Over the past week, Ratchet had taken every precaution to ensure that he didn’t give himself away.
If his fingers trembled while typing in the bridge coordinates, he explained that it had just been a long day.
If the usual 60 degrees Fahrenheit of the base suddenly felt twice that and caused his cooling system to whirr, he reassured the others that it was merely routine maintenance.
If his knees buckled inwards when standing too long, or simple tasks appeared oddly trying, or he seemed distracted, he would force himself upright and promise with the best stoicism he could muster that all biological functions were normal.
The façade worked well for a while and Ratchet became skilled at dodging suspicion, but it was not until he was denied part in a mission that he realized he’d been transparent to one.
“Autobots, roll out. Not you, Ratchet. I’d like you to stay.”
“Optimus? But what if—“
“This mission is low risk,” The largest transformer stated. The rest of the crew slowly filtered into the opened bridge. Their leader’s word was never up for debate, but when Ratchet gave him a worried look when rest of the crew was out of earshot, Optimus explained quietly,
“It has not escaped me that your actions have been hindered by something as of late. I would like to speak to you privately when I return.”
The order might have seemed intimidating had it not been spoken in a tone of such genuine concern. Optimus was not accusing Ratchet of anything; rather, he was honestly invested in his friend’s health.
Ratchet closed the bridge behind the team once everyone was through. Miserably, he dreaded the next conversation that he and Optimus would have alone.
The children had been sent home and Arcee, Bee, and Bulkhead had all announced that they were retiring to their recharge stations for the night. Ratchet desperately wished he could retreat to his own place of rest, but remained obediently in the main hangar until Optimus met him there.
“Please accompany me to the back storage room, Ratchet. We will have privacy there.”
“Yes, Optimus,” the doctor murmured, low and submissively.
Ratchet’s metal was burning at an unsafe temperature and he begged his fans not to kick in while he passed the other’s recharge chambers. By some grace, they made it to the storage room at the other end of their base without being noticed. Optimus gently closed the door behind them.
The room was wide and hollow without hosting any actual storage. Ratchet felt incredibly small in both the vastness of the space and his leader’s commanding presence.
“Ratchet, I’ve known you for a very long time,” Optimus began slowly. His voice was ancient and deep, sending shivers down Ratchet’s form and disrupting his already unstable state, “Long enough to know when all is not well. If there is something wrong with this team’s medic and, more importantly, something wrong with my friend, I need to know what it is immediately.”
“Optimus,” Ratchet choked, dryly.
A week. Today marked exactly one week that he’d ignored his body’s signals. Now he was playing with fire; he was past the warning zone, “I didn’t mean to hide anything from you. It’s just…this is…a very personal problem. I did not want to trouble you with it.”
“Any problem that affects your performance to this degree, Ratchet, is worth troubling me for.”
Thousands of years of existence had gifted Optimus with the rare skill to always speak with intimidatingly respectable wisdom as well as authentic tenderness.
Ratchet’s knees bowed and he had to lean against the back wall. He hoped Optimus wouldn’t notice, but of course he did.
“Ratchet, please tell me.”
“I…” the doctor gulped in air, much like a human would to breathe. He was panting lightly, a last resort to bring cooler air into his system and persuade his fans not to shame him, “…I’m in heat.”
When Optimus heard these words, his shoulders slackened with relief. His stern look melted into a much softer one before he closed his optics completely,
“Thank the AllSpark. I was worried it was something incurable.”
“I didn’t mean to worry you,” Ratchet confessed. Judging by Optimus’ reaction, it was clear that he had caused his leader a good amount of stress and he felt terrible for it. He should have known that his lucent cover-ups would not be opaque to his oldest friend.
Like a switch, the ferocity in Optimus’ eyes returned and Ratchet jolted slightly.
“Though the inflictions of heat cycles are easily cured, that does not mean they are not terminal. How long have you been ignoring your body’s warning systems?”
“T-today makes a week,” Ratchet stammered. He was so used to being the examiner that the sudden reversal of now being a patient under the eye of a worried observer threw him for a loop.
“Ratchet, that was foolish. A doctor should not be ashamed of any aspect of Cybertronian physiology, not even his own. You, best of all, know the risks of neglecting self-maintenance.”
“I know. But Optimus, something like this…We’re not on Cybertron anymore, it’s not like I can just…I mean, I would require someone to…”
Click. Whrrrr. There it was.
Ratchet buried his faceplate into his servos and hid himself from his leader’s gaze. If his core temperature didn’t terminate him, the embarrassment definitely would.
What good was a doctor who couldn’t even fix the simplest of ailments? That was nature of heat cycles, though, to force one to find companionship. It was an incredibly primitive function imbedded in all bots for the sole purpose of furthering their race.
