Ratchet’s internal alarm woke him up two hours before it was supposed to. He had done it intentionally, but that didn’t make him any more inclined to get out of the berth. Especially with a warm and snuggly Drift tucked up next to him, still in recharge. The heated whuffs of his ventilations made little puffs against Ratchet’s armor, teasing the cables beneath.
That was unusual. Drift tended to be online the moment Ratchet’s systems clicked into readiness. One did not survive among the Decepticons without having a hair-trigger after all.
Ratchet grinned and tried to ease out from beneath Drift, deciding it was better if the swordsmech got a bit more recharge.
And that, apparently, was the wrong choice to make.
Drift burst out of recharge with a snarl, moving faster than Ratchet’s recharge-befuddled processor could register. He slammed Ratchet down to the berth, a vibroknife appearing from Primus only knew where. He held it to Ratchet’s intake, to the delicate metal protecting his main energon line.
It happened in the space of a vent.
Instinct took over. Ratchet froze, Drift’s weight bearing him down, the knife shaving away two dermal layers from his intake.
The look on Drift’s faceplate was pure Deadlock, there was no doubt in Ratchet’s mind. His lips curled back, giving a peek at the pointed denta behind them. His optics were narrowed and bright. His vents heaved, having gone from zero to fight-or-flight in the blink of an optic. His field had gone sharp and jagged, and now pinned Ratchet down as forcefully as the hand at his intake and on his chestplate.
It was, Ratchet realized, ridiculously hot. He was too old to be embarrassed, but he never would have expected the sight to send a sharp burst of need down his spinal strut. His pelvic array throbbed, valve cycling into readiness, as the urge to submit ricocheted through him like it hadn’t done in centuries.
Drift cycled his optics. They spiraled wide and then inward. He let a sharp ex-vent loose before something like clarity returned. His glossa flicked over his lips, a quick sweep, and then a longer one.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he said, telling himself to remain still, not only to keep Drift calm, but also so his fans wouldn’t start spinning. His intake bobbed beneath the sharp edge of the knife. His arms were at his sides, hands limp against the berth. “You with me?”
“I…” Drift’s optics spiraled with alarm. “Oh, frag, Ratch! I’m so sorry!” The vibroblade vanished even as Drift tried to scramble backward, his plating clamped tight and his field closed down.
Ratchet snatched at his retreating hand, keeping him from moving too far, his fingers wrapped tight around Drift’s wrist. Drift jerked to a halt, staring down at him. His vents whirred, but they did not compare to the heat rising from Ratchet’s plating, the click-click of him attempting to calm his cooling fans.
Confusion trickled into the alarm.
Ratchet worked his intake again, another shiver of want drizzling down his spinal strut. The shadow of the weight of that vibroblade had been enough to tug on something he’d been keeping deeply buried.
“Do that again,” he said, his voice hoarse, bleeding need.
Drift cycled his optics. “What?”
Ratchet’s glossa swept over his lips, anticipation chasing away all that remained of anxiety. He pulled Drift’s hand back toward his intake, leaving no mistake as to what he wanted.
“Do it again.”
Drift’s mouth dropped. His field flared with surprise and uncertainty, but he obeyed. He curled his fingers around Ratchet’s intake and gave the softest of squeezes.
Arousal slammed into Ratchet, heat cascading through his system. His ventilations stuttered and his thighs pushed open as his valve cycled harder. Lubricant slipped through his seams.
Oh, Primus. He wanted this. He wanted Drift to pin him down and frag the Pit out of him.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Ratchet whispered, his head tilting further back, offering the entirety of his intake to Drift. His fingers twitched as his frame rolled up eagerly. “If it makes you uncomfortable, you don’t. But I just–”
“You’re not scared?” Drift’s fingers flexed around Ratchet’s intake, kneading at the tangle of cables and highlighting the weight of his grip.
He spread his thighs, heelstruts pushing against the berth. His fingers flexed around Drift’s wrist. “’I’m quite sure this is the opposite of scared,” Ratchet said wryly as his spike demanded to be released, and Ratchet denied it.
His valve cycled hungrily. He rolled his hips up and managed to scrape his pelvic array down the length of Drift’s thigh. He left a streak of lubricant behind, the wet sheen a testament to his arousal.
