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Drift had just settled in beside Ratchet on the medic's couch after a long and very frustrating duty shift when his com pinged with the signal for an urgent incoming message from Rodimus. He swore and snatched up his datapad to open the file, already jumping to his feet in anticipation of having to rush out to deal with an emergency.
So when he only took two steps toward the door before stopping dead in his tracks and staring down at the pad with an increasingly incredulous expression, naturally that got Ratchet's attention. "What's up?" the medic asked, also getting to his feet and coming over to stand beside his mate. "Everything all right?"
Drift cleared the datapad so fast that he nearly cracked the screen. "Fine," he said between clenched denta. "Everything's fine. It's nothing."
Ratchet pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh, that was totally convincing," he said, every word dripping sarcasm. "You wanna try that again without the lying this time?"
Drift didn't meet his optics–he couldn't, not with… that in his processor. "It's nothing," he mumbled, gripping the datapad tighter and wishing he could wipe his memory banks of what Rodimus had sent him. He loved his friend, he truly did, but for Primus' sake, sometimes he could happily throttle the other speedster. Where in the pit had he even found a file like that? And to send it when he had to know Drift would be with Ratchet–and to send it as a priority one message to ensure he'd open it in front of him! "Just Rodimus being… Rodimus," he finished lamely. "I'll deal with him tomorrow. Don't worry, I won't maim him badly enough to bother you in the medbay."
And slag it all, now Ratchet looked intrigued. He held out a hand. "From zero to grievous bodily harm in ten seconds? This I gotta see. Hand it over."
Drift groaned. He was no damn good at telling his lover no and Ratchet was usually very careful not to take advantage of that, but he could tell from the gleam in the medic's optics that this was not going to be one of those times. "Ratchet," he said, trying without much success to keep the pleading note out of his voice, "you are much happier not knowing, I promise."
Ratchet waggled his fingers insistently–gimme gimme. "Still don't believe you. C'mon, you know you're going to give it to me eventually, so let's skip to the end of this standoff. Lemme see."
"It's embarrassing," Drift moaned, but he let Ratchet reach out and tug the datapad from him.
"I'm the Chief Medical Officer, love," Ratchet said as he keyed in Drift's passcode–they had no secrets at this point. "I don't even remember what embarrassment feels like."
Drift covered his face with his hands. "I think you might in about half a minute," he muttered, closing his eyes and waiting for the explosion.
Half a minute ticked by, and Ratchet didn't say a word.
A minute, still nothing.
By the time two full minutes had passed, Drift couldn't take it anymore. He onlined his optics, fully expecting to see Ratchet staring at the datapad with some combination of shock, disgust, and offense on his face.
Instead, the medic was scrolling through the message with bright optics and a deeply amused grin.
Drift stared. "You're not seriously looking through the whole thing," he said, reaching out to snatch his datapad back to see what his lover was really looking at.
Ratchet didn't let it go, but he did let the swordsmech tilt it enough to see what was on the screen. Twenty-nine blazing hot new interface positions guaranteed to blow your lover's processor! flashed across the top of the screen, just as it had when Drift had opened the supposedly-urgent command message.
Ratchet had already scrolled through to number sixteen.
"Oh Primus, you are looking through the whole thing," Drift groaned, trying to take the pad away from him. "Come on, give it here, let me delete that. Rodimus is an idiot. If we ignore him, maybe he'll go away."
But again, the medic didn't let it go. "Seriously, he thinks these are new?" he said, grinning and flipping back to position twelve. "This one, now, this brings back some memories. I had this roommate in medical school who–"
"Please don't tell me," Drift interrupted, refusing to look at whatever crazy position the two mechs were pictured in. "Every story about your med school days ends in an orgy."
Ratchet laughed. "Not all of them… okay, a lot of them," he corrected when Drift raised an eyebrow at him. The fragger didn't look the slightest bit ashamed of it, either. "Hey, I was young, everyone was consenting, and they didn't call me the Party Ambulance for nothing. Are you seriously embarrassed by these?" he asked before the swordsmech could respond to that, flipping from page to page. "I'm sure you've seen pretty much all of these before."
