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“Don’t cover your face, I want to see you.”
This was stupid. He looked ridiculous, and was only looking moreso by the second as Ratchet continued to dress him up.
His body didn’t agree, and to his shame he could feel lubricant begin to wet his valve lips, a dribble almost escaping when Ratchet gently pulled the stocking up his leg, the silky texture setting off every fine sensor from pede to thigh.
When Ratchet stroked up his leg, pushing and pulling the fabric into the right places, the dribble of lubricant escaped, and he could feel the wet bead trail down his thigh to the top of the stocking. Ratchet merely wiped the fluid up with his finger, then clipped the stocking to the suspenders dangling from the corset tied snugly around his waist.
A soft kiss to his thigh, just below the top band of the stocking, and Drift tried not to whine with arousal and embarrassment. Primus but he shouldn’t be as revved up as this, not for some dirty little fetish such as this, and he still couldn’t understand what Ratchet was doing, indulging his awful little secret like this.
But Ratchet had found out. Found his small collection of real books and illicit datapads, full of pretty and interesting organics, all dressed up in elaborate costumes and outfits, covered in an array of fabrics and materials that Drift itched to touch. His own scraps of worn fabric could never compare, but he’d always liked to hold them to his cheek at night, or gently rub himself with it while he brought himself to overload.
Ratchet had found out, and rather than be kicked from the medic’s berth, he’d merely hummed, and asked if he could keep on of the books for reference. Drift had been too mortified to say no, and Ratchet had just smiled, the way he did when Drift said something stupid like how much he liked the taste of med-grade, or that the smell of a clean medibay made him feel so safe. And then Ratchet had held him, and worshipped his frame, until Drift forgot about his awful fantasies, and he could hope that ratchet wouldn’t bring it up again.
This, wasn’t ‘not bringing it up’. This was Ratchet placing a box on his lap while he struggled to meditate one evening, and Drift opening it to find the most spark-stopping sight of his life; piles of fabrics, soft ones and tougher ones, all crisp and brand new, and likely to have cost an absolute fortune if the price he’d paid for his tiny scraps were anything to judge by.
And beneath all the lovely folded cloth, that Ratchet quietly suggested he decorate his berth with, were a pile of ‘undergarments’, the sort he’d seen on Earth and a few other organic planets, and his processor stalled when he realised they were in his size, in reds and blacks to perfectly compliment his frame. Ratchet had been gentle when he coaxed him to stand up, and even more so when he took the clothing and began to dress Drift up in it, and Drift swore he’d never felt the medic so at peace, as when he was fingering the lacing of the corset, or stroking over the lace as he pulled the stockings up his legs.
“Lift this leg please”. Drift obeyed without thinking, slowly brought from his thoughts to realise both he and Ratchet were almost vibrating with charge. At his pedes Ratchet stared and stroked over his foot, fingers gliding over each panel and seam, practically worshipping him and the almost translucent fabric that clung to his plating.
Drift watched as Ratchet slipped on a cuff restraint, pretty and edged in lace, it was nothing like the metal restraints they usually used, and Drift only felt himself grow wetter as it was slipped on, and Ratchet fastened it comfortably, sealing it all with a kiss. A kiss to the cuff, a kiss to his ankle and then one to the top of his pede, and then he carefully lowered his foot, to bring the other up and do it again.
And then Ratchet stood, oh so slowly, dragging his fingers over every inch of his legs and hips, until he was resting his hands on his waist, and Drift could feel the way his hands trembled, even through the corset. They stood like that a moment, and then Ratchet seemed to snap back to himself, and those careful hands moved to his arms, trailed down to his wrists where he toyed with his hands.
“Ratchet?” His voice was a whisper, but his question was forgotten as Ratchet pulled out a set of gloves, as lacy and soft as the stockings, and slipped them over Drift’s fingers. Ratchet moaned as he laced their fingers together, and Drift tried not to gasp as he felt the fabric glide and press against the palm of his hand. They stood again, trembling and holding each other until Ratchet moved on, once more bringing up some cuffs, which he locked around around Drift’s wrists with a sigh.