Drift tilted his head. The color of his optics darkened. His lips parted, glossa flicking across them. Heat rolled outward from his frame and the brush of it against Ratchet’s plating caused another shiver.
Drift shifted his grip, thumb hovering over the delicate structure of Ratchet’s intake. And then he pressed down and in, constricting Ratchet’s intake. Ratchet’s frame responded immediately, diverting his oral ventilations, but the pressure was real. The sense of being pinned, of danger, spiked through his neural net.
Ratchet’s engine revved. He moaned, though it was a squeaking, static thing, borne of the fact Drift’s grip on his intake limited his vocalizer.
“This is what you want?” Drift asked and his voice had dropped into a lower register, better a growl.
His field went open again, damp with desire, dark and heavy as it rolled out and over Ratchet, swallowing him whole. Ratchet’s panel snapped open, releasing a large trickle of lubricant. His free hand lifted, not even sure why, perhaps to grab at Drift. But Drift shifted his weight in an instant, grabbing Ratchet’s wrist and pinning it down to the berth.
“Ah, ah, no touching,” Drift said with a little smirk that showed off those pointed denta he always took great care to hide.
He leaned down, closer, his ex-vents ghosting over Ratchet’s faceplate. He nudged his knee against Ratchet’s array, a ridge in his armor rubbing Ratchet’s nub and sending a shock of pleasure through Ratchet’s frame.
“Is this for me?” Drift asked.
Ratchet shuddered from top to bottom. His head tossed back even as he pushed his legs as far apart as they would go. He couldn’t make the offer any plainer. Fortunately, Drift took the invitation, notching his way entirely between Ratchet’s thighs, until he was all but splayed in the other mech’s lap.
“Mmm, I think it is.” He squeezed Ratchet’s wrist warningly. “This stays here,” he said and let go.
Ratchet’s moans served as obedience. His spark throbbed faster and faster. All the heat in his frame pooled southward. He was ready, so ready, and Drift was taking his time, damn it.
Drift laughed softly and pressed the tip of his nose to Ratchet’s, even as his free hand drifted to Ratchet’s array. The first touch of his fingers made Ratchet startle, made him whimper of all things.
“You’re so wet,” Drift murmured, half in awe, half in arousal. “You really do want this.” His finger traced the rim of Ratchet’s valve before finding and circling his node.
Ratchet’s hips danced, following the circles Drift’s finger made. The grip around his intake eased by a fraction.
“Want you,” Ratchet managed to say as he licked his lips and caught Drift’s gaze. “All of you.” Even the darker parts he kept hidden.
Especially the darker parts he kept hidden.
“You’ll tell me to stop?” Drift asked as he slid two fingers into Ratchet’s valve, rubbing them gently against the swollen, sopping lining.
Ratchet shivered, optics rolling back. “Won’t need to,” he forced out, his valve fluttering around Drift’s fingers, more lubricant seeping free.
Drift’s grip on his intake tightened just enough that Ratchet could feel the constriction and a mild alert popped up on his HUD. Drift leaned over him, his optics dark and narrowed.
“You’ll tell me to stop,” he insisted with a little growl.
Ratchet gasped, arousal shooting down his spine and gathering in his groin. He bucked his hips, a staticky groan falling from his lips. Drift’s grip eased enough for him to gasp out a static-laced, “I will,” before his fingers tightened again.
Drift grinned, displaying his fangs proudly. “Good boy,” he purred and leaned down harder as a third finger shoved into Ratchet’s valve. His thumb applied direct pressure to Ratchet’s anterior nub. “Gonna let me do whatever I want, aren’t ya?”
Ratchet couldn’t reply, his vocalizer was unable to activate. He couldn’t nod, not with the grip Drift held. The only avenue he had open to him was comms, but he knew that wasn’t what Drift wanted to hear. So he let his revving engine do the talking, along with his bucking hips and the fluttering of his valve.
“Yeah, you will,” Drift purred.
He leaned down and nipped at Ratchet’s knuckles. He belatedly realized his hand was still wrapped around Drift’s wrist. He’d been so determined to keep it there, he’d locked his fingers into place.
“These aren’t supposed to be here,” Drift said, a touch of a growl in his vocals. “Over your head with the others.”
