Work Text:
The sound of a loud CRASH had Wheeljack sprinting into the lab.
“You alright, Doc?”
A quiet groan left Ratchet. The medic was on the floor, unsteadily pushing himself upright, servos braced against the floor. There was a glass vial, now shattered on the ground next to him, the content—another attempt at synthetic energon—all over both the floor and Ratchet’s frame.
“I’m fine, Wheeljack,” Ratchet huffed, standing upright now.
He carefully picked up the pieces of glass. He grumbled to himself, clearly disappointed.
Wheeljack let out a low whistle, optics taking in all the ruined energon on Ratchet's frame. He knew how hard Ratchet had been working lately in his attempts to create synthetic energon.
He strolled over with his arms crossed over his chassis, shaking his helm, “You sure got yourself real messy, huh?"
Ratchet shot an irritated glare over at Wheeljack, but otherwise didn’t respond. He turned his attention back to his task, continuing to pick up the shards from the ground.
Suddenly, he winced, retracting his servo with a sharp gasp. He held it close to his chassis, before looking down at it.
There was a thin laceration across his palm, cyan energon already beginning to seep from the fresh wound.
Wheeljack's optics widened in slight surprise. He immediately stepped closer, reaching for Ratchet's wounded servo.
"Here, let me see that,” he murmured, gently taking Ratchet's servo in his own and holding it up to examine the cut.
Ratchet yanked his servo back, out from Wheeljack’s. He didn’t want his help, and he made it very obvious.
“I’m fine,” Ratchet insisted, scoffing.
He returned to cleaning up, gathering the last few pieces of glass off the floor. He stood back up, putting the broken vial onto a nearby table for now.
Wheeljack raised an optical ridge, not at all convinced by Ratchet's stubbornness. He could tell the medic was in pain—the energon was enough of an indication. But he also knew that Ratchet had his pride and would rather die than admit he needed assistance from anyone.
He leaned to one side against a workbench, crossing his arms over his chassis once more.
"You're bleedin' all over the floor and you're tellin' me you're fine?"
Ratchet sighed heavily. He knew he couldn't hide his injury from the other mech.
He clenched his injured servo tightly as an attempt to control the bleeding. But the gesture was pointless. The laceration was deep, and the more pressure he applied, the more energon would ooze.
He relented and held the palm out for Wheeljack, defeated. He hated to admit it, but he did need help. He couldn’t fix it with only one servo.
"Just fix it," he grumbled.
Wheeljack smirked, clearly enjoying the fact that Ratchet had finally given in. He reached for a medkit on one of the shelves and grabbed some disinfectant wipes and gauze.
"Alright, don't move," he instructed as he dabbed at the cut with surprising gentleness. "This is gonna sting."
He watched Ratchet's faceplate closely.
Ratchet bit his derma, trying to remain stoic as Wheeljack cleaned the wound. He winced involuntarily every time the disinfectant made contact with his cut, but the stinging only fuelled his irritation.
“Remind me why I am allowing you to do this again?" he grumbled.
Wheeljack chuckled but kept his attention focused on gingerly tending to the injury.
"Probably 'cause you love me too much to say no," he quipped, clearly enjoying this little moment of vulnerability.
Ratchet only let out a scoff, rolling his optics. He didn’t comment further.
Wheeljack continued, his smirk fading into a small, warm smile as he worked.
Despite Ratchet's constant irritable nature and Wheeljack’s teasing one, there was a certain fondness in the way they bickered. There was a sort of affection hidden behind the sharp tongues and sarcastic jabs.
Wheeljack started to wrap the gauze around the medic's palm, ensuring it was secure but loose enough not to hurt or hinder its movement.
“There," Wheeljack said, satisfied. He patted Ratchet's wrist lightly, letting go, and took a step back.
Ratchet flexed his digits, testing the new wrapping. It was tight enough to control the bleeding, but didn’t strain anything. He looked up at Wheeljack, who was watching him closely.
He gave the other match a short nod of gratitude, though he was still annoyed at the entire situation.
"… Thank you," he muttered reluctantly. He really didn't want to give Wheeljack the satisfaction of being right, but his pride didn't matter as much as the throbbing in his servo.
Wheeljack's teasing smirk turned into a genuine smile. He knew that getting a thank-you out of Ratchet was like pulling teeth, so this was a victory in his book.
“You're welcome, doc," he replied, the usual slyness returning to his tone. "Gotta keep my favorite doctor in working order, right?"
Ratchet couldn't help but roll his optics again. He was used to Wheeljack's relentless flirting by now.
"Yeah, yeah," Ratchet grumbled, turning his attention back to the mess on the floor.
The shattered pieces of the vial were on the table now, though the failed attempt's spilled content soaked into the floor. Ratchet's shoulders sagged at the sight.
“I really thought I had it this time," he mumbled, mostly to himself.
Wheeljack's smirk softened slightly as he noticed Ratchet's frustration. He stepped forward, nudging the medic with his elbow—lightly, so as not to aggravate him further.
“Hey," he said in a gentler tone than usual. "You'll figure it out eventually."
