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“You were wrong, by the way.”
Drift’s greeting is cryptic from where he’s perched against the wall of the galley of “their” habsuite — they don’t actually share according to the ship’s records, but he spends enough time in Ratchet’s that he might as well move in, especially considering… recent events. Ratchet’s in the process of convincing him, actually, and he doesn’t want to admit that it’s working.
“I’m never wrong,” Ratchet starts. “But what are we claiming I was wrong about?”
“The other day, I was watching you work on some of the parts we salvaged from our last stop? I told you that watching you work was hypnotizing.” He leans away from the wall and approaches Ratchet, sliding his hands over the other’s hips to hold him close. “You told me that I only said that because you’re a medic doing your job and I’m obligated to compliment the things you do well. But you’re—” He leans up to look over Ratchet’s shoulder. “—cleaning the counter. And here I am: still utterly hypnotized.”
“You’re still obligated to compliment me even if I’m just cleaning the counter.” Ratchet had jumped at the grab, but his hands never so much as twitch on their task, of course. “But thank you.”
“ And I don’t lie,” Drift counters. But he laughs and jabs his thumbs into Ratchet’s sides in an effort to make him giggle. “You know, you need to work on taking compliments without justifying it.”
Ratchet doesn’t giggle, but the sound he makes is rather close to a stifled one, though it turns into a flustered grumble. “I take compliments just fine, thank you.”
“Yeah, you take them. But you always need a reason to,” he points out. He spins Ratchet around to bring them face to face. “A challenge: the next time I compliment you, just say ’thank you, Drift. I love you so, so much.’”
“I do not accept that challenge,” Ratchet declares, but he does rest his hands on Drift’s shoulders as he settles out of the spin. “Humility is what separates us from the automatic doors and datapads, Drift.”
“I’d argue that the thing separating us is the gift of sentience. And our Primus-given ability to love blasphemers, heathens, and heretics like Ratchet of Vaporex.” Drift actually catches him in a proper kiss, quick and playful, and then smiles. “You really are hypnotizing when you’re focused like that, though. I could watch you for hours.”
“Are you sure you don’t lie? Because that sounds like a lie.” Ratchet knocks their foreheads together at that. “I can’t possibly be that interesting to watch.”
“I never lie,” Drift insists. “You underestimate how much time I spend watching you recharge, Ratchet. You do this cute little thing where you make a noise like a purring turbofox and curl up against me. Hypnotizing.”
“Some people would find that confession far less charming than I do, dear,” Ratchet points out, reaching up to rest his palm along Drift’s jaw. “What did this come from?”
“Aren’t I lucky I have you, then?” Drift chuckles and offers up a half-hearted shrug. “I have more free time than usual today, by some miracle, and I want to spend it fawning over my grumpy conjunx. Is that a crime, now?”
“I’d have to check with Magnus on that, but I’m pretty sure it’s not,” Ratchet admits. “And I am not grumpy.”
“ Grumpy ,” Drift insists. “But you do make it look good. Gruff and stoic and grumpy. And it’s insanely hot when you do it.” He smirks. “And I never lie.”
“Hmph.” That’s more like Ratchet. But still, he doesn’t break the hold. “You’ve got strange tastes, commander. I worry our captain has been a bad influence on you.”
“Maybe he has been. But I’m not complaining.” He lets his hands wander, thumbs gliding along the inner edge of the plates at Ratchet’s hips until he can rest his hands on the medic’s backside. It’s a gentle enough move that he has plausible deniability, but the intention is undeniable. “Are you?”
“I—uh…” Ratchet finds himself distracted as Drift’s hands settle. He feels his cheeks (among other things) start to heat up then, and he finds himself averting his gaze. “… I… suppose not, I… um…”
“What’s wrong, Ratty ? You’re not one to clam up out of nowhere like this.” Drift gives him a devious smirk at that and tilts his head to the side. “I didn’t do anything wrong did I?”
“N-No, of course... of course not.” Ratchet clears his vocal circuits: it’s always an abrupt, staticky rumble nowadays, he personally swears it’s built up dust. “And do not call me that, you sound like Rodimus.”
