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Optimus let the datapad he held tight in his hand fall to his lap, and he let out a breath, long, slow, letting it drag out of him and leave him empty. Its glowing blue screen stared back at him, the text smirking at him, slyly. That’s what it felt like. It was testing him. His ability to continue reading something, in particular, without his optics forcibly removing themselves.
It wasn’t that it was bad, or gross, or… maybe it was, a little.
No. No. He wouldn’t shame. It wasn’t gross.
It was just that…
He could only get so erect.
That morning, he had been given twenty minutes to himself with nothing to do. Everyone was hard at work, the children at school. Nobody needed his help, he had asked Ratchet, and was shooed away like a prodding child. How was it, that he, a Prime, was waved off like a pestering toddler?
He didn’t take any offence. He was used to Ratchet treating him with such familiarity. Commanders and generals would have snapped their heels together and barked. But he just pressed a quick kiss, despite the medic’s swatting hands, to Ratchet’s helm and wandered off.
In an attempt to be helpful, he wandered off to their room and began to organise. Beneath their berth were whatever was left of their previous life. Personal belongings from before the war, small trinkets that hadn’t been burned or lost, tucked away into worn boxes. Those boxes nosed their way out from under the berth and tripped them often as they walked by. If he went through the boxes, packed them more tidily, combined them, they could have more room, and less hazards.
Optimus didn’t get far. He’d never gone through Ratchet’s boxes before.
It was… nosy of him, to be fingering through his trinkets, his valued possessions. But he was curious. Particularly about the datapads he had saved.
He missed Iacon, he missed libraries, he missed reading on a balcony, sipping hot energon. He had no idea that Ratchet had saved novels. Not datapads for record keeping, medical or historical, instruction manuals, or anything relatively important. They were novels, straight out of the library.
Optimus couldn’t remember the last time he had read something for fun.
He hardly did anything for fun anymore.
Nostalgia clouded his processor, rolling it in fluffy waves as he chose a datapad and turned it on.
And five chapters in, which he inhaled, he had always been a fast reader, he let it fall to his lap. His fans were churring, begging to be turned on. Primus, was he salivating?
And worse, his modesty panel strained to resist his height.
He never thought Ratchet the type to pick up this sort of series- yes, it was a series, there were twelve of them. A romance series. A… steamy romance series. A steamy, dark romance series. Based around aliens. Aliens to Cybertron, that is.
The main character had been swept away by a clan of aliens, a dying race facing extinction. They were desperate to repopulate, to continue their bloodline, to save their race, by any means necessary. It was three to a compatible breeder, three… big, deliciously muscular aliens with…
With two spikes each.
That self lubricated.
The main character writhing in their hold, desperate to escape, but equally desperate to climax under their skilled hands.
Optimus had no idea Ratchet was into this kind of… thing. This information was so valuable. Their interfacing was splendid, of course, Optimus adored every second he could kiss, lick, and suck any part of his mate, every movement he made underneath him, every little sound he squeezed from those lips. But Optimus had always been a very gentle, slow lover, never domineering, but always explorative. He would lick Ratchet open, and take him with care, like he was made of glass, like he could shatter. Ratchet found his restraint wildly hot. He loved watching Optimus struggle to contain himself, struggle to refrain from pounding into him until he could not take it any more. Watching him tremble with need…
He didn’t have to restrain himself.
Optimus tapped on the datapad, pondering.
Pondering switching it up for a change.
If this was what Ratchet was into…
Twenty minutes stretched into an hour in a matter of ten minutes.
Ratchet didn’t hear Optimus call him the first time. The low rumble echoed down the hallway like thunder, rattling the pipes. It came not from the hallway to the berthrooms, but the storage and containment cells, at the other side of the base. The dimly lit side of the base. The second time, he huffed. “Busy, like I was ten minutes ago when you asked me,” he yelled back.
“Ratchet, please come here.”
He was being polite.
When Optimus said ‘please’ in his deliciously baritone voice, Ratchet’s knees would wobble. Like a sailor to a siren’s call, he abandoned his work and drifted into the hallway. “What do you need?” He asked the darkness.
“You. Come here, Old Friend.”
It was a trap. He knew his dumb mate well enough to know his antics. He wanted a frag, a kiss, or to just grope him like some schoolyard idiot. “I’m busy, ” he complained, even as he stalked into the inky hall. Why had Optimus flipped the switch, what was the point of-
Primus!
