddering and exhausted, while the residual charge grounded harmlessly into the mesh padding beneath him.

Senses reeling, it took him a moment to realize that his lover hadn't stopped moving. Ratchet was pushing into him hard and fast now, groaning and stubbornly pursuing his own climax. Jazz made no attempt to stop him, only grabbed his hips a bit tighter and smiled gently to himself as he listened to the medic panting above him. A few more thrusts and a little supportive squeeze of his calipers, and then he sighed in contentment when Ratchet's overload filled his valve with hot, liquid charge.

The medic was trembling from head to pede, his poor vents rattling with overuse. He fell forward, catching himself on the chair's back with both hands. His plating radiated heat as if it came fresh from the smelter, but that didn't stop Jazz from curling one hand around the back of his lover's neck, and this time he did pull him down so that their foreheads came to rest against one another. "Hey, Doc," he breathed. "Best. Treatment. Ever."

A surge of pride lit up Ratchet's field, even as his lips curved into one of those dry, little smiles of his. "All in the line of duty," he murmured.

Jazz huffed a gentle laugh, allowing his hand to slide off when Ratchet straightened his back. His spike produced a soft, squelching noise when he pulled out, and Jazz grimaced a bit at the combined sensation of warmth and emptiness when his inner cords came into contact again. His lover dropped down heavily onto his swivel stool, engine whining and panel still wide open. Venting hard, he leaned back against the work bench for support, and offlined his optics.

They spent some kliks like this, each waiting for his vents to slow down and the overheating warnings to subside. Jazz idly traced the pattern of the ceiling tiles with his gaze, pondering if he should tease Ratchet about that little cobweb in the far corner while his calipers gradually stopped twitching and his core temperature dropped to a more normal level.

He turned his head at the sound of a drawer opening, and saw his lover take out a handful of disposable washrags. With some effort, he heaved his feet out of the stirrups, and winced none too gently when his hip joints made it very clear to him what they thought about the prolonged strain and the abrupt change of position. "Oh, stifle it," he grumbled good-naturedly at Ratchet's amused snort. The medic handed him one of the rags, and they both set to cleaning themselves in companionable silence.

After a few careful swipes, though, Jazz began to realize that the friction of the fabric against his mesh lining felt remarkably good - much better than it should after three overloads. He gritted his dentae when the washrag came into contact with his anterior node. Pit, that fragging lubricant couldn't be that effective, could it? But that didn't stop his valve from warming up again, or his calipers from fluttering, and he could have sworn that the gentle tickling he felt inside was a fresh trickle of lubricant.

He finished his wipe-down as quickly as possible and slammed his panel shut. Unfortunately, the reverberations caused by this provoked an unexpected surge of sensation that traveled though his entire array. He stiffened instinctively, giving a sharp hiss.

Ratchet turned at the sound to look at him. "All right?"

Jazz pressed a hand between his thighs in a reflexive attempt to stifle the sensation. "Primus," he gasped, only half in jest. "What have you done to me?"

The medic pondered him for a moment, then he stood and unsubspaced a data pad which he handed over to Jazz. "It's a simple contact gel," he explained. "These nanites specifically target and stimulate the pleasure nodes in a mech's valve. They have a hard-coded life span of a breem at most, but... I may have failed to factor in the sensitivity of your sensor grid," he added somewhat compunctiously.

Jazz scrolled through the pages, which contained detailed scientific information and undoubtedly were part of Ratchet's personal lab journal. One page had a recording of live footage on it, showing the little mechanisms all hurry-scurry around and over each other like a swarm of tiny Earth insects. Sometimes a pair would run into each other, rotate around their own axis a few times as if to get their bearings, and then happily scuttle off into a new direction. Below the video was a sketch of a single nanite. The edges of its head armor - at least Jazz suspected this to be the front end - curved upward slightly, and above that curve were two tiny dots, probably sensor clusters for orientation. It looked a bit like a smiley face.

"Chirpy little critters," Jazz remarked with a grin. Ratchet mumbled something under his breath.

"They probably need some more fine-tuning," he grumbled.

Jazz cocked his head slightly in musing. Placing the blame on the mini-drones wasn't fair, not when neither they nor their creator could stand a chance against common Spec Ops paranoia.

"Nah." He shook his head as he committed the data pad's information to his long-term memory core, flagging it with 'harmless' and 'friendly' for future reference before he pushed the device back into the medic's hands. "They're cool. I like them. Just gimme a little heads-up when you wanna play with them again, okay?"

Ratchet eyed him skeptically. Jazz beamed up at him and nudged his lover's field playfully with his own, flickering his visor in an imitation of a wink.

Ratchet snorted in what was probably meant to sound like exasperation, but the unrest in his field vanished, and Jazz didn't miss the crooked smile he tried to hide as he drew the silicone curtain aside and pointed to the door. "Get out of my med bay, you," he ordered in his usual tone of command. "I advise a trip to the wash racks for the effects to wear off faster. If they don't, ping me, and I can administer a sensor inhibitor. Got me?"

Jazz offered a brisk mock-salute. "Aye, aye, Doctor!" And then he dropped all pretenses and slung an arm around his startled lover's neck, pulled him down and planted a hearty kiss right onto the medic's glossy chevron.

Ratchet's colorful swearing followed him as he danced out of the med bay, with a tingle in his valve and a warm glow in his spark.

*Fin*