#top drift

HAPPY BIRTHDAY 💕 sorry it took me a bit to write it 😭 hope you had an amazing day and that you’ll like this 💕

PLEASE MINORS DONT READ THIS

🔞

The habsuite hummed softly with the low whir of the ventilation systems, dim lights casting a warm glow over the oversized berth where three frames lay entwined.

Ratchet occupied the center, his vents cycling in slow, steady rhythms of recharge.

To his left, Drift curled close, one arm draped possessively across Ratchet’s waist.

Rodimus sprawled on Ratchet’s other side, helm tucked into the crook of the older mech’s neck, legs tangled with both of his partners, his brighter frame standing out vividly against their red and white tones.

Sunrise filters pierced through the viewport, painting pale stripes across their joined forms.

Ratchet stirred first, processors flickering online beneath the lazy pull of full rest. A deep ache lingered from the previous day’s exertions; not pain, but the pleasant throb of shared overloads.

He vented softly, optics flickering open as he registered the comforting weight of his lovers around him.

Drift’s glossa flicked out unconsciously in recharge, wetting his lower derma, while Rodimus mumbled something incoherent against Ratchet’s shoulder.

Ratchet lifted a servo, digits tracing the curve of Drift’s helm before sliding down to stroke the swordsmech’s cheek. A quiet purr escaped Drift, his field brushing warmly against theirs in sleepy affection.

Drift’s optics brightened slowly at the touch, a soft smile curving his derma as he nuzzled closer.

“Morning, love.”

He murmured, voice rough with recharge, dermas pressing a lingering kiss against Ratchet’s jaw.

The movement stirred Rodimus awake as well. He lifted his helm slightly, blue optics locking first onto Ratchet, then Drift.

“Best way to wake up.” Rodimus whispered, shifting just enough to press his mouth against Ratchet’s neck.

Ratchet arched faintly at the contact, a low groan rumbling through his chassis as their fields intertwined, thickening the quiet room with warmth and lingering desire.

No rush, no demands.

Just the unhurried press of plating; servos exploring familiar terrain.

Drift's digits trailed down Ratchet's side, exposing the medic's interface array with care as his own spike pressurized slowly, emerging tapered and flushed. But he made no move about it, not yet. Instead, he dipped his helm, shifting sheets, glossa circling the rim of Ratchet's valve in languid laps.

Ratchet's legs parted wider, one knee bending to grant access, his own spike stirring.

“Drift... easy…”

He breathed, servo cupping the back of Drift's helm, gently guiding him.

Rodimus watched, optics darkening with hunger, before leaning in to claim Ratchet's derma in a deep kiss. Their glossas tangled, Rodimus sucking gently on Ratchet's, tasting recharge on his dermas.

Drift's licks grew firmer, delving into the clenching port, curling to stroke inner walls. Lubricant flowed freely, dripping down to Ratchet's aft.

Rodimus broke the kiss, trailing bites down Ratchet's neck as Ratchet's field spiked with need. But he held back, savoring the build; the way Drift's glossa fucked in and out, slow and thorough, the press of Rodimus's frame grinding his half-pressurized spike against Ratchet's thigh.

“You two will wear me out before lunch.”

Ratchet chuckled, voice laced with fondness.

Drift smiled against his valve.

“Only if you let us, doc.”

Rising, Drift captured Ratchet's dermas next, sharing the taste of his own lubricant in a messy, tender kiss. Rodimus took over below, his intake enveloping Ratchet's spike as it fully extended; ridged and thick. He bobbed shallowly at first, glossa swirling the leaking tip, then took him deeper, throat relaxing to swallow every ridge.

Ratchet's hips bucked once, then stilled under their gentle restraint. Servos fisted sheets, then reached out; one servo tangling in Rodimus's helm, the other stroking Drift's back strut.

Their fields wove tighter, a symphony of purring static and shared pulses.

Time stretched; Rodimus's suction pulling low moans from Ratchet, Drift peppering his face with kisses, whispering praises. “So beautiful like this... our medic, falling apart for us.”

Rodimus popped off the spike with a slick sound, grinning.

“My turn to feel you.”

He straddled Ratchet's waist, aligning his own dripping valve over the medic's spike. Descent was agonizingly slow; rim kissing the head, then inching down, walls fluttering around the girth.

Ratchet's servos gripped Rodimus's thighs, steadying, optics locked on his captain's face as pleasure twisted those features.

“Primus… Ratchet- so good.”

Drift shifted lower, gathering a palmful of Ratchet's dripping lubricant to slick his own spike further. He nudged between Ratchet's spread legs, aligning the flushed head with the medic's soaked valve. Then, Drift pressed in slow, valve walls parting greedily around his length, sinking deep with a shared groan.

His thrusts synced gently with Rodimus's languid bounces; Ratchet rolling up into Rodimus's clenching heat while Drift filled him from below, their interface arrays sloshing in wet rhythm.

Drift captured Rodimus's derma in hungry kisses, glossa thrusting alongside the motions below, then nipping sharp at his captain's neck cables, leaving marks into the plating as Rodimus gasped and arched.

Ratchet's overload built like a tide, coaxed by the tight clasp of Rodimus's valve milking his spike, the deeper stretch of Drift's girth stroking his inner nodes.

“Close...” he warned, voice strained.

Rodimus clenched deliberately, grinding down.

“With us, doc. Together.”

Drift's pace hitched, spike pulsing inside Ratchet, his denta grazing Rodimus's shoulder strut in a firm bite that drew a whine.

They peaked in waves: Ratchet first, transfluid flooding Rodimus's channel in thick spurts.

Rodimus cried out, valve spasming, his own spike unloading across Ratchet's chassis as Drift followed, grinding deep into Ratchet's valve, painting the convulsing walls with his release.

Frames shuddered, locked together, fields exploding in ecstatic harmony.

Collapse was mutual, and Ratchet pulled them close, Drift and Rodimus at each side.

“Love you both.”

Ratchet murmured, kissing Drift's forehelm, then Rodimus's.

“Me too.”

Drift echoed, nuzzling.

“You are the best.”

Rodimus added sleepily, already drifting.