A pause. Then, with a half-grin:
“Or you won't and we'll just have to go back to stealing from the Decepticons' stash like old times."
There was an unspoken I'm here for you buried under that teasing comment of his—because even if Wheeljack liked pushing buttons, deep down, he cared too much about the grouchy medic bot for comfort sometimes.
Ratchet scoffed at Wheeljack's attempt to cheer him up. He was far too irritated and frustrated with himself to feel much comfort at the moment.
“And risk spilling more energon?" he retorted, crossing his arms over his chassis. "Last time we went on a "heist," you almost lost a leg."
He shot Wheeljack a disapproving glare, the memory of that particular mission still fresh on his processor. Wheeljack had been way too reckless for his liking.
Wheeljack snorted, leaning casually back against the workbench. He had the audacity to look amused at the memory.
"But I didn't, did I? And we got a lot of energon out of the deal," he pointed out, his usual smirk returning.
Ratchet, on the other hand, clearly wasn't amused. He rolled his optics again, the irritation evident on his faceplate.
“You're lucky you're still alive after that stunt you pulled," he muttered, "If I hadn't been there to—“
Ratchet’s optics widened. Everything around him was spotty and blurry. He felt oddly lightheaded, and had to brace a servo on the table to keep himself upright.
Wheeljack's attention immediately snapped towards the medic, noticing his sudden change in demeanour.
"Doc?" he asked, concern creeping into his voice. "You okay?"
He was no medic, but even he could see something was wrong. Ratchet's faceplate had gone paler than usual, and he was gripping onto the edge of the workbench as if struggling to stay up.
“Whoa, hey," Wheeljack said, reaching out to take ahold of Ratchet's arm, steadying him. "You're shaking."
“I’m—I’m fine…” Ratchet mumbled, though the way he spoke wasn’t at all convincing. Even now, his stubbornness was as prominent as ever.
His venting grew erratic, and his frame was heating up. His gaze was unfocused, and he was clearly having a hard time maintaining his balance.
“Doc, you're obviously not fine," Wheeljack retorted, not buying Ratchet's weak attempt at denial.
He kept a firm grip on the medic's arm, using the workbench as leverage to keep him upright.
“When was the last time you fuelled?" he asked bluntly. It wouldn't surprise Wheeljack one bit if Ratchet had over-exhausted himself with the synthetic energon experiment and forgot to refuel.
Ratchet hesitated, still in his stubbornness.
"… Three days," he reluctantly mumbled. He didn't want to admit that he has been so focused on his work that he practically starved himself again. And yet, this time, something felt… different.
Wheeljack's optics widened in disbelief.
Three days? Three days without fueling up?
That was way too long, even for Ratchet. Wheeljack couldn't believe the medic was still standing, if he was being honest.
“Three days?!" he repeated, his tone a mix of irritation and concern. "Ratchet, are you trying to burn out or something?"
He studied the medic closely, noting the paleness of his faceplate and the way his frame was heating up. This was more than just fuel deprivation. Something else was wrong.
“I was… busy," Ratchet mumbled weakly, avoiding direct eye contact with Wheeljack. He knew how reckless his behaviour had been, but his work often took precedence over his self-care.
His frame was starting to overheat, causing him to shiver involuntarily. There was also an odd feeling in his processor, a sort of fuzziness that made him dizzy.
Ratchet tried to shift, but he suddenly found it too hard to balance on his own. He stumbled, leaning heavily against Wheeljack.
Wheeljack's expression shifted from irritation to full-blown alarm as Ratchet slumped against him.
"Alright, that's it," Wheeljack muttered, tightening his grip on the medic. "You're done.”
In one swift motion, he scooped Ratchet up—bridging an arm under his back and another beneath his legs—before hoisting him over with ease.
“You don't get a say in this," Wheeljack warned preemptively as he started moving toward the medbay door.
Ratchet let out a yelp of protest at being lifted off the ground without warning, but he was simply too exhausted to struggle.
“H-Hey!" he grumbled weakly. "I can walk, you know."
Despite his protest, he didn't make a sincere attempt to get down from Wheeljack's arms. He felt dizzy and disorientated, and the thought of walking the distance to the medbay on his own was less than appealing at the moment.
Wheeljack just rolled his optics in response to Ratchet's protest.
“Yeah, and you'd probably collapse before you got halfway there," he retorted.
And he wasn't wrong. Ratchet was clearly too weak to walk on his own. The fact that he was even still conscious was a miracle.
Wheeljack quickened his pace, heading straight for the medbay. He pushed open the door with his shoulder and carried Ratchet deeper inside.
Ratchet didn't protest further, resigning himself to being carried. He was too tired and disorientated to put up much of a fight, anyway.
As they entered the med bay, Wheeljack set Ratchet down on one of the medical berths. He then moved to one of the shelves and started looking for energon supplements, along with some other medical equipment. Though, he wasn’t able to find anything there.
Meanwhile, Ratchet was trying to adjust himself into a more comfortable position, wincing at the way his frame protested against even the slightest movements.
His frame was overheating, and his systems were starting to go haywire.
