if that's the case, won't you dance with me?
transformers ;; dratchet ;; wc: 2756 ;; NSFW, fluffy-ish
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It’s not that Drift was unaware of Ratchet’s… reputation. Either reputation, actually, though he long understood that The Hatchet was a projection of his rather awful berthside manner. No, Drift had long disregarded that one. Ratchet’s other reputation, however, Drift had no way to prove or disprove. Just a longstanding series of rumours and a joke or two from Ratchet himself about “back in the day.”
But surely some jokes, a partier did not make. It was rude to assume anything about anyone’s past proclivities based on rumours and jokes, including Ratchet. Drift wouldn’t stoop to such a level.
When videos started surfacing, that was when Drift started thinking there might be something to those little “party ambulance” rumours. And by “when videos started surfacing” he means “when he found the videos while looking for fap material.”
Primus. Is he a bad person for this? Ratchet looks young in the videos– his frame is the same as it was all those years ago, when he– when he. Of course Drift would recognize him. These had to be taken not all too long before that. Meaning– meaning university.
Ratchet either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that he’s being filmed. Honestly, the video quality is actually quite poor, clearly taken in the heat of the moment. It’s a shot of Ratchet from behind, bouncing up and down, up and down on the nameless mech’s spike. He’s panting and whining and moaning, yes yes yes, don’t stop, feels so good, like he’s in heat. The nameless mech doesn’t say a word, but he does grope Ratchet’s aft. Drift scoffs. Classless. As if he wouldn’t also do that.
With how out-of-the-picture the nameless mech is, it’s so easy for Drift to imagine that he’s the one laying back, that it’s Ratchet bouncing up and down on his spike, moaning for him–
Drift, Drift–
“Drift! Drift, come in!”
Drift jumps, immediately shutting off the video and retracting his spike and resetting his vocals and he really wasn’t doing anything he promises, before finally answering his comm. “Drift speaking. Is there a situation?”
“Drift, you need to go to the medbay like, now,” Rodimus tells him, sighing into the comm. “Ratchet keeps calling me and saying he’s been pinging you? He’s gonna have a fucking fit if you miss your physical again. And TBH,” did he just say TBH out loud, “I’m gonna be pissed too. You have like, ten minutes to get to medbay before I go to your hab and drag you there myself.”
Drift groans. Right. Right, ‘cause that was today. “I’m going, I’m going. Drift out.”
~~~~
“There you are!” Ratchet shouts, the minute Drift enters. “Y’know, I was anticipating actually having a good day today, when even Rodimus showed up on time. But nope, can’t ever keep a schedule straight.”
Drift’s finials droop a bit. “Sorry, Ratch.”
The medic huffs. “Yeah, yeah. Get on the berth, I do have other patients today.” He grumbles. “Not for a bit, but I do.”
Drift does as he’s told, and takes a glance around the medbay as he climbs up. “Where’s Aid and Ambulon?”
Ratchet sets out his tools, taking his seat next to the berth. “Said they were goin’ on break. Probably at Swerve’s.” He shrugs. “It’s a slow day, basically just you lot–” Lost Light command, he means– “and a few other mechs.”
“Makes sense,” Drift nods, and then steels himself and prepares his facade of being extremely normal after just jacking off to the mech about to do medical work on him.
Primus. He can’t do this.
“Your plating’s quite warm,” Ratchet huffs. “Normally if it’s this warm, your cooling fans should have clicked on. Have you noticed any trouble with them coming on, recently?” Ratchet asks, activating the manual retraction of Drift’s paneling, revealing his medical ports.
Drift squirms a bit, and Ratchet puts a servo on his torso, to keep him still. Drift forces his cooling fans to not activate. “No, uh. No trouble with those recently.”
Ratchet hums, reaching for a two-ended cable. “See, I know Rodimus tends to run hotter than usual, but I don’t have that recorded for you. Seems best to plug in and check your internal temperature, just in case.”
“No!” Drift shouts, sitting upright very slightly. Ratchet backs up at the movement, yanking his hand back from Drift’s torso. “No, it’s seriously nothing to be worried about. You don’t need to plug in.”
Ratchet squints. “Drift, you’re not normally so up-in-arms about me plugging in. You realize how suspicious this looks, right.”
Drift does. “Ratchet, please trust me, it’s nothing. You don’t need to plug in.”
Ratchet raises an optical ridge. “Mhm. I’m sure. Drift, I’m a doctor. If you’re overheating, I need to make sure you aren’t gonna melt your own circuits.”
“Ratch, you really don’t–”
“Hush up.” And then Ratchet is plugging one end of the two-way cable into Drift’s medical port, and another end of it into his own. Drift sees no point, then, at hiding the mortification he’s experiencing, because Ratchet is going to feel it anyway. In fact, Ratchet does feel it, and he scoffs. “Drift, you really don’t need to be so worried. It’s standard practice for a physical.”
Drift keeps quiet, raising his servos to cover his face, which Ratchet thankfully does not scold him for. Ratchet runs through him, pulls up his diagnostics, and hums. “You are running much hotter. Drift, I need you to be honest with me here, do you know why your temperature is so hiked?”
