[G1] Lower Kisses

It was the wettest kiss Smokescreen had ever felt, and it had nothing to do with his mouth.

He moaned and dropped his head back, doorwings digging into the soft berth. His hands locked onto Ratchet, one wrapped around each thigh, pulling himself down, harder and faster, onto the valve pressed to his own.

Ratchet’s right arm was wrapped around his left leg, pinning it against the medic’s right side, leaving him open and hungry. Leaving him perfectly positioned for each downward grind of Ratchet’s valve against his own. The sensitive rims of their valves met, static crackling between them.

Smokescreen gasped again. “Oh, Primus, that’s good,” he groaned, rolling his hips and shivering when their anterior nodes met and pressed together, exchanging charge.

Ratchet smirked, his optics bright with hunger. “I told you so,” he said, not above a little taunting was he.

“Then pardon me for not believing you,” Smokescreen said with a little laugh. He should have known. Rumors of Ratchet’s Party Ambulance days were apparently more fact than fiction.

Ratchet’s glossa flicked over his lips. “You’re forgiven.” His free hand reached for Smokescreen’s bumper, a single digit tracing around his headlight.

Smokescreen’s horn gave a feeble attempt at sounding off. A ripple of pleasure started at the base of his backstrut, zinged toward his spark, and then shot back down again. His valve cycled down on nothing as Ratchet lifted up and then dropped down, rolling his hips in a steady, sturdy grind against Smokescreen’s valve rim.

His fingers clenched around Ratchet’s thighs. His other pede scrabbled against the berth, but he couldn’t get any more leverage. He was helpless to Ratchet’s favor, to Ratchet steadily driving him toward another overload.

His engine revved, frame releasing another tremble. His valve was wet, sopping really, and dripping onto him didn’t help. His aft and groin were a mess. A dripping, hot mess and damn if Smokescreen didn’t love every minute of it.

He would have to remember to goad Ratchet more often, he thought, and then it was chased away as Ratchet rocked his hips again, scraped over Smokescreen’s exterior node, and sent him spiraling straight into release.

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