“Wh-What are you…” Ratchet squeaked- yes, he squeaked- in alarm when strong hands took hold of his wrists, and lifted. His arms stretched to hold his own weight, above his helm, and he heard the telltale click of cuffs snapping into place. “Optimus, what the frag?!” He sputtered, pulling against the restraints. He had been cuffed to a low pipe running along the ceiling. He wasn’t tall enough for his pedes to fall flat across the floor, just the tips scraped against the ground.
He yelped when Optimus’ large servo clipped his aft, leaving a stinging handprint, he was sure of it. “Quiet.” The Prime’s voice was a savage growl in his audial. He swallowed, and didn’t speak again.
The lights flicked on, bathing them in a soft yellow. Optimus stalked round to the front of him, and held up a glowing blue datapad. His optics danced across the title, and understanding softened his tight face. “Did you like it?” He asked with a smirk. Optimus’ hand was at his throat in an instant, not squeezing, just… holding, in that sturdy, strong grip of his. If he swallowed, he could feel each long finger nestled against his delicate cables.
“I said. Quiet.” Optimus’ optics were stony, and his face was set. Ratchet shivered as his hand slithered up to hold his jaw, tilting his helm back, keeping their gazes locked. “You’re going to be good for me.” The datapad clattered to the floor, and the sound echoed. “You’re going to stand here and take it.” Two long fingers slipped to Ratchet’s parted lips, and eased in. Obediently, the medic wrapped his tongue around them, suckling, lapping. His lips closed around them, and he watched Optimus’ face for approval, optics round and innocent. “Good boy.” The Prime rumbled to him, his voice barely audible. “Bare yourself to me.”
Still sucking his fingers like a ‘good boy,’ as Optimus put it, Ratchet let his panel slide open, scooting his pedes along the floor to open his legs. He didn’t open them enough. Optimus shoved his knee in between Ratchet’s legs and knocked them wide open, spreading his thighs so that cool air could nibble at his exposed, slick valve.
“I should put a bar here,” the Prime thought aloud, nudging Ratchet’s knee with his. “And leave you here, and take you whenever I please. Leave you wide open and helpless. ”
Oh yes, you should do that. Ratchet moaned around his fingers in agreement.
His mouth was emptied, and the two wet digits were at his anterior node, smearing the fluid across it. The delicate hood was pinched, gently, and rolled between two digits. Ratchet mewled and bucked his hips into Optimus’ wrist.
“Stand there and take it,” Optimus barked. “I did not tell you to move.”
“I’m sorry,” Ratchet breathed, squirming. His anterior node was assaulted between Optimus’ finger and thumb, rolled and massaged and teased and pinched… His optics fluttered closed, and he tipped his helm back, moaning, his hips tremoring with the effort of restraint. He wanted to grind and writhe for his mate, he wanted to behave desperately, more than he wanted to behave. “May I please turn my fans on?” He mewled. He could feel a cool, calculating stare on him. “I’m s-so hot.. Please…”
“You may.”
His fans clicked on, taking off like free stallions.
His valve was wet.
Wet was an understatement.
His valve was drenched.
A shiver ricocheted up his spinal cord as it dripped down the inside of his thigh, dirtying his pristine white plating. It slithered down his thigh, warm and cold at the same time. Optimus’ engines revved in displeasure. “Did I say you could get wet?” He snarled, and the pressure on Ratchet’s node, bordering on too painful, dancing on it, in that drowning grey area of pleasureful ache.
“P-Please, please, may I get wet for you? Please!” Ratchet strained against the cuffs and cried out, arching his back and pushing against Optimus.
“You may.”
The pressure released, and he was being caressed again, gently, an apology, almost. No, praise. Lips brushed against his neck, and denta grazed along his throat. Two fingers glided inside of him.
Optimus watched him, drinking in every shift of his taut body, every movement his lips made. He was panting like a dog, wriggling against the ministrations, a desperation on his lips and in his optics and in the slickness of his valve. Like he needed it. He scissored Ratchet open wide, stretching his walls, reaching for deep sensors that called him with frantic desire. “You are being very good for me.” He praised, his voice soft, but so low. He lapped at Ratchet’s neck, his jaw, and then his mouth. Ratchet whimpered and moaned into his mouth, letting him in, letting his glossa explore and slide over whatever it wanted. Ratchet submit to him so easily. Such a stubborn, fiery mech, letting him have whatever he wanted. “Good little Doctor.” He growled into his mate’s mouth. He withdrew, his lips, and his fingers. “What do you say?”
“Thank you,” Ratchet panted. “Thank you for preparing me.”