“I mean... we both know I have a dictionary of different names for you, darling.” Drift retorts with a purr. “Shall I start down the list? We’ll reach the dirty ones pretty quick if I do…”
“There’s no need for that,” Ratchet responds quickly, but of course it’s flustered. And his voice even cracks. He looks toward the door: that explains it. “There’s… we don’t need to go there—”
“Worried someone might walk by and hear how gentle the grumpy old medic can get behind closed doors?” Drift laughs and tightens his grip on Ratchet’s backside: it’s definitely on purpose now. “Maybe I’ll just skip right to the dirty names.”
“I—ah!” Ratchet grunts, an embarrassingly loud sound at that, and he hides his face in Drift’s chest to muffle it. “ Drift .”
“Oh, hush, it’s not that bad,” Drift insists, but then he grins. “Bitch.” He kisses Ratchet’s cheek, far too lovingly for the words coming out of his mouth. “Harlot. Slut. Tramp .” The next word comes with a growl, and the baring of those sharpened dental plates that he takes such care to hide under other circumstances. “ Whore .”
Ratchet whimpers. His lover’s name escapes him again, but this time, it sounds much different, more pleading, needier. “Drift, please .”
“Please what, darling? ‘Please stop teasing?’ Or maybe… ‘please keep your voice down,’ right? Or perhaps…” Drift purrs. There’s a growl in his voice, another thing he often hides and only brings out when it’s convenient to frighten someone in a fight. “ ‘Please rail me over the nearest flat surface loudly enough to practically invite the rest of the ship to come watch?’ ”
Ratchet shudders in Drift’s hold, and his hips cant forward into Drift’s. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Maybe. But won’t it be a fun way to go?” Drift teases. His plating is warm, almost hot to the touch. “I know I wouldn’t complain if my corpse was found mid-interface with such a pretty medic.”
“Drift—” Ratchet slides his hands down to Drift’s waist to grab hold. “… you’ve got me believing you’re all talk, you know. Do you intend to talk me to overload, or are you going to make a move?”
“I can damn well try,” he retorts, almost snapping his fangs at Ratchet’s audio receptor. “You seemed so nervous before. What changed? Is my little whore’s fat fucking valve that desperate for my attention?”
What’s that sound? Is it Ratchet’s fans kicking on to cool his frame down? It just might be. He tries and mostly fails to suppress the shiver that follows, a little afraid to even picture what a mess he must be beneath his plating by now. And he finally falters again, apparently either caught off-guard or aware that his bluff has been thoroughly called. “U-Uh—”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, slut,” Drift growls. He moves a hand to press it against the front of Ratchet’s pelvic plating, gauging the heat and searching for the little twitches beneath that even armor couldn’t hide from him. “Have you been thinking about this all day? Feels like you have.”
“No.” Ratchet presses his hips into Drift’s touch. “N-No, I haven’t. This is your fault.”
“I don’t believe you,” Drift hums, digging his fingers into the seams where Ratchet’s legs meet his hips. “I think the reason you keep so busy is because any spare thought is dedicated to the fantasy of how you can ride my spike this time around.”
Ratchet groans at the dig of those claws into his gaps, and his knees tremble with the effort of keeping himself upright. His grip tightens on Drift’s waist. “Th… the burden of proof is on you, then.”
“I already gave you proof. You can’t just ignore proof because it doesn’t fit your narrative, isn’t that what you keep telling me?” Drift actually allows himself to look somewhat angry, just for a moment. But then, he presses a kiss to Ratchet’s throat, growling against him. “You hurt my feelings, slut. You should make it up to me. Fast.”
“Aw, I’m sorry.” Ratchet does not sound as brave or sultry as he probably thinks he does. “How can I make it up to you?”
“By cutting the cute scrap and getting on your knees, Autobot,” Drift suddenly snarls. “I assumed, apparently incorrectly, that you were smarter than this. It’s becoming increasingly clear that you’re just another interfaced-starved medic who’ll take whatever he can get. And it led you to me .”
