Title: Something You Miss
Fandom: Transformers: Prime
Summary: Written for the Transformers Kink Meme for this request: Ratchet gets drunk after a party (maybe Wheeljack's episode?) and flirts with Optimus. Optimus is confused as to how to deal with Ratchet's advances.
I'm not sure if this is exactly what the requester wanted, but this is what my brain came up with. Set after the Wheeljack episode, obviously. :)
The energon Ratchet made was clear, clean pink. Perfectly enriched with the proper mix of compounds that all Autobots required to maintain their systems and formulated to accept additives as necessary per medical regulations. It tasted light, fresh, and clean, the raw fuel filtered by utilizing the solar energy provided by their new home's sun.
In contrast, the low-grade sludge that Wheeljack had brought was a deep, oily shade of opaque burgundy. It had been fermented in a clunky distillery that was as much patch material as it was an actual machine and was powered off the waste energy left over from the engines of his ship. It was rank with impurities and guaranteed to give any mech who so much as sniffed the cube a morning processor ache. Consuming it was a folly at best and at worst, suicide of the internal components, and Ratchet had banned Bumblebee from even trying one, citing the youth of his systems, and had lectured strongly about the recklessness of overcharging at a time of war, even in the safety of their own base.
Three cubes later, and Ratchet was analyzing their ceiling with fierce intensity, cycling his optics through their different settings to stare at a world shimmering in overcharge.
He hadn't meant to have even one, rolled his optics at Wheeljack and Bulkhead as they stacked cubes in one corner in preparation. Only the children had still been here, playing that noise that was supposed to be music and Ratchet had finally snatched up a teasingly offered cube in a desperate moment of self-defense.
Really. That was all it had been. One cube to dull the echoing chatter of three human children and the howls of their music.
The other two cubes he didn't have an excuse for, though he suspected Arcee's disapproving look had something to do with it. He was the medic around here, thank you very much, he knew what he was doing, and the ceiling really was fascinating when viewed in the ultraviolet spectrum.-
"No…iss like this 'un. I was over here and Springer's 'ere." A deep voice slurred out from behind one of the consoles.
Irritating, really, and rude, to interrupt Ratchet's contemplation of the ceiling of the home the humans had allowed them to cobble together. He snorted, the sound echoing sharply. Allowedthem, as though the humans owned this pathetic little planet. The other species that lived here might have something to say about that in a few thousand more years. Ratchet had a decent amount to say about it now, if he ever thought Optimus would let him. Would that he was ever that lucky.
Thinking of Optimus, where was…oh, yes. Arcee and Optimus had prudently decided to take the humans home. Optimus hadn't offered more than a quiet request that they keep the breakage to a minimum when he'd learned of the former Wrecker's plans, but he'd certainly shuffled their human companions out quickly enough. Something about impressionable minds. Impressionable, ha! Thus far, they hadn't even been able to impress upon Miko that Decepticon chasing was a bad idea, never mind her trying to start a photo album.
Although to be fair, if he'd known all he needed was to toss around a little illicit brew, Ratchet would have set up his own distillery weeks ago. Probably would have been able to get a better grade, too, a little more heat would generate a superior yield-
Another loud clang startled Ratchet from his thoughts, followed by, "Don't you think I know where he was standin'? I was there, you lugnut, I know where I was standing!"
Blearily, Ratchet managed to lift his head enough to see Bulkhead and Wheeljack. Or at least parts of them were visible over the console they were sitting behind; a head here, a foot there. One hand waving unsteadily as it gestured to…hm. Gestured to something, anyway, little bits of rock and some bolts that had probably been scavenged from Ratchet's cabinet of spares were arranged in a surprisingly detailed diagram of some battle the two of them had been in. One of Miko's little dolls, apparently representing Bulkhead, seemed to be the point of contention.