Wheeljack rummaged through the medbay shelves, growing more frustrated each second as he couldn't find what he was looking for.
“Damn it," he muttered, pushing away a few empty energon supplements. "I thought we had some left…"
He sighed deeply and turned his attention back to Ratchet. The medic looked even worse than before—the heat was beginning to strain his already over worked frame, and his optics were flickering weakly.
“Just— Just stay there, alright?" Wheeljack told him. “I'll be right back."
Ratchet let out an exhausted huff, too weak to respond beyond a small nod.
He watched as Wheeljack quickly left the medbay, the sound of his footsteps fading away.
Ratchet slumped back against the berth, feeling utterly miserable. His processor felt hazy. He tried to focus on keeping his venting steady, but it was a challenge. He was overheating, his frame hot. But there was something else, another heat building within him. It confused him, but he felt too weary to question it, much less try to figure it out.
He closed his optics, vents leaving him as soft pants. He rested a servo over his midsection.
He just wanted to get rid of the heat—it was near-insufferable.
His servo shifted downwards, a quiet gasp leaving his intake. Albeit only slightly, the heat became just a little more manageable.
—
Wheeljack searched all throughout the base for energon supplements, cursing under his breath the entire time.
Where the frag was anything?
The Autobots hadn't had a supply run in a while, so they were probably low on everything.
Finally, he stumbled across a crate of supplies. He rummaged through the items. His face broke out in a grin as he found what he was looking for: energon supplements.
He grabbed a few of them, along with some other tools he knew he would need, and hurried back to the medbay.
It took Wheeljack a few minutes to return to the medbay, and when he did, his optics widened at the sight that greeted him.
Ratchet was still on the berth, though he was sitting upright, servos pressed against the edges of the berth to keep himself upright. He was panting, optics shut and intake open, with a pillow between his parted legs.
The medic let out a soft groan, rolling his hips against the pillow. The cushion had a visibly damp part staining the cover—the part that was directly between Ratchet’s legs.
Wheeljack froze in the doorway, his grip tightening around the energon supplements.
"... Frag me," he muttered under his breath.
He had not seen this coming—Ratchet was usually too stubborn to even admit when something was wrong, let alone… well. This.
The medic didn’t seem to notice Wheeljack yet—too lost in whatever heat cycle had him grinding against that pillow like it personally owed him credits.
Wheeljack stood there for a long moment, processing the situation.
Ratchet was purring.
And not in the "I'm just relaxing" way—no, this was low and rough and downright filthy.
Wheeljack's vents hitched as he watched Ratchet move against that pillow with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips. Another noise left Ratchet, this one a little louder, sounding all-too-close to a moan.
The medic had never been one to indulge in anything remotely sexual—at least not where anyone could see—so this, this took Wheeljack completely off-guard.
Ratchet's frame trembled, optics shut, servos clenching the edges of the berth to ground himself.
Everything was hot—so hot. His frame felt like it was about to burn up, and his systems were getting more and more strained. Every part of him was screaming, begging for release.
The pillow provided a small amount of friction, which was the only thing giving Ratchet a bit of reprieve from the overwhelming heat building in his frame.
Wheeljack's grip on the energon supplements tightened—too tight. A few of them spilled onto the floor.
He didn't even bother to pick them up.
Ratchet was moaning. Full-on, shameless moans as he rubbed against that pillow like it was his last lifeline. Wheeljack had never seen him like this—never even heard of Ratchet acting this way.
And yet…
“Frag," Wheeljack muttered under his breath again before taking a step forward. "… Doc?”
Ratchet jolted slightly at the sound of Wheeljack’s voice but didn’t stop moving for relief; if anything, hearing another bot there only made him grind harder into that pillow with a whine leaving his intake in response.
He stopped for a moment, panting heavily as he looked back over at Wheeljack.
His optics were lidded, the blue tinted with a sharp green that looked both pleading and lewd, as he stared back at the other mech.
Wheeljack's optics widened at the sight before him. It shouldn't be so hot yet here he was, standing in what should be the medic’s most vulnerable moment and—Primus help him—getting turned on.
He let out a shaky huff, shifting to try and adjust his frame.
"… You feeling okay, Doc?" he asked as casually as possible, taking another step forward. His gaze briefly flicked to the pillow between Ratchet's thighs.
A soft whine left Ratchet, his servos pulling at the edge of the berth. He didn't want relief from a pillow; he wanted a bot. And, for whatever reason, his instincts were telling him Wheeljack would suffice.
Without quite realising it, Ratchet let out another moan, optics focused on Wheeljack. He shifted on the berth, pushing off the pillow. He sat on his knees, spreading his legs wider, as if in invitation.
His next words were barely more than a whine.
"… Wheeljack..."
Wheeljack's vents stuttered, something sharp and possessive coiling in his gut upon seeing that inviting position.
Ratchet, the stubborn, grouchy, no-nonsense medic, was whining for him, spread out on the berth like a gift.
Wheeljack tried to keep cool. He really did, but his voice was rough when he spoke next.