However here, practically an endangered species at the edge of the galaxy, companionship was not as easy to find as it had previously been on Cybertron. Toys didn’t fit the bill either. If Cybertronian anatomy was advanced enough to take its own reigns, it was smart enough to know when it was being tricked.
“Ratchet, asking for help is not a sign of weakness, but a sign of strength. We’ve survived too many battles for your Spark to go out from sheer stubbornness.”
The doctor barely heard him. Ratchet was so used to being the rock—if the habitually calm doctor was cracking, the team would fret. In an effort to prevent others’ worriment, Ratchet had caused damage to himself and burdened his leader. He was drowning in the humiliating sound of his fans and self-loathing,
“What do you want from me, Optimus?”
The weight of Optimus’ large palm resting softly on Ratchet’s shoulder was enough to cause the medic to once again meet his gaze. When Ratchet lowered his shaking servos, he was met with the sensitive look of his leader’s faceplate, shrouded in genuine concern, entirely devoted to him,
“I want your permission to let me help you.”
Ratchet hadn’t even considered. Though they had been friends for an unfathomable number of years, Ratchet still respected Optimus as the Prime that he was. Never had he thought himself worth troubling his leader over, nor imagined his superior would go to such lengths. Primes outranked medics by leagues; never did Ratchet think he would ever hear Optimus beg permission for anything.
At this point, he was certain that Optimus could feel the excess heat radiating off of him. His optics were lidded unseeingly and the trembling refused to cease. In barely the outline of a voice, he whimpered,
Optimus nodded wordlessly. Very gently, the larger bot slowly guided Ratchet away from the storage room wall. With continued aid, the doctor was carefully laid to the floor without any knees giving out that would land him too harshly.
Every action Optimus completed seemed to be done with an excessive amount of care. Ratchet felt guilty when he realized that he had let himself reach a point where he actually needed that much attention.
Every Cybertronian’s heat cycle was different. Smaller bots needed to mate more frequently, maybe every few centuries or so. Larger bots, like Optimus, were likely on a cycle that dealt in millennia. Ratchet was suddenly flustered to think that this was likely the first time in a very, very long time that Optimus had interfaced with anyone. Now, he was breaking his celibacy entirely for Ratchet’s well-being.
For some reason, that thought caused the doctor to shiver pleasantly and his wobbly legs found it easier to spread apart. Ratchet’s shyness wasn’t leading down the road to recovery so, hesitantly putting his bashfulness aside, he opened his interfacing equipment.
As the panel between his legs clicked and shifted upwards, his fans fell silent, likely anticipating relief. Ratchet was comforted to find that Optimus’ expression remained as professional as ever. Following suit, Optimus slid open his spike covering.
The reveal was impressive, to say the least—every bit as commanding as the rest of him. The spike to body ratio was to be expected, but now that Ratchet saw his leader in his entirety, nervousness mixed with a small flare of excitement coursed through his body.
Before Ratchet could speak, Optimus voiced both of their concerns,
“My interfacing equipment is a bit large for your frame, Ratchet. Will you be able to receive me with minimal pain?”
His voice was a rumble that Ratchet felt vibrate deep in his chestplate; it made the heat pool downward.
“I think so…if, uh, if you’re patient with me.”
Optimus nodded. Kneeling before the medic’s open legs, the Prime suggested,
“Perhaps it would be best to acclimate you to the sensation before I enter fully.”
“O-Okay, uh, yes, that’s—Oh, Primus! ”
Ratchet threw his helm back against the floor, optics rolling back before squinting tight. Desperately, he tried not to squirm too much as Optimus gave his valve an introductory, unhurried lick, stopping to press his lips to the sensitive outer node.
How long had it been since Ratchet felt pleasure? When was his last heat cycle? Scrap, he couldn’t remember. His sensory receptors were incredibly heightened from being denied attention for so long.
Optimus flattened his glossa to Ratchet’s quivering metal folds and tasted inwardly, stopping now and again to revisit the outer node. Ratchet grasped blindly at the floor, arching upwards, willing himself not to ride out the larger bot’s gentle pace in a frantic attempt to peak. His leader’s performance was as calm as his speech and Ratchet could feel the transfluids lubricating his valve even more heavily.
Well, this was certainly a surprise Ratchet had not expected. Optimus had always been very efficient, a very ‘straight to the point, get the job done’ sort of bot—a leader had to be. Ratchet had expected Optimus to frag him and be done with it, but this.
This was affectionate and intimate and thorough.
Ensuring that Ratchet had completely adjusted to the eventual interfacing demonstrated a level of concern for both his comfort and safety. Ratchet supposed personalities didn’t always translate directly into one’s style of lovemaking and the way Optimus was using his mouth supported that notion.
“Please—” Ratchet knew that tightening his thighs around Optimus’ helm was likely rude, but he absolutely couldn’t help it. The larger bot didn’t seem to mind and took the plea as confirmation to continue.
