#bottom drift

“You've been doing it all evening.” Ratchet said as they stepped outside Swerve's, having waited patiently for Drift to emerge. He hadn't had to wait long.

“Doing what?” The swordsmech asked with a calm, disarmingly innocent smile, though his optics gleamed with that unmistakably hungry look Ratchet had learned to recognize all too well.

“You know exactly what.”

Ratchet's voice dropped as he stepped closer.

Drift didn't retreat.

If anything, the curiosity in his expression only deepened.

“Oh, really?” He replied smoothly. “I'm afraid you'll have to enlighten me, doc, because I honestly have no idea what you're talking about.”

His voice was as smooth as velvet, sending an involuntary shiver down Ratchet's back strut.

“So you don't remember the way you were looking at me all evening?”

By now, they were standing so close that only a few centimeters separated them.

“How was I looking at you?”

Drift asked, his smile widening ever so slightly.

“Like you couldn't wait to devour me.”

Ratchet's servo settled against Drift's hip; not to restrain him, but simply to feel him there.

The faint tremor that rippled through Drift's frame beneath his touch didn't escape him.

And, to Ratchet's quiet satisfaction, neither did he try to hide it.

“Mmh... perhaps.”

Drift murmured.

He drew a slow breath as Ratchet's servo slid from his hip, gliding over the plating of his abdomen before coming to rest against his chassis, directly above the casing that protected his spark.

“Perhaps?”

Ratchet echoed, his voice low.

It took every ounce of his self-control not to give in right there, in the middle of the corridor where anyone could walk by at any moment.

“My hab-suite is closer.” He murmured at last.

As he brushed his dermas against the edge of Drift's jaw, he felt the swordsmech shiver ever so slightly.

Drift didn't hesitate.

Without a single word, he fell into step beside Ratchet, following him without the slightest trace of doubt.

***

The walk to Ratchet's hab-suite was pure anticipation.

Neither of them spoke, yet the air between them felt thick with unspoken tension, charged like static that made every sensor in their plating hum. Every accidental brush of their shoulders, every fleeting graze of their servos, sent a spark racing through their frames like current between two live wires.

The moment the door hissed shut and locked behind them, whatever remained of their patience evaporated.

Ratchet barely gave Drift time to step fully inside before turning him around and pressing him firmly against the reinforced plating of the door.

The impact echoed through the small hab-suite with a solid thud.

Drift didn't so much as flinch; instead, a needy sound escaped him, and his optics brightened as they lifted to meet Ratchet's.

“Still pretending you don't know what I'm talking about?”

Ratchet's voice was little more than a rough murmur, stripped entirely of its usual clinical composure.

Drift answered by slipping his arms around Ratchet's neck and drawing him down into a kiss. Their glossa met in a bruising, desperate kiss. It wasn't a gentle exploration; it was a claim. Drift tasted of hunger and longing, his glossa sliding against Ratchet’s with a hunger that confirmed everything the medic had suspected at the bar.

Ratchet’s servos were everywhere; gripping Drift’s waist, sliding down to squeeze the plating of his aft, then rushing back up to frame his face.

He broke the kiss just long enough to trail hot, biting nips along the line of Drift's jaw and down to the sensitive cables of his neck.

“I've wanted this since the moment you walked into the bar.”

Ratchet murmured against his plating, his vents cycling faster.

Drift let out a shaky vent, his helm lolling back against the door.

“Then stop talking. Please.”

The plea was all Ratchet needed.

He shifted his weight, his servo sliding down to Drift's modesty panel. With a practiced flick, he triggered the release, and Drift’s spike snapped out; thick, rigid, and already leaking a steady stream of lubricant. Ratchet groaned at the sight of it, the sheer need radiating off the other mech making his own systems spike.

Ratchet stepped back just enough open his own panel, his own spike extending with a heavy thrum.

He didn't waste time with the berth; the urgency was too much.

He gripped Drift’s thighs, hoisting the swordsmech up, and Drift instinctively locked his legs around Ratchet’s waist, his plating scraping against the medic's as he sought more friction.

Ratchet guided his spike to Drift's entrance. His valve was already slick, pulsing in anticipation.

With one decisive, powerful thrust, Ratchet buried himself deep inside.

Drift’s optics flared wide, a loud, echoing cry escaping his vocalizer as he was filled completely. He arched his back, his digits digging into Ratchet’s shoulders.

The fit was perfect; tight, hot, and gripping. Ratchet let out a guttural sound, his forehelm resting against Drift's as he paused to let the swordsmech adjust to the sudden fullness.

“You're... so fragging tight.”

Ratchet rasped, his voice vibrating through both their frames.

“More.” Drift whimpered, his voice trembling. “Don't stop. Please, frag me.”

