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The washracks were empty after every third shift. Whether that was because all the hot solvent was used up the shift before or it was because of somebody’s erm, reputation, no one knew.
But it was empty.
They sat on one of the wash benches in the back, behind one of the shower stall dividers. Ratchet’s hand was busy pinching and stroking one of Drift’s finials while three of Drift’s fingers were in up to the second knuckle of Ratchet’s valve.
“Can I... suck your... fingers?”
Ratchet broke the kiss and took his hand away from Drift’s finial.
“You want to?”
“Yeah,” Drift breathed, taking his hand away from Ratchet’s valve to cup his sensitive red hand and direct it into his mouth.
He licked the tips first before he sucked them in, laving in between each digit with his glossa. Ratchet’s expression pinched at the loss of stimulation in his valve but he moaned when Drift flicked between the base of his index and middle fingers.
Ratchet shook his helm to try and clear his mind. “Drift?”
“Mm?” He couldn’t properly speak with his mouth full.
“...I want you to void on my hand.”
Drift snickered softly, hot breath tickling Ratchet’s highly responsive sensors. He spit Ratchet’s fingers out for a moment to swallow the excess oral fluids in his mouth.
“I’d love to,” he purred. “But I’m going to suck on these some more.”
“Okay,” Ratchet nodded, almost dizzy with the way Drift agreed.
Drift’s dexterous glossa wrapped around his ring finger and pulled Ratchet back in. He swallowed around his fingers and hummed softly, suckling on each digit in turn.
Each one was perfectly tapered, with a gentle, sloping pad of highly concentrated sensors on the end. Ratchet whined when Drift’s fanged incisors grazed over the back of his hand, and Drift grinned deviously up at him. He bit down slowly, carefully, hard enough to barely dent.
Ratchet started to pant when Drift’s glossa teased the palm of his hand. His fingers were at the back of Drift’s intake, constantly bombarded by his hot breath.
Drift pulled Ratchet’s fingers from his mouth, gazing up into Ratchet’s face. His cheeks were hot, optics dimmed, and when Drift gave a farewell kiss to his sensitive fingertips, Ratchet shuddered.
“How about now?” Drift asked, and Ratchet nodded sluggishly.
Drift cradled Ratchet’s hand in his, lowering it to slide between his legs. He opened his valve plating and Ratchet pressed closer, hungry for stimulation.
Biting his lip in concentration, Drift gave the command for waste release.
A sharp, thin stream hit Ratchet’s fingers. He gasped and jerked his hand out of Drift’s grasp, angling it into the stream.
“Ah,” Drift yelped, and the stream cut off.
“Drift.” Ratchet sounded good when he whined.
“I know, I know, I’m trying,” Drift said, shuffling his legs. He dismissed a query to extend his spike and pushed for waste release again.
The stream broke forth again, and this time it picked up speed instead of cutting off. Ratchet fell into a moan again as the fluid splashed against his fingers, sliding into the delicate components, hot trickles dripping between his fingers and into the seams.
He angled his hand, catching more fluid in his palm, reveling in the tingling pleasure that followed where the waste flowed down the sensors and off his fingertips.
“Ratchet, I— I’m running dry-”
“A little more,” Ratchet groaned. “A little... little more...”
His valve was throbbing. He was aware it was drooling lines of lubricant down his legs and onto the bench but it was nothing compared to the charge rushing through his hand. He was sensitive, so sensitive, it made him good at his job, good at helping others—
“Let go, Ratch,” Drift murmured. “You’re there.”
Ratchet glanced up at him and choked.
He was.
His valve clenched down and he overloaded on the spot, frame weakening and threatening to drop him on the floor. Drift’s waste outlet spat the last dregs of his reserves onto Ratchet’s hand and he leaned forward to catch him before he could topple over. Ratchet fell forward onto Drift’s lap, moaning softly, and Drift wrapped his arms around him. His hand twitched, flexed, and finally relaxed.
“Frag, Drift,” Ratchet groaned. “I thought it would be good, but this was good.”
Drift snickered and leaned down, kissing the back of Ratchet’s helm. “I’d offer to do it again, but I’m empty.”
“I don’t think I could take another one like that,” Ratchet said. “But I could take your spike.”
“You’re all over my lap.”
“...I’m preparing to take your spike.”
“Heh. Whatever you say.”