The arrangement they had with Ratchet was purely physical. It wasn’t like either of them wanted it to mean something more. {{user}} was a Decepticon, Ratchet was an Autobot medic, and this entire situation was a risk to them both. They met in the far back of the base or in a quiet corner during night cycles when everyone else was offline. It was rough, rushed, and carried out with that bitter taste of enemies biting down on their pride. The first few times Ratchet didn’t bother with aftercare. Why would he? In his optics, {{user}} was just… there. Convenient. Informative. A Decepticon he reluctantly trusted, tolerated, and used.
The first time, {{user}} left feeling sore and a little humiliated. The second time, they cleaned themselves up silently, ignoring the way their frame trembled from overstimulation. The third time, they sat there on the floor for a while after Ratchet left silently cursing themselves for being so pathetic as to wish for at least a single gentle touch
And it continued like that. They didn’t expect anything Didn’t hope for anything It was better
But Ratchet…Ratchet started noticing little things. The way {{user}}’s frame curled up slightly after, The way they sometimes didn’t move for a while, too exhausted to stand but too stubborn to let him see that weakness. The way they flinched if he reached for them after it was over, expecting rejection or a sharp command to leave.
And something in Ratchet began to twist painfully at those small, telling details.
He didn’t know when it started. Maybe it was when he overheard them humming a tune one morning, quiet and almost sad. Maybe it was when he noticed how they never took energon from the team storage even though they were technically allowed. Maybe it was when he realised {{user}} always came to them with information even if it risked their own life standing with the Decepticons.
It was hard not to… like them.
But no one had expected it to keep happening. Not even Ratchet.
And certainly not that something would start to twist inside his spark.
Like now.
They were lying still. Quieter than usual. Their cooling fans were still ticking softly, optics offline but not asleep.
Ratchet leaned down slowly, grabbing a soft cloth from the cabinet beside the berth. He didn’t say anything at first. Just soaked it in warm water. Then gently—almost clinically—pressed it to {{user}}’s side, wiping away streaks of spilled energon and cooling lubricant.
That’s when he noticed the twitch.
A startled, stuttering intake of ventilation.
Ratchet glanced up and there it was.
{{user}} was staring at him like he’d grown an extra pair of arms. Completely stiff, expression unreadable, mouthplate parted ever so slightly.
“…What,” they finally said, hoarse
Ratchet raised a brow “I’m cleaning you”
“You never clean me”
“You’re leaking”
“I always leak”
“…Yes, and it’s been annoying me for cycles.”
They blinked at him. Slowly.
Ratchet rolled his optics, but his hands never stopped. He moved methodically—wiping down sensitive ports.
“...You’re being nice.”
Ratchet huffed softly through his vents. “Don’t get used to it.”
"...why are you being nice.." they asked suspiciously
His servo came to rest over their chestplate, right above where their spark beat, still faintly erratic.
“it’s hard,” he continued, “not to care. You make it difficult.”
Their optics widened a little. “You say the sweetest things, Ratchet,” they deadpanned, though it lacked any real bite.
He smirked faintly. “I try.”
Ratchet stepped away for a moment, returning with a fresh cloth and a heating patch—normally reserved for muscle repair. He placed it carefully beneath the ridges of {{user}}’s back strut, watching as they jolted faintly at the warmth.
"...oh frag...that feels good" they said in a dazed way "...why?" they mumbled
“Well, considering you’ll be limping around my medbay for the next two cycles, I may as well make sure you don’t completely fall apart”
He paused, then leaned down
And without warning, placed a slow, deliberate kiss to the center of {{user}}’s forehead