Drift exvents, and lowers his hands from his faceplates. He can do this. He can do this! Ratchet is a doctor, and really he doesn’t need to go into detail. It’ll be fine. Ratchet, I was jacking off. Probably shouldn’t say it like that, that’s very unprofessional. Ratchet, I was masturbating. Is that too straightforward? Ratchet, I was getting off. Is that fine?
“Drift?”
Oh Primus he’s taking too long.
“Ratchet,” he sighs, “I was… doing things. Before this.” Oh. Oh Primus no, that’s not how he was supposed to say it. Why did he say it like that?
Ratchet raises an optical ridge. “Yeah? Doing things?”
Drift nods. He’s experiencing a whole new level of mortification which Ratchet can definitely feel through him.
“Drift,” Ratchet questions, “I know you’re not on drugs. I know you aren’t. If you were I would have noticed immediately. Just tell me what you were doing.”
Oh, he can’t do this. “Ratchet I was– I was getting off.” That’s fine. That’s fine! That’s not even more mortifying. That’s fine. It’s over.
“Oh,” Ratchet lets out, “I– I see. Yes, that would raise your temperature. That makes sense.” Ratchet huffs. “You probably also cut off your cooling fans on purpose, then. You oughta let them go, staying too hot for too long can end up damaging your circuits and interior plating.”
Drift nods, and then does as he’s told. The sound of cooling fans permeates the overall quiet of the medbay. “I’m– I’m very sorry.”
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” Ratchet tells him, though doesn’t he himself look a little… off-kilter? Doesn’t he also look a little pink in the faceplates? “Y’know, I’ve seen a lot of mechs injure themselves that way, so really just hearing that you’re getting up to it in the privacy of your own hab isn’t anything to be worried over. In fact, you oughta keep it in your hab.” He pulls out a small tool, one to get in-between his transformation seams, and notably does not unplug himself from Drift. “My point is that you’re fine.”
“Of course,” Drift nods. “You– you’ve seen a lot, I’m sure.” He’s just trying to make conversation, trying to distract from literally everything that’s going on right now.
Ratchet smirks. “Yeah, I’ve seen quite a thing or two in my day. You ever seen a mech slice their own spike off?” Drift’s optics widen, and he shakes his head. “Ha! Yeah, pray you don’t end up doing that to yourself, swordsmech.” He smiles. “Oh, Primus. One time, back in university–”
Drift’s fans kick up, then, against his own will. They do so to such an extent that it actually cuts Ratchet off, and the medic notices, and Drift tries to force them back down as fast as he can, but it’s too late, the damage is done.
“Drift,” Ratchet starts, only for Drift to cut him off.
“Please don’t mention them.”
“Drift,” Ratchet continues anyway, “your fans…”
“Please don’t mention them.”
“When you said you were– were getting off,” he continues, leaning back, and resets his vocals, coughing into his fist. “I know there are videos out there, Drift.” He says, quieter than anything else he’s said. “I’m not– I’m not accusing you of anything, it just. Would explain, y’know, why you’ve been so hesitant.”
Drift squirms. “Yeah.”
Ratchet’s optics widen. “Yeah?”
“I– I found some. On the net. I’m sorry, Ratchet.”
The medic’s optics fall half-lidded, and he lets out an exvent. “No, you don’t need to apologize. They’re out there, I don’t mind, and if you do anything with them that’s your own business. I suppose I just– wanted to know.”
Drift, then, raises an optical ridge of his own. “Why did you want to know?”
Ratchet scoffs, looking away. “No reason.”
“Are you embarrassed about it?” Drift asks, and sits up fully. “I can mention it to Magnus, we can have them taken down. I know you said you don’t mind that they’re up, but if it bothers you, we can have them taken down.”
“It’s not that,” Ratchet admits after a moment, turning back to look at Drift. “I’m serious, I don’t mind them. I was just curious.”
“But why?”
“Drift…”
“Please?” Drift asks, “I know– it’s not really my business, I know. But if you need to talk about it you can tell me. I’m not going to, to lose respect for you, or anything like that.” And then, quietly, despite wanting to smack himself in the head about it, “I don’t think I could ever lose respect for you.” Not after what you did for me.
Ratchet’s optics glance around, and he lets out an exvent, shoulders slumping. “Drift, do you think I’m attractive?”
What? “What?”
“Nothing! Nothing nevermind forget about it.”
“No, no,” Drift asks, swinging his legs down, hanging off the berth, so he can look at Ratchet directly. “No, what do you mean? I told you I was getting off to–” to a video of you from university. “–That.”
“Yes, but,” Ratchet asks, and he sounds so flustered, and Drift can feel it, they’re still plugged in together, he can feel that embarrassment. “I mean me, now. Do you think I’m attractive.”
“Yes?” Drift admits, before even thinking about it.
Ratchet’s faceplates become a brighter pink. There’s no doubt about it now, he’s blushing. “Oh.”
“I’m sorry.”
“NO,” Ratchet shouts. “No, I mean. It’s. Thank you. I’m– I’m happy about that.”
“You’re happy about it?” Drift asks, and Ratchet looks down, nodding. “You’re happy that I think you’re attractive.” Another nod. “Am I attractive?”
