“Tie me up,” he said.
“It'll be fun,” he said.
“I can take it,” he said.
“I trust you do it,” he said.
It was the last one that sold him.
Ratchet sighed, pinched his olfactory sensor, and agreed. He paid Rung a visit, because if there was anyone on this Primus-forsaken ship that had the supplies Ratchet needed, it was that kinky fragger.
Sure enough, Rung handed them over with a smile and a wink. And because he's Rung, he couldn't let Ratchet leave without an annoyingly insightful comment.
“I'm glad to see you embracing your fun side again,” Rung said with a parting wave. “I was starting to miss the old Ratchet.”
Yeah. Ratchet was starting to miss the old him, too.
Drift's optics went bright and wide when he showed up after Ratchet's summons and walked in to see the array of goodies Ratchet had gathered. His field went hot and flush with excitement. His faceplate tinged pink.
“I said I would, didn't I?” Ratchet retorted, feeling both fairly grumpy and fairly excited. Seeing Drift so eager made it all worth it.
He supposed he would always be weak when it came to Drift.
“Come here,” Ratchet said, beckoning the swordsmech closer.
Drift did, a bit more shyness in his movements, but maybe that was because his field was so thick with desire. He kept glancing at the array of toys before returning his gaze to Ratchet. His glossa flicked at his lips, his ventilations audibly quickening.
“Now?” Drift asked.
Ratchet grabbed him and pulled him into an embrace first, feeling the eager vibrations in Drift's frame. “Give me a safeword first.”
“What am I gonna need that for?”
“In case it gets to be too much and you want to tell me to stop.”
Drift chuckled, rubbing his helm against Ratchet's chestplate. “Like I'd do that.”
“This is non-negotiable, Drift.”
Hot plating rubbed against Ratchet's own, perhaps in an attempt to convince him to get with the program instead of chatting. But Ratchet was not to be swayed by an armful of sexy speedster. Nope.
He swept his hands down Drift's back and aft and further still, pointedly not getting a handful of tire. Okay, maybe a little. They were delectable and Drift always did this hot little shiver when Ratchet squeezed. He added a hum in his vocalizer, too, one that resonated in Ratchet's audials and went straight to his array.
Wait. No. He was getting distracted.
Ratchet shook himself and looked down. “I need a word, Drift.”
“You're so stubborn,” Drift muttered. His hands snaked around Ratchet, thumbs popping up and under an armor seam. “So convinced someone's going to get hurt.”
“Life lessons, brat.” Ratchet reluctantly let go of Drift's tire and reached for his partner's chin, tilting his helm up. “I mean it.”
The color in Drift's face darkened. It never failed to amaze Ratchet. That buried beneath the surface, under a layer as vicious as Deadlock, had always been a mech so unused to gentleness and care, that he reacted to it with shyness. Oh, Drift could be bold and downright kinky when it came down to it.
But the moment Ratchet showed that he cared more for Drift's health and mental state, it turned Drift into a pile of mush.
It was adorable.
Drift licked his lips again, gaze darting away. “Fine,” he said and he ground his denta before spitting out, “Gasket.”
“And you'll use it?”
“Yes,” Drift replied, finally dragging his gaze back to Ratchet. “I promise.”
“Good.” Ratchet rubbed his thumb over Drift's chin and bent down to steal Drift's lips.
He didn't think he would ever tire of kissing Drift. Not the eager way that Drift pushed back, glossa plunging into Ratchet's mouth as though he could get never enough. Drift's hands clutched at Ratchet's back as he rolled his frame against Ratchet's front. His engine revved, vibrating both of them.
Ratchet heard a click and felt a wet warmth against his hip. Whatever could that be?
He grinned into the kiss and forced himself to pull back. His own engine was rumbling, but Drift had a desire and Ratchet wanted to see it through.
He held Drift's helm with both hands, thumbs sweeping a light path to either side of Drift's mouth. “You still want to play? Or stick with the traditional route?”
