I think he should sit on Ratchets face
MINORS DON’T READ THIS THANKS
The hab-suite was quiet, the soft hum of the Lost Light's engines a distant lullaby beyond its walls.
Ratchet lay back against the headboard, his optics half-lidded as he watched Drift settle beside him.
“You're thinking too loudly.” Ratchet murmured. “I can practically hear your processor cycling from here.”
Drift's optics flickered, a faint flush spreading across his faceplates.
“I'm not thinking about anything.”
Ratchet huffed a quiet laugh.
He reached out, letting his digits brush lightly against Drift's thigh.
“I've been asking you for cycles, and every time you find a way to change the subject.” His gaze softened. “What's holding you back?”
Drift's vents cycled slowly.
His gaze drifted over Ratchet's faceplate, lingering on the way the dim light caught the white of his plating and the quiet intensity of his bright blue optics.
“It's... vulnerable.” He admitted at last. “To be that exposed. To have you... there.”
Ratchet's voice softened even further.
He slipped an arm around Drift's waist and gently drew him closer until he was straddling his lap.
“That's exactly why I want it.” One of his servos came up to rest against Drift's cheek. “I want every part of you, Drift.” A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
His thumb stroked lightly across Drift's faceplate.
“And the mech who trusts me enough to let himself be that vulnerable with me.”
He slid his servos slowly up Drift's thighs, his grip firm against the smooth plating.
“I want to taste you.” He murmured. “I want to hold your thighs open and worship you until you can't even remember your own designation.”
Drift's faceplates burned a deeper shade of blue.
His servos came to rest against Ratchet's chassis, his digits curling instinctively against the plating.
“I've wanted it for cycles.” Ratchet admitted without hesitation. “I love your frame, Drift. I love the way you move; I love the sounds you make. I want to lose myself in you until you've completely fallen apart beneath my glossa.”
He looked down at Ratchet, meeting the raw hunger in those bright blue optics, and felt the last of his hesitation quietly melt away.
Ratchet's grip tightened ever so slightly around his thighs.
“Good.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Come here.”
He shifted until he was lying flat against the berth, his helm sinking into the pillow.
Drift moved carefully into position, supporting himself on his servos and knees above Ratchet’s faceplate. The heat of his valve was palpable, radiating down against Ratchet's faceplates. The scent of his lubricant, clean and sweet, filled Ratchet's olfactory sensors.
“Lower.” Ratchet murmured, his voice slightly muffled. “I want you sitting right over my intake. I want to feel you.”
Drift lowered himself slowly, his valve brushing against Ratchet's mouth.
The first contact sent a jolt through both of them. Ratchet's servos shot up immediately, gripping Drift's thighs, his digits digging into the plating.
“Perfect.” Ratchet murmured against the warm mesh of his valve. “You're perfect.”
He opened his intake and pressed his glossa flat against the length of Drift's valve. He licked upward, a slow, deliberate stroke that parted the folds and ended with a flick against his node.
The taste of him exploded on Ratchet's glossa; clean, metallic, uniquely Drift.
Drift gasped, his entire frame tensing.
His servos clenched the berth sheets beneath him as another involuntary tremor ran through his systems.
The medic answered only with another low groan, his grip tightening just enough to steady Drift without restraining him.
He did it again, another long, slow lick, this time tracing the rim of his valve, teasing the entrance. His glossa dipped inside, just the tip, tasting the slick heat within.
The taste was intoxicating; Ratchet's servos tightened on Drift's thighs, holding him steady. He could feel the powerful frame of his partner's legs trembling under his grip. The vulnerability of the position, the trust it required, made Ratchet's spark burn with fierce affection.
He drew his glossa back, letting his attention settle on Drift's anterior node.
With slow, deliberate movements, he circled it with the tip of his glossa, feeling it stiffen beneath the gentle attention. Drift's vents cycled in ragged bursts, his frame rocking helplessly as his hips pressed down against Ratchet's face.