He tried not to bristle. Neither of them mentioned Drift's past often, but his history as a buymech wasn't a secret between them, and Ratchet never acted like he was ashamed to be with a former prostitute. Still, while Drift had indeed had a few clients who liked to get a bit adventurous, most of those encounters had gone the same way–him on his knees with a spike down his throat.
They weren't pleasant memories and he pushed them away. "No, I'm embarrassed that Rodimus thinks we need that," he said, which was half of the truth. He pointed to the top of the message, which their esteemed captain had tagged with a message that Drift found nearly as embarrassing as any picture of fragging could ever be. "You're telling me this doesn't offend you even a little bit?"
Maybe you can show this to that stuffy old mate of yours. Couldn't hurt to get him to branch out a bit in the berth, right?
But instead of being angry, Ratchet chuckled again. "That doesn't offend me nearly as much as finding out that you're not bragging to your best friend about our berthroom exploits. I'm hurt."
Drift's face went hot. "That's private!" he protested, wondering when he'd completely lost the ability to predict Ratchet's reactions because the medic hadn't said one single thing he'd expected since he'd opened this damn message. "Do you brag to the rest of the crew about me?"
Ratchet's grin grew and he gave Drift a lingering once-over, optics caressing his every curve from head to toe. "Love, I don't need to brag about you. They've all got optics. They can see the way you move. No one needs to be told that I hit the 'facing jackpot."
And now Drift was really embarrassed. He covered his face with both hands and tried really, really hard not to think about the entire crew of the Lost Light staring at his aft and picturing Ratchet fragging him through the berth. "Oh, slag off."
The next thing he knew, Ratchet was scooping him up in his arms. Drift yelped at the unexpected grab–medics were a lot stronger than they looked, and Ratchet had no problem picking him up and carrying him around whenever he wanted. Drift grabbed his shoulders, feeling the familiar swoop of excitement in his midsection every time Ratchet demonstrated just how easily the medic could dominate him, carrying him wherever he wanted and doing whatever he liked to the swordsmech when they got there.
Drift couldn't even try to pretend that didn't spin his crankshaft hard.
This time Ratchet took Drift back to the couch, sat down, and settled the speedster in his lap. His arms banded tight around his waist in a hold Drift felt absolutely no desire to escape. "It's true," Ratchet said, and kissed Drift before he could protest. "You're gorgeous," he said, and kissed him again, lips lingering this time. "You're sexy as hell," he murmured when he pulled away, and yet again he stopped any reply Drift might've made with another kiss. He pulled back and gazed at Drift, his optics bright and possessive. "And I still can't believe you're mine."
This time Drift kissed him, long and deeply. They were both venting hard by the time he pulled away and rested his forehelm against Ratchet's chevron. "Goes both ways. You're beautiful, Ratch," he whispered, meaning it. He thought Ratchet was the most handsome mech he'd ever seen, even if the white amublance looked at him like he was insane whenever he said it… just like he was doing now, actually. "I'm the lucky one here. One day I'll convince you of it."
Ratchet shook his head, but at least he was smiling, and that was progress. "As long as you think so," he said, and before Drift could start in on another of his attempts to convince the medic of how attractive he was, he dropped the datapad in Drift's lap. "Pick one," he invited.
Drift stared at him, more than a little shocked at the suggestion. What little he'd seen of the positions before he'd offlined the screen had been… "I'm not sure all of those are even possible," he hedged, not picking up the pad.
"Won't Rodimus be surprised to find out that I'm the one begging you to try a new position," Ratchet teased gently, and the swordsmech snorted and shook his head.
"If you tell him that, you're not getting anything in any position for a month," he threatened.
Ratchet just laughed. They both knew that was an empty threat. Much as Drift teased Ratchet about being insatiable in the berth, his libido matched his lover's. "Come on, at least look through them with me," he cajoled as one of those talented hands caressed the speedster's thigh. "Maybe you'll see something you like. Think of it as inspiration. Maybe old mechs like me need a little help to get in the mood, hmm?"
"We're the same age, remember? Besides, you don't need any more inspiration. You're pretty much always inspired," Drift said, rolling his optics, but that definitely wasn't a complaint. He loved every second they spent in the berth, 'facing or not. He couldn't get enough of the wonder of Ratchet actually wanting him.
"Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? Of course I'm always inspired," Ratchet said, grinning and nuzzling at his throat.