The long, slow licks came to a stop, but Optimus did not remove his mouth from the outer node. Instead, he covered it entirely with his lips and pressed his glossa there, teasing it in very delicate circles as to not abuse its over-sensitivity.
The sensation was meant to soothe as Optimus inserted a solitary finger into Ratchet’s valve, which slid in effortlessly due to the copious amount of transfluid.
“Aah…” Ratchet gasped, voice hitched. Optimus’ finger was easily welcomed into him as it was not unlike the size of penetrations he had experienced in the past. The walls of his valve tightened around the intrusion in infrequent ripples.
With just as much care as all his other actions, Optimus steadily began to push the finger inwards and outwards, occasionally stroking at the sensitive ring of inner nodes at the entrance. Ratchet was steadily opening for him, leaking a small trickle of lubricants down his aft. It wasn’t long before his body became greedy and dissatisfied with the one finger and was more than happy to swallow up two.
“Doing well, my friend?”
The deep impact of Optimus’ voice went straight to Ratchet’s helm, piercing through the fog of clouded judgment that was composed thickly of pining and desire.
“Y-yes,” he managed.
The removal of Optimus’ mouth to speak to him caused his outer node to cool when it hit the air. Somehow, when Optimus’ glossa returned, there were even more fireworks than there were initially. That, combined with his leader’s unintended, reverberating hum, allowed for a third finger to slip effortlessly inside of him.
Now Ratchet could feel himself stretching, but as Optimus played with the more inner rings of sensory nodes, he found himself slackening to compensate for each new intrusion. Perhaps his litheness had something to do with his heat cycle, or perhaps it was just because it was Optimus Prime, his beloved leader, his timeless friend, now between his legs, licking and probing and driving him mad.
“Optimus!” Ratchet shuddered, and the name came out as more of a growl than he’d meant it to. One of his servos had found its way to his leader’s helm, pushing back on it lightly, halting his movements.
“Are you…ready to receive me, Ratchet?”
“Yes, need you, please…need you.”
“Very well, I’ll start slowly.”
If Ratchet wasn’t absolutely delirious with want, he might have actually chuckled at that. Everything Optimus did, save for battle, was done with a slow, deliberate grace. His speech, mannerisms, body language, even interfacing it seemed. Now it was time to see his definition of what he considered slow.
A small puddle of transfluid had gathered on the storage room floor under Ratchet’s aft. Dipping his fingers into the natural lubricant, Optimus carefully stroked it onto himself and the sight of him doing so just made Ratchet replenish the puddle’s supply.
When he was slick enough, the large bot suggested,
“Perhaps attending to your own spike while I enter you would lessen the discomfort.”
“Oh, uh, yes it might.”
“Do whatever necessary to help yourself, including giving me instruction.”
Ratchet nodded timidly. Optimus was relinquishing full control of this situation over to him and the medic never had a greater need to be filled up by anyone. With another subtle click, Ratchet retracted his own spike covering, which he hadn’t noticed was alarmingly tight until just now. As per his leader’s proposal, Ratchet wrapped his thick fingers around himself and began to tug rhythmically.
“R-ready for you…” the doctor choked, optics dark and focused on the massive spike before him.
With the utmost care, Optimus guided the head of his spike into Ratchet’s wet valve. Already, Ratchet could tell the intrusion was wider than the three fingers had been and he felt himself tighten around it.
Knowing far better than to introduce himself all at once, Optimus retracted his spike with the same lethargic pace he had entered before returning to fill the same depth. Gingerly, the Prime fragged Ratchet open with just the head.
Ratchet clenched his jaw tight. The limited penetration simultaneously stretched him and sent tingling sparks of pleasure up and down his spine.
“I can take more…” Ratchet sighed. Whether he was ready for it or not, he wanted it bad enough to be willing to face the consequences.
Optimus nodded and cautiously, tenderly, Primus he was slow, let himself slide inside another few inches. Ratchet made a noise of discomfort that must have alarmed his leader because Optimus paused all together,
“No, you’re fine, keep…ugh…keep going.”
Optimus took this to mean the medic was ready for only half. Ratchet stroked his own spike faster to compensate for the burning stretch of fifty percent of Optimus inside him. The Prime was courteous enough to remain stationary until he physically felt Ratchet relax.
Contrary to his effort to retain his manners, Ratchet’s hips gave an impatient buck. The inner most nodes of his valve were now feeling neglected after being teased only briefly with fingers. Ratchet’s whole interfacing system knew what it could be having and it pulsed around Optimus’ colossal shape in a greedy effort to stuff itself full.
So far, Optimus had retracted himself three times, always returning only half way, and the time Ratchet needed to adjust between receiving larger amounts was dwindling. Though he adored his leader’s attempts to be delicate, Ratchet was burning for something more. It was time to take Optimus up on his offer to seize command,
“All of you.”