“Drift–”
“You asked me, now I’m asking you,” the swordsmech figures.
It takes Ratchet a moment, but eventually, “Yes, Drift, you’re very attractive.”
Drift is normal about that.
“WHY did your temperature hike so bad when I said that.” Ratchet moves to cover his faceplates, now, pink covering his cheeks. “Why did that affect you so badly.”
“Sorry, Ratch,” Drift smiles, and he’s almost laughing. He feels lightheaded. “Can’t help it. You have that effect on me.”
“Be professional,” Ratchet hisses, and Drift actually does laugh, then.
“You’re saying that now?” He smiles, and leans back on the berth. “C’mon, doc, you have other patients today, better finish me off. Up. Finish me up.”
“I will finish you off,” Ratchet scoffs, and then there’s another manual override, and– oh, hello, that is Drift’s spike. Huh. Haven’t seen you since five pages ago.
“Ratchet?” Drift asks, sitting upright again, because hello? Hello?
“I told you that having your temperature hiked for too long can do damage,” Ratchet huffs, moving to lean over Drift. “The way I see it, there is a very simple solution to you being so overheated. Right?”
Drift is reeling. “Are you going to suck my spike?”
“Do you want me to?” Ratchet asks, a servo resting on Drift’s thigh.
Drift’s engine revs, which he wasn’t trying to do, but Ratchet shudders in a way that tells him that he liked that sound. “Yeah, fuck yeah, I would like that.” He moves a servo to rest on Ratchet’s helm– not pressing, just resting it there, gently.
Ratchet exvents, and very gently laps at the tip of it, and Drift, unable to help himself, bucks his hips forward. Ratchet chuckles, one servo wrapping around the base, and takes the head into his mouth. Drift lets out a groan, grip on Ratchet’s helm tightening slightly, as the medic bobs up and down, taking more and more of it into his mouth with each. Ratchet hums around it, the sensation causing Drift to groan once again, rolling his hips up into it gently, not wanting to hurt the medic.
Ratchet raises his head off momentarily, putting his servo to work, rubbing up and down. This is going to give Drift fantasy fuel for eons. “You seem to like it,” Ratchet chuckles, and Drift nods, biting his own servo to keep quiet. “Want me to keep going?”
Drift nods. “Ratch, I’m– I’m already not gonna last long.” And he’s not– this has all been, in essence, foreplay to him. He edged himself, ran here, and got teased, and now he’s getting a blowjob about it.
“You’re doing such a good job,” Ratchet tells him, and then sinks down again, running his glossa along the underside as he does. Drift whines, and again bucks his hips involuntarily. He’s about to choke out an apology when Ratchet looks up at him, really looks at him, and when he raises up, he does not sink back down. Just staying there, intake rested at the tip of the swordsmech’s spike.
“Ratch,” Drift starts, “do you want me to–”
Ratchet nods (as much as he can while his mouth is full of spike.) Drift resets his vocals, and grips Ratchet’s helm tighter. “You asked for it,” he huffs, and bucks his hips upwards, into the medic’s mouth. And then he does it again. And again.
He’s facefucking Ratchet. The medic’s throat cabling opens up with no trouble, taking everything Drift has to give him, and Ratchet doesn’t even flinch when Drift’s spike housing meets his intake, he doesn’t flinch as Drift abuses that wet heat. He’s facefucking Ratchet.
He’s gonna overload.
“Ratchet,” He gasps, “Ratchet, Ratchet, fuck–” he moans, whines, and speeds up his thrusting, bucking into Ratchet’s intake with everything he has, like this is the only time he’ll get to do it. He hopes it’s not. He hopes he’ll get to do it again, and again, and again. His charge is funneling back and forth, from him, to Ratchet, back to him.
He’s gonna overload.
He yanks Ratchet off of him, holding his helm tightly, keeping the medic– the medic, with a string of fluid hanging from his intake– positioned just above his spike, as he wraps a servo around it, tugging on it. On every downstroke, his hand meets Ratchet’s, the medic’s servo holding him at his base. “Ratchet,” he sighs, “Ratchet–”
“So good,” the medic tells him, his vocals straining, underlined with static. “So sweet, Drift–”
And then he’s overloading, he’s overloading, onto Ratchet’s face–
He’s almost knocked offline from the strength of it. He never thought he’d end up here. He never thought he’d get to do this. He feels like he’s in heaven, like he’s on cloud nine. He crashes down when his optics stop glitching and oh Primus he just overloaded onto Ratchet’s face.
“Oh, fuck,” Drift exvents, “I’m– I’m so sorry, I didn’t, uh–”
“Hey,” Ratchet tells him. “You’re good. You’re alright.” He moves a servo to wipe some of the transfluid away from his optics, and then, in a moment which leaves Drift’s engine stalling, he licks the transfluid off of his servo.
“Ratchet–”
“Do you wanna go to Swerve’s?” Ratchet asks, continuing to do so. “After my shift, I mean. We should meet up after this.”
Drift resets his vocals. His fans, after joors of strain, are finally starting to calm down. “Yeah,” he exvents, “yeah, I would like that.”