Ratchet began to move, pulling back until he was nearly out before slamming home again. The sound of their mesh colliding -a wet, rhythmic slapping- filled the hab-suite.

Each thrust was deep and deliberate, Ratchet driving his spike into the very depths of Drift's valve, hitting the sensitive internal nodes with brutal precision.

Drift was a mess of shivers and broken moans. He clung to Ratchet like a lifeline, his vents heaving in sync with the medic's.

Every time Ratchet bottomed out, Drift’s valve clenched violently around him, milking his spike and driving Ratchet closer to the edge.

“I love the way you look at me.” Ratchet groaned, his pace increasing, becoming more frantic. “The way you try to be so calm while you're burning up inside.”

“I can't- I can't be calm... when it's you.”

Drift gasped, his optics flickering.

Ratchet shifted his grip, pinning Drift’s wrists against the door above his helm, locking them there with one servo while the other supported his weight. He began to pound into Drift with raw passion, his hips snapping forward in a blur of motion.

The friction was intense, the heat building until it felt like their internal systems were going to melt.

Drift’s cries turned into rhythmic whimpers, his entire frame vibrating.

He was close, his spark pulsing wildly against his chassis.

“Ratchet-! I'm… I'm going to-”

“Do it.” Ratchet commanded, his own voice breaking. “Overload for me.”

With one final, deep thrust, Drift’s systems peaked.

His valve clamped down in a series of rhythmic contractions, and he overloaded; his own transfluid spraying across their joined hips.

The sensation of Drift’s release triggered Ratchet’s own; his spike pulsing as he flooded Drift’s internals with hot, thick jets of transfluid.

He slammed into him one last time, holding himself deep inside as they both shuddered through the aftershocks of their overload.

For several long minutes, the only sound in the room was the heavy, synchronized thrum of their vents. Ratchet didn't pull away; he kept Drift pinned to the door, his helm tucked into the crook of the swordsmech's neck, breathing in the scent of him.

Slowly, Ratchet slid out with a wet sound, the overflow of their combined fluids leaking down Drift's thighs.

He didn't let Drift drop, instead carrying him over to the berth and laying him down tenderly.

Ratchet climbed over him, his optics soft, filled with an affection he rarely showed anyone else.

He leaned down, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to Drift's forehelm.

“You're a menace.” Ratchet whispered.

Drift sat across from Ratchet in the dim glow of Swerve's bar, the low hum of conversation around them fading into background noise.

The medic's cheeks had taken on a faint flush from the engex, his optics brighter than usual as he leaned back in the booth.

Drift watched every movement, the way Ratchet's digits traced the rim of his cube, the slight slump in his shoulders that spoke of exhaustion he never admitted aloud. Unspoken words hung between; glances that lingered too long, the brush of servos that sent sparks through Drift's systems. He had wanted this for cycles, but the fear of ruining their fragile balance kept him silent.

When Ratchet stood and swayed just a fraction, Drift was on his pedes instantly.

“Let me walk you back.”

He said, voice steady despite the thrum in his spark. Ratchet didn't argue, just nodded and let Drift steady him with a servo at his elbow.

The corridors of the Lost Light felt endless, each step amplifying the tension. Drift's processor raced with everything he hadn't said: how Ratchet's sharp wit pulled him in, how his optics made him ache for more.

Ratchet's frame brushed his side once, twice, sending heat pooling low in Drift's chassis.

They reached the habsuite door.

Ratchet opened it, and Drift followed him inside. Ratchet turned, optics locking onto his, and the air thickened.

“Thanks for the escort.”

He murmured, but the words carried an invitation neither had voiced before.

Drift stepped closer, unable to stop himself, and their mouths met in a kiss that started tentative but ignited fast; dermas parting, glossa sliding, the taste of engex sharp and intoxicating.

Drift's servos found Ratchet's waist, pulling him nearer, his interface panel already heating as arousal surged. He was ready -more than ready- to press Ratchet against the berth and claim him, to hear those moans he'd imagined in quiet moments.

But Ratchet's grip shifted. Stronger than expected, the medic pushed back, guiding Drift toward the edge of the berth with a firm shove to his chassis.

Drift's back hit the surface, surprise flickering through him as Ratchet climbed over, straddling his hips. “I want you.”

Ratchet growled against his mouth, voice rough with need. His servos pinned Drift's wrists above his helm, the unexpected dominance sending a jolt straight to Drift's spike, which pressurized hard against his panel.

Ratchet ground down, the friction deliberate, and Drift gasped into the kiss, his systems flaring.

Ratchet released one wrist to trace Drift's chassis plating, digits finding seams and pressing just right. “You're always so eager to take control.”