Optimus moved behind him, slowly, watching him. Watching the way his thighs twitched and his breath hitched in anticipation, in excitement. “Do you wish to see what happens to submissive little medics like you?” He rumbled, just behind Ratchet. His hands squeezed and fondled his aft, and Ratchet perked it towards him. He smiled, out of his mate’s eyeline. Ratchet was very well aware of how fond he was of his aft.
“Yes, show me, please.”
The Prime’s panel finally opened, and his length sprouted free, reaching to the heavens in excitement. He slid his hands down Ratchet’s legs, travelling along every curve and dip of his pearly plating, savoring every inch of him, worshipping him. He pushed every bit of adoration he had into his fingertips, letting them stroke him, caress him, channel that pure love into him. Taking his sweet time, he slid one hand under Ratchet’s right knee, and lifted it, spreading Ratchet open impossibly wide to the hallway, as if he were showing him off to an adoring audience. Ratchet whined at the stretch, but didn’t dare complain, lest he be a ‘bad little Doctor.’ With one pede supporting his weight, barely scraping the floor, and his other leg jerked up high to spread him so deliciously open, Ratchet was vulnerable, helpless, and desperate.
“I could tie you like this.” Optimus pondered aloud. “Leave you for anyone. ” He, of course, wasn’t talking about Team Prime. Obviously he was speaking off buff aliens with two members. “Leave you for anyone to breed you, take you, touch you,” he whispered into Ratchet’s audial, puffing warm air onto the side of his face, feeling him shiver and shudder. “But I think you are mine.” He finished the thought, lining up his throbbing spike with Ratchet’s lonely valve. “What do you think?”
“I’m yours,” Ratchet blurted out, instantly, like he’d been bursting with the need to say it. “Please, use me, breed me, anything you want, I’m yours. ” His voice jumped up an octave as he was penetrated, slowly. “Don’t share me… Please… I’m yours.” Optimus’ spike was wonderful. It just kept going. It snaked so deep inside of him, whenever he thought it would end, it just kept going, filling him to the verge of splitting him.
“If you make a sound,” Optimus snarled. “It’s going in your mouth.”
Ratchet nodded frantically.
His Prime’s hips rolled back, and snapped forward, testing him, testing his restraint, testing his voice. Ratchet’s mouth dropped open and he threw his helm back as his clenching, dripping port took an onslaught of long, devastatingly long withdrawals, and then hard fast penetrations. Sounds of ecstasy bubbled up in his chest, but he trapped them there, swallowing them deep, burying down where the head of Optimus’ spike brushed them with each wonderful thrust…
He wanted to rock into it, he wanted to sway in rhythm with the powerful snaps, drive it deeper, impossibly so, fuse them, but he hadn’t been given permission. He would be good. He would just take it.
“Listen,” Optimus panted to him. He listened. His valve was squelching every time that handsome spike drove into him. “You are so wet. So wet and so desperate.”
Yes, I’m desperate. Ratchet silently agreed.
“I have a theory.”
Squelch. Squelch. Squelch.
“That despite our size difference, your tight little valve could take quite the beating from me.”
Ratchet’s spark was ricocheting in its chamber, dancing in excitement. My tight little valve would love you to frag me hard, he thought.
“Shall we put it to the test?”
Yesyesyesyes-
A twinge of nerves fluttered in Ratchet’s chest that it may hurt too much, but he didn’t have time to dwell on the fear.
Optimus’ hips drilled him, pounded into his sopping heat with the force of a…
Of a Prime.
A big, buff Prime, with a big hard spike.
His mate’s strength being used against his little port was… intoxicating. It burnt in the most sensual of ways, stretching him over and over, filling him over and over…
The sounds of slapping echoed through the hallway, of wet, sopping wet slapping.
Optimus’ fingers dug into his leg and hips, where he was held fast, as he snapped into his smaller mate like his life depended on it. Ratchet squeezed him, beckoning him deeper, milking him. Like he was desperate for his transfluid. Longing so badly to be filled to overflowing, for his gestation chamber to be pumped so full it ached. Optimus wanted to fill him. He wanted to chase that deep, charming heat.
“You feel delectable.” He groaned.
Ratchet was mouthing nonsense, his body tight and taut to drown his own voice. He wanted to scream. He was being taken so hard, used and worshipped at the same time, if that was possible.
Optimus’ free hand crawled like a spider around his hip to his anterior node, two fingers closing in on either side of it. “Do you wish to overload?” He grunted, nipping at the back of Ratchet’s neck. “You may speak.”
“Yes! Please, please make me overload,” Ratchet begged, twitching into his hand.
“You will do it in one minute, or this,” he drove his spike deep, hard, and made Ratchet cry out, “Is going in your aft.”