In my head Drift is very chatty during interfacing and Ratchet (not so) secretly loves it ehehe

Hope you like it 💕

Also ya’ll are making me write an insane amount of dratchet/ratchlock smut lmao thank you I enjoy your ideas

PLEASE MINORS DONT READ THIS

🔞

Drift couldn't help but stare as Ratchet bent over his desk in the dimly lit medbay, working.

The medic's plating gleamed softly, the red accents on his white frame catching Drift's optics.

Drift leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a slow smile curling his dermas as he watched the way Ratchet's optic ridges twitched; he knew the medic could sense him there, pretending not to.

Drift pushed off the frame, stopping just behind Ratchet, close enough to feel the faint hum of the medic's vents, that steady rhythm that always pulled him in like a magnet.

“You know, Ratchet.” Drift started, his voice low and smooth, laced with that teasing edge he knew got under the medic’s plating.

“Every time I see you working like this, I can't stop thinking how beautiful you are. Those servos; precise, strong, like they were forged to fix anyone.”

Drift caught the subtle shift in his vents; a quick intake that betrayed the heat building in his faceplate.

The medic's optics flickered, but he didn't turn around, just grumbled: “Flattery won't get you out of your next check-up, Drift.”

But Drift saw it: the faint bluish glow creeping across Ratchet's cheeks, that adorable flush starting to spread.

Drift chuckled, stepping closer until his chassis brushed Ratchet's back, his servos settling lightly on the medic's hips.

He leaned in, ex-vents warm against Ratchet's audial.

“I’m not flattering, doc. I'm stating facts. Look at you; your frame's a masterpiece. All those curves, the way you move when you're focused... it's intoxicating. Makes me want to trace every seam with my glossa, worship every inch.”

Ratchet's shoulders tensed, and he set the datapad down, his faceplate now fully heating, the blush deepening to a vibrant blue.

He spun halfway, optics narrowing in that flustered glare Drift loved so much.

“I'm trying to concentrate here. Cut it out.”

But his voice cracked just a bit, and Drift's spike twitched in its sheath at the sight; Ratchet's optics darting away, vents cycling faster, that vulnerable spark in his expression screaming embarrassment mixed with want.

“Oh, come on. You deserve to hear it.”

Drift's digits trailed up Ratchet's sides, thumbs brushing the edges of his chassis.

“Your optics? Like sapphires, sharp and piercing, but they soften just for me. And your voice; gruff on the outside, but when you moan my designation? Primus, it's the sweetest sound in the universe.”

He pressed a kiss to Ratchet's neck, feeling the medic shudder under him, the blush now radiating heat.

Ratchet's servos gripped the edge of the desk, trying to steady himself.

“You're... you're ridiculous.”

He muttered, but the words came out breathy. Ratchet's entire frame quivering with the intensity of it all.

He turned fully now, backing into Drift's space, but there was no real protest, just that wide-optics, flushed look that said he was unraveling.

Drift cupped Ratchet's faceplate, tilting it up so their optics locked.

“Just honest. You're the strongest mech I know, patching us up, holding everything together. But frag, Ratch, you're also the hottest. That valve of yours, so tight and welcoming... the way you clench around my spike? Perfection. And don't get me started on your spike; thick, leaking for me like it's made for my mouth.”

Drift's words poured out, each one deliberate, watching the blush explode across Ratchet's features.

A low whine escaped Ratchet's vocalizer, his optics offline for a beat as he leaned into Drift's touch, overwhelmed.

“Stop- Primus, you're making me... I can't...”

But his hips shifted forward, pressing against Drift's thigh, betraying how much the compliments were winding him up, and Drift grinned, loving every second of turning the unflappable Ratchet into a blushing, needy mess.

“Can't what? Blush harder? Because you are, doc. It's gorgeous… makes me want to pin you down right here, show you exactly how much I mean every word.”

Drift's servo slid lower, palming Ratchet's interface panel, feeling it heat under his touch.

Ratchet bucked once, a strangled groan ripping from his throat, his faceplate now a solid sheet of blue glow, optics squeezed shut in mortified pleasure.

Drift didn't let up, murmuring against his dermas.

“You're mine, Ratchet. Beautiful, brilliant, and all flushed for me. Let me take care of you; make you overload screaming how good it feels.”

With that, he triggered Ratchet's cover, the panel hissing open to reveal his dripping valve.

Ratchet's blush hit critical, but he nodded frantically, pulling Drift in for a desperate kiss, surrendering completely to the delicious mix of praise and touch.

Drift's optics darkened with hunger as he guided Ratchet back against the medical berth, the medic's legs parting instinctively to hook around his waist.

Ratchet's valve clenched, slick dripping down his thighs, while his spike throbbed against his abdomen.

Drift's own interface panel retracted with a soft click, his spike surging free; thick, ridged, and already leaking with need. He pressed the blunt head against Ratchet's entrance, rubbing it teasingly along the soaked folds, watching the medic's faceplate burn even brighter.

“Look at you.” Drift murmured, voice a gravelly rumble as he nudged forward, the tip breaching just enough to stretch Ratchet's rim. “So eager, so perfect. Your valve's gripping me already, like it can't wait to swallow every inch. You're incredible, your frame, art.”

Ratchet's vents hitched, a whimper escaping as his optics fluttered, the blush deepening to an almost glowing blue that made Drift's circuits spark.

The medic's servos clutched at Drift's shoulders, digits digging in, but he couldn't meet his gaze, helm tipping back in overwhelmed embarrassment.

Drift thrust in slowly, savoring the tight heat enveloping him, inch by ridged inch, until he was buried to the hilt. Ratchet's walls fluttered around his spike, milking him with involuntary spasms, and Drift groaned, hips snapping once to seat himself fully.

“Your frame is amazing… all responsive and hot, clenching so sweet, like you were built for me.”

He pulled back nearly all the way out, then slammed home again, setting a steady rhythm that had the berth rattling.

Ratchet arched, a strangled moan ripping from his vocalizer, his faceplate burning with heat, optics squeezed shut as the praise hit him harder than the thrusts.