Drift's ventilations hitched. His field buzzed, knocking at Ratchet's own with a hint of desperation. “Play,” he said, vocals rich with static. He smirked. “I'd hate for all those toys to go to waste.”
“Cheeky slagger,” Ratchet said.
He gave Drift another hard kiss, long and lingering enough to get a good taste. Drift tasted like he'd been snacking on those energon gummies he loved again. Ratchet didn't linger, however, forcing himself back from the kiss.
“Wait here,” he said. “Take off those swords of yours then don't move.”
He let Drift go and stepped back, Drift automatically releasing him to do so.
“Yes, Ratchet,” he said. Humor shone in his optics, but there was no denying the lust in his field. Or the heat emanating from his pelvic region.
Ratchet returned to his table of goodies, surveying the accessories he'd acquired. There were far more than he could make use of this first time around, but if all went well, he was sure there would be more opportunities. Drift trusted Ratchet to give him pleasure and so Ratchet would.
He picked up the vibrating egg with a remote cord, fingering the girth of it. It was thick enough to activate all the nodes within Drift's valve, but barely stretch the calipers. He flicked it on to test the strength of the buzz. It was soft and sensual, enough to delight but not enough to inspire overload.
As much as he enjoyed watching Drift come undone under his touch, he also enjoyed watching Drift beg. And begging, if he recalled, had been part of the request.
But Ratchet suspected Drift would need some incentive. He could obey orders well enough, but assistance might be needed. He eyed the magna-cuffs but dismissed them. They were a little too on point for what he wanted right now. Besides, he wanted to see every inch of Drift trembling and he suspected Drift could easily snap the cuffs anyway.
But the rope? That had promise.
Ratchet set the vibrator aside and reached for the thick nylon cord. He gave it a few testing tugs. It would be strong enough to hold Drift, he reasoned.
He looked up. Several pipes ran the length of the ceiling. It was as if someone had designed the habsuites for nefarious purposes. This ship suited Rodimus in more ways than one apparently.
The rope it was.
Ratchet figured that was good for now and turned back toward Drift when something else caught his optic. He paused, considering, and leaned back to snatch it up. A spreader bar could only come in handy.
He returned to Drift, who had done as Ratchet asked. The swords were gone, neatly laying across the nearby workbench. He stood exactly where Ratchet left him, hands at his sides. He didn't even turn his helm when Ratchet approached, tracking him only with his optics and his field.
“Tell me your word, Drift,” Ratchet said as he circled his lover, openly admiring his glossy finish and smooth lines. Drift really was a piece of art.
“Gasket,” Drift said.
“Good,” Ratchet purred.
He flicked the tire on Drift's right arm and watched it give a tiny spin. Drift visibly shivered, his field flickering with need. Ratchet's sensors told him that heat was pooling in Drift's pelvic region. He wondered how hard Drift was struggling to keep his panels closed.
“Open your panels.” Ratchet was kind enough to offer him that relief.
An audible ex-vent whooshed from Drift's vents, almost louder than the sound of panels clicking open.
Ratchet circled around to Drift's front. His spike was already fully pressurized, the glossy spirals of it coated in a sheen of lubricant. Curious, Ratchet reached down and brushed his fingers over the plump folds of Drift's valve and brought them back into the light. He rubbed his thumb against his forefinger. Hmm. As he thought. Damp and sticky.
Drift cycled a loud ventilation. His spike dribbled a drop of lubricant.
“Been thinking about this?” Ratchet asked.
Drift's intake bobbed. His optics glowed brighter. “Yes, Ratchet,” he said in a breathy voice. His field flickered with need.
He was a natural at this, Ratchet realized. His own engine rumbled with arousal. Drift was a hard mech to resist. So Ratchet didn't.
He curled his fingers around Drift's spike – oddly unadorned and a simple white with black highlights – and gave it a long stroke. Drift shivered, his fingers twitching, but he didn't move. His optics stayed locked on Ratchet's face.