Drift shivered and picked up the datapad. Looking at racy pictures had never been much of a turn-on for him, but apparently the idea of looking at this file with Drift was really revving the medic's engine, and the hand on his thigh and the little kisses Ratchet was trailing over his neck were more than enough to get Drift's own blades spinning. Moments like these, he'd do pretty much anything his lover wanted as long as it meant Ratchet would keep touching him.
Ratchet propped his chin on Drift's shoulder as the speedster reopened the file. The first position on the list wasn't that outrageous, just a little silly-looking–the top mech spiking his lover while the mech on bottom stretched his closed legs up over his head, holding his ankles together in front of his own face. "That… isn't sexy," Drift said, trying not to giggle. "I don't think I'd like being folded in half."
Ratchet snickered and nuzzled at his audial flare. "No, I can't say that one appeals to me either. I couldn't kiss you, for one thing, and for another, your legs go crazy when you overload. I'd end up getting kicked in the face."
Drift laughed. He couldn't argue–it was true, and the harder he overloaded, the more he kicked. Sometimes Ratchet had to physically hold him down, which didn't help all that much because Drift found the medic's strength sexy as hell. "Can't help it. I wouldn't kick so much if you weren't so damn good at overloading me," he said, and heard Ratchet's cooling fans start up.
"Mmm, sweet talk like that will get you far," Ratchet purred in his audial. "Next."
If the first one was a little silly, the second one actually made Drift laugh out loud. "Oh, come on," he scoffed as the picture of the two lovers filled the screen. This time they were lying at right angles to each other, their bodies making a plus-shape. They touched nowhere but their hips, where apparently one was spiking the other, although the physics of that didn't seem to work in Drift's head. "That's just weird. Why would anyone want to 'face like that?"
Ratchet was laughing, too. "Yeah, I'm definitely not interested in this one. One of us would end up with a sprained spike and that's just no fun for anyone. Next?"
This one was familiar. The lovers were pictured lying face-to-face, legs tangled, spikes pressed together and their fingers entwined as they stroked them together. "This one's fun," Drift said, his own fans kicking on more from memories than the picture. When he and Ratchet were both tired after long duty shifts, sometimes they would do this. It was soft and slow, and Drift loved watching Ratchet's optics haze with pleasure from the dual stimulation of his spike and his sensitive hands. Intimate and tender, with lots of kissing and touching, it was definitely a favorite.
Ratchet seemed to feel the same way. He cupped Drift's chin in one of those beautiful hands and turned him for a kiss that spun long and deep. "Putting that on the short list of options," he whispered against Drift's lips when he finally broke the kiss. "Next one."
The pictures clicked past, some erotic, some ridiculous. Drift was particularly fond of the ones of the illustrated lovers shown fragging up against a wall (Ratchet liked that one quite a bit, too, even though he always complained that Drift was so wriggly that he was hard to hold–the swordsmech wasn't fooled by his tone, though, knowing how much the medic loved making Drift writhe on his spike), or leaning over a desk (one of Drift's favorite fantasies was catching Ratchet alone in the medbay, bending him over his desk, and fragging him until he couldn't walk, even though he hadn't managed to make that a reality yet), or lying back-to-chest in the berth and getting spiked from behind, sweet and romantic.
But then there were the strange ones–one mech standing up but bent all the way over, grabbing his ankles while his lover spiked him from behind with one leg actually up over his back, which looked both precarious and uncomfortable. Or another where they straddled a bench, leaning in opposite directions with one pede on the floor and the other leg draped over their lover's opposite shoulder while somehow managing to get a spike in a valve. They stared at that one for a long time, trying to decipher the logistics of it, before Ratchet had to admit that even he couldn't figure out how that anatomy worked.
Still, Ratchet was definitely getting turned on by this. His fans were going at a good clip now, his frame heating up beneath Drift faster than his vents and fans could dissipate it. And Drift had to admit that he was thoroughly enjoying himself, too. He'd never really understood why some mechs enjoyed looking at porn, which always seemed to Drift like looking at a buffet of energon treats and not being able to have any. But looking at this with Ratchet was different.
This was looking at a menu of delights and deciding what to order.
