The sharp clang of metal rang through the Medibay for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. The wrench bounces off a metal bulkhead, missing Pharma’s head by inches before falling to the floor.

Pharma whirled around, his white-and-red frame angry as his wings flared in anger. "Fifteen! That is fifteen wrenches, Ratchet, and it is Monday! If you ruin another piece of equipment, I will personally strip your repair protocols!"

Ratchet stood by the berth, his chest vent heavy and his optical ridges tight. Normally, he would have a sharp retort ready—something about Pharma’s pristine obsessed attitude. But as Pharma took a step forward his tall, sleek jet-frame towering over Ratchet's broader grounder stance, something in Ratchet's processor glitched.

The heat pulsing off Pharma’s engine housings, the flutter of his jet wings, the sharp, defensive tilt of his chin—it didn't register as irritation anymore. It registered as a spark-deep, undeniable pull.

Before Pharma could draw another breath, Ratchet moved.

He lunged, closing the distance. Pharma’s optics widened as Ratchet hooked a foot behind Pharma’s pede and swept his footing clean out from under him. As Pharma fell back, Ratchet drove him straight into the nearest reinforced bulkhead with a loud clang.

Pharma’s tall frame hit the wall hard. Before he could gather his bearings, Ratchet seized both of Pharma's slender wrists, slamming them against the cold metal above his helm and pinning them down with a crushing grip.

Because of Pharma’s taller form, sweeping his legs left him braced lower than usual, forcing him to look up into Ratchet’s optics. Ratchet leaned his heavier mass fully into him, trapping the jetformer against the wall.

Pharma froze. His optics cycled rapidly as he blinked, trying to process the physical displacement. The anger vanished, replaced by confusion.

"Wh—" Pharma started, his vocalizer glitching.

Above his back, Pharma’s jet wings gave a sudden, uncontrollable flutter—an instinctual reflex to being pinned so suddenly.A bright energon flush crept rapidly up the seams of his neck cables, turning his pale frame a distinct, heated pink.

Ratchet stared down at him, his cooling fans kicking into high gear. His processor was screaming at him to back off. Instead, his gaze dropped to the exposed seam of Pharma's neck.

The primary energon line pulsed beneath the thin outer plating of Pharma's throat cables, thrumming with a rapid beat. It was fragile, vital, and entirely at Ratchet's mercy.

An irresistible impulse flooded Ratchet's core array. He didn't pull away. He didn't let go of Pharma's wrists.

Ratchet leaned down, his shadow falling over Pharma's face. He brought his denta right against the sensitive junction where Pharma’s throat cables met his collar plating, feeling the hum of the engine vibration against his lips.

He nipped down hard enough to send a jolt of static straight through Pharma's sensory, catching the sensitive casing of the throat cable between his denta and holding it with a firm, possessive pressure.

Pharma let out a high-pitched, choked gasp, his wings pinning flat against the bulkhead as his optics flared to maximum aperture. Ratchet held him tightly, ignoring every warning protocol flashing red across his internal HUD.