“Yeah, Doc?" he prompted, taking another step closer. His optics darkened with barely-restrained need.
Ratchet shifted again restlessly, his servos gripping the berth so hard he was starting to dent the surface. His optics never left Wheeljack, almost begging him to come forward.
His frame was burning, and the heat between his legs was intense. He craved touch. A touch he could only get from something or someone other than that damned pillow that wasn't helping nearly as much anymore.
He whimpered, shifting his legs wider. The action further exposed his valve—covered in glistening lubricant, and practically throbbing with need.
“Wheeljack…” he mewled, voice laced with desperate need.
Something inside Wheeljack snapped, his self-control shattering like glass, and that possessive coil in his gut tightened.
He was moving forward before he could even process what was happening, dropping to his knees in front of the berth, right between those parted legs.
He placed his hands on either side of Ratchet's hips. He stared up at the medic, gaze dark and intense, before speaking in a low, rough voice.
“You want me to touch you, huh? You think I'm what you need?"
Ratchet whined louder at Wheeljack's words. His frame was burning and he desperately needed relief. There was no trying to deny it.
He nodded frantically, pleading with his optics alone.
“Yes," he panted, letting go of the berth to grab a hold of Wheeljack's wrist, pulling the other bot's closer by the servo. "I need—I need you. I want you to touch me. Please…”
Wheeljack's vents hitched as Ratchet practically yanked him closer.
And Wheeljack didn't resist—not for a second.
His digits slid up the medic’s inner thigh, slow and teasing, watching the way Ratchet shivered under his touch before finally letting one digit press right against that slick valve.
Ratchet jolted with a sharp gasp at the contact, hips jerking forward to chase it like he couldn't get enough already.
“Frag," Wheeljack muttered under his breath again as he pushed in deeper just to see what kind of sound that would pull from him this time."You're so damn wet..."
Ratchet let out a soft groan at the words, servo gripping one of Wheeljack's shoulders tightly.
The sensation was overwhelming—he was hot, desperate, and he needed more.
“Don't—Don't tease," he practically whined, shifting restlessly.
His engine was revving and his frame was overheating. Every word, every touch from Wheeljack was stoking the flames higher.
Wheeljack let out a rough chuckle, his digit curling just right to drag against Ratchet's sweet spot.
“Teasing you is half the fun," he murmured, adding a second digit. It slipped in with ease, thanks to how slick and ready the medic was.
Ratchet practically sobbed at the sudden stretch—his frame arching as Wheeljack crooked those digits again.
Wheeljack groaned, watching Ratchet writhe beneath him like this. "You really do need it bad."
Another moan escaped Ratchet as he nodded again. He needed it so bad. The heat was spreading through his frame and he couldn't think straight. It was too hot, he needed something to soothe it. He needed release.
He let go of Wheeljack's shoulder in favour of grabbing one of the other's wrists with both servos, trying to pull him even closer.
“Please—" he panted, optics hazily locked on Wheeljack. "I need you. Please—I-I'm so hot, I can't—"
It didn't take much more convincing for Wheeljack to go along with Ratchet's insistent tugging.
His servos withdrew from Ratchet's valve, making the medic whine at the loss of contact.
Before the medic could protest more, Wheeljack gently pushed him down against the berth, covering the mech with his broader frame. His servos settled on either side of the medic.
Wheeljack looked down at him for a moment—taking in every little detail of Ratchet's desperate, needy expression.
“You're desperate, aren't you?" the Wrecker purred.
Ratchet whined again, arching his frame against Wheeljack's. He was absolutely desperate—unable to even think straight, mind reeling with nothing except burning need.
He wrapped his legs around Wheeljack's hips, pulling their frame's even closer.
He needed the contact, the pressure. He was burning up inside and wanted nothing more than to cool his system off.
Wheeljack's vents hitched as Ratchet yanked their frames flush against one another.
The heat radiating off the medic was insane—his valve was still slick and throbbing between them, begging for something to fill it.
"Frag," Wheeljack muttered under his breath again before shifting slightly so that he could press his own interface panel against that needy hole—just to tease him more. "You really want me in you?“
That only resulted in another whine from Ratchet. His servos tightened on Wheeljack's shoulders as the other mech pressed against him. It felt good but it wasn't enough. Ratchet needed more.
His frame was hot, his valve throbbing. He needed something. Anything.
Another frustrated moan left Ratchet, head falling back against the berth's surface. He felt fevered, overheating and desperate.
He was practically grinding against Wheeljack now, frame trembling. His optics were practically burning with the bright shade of green that had taken over.
Wheeljack's patience snapped like a frayed wire.
“Frag it," he muttered before opening his interface panel.
He hastily aligned himself before pushing in with one sharp, deep thrust—no more teasing, no more hesitation.
Ratchet screamed.
The sound was loud enough that Wheeljack briefly worried someone might hear them—but the way Ratchet clenched around him at the sudden stretch made his processor short-circuit for a second.
Wheeljack groaned as he bottomed out inside of him, servos digging into Ratchet’s hips to keep him still while he adjusted to being split open so quickly.