“Just… just a couple more things… Please?” Drift had never heard Ratchet so quiet and unsure, but he nodded, trusting and somewhat excited. The embarrassment was still there, a hot knot in his tanks, but it was hard to feel any shame when he felt so good, and when Ratchet was clearly loving every second of this, for whatever reason.
The next thing was a scrap of fabric, so finely woven that it was almost see through in Ratchet’s hands, and Drift watched eagerly as the medic dropped back to his knees, and pressed the fabric oh so close to his charged array.
“I… wasn’t sure how this would work so…” Ratchet mumbled, but any answer Drift might’ve had was forgotten when Ratchet pressed the fabric over his valve, and the soft touch against his swollen lips was him stumbling, grasping onto Ratchet’s shoulders as the medic worked at a torturously slow pace. Little stings, that tied on one side of his hip, under the suspenders, and Drift had to fight off overload every time the fabric moved over his array, brushed his lips and whispered against his aching node.
He almost didn’t mange to hold the overload in, when Ratchet tied off the other side, trapping his hard spike in the fabric, so that every ridge rubbed against it, and Drift had never felt so aroused in his life when Ratchet pressed a kiss to his node, and another to his leaking spike.
“Ratchet, please!”
“Just a little more, just hold on just a little more.” The words were whispered against his spike, and Drift keened quietly as the warm vents passed through the thin fabric. “Thank you, thank you so much Drift…” Drift didn’t have much time to contemplate what Ratchet was thanking him for, before his medic stood, and pulled him into a soft kiss, and Drift’s mind fell blank, too consumed with the sensations dancing over his frame, and the glossa stroking against his lips.
His vents hitched, when a careful touch to his throat was followed by the soft glide of a fabric collar, and Drift shuttered his optics to fully enjoy the sensation. The gentle glide against his neck cables, the trembling of Ratchet’s hands as he fastened it, and the way he could hear his lover’s hitched vents as it was locked in place. ‘So beautiful’. The whisper was almost silent, and he could only hear it because of how close Ratchet’s mouth was to his audial, and he choked back a sob as he felt the fabric between his legs catch the small gush of lubricants the words caused.
“Just… Just one more thing, please?” Ratchet asked as he pulled away, and Drift nodded shakily. “Thank you… This… I hope it fits…”
‘It’, as it turned out when Drift turned to look, had his vents stalling and his charge almost tipping him into overload on the spot. A dress, of sorts, that Drift eagerly moved towards when Ratchet held it up. They were both careful as it was slipped on, over one arm and then the other, and it wrapped around his front to be secured by a wide sash. That alone felt exquisite, but the layers of lace, that gave the skirt so much body, and the way they brushed against his thighs and trapped spike, had Drift collapsing into ratchet’s arms as soon as the sash was secured.
Drift didn’t look, as Ratchet manoeuvred them towards what Drift knew to be a full length mirror in the corner of their room. And when Drift was turned to look, Ratchet behind him and staring so hungrily at him, he could help but try and turn to hide, his face in his gloved hands as he felt the embarrassment rising up, despite his array throbbing with need.
“Don’t cover your face, I want to see you.” The words were whispered, and Ratchet was gentle as he pulled Drift’s face back around to the mirror, so that they could both watch and appreciate the sight of him. The hand on Drift’s chin was so gentle, even as he felt and saw the one on his waist twitch and stroke with the need to touch, and when Drift was looking, unlikely to pull his gaze away from the debauched sight, the hand dropped from his chin, to reverently touch and stroke over his chest, down to his thighs to slip under the skirt.
The overload came so easily when Ratchet teased through the fabric and brushed over his node, and Drift clung in his arms, unable to look away while he writhed in his lover’s arms. Carefully, so very carefully, Ratchet brought them to the floor, and they spent the rest of the night watching as Drift was teased into a whimpering mess again and again.