They both stand in silence for a moment after that, Ratchet looking surprised at the sudden change and Drift feeling… vaguely guilty at the choice he’d made in the moment. But rather than ask questions or argue, Ratchet lets go of his partner and sinks down to his knees, holding up his hands halfway in a feigned “surrender” of sorts. Drift hides the wave of guilt with a sneer as Ratchet lowers himself. He growls and leans back against the nearby counter and opens up his interface panel. His spike practically looms in front of Ratchet’s face, and he’s quickly dripping lubricant and making a mess of his thighs. “Open that mouth, medic.”
Ratchet’s optics practically sparkle at the sight, and apparently, he doesn’t need to be told twice — in fact, with how quickly he obeys the command he’s given, it looks like he barely needs to be told even once. He plants his palms on Drift’s thighs and immediately swallows the spike that’s been shoved in his face, taking all of it in in one agonizingly slow motion, pushing down until his mouth meets overheated silver pelvic plating and smeared lubricant. Drift finds, once Ratchet’s started to move, that the guilt is fading: the idea of Ratchet sucking off some frightening Decepticon just for a chance at life heats him up in a way he wasn’t expecting. And apparently, it’s doing wonders for Ratchet too, given how hungrily he works at the spike in his mouth.
“Better…” Drift groans, letting his head fall back. “That mouth is good for something other than talking.”
And then the door opens. It’s really not too odd, given Ratchet’s job. No such thing as locked doors when you’re the chief medical officer, after all.
“Raaaaatch, Swerve lost another arm wrestling bet and I think he popped something outta place—oh.” It’s Rodimus, who huffs as he enters the room. The counter is the only thing keeping him and Drift separated, and saving Ratchet’s dignity. “Hey, Drift. Is Ratchet in?”
“You know, Rodimus, no, he’s not,” Drift answers simply. Rodimus doesn’t seem to notice, but the very “Decepticon” tone is still present in his voice. And somehow, he keeps himself calm and even, even though Ratchet freezes in place. He moves a hand to rest on the back of Ratchet’s head, and pushes down a bit, encouraging him to keep moving. It likely only looks like a shift of weight from Rodimus’ perspective. “I think he mentioned something about going to check in on Rung? Or maybe he was going to talk to Magnus about a requisition order, I really couldn’t tell you for sure.”
“Ugh, okay,” Rodimus huffs. He leans against the opposite side of the counter. Oh, he wants to make conversation . “I can go find First Aid, I guess. To be fair, I’m pretty sure Swerve deserved it this time anyway.”
“That’s quite likely,” Drift agrees, watching Rodimus rather than Ratchet, though he tightens his grip slightly as he feels Ratchet’s fingers dig into his thighs. “But I’ll be honest with you, Rodimus, you caught me in the middle of preparing for my meditation for the day. I’d like to return to that.”
On the emphasized word, he shifts his weight, effectively shoving his hips forward and slamming himself into Ratchet’s mouth. He feels the medic catch himself before the force can knock his head against the cabinet and alert Rodimus. Drift doesn’t acknowledge Ratchet beyond that, and he’s all smiles as he continues. “If you don’t mind, captain.”
“Jeez, everyone’s so boring today!” Rodimus pushes himself back up from the counter. “I guess I’ll go bother someone less meditation-y until you get your fun back.”
“You do that, Rodimus. I’ll tell Ratchet you were looking for him when he comes back.” There’s a bit more mumbling, but eventually the door finally closes again, and Drift looks down. “Obedient little Autobot. You didn’t even cry for help. You may earn your life yet.”
Ratchet doesn’t react to the praise, just looks upward as he continues his task. The reaction, or rather, the lack thereof, makes Drift grin , baring those dental plates more prominently. Ratchet moans around the spike in his mouth, and pulls back farther than he has been, until he surrenders the whole length of Drift’s spike to open air before his throat claims it again. The brief sight of Ratchet, mouth hanging open, glossa slick with pink-tinted lubricant, a single thick strand of drool connecting the two of them, is almost enough to break Drift’s little Decepticon act. He lets out a shivering moan, and his spike twitches eagerly before Ratchet swallows it again. “ Ohhh … yes, good… I’m going to h-have to keep you if you continue like this.”
