Oh Mercury your short writings of Dratchet are wonderful in these troubled times. If you're up to continue writing another one, Drift and Ratchet first time on the shuttle (it's my fav thing to thing about, what happened inside that shuttle after EOS that turned these two old mechs into husbands) BUT in Amelie Poulain style (a french movie). At the end, you have the most beautiful and silent love confession in cinema (the kisses, the soft sounds, the breathing, all so slow and tender) and with Dratchet it would be perfect.
The link to this scene
https://youtu.be/_b_c0qLRU3U?si=oqATFHFtfpMbG3AU
Take good care of yourself!! ❤️
I’ll admit I may have overused “servos” and “dermas”, but I hope I was able to convey at least a fraction of the intensity of the scene you sent me (I love French movies and that one’s on my must watch list). Hope you liked it ❤️
Also I still have one more post EOS request and I think it will become the continuation of this one 👀
Take care of yourself too ❤️
MINORS PLEASE DONT READ THIS even though is softer than my usual
🔞
The internal clock marked the beginning of the night-cycle, though it was impossible to tell otherwise, here in the battered shuttle carrying Ratchet and Drift through the vastness of space. Around them stretched the endless dark, scattered with distant points of light.
They hadn’t said much to each other since deciding to leave together. Perhaps they hadn’t needed to.
Recent events had drawn them closer. Not only had they come to trust each other completely, but feelings neither had ever dared to voice had resurfaced, stubborn and insistent.
And now, as Ratchet prepared his berth, he couldn’t stop thinking. Not just about everything they had been through -the risks, surviving once again- but about something else entirely.
Something that seemed to fill the shuttle itself.
Unspoken thoughts, lingering glances, accidental touches during the journey, each one leaving a mark, as if burned into memory.
Whenever their gazes met, the moment stretched -heavy, charged- as though both wanted to speak, yet neither could bring themselves to break the silence.
So, Ratchet had withdrawn, retreating to his quarters, hoping recharge would wash it all away. Hoping that by morning, everything would return to what it had been before.
Familiar, safe, certain.
Ratchet, the gruff doctor. Drift, the swordsmech, perhaps a little too devoted to Primus.
That was what they were to each other. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Or so he told himself.
As Ratchet finished straightening the sheets, preparing to settle in, he heard the soft hiss of the door opening behind him.
He turned.
Drift stood in the doorway.
The dim light of the room brushed faintly against his white plating, just enough to make it gleam. There was something in his gaze; something quiet and melancholic, but also… relieved. As if he needed to speak, yet didn’t know how. The same silent struggle Ratchet himself had been fighting all along.
Ratchet said nothing. He simply looked at him.
Drift didn’t explain. He didn’t need to.
As if pulled by the same invisible force, they both took a step forward, and then another, until they found themselves face to face, closer than they had ever been before.
Ratchet could feel the gentle, rhythmic cycle of Drift’s vents, warm air brushing softly against his face. His own spark pounded wildly in his chassis, as if searching for an escape.
For a moment, Ratchet lowered his gaze, as though Drift’s blue optics were too intense to meet; as if he were afraid of getting lost in them.
But Drift’s servo rose immediately, digits curling beneath his chin, lifting it with quiet insistence.
The contact was electric, and Ratchet didn’t pull away.
Drift’s thumb slid from his chin to his lower derma, tracing it slowly, almost reverently. Ratchet exhaled softly and, unable to stop himself, brushed his dermas against the touch before looking back up at him.
Drift leaned closer, his vents stalling for a fraction of a second, and Ratchet moved first.
He pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Drift’s mouth, then to his cheek, his jaw, as his servos tightening around the swordsmech’s arms as if searching for something to hold onto.
When they looked at each other again, there was no annoyance, no surprise in Drift’s expression. Only a quiet need; the look of someone who had always known this moment would come, and now intended to savor it, slowly.
Then it was Drift’s turn.
He leaned in, brushing a kiss along Ratchet’s cheekbone, then lower, mapping a careful path toward his dermas. When he finally reached them, the contact was feather-light.
For a moment, it felt as though they were the only two mechs left in the universe.
Nothing else existed.
Just this.
Just the space between them, the breath they both held before their dermas met again.
It was barely a kiss -more a tremor than anything else- but it was enough. Enough to break something open, to let spill everything they had never managed to say.
Ratchet’s servos rose to Drift’s faceplate, digits tracing his features as if trying to commit them to memory, while Drift’s servos mirrored the gesture at his hips before sliding around his waist, pulling him closer.
Their frames pressed together, close enough that Ratchet could feel the rhythm of Drift’s spark echoing his own.
And when they kissed again, neither of them let go.
Their dermas moved slowly, exploring each other with a tenderness that seemed born from eons of repressed longing.
Ratchet felt Drift's warmth spread through the contact, a gentle wave that soothed the turmoil in his spark while simultaneously igniting a deep, rooted desire.