Ratchet's servos flew to grip Wheeljack's shoulders, nearly digging into the metal. He was stretched so deep that he could barely think clearly—the heat in his core flaring to an almost unbearable degree.
He felt so full, more than he ever had before. He was trembling, frame taut like a stretched wire. It burned a little, but was just enough to take the edge off, for now.
Though that was a short-lived moment of relief. The heat was just beneath the surface again, the fire was still within him, and Ratchet needed more.
He needed it fast, hard, and rough.
He needed it now.
Wheeljack groaned as Ratchet's servos dug into his shoulders. His servos tightened on Ratchet's hips in return, hard enough that Wheeljack wouldn't be surprised if the medic had dents when they were done.
He kept a tight hold on Ratchet's hips, using them to leverage himself and start a brutal, hard rhythm.
He felt as Ratchet squirmed and writhed, heard as the other mech cried underneath him.
Wheeljack leaned down, sinking his dentas deep into the sensitive cables of Ratchet's neck.
He wanted to mark him, claim him.
Ratchet arched at the feeling of dentas burying deep into one of those cables. He let out another cry, servos grasping the edge of the berth tightly.
The position they were in hit something deep inside and Ratchet was seeing white for a moment, his systems overheating.
He needed this, he craved it. His engine was revving, purring aloud, and he couldn't think straight, couldn't do anything but feel the heat of pleasure coursing through his frame.
Wheeljack kept up the brutal pace, driving into Ratchet with a purpose.
The heat coursing through his systems was almost unbearable, but the noises leaving Ratchet's frame made it more than worth the effort.
The medic had turned to a babbling mess, begging and whining and moaning. And the Wrecker couldn't get enough of that.
His mouth moved from Ratchet's neck to one of his audio receptors, his own laboured venting hot against the medic's audials.
“You have no idea how long I've wanted you like this,” he growled, voice rougher than usual.
Ratchet whined at the words, servos leaving the berth behind to grab a hold of Wheeljack's chassis. The position would have been sweet, almost tender, if not for the brutal way Ratchet was being taken right now.
His frame was shaking and he couldn't form any coherent thoughts—just sensations and sounds and feelings.
“W-Wheeljack—" he tried to say, panting and whimpering, but it came out as nothing but garbled static.
Wheeljack's vents hitched. The sound went straight to his tank. He groaned, hips stuttering for a second before he snapped them forward again with more force than before.
“You're so damn loud," Wheeljack muttered against Ratchet's audial receptors—though he was clearly loving every second of it.
He shifted just enough to press one digit right where their bodies were joined. It rubbed slow circles over that oversensitive valve, all the whilst he continued to pound into him mercilessly.
Ratchet practically keened at the added stimulation, frame going taut. The heat was building and it was building fast. His servos clawed at Wheeljack's chassis, trying to find some sort of anchor to ground him.
He couldn't think—he was overheating. He was burning up. All he could focus on was the pleasure coursing through every inch of his frame. It was overwhelming.
Wheeljack was getting close to the edge. And judging by how tightly Ratchet was clenching around him, so was the medic.
He leaned down, pressing his frame flush against Ratchet, covering the smaller mech completely. His servos shifted from those dented hips down to grip the other's aft, fingers digging into the soft metal to pull Ratchet closer.
He leaned forward, whispering against his audials in a tone of voice that could only be described as possessive and reverent.
“You think you can overload for me?" he purred. “Do that for me, would you, darlin'? Show me how good I can make you feel?"
Ratchet’s frame was trembling, systems overheating and processor whirling with pleasure.
Without another word, he overloaded.
He arched against Wheeljack, servos grabbing onto him desperately. His optics were shut, intake parted with a sharp gasp leaving it. He squeezed around Wheeljack’s length, as if urging the other mech to spill inside him.
Wheeljack groaned. He was close already—he didn't need much more encouragement.
He shifted just enough to grab one of Ratchet's servos with his, digits interlocking as he leaned in to nip at the smaller bot's neck.
The Wrecker's frame tensed, his engine revving louder than ever before. His own overload was violent, and he groaned into the crook of Ratchet's neck, filling the other completely.
Wheeljack's frame trembled, his vents stuttering as he rode out the waves of his overload.
He stayed pressed against Ratchet for a long moment, letting their systems cool down slowly while also making sure the medic didn't pass out from sheer exhaustion.
His grip on Ratchet's servo loosened slightly, but he still held onto it—like he was worried that letting go would mean this entire thing had been nothing more than a fever dream.
"... Frag," Wheeljack muttered under his breath after another beat of silence passed between them. "That was… intense."
Ratchet hummed lazily in agreement. The heat in his frame had calmed considerably. Even if it wasn't completely gone, he couldn't deny the pleasant buzz going through his systems.
He lifted his free servo to gently touch Wheeljack's faceplate. His optics were still slightly hazy as he spoke, still out of it.
"... Not bad," Ratchet teased faintly. Despite the weak tone, the hint of sass in his voice was unmistakable.
Wheeljack huffed out a laugh.