“You're blushing so hard… it's driving me wild.“

Drift leaned down, capturing Ratchet's dermas in a fierce kiss, glossa delving deep as he angled his hips to grind against that sensitive node inside.

Ratchet bucked beneath him, valve gushing more lubricant, his spike smearing transfluids across Drift's abdomen.

Drift broke the kiss, nipping at Ratchet's neck cables as he picked up pace, pounding into him with wet sounds echoing in the medbay.

“You’re perfection, doc.“

Ratchet's response was a keening cry, his frame shuddering. He wrapped his legs tighter, pulling Drift deeper, but his optics darted away, mortified by the intensity of his own reactions.

“Can't hide it from me, beautiful.”

Drift growled, one servo wrapping around Ratchet's spike to stroke in time with his thrusts.

“You're beautiful.. my everything. Let go, show me how you come undone.”

The words pushed Ratchet over, his valve clamping down like a vice as overload crashed through him, spike erupting in thick ropes of transfluid across Drift's grip. Ratchet's faceplate blazed, frame convulsing in humiliated ecstasy.

Drift followed kliks later, burying deep and flooding Ratchet's channel with his own release, spike pulsing as he rode out the waves.

He held the medic close as they both vented heavily.

“So good for me, doc. Blushing and all; don't ever change.”

Drift going into rut and getting very needy about breeding Ratchet

So, I hope I didn’t make the dirty talk "too much" but this request just had to be written like this aaaahh

I hope you like it! I love Drift being feral for Ratchet so much

PLEASE MINORS DONT READ THIS

🔞

Ratchet wiped a servo across his forehelm, the dim lights of the medbay flickering as he processed the cycle’s endless stream of minor injuries from the crew.

But his processors kept drifting back to Drift; all cycle long, something had been off with the swordsmech. His optics darting unfocused during training drills, and his face had flushed a deep blue, vents cycling hot.

He'd stumbled through a sparring session, nearly dropping his blades, and when Ratchet had caught his gaze across the mess hall, Drift had looked away too quickly, frame rigid with unspoken tension.

By the time the shift ended, Ratchet's concern had hardened into resolve.

He pinged Drift's comm with a curt message:

Report to medbay. Now. Full scan.

No excuses, no delays. Drift's response was a delayed affirmative, laced with static that set Ratchet's sensors on edge.

The doors hissed open minutes later, and Drift stepped in, his steps heavy, shoulders hunched.

Up close, the signs were impossible to ignore: his intake hitched with every breath, a low rumble vibrating through his chassis, and that scent -thick, laced with raw need- flooded the room like a warning. Ratchet's own systems glitched for a klik, but he shoved it down, gesturing to the berth.

“Sit.”

Ratchet ordered, voice steady despite the way Drift's optics locked onto him.

“You've been acting weird all cycle. Being distracted is not like you. Lie back; I need to run diagnostics.”

Drift obeyed, but slowly, his frame trembling as he reclined.

Ratchet approached with his scanner, but before he could do anything, Drift's servo shot out, gripping Ratchet's wrist.

“Ratchet...”

Drift's voice was a gravelly rasp, laced with desperation.

“It's the rut. It’s harder than ever... I can't-”

He broke off, optics squeezing shut as a shudder ripped through him.

“Primus, Drift, why didn't you say something sooner?”

Ratchet pulled back, but Drift's grip tightened, yanking him closer until their frames nearly touched. The medic's protests died in his vocalizer as Drift's free servo traced up his thigh, digits digging into the seams with possessive hunger.

“I tried to fight it.”

Drift growled, sitting up to loom over Ratchet, his breath ghosting hot against the medic's audials.

“But all I can think about is you. Your valve, clenching around my spike… taking my transfluid deep. Breeding you until you're full with it, marked as mine.”

The words hit like a bolt, raw and unfiltered, stirring something forbidden in Ratchet's core.

He should push away, enforce protocols, but his own panel ached.

“No.”

Ratchet snapped, though his voice wavered. He shoved at Drift's chassis, but the swordsmech didn't budge, instead surging forward to pin Ratchet against the berth's edge.

Drift's mouth crashed onto his, glossa thrusting inside with frantic need, tasting of fire.

Ratchet's servos fisted in Drift's armor, intending to push, but they clutched instead, pulling him deeper into the kiss.

Drift broke away gasping, nipping at Ratchet's neck cables.

“You feel it too.”

He murmured, one servo sliding down to palm Ratchet's panel.

“Your heat's rising. Let me in, Ratchet, let me fill you.”

With a deft twist, Drift vented the cover, exposing Ratchet's dripping valve. The cool air hit the sensitive mesh, making Ratchet arch.

“Drift, we can't… what if the others-”

But the words dissolved as Drift's digits delved inside, stroking the inner walls with precise, insistent pumps.

Lubricant coated his digits, slick sounds echoing in the medbay, and Ratchet's hips bucked despite himself, processors fogging with pleasure.

“You need this as much as I do.”

Drift insisted, his spike fully extended now, ridged length throbbing against Ratchet's thigh.

He withdrew his digits, replacing them with the blunt head of his spike, teasing the entrance, and Ratchet's resistance cracked; he grabbed Drift's shoulders, optics flickering.

“Just... do it.” Ratchet hissed, hating the plea in his tone.

Drift didn't hesitate. He thrust in hard, burying his spike to the hilt in one brutal stroke.

Ratchet cried out, valve stretching around the thick intrusion, nodes sparking with overload's edge. Drift's hips snapped forward relentlessly, each pound driving deeper.

“So good…”

Drift panted, servos gripping Ratchet's hips to hold him steady.

“Your valve's so tight, sucking me in. I'm going to flood you, breed you full.”

The dirty talk ignited Ratchet's systems; he wrapped his legs around Drift's waist, meeting each thrust with desperate rolls of his own.

Overload built fast, coiling in Ratchet's array until it shattered. His valve clenched rhythmically, milking Drift's spike as transfluid erupted inside him, hot and copious.

Drift groaned, grinding deep, his frame shuddering through his own peak.

They stayed locked like that, vents heaving in sync, until Drift pulled out slowly, a gush of mixed fluids following, but he didn't release Ratchet, nuzzling his helm with sated affection.