Drift's servos, strong yet delicate, slid along Ratchet's back, tracing the lines of his plating with digits that trembled slightly, as if afraid to shatter the enchantment. Ratchet responded in kind, his servos rising from Drift's faceplate to get lost in the cables of his neck, then descending to his broad shoulders, clinging as if that touch were the only anchor in an unstable universe.
They parted just enough to look at each other, Drift's optics bright with a pure, vulnerable emotion that Ratchet recognized as the reflection of his own.
There was no rush, only a shared hunger that urged them to move in unison.
Drift guided Ratchet toward the berth, their steps synchronized. Ratchet allowed himself to be led, his frame relaxing against Drift's, feeling the solidity of his partner as a promise of safety.
They sank into the mattress with a collective sigh, their frames aligning naturally, chassis to chassis.
Drift's servos continued their exploration, igniting sparks of pleasure that made him shiver.
Ratchet tilted his helm back, exposing his neck, and Drift took advantage to press light kisses there, his glossa grazing the cables with a sweetness that conveyed more than any words. The touch was reverential, as if Drift were worshiping every part of the medic.
Ratchet, in turn, ran his digits along Drift's side, feeling his warmth, the accelerated rhythm of his vents betraying his growing excitement.
Their servos sought each other tirelessly, intertwining for a moment before parting to trace new paths; from arms to hips, from chassis to thighs. Each caress was a silent dialogue, an “I want you” expressed through the pressure of the digits, an “I've waited for you” in the way the servos lingered, savoring the familiarity of the other's frame.
Drift shifted slightly, positioning himself above Ratchet without crushing him, his weight a comfort rather than an oppression. Their interfaces brushed through the pelvic plating, a contact that sent waves of heat through their systems, but they didn't act on it yet. Instead, Drift lowered his head to capture Ratchet's lips again in a deeper kiss, their glossas intertwining slowly, exploring with a patience that amplified the intensity. Ratchet moaned softly into the kiss, his servos rising to grip Drift's nape, holding him close as if afraid he might dissolve.
Slowly, with a delicacy that reflected the depth of their feelings, Drift released the latches of Ratchet's pelvic plating, exposing his array with infinite care. Ratchet did the same, his fingers trembling as he opened Drift, revealing his spike that pressurized gradually, rigid and throbbing with desire. There was no urgency in their touch; Ratchet wrapped a servo around the base of Drift's spike, stroking it with slow movements, feeling the metal warm under his palm, the pre-fluid lubricating the grip. Drift responded by brushing Ratchet's valve, his digits tracing the swollen edges, gathering the lubricant that already dripped, a sign of his growing arousal.
Their fields fully merged now, a whirlwind of emotions: love, trust, a sense of completeness that filled every void left by the war. Drift positioned his spike at the entrance of Ratchet's valve, pressing slowly, inch by inch, allowing the medic's body to adjust. Ratchet arched his back, his servos clawing at Drift's shoulders, the pleasure invading him like a slow, enveloping tide. He felt every ridge of the spike slide inside him, filling him with a fullness that went beyond the physical, touching his spark in a way that left him breathless.
Drift stopped when he was fully sheathed, their frames pressed against each other, their vents synchronized in a shared rhythm. He remained there, still for a long moment, letting Ratchet feel the beat of his spark against his own, the emotions flowing between them like an indestructible bridge.
Then, with infinite gentleness, he began to move, slow and deep thrusts that made Ratchet moan softly, each thrust an affirmation of devotion.
Ratchet's servos wandered over Drift's back, tracing the grooves of the plating, clinging as the pleasure built, a heat spreading from his valve's node to radiate throughout his frame.
Drift lowered his helm to kiss Ratchet's neck again, his glossa lapping at the exposed cables, while his servos caressed the medic's hips, holding him.
The rhythm remained steady, passionate but controlled, each movement designed to prolong the connection, to make that moment of perfect union last. Ratchet felt the overload approaching like a rising star, slow and inevitable, his valve contracting around Drift's spike, gripping it in a possessive embrace.
Drift accelerated imperceptibly, his own moans muffled against Ratchet's plating, the pleasure overwhelming him in waves that mirrored his partner's.
When the overload struck them, it was simultaneous, a shared explosion that left them trembling. Drift's transfluid filled Ratchet's valve in hot waves, while his frame contracted in spasms of ecstasy.
Ratchet clung to Drift, his servos shaking as the aftershocks coursed through him, a deep sense of peace seeping into his spark, as if everything was finally in its right place.
They remained joined, their frames still intertwined, their servos continuing to seek each other in lazy, post-overload caresses.
Drift partially collapsed onto Ratchet, his weight a comforting mantle, while their fields calmed slowly, entwined in an eternal embrace.
In that silence, the love they felt spoke louder than any sound, a bond forged in the fire of passion and tempered by tenderness.