“I have rope,” Ratchet said as he stroked Drift's spike in long, even pulls. Nothing too distracting, but enough to allow him to savor the feel of Drift's spike in his hand. “I have a vibrator with a remote and I have a leg spreader. Any objections?”
Drift's glossa swept over his lips. His optics brightened by several more degrees. “No, Ratchet.”
There was no real reason, but he was really loving how often Drift kept saying his designation. Because it was with a breathless tone that made it sound as though he were actually saying 'sir' or even 'master.'
Ratchet dragged his hand down Drift's spike and thumbed the tip. “And if you don't like something? If you want me to stop?”
Drift's hips bucked forward. A shudder made his plating rustle. “I say 'Gasket,' Ratchet.”
“That's right.” He pinched the head of Drift's spike, gathering up pearls of pre-lubricant. Ratchet had to resist the urge to drop to his knees and take Drift's spike into his mouth. Drift made the most delicious noises when Ratchet sucked him dry.
“Give me your hands,” Ratchet said.
Drift offered them, holding his hands out, wrists pressed together, like one might if they were about to be arrested by an Enforcer. Ratchet reluctantly released Drift's spike and found himself faced with a problem.
His hand was sticky. What to do? What to do?
Ratchet smirked and held out his hand to Drift. “Open,” he said.
His vents hitched when Drift parted his lips slowly, extending his glossa invitingly. Ratchet sucked in a sharp ventilation when he slipped his fingers into Drift's mouth and a warm, wet glossa lapped at them. Drift held his gaze the entire time, his face registering an increase of heat.
Primus, that was hot.
Ratchet's intake bobbed. His engine rumbled. The sensors in his hands screeched with pleasurable feedback.
Drift moaned, the vibrations traveling along Ratchet's fingers.
Perhaps, oh primus, perhaps he'd been a little hasty. Ratchet withdrew his fingers slowly, retrieving them from Drift's mouth with a little pop. And the swordsmech had the audacity to wink.
“Was that good, Ratchet?” Drift asked.
Ratchet almost scowled. “You know it was,” he huffed and pulled out the length of rope. “Now hush.”
Cheeky imp. Harrumph.
Ratchet snipped off one end of it and wrapped it around Drift's wrists, careful not to put pressure on his hydraulic lines. He left himself enough slack that he could attach the other end to something.
Ratchet turned and surveyed the room. He supposed he would have to use the pipes after all.
He circled behind Drift, measured the distance, and aimed. Hand-optic coordination served him well as a single toss hooked the rope over the top. He snagged the open end and tied an adjustable knot, one he could tighten or loosen if needed. He gave it a testing tug. The pipe didn't so much as rattle. Perfect.
Ratchet remained behind Drift for a moment, enjoying the view. He dragged his hands across Drift's shoulder and down his sides. He pressed his thumbs into the gaps at Drift's hips, massaging the cable bundles beneath. Heat wafted out from beneath Drift's armor. His legs wobbled. Lubricant seeped from his valve. A few drops stained the floor.
“Good.” Ratchet grinned and circled back around to face Drift. “You won't be for long. Sit on the floor,” he ordered. There should be just enough slack. “And spread your legs. Don't hide from me, Drift. I want to see how hungry you are.”
“Yes, Ratchet,” Drift breathed. He lowered himself down, clumsier than his usual grace, but perhaps his arousal was to blame. His spike bobbed enticingly. Lubricant dripped from his valve, creating messy splatters.
The rope drew taut, keeping his arms high above his helm. His aft planted on the ground, pedes flat as well, knees pushing apart. Slowly, so slowly, as though he were embarrassed to reveal his leaking array but Ratchet knew better. Drift was being a tease, his faceplate pink with arousal, but something sly in his field.