And Ratchet was doing a whole lot more than just looking at the datapad. His mouth was busy on Drift's throat and shoulders, suckling and nibbling, and those talented hands were getting bolder all the time. Drift started to scroll to the next picture–number twenty-one now–but before he could, Ratchet caught hold of one of his audial flares and turned his head to catch his lips in a deep, passionate kiss. Drift melted against his mate, groaning as the medic's glossa conquered his mouth in the best possible way. Ratchet's fingers stroked his audial the whole time, too. The swordsmech whimpered into his mouth, pleasure streaking through his neural net from this glorious kiss and those perfect, teasing caresses on the sensor-packed finial. Little sparks of charge jumped from his flare to Ratchet's sensitive fingers and back. "Oh Primus, Ratchet," he moaned against his mate's lips, the datapad all but forgotten.
But Ratchet pulled back even though he was venting just as hard as Drift. "Next picture," he whispered even though he didn't stop touching his audial flare.
Drift groaned. "I don't need to see more," he protested, but Ratchet pulled back and grinned at him.
"You can't choose until you've reviewed all your options. You need to make a fully informed decision," he said in his best stern-medic voice, and all the while, those talented fingers traced electric lines of pleasure over his finial.
The speedster groaned again and fumbled for the datapad. Ratchet laughed softly at his clumsiness, so unlike his usual unconscious grace, and Drift retaliated by pressing his aft against the medic's lap. "Something funny?" he murmured, bracing one pede on the couch for leverage and grinding his hips in maddening little circles over that overheated panel.
Ratchet sucked in a vent and let it out in a shaky curse. He caught Drift's hips in both hands but instead of stilling his movements, he arched up against him. "Next. Picture," he gritted, fingertips sliding over the flexion seams of Drift's hips and making the swordsmech shudder from head to toe. Oh Primus, that wasn't fair, Ratchet knew exactly where all his sweet spots were and he was just teasing now, brushing the wires all around those sensor bundles and never once touching him where he needed it–
Drift finally managed to get hold of the datapad and scrolled to the next picture. At this point he didn't even care what the lovers in the picture were doing–he just wanted to get through the rest of the images so Ratchet would finally quit teasing and frag him already. He didn't even look at the screen, too busy shifting his hips and trying to get those fingertips to slide that extra half an inch to the sensor bundles hidden just inside his hip seams.
When Ratchet burst out laughing, Drift thought at first that it was because of the way he was squirming on his lap. He onlined his optics (when had he closed them?) and started to complain that it wasn't very nice not only to tease him but to laugh at him on top of it, but when he shot a glare at his lover, he saw that Ratchet wasn't looking at him at all. His incredulous gaze was glued to the datapad. Drift finally looked at this latest picture–
–and nearly fell right off Ratchet's lap. "What the frag is that supposed to be?" he said, staring at the two mechs with his jaw dropped. His reaction only made Ratchet laugh harder. "What are they–there's no way anyone can really–what are they doing?"
"Courting a spinal cord injury," Ratchet gasped, clutching his sides and practically howling with laughter. Cleanser welled in his optics and ran down his face, vents hitching unevenly, very nearly hysterical. "Oh frag, help, I'm dying!"
Drift had never seen Ratchet laugh so hard. It was a gorgeous sight, and also extremely silly. He couldn't help giggling as his mate fell back on the couch, crying with laughter and holding his stomach and gasping for air. Drift grinned and lifted the datapad for a better look, and it was every bit as ridiculous the second time around. One mech was in a position that was very nearly a headstand, aft straight up in the air and pedes beside their head, while the other lover... Drift blinked... yes, he was actually sitting right on top of the first mech like a chair, his spike nowhere to be seen. Was he actually supposed to be penetrating his lover from that angle? "Oh, there's a description for this one," Drift said, pulling up the text tag at the bottom. "Maybe it'll explain how to do this without breaking your spike off?"
Ratchet had almost gotten hold of himself but now he cracked up all over again. "Oh don't, Drift, I can't breathe," he whimpered, but Drift didn't get to see his lover this happy nearly often enough and he wasn't about to do anything that would make this beautiful laughter stop.
"No, you wanted me to make an informed decision, remember? This is information we need. Frag position: the Butter Churner," Drift read aloud, and had to stop to get his own amusement under control. "Oh slag, are they serious with that name?"