He said, dermas trailing to Drift's neck.

“But right now I need you like this; under me, letting go.”

Drift's optics flickered and Ratchet's free servo stroked along his helm, thumb brushing his cheek. “Good mech. So perfect when you listen.”

The praise made Drift's spark pulse harder, his panel clicking open without command as Ratchet's weight settled.

Ratchet didn't rush. He rocked slowly, letting his spike slide along Drift's valve lips, teasing the entrance without pushing in yet.

Drift bucked up instinctively, but Ratchet held firm, a low chuckle vibrating between them.

“Patience. You're doing so well.”

Each word caressed Drift's processor, easing the edge of frustration into something hotter, more desperate.

Ratchet leaned down for another kiss, deeper, his glossa claiming Drift's mouth while one servo explored lower, circling the rim of Drift's valve with precise pressure.

The habsuite lights dimmed automatically, casting shadows over their frames. Drift felt exposed, vulnerable in a way that thrilled him; Ratchet's weight pinning him, the medic's spike now slick with lubricant as it nudged insistently at his valve.

Ratchet shifted, angling so the head of his spike pressed against the tight opening, but he controlled the thrust, sinking in inch by inch.

Drift moaned, the stretch overwhelming, his free servo gripping the berth sheets. Ratchet bottomed out with a hiss of pleasure, then began to move, thrusting into him with steady rolls of his hips.

“That's it,” Ratchet said, voice hitching as he drove deeper on each push. “Perfect- you feel so good around me.”

Drift's vocalizer glitched on a whine, the words wrapping around his spark like a caress.

He wanted to thrust up, to flip them and take control, but Ratchet's pace held him in check, drawing it out. Every grind dragged against sensitive nodes, building pressure in slow waves.

Ratchet's servos roamed, one stroking Drift's chassis again, the other tilting his helm back for more kisses; wet, messy, full of unspoken hunger finally unleashed.

Time blurred in the rhythm. Ratchet sped up gradually, spike plunging into Drift's valve, the wet sounds filling the room.

Drift's free servo found Ratchet's thigh, squeezing as overload built, but Ratchet leaned close, whispering more.

“You're mine like this; so good, so perfect.”

The praise pushed Drift closer to the edge, his systems singing.

Ratchet's own overload hit first, spike pulsing deep as transfluid spilled inside Drift's valve while he shuddered above him. The feel dragged Drift over too, his spike throbbing untouched as he overloaded hard, transfluid spilling across his own plating.

They stayed locked together afterward, Ratchet's weight a comforting anchor, his servos now gentle as they stroked Drift's frame.

The tension from earlier lingered but transformed, softened by the release. Drift's processor spun with the shift; the praises, the way it all fit.

Drift leaned against the edge of the medbay berth, his red and white frame relaxed in a way that belied the mischievous glint in his optics.

The Lost Light's medical bay was quiet for once, the hum of diagnostic equipment a soothing backdrop to the moment. Ratchet stood across from him, wiping lubricant from his servos with a rag, his blue optics focused on the action.

Drift had come in for a routine check-up -nothing serious, but the swordsmech had other ideas brewing in his processors.

He watched Ratchet move, appreciating the efficient grace of the medic's chassis, the way his hips shifted with each step, plating scarred from cycles of war yet still carrying that undeniable allure.

“You know.” Drift drawled, his voice low and teasing, laced with playfulness. “I've always wondered about that wrench of yours. All that time you spend gripping it, twisting it just right... bet it could be put to better use than tightening bolts.”

Ratchet's shoulders tensed, his optics snapping to Drift's faceplate.

He set the rag down with deliberate care, crossing his arms over his chassis.

“Drift, that's a tool, not a toy. And certainly not for whatever nonsense you're implying.”

His vocalizer held that familiar gruff edge, but Drift caught the faint hitch in his vents.

Drift pushed off the berth, closing the distance between them in two strides.

“Come on, doc. You've patched me up more times than I can count. Imagine if you used that wrench to... adjust something else.”

His servo reached out, tracing a light path along Ratchet's arm, feeling the subtle tremor.

Drift's spike twitched in its sheath at the thought, arousal stirring as he pictured it; cold steel against heated plating, Ratchet's precise digits wielding it with that same focused intensity.

Ratchet's optics narrowed, but he didn't pull away.

“That's a bad idea. Tools like that aren't meant for… this kind of stuff. You could damage yourself.”

His words were a warning, but his gaze darted to the wrench, then back to Drift's smirking faceplate. Drift could see the conflict there, the medic's strict professionalism warring with the undeniable pull between them. They'd danced this dance before, pushing boundaries in the heat of the moment, but this felt new, charged with a forbidden edge.