Ratchet moaned. A tremble rippled over his entire frame as he peeled his fingers free and threw his arm over his head. His hands twitched, in and out of fists, as he had to fight the urge to reach down and stroke all that shiny, tempting armor stretched out over him.
“Now, aren’t you obedient?” Drift said. His fingers curled, rubbing hard against the ring of sensors just behind the rim of Ratchet’s valve. “That must mean you want me to frag you. Is that it, medic?”
Ratchet licked his lips again. His hips bucked, thighs squeezing inward, trying to trap Drift’s hand between them, fingers wreaking torturous pleasure on his valve. The fingers around his intake twitched, tightening.
Another mild warning cropped up and was just as quickly dismissed. Ratchet’s spike popped free, leaking copiously as it bobbed. His optics flashed, engine throttling hard. Primus, he’d forgotten how much he enjoyed this.
Drift smirked at him, all denta. “I can’t hear you, medic,” he purred and his fingers shoved deep, the heel of his palm grinding against Ratchet’s exterior node.
Ratchet’s hips jerked upward. Drift was being a tease, damn it.
He growled in the base of his throat and grasped at Drift’s shoulders, trying to pull his partner closer, harder, deeper.
The hand left his throat and fingers enclosed around Ratchet’s wrists, squeezing to the point of gears grinding together with a pinch of pain.
“I believe I said these aren’t supposed to be here,” Drift said with a playful snarl, tightening his grip.
Ratchet’s internals tightened with need, his thighs squeezing harder around Drift’s waist. He felt trapped, pinned, and he loved it.
“But I don’t think you’re going to behave, are you, Ratchet?” Drift asked with a low purr, their faces inches apart. “I’m going to have to take precautionary measures.”
“Try it,” Ratchet managed to get out, a challenge.
Drift’s smirk did things to him. He felt Drift’s fingers flex around his wrists, and then his world turned upside down.
Ratchet outweighed Drift easily. He was both taller than and outmassed the swordsmech. Yet, Drift flipped him over onto his front as though he weighed nothing.
Ratchet’s windshield hit the berth before his knees did. His engine stuttered, but arousal shot through his lines in a crackling wave of fire. Ratchet scrambled to get his elbows beneath him before Drift was there, his hands grabbing Ratchet’s hips and yanking him backward, into the cradle of Drift’s pelvis.
Drift’s spike prodded at his valve, poking at the swollen rim, brushing over the anterior node, before Drift retreated, lined up again, and filled Ratchet in one smooth stroke. Ratchet hissed through his denta, fingers twisting against the berth cover as Drift’s spike raked across his internal nodes and slammed into his ceiling node.
“Better,” Drift panted and shoved inside Ratchet, his upper thighs impacting Ratchet’s aft. He held himself there, circling his hips, grinding deep.
Pleasure sparked through Ratchet’s lines. His frame jerked as his sensory net flared with heat. Charge spilled out from under his armor. He sank forward, weight balanced precariously on knees and elbows, his valve rippling around Drift’s spike. Lubricant splashed out, soaking their frames.
“Think… you can… keep me like this?” Ratchet ground out, grasping for outrage and settling somewhere closer to desperation.
“I think I can do whatever I want,” Drift retorted.
One hand remained on Ratchet’s hip, fingers hooking into an armor plate, brushing the cables beneath. But Drift leaned forward, draping his weight across Ratchet’s back, the other hand sliding up and up and up until he found Ratchet’s intake again. His fingers fluttered over the delicate cables, a touch bruised.
“Or can’t I?” Drift asked pointedly.
Ratchet shuddered. He swallowed thickly, intake bobbing against the delicate weight of Drift’s fingers. He pushed back onto Drift’s spike, panting for each ventilation, his spark throbbing, and his array burning with need.
“That’s what I thought,” Drift purred, his hand cupping Ratchet’s intake, such a light pressure as to be nonexistent.
But Ratchet’s engine revved, vibrating them both. His valve cycled tight, hips jerking back to take Drift deeper. He shivered, arousal coiling into a thick knot in his tanks, sending charge skittering out from beneath his armor.
“Give me your overload,” Drift growled, his hand tightening around Ratchet’s intake. He rolled his hips, slamming into Ratchet, again and again, rocking them forward on the berth.