Ratchet retrieved the spreader bar and pulled out the rest of the rope. He knelt on the floor in front of Drift and applied both, forcing Drift's legs to spread wide. There was no hiding the swell of his spike now. Or the wetness of his valve, the flushed plump edges and the swelling anterior nub, glowing a dim yellow.
Ratchet sat back for a moment to admire his work. Drift's spike was slick with his own pre-fluid. It bobbed in little movements. Lubricant dribbled from his valve, puddling on the floor beneath his aft. And even as Ratchet watched, Drift's valve clenched, pushing out another trickle.
Ratchet moved to Drift's side, all the better to reach his lovely equipment. He took the opportunity to touch, to let his fingers slide up and down Drift's spike, feeling the slick heat of it. Drift trembled, small noises of pleasure rippling from his vocalizer. He was watching Ratchet, and being the sole focus of his gaze was a heady thing.
Ratchet's fingers slid lower, his forefinger performing a light circle around Drift's anterior node. Drift's helm fell back, cooling fans clicking on with a telling whirr. His knees swung in and out, though the bar prevented him from drawing his legs together.
“No pain?” Ratchet asked and no, he didn't bother to hide his sly grin.
“None, Ratchet,” Drift moaned, but his faceplate darkened again and he licked his lips, hips pushing toward Ratchet's fingers. “Except here.”
Ratchet chuckled. “Is that so?” he asked and his fingers dipped lower, two pushing past Drift's plush folds and into his valve.
Drift straight out whimpered, mouth opening to draw in a ventilation. He was so wet and the tips of Ratchet's fingers felt the clutch of his first ring of calipers. Charge crackled out from under Drift's armor. He was already close to overload and Ratchet had barely touched him.
He should be nice and take the edge off, yes?
Ratchet leaned closer, taking a nibble of Drift's left arm tire as he pushed the two fingers in deeper, curling them upward to stroke at a sensory bundle just inside Drift's rim. His thumb returned to Drift's throbbing nub and gave it a light rub.
A garbled burst of static emerged from Drift's vocalizer. His backstrut arched as he overloaded, a gush of fluid pulsing from his valve. A long line of transfluid striped up his abdomen and chest, spattering his hips. He'd made quite the mess.
Ratchet took a few pictures. For later research obviously.
“Better?” he asked.
Drift's engine revved. Overload-drunk optics tried and failed to focus on Ratchet. He licked his lips, fingers twitching around the rope, and rolled his hips against Ratchet's fingers. His spike never depressurized. Impressive.
“No, Ratchet,” Drift said, and this time, there was something wicked in his tone. “I need more.”
Ratchet worked his intake. His ventilations stuttered. His thumb seemed to move of its own accord, stroking over and over Drift's nub, but lightly, so as not to agitate.
“Is--” He paused to reboot his vocalizer. “Is that the proper way to ask for it?” His fingers were coated in lubricant.
Drift ex-vented a burst of heat. “I'm sorry, Ratchet,” he breathed and his upper frame rolled in a sinuous wave that was definitely meant to entice. “Please,” he added as his valve squeezed down, clutching at Ratchet's fingers. “Please, can I have more?”
“You may,” Ratchet said. He licked his lips and withdrew his fingers, forcing himself to ignore Drift's whine of displeasure. “But I'm going to need some assistance.”
Ratchet rummaged around in his subspace and pulled out the vibrator, holding it up for Drift to see.
Drift's gaze locked on it. His ventilations skipped a revolution. A low moan rose up in his vocalizer. His field pushed against Ratchet's, dripping with arousal.
Ratchet's spike rose, knocking against his panel. He kept it locked by will alone.
“Any objections?” Ratchet asked. And he would keep asking until he was certain Drift truly wanted all of this.
Drift's pedes scraped along the floor. “No, Ratchet.” He licked his lips. His frame rolled, highlighting the transfluid stripping his frame.
“Good.” Ratchet leaned close, stealing a kiss because he could and Drift looked like he needed one. To be fair, Ratchet always wanted to taste those lips.