Drift's laugh was soft, rumbling from his chassis as he captured Ratchet's servo, guiding it toward the tool tray.

“No damage, I promise. Pleasure, though, that's guaranteed.”

He pressed Ratchet's digits around the wrench's handle. Ratchet's grip tightened involuntarily, and Drift leaned in closer, his intake brushing the medic’s audial.

“I trust you, Ratchet. Show me how skilled those servos really are.”

The medic hesitated, his frame tensing as he weighed the words.

“This is reckless. If anyone walks in-”

But even as he protested, his thumb stroked the wrench's shaft, a subconscious motion that sent a thrill through Drift's circuits.

“Then lock the door.”

Drift murmured, nipping at Ratchet's lower derma with his denta.

“No one's here, just us. Let go for once, doc.”

He released Ratchet's servo but stayed close, and Ratchet exhaled a shaky vent, his resolve cracking under the weight of Drift's gaze.

With a muttered curse, he activated the medbay's privacy lock, the door sealing with a definitive hiss.

Turning back, his optics burned with a mix of reluctance and hunger.

“Fine, but if this goes wrong, you're the one explaining it to Ultra Magnus.”

He hefted the wrench and Drift's grin widened, as he reclined back onto the berth, opening his modesty panel with deliberate slowness, exposing his hardening spike and the sealed cover of his valve.

Drift's spike extended fully now, ridged and throbbing, pre-fluid beading at the tip as he watched Ratchet approach.

The medic's servos trembled slightly as he knelt between Drift's spread legs, the wrench glinting under the harsh medbay lights.

“Start slow.” Drift encouraged, his voice husky.

Ratchet swallowed.

“This is insane.”

He grumbled, but he brought the wrench's handle -the smoother, rounded end- to Drift's inner thigh plating, tracing a cool line along the seam.

Drift hissed in pleasure, his spike jerking at the sensation, the chill metal sending sparks up his back strut.

Ratchet's optics fixed on the reaction, fascination overriding his doubts as he pressed firmer, dragging the tool higher, closer to the base of Drift's spike.

Drift’s hips shifted to chase the touch. The contrast was exquisite; Ratchet's warm digits steadying the wrench while the steel bit into his plating, a delicious edge of discomfort blending with building heat. Ratchet circled the base of the spike with the handle, the blunt end nudging the sensitive ridge, eliciting a low moan from Drift. Pre-fluid leaked steadily now, slicking the tool as Ratchet grew bolder, twisting it lightly to apply pressure.

Ratchet's protests faded into silence, replaced by focused intensity.

“You're so responsive.”

He noted, voice rough, dipping the handle lower, brushing it against Drift's valve cover, the sealed folds quivering at the contact. Drift's frame arched, vents cycling hot air as pleasure coiled tight in his core.

“Do it, doc.”

He urged, reaching down to unlatch his valve, revealing the dripping entrance, lubricant already gathering in anticipation.

With a final glance of hesitation, Ratchet complied, sliding the wrench's handle along the slick folds. The cool metal met wet heat, and Drift bucked, a cry escaping his vocalizer as the tool parted his valve folds, pressing just inside.

Ratchet pumped it slowly, the girth stretching him minimally but the forbidden nature amplifying every sensation.

“Primus, Ratchet… d-deeper.”

Drift demanded, his servo tangling in the medic's arm, guiding him.

Ratchet's resistance shattered then, his free servo wrapping around Drift's spike, stroking in time with the thrusts of the wrench.

The handle delved further, twisting to hit the ceiling node, and Drift's world narrowed to the dual assault; steel invading his valve, Ratchet's grip milking his spike. Lubricant coated the tool, easing the way as Ratchet worked it with increasing confidence, his optics locked on Drift's face, drinking in the pleasure he wrought.

“Y-yeah…” Drift panted, overload building relentlessly. “Don't stop… f-frag, you're perfect.”

The wrench plunged deeper, the handle's length filling him just enough to tease, while Ratchet's thumb circled his spike's head, smearing fluid.

Drift's valve clenched around the intrusion, walls fluttering as climax neared. Ratchet leaned in, his glossa lapping at the spike's tip, tasting the pre-fluid before taking the head into his intake, sucking firmly.

The combination undid Drift. With a cry, he overloaded, spike pulsing as transfluid flooded Ratchet's mouth, valve spasming around the wrench in waves of ecstasy.

Ratchet didn't pull away, drawing out the release with steady pulls and thrusts until Drift slumped, spent and trembling.

As aftershocks faded, Ratchet withdrew the tool, setting it aside.

“Not a terrible idea, I admit that.”

He muttered, his words thick with arousal.

Drift pulled him up for a deep kiss, tasting himself on the medic's glossa.