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Warm. That's how Ratchet wakes up these days. Warm, fully charged, and maybe a little sore, depending on the night he had before. It's a stark contrast from the war, knowing now that he'll wake up safe and sound. He'd forgone proper recharge so often after countless calls for retreat, the fear of ambush ever present. Sometimes, he still wakes up with the memory of evacuation sirens blaring in his audials.
But not today. Today, he wakes with half of his vents covered by his still recharging conjunx. The first few times that Drift had rolled over onto him in the night, arm flung across the medic's chest protectively, Ratchet hadn't been so keen to stay still. He'd woken Drift up and made him recharge separately and then given him the cold shoulder. Somewhere between now and then, the stifling warmth of blocked vents had become a norm, something that meant everything was as it should be.
Ratchet lets himself enjoy the warmth today. Outside, the planet the Lost Light has settled down on is besieged by a blizzard. They would be stuck here until the storm let up, and the cold tended to creep in despite the temperature controls of the habsuites. No matter for Ratchet; he was in possession of one of the warmest options for a conjunx on the ship. (Rodimus being the current owner of the title "Most Sought After Cuddles". He had joined them the first couple nights of the blizzard but had started suffering from cabin fever and gone to bother someone else since Ratchet and Drift spent their snowed in day cycles inside.)
At his side, Drift shifts closer, and Ratchet finally onlines his optics to take a look. He smiles fondly, watching his conjunx snore softly. He always has a bit of a pinch to his airways when they lie together like this, with Drift on top of Ratchet like a half discarded blanket. With a little shifting of his own, Ratchet gets them into a position that's still comfortable but allows Drift to vent more quietly.
With his new vantage, Ratchet is able to admire his lover's soft sleeping expression more fully. He flicks through memory files of Drift's sleeping face, from their first nights together after Ratchet tracked Drift down to bring him home until now. Neither of them recharged properly back then, still relatively fresh off of the hyper-vigilance of the recently ended war. When Drift did rest, his faceplate was tight and his optics still dimly lit. Never truly off guard. Always ready for something to break the peace.
In contrast, the Drift of here and now looks almost angelic. Not that Ratchet would ever say such a thing out loud. Other praises, of course, but never something to suggest newfound religiosity. But, in this moment, it's the only one that feels right. The soft creases of age around Drift's optics belie his youthful and energetic waking attitude. It's easy to forget that they're nearly the same age. Soft exvents from Drift's barely parted derma fog in the chill air of their room. A light sheen of condensation graces his plating, gathering in little dents and scratches on the metal.
Dents… Ratchet chuckles softly, unable to keep the sound in as he raises a servo to run over a shallow set of divots in Drift's pauldron. He fits his digits into them, a perfect match. As they should be, since Ratchet vividly remembers the activities they engaged in to make said dents. Ten years ago, Ratchet would've complained that something so vigorous was too much for his old frame, but what can he say. Drift makes him feel young in so many ways.
A soft stirring pulls Ratchet from his thoughts. He smiles as Drift's optics begin to online, the speedster letting out a little groan as he comes out of recharge. He's surely feeling those dents, but they both know it's a pain he would gladly endure a hundred times over.
Ratchet rubs gentle circles over Drift's hips, dipping his digits into the joint and massaging the components. His ministrations earn a soft moan as he finds the source of the discomfort: a kinked wire. The longer he works on the spot, the more Drift squirms. Ratchet presses a kiss to his lover's finials, whispering softly to him.
"Just relax, doctor's orders. And I know how good at following orders you are…"
Drift, to his credit, stops his squirming. His digits scrape against Ratchet's chassis as he lets out shaky exvents. Ratchet pulls him closer, guiding Drift fully on top of him. Usually Drift is shier about putting his weight on Ratchet, ever considerate of his conjunx's achy frame, but he's also not one to disobey whatever is asked of him in berth. So, he relaxes, their chests pressed together and their derma barely a vent apart.
"Ratchet… I think you got the wire…"
With a hum, Ratchet reluctantly pulls his servo away. Instead, he rubs slow circles on his hip again. His other servo slowly trails up until he can cup the back of Drift's helm. Drift gets the hint, leaning in and pressing their derma together. When Ratchet drags his glossa over Drift's derma, he's instantly given access.
Ratchet will never not be amazed by how quickly Drift (and all speedsters, really) builds charge. Sometimes all it takes is a particular look or a certain tone of voice. Or setting his glass down a specific way when they're in Swerve's. Ratchet can always tell when he's gotten Drift's attention from the way his optics hone in on him. He could be in the middle of a conversation with Rodimus and suddenly not a single glyph makes it to his processor.
To Drift's credit, he'd waited so long for any attention from Ratchet. So it stands to reason that any attention is enough to set his spark racing. When he'd been the Lost Light's only medic, it had caused some… tension. Now, though, it only serves in Ratchet's favor. His handsome swordsmech, ready and more than willing for anything Ratchet desires of him.
So when Ratchet lets his panel transform away, Drift's follows. He spike pressurizes against the soft folds of Drift's valve, already soaked with lubricant. Drift breaks away from the kiss, pressing his helm against Ratchet's shoulder as he sucks in a sharp invent.
"That's it... I have you. You did such a good job taking the lead last night, let me take care of you this morning."
Drift nods, voice barely more than a vent. "Please… Love when you take care of me, Ratty."
Ratchet huffs. He doesn't know when that stupid nickname started to grow on him, but he does know that he'll only suffer it from Drift. That mech could call him most anything, as long as he says it in that voice. The one that makes it sound like Ratchet's is the only name he ever wants on his derma.
"Drift? Let's turn over."