“Feel better?”

Ratchet muttered, voice hoarse, even as aftershocks rippled through him.

Drift chuckled lowly.

“For now. But the rut's not over.”

Not boring at all! I hope you like it ❤️

I felt like writing something soft and full of love (I like to imagine them waking up like this every day). I’m not sure if the aftercare part comes across well since I kept everything on the softer side, but I hope it still works!

I haven’t had much time to write lately, but I promise I’ll get around to answering all the requests little by little. Please bear with me 🙏

MINORS PLEASE DONT READ IT

🔞

Drift woke slowly as warm rays of sunlight filtered through the windows, gently warming their still-entwined frames.
He blinked his optics a couple of times, adjusting to the soft golden light, then shifted slightly in the berth.
Ratchet was still recharging beside him, his conjunx. His face was calm, peaceful in rest, and his engine hummed in a soft, steady rhythm. Drift could have watched him like that for joors.
There was something about him in recharge -unguarded, gentle- that made Drift’s spark ache in the best way.
His dermas were slightly parted, still faintly marked by the kisses they had shared the night-cycle before.
Drift leaned closer, torn between the desire not to wake him and the need to touch him. The morning light traced over Ratchet’s frame, catching on the white and red of his plating, making it glow softly.
In the end, Drift gave in.
He pressed a delicate kiss to Ratchet’s cheek. Ratchet stirred faintly.
Encouraged, Drift brushed a second, softer kiss against his dermas. This time, Ratchet’s optics flickered online, slow and heavy with recharge, and Drift’s spark tightened at the sight of that familiar blue gaze.
Years had passed since they had become conjunxes, and yet his feelings had never faded. If anything, they had deepened; softened into something quieter, steadier. A love no longer shaped by chaos or uncertainty, but by the simple, precious life they had built together.
“Good morning.”
Drift murmured, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth, his servo sliding from Ratchet’s chassis to his side, pulling him closer beneath the covers in a quiet, possessive gesture.
“Mm… morning.”
Ratchet replied, a faint smile tugging at his dermas, his voice still rough with recharge.
That was all it took.
Drift gave in, finally capturing his dermas in a deeper kiss; a slow melding of dermas that carried the warmth of the morning light. 
Drift's glossa traced Ratchet's lower derma gently, coaxing a soft sigh from his conjunx, humming with quiet affection. 
Ratchet's optics remained half-lidded, his frame heavy with lingering recharge, but he responded instinctively, his servo rising to cup Drift's helm.
Drift pulled back just enough to murmur against his dermas, voice low and laced with adoration. “You're so beautiful like this. All soft and mine.”
He nuzzled closer, pressing open-mouthed kisses along Ratchet's jawline. His servo, still possessive on Ratchet's side, slid lower, tracing the curve of his hip with feather-light touches that sent subtle shivers through them both.

Ratchet chuckled sleepily, the sound rumbling from his chassis like distant thunder, warm and amused. 
“Primus, Drift... already?”
His voice was thick, words slurring just a bit as he blinked slowly, blue optics focusing on Drift's faceplate with fond exasperation. 
“My eager conjunx, up with the sun and ready to go. What am I going to do with you?”
Drift grinned, his own optics sparkling with playful heat as he kissed the corner of Ratchet's mouth.
“Love me forever, that's what. You're everything to me, you know that?”
He whispered the words like a vow, his free servo exploring upward now, palms gliding over Ratchet's chassis until his vents hitched. 
Drift's spike was hardening fully, aching with that familiar, deep need, but he kept his movements unhurried, savoring every inch of connection.
With gentle insistence, Drift rolled them slightly, positioning himself above Ratchet, their frames aligning perfectly. He trailed kisses down Ratchet's neck cables, murmuring praises between each one. 
“So good... so beautiful... Gonna show you how much I love you.”
His servo dipped lower, digits unsealing Ratchet's interface panel with care, exposing the warm, slick valve beneath. 
Ratchet's laugh turned into a contented hum, his legs parting instinctively as Drift's digits brushed the outer folds, teasing with slow, circling strokes that built heat without rush.

“Mmh… Drift...”
Ratchet's protest was half-hearted, his frame arching just a fraction into the touch, optics fluttering shut again. 
He reached up, pulling Drift down for another kiss, this one lazy and deep, glossas sliding together in a rhythm that mirrored the gentle press of Drift's digits delving deeper, curling to stroke the inner walls with exquisite patience. 
“You're insatiable. Lucky for you, I love waking up to this.”
Drift's spark swelled at the words, his own arousal throbbing as he aligned his spike with Ratchet's entrance, the tip nudging in slowly, inch by inch, enveloped in welcoming heat. 
He groaned softly, burying his face in the crook of Ratchet's neck. 
“I love you, Ratchet. More than anything...”
He began to thrust with languid rolls of his hips, each movement deliberate and tender. 
Ratchet's servos roamed Drift's back, his chuckles fading into breathy moans that filled the quiet room.
Drift's hips moved in a steady, unhurried rhythm, each thrust sinking his spike deeper into Ratchet's valve, the tight heat clenching around him with every slide. 
He kept his weight balanced on his elbows, careful not to overwhelm his conjunx, while his mouth returned to Ratchet's dermas for a lingering kiss. 
“You're perfect.”
Drift breathed between presses of their dermas, his glossa flicking out to taste the corner of Ratchet's mouth. 
Ratchet's moan vibrated through his chassis, as his servos traced lazy patterns along Drift's back struts. His valve fluttered around the intrusion, slick and welcoming, drawing Drift in further with each gentle rock. 
“Always so eager for me, love. Can't say I mind.”
He lifted his hips slightly, meeting one of Drift's thrusts, the motion sending a spark of pleasure up his back strut. His digits dug in just a bit at Drift's sides, urging him on without words, his own arousal building in warm waves.
Drift's vents cycled faster now, the friction of Ratchet's inner walls gripping his spike pulling soft groans from his vocalizer. He shifted his angle, grinding the ridge of his spike against that sensitive node inside Ratchet, watching as his conjunx's face softened with pleasure. 
“I love hearing you like this…”
Drift whispered, nuzzling into Ratchet's audial. 
“Your laughs, your moans... all mine.”
He reached between them, his thumb circling Ratchet's anterior node with firm, slow strokes, matching the pace of his hips. The room filled with the quiet sounds of their joining.
Ratchet's frame arched up to press closer, legs wrapping loosely around Drift's waist. 
“Drift... yes- right there…”
He sighed, his voice thick with recharge and rising heat. 
One servo cupped Drift's face, thumb brushing over his cheek as their optics locked, blue meeting blue in a gaze full of quiet intensity. 
The pressure coiled tighter in his core, his valve pulsing rhythmically around Drift's length, pulling him deeper with each thrust. 
“I love you too. So much. Don't… don’t stop.”
The words ignited something tender in Drift's spark, his movements growing just a fraction more insistent, hips rolling to bury himself fully before withdrawing almost completely, only to push back in with deliberate care.