Even when completely and utterly wrecked, the medic still had enough strength to get sassy with him.
He nuzzled against the servo pressed against his faceplate, optics half-lidded with satisfaction.
“Not bad?" Wheeljack echoed, scoffing as he shook his head. "Just not bad? Here I am, making you see stars, and all I get is 'not bad’?”
Ratchet only rolled his optics.
Wheeljack let out another chuckle, moving to pull himself out.
But Ratchet soon clenched around him again, his servos holding the Wrecker close. It was like the medic was physically trying to stop him from pulling out.
“Hey, easy there," Wheeljack muttered, his servos coming up to gently pry Ratchet’s digits off of him. “You're not keeping me in you all day."
Ratchet only made a sound of protest. A rather adorable whimper at the loss of fullness.
He was still sensitive, and he didn't quite know if he wanted Wheeljack to pull out yet. He wanted to be full and sated a bit longer, but he didn't have the energy or willpower to do or say much else.
“Don't..." was all he managed before falling silent again, looking up at Wheeljack with those pleading, green optics.
Wheeljack froze for a moment. Seeing Ratchet like this—still trying to cling to him desperately, to keep him close, even after all that… it was almost too much.
The look in those optics… Wheeljack's spark did something strange in his chest.
He could see the desire. The need.
Wheeljack groaned, shifting back, but he didn't pull out entirely.
“You're going to be the death of me," he muttered under his breath, leaning down to press a kiss to Ratchet's forehelm. "You're so damn needy."
Ratchet only made a soft noise in response. He couldn't deny the statement. He was needy. He had just gotten a taste of the other bot, and he was already begging for more.
But he was also tired. He was still overheating, he was still recovering from his recent overload, and he was just a little bit worn out.
So, instead of saying anything else, he leaned up to nuzzle against Wheeljack's chin with a soft, tired sigh.
"Don't leave," he mumbled. "Stay a little longer, please…”
Wheeljack bit back another exasperated sigh.
He wasn't the best at being gentle. He wasn't the most patient. He wasn't the most caring.
But damn it, he was never one to deny Ratchet anything.
Especially not when the medic was looking at him like that—with those begging optics and needy sounds and that soft plea.
He huffed, shifting into a more comfortable position, wrapping his arms around the medic as best as he could.
“I'm not going anywhere, darlin'. I'm right here."
—
Ratchet slowly stirred from his sleep. He could feel something warm around him, and a slight weight on top of his torso.
His optics flickered open, adjusting to the light.
For a moment, he just laid there. His entire frame felt sore, especially his legs. He couldn’t recall much, however, his processor fuzzy and aching.
He pushed himself up into a sitting position on the berth, looking around in the room. He was in the medical bay—somewhere he hadn’t remembered entering.
Just exactly what had happened?
Then, his optics landed on the servo loosely around his waist. He followed it to see Wheeljack, lying next to him on the berth.
His faceplate went hot, blue optics wide in shock and disbelief.
Finally, he seemed to remember the other night; the synthetic energon, the unbearable heat, the interfacing… The synthetic energon must have seeped into his energon though his cut, putting him under some sort of heat-like state, and greatly amplifying his most private desires…
A part of him was tempted to immediately leave the room and forget this ever happened, but something in him hesitated. Another part of him didn’t exactly want to leave, despite it all.
Wheeljack, who had been in a light doze beside him, stirred the second Ratchet moved.
His optics flickered open—still groggy from sleep—before landing on the medic's faceplate. The sudden heat radiating off of it didn't go unnoticed.
“Mm," Wheeljack grunted, his voice rough with sleep as he rubbed an optic with one servo before turning to fully look at Ratchet. "Morning."
He was still half-sprawled over him like some kind of oversized blanket.
A beat passed where Wheeljack just watched the way Ratchet processed everything—the way his face burned and his servos clenched into fists at his sides—as if debating whether or not to bolt right there and then.
Ratchet took a moment to process that this was all real. He was lying in the medical bay, in a berth, with Wheeljack.
He could faintly remember asking the other bot not to leave.
He could remember the interfacing, how intense and… good it felt.
… Primus, he could still feel the sensation of having been taken over and over again.
Ratchet swallowed, willing his thoughts to stop wandering. This was just a one time thing. He had to keep telling himself that.
Wheeljack's optics narrowed slightly as he watched Ratchet's faceplate. He could practically see the internal battle the other bot was trying to keep to himself.
It was painfully obvious that Ratchet was trying to convince himself last night was something he didn't want.
"You're thinkin' too hard, y'know," Wheeljack hummed after another beat of silence. "I can practically hear your processor whirring.”
Ratchet's servos tightened, but he didn't respond. He just kept staring at anywhere and everywhere except the mech beside him.
Wheeljack sighed—not in annoyance, but in slight irritation and concern.
He knew what Ratchet was trying to do. He knew what the other bot was thinking about telling himself.
And damn it, he was not about to let the medic convince himself any of this meant nothing. He was not going to let all of this be brushed off as a mistake.
With a huff, Wheeljack shifted.