He might have joined them in the conversation or at least attempted to shout at them that he needed those bolts so put the blasted things back, if Wheeljack hadn't proven they'd forgotten him entirely by leaning in to Bulkhead, grabbing his head and kissing him with furious, horrific intent.
Oh, dear Primus.
There was a sight he wasn't going to get out of his processors anytime soon. His vocalizer clicked, a dim, desperate sound, in an attempt to squawk out a protest. That was just about the last thing he wanted to be witness to, overcharged or not, and thank the holy Allspark that they two of them managed to shuffle to their feet, still kissing, and staggered away, hopefully getting to Bulkhead's quarters. If Ratchet had to stumble over them in the morning, sprawled out in a corridor in a post-coital bliss, he suspected his logic circuits would fritz entirely.
He took a moment to contemplate the possibility of making his way to his own quarters and dismissed it as ridiculous. Right now, he wasn't entirely certain his legs were even attached, much less able to carry him anywhere and Ratchet wasn't about to try dragging himself through the corridors.
Come to think of it, he wasn't quite sure where his quarters were. Better stay here, then, basking in the warm glow of overcharge. It took a while for a niggling little thought to filter through the static blasting his processors, but when it did, it hit Ratchet, hard, with the force of a blow straight to the head.
Bulkhead was getting laid.
Bulkhead, clumsy, rash Bulkhead who admitted himself that his processor speeds weren't going to earn him any awards, was probably off getting fragged into his berth or possibly into a wall, depending on how far they'd gotten, and Ratchet, who had not only had to put together their energon refinery but also the ground bridge, maintain all necessary internal surveillance, and generally just work his aft off, was here, alone, with his ceiling.
Honestly, the unfairness of the universe was staggering.
Not that Ratchet blamed him. Their species was hardly as focused on all-out fragging as the human species seemed to be but that didn't mean a mech didn't like to have a good time now and then, Primus, when was the last time any of them could say they'd gone at it? Tight-knit as they were, comrades in arms that Ratchet would battle to the death for but just for a frag? Not a one of them was with the others.
Arcee would have to be the most recent to berth with another but Ratchet shuffled that line of thought far down the queue, didn't dare even contemplate it as overcharged as he was, not if he didn't want to turn the pleasant wash of overcharge into an hour-long fit of weeping.
Bumblebee was too young to even have gone through his first cycle and Optimus—they all suspected they knew who his last partner was. Small wonder he wasn't eager to try that again.
Perhaps he should, Ratchet mused, perhaps he just hadn't considered it. When your options could be listed on the fingers of one hand, a mech couldn't really afford to be picky.
The deep thrum of an engine broke through his growingly maudlin thoughts, along with a brief, murmured conversation. Voices, ones that Ratchet recognized but sullenly ignored. Not that it mattered who they were, did it. None of them were going to frag him and not a few hours ago Ratchet would have been fine with that. Here, now, with Bulkhead getting laid, suddenly Ratchet had the urge to frag someone, anyone, who was close enough for him to grab and still had a spark beat. He did have some standards, after all.
There was always the option of self-service and Ratchet was giving it honest consideration, his muddled senses heating with more than a little dubious energon. His peripheral sensors were slagged at the moment, not that he needed them to feel a large mech stepping closer to him, large, warm hands resting lightly on the thin armor that covered Ratchet's arms.
"Come on, old friend," Soft, deep voice, so close to his audial that Ratchet shivered, as their leader tried to help him to his feet.
Oh, Optimus would be perfect. Not that he hadn't contemplated it before. Old he might be, cranky, certainly, but Ratchet wasn't listed as dead on his service record just yet. And if the sight of Wheeljack and Bulkhead groping each other had threatened to burn through his optical cabling, then looking at Optimus was a treat to the senses, always had been.
Attractive? Frag, yes. Optimus was optic-catching in all the best ways and Ratchet was already trying to spread his legs and show Optimus exactly what was on his mind. Only, Optimus had hooked an arm under Ratchet's and hauled him to his feet before he could convince his legs to move. It was an impressive feat considering how much Ratchet weighed.