His free servo roamed Ratchet's side, digits splaying over warm plating, memorizing the feel of him.

“Never stopping.”

Drift promised, his spike throbbing inside the slick grip. He kissed Ratchet's throat again, sucking lightly while Ratchet’s voice turned to soft whimpers, frame trembling as the tension peaked.

“I-I’m close... Drift… I-“

His words cut off in a deep moan, valve clamping down hard as his climax hit, waves of pleasure crashing through him. Lubricant gushed around Drift's spike, easing the thrusts as his inner walls fluttered wildly, milking every inch.

The sensation tipped Drift over the edge, his own overload surging hot. He thrust once more, deep and grounding, as transfluid spilled from his spike in thick pulses, filling Ratchet's valve with warmth.

“Ratchet...! Ah!”

He groaned, burying his face in Ratchet's neck, his frame shuddering with release.

They rode out the aftershocks together, Drift's hips slowing to a gentle grind until he stilled completely, spike still sheathed inside. He lifted his helm, pressing a soft kiss to Ratchet's dermas, optics shining with affection.

“That was... you're incredible.”

Carefully, he eased out, a trickle of their combined fluids following, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he rolled to the side, drawing Ratchet into his arms, their frames slotting together like puzzle pieces under the covers.

Ratchet hummed contentedly, nestling against Drift's chassis, one leg draped over his.

“Mmh… morning well spent.”

He teased lightly, though his voice was soft, exhausted in the best way. He reached for a nearby cloth from the side berth, wiping gently at the mess between them before discarding it, his touches lingering with care. “You know how to start the cycle right.”

Drift chuckled, his servo stroking down Ratchet's side in soothing circles.

“Only because it's with you.”

Dratchet on my mind, Drift getting a speeding ticket for something really dumb and it was easily avoided and Ratchet is so done with his partner... But he also does have a Halloween spicy policeman outfit from his younger years deep in his closet, now that he thinks about it

Oohhh yessss I love writing extra MA stuff ehehe

Watch out, humanformers sticky

MINORS PLS DONT READ THIS

🔞

Everyone gets tickets. Parking tickets, speeding tickets; it’s something that, statistically speaking, happens to every driver at least once in their life.

But when the person getting a ticket is a young, famous rally driver, things take on a slightly more comical tone.

That was exactly what had happened to Drift.

Ever since he’d received the ticket, he had made a point of waking up before his partner every morning to check the mailbox first, hoping to avoid being scolded, and then teased about it for the next few days.

But that morning, he’d overslept.

He stretched lazily in bed, then, drawn by the smell of Ratchet’s coffee, padded barefoot into the kitchen, still wearing the boxers and T-shirt he’d slept in.

Ratchet was there, still in the robe he wore over his pajamas, standing by the kitchen table with his back turned.

Without thinking, Drift slipped his arms around his waist, resting his head against his shoulder.

“Good morning, Ratty.” He murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.

Ratchet didn’t answer right away; he seemed too focused on whatever he was holding.

Drift leaned slightly to the side to get a better look and froze.

Ratchet was sorting through the mail, and in his hands, unmistakable, was the official envelope stamped by the police.

His ticket.

“Drift…” Ratchet began, squinting his beautiful green eyes as he tried to read without his glasses. “What did you do?”

“Oh, that? Nothing. Why don’t you focus on me instead?”

Trying to distract him, Drift’s lips traced the elegant line of Ratchet’s pale neck, pressing soft kisses against his skin, even daring a light bite.

“Did you get a speeding ticket… near a hospital?”

Ratchet turned to look at him, his eyebrows drawn together in a look of clear disappointment, one Drift’s kisses couldn’t hope to undo.

“I was late.” Drift muttered, blushing slightly as he rested his chin back on his shoulder.

“For what?”

“…gaming night with Roddy.”

Silence fell. Just long enough for embarrassment to settle in properly.

Ratchet sighed deeply, shaking his head.

“Hey, I even tried your trick and showed the cop my rally driver license, but it didn’t work.” Drift added quickly, stepping away as Ratchet turned fully toward him, arms crossing over his chest.

“Do you realize that if they take your license for driving like an idiot, your career is over too?”

Ratchet was right. Completely right.

But still… nothing had actually happened, had it?

“As if you’ve never gotten a ticket.” Drift muttered under his breath.

Ratchet let out another long sigh.

“Be more careful next time. This is a very stupid way to waste money.”

And just like that, they ate breakfast in silence.

Drift knew he’d messed up, but he still wasn’t sure he deserved to be scolded like that.

During the day, Drift had gone to train alone at the track, while Ratchet had returned to his office to see his patients. Needless to say, that small argument had lingered in the driver’s mind, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been treated unfairly.

By the time he headed home in the late afternoon, he already had a speech prepared; ready to ask Ratchet not to treat him like a child.

But the moment he stepped inside, all of that resolve vanished.

In their bedroom, sitting on the bed, was Ratchet.

He was wearing the costume Drift had once convinced him to buy for a Halloween party a few years earlier; an outfit that, much to Drift’s disappointment, had done nothing but gather dust in their closet ever since.

Until now.