"Drift, seriously, stop," Ratchet begged, trying to swipe the datapad as he giggled helplessly, but he was laughing too hard to make much of an attack and Drift easily avoided his hands.
"How does it work?" Drift continued, dodging Ratchet's increasingly random flailing at the datapad. "Lie on your back with your legs raised and folded over so that your ankles are on either side of your head, while your lover squats and dips his spike in and out of your valve." He frowned, making a show of examining the picture again before turning to show it to Ratchet once more. "I don't think my spike goes straight down like that. Does yours?" He pretended a sudden rush of worry. "You don't think my spike might be defective, do you? Should we call First Aid for an emergency exam?"
Ratchet was definitely hysterical now, laughing so hard that all that came out of his vocalizer were high-pitched squeaks. Drift, grinning fiercely, spared an instant to wish he had a head-mounted camera like Rewind's to catch this on video as he captured several stills of Ratchet's face and saved them. Then he held up the datapad and continued reading. "Benefits–aside from holding optic contact, the extra rush of energon into your head will increase the ecstasy. Oh yeah, because energon overflow in my processor really spins my crankshaft. Just wondering when my optics are gonna pop out gets me all hot."
"Drift–stop it–" Ratchet panted, giggling helplessly with his arms wrapped around his stomach. "Ow, ow, oh it hurts, hahahaha!"
"Just means you need to laugh more often," Drift told him mercilessly, and scrolled up. "Oh look, there's more!" Ratchet groaned and Drift snapped several more still frames before he read the last part. "Bonus move! Have him dribble energon syrup into your mouth while he spikes you. It gets more of your senses involved and amps up the whole experience." It was all Drift could do to get the last part out before he fell on top of Ratchet, laughing every bit as hard as the medic was. "That is," he gasped between chuckles, "the most ridiculous thing… I have ever seen!"
Ratchet wrapped both arms around Drift and buried his face in the swordsmech's neck, laughing until he could hardly move. "Oh frag," he finally groaned, still giggling off and on and venting hard between fits. "Vector Sigma, Drift, that's… maybe let's not pick that one."
Drift snickered. He sat up with a pout. "Aww, c'mon, Ratch, don't you wanna churn my butter?"
The medic spluttered with laughter again and Drift couldn't quit grinning at the sight. Oh, but Ratchet had a gorgeous laugh, deep and rich, rolling up from his chest in waves of delight, and Drift made a vow to do whatever it took to make his mate laugh more. "Don't ever say that to me again," Ratchet tried to growl, but his giggles stole the sternness from his tone.
Drift sulked dramatically. "But I just can't understand what part you don't like–the broken spike, the sprained neck, the processor damage, or the possibility of choking on energon syrup. I mean, here I thought you were the Party Ambulance. What's not to love?"
That set them both off again, and by the time they managed to pull themselves together, Drift felt almost as limp and satiated as he would have after a few hard overloads. Ratchet's field radiated blissful contentment and happiness, too. Drift cuddled close, engine purring as Ratchet caressed his back in long strokes. "Really though," Ratchet said after a little while, and Drift suddenly realized that the ambulance's fans were still going, "what was your favorite, love? Because I still want to make love to you tonight."
And that sentence was all it took to get Drift's own fans going again. Hearing Ratchet say he wanted him was something he didn't think would ever cease to amaze him. "Don't care, as long as it makes you smile," he said, lifting his head to wink at his mate. "Making you happy is my favorite."
Ratchet cupped his face in his hands and kissed him long and soft as his field went positively molten with love and desire. "Then why don't I take you to the berth and kiss every inch of your gorgeous frame and make you overload until you can't remember anything but my name," he whispered against Drift's lips. "That would make me very happy indeed."
Drift nodded, mouth going dry. "That definitely sounds like my favorite."
.
Rodimus made sure to arrive on shift early for once. He relieved Ultra Magnus of command and planted his aft in the captain's chair, practically vibrating with anticipation. He looked up expectantly when the doorway to the bridge opened, but it was just Blaster arriving to take over the communications console.
A few minutes passed before the door slid open again. Rodimus spun the chair around, a huge grin on his face, but this time it was Perceptor. The scientist gave him an inquisitive look. "Something wrong, Captain?"
"No, no, everything's fine, carry on," Rodimus said, waving him away from the door and fidgeting with impatience.