Drift let's out a soft grumble. "Why? Like this…"
Ratchet huffs. "Because I know how you are. If I let you stay in my lap, you won't stay still and let me take care of you."
Another grumble, but he doesn't try to protest. He's loathe to move, but soon Drift is the one lying on the berth. Ratchet takes up position between his thighs, humming softly as he admires the sight of Drift spread out with his faceplate flushed and his valve exposed. No matter how many times he gets to admire his conjunx, the sight always feels new.
Today, as Ratchet runs his servos over Drift's thighs, he notices the way the lights along Drift's shoulders flicker in time with the thrum of his spark. Like a hypnotic dance performed just for him. Ratchet leans in, pressing kisses along the plating of Drift's abdomen.
"You're so beautiful… Do I tell you that often enough?"
Drift hums, one of his servos coming to rest on Ratchet's helm. "You do, but I love hearing it. Reminds me you're soft under that scowl you like to wear."
Ratchet huffs and purposefully catches the edge of a plate with his derma. He chuckles at the way Drift's vents hitch. "Don't go telling; you'll ruin my reputation. I can't have anyone knowing that I'm nice underneath."
Drift opens his intake, ready to give him some silly response, but only manages a long moan instead as Ratchet brings one of his servos between Drift's legs. He runs his digits between the folds of his valve, gathering lubricant before rubbing his wet digit tips over Drift's node. Ratchet presses small, slow circles over the sensitive cluster.
As much as he loves the act itself, Ratchet adores watching Drift come undone. He loves the crinkle around Drift's optics and the way his intake makes the most perfect shapes to show off those silly fangs on his denta. Ratchet shivers as he sees them, the main fuel line in his throat itching where he knows those fangs have left their mark.
Ratchet is pulled out of his thoughts as Drift tugs on his shoulders. He lets himself be pulled up, smiling softly as their optics meet.
"Ratchet… Please? No more teasing. I need you."
With a little laugh, Ratchet pulls his servo away. "You don't want more prep? I know how much you like my servos..."
Drift shakes his helm, wrapping his arms around Ratchet's shoulders. "Just you. I'll survive without your digits inside me just this once."
Shifting Drift's hips and aligning them better, Ratchet presses a soft kiss against his jaw. "Good. I don't want to explain any bodies to Rodimus or First Aid. I don't think either would accept 'lack of fingering' as a suitable COD."
Drift laughs softly, tightening his grip and tilting his helm so that their derma brush. "One day I'll get you to tell a joke in public and the med bay will be full because everyone will have a communal spark attack."
Ratchet scoffs softly. "Absolutely not. Remember what I said about my reputation?"
With that, the medic rolls his hips so that the tip of his spike catches against Drift's entrance and cuts off another quip. As much as he loves letting Drift ramble, hearing him moan is much more satisfying. With another roll, he presses inside. Ratchet's so enamored with the way Drift arches off of the berth, their chests pressing together as he sinks in to the hilt.
It takes all of Ratchet's strength, of which he has a considerable amount, to keep from giving Drift what he wants. He knows that his conjunx would prefer it if Ratchet gave him everything all at once. Hard, needy, desirous. Peeled paint and dented metal. Voices so loud the walls of their habsuite shake.
But Ratchet knows, after hundreds of years, that Drift likes when he takes it slow. Though he never asks for it directly, there are signs. A specific tone of his voice, maybe. Or the way he lets himself give in to the soft and tender attention instead of pressing for harder touches and harsh treatment.
Like now, as Ratchet slowly rolls his hips and lets his spike grind against the more sensitive nodes in the back of Drift's valve. Instead of hooking his legs around Ratchet's waist and urging him to make short, fast thrusts, he lets his lover take his time. He scratches, yes, but in interest of finding purchase to hold Ratchet close rather than to spur him into more vigorous acts.
"So good for me… Drift, raise your voice."
Drift whimpers, but soon he's gasping and moaning with every roll of Ratchet's hips. The warrior is always so tight lipped when they're intimate, but Ratchet knows it's because he prefers to listen. It's one of Drift's many quirks, reigning himself in so he can focus on any changes in his partner's enjoyment. Thankfully for Ratchet, it's easy enough to coax him out of this one.
It's Drift's turn to be the focus, after all. His turn to give in to the way Ratchet spreads his legs wide and rubs the inner junction of his hip joints, teasing at the wiring where his thighs connect to his pelvic faring. Drift's calipers ripple as he pulls in a sharp invent, weak to Ratchet's teasing of the sensitive spot.
Slow and sweet, that's how their charges build. That way, when overload crashes over them it's like a wave. Ratchet gets a good look at the sharpened points of Drift's denta as his mouth yawns wide open with a silent cry of pleasure. Beautiful fangs that Ratchet can practically feel in his neck as his optics glitch and his own overload comes rushing up.
Ratchet presses their helms together, his hips stilling. For several long seconds, they lay together and bask in their shared heat. Condensation drips from both of their chassis. Ratchet nuzzles Drift gently before pressing soft kisses to his cheekplates. Drift smiles softly, tightening his grip around Ratchet's shoulders.
"Again?"
Ratchet huffs, shaking his head. "You're insatiable…"
Drift grins, and suddenly everything shifts. Not just the look on Drift's face, but their positions as well. Ratchet lets out an exasperated huff as his back hits the berth. Drift straddles his hips, running his servos over the broad planes of Ratchet's chest and positioning his valve over his spike.
"Hope you didn't make plans today, Ratty. I don't think I'm in the mood for sharing you."
As Drift sinks down and lets out a low, long moan, Ratchet shivers and grips his lover's hip plating. No, Ratchet hadn't made plans for the day. None that involved anyone or anything other than Drift and their berth, at least.