“That's it,” Ratchet hummed, the vibration resonating through Drift's sensitive plating. “Use me. Take what you need.”
He lavished the node with slow, unhurried strokes before drawing it gently into his intake, teasing it between his dermas.
Drift cried out, the sound breaking apart into a desperate gasp as his hips jerked forward.
“Please, what?” Ratchet asked, pulling back just enough to speak.
He pressed a lingering kiss to the inside of Drift's thigh, his bright blue optics never leaving the glistening valve before him.
“I want...” Drift's vents hitched sharply. “I want you to keep going. I want to feel your glossa inside me. Please.”
A smile tugged at the corners of Ratchet's mouth against Drift's thigh.
“That's exactly what I wanted to hear.”
He dived back in, his glossa plunging deep into Drift's valve, savoring the warmth that enveloped it. The sensitive mesh of Drift's channel tightened around him, fluttering with every movement.
Ratchet worked his glossa in and out, fucking him with his mouth, his servos never leaving Drift's thighs. He kept them spread, holding him steady while his thumbs traced slow, reassuring circles along the inner plating; a gentle contrast to the intensity of what he was doing.
He could taste Drift's growing arousal, the lubricant steadily building with every passing moment.
Drawing his glossa back, he swept it along the length of Drift's valve before slipping inside again, eager to savor every reaction.
He wanted to memorize him.
The way Drift responded beneath him.
The way his frame welcomed every touch.
The way trust and desire had become impossible to tell apart.
Above him, Drift's frame trembled uncontrollably. His vents cycled in desperate, uneven bursts as his servos abandoned the berth sheets in favor of Ratchet's helm, his digits curling instinctively around his chevron.
“Ratchet, I'm close. I'm so close.”
Ratchet's servos tightened on his thighs, pulling him down harder against his face.
His glossa curled inside Drift's valve, pressing against the sensitive mesh of his inner wall.
“Overload for me.” Ratchet growled against his valve. “I want to taste you. I want to feel you fall apart.”
Drift's overload crashed over him like a wave.
His entire frame arched, a cry of pure pleasure escaping his vocalizer as every circuit seemed to ignite at once, his valve clamping down hard around Ratchet's glossa.
Hot transfluid spilled over his glossa, flooding his intake. Ratchet groaned, drinking it down, his glossa working frantically, lapping at the clenching mesh, drawing out every last drop.
He didn't stop there. He kept his glossa moving, licking at the sensitive node, coaxing aftershocks that made Drift whimper and buck against his face again.
“One more.” Ratchet murmured, his voice rough with affection. “Give me one more.”
He pushed his glossa deep again, curling it against the sensitive mesh of his valve's inner wall. His servo on Drift's thighs tightened, pulling him down harder against his face.
The stimulation was too much.
Drift's second overload followed quickly, this one just as intense, his transfluid spilling again into Ratchet's waiting intake.
Ratchet finally pulled away, his faceplate slick with Drift's fluids.
He pressed a series of soft, reverent kisses to the inside of Drift's thighs, his servos still holding him, still stroking the heated plating.
Drift collapsed beside him, his frame limp and trembling. Ratchet immediately gathered him into his arms.
He kissed Drift's helm, his cheek, his dermas, letting him taste himself on Ratchet's glossa.
“I love you.” Ratchet said, his bright blue optics filled with unmistakable affection. “I love every part of you; the way you move, the way you respond to me… the way you trust me.”
Drift looked back at him, his optics soft and warm.
“I love you too, Ratchet.”
A rare, genuine smile spread across Ratchet's faceplate.
He drew Drift even closer, burying his face in the crook of his neck and breathing in the familiar scent that had long since come to mean home.
And he was hopelessly, completely in love.
Long after Drift had fallen into recharge in his arms, Ratchet remained awake, absentmindedly tracing idle patterns across the plating of his thighs and pressing the occasional gentle kiss to the warm metal.
Watching over him like that didn't feel like a duty.
It felt like a privilege.
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