Drift moaned against him, mouth and glossa hungry, his field pushing harder at Ratchet's. He shifted, angling his frame toward Ratchet in a wordless plea. Needy little thing. Ratchet grinned into the kiss and broke it off.
“Settle down,” he chastised with a little smile. “We've got a ways to go.”
Drift's optical shutters fluttered. He nibbled on his bottom lip. “Yes, Ratchet.”
Ah, such obedience.
Ratchet got to work, taking a moment to examine the settings on the vibrator. And then he got a wicked idea. He held it up to Drift's lips. “Want to lubricate this for me?”
Drift lunged forward, his glossa curling around the end of the vibrator. He held Ratchet's gaze as he did so, laving the toy with his glossa and making it slick with oral lubricant.
Ratchet's panel popped, his spike pressurizing immediately. Fragging tease. Especially since he knew those occasional flicks of Drift's glossa over the tip of his fingers was intentional.
“Good job,” Ratchet said as he pulled the vibrator free with an audible pop. It glistened with oral lubricant. His ventilations grew heavier.
His attention moved further down. He admired Drift's spike, once again proud and erect, but this new toy was meant for Drift's valve. And Drift invited him to make use of it, his heels digging into the floor as he tilted his hips upward.
How could Ratchet ignore such an offer?
He nudged the vibrator against Drift's valve, stroking across Drift's swollen folds before easing it past the rim. Drift panted, helm tilting back as Ratchet eased the vibrator inside and used the tip of his finger to ensure it would reach maximum depth. All he could see by the end was the cord connecting to the remote.
Ratchet grabbed the remote and clicked it on the first setting. He heard a low droning seconds before Drift let out a low moan, his hips rocking against the floor.
“You have to keep quiet, Drift,” Ratchet said, knowing just how difficult it would be. “You've had your one. This is just the beginning.”
Drift gnawed on his bottom lip with those pointed denta of his that Ratchet loved. His intake flexed as he swallowed. His plating trembled. A pearl of transfluid eked from his spike.
“Should I turn it up?” Ratchet asked as he leaned against his partner, finding a finial flare that deserved a nibble. “Should I watch you squirm?”
The smallest of noises rose in Drift's vocalizer before he shut it down.
“Was that a yes?” Ratchet asked with a scrape of denta up the length of Drift's finial. “I'm going to assume that was a yes.”
He flicked the switch. The drone grew louder, into a buzz. Drift's helm tilted back, away from Ratchet's mouth, his own falling open. He panted through it, pedes pushing against the ground, hips rocking. More pearls of transfluid beaded at the tip of his spike.
Primus, he was beautiful.
Ratchet's spike ached. He shifted his weight so that his balance was on his knees and used his free hand to palm his spike. The first touch sent a shudder through his frame and he had to pause to regain his control. Especially since all he wanted to do was stand, straddle Drift's bound frame, and rock his spike into Drift's open mouth.
He might yet do that.
But first... Drift needed his attention, shaking as he was under the onslaught of the vibrator. More lubricant seeped from his valve, joining the dribbles of transfluid from his previous overload. Drift's nub swelled again, flickering an off-rhythm to match the pulses of his spark. His hands wrapped around the ropes keeping them high above his helm.
He'd been told to keep quiet but tiny noises rose from his vocalizer, obvious attempts to lock down his cries of arousal. He was beautiful like this, desperate and on the edge. Ratchet was tempted to keep him like this all night, just to feel his field grow hotter and heavier with need.
“I still have two more notches, Drift,” Ratchet purred as he leaned in close, briefly nibbling on the nearest arm tire. “Can you take it?”
Febrile blue optics turned toward him. Drift's glossa dragged over his bottom lip, where his denta had left impressions. “Yes, Ratchet,” he breathed. “Anything you give me.”
Drift was going to be the death of him.