“Yes,” Ratchet moaned in understanding. The two fingers played with his node, rolled it in an alluring dance, taunted it, sending ripples of pleasure rocketing through him like electricity in a wire. Paired with the strong, wild, animalistic pounding he was taking in his valve, he could come undone. He could break.
He was overwhelmed by the pleasure. It was like wildfire in him. He couldn’t hold still, he had to move, he had to writhe. He had to scream, throwing his helm back, he had to beg for whatever. He was bound, exposed, vulnerable, and used , and he fragging loved it.
Optimus’ fingers rolled faster. He keened. Pressure, a charge, a beast rearing it’s head inside of him, so deep, meeting Optimus’ spike deep inside him.
It was staggering.
“I can’t, it’s too much, oh Primus, I can’t! Please, Optimus! Too… too much!” He shrieked. “Please, I can’t, ah, ahh…”
He came with a noise that drove Optimus wild. The Prime gripped him, sucking on his neck, rutting into him like an animal, rutting into him like he needed it to survive. He needed it. He did.
The Prime followed him over the edge, and he held him fast, even as he squirmed against the pressure of his valve being pumped full, full of a spill, of Optimus’ love, to the point where it exploded around the thick shaft inside of him. It ran down his thighs, hot, burning hot. Ratchet’s mouth was gaping open, and he was breathing hard, his one leg shaking with the strain of holding him. The overload had been exhilarating. It had been overwhelming and overpowering. It had been splendid .
Optimus pulled out slowly, and seed bubbled out of him. He moaned at the tickling sensation. His optics whirled in and out of focus for a moment, and when he could see clearly again, Optimus was standing in front of him, and he was standing on both pedes again. “What do you say?” The persona was still there. Optimus still expected things of him.
Submissively, a little whorishly, Ratchet whimpered. “Thank you for using me,” he glanced down at the puddle in between his legs. Primus, they’d made a mess. “Thank you for filling me with your big spike, and your fluid.” Optimus didn’t budge, his face unmoved. “Thank you for the opportunity to spread my legs to you. Thank you for fragging me so hard. Thank you for taking such good care of my tight little valve.” Optimus’ tired spike twitched in appreciation, and Ratchet’s lips ghosted a smirk. “Thank you for taking such care to some old medic’s crazy fantasies.”
The change in Optimus was jarring, and Ratchet could have laughed at it, if his mouth weren’t occupied. Optimus smothered his lips with a chaste, tasteful kiss as he slipped the key into the cuffs. Ratchet slid his weight onto his heels, and dragged Optimus down with him, kissing him deep. The Prime had to bend low to accommodate his height. “Allow me to take care of you, Old Friend.”
Ratchet was scooped up into his arms. Good, too, he was sore already. Optimus carried him briskly to the washracks and deposited him into a wide tub, a new installation, though it could only fit one. It filled with warm oil, spurting from a rickety faucet, flowing up to Ratchet’s chest before it was turned off. Optimus dragged a washcloth along his plating, caressing him, wiping him clean. Swiping away imaginary dirt, just an excuse to touch him, feel him breathing under his hand.
As he smoothed the rag along Ratchet’s chest, the medic’s servo found his half hard spike. “Stand at the edge of the tub.” He murmured. “So I can put you in my mouth.”
Optimus moved closer, and his spike brushed over the cold lip of the tub. The oil swished as Ratchet shifted, leaning, pressing a long, warm kiss to the tip. Optimus moaned at the sight- just the sight- of Ratchet’s plush lips opening to let a talented glossa twirl around the head. It slid easily over his tongue as it moved into his mouth, and he throbbed with need. Ratchet lapped at his pulse through the soft metal, worshipping his lifeblood through his member. He didn’t falter in his suckling as Optimus thrusted into his mouth, gentle, as to not make him gag. Ratchet’s glossa bumped along the ridges of his underside, tasting each one like it was its own treat. He welcomed him deep into his mouth, as he had it deep into his body, letting it slip in and out of him, a treasured guest.
Optimus came down Ratchet’s needy throat, gripping the edge of the tub so hard it dented. Ratchet gasped as his spike slid free, spent. It glistened with oral fluid. “You can put your spike wherever you want, as long as you make me overload like that. ” He wiped his mouth, smiling.
Optimus resumed scrubbing him clean, kneeling beside the tub. “Do you have any other novels you wish to talk about?” He asked, mirroring the warm, delightful smile. He ran the cloth along Ratchet’s jaw, his engines rumbling sweetly.
Ratchet thought for a moment, and his optics sparkled. “How much time do you think we have?”