He pushed himself to sit upright, shifting to press a servo under Ratchet's chin, guiding the medic's gaze upwards, to look at him.
Ratchet tried to turn away from the grip, but Wheeljack held him firm.
“Hey, look at me," Wheeljack said, voice low.
Ratchet's blue optics finally met his, though they were still filled with hesitation and worry.
“There you are," Wheeljack hummed softly. "Stop running from me."
For a lingering moment, Ratchet hesitated. He wanted to look away; to look anywhere but at Wheeljack, to avoid this conversation.
But he didn't. He couldn't break the Wrecker's gaze.
Ratchet's servos twitched, and his engine revved softly, barely audible.
“I…" Ratchet tried to speak, only for the words to die in his vocaliser.
His expression twisted into a frown, clearly displeased by his inability to even speak. He was never good with showing vulnerability, especially like this.
Wheeljack didn't push. He just waited, his grip under Ratchet's chin loosening slightly—not enough to let the medic pull away if he tried, but not so tight that it felt restrictive either.
The silence stretched between them for a few more seconds before Wheeljack finally sighed again and shifted closer. Now, they were close enough that their faceplates were nearly touching.
“You don't gotta say anything," Wheeljack muttered gruffly. "But I'm not letting you pretend this never happened."
Ratchet's processor was whirling. It was taking every ounce of willpower not to lean into the servo still cupped under his chin. Not to press himself even closer.
Instead, Ratchet just continued to hold the Wrecker's gaze, the internal battle still clear on his faceplate.
Finally, he spoke, voice low and hesitant, as if he was trying not to be overheard.
“Last night… You know it didn't mean anything, right?"
He was trying to sound determined. But really, he was struggling to force away the thought that he had actually wanted all those debauched things. It was embarrassing and felt derogatory to him, and he didn’t want to admit that he harboured such feelings towards Wheeljack, of all bots.
“It was just a result of that synthetic energon,” he insisted.
Wheeljack's expression darkened. He didn't like the way Ratchet was saying that—like it had been nothing, like he had been nothing. Like he was just some toy to use and throw away.
The servo under Ratchet's chin tightened slightly—just enough to make the medic pause before he could pull away again.
“You don't get to tell me what I felt,” Wheeljack muttered, his voice rougher than usual.
His other servo came up now too, resting against the side of Ratchet’s helm as if trying to keep him from looking anywhere else but at him.
“You want me gone? Fine." His optics burned with something sharp when they met his again.”But you don’t get to say this meant nothing.”
Ratchet's expression shifted into surprise from the unexpected response from Wheeljack. He hadn't expected the Wrecker to seem annoyed, or almost… hurt.
Ratchet could have tried pulling away then, but all he ended up doing was leaning into that servo against his helm.
He tried to convince himself again that this was just because of the synthetic energon. Or perhaps it was loneliness.
But Ratchet could not deny that the feeling of being held and claimed… it had felt good.
“You don't get to just tell me it was the energon, either," Wheeljack continued.
His expression was still dark—almost irritated. But when he felt Ratchet instinctively lean into his servo, the expression softened. It was a sign that the other bot was still listening. Even if he was stubborn, even if he was trying to deny the truth. He was still here. He was still listening.
“You and I both know damn well that you wanted it. No amount of synthetic energon could change that."
Ratchet flinched at the words, but he didn't try and deny it.
He knew it was true. He could deny it all he wanted, but deep down, he knew that he had wanted it, just as the Wrecker said. He wanted the way Wheeljack had touched him, claimed him. He had wanted that feeling of being completely and utterly filled, not just with the other bot's spike, but with his attention and his affection.
He hated to admit it, but it was true. He wanted it—wanted Wheeljack.
“Stop thinking so damn loud," Wheeljack muttered.
The way Ratchet's processor was practically buzzing with thoughts and feelings made his spark ache. He could practically imagine the millions of thoughts running through that processor. Ratchet was always so… busy, all the time.
He was always busy thinking, worrying, caring for others… and he never took a moment to care for himself.
Wheeljack's grip on the other bot tightened slightly.
“Stop overthinking everything," he said gruffly. "You're gonna blow a fuse."
Ratchet's faceplate flushed darker, and he tried to look away again. He couldn't help it. He was always thinking. It was just how he was—his processor never shut up.
But the way Wheeljack held his chin so firm, how it made it impossible to look away… It was grounding him, in a way.
Ratchet tried to come up with some snarky retort, but nothing came to mind.
Wheeljack let out a slow vent.
The servo under the medic's chin slid up slightly, just enough to tilt his faceplate so Wheeljack could press their forehelms together. It wasn't quite a kiss—but close enough that Ratchet would feel the warmth of him there.
“You drive me insane," Wheeljack admitted. “You know that?"
Ratchet's processor whirled again. That simple touch made all the thoughts in his processor vanish. And yet, somehow, he still found himself wanting more of it.
His servos clutched tightly at the berth's sheets, and he had to force himself to speak again.
“You're… not going to let this go, are you?" he lightly huffed, optics closing as he felt the gentle warmth between them.
Wheeljack almost rolled his optics at the question.