Ratchet groaned and leaned his forehelm against Drift's tire even as his thumb flicked the switch. He squeezed his spike as Drift threw his helm back and let out a spiraling cry, his hips dancing as the buzzing became a louder rattle. His pedes pushed harder, leaving paint scrapes in the floor. His nub visibly pulsed.
“Are you close?” Ratchet asked.
Drift jerked his helm in a nod, a whimper spilling from his vocalizer. His armor shook, pulling away from his frame to allow cooler to buffet against the charged circuits and wires beneath.
Ratchet's hand drifted down Drift's chestplate to his spike. His fingers dragged up the length of it, but Drift's sound of half-pleasure, half-denial made him quickly pull away.
“That close, huh?” he asked as Drift's chassis heaved from the force of his vents. Every bit of him was shaking. The vibrator buzzed away, surely activating each and every sensor node within his valve.
Drift made another one of those helpless noises that Ratchet thought sounded so appealing.
“I see.” Ratchet sought out Drift's valve, fingers tracing lightly around the plump folds and taking care to avoid the pulsing anterior node. “One more question then, Drift. Where would you like me to overload?”
Pointed denta gnawed on Drift's lower lip. His vocalizer spat static. His gaze flicked to Ratchet.
“Should I remove this vibrator and take your valve, as wet and sloppy as it is?” Ratchet asked, drawing another moan as he traced his fingers around the heated rim. “Or would you like me to take your spike into my own valve?” He returned his hand to Drift's spike, giving it a careful stroke that prompted Drift's hips to surge upward and a whine to spill from his vocalizer.
“Or,” Ratchet purred, dropping his lips from Drift's finial to his mouth, where his lips were swollen. “Perhaps I should use this delectable mouth of yours. Which would you prefer, Drift?”
The rope creaked. Drift's frame blasted heat. A shudder rippled through his armor. His faceplate colored again, but when he caught Ratchet's gaze, his optics were bold.
“My mouth,” he rasped, vents puffing from his oral cavity onto Ratchet's lips. “All over my face. Mark me as yours, Ratchet,” he said.
Kill. Him. Dead. Drift was determined to be the end of Ratchet.
His engine raced. His spike throbbed in his hand and Ratchet had to let himself go lest he overload then and there and ruin the fun.
“What... whatever you want,” Ratchet said, his own vocals filled with static. And to reward Drift for his honesty, he flicked the vibrator to it's highest setting.
Drift's helm tossed back as his entire frame went rigid. He overloaded with a spiraling cry, his fans roaring. More transfluid striped his armor and spilled onto Ratchet's fingers. His spike pulsed, spurt after spurt. His aft left scrapes of paint on the floor.
Drift moaned and gasped for air. Ratchet notched the vibrator back to the more soothing drone of the second stage, just enough to keep Drift's nodes primed and cycling quickly toward a third overload.
Drift looked wrecked, condensation covering his armor along with the transfluid. His fans rattled and roared. His vocalizer spat whimpers interspersed with static, but he stiill looked at Ratchet with bright optics and need.
He opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue as if to say, “Well, didn't you want something?”
Yes. Yes, he did. Very much so.
Ratchet leaned in and stole Drift's mouth, a kiss that was little more than an expression of his arousal. He moaned into the kiss, his glossa tangling with Drift's. His transfluid-damp hand squeezed Drift's spike, feeling it pressurize again. He let it go and reached lower, sticky fingers sweeping over Drift's swollen folds and anterior node. Heat poured from his lover in waves.
But Ratchet was certain Drift had a third overload in him.
He ended the kiss, ignoring Drift's pout of disappointment and climbed to his pedes with little grace. His fingers were almost clumsy as he attacked the rope, loosening the knot so that he could pull it higher. Drift rose off his aft, frame creaking, until he swung himself backward and got his knees underneath him.
“Do I still have to be quiet, Ratchet?” Drift asked, looking up at him with those lust-drunk optics and lips swollen from his own ministrations.