Mm, strong, yes. Their Prime was strong and Ratchet snuggled into those nice, strong arms, only realizing that Optimus had frozen when he started idly stroking a hand down those strong hydraulics, probing nimbly for sensitive cabling despite the overcharge still burning hotly through him, sparking through circuits.
He sighed audibly, burying his face against the glass plates that made up Optimus's windshield, his olfactory sensors picking up the scent of oil and asphalt clinging to him. From driving on the human roads, surely, and never before had it seemed so arousing.
His vocalizer chose that moment to online again, allowing him to murmur, "You smell so good."
A surprisingly weak, "Thank you?" was the only reply and Ratchet found himself making a sound that could only be called a giggle. Later, he'd be horrified by that, but for now, he only nuzzled against the glass, considered tasting it to see if the flavor was as improved by a little intoxication as the scent.
"So polite," Ratchet teased, tightening his grip as Optimus tried to take a step back. That was just the very opposite of what Ratchet wanted and not only because he suspected he'd fall on his aft if he lost his sole means of support. The more he considered it, the better this idea seemed. Optimus was alone, he was alone, they were so alone, so few of them, and Optimus wasn't quitepushing him away. Only that painful grip on Ratchet's shoulders, hard enough that his sensors were sending him warning pings.
"So good," he repeated, let just the tip of his glossa brush the smooth glass. Not quite as good as the smell, he decided, but close. Optimus made a startled sound, Primus, he had sensitive sensors.
"Never thought about it, have you?" Ratchet murmured, loosened his hold enough to let his hands drift. Sleek, cool feel of Optimus's plating made an incongruous mix of soothing and arousal war in his internals. "Not about me. I can't say the same, you know."
"I think…perhaps you need some rest," Optimus choked out. That was not quite what Ratchet was hoping to hear and he looked up with a frown, met Optimus's gaze with his own. Optimus's optics were astonishingly wide, almost childlike, his shock visible. Well, that wasn't disgust, though, and he hadn't said no…
"Some rest, yes," Ratchet whispered, let a hint of roughness into his vocalizer, "Let's get some rest, Optimus." Ratchet slipped a finger into a crevice between armor plates, let his finger slide over the sensor circuitry beneath it. Overcharged, maybe, not so much that he didn't know just the right amount of pressure to make Optimus stiffen, a faint jolt shaking his frame. Mm, interesting. Just as Ratchet was settling his hand over Optimus spike cover, testing it for heat, Optimus exploded into motion.
Grabbed Ratchet under the arms and pulled, hauling him through the base so quickly that Ratchet was forced to stumble after him, confusion as much as the intoxicants tangling his thoughts.
His door had already been opened, his berth beneath him, by the time Ratchet's whirling processors caught up. He blinked up at Optimus, and now the sensation churning through him was losing its warm glow, replaced with confusion and hurt. The arousal was still fresh, still hot beneath his interfacing panel and pinging him with readiness. Just as he started reaching up, thinking to pull Optimus down on him, their leader stepped quickly back, out of his reach.
"Rest well, old friend," So softly, and the lights dimmed, leaving Ratchet alone in the darkness.
Frustrated anger filled him, chased by overwhelming grief, for the things he'd lost, the things he was never going to have. Not even this, not this one thing that he'd never even suspected he wanted until now.
"You always call me that," Ratchet sniped into the nothingness. "It's meaningless at this point, isn't it?"
Heard the door shut and Ratchet covered his face with his hands, struggling to hold back the ridiculous urge to howl with his grief and loss. He had nothing and he was ruining one of the closest friendships he'd ever had, but he would not lose the last of his fragging dignity. Not yet.
"What do you mean?" Softly, very close to him. Ratchet snatched his hands away from his face, brightened his optics enough to allow him to see clearly through the dark room. Optimus had only closed the door, was still next to the berth, kneeling just far enough that Ratchet knew he couldn't touch.