“Oh, of course not," he replied without a single ounce of regret or hesitation. "You're stuck with me now, darlin'.”
His servo slid away from Ratchet's chin to rest against his cheek, tilting his helm up slightly so that they were looking at each other again.
“You're mine," he said firmly. "And I'm not letting a stubborn medic like you tell me otherwise."
Ratchet's processor stuttered at the statement, but at the same time, it also made something warm flutter to life in his spark.
It was that same thing he felt last night. The desire, the need, the near-foreign feeling of being so cared for, and even accepting said care…
Ratchet bit the inside of his cheek, looking away.
“You're being ridiculous," he mumbled. "You shouldn't want someone like me."
“Yeah?" Wheeljack almost laughed at that. "'Someone like you'?"
He shifted his grip, moving his servo from Ratchet's cheek to instead grab his chin, forcing the other mech to look at him again.
“You mean a grouchy little medic with terrible bedside manners and a habit of overthinking too much?" he teased, almost playfully poking Ratchet in the side.
Ratchet flinched, optics widening for a brief moment, before narrowing into a harmless glare.
“One that's so damn desperate to care for others that he forgets to care for himself? One that tries so hard to keep everyone at an arm's distance but sucks at actually pushing people away?"
Wheeljack hummed lightly, keeping Ratchet's faceplate right where he wanted him.
“Yeah, I think I do want someone like that. 'Cause I've got a thing for stubborn, adorable idiots, darlin'."
Ratchet's faceplate burned at both the comment and the teasing tone.
It was so stupid. They had only spent one night together, and Wheeljack was already calling him adorable—and even worse, Ratchet was actually enjoying it.
He swallowed, trying to get his thoughts in order again. He should tell him to stop, to get off of him and leave. But instead, he ended up saying,
“Stop calling me darling."
The slight heat on Ratchet's faceplate only made Wheeljack's spark flutter. He loved that he was the reason for the medic's current expression.
He knew that Ratchet wanted him to stop. He knew even the smallest ounce of affection made the other bot shut off. But he simply couldn't stop. He found himself wanting to call him all sorts of nicknames. 'Darling', 'sweet spark', 'beautiful'… the list went on and on.
“But darlin' suits you so perfectly," Wheeljack teased with a smirk. "You've got such a soft, pretty faceplate for someone with such a sharp attitude all the time."
He lifted a servo, gently tracing it along Ratchet's jaw as the smirk persisted.
“You're like a damn porcupine, you know. Prickly, all sharp edges… but all someone needs to do is look a little closer and see the squishy parts beneath."
Ratchet stiffened slightly at that.
For a moment, he wanted to refute that statement. He wanted to shove off the Wrecker with some witty retort, but in the end he simply couldn't.
He was right.
He was like a porcupine. He was grumpy, stubborn, and had a nasty habit of pushing people away. But there was something else… a small, almost soft part of him that craved affection, that craved the care Wheeljack was giving him.
It was stupid. And Ratchet wanted to curse himself for feeling that way.
“There you go again," Wheeljack hummed.
He could almost see the thoughts in Ratchet's processor running a mile a minute, trying to convince himself that he didn't need or even deserve this. It was like Ratchet was fighting against his own desire for affection. Maybe he had been so used to taking care of others that he didn't know how to receive that affection for himself.
Wheeljack frowned. He'd be damned if he just stood by and watched Ratchet deny himself affection.
“Stop thinking for a second."
Ratchet tensed. It was easier said than done. He was a medic. Thinking was his job, his purpose. It was a hard thing to not overthink every situation, to try and analyse every possibility…
But then, there was the servo on his cheek, and that familiar voice, telling him to just stop.
Ratchet's optics slowly slid closed, and he exhaled a quiet sigh.
“That’s much easier said than done," he finally muttered under a soft vent.
“I know," Wheeljack teased. "But you're doing it right now, aren't ya?"
He shifted his grip slightly—still keeping Ratchet's chin tilted up so the medic had no choice but to look at him when his optics opened again.
“You don’t always gotta be thinkin’ about something." Wheeljack said lowly, leaning in closer just enough for their faceplates to brush against one another. "Sometimes you can just… take a second and feel.”
Ratchet let out a soft huff. He knew Wheeljack was right—even if he didn't want to admit it. He was overthinking, as per usual.
But the feeling of that servo on his cheek was making it hard to focus. The soft pressure and warmth was almost soothing, which was something Ratchet had gotten so used to missing for what felt like forever.
His optics fluttered open slightly as he was pulled just a little closer, and he found himself almost leaning into that touch against his faceplate.
The way Ratchet was leaning into the touch gave Wheeljack a small sense of satisfaction.
He knew the other mech was still conflicted about this whole thing. He was trying to tell himself that this was wrong, or that it just meant nothing. But the fact that he was still here… the fact that he hadn't pulled away yet told him that somewhere, deep down, Ratchet wanted this.
“Stop thinking," Wheeljack murmured again. "Stop overthinking everything for a second. Just…"
He paused, watching the medic's gradually softening expression.
"… let me take care of you, for once.”