Ratchet hums then, letting the vibrations aid him as he works Drift’s spike. Notably, though, his hands — the very things that had started this mess — have yet to come into play. As Ratchet moves downward again, he finally manages to shake Drift’s act, as he grips the edge of the counter and gasps out a high pitched, “ ah—! ” It’s small, relatively quiet, but more Drift than Deadlock.
“You little…” Another brief stumble, as he tries to gather his intimidation again. “You’re fragged, Autobot. I’m never letting you go after this.”
He can feel old training creeping back into his head; point a weapon at Ratchet’s head and start counting down from sixty, for example. But that might need more discussion.
“ Faster ,” he growls instead.
Ratchet obeys, picking up his pace, finally lifting a hand to assist, closing it around the base of Drift’s spike. The other hand reaches up, arm wrapping slightly around the back of Drift’s thighs to grab hold of his aft and haul his hips in closer. Ratchet’s interface panel clicks open as he works, and slides back, exposing his own equipment to open air. Drift had been absolutely right, it seems: the medic is absolutely dripping lubricant, the excess already smearing on his plating and down his thighs.
“Good,” Drift growls. “ Very good.”
He feels so guilty for how wonderful this feels. The idea of Ratchet being his prisoner — being Deadlock’s prisoner — gets his spark pounding in a way that feels… wrong. Like he shouldn’t enjoy it, but he does. After a moment, though, his hips twitch, and Drift glares back down at his pet medic. “Show me you deserve my sloppy seconds, whore .”
It’s impossible to determine exactly what he’s trying to say, but Ratchet does mumble something around the length in his mouth. He releases his hold on Drift’s spike at that, though, so his other hand can drag Drift’s hips in closer and closer, letting the full length of Drift’s spike slide more and more easily back into his mouth and down his throat. It sends a shiver along Drift’s spine, and Drift moans at the attempt alone. It takes very little after that to completely send him over the edge, overload hitting him almost by surprise. He shoves Ratchet’s head flush against his hips, making sure he doesn’t even think of moving before Drift is finished.
“ Gooood …” he moans when he’s done, slowly releasing Ratchet to pull his spike free from the medic’s throat. It’s still standing at attention, dripping with lubricant and twitching from the excess of electricity. “Think you earned this yet, Autobot?”
Ratchet’s optics are wide and hazy and distant, probably not helped by the feedback from Drift’s overload, and his mouth still hanging open and dripping with lubricant as his glossa lolls uselessly out. He’s still staring directly at Drift’s spike, as if he’s starving and the lubricant it’s weeping is the only energon he’s seen in weeks. “… huh?”
“So much for that big brain of yours,” Drift growls, wrapping his lubricant slicked hand around his spike as he leans back against the counter again. He plants one of his feet into Ratchet’s chest and pushes him roughly onto his back with an excited growl. The noise Ratchet lets out as he’s shoved back is embarrassing and loud. “I already got what I needed anyway.”
“Nonono—” It’s honestly hard to tell if the panic is pretend or not, and it takes Ratchet an embarrassingly long time to push himself up and scramble back toward Drift, though that foot stops him from getting too close. “Please—!”
“Oh? So you do think you deserve an overload then?” He angles his hips and rests the end of his spike against Ratchet’s cheek. “If you can’t deliver a proper answer, Autobot, I’ll simply pass you along to someone else and let them decide what to do with you.”
“Yes.” As an effort to further sweeten the apology, Ratchet turns his head, dragging his glossa over what he can reach of Drift’s spike. “I’m sorry…”
Though the affection would certainly be appreciated normally, Drift grabs Ratchet roughly by the chevron on his forehead and shoves him back, giving himself just enough space to walk around behind Ratchet. The offending foot comes down in between Ratchet’s shoulders, shoving him facedown onto the ground. “Keep your head down and spread your legs, Autobot.”
Ratchet complies immediately, and Drift watches him with a fond smile that only manages to look terrifying with the character he’s playing. He kneels, pushing the medic’s knees farther apart with his own and yanking his hips slightly higher to line his spike up with the entrance to the medic’s valve. He waits as long as he can, watching Ratchet and his equipment twitch eagerly, and then finally pushes in until their hips meet. The accompanying moan that Ratchet lets out is long, loud, and low, as the length of Drift’s spike settles inside him.