Ratchet’s hands dug into the berth, bracing himself. He swallowed, intake bobbing against Drift’s grip, and once again, those errors popped up. He dismissed them as a thrill danced down his spinal strut.
“I’ll take it if I have to,” Drift added into Ratchet’s audial, ex-venting a wash of damp heat.
Ratchet’s moan was static. He twitched as Drift’s mouth dragged up and closed around the edge of his chevron. Denta bit down, rasping against the sensitive metal.
Ratchet’s engine tripped into overdrive. Charge leapt out from beneath his armor, his vents blasting full waves of heat.
Overload slammed into him, swallowing him whole. Ratchet’s head tossed back, intake firmly in Drift’s grip, and he moaned, a sound lost to static. His valve cinched down tight, rippling in waves around Drift’s spike. His own splattered transfluid beneath him, pleasure stripping all sense from him.
He dimly heard Drift growl and the hand vanished from his intake, joining the other on Ratchet’s hip. Drift gripped him firmly and yanked, pulling Ratchet onto his spike and pounding into him with a ferocity he rarely indulged in.
Ratchet clawed at the berth and held on, his spark squeezing tight with pleasure. More charge erupted from his substructure, his array tripping back into an overload cycle before it could completely cycle down.
Drift’s engine snarled. His hips impacted with Ratchet’s aft, over and over, the charge exchanging between their array nodes faster than Ratchet could track. His fans roared as his spike throbbed fitfully, each deep slam raking over Ratchet’s ceiling node, catapulting him toward ecstasy.
Ratchet moaned as a second smaller overload wracked his frame. Drift slammed into him again, only to suddenly withdraw. His hands gripped hard enough to dent metal before Ratchet’s dermal sensors registered the wet, hot splatter of transfluid against his back and aft. Drift’s engine roared, his field slamming over Ratchet with satisfaction.
Ratchet slumped forward, his elbows wobbling and his knees even more so. He panted for oral ventilations, his intake a touch bruised. His processor hummed, and he struggled to find coherency.
Drift peeled his fingers from Ratchet’s hips, sliding them down the outside of his thigh and up again. Over and over, albeit at a slow pace.
Ratchet worked his intake and turned his head, catching sight of his partner from his peripheral vision.
Hazy blue optics focused on him. “Hmm?”
“Did you just mark me?”
Drift cycled his optics before he gave Ratchet a look that feigned innocence. “… should I not have?” he asked, even as his hands swept back up and inward, thumbs rubbing on the plating just outside the rim of Ratchet’s still swollen valve.
Ratchet’s optics narrowed. “You’re cleaning that later.”
Drift shifted his weight, the berth creaking. His optics darkened again, his glossa sweeping over his lips. “Or,” he said as he curled his hands around the tip of Ratchet’s thighs and tugged him a foot or so backward. “I could clean it now.”
Drift’s oral fetish was something Ratchet greatly approved of.
A shiver danced down his spinal strut. “Or that.”
A low laugh echoed in Drift’s intake before he bent forward and Ratchet felt the first long, wet lap of Drift’s glossa across his aft.
Ratchet’s backstrut arched. He moaned and kneaded at the berth. Drift’s glossa stroked a searing path down the curve of his aft, to the swollen twitches of Ratchet’s valve. He lapped up dribbles of lubricant and splatters of transfluid alike, taking care to linger around Ratchet’s anterior node.
Ratchet groaned, his forehead pressing to the berth cover. “I’m not sure that counts as getting me clean,” he said as another trickle of lubricant seeped from his valve.
Drift chuckled. “So? It’s not like we have anywhere to be.”
Well, he did have a point.
Ratchet shivered and shoved his aft back at Drift. “You’re a menace,” he muttered.
“Mmm.” Drift nipped Ratchet’s exterior node between his denta, making Ratchet jerk. “But I’m your menace.”
Ratchet licked his lips, his hips rocking toward Drift’s mouth as his valve cycled eagerly back into readiness. “Yes, you are,” he replied. “So you better stop teasing me, frag it.”
“Yes, dear,” Drift murmured and rose back to his knees, sliding into Ratchet in one smooth, full stroke.
Ratchet moaned and gripped the berth covers a little tighter.
He had nowhere else he’d rather be.