"I mean, it's meaningless," Ratchet said, dully. The pleasant taint of overcharge was seeping into the expected, unpleasant aftereffects. "We're so few. You can't really afford to be picky about your friends anymore, now can you?"
"Perhaps not," Optimus rejoined, softly. "However, I called you friend long before that."
"I don't care!" Ratchet snarled. "Right now Bulkhead of all mechs is getting his pedes fragged off and I want the same so badly that I might be looking for Bumblebee if I could actually walk."
"I want you to frag me! I want you to shove your spike in me so hard I feel it for days. I want you to hold me down and take me." Frag yes, he wanted that. He wanted to spread his legs and yank Optimus between them, wanted to feel lubricant slicking his thighs. Primus, he wanted.
"And that's all you want?"
"All I want?" Ratchet couldn't hold back the laughter, "No one could give me all I want, unless they invent a way to reorder time." He slanted Optimus a glance, let his optics trail down the long body of their leader, taking in the broad chest, the slimmer hips and legs. "But I'd take whatever you give me."
Their leader, their Prime, who shifted uncomfortably under the regard. "You're very overcharged."
"Tell me something I don't know," Ratchet sighed out and now he very much wished Optimus would leave before he ruined what was left of their friendship. Wished he'd go so that Ratchet could at the very least touch himself, slide his fingers into valve until he could force a lackluster overload. Anything to get rid of the charge pooling in his pelvic region.
Ratchet vented a harsh sigh. "Go find your own berth, Optimus. I'd like to get plenty of rest so I can properly regret this in the morning."
He shuttered his optics, not wanting to see Optimus leaving him alone. Waiting for the quiet swish of the door and tried not to let the needthat was inexorably rising in him push past his fogged common sense again.
The gentle touch of large hands on his knee joints was the last thing he expected to feel and Ratchet flinched before he could help himself. Instead of pulling away, they slowly stroking upward, teased over sensors as large thumbs slid over his inner thighs. Spreading his legs, spreading him open.
Ratchet kept his optics shuttered, cycled up his cooling fans until he was venting out harsh pants of steamy air. This, Primus, yes, this, and if it was some lusty, overcharge-induced dream cycle then he wanted to stay within it to its completion.
Such a gentle touch, not at all what he'd been craving, lent doubt to the idea that this was anything but reality. Perhaps his processors knew better what he wanted than even he did, though, because Ratchet was already stuttering out quiet little moans, pushing his hips up into a startlingly expert touch, stroking over his most responsive sensors.
Those teasing hands caught his hips suddenly and pulled, yanking him to the edge of the berth before he could protest. Heavy weight settled on top of him, pressing his legs wider yet. Hands on his knees, pushing them up.
"Oh, yes," Ratchet groaned. He snapped open the cover of his valve, felt the liquid heat of lubricant already trickling from it. Already eager for a hard spike to fill it, stretching him as he hadn't been since before they'd left Cybertron. Far, far too long.
Instead, the slick, agile flick of a glossa pressed against him and finally, Ratchet onlined his optics, staring down in disbelief.
If the sight of Wheeljack and Bulkhead had threatened to permanently disable his interfacing circuitry, then the sight of Optimus's helm buried between his spread legs, optics shuttered and his expression blissful, threatened to send his heated circuits into the redline.
Ratchet couldn't look away from it, disabled his optic-shuttering reflex even as the sensation drove him to whimper, pleading wordlessly for more. Good, incredibly good, the slippery little flickers against the sensor nodes lining the opening of his valve before Optimus delved deeper inside, lapping against him. Lubricants were gleaming on his mouth, slicking his chin and Ratchet's control slipped as Optimus pushed his glossa deeply inside along with a single finger, the unexpected stretch drawing a startled cry.