“Good,” he growls. “Now, nice and loud for me, Autobot. Be a good little prisoner.”
And with that, he moves, fast and hard with barely any preparation or care. Ratchet practically howls beneath him, his head falling back and knocking hard against the floor. He’s honestly not sure if he’s going so fast because he’s playing up the bit or if he just knows they’re both already close to overload. Drift frankly couldn’t care either way at the moment. Ratchet is warm and tight and desperate, and his noises are sure to alert someone to their activities.
Part of him hopes Rodimus is back in the hall. He’d never let Ratchet live this down.
“D- Deadlock …!” Ratchet yelps, and a part of him knows that the name should bother him. That part dies in a matter of seconds. A hand is suddenly at Ratchet’s throat, gripping it tight as Drift bares his fangs and growls like an animal as he ruts against the medic. He looks wild, feral, angry, and the expression just barely shifts when his optics cross and he cries out as overload hits him for a second time.
Ratchet shouts then too, the feedback apparently hastening his own overload. The siren built into his system actually goes off: it’s the chirp feature, but still. Drift actually laughs at that, beneath his desperate moaning and twitching hips. He uses his grip on Ratchet’s throat to turn his head to the side, and he leans in. He swallows up the noises Ratchet is making with a deep, hungry kiss, moaning into it as their shared climax starts to come slowly to an end.
“… the siren was cute,” he teases when they finally part. “I don’t get to hear that often. I’m guessing I did okay?”
“Yes,” Ratchet groans, turning his face away and reaching up to cover his optics as Drift dismounts and they both sit up and back on his knees. “But I’m going to need you to pretend you didn’t hear that.”
“Didn’t hear what?” Drift hums and wraps his arms around Ratchet, pulling him close for another kiss. “See? I can be nice.”
“That’s better.” Ratchet allows the second kiss. “Where did that come from?”
“Yeah, that. I uh... I’m not really sure, actually.” Drift looks to the side with a nervous laugh. “I just thought of it and… went for it. W-was it too much? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No, no, of course not, love. I know you wouldn’t hurt me, even like that.” He reaches up again, resting his hand along Drift’s jaw. “I quite enjoyed that, actually. We have to talk about all that, though, because while I’m not upset at the surprise, if we’re going to do that again, I’d like a sort of a foundation to work on.”
“Yes, of course. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to—” Ratchet isn’t scolding him, but Drift feels like he should be. He quickly looks away again. “Of course. I’m sorry.”
“ Drift. ” Ratchet catches Drift’s face with his other hand as well. “It’s alright . I promise, I liked it. It just caught me by surprise, that’s all. And not an unpleasant surprise, either.”
That draws a nervous whine from Drift, but he does finally smile and look back at Ratchet. “I just… I worry. About you. About us.” Then he giggles. “Rodimus wasn’t planned, by the way.”
“I didn’t think he was.” Ratchet leans up to kiss Drift on the cheek. “I was sure he was going to look over that counter and see us.”
“See you ,” Drift corrects. “He’d only go after the one of us that would be embarrassed. And I’m very good at hiding my emotions when I want to.”
“You mean to tell me you’d be fine with the Magnus lecture that would’ve come with Rodimus catching you with your spike out?” Ratchet challenges. “Distracting the ship’s medical officer while he was on call and prevented him from responding to an injury? Magnus would be on you like ugly on a Quintesson.”
“You’re probably right,” Drift laughs deviously. “But if a Magnus lecture is the price I have to pay to see your face after getting caught with a spike down your throat? I’d pay it a hundred times over. You’re cute when you’re embarrassed anyway.”
“ You !” Ratchet yelps, smacking at Drift’s chest. “I’ll out us to Rodimus myself and sit through whatever lecture he sends us to Magnus for just to ensure you have to hear it too.”
“Careful, pet,” Drift chuckles, baring his fangs again as he reaches to grip Ratchet’s chin. “I may just need to punish you if you don’t behave.”