The tremor in the medic’s voice was not out of apprehension, but out of hunger. The tone surprised Optimus enough to look up and meet the medic’s optics, finding that Ratchet was glaring back at him with fiery certainty.
With his dear friend’s consent, the Prime finally pushed the entirety of his length inside.
Ratchet gasped and bucked upwards, servos subconsciously finding themselves on his leader’s shoulders. Optimus bent down lower so the medic could embrace him fully.
The girth alone made Ratchet’s valve twitch and grip at the incredible insertion. Though, however alarming Optimus’ size may have been, the sole fact that he was now fully inside sated his body in a way it had been craving for a week. Ratchet was relieved and comforted and full.
“Yes!” Ratchet whined into the crook of Optimus’ neck.
Optimus removed himself near entirety before moving to refill the doctor in one long, continuous push. Then again, and again, working up to a relatively even pace. Ratchet was a string of wordless noise, holding tight to his leader’s shoulders and mewling his incoherent approval in broken sounds.
Ratchet’s pedes were sliding against the frictionless floor. Silently, Optimus took hold in the bends of Ratchet’s knees, lifting his pedes and, by extension, elevating his backside off the ground in a more penetrable angle. The doctor was doubled over and found that he rather liked how easily Optimus could lift him—it showed the strength he reserved only for situations he deemed worthy of using it.
After a few trial thrusts, they each synced to the other’s movements, rocking together. Ratchet bucked up as Optimus ground down. Then, by pleasant surprise, Ratchet heard his leader groan low and gravelly directly into his audial.
The sound was very unexpected. It was a lovely, heated sigh that revealed Optimus’ own internal temperature had risen to equal Ratchet’s. Such a primal sound coming from his collected leader alerted Ratchet to what he had neglected to realize before—this was bringing Optimus pleasure as well.
Having been so preoccupied with his own scorching internals, the medic had been blind to what his leader was experiencing. Though Ratchet could never imagine the day when Optimus would lose control over himself, the sensation of physical pleasure had chipped the tiniest shard off of his indissoluble wall of composure.
Hearing Optimus moan set Ratchet on the exquisite and powerful path of no return,
“Harder…oh, Primus…Harder! ”
“Nnh…as you wish, my friend.”
For the first time since they had begun, Ratchet felt that Optimus was no longer holding back. The way he jerked back his powerful, metal hips and bucked forward again to fill him up made Ratchet see sparks behind his closed optics. For a moment, Ratchet felt a flicker of achievement for being able to take the force that was undoubtedly reserved for bots closer to his leader’s size. He was stretched so full and still wanted more.
Ratchet’s valve had not only fully adjusted to his leader’s size, but was unequivocally gluttonous for all it could get. The larger bot rammed into him, transfluids squelching around his spike, slickening the floor, dampening Ratchet’s thighs. The force caused them to scrape backwards a few feet on the storage room floor until Ratchet could grab a hold and ground himself.
Neither of them were holding back now. Ratchet was spread wide with Optimus crashing into him at the perfect angle. Ratchet was grateful that Optimus had selected the farthest storage room from the other bots’ recharge stations because the sounds that were escaping him were all growls and moans.
“Optimus,” Ratchet grunted, voice crackling with charge, chestplate heaving, hips working their hardest.
One particular thrust nudged Ratchet’s inner nodes in a way that made Ratchet pray to the AllSpark. His valve tightened around his leader’s spike, convulsing in throbs of the ultimate pleasure. Seconds later, his spike ejaculated endlessly onto his own chestplate without even being touched and Ratchet rode out every last wave of his orgasm until he had truly made a mess.
With just as much refinement as Optimus had begun, he finished thus as well. Burying his faceplate into the crook of Ratchet’s neck and shoulder, the Prime sounded a low hum as he pumped Ratchet full of a spill that had accumulated over millennia.
Ratchet’s valve shuddered with aftershocks even after Optimus had retracted himself. The doctor’s whole body ached in the best way imaginable. The burning heat of his core had been cooled down to a safe, satisfied warmth. At last, Ratchet’s heat had been satiated.
“Are you…feeling better, doctor?”
Optimus’ voice shook Ratchet from his haze of recovery and he managed to nod lightly,
“Yes…much better. I mean, that was…Optimus that was incredible.”
As soon as the words left his lips, Ratchet was certain that they were unprofessional to say to a Prime. However, Optimus responded with one of his rarest smiles, which put the doctor back at ease.
“Never doubt that I will do everything in my power to ensure your health, old friend. I want you by my side for as long as you can be.”
In the morning, they would have to find a way to inconspicuously clean up the mess they had made. Ratchet would have to attend to his aching body and a good wash was mandatory. But for right now, it was a certain kind of heaven to have his leader lay down protectively beside him, a gentle servo on his hip, while Ratchet slipped into recharge.