It was a rather provocative police uniform: the classic cap, a short-sleeved blue shirt -left deliberately unbuttoned to reveal the freckles scattered across his chest- and a pair of very short black shorts that left his pale thighs fully exposed.

He sat there, legs spread slightly, as if inviting him closer.

“I think we need to talk about that speeding ticket again.”

Ratchet murmured, looking at him with bright, unmistakably amused eyes as he lazily spun a pair of handcuffs around one finger.

For a moment, Drift felt his heart stop, and all the blood in his body rush south.

He dropped his training bag by the door, kicking it aside without a second thought, his gaze locked on Ratchet's spread thighs and the way the short pants rode up, exposing more pale skin than they concealed.

Ratchet's vibrant eyes -those piercing green ones that always seemed to see right through him- held a mix of mischief and challenge. The handcuffs glinted under the bedroom light as he spun them lazily, the metallic click echoing in the quiet room. Drift swallowed hard, his cock already twitching to life in his pants.

“Officer.”

Drift said, his voice coming out rougher than he intended.

He stepped closer, playing along, his mind racing with images of what could come next. The roleplay had been a fantasy they'd toyed with before, but seeing Ratchet like this -dressed to provoke, freckles dusting his unbuttoned shirt like stars on pale sky- made it feel dangerously real.

“I didn't know I was in trouble. What did I do this time?”

Ratchet's lips curved into a smirk. He shifted on the bed, thighs parting a fraction more.

“You know exactly what you did, speed demon. Racing around like you own the streets. I'm here to make sure you pay the fine.”

He dangled the handcuffs higher, the chain rattling softly.

“Hands where I can see them.”

Drift's resolve from earlier shattered completely. He closed the distance in two strides, towering over Ratchet, who looked up at him with feigned authority that didn't quite hide the hunger in his eyes.

But before Drift could make a move, Ratchet's hand shot out, grabbing Drift's wrist with surprising strength.

“Not so fast, criminal.”

Ratchet purred, his voice low and commanding. He twisted Drift's arm behind his back, the cold metal of the handcuffs clicking into place around one wrist, then the other, securing them firmly against the small of Drift's back.

Drift's breath hitched, a thrill shooting through him at the sudden reversal. The cuffs bit into his skin just enough to remind him of his vulnerability, warmth spreading in his pants as Ratchet pushed him onto the bed.

The young driver landed on the mattress with a soft thud, his arms pinned uselessly behind him, watching as Ratchet straddled his hips, the man's weight settling teasingly over his straining erection.

“You think you can just barge in and take over?”

Ratchet leaned down, his chest brushing against Drift's shirt as he nipped at Drift's earlobe. His hands roamed freely now, pulling up the boy’s shirt with deliberate slowness, exposing the driver’s toned abs and chest. “No, you're under arrest. And I'm going to extract that fine myself.”

Drift groaned, arching up into the pressure of Ratchet's ass grinding down against him through their clothes. The friction was maddening, Ratchet's short pants doing little to hide the heat radiating from his body.

“Fuck, Ratchet... Officer-”

Drift corrected himself with a ragged laugh, playing along even as his hips bucked instinctively.

“What kind of punishment are we talking?”

Ratchet's laugh was breathy, his fingers trailing down to Drift's belt, yanking it open with a sharp tug. He shoved Drift's pants down just enough to free his cock, which sprang up, hard and leaking onto his stomach.

Ratchet wrapped his hand around the base, stroking firmly once, twice, drawing a curse from Drift's lips.

“The kind where you stay still and take it.”

Ratchet murmured, his own arousal evident in the flush creeping up his neck and the way his thighs clenched around Drift's sides.

He shifted back, quickly shedding his tiny shorts, his hard cock bobbing free, flushed and ready. Ratchet reached for the lube on the nightstand and slicked his fingers, prepping himself with efficient circles, his eyes never leaving Drift's.

The sight was intoxicating; Ratchet's pale skin glowing under the dim light, freckles scattering across his chest as he worked himself open, soft moans escaping as he pushed two fingers inside.

Drift strained against the cuffs, the metal rattling faintly, his muscles flexing uselessly.

“Let me touch you… please.”

He growled, voice thick with need. But Ratchet just shook his head, a wicked glint in his eyes.

“Not tonight.”

Satisfied, Ratchet positioned himself over Drift's cock, the slick head nudging against his entrance.

He sank down slowly, inch by inch, his tight heat enveloping Drift in a vice-like grip that made stars burst behind Drift's eyelids. Ratchet's walls clenched around him, hot and welcoming, as he bottomed out with a shuddering gasp.

“Oh, fuck… yes-”

Ratchet breathed, his hands bracing on Drift's chest for leverage, nails digging into the skin.

He started to move, rolling his hips in a teasing rhythm at first, lifting up until just the tip remained inside before sliding back down, taking his lover deep each time.

The bed creaked under them, Ratchet's thighs flexing with every rise and fall.

Drift thrust up to meet him, as much as the cuffs allowed, his bound position heightening every sensation; the way Ratchet's body gripped him, the slap of skin, the desperate whines spilling from Ratchet's lips.

“Ride me harder, Officer.”

Drift panted, his head falling back against the pillow.

“M-make me pay for it.”

Ratchet obliged, picking up the pace, bouncing on Drift's cock with abandon.

His green eyes locked onto Drift's, possessive, as he ground down, circling his hips to hit that spot inside him that made his whole body tremble. Sweat beaded on his freckled skin, his unbuttoned shirt hanging open.

The pressure built fast, Ratchet's hand wrapping around his own cock, stroking in time with his rides. “Gonna- fuck, Drift, so close…”

He gasped, his movements growing erratic. Drift's hips snapped up, driving deeper, the angle perfect for pounding into the older man.

Ratchet came with a cry, and Drift followed seconds later, groaning as he filled Ratchet, his release pulsing deep inside.

Ratchet collapsed forward, both of them panting, bodies slick and spent.

After a moment, Ratchet reached back, fumbling with the key to unlock the cuffs. Drift's arms fell free, and he immediately pulled Ratchet close, kissing him deeply, tasting satisfaction.

“Best fine I've ever paid.” Drift murmured against his lips.