Ratchet scanned him on reflex, but luckily, Drift's frame was well within his tolerances. He was running hot and he was fully aroused, but he was in no danger of overheating. Good.
“You can be as loud as you want to be,” Ratchet said, vocals a little gruffer than he intended, but his knees were wobbling, his spike ached and Drift kept licking his lips like the little annoying tease he was.
“Or as loud as you can be,” Ratchet corrected as he eased himself between Drift's thighs, one pede resting on the controller for the vibrator. One little push and he could notch it right back up. “Since you'll have my spike down your intake.”
Drift made a helpless noise, his chassis tilting forward as his mouth came within inches of Ratchet's spike. His hips rocked, riding the vibrator.
It took every semblance of control Ratchet had not to just grab Drift's helm and shove himself into Drift's mouth. Instead, he gripped the base of his spike in one hand and curled the other hand around Drift's helm. He eased himself forward.
He didn't expect Drift to lunge forward and envelop Ratchet's spike in his mouth in one fell swoop. Ratchet shouted as wet heat eclipsed his spike and it took another wave of control to keep from thrusting forward. Arousal slammed through his frame, internal temperature skyrocketing. His knees wobbled.
He would not overload this fast, Ratchet growled to himself, but there was something ridiculously appealing in Drift's enthusiasm. The way his glossa lashed at Ratchet's spike and his denta grazed the sensitive metal ever so carefully. The way he licked and sucked on Ratchet as though he loved the taste and couldn't get enough of it.
Ratchet's engine revved. He rocked his hips ever so carefully, stroking his spike over Drift's glossa. His weight shifted and he bumped the vibrator up back to the third notch. Drift moaned around his mouthful, sucking Ratchet deeper, and suddenly, Ratchet heard the sound of a snap, like a tensile cable coming loose.
Concern made him look at Drift, only for his optics to widen as hands grabbed his hips and pulled, shoving his spike deep into Drift's mouth and straight down Drift's intake.
How the frack did he get free? Ratchet wondered, but the thought shattered into a million pieces when Drift swallowed around his spike and Ratchet lost it.
He overloaded, locking his articulators so as not to buck uncontrollably or dent Drift's finials, even as he spilled spurt after spurt down Drift's intake. Pleasure burnt through his system like a flash fire and Ratchet groaned as Drift pushed him back at the last moment, so his final two spurts landed on Drift's lips and chin.
“Oh, Primus,” Ratchet groaned. He leaned forward, all but hunching over Drift. His fans whirred madly, a little clunky, was that what Aid was pinging him about?
His world tilted backward, sending his overload-dim processor spinning. What the frag? Ratchet flailed, trying to find something to grab, but there was nothing. His legs swept out from under him, his aft hit the ground, and a curse spilled from his lips. He heard a snap and then there Drift was, crawling over his frame, giving Ratchet an armful of hot and hungry speedster.
Well, almost an armful. One of Drift's arms hooked Ratchet's right leg under the knee, opening him up for Drift to notch between his thighs and slide into his valve in one smooth push. Ratchet moaned as his hungry nodes lit up all at once, a moan that was swallowed up by Drift's mouth as he sealed their lips together.
The vibrator was still buzzing away in Drift's valve, and the vibrations carried through Drift's frame, giving Ratchet a secondary thrill. He gripped at Drift's shoulder with one hand and curled his arm around Drift's chassis with the other, pulling him closer. Drift pistoned into him at a driving pace, making hungry noises that only served to drive Rathcet's arousal higher and higher.
He chanted, “Ratchet, Ratchet, Ratchet,” and every repetition of his name made Ratchet's spike faster and faster toward overload.
His valve was eager for the attention, cinching down tight on Drift's spike. His sensor nodes sparked to life on Drift's receptors, the tip of Drift's spike pounding his ceiling node again and again. Drift's pelvic plating put a grinding pressure on Ratchet's nub, sending shocks of ecstasy through his array. Ratchet hissed a ventilation as he was fragged right into another overload, so fast it almost hurt. His helm tossed back, breaking off the kiss.