The next time the door opened was the payoff. Ratchet and Drift entered together, talking quietly with their heads together. Rodimus couldn't hold back a slag-eating grin and rubbed his hands together–this was gonna be good. That pornographic file had probably sent the stuffy old CMO into fits. Rodimus knew he was probably going to have to apologize to the swordsmech for it, but he couldn't lie, he'd been giggling for half the night thinking about Ratchet's reaction to that file.
Finally the pair looked up and caught him staring at them. Ratchet raised an eyebrow at him. "Something on your mind, Rodimus?" he asked mildly, and that wasn't the reaction he'd expected at all. Outrage, embarrassment, disgust–he'd been prepared for those, but not the sight of the infamous Hatchet in what looked like a genuinely good mood.
Well, if any mech on this ship had a poker face, it was Ratchet. "Nope, not a thing," he lied, still grinning as he sidled over to them. A quick glance around the bridge showed that Blaster and Perceptor were deeply involved in their tasks and weren't paying the three of them any attention whatsoever. "How are you feeling this morning?"
Ratchet smiled as though the question didn't bother him in the least. "Bit sore, actually," he said pleasantly. "But otherwise very well, thank you for asking."
"Sore?" Rodimus pounced, optics widening as he looked from the CMO to his third-in-command. Drift's usually stoic face bore an enigmatic little smile that instantly intrigued him and he was standing a lot closer to Ratchet than he usually did. Drift was funny about keeping their relationship private, and it was beyond rare that he and Ratchet were anything close to demonstrative in public, but they were definitely all up in each others' personal space right now. Rodimus returned his attention to the medic, fighting hard not to bounce on his pedes with delight. He hadn't thought they'd actually use any of the positions he'd sent Drift–most of those weren't even physically possible, and as the Lost Light's self-proclaimed resident sexpert, he should know!
"Mmm," Ratchet said noncommittally, and nudged Drift's shoulder with his. Drift winked at him and Rodimus was seriously about to fall over.
"Worth it, though," Drift said, and Ratchet actually grinned.
Maybe Rodimus didn't owe Drift an apology after all. Maybe Drift owed him some serious thanks instead.
"Definitely," the medic said in a tone that very nearly qualified as dirty. Drift laughed softly and leaned briefly against him, and Ratchet looked back at Rodimus. "Keep sending him those special reports, Captain. They're highly entertaining," he said, and with one final wink at Drift, he walked off the bridge.
Rodimus gaped after him, then grabbed Drift's shoulder. "You didn't really persuade him to try–" he began, but Drift was already laughing at him.
"There's no persuading required. What, you thought you were going to shock him or something? Believe me, Roddy, he has done absolutely everything in your special report," he said, optics twinkling. His voice dropped so low that it was almost inaudible. "I don't know where you got the idea that he needed spicing up, but let me assure you that if he was any hotter in the berth, I'd never walk again. Still, you made him laugh like I've never seen before, and for that, I thank you."
And now Rodimus was seriously boggling at him. Drift never bragged about Ratchet's skills in the berth, no matter how Rodimus had begged for stories, and eventually he'd decided that meant that the medic just wasn't any good. It was hard to believe he'd been so wrong, but he knew Drift, and the swordsmech didn't lie. If he said Ratchet was a beast in the berth, well, Rodimus had to believe it.
But this new information was seriously screwing with his reality, and speaking of reality…
"But–but some of those positions aren't–you can't–certain things just don't bend that way!" he hissed, because he knew exactly what was in that file he'd sent and if he couldn't pull off some of those 'facing positions, there was no way in hell that an old ambulance like Ratchet could, not even with a partner as flexible as Drift.
The swordsmech raised an eyebrow and gave him a puzzled look. "Sure they do," he said matter-of-factly, and when Rodimus continued to gape at him, he added, "Come on, none of those are that outrageously difficult. I'm sure you can at least manage the Butter Churner, right?"
The mental image of Ratchet and Drift entangled in that completely impossible position swamped his processor and Rodimus' jaw dropped again. Drift patted his shoulder and leaned in close. "There's a reason he was called the Party Ambulance, you know," he murmured, and Rodimus hadn't managed to recover before the swordsmech strolled away, smiling.