"Optimus," he begged, "Now, please, now, frag me, I want to feel it, want to feel you…" A babbling stream of pleading, his hands scrabbling along Optimus's shoulders, trying to grip the smooth armor and pull Optimus up to him. A plea and a prayer, one of the few that Ratchet had ever had answer as Optimus followed the pull of his hands, covering Ratchet with his large body. The sudden weight made Ratchet huff out a vent of air, even as he lifted his legs, twining them behind Optimus's slimmer ones and holding him there.
"Ratchet," So softly, against his audio receiver and Ratchet looked up, met Optimus's gaze and held it. A long moment, a klik of time and then the hot pressure of a spike against him, filling him. Almost too much for his long-unused valve, the pressure made him narrow his optics but Ratchet never looked away from Optimus's searching gaze. Even when he groaned, arching up to take in the last of it, felt Optimus's pelvis rock against his own as they settled.
Until Optimus groaned, dipping his head and pressed their mouths together. Shared the sweet, slick taste of Ratchet's lubricants as he began to move, one slow thrust, another, the quiet thump of their bodies moving stunningly loud in the small room. Ratchet didn't care, not even enough to be glad that none of the others were housed near him. Not with Optimus moving harder into him, his hands moving down to Ratchet's hips and tilting them even further, letting him push in that much deeper.
His own moans were muffled into Optimus's eager mouth, glossas tangling together as Ratchet tried to struggle, tried to lift even more into it and discovered he couldn't move at all. He was pinned completely beneath Optimus, beneath the blunt, hot pressure of the spike taking him, charging him, the electricity sparkling over their frames. Trapped right where he wanted to be, under the weight of his closest friend while he moved over him, into him, each thrust drawing a gaspy little cry now, Ratchet was so close, overcharge drawing him in quicker, ramping up the charge.
He tried to brace against it, hands scrambling ineffectively over Optimus until they were caught, captured, Optimus's hands strong on his wrists as he pinned Ratchet's hands back to the berth. Above him, Optimus's optics were blazing, the hot wash of his ventilations as titillating as a touch, and with a last, desperate moan, Ratchet tumbled into overload, shook as sensation whiplashed through him, Optimus's cry an echo of his own as they both went rigid, shaking so hard that their armor clattered against the berth, another layer of sensation almost unbearable against sensors too overcharged to accept it.
Ratchet cycled on his optics as soon as he could and found himself sprawled on his own berth, legs still spread obscenely and he might have been appalled by that if a hand hadn't been between them. Long fingers stroking lazily over overwrought circuitry, drawing out the leftover charge until he could relax, drawing his legs together with barely a wince.
"Are you all right?" Optimus asked softly.
"In all my years, I've never heard of anyone being fragged to death yet, so yes, I'm all right," Ratchet said dryly. Most of his overcharge had been burned away in the intensity of their coupling and that left him…here. Uncomfortably close to normal with his Prime's, his closest friend's, transfluid trickling down his inner thighs and pooling beneath him.
"That isn't what I mean." Trust Optimus to make this serious while the both of them still had steam rising off their frames.
"I'm all right," Ratchet sighed. As all right as he ever was. "I wanted this," he added, insisted, because Optimus was just the type to feel guilty about it until time ended.
A wry smile curved Optimus's mouth, "You were…are…very overcharged," he said, gently. But his hands didn't stop, still moving gently over Ratchet's cooling frame.
"Maybe," Ratchet said, grumpily, shifting as he tried, and failed, to find a drier place to lie in. He finally gave up and resigned himself to a thorough cleaning in the morning, sternly not allowing himself to think of consequences. Not now, not yet, and Optimus instantly wrapped his arms around Ratchet as he awkwardly burrowed in. Another thing he'd wait to be embarrassed about later.
"I might be a little overcharged, but I still know what I want," Ratchet murmured sleepily, relaxing against the comfortable, comforting warmth of Optimus's frame.
Barely, he heard a soft, "As do I." There was no time to consider it before he slipped into recharge, basking, for just a little while, in the embrace of another. Of one of his own kind.