Drift buried his face in Ratchet's intake, nibbling and sucking on his exposed cables. Ratchet shuddered as his valve cycled down hard, squeezing Drift's spike. Drift groaned and bit down, his denta clamping on Ratchet's intake as a third overload ripped through his frame. He spilled deep into Ratchet's valve, spurts of transfluid washing over Ratchet's sensitive nodes with every jerk of Drift's hips.
He collapsed on top of Ratchet, fans spinning madly, and it took Ratchet being graceless and flailing a bit before he managed to catch hold of the end of the vibrator and pull it free from Drift's frame. He flicked it off and tossed it away. Exhaustion left him a puddle of sated medic on the floor, Drift draped on top of him, exuding heat.
Ratchet wrapped his arms around his slimmer lover, more than aware that Drift's spike lingered in his valve, half-pressurized. Ratchet tingled all over from so many overloads, his cooling fans trying their damnedest to dispel the heat that his Drift blanket was not helping. They were a sticky, condensation covered mess, and they should probably get up sometime soon but right now, Ratchet couldn't move.
Besides, this was kind of nice.
Ratchet petted Drift's back and aft as Drift snuggled in even further against him, tessellating their frames together. His ex-vents tickled Ratchet's intake as did the ropes still encircling his wrists, the frayed ends teasing through Ratchet's seams.
Which reminded him...
“Did you... break the spreader?” Ratchet asked, unable to see Drift's pedes for the lump of speedster on top of him.
Drift's lips tickled as they moved against his intake. “Um... oops?” He didn't sound particularly apologetic.
“It wasn't mine,” Ratchet said.
“I'll replace it.” Drift rubbed his face on Ratchet's intake, which Ratchet belatedly realized, meant he was smearing Ratchet's own transfluid around to create an even bigger sticky mess. Brat.
“You snapped the ropes, too.”
Ratchet heard what might have been a muffled snicker. “Those weren't yours either?”
“... my bad.” Drift actually laughed a loud this time. “I promise to replace them.” He settled a little more firmly on top of Ratchet, ventilations gradually cycling down.
Ratchet chuckled and tightened his grip. His hand stroked from the top of Drift's helm all the way down to the base of Drift's spinal strut.
There was a moment of quiet, as though Drift was either hesitating or carefully choosing his words. Ratchet suspected the former. For a mech who delighted in aggravating Ratchet for the fun of it, he could be surprisingly reluctant to speak sometimes.
“Thank you,” Drift finally said.
It meant a lot more than that.
Ratchet tilted his helm down by a fraction, the underside of his chin brushing Drift's helm. “You're welcome,” he said. “But it's safe to say I enjoyed myself, too.”
Drift snickered and ex-vented softly.
Silence settled. It was kind of nice. Ratchet didn't protest too much. Even if he was sticky and still a little overheated. The berth would be more comfortable. He wouldn't mind a trip to the washracks either. Drift would probably like it if Ratchet removed the ropes and spreader remnants, too.
Except... Drift was lying oddly still. He made no move to get up or stir.
“I'm not recharging here, Drift,” Ratchet said.
Nothing, save for a noncommittal hum that could have meant anything. Drift gave off a little sigh. His cooling fans calmed from their highest setting
No answer. Ratchet wished he could be surprised.
He felt the even puffs of Drift's ventilations. He listened to the steady cycle of Drift's system, a medley he'd come to know almost as well as his own.
He supposed he'd just get Drift to massage out the kinks in his backstrut later.
Ratchet sighed and shifted to get a little more comfortable. He laughed softly when his pede brushed half the spreader still attached to Drift's ankle. Brat really could recharge anywhere.
This was actually kind of nice. Ratchet supposed he would recharge, too.