Ratchet chuckled, nuzzling into his neck.

I loved your idea but I tweaked it a little because I immediately thought of Ratchet being unable to resist taking advantage of his partner while he’s in such a relaxed state aaaahh

Also, I gave you super chatty Drift during interfacing before, and now I’m giving you the opposite: complete silence, which I think really suits a moment like this ehehe

Thank you so much for the request, I really enjoyed writing it! I wanted to keep going, but I had to stop myself because I have so many other things to work on nnnnhhh

MINORS PLEASE DONT READ THIS

🔞

Ratchet had waited long enough, and Drift still hadn’t shown up.

Thoroughly irritated, he stormed out of the medbay and headed toward his habsuite. He already knew how this would go; Drift would flash him that infuriating smile and come up with some idiotic excuse for missing his checkup. Something along the lines of, “I was so busy praying I forgot my appointment. For the third time in a row.”

Ratchet ground his denta at the mental image. The way Drift’s optics softened when he looked at him, the way that smile made it far too easy to forget why he’d been annoyed in the first place.

No. Focus.

The swordsmech couldn’t keep getting away with this. Spending every spare moment in the medbay leaning far too close, flirting shamelessly, murmuring promises of what he’d do to Ratchet after his shift…

Only to vanish the one time the doctor actually needed him there.

When Ratchet finally found himself in front of Drift’s habsuite door, the scent of incense drifting from within brushed against his senses like a warm invitation.

By now, he was used to stepping into that space -especially at night-cycle- so he entered without bothering to knock.

The fragrance was stronger inside, yet no longer overwhelming as it had been the first few times he’d visited. Instead, it had taken on something softer, almost comforting. It lingered faintly in Drift’s armor, a scent that was beginning to feel… familiar.

Almost like home.

Ratchet took a few steps inside, letting the door slide shut behind him with a quiet hiss, and finally found him.

Drift sat on the floor, facing the wide viewport that revealed the slow drift of stars as the Lost Light moved through space. His legs were crossed, servos resting loosely on his knees, palms turned upward.

He was meditating.

And for a moment, Ratchet’s irritation simply faded, as if it had no place in a room like this.

Slowly, Ratchet approached, leaning in to observe him more closely.

The swordsmech’s face was relaxed, serene. His optics were closed, the corners of his mouth faintly curved, as if he were lost in something far gentler than meditation, like a dream. His vents cycled in a slow, steady rhythm, and his back -perfectly straight yet at ease- gave no sign that he had noticed Ratchet’s presence.

Ratchet, however, knew better. Drift was a warrior. It was hard to believe he hadn’t already registered his approach the moment he entered the corridor.

And yet… it didn’t bother him, at least, not in the way he had expected.

Carefully, making as little noise as possible, Ratchet knelt behind him. Then, before he could second-guess himself, he leaned in -drawn by something he didn’t quite understand- and let his dermas brush lightly against the hollow of Drift’s neck.

It wasn’t quite a kiss. Not really.

More a quiet way of announcing himself, of asking for attention without breaking the moment entirely.

Drift’s shoulders tensed ever so slightly, his white finials giving a faint, involuntary twitch, but he didn’t move.

“Ratchet.”

The designation left him in a whisper, soft enough to blend with the steady rhythm of his vents, as though it were part of his meditation rather than a break from it.

“What are you doing?”

His voice remained low, controlled, but no longer untouched.

Ratchet's dermas lingered at the curve of Drift's neck, the initial brush evolving into a proper kiss, slow, deliberate, pressing softly against the warm plating.

The medic's glossa flicked out, tracing the seam where metal met cable, tasting the faint spice of incense that clung to Drift's frame.

A low hum escaped Drift's vents, his frame relaxing into the touch rather than pulling away, optics still firmly shuttered as if he were determined to hold onto that meditative calm.

Emboldened by the lack of protest, Ratchet shifted closer, trailing his dermas downward, kissing along the ridge of Drift's back strut, dermas parting to let his glossa glide over the sensitive edges of his armor.

The texture was smooth under his touch, heated from within, and Ratchet savored the subtle tremor that ran through Drift's frame; a silent admission of pleasure.

He nipped gently at a junction point, then soothed it with a broad lick as Drift's breathing deepened, vents cycling faster now, but he kept his posture steady, legs crossed, servos unmoving on his knees.

His faceplate remained serene, though a faint flush crept into the edges of his cheekbones, betraying how much he was enjoying the unhurried exploration.

Ratchet's kisses ventured lower; the swordsmech arched just a fraction, a soft sigh slipping free, his frame yielding without a word.

Finally, Drift's optics flickered online, glowing with a soft intensity that locked onto Ratchet's gaze. Without a sound, he uncrossed his legs and turned, one servo cupping the back of Ratchet's helm to draw him in.

Their dermas met in a deep, languid kiss, Drift's glossa sliding against Ratchet's with a gentleness that belied his warrior strength. It was unhurried, exploratory, glossas tangling as servos roamed; Drift's tracing Ratchet's sides, Ratchet's gripping Drift's waist.

They eased down together onto the floor, cool against Ratchet's back as Drift settled above him, their frames aligning in perfect sync.

Drift's kisses trailed to Ratchet's neck, then lower, peeling back his modesty panel with careful touches to expose sensitive meshes.

Drift’s spike pressurized fully, aching as Ratchet’s servo wrapped around it, stroking with feather-light pressure that made him gasp. In turn, Drift reached for Ratchet’s valve, digits circling the rim before dipping inside, feeling the slick heat clench around him.

Drift aligned himself slowly, spike nudging against Ratchet's entrance, and pushed in with a shared vent of air. The stretch was exquisite, filling Ratchet inch by inch until they were locked together, hips rocking in a gentle rhythm.

Drift's thrusts were measured, deep but tender, each one drawing moans from Ratchet's vocalizer as pleasure built in waves.

They moved as one, fields intertwining, overload cresting softly; Drift spilling inside with a muffled groan, Ratchet following with a shuddering release that left them both trembling.

The link to this scene

https://youtu.be/_b_c0qLRU3U?si=oqATFHFtfpMbG3AU

Take good care of yourself!! ❤️

I’ll admit I may have overused “servos” and “dermas”, but I hope I was able to convey at least a fraction of the intensity of the scene you sent me (I love French movies and that one’s on my must watch list). Hope you liked it ❤️

Also I still have one more post EOS request and I think it will become the continuation of this one 👀

Take care of yourself too ❤️

MINORS PLEASE DONT READ THIS even though is softer than my usual

🔞

The internal clock marked the beginning of the night-cycle, though it was impossible to tell otherwise, here in the battered shuttle carrying Ratchet and Drift through the vastness of space. Around them stretched the endless dark, scattered with distant points of light.

They hadn’t said much to each other since deciding to leave together. Perhaps they hadn’t needed to.

Recent events had drawn them closer. Not only had they come to trust each other completely, but feelings neither had ever dared to voice had resurfaced, stubborn and insistent.

And now, as Ratchet prepared his berth, he couldn’t stop thinking. Not just about everything they had been through -the risks, surviving once again- but about something else entirely.

Something that seemed to fill the shuttle itself.

Unspoken thoughts, lingering glances, accidental touches during the journey, each one leaving a mark, as if burned into memory.

Whenever their gazes met, the moment stretched -heavy, charged- as though both wanted to speak, yet neither could bring themselves to break the silence.

So, Ratchet had withdrawn, retreating to his quarters, hoping recharge would wash it all away. Hoping that by morning, everything would return to what it had been before.

Familiar, safe, certain.

Ratchet, the gruff doctor. Drift, the swordsmech, perhaps a little too devoted to Primus.

That was what they were to each other. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Or so he told himself.

As Ratchet finished straightening the sheets, preparing to settle in, he heard the soft hiss of the door opening behind him.

He turned.

Drift stood in the doorway.

The dim light of the room brushed faintly against his white plating, just enough to make it gleam. There was something in his gaze; something quiet and melancholic, but also… relieved. As if he needed to speak, yet didn’t know how. The same silent struggle Ratchet himself had been fighting all along.

Ratchet said nothing. He simply looked at him.

Drift didn’t explain. He didn’t need to.

As if pulled by the same invisible force, they both took a step forward, and then another, until they found themselves face to face, closer than they had ever been before.

Ratchet could feel the gentle, rhythmic cycle of Drift’s vents, warm air brushing softly against his face. His own spark pounded wildly in his chassis, as if searching for an escape.

For a moment, Ratchet lowered his gaze, as though Drift’s blue optics were too intense to meet; as if he were afraid of getting lost in them.

But Drift’s servo rose immediately, digits curling beneath his chin, lifting it with quiet insistence.

The contact was electric, and Ratchet didn’t pull away.

Drift’s thumb slid from his chin to his lower derma, tracing it slowly, almost reverently. Ratchet exhaled softly and, unable to stop himself, brushed his dermas against the touch before looking back up at him.

Drift leaned closer, his vents stalling for a fraction of a second, and Ratchet moved first.

He pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Drift’s mouth, then to his cheek, his jaw, as his servos tightening around the swordsmech’s arms as if searching for something to hold onto.

When they looked at each other again, there was no annoyance, no surprise in Drift’s expression. Only a quiet need; the look of someone who had always known this moment would come, and now intended to savor it, slowly.

Then it was Drift’s turn.

He leaned in, brushing a kiss along Ratchet’s cheekbone, then lower, mapping a careful path toward his dermas. When he finally reached them, the contact was feather-light.

For a moment, it felt as though they were the only two mechs left in the universe.

Nothing else existed.

Just this.

Just the space between them, the breath they both held before their dermas met again.

It was barely a kiss -more a tremor than anything else- but it was enough. Enough to break something open, to let spill everything they had never managed to say.

Ratchet’s servos rose to Drift’s faceplate, digits tracing his features as if trying to commit them to memory, while Drift’s servos mirrored the gesture at his hips before sliding around his waist, pulling him closer.

Their frames pressed together, close enough that Ratchet could feel the rhythm of Drift’s spark echoing his own.

And when they kissed again, neither of them let go.

Their dermas moved slowly, exploring each other with a tenderness that seemed born from eons of repressed longing.

Ratchet felt Drift's warmth spread through the contact, a gentle wave that soothed the turmoil in his spark while simultaneously igniting a deep, rooted desire.

Drift's servos, strong yet delicate, slid along Ratchet's back, tracing the lines of his plating with digits that trembled slightly, as if afraid to shatter the enchantment. Ratchet responded in kind, his servos rising from Drift's faceplate to get lost in the cables of his neck, then descending to his broad shoulders, clinging as if that touch were the only anchor in an unstable universe.

They parted just enough to look at each other, Drift's optics bright with a pure, vulnerable emotion that Ratchet recognized as the reflection of his own.

There was no rush, only a shared hunger that urged them to move in unison.

Drift guided Ratchet toward the berth, their steps synchronized. Ratchet allowed himself to be led, his frame relaxing against Drift's, feeling the solidity of his partner as a promise of safety.

They sank into the mattress with a collective sigh, their frames aligning naturally, chassis to chassis.

Drift's servos continued their exploration, igniting sparks of pleasure that made him shiver.

Ratchet tilted his helm back, exposing his neck, and Drift took advantage to press light kisses there, his glossa grazing the cables with a sweetness that conveyed more than any words. The touch was reverential, as if Drift were worshiping every part of the medic.

Ratchet, in turn, ran his digits along Drift's side, feeling his warmth, the accelerated rhythm of his vents betraying his growing excitement.

Their servos sought each other tirelessly, intertwining for a moment before parting to trace new paths; from arms to hips, from chassis to thighs. Each caress was a silent dialogue, an “I want you” expressed through the pressure of the digits, an “I've waited for you” in the way the servos lingered, savoring the familiarity of the other's frame.

Drift shifted slightly, positioning himself above Ratchet without crushing him, his weight a comfort rather than an oppression. Their interfaces brushed through the pelvic plating, a contact that sent waves of heat through their systems, but they didn't act on it yet. Instead, Drift lowered his head to capture Ratchet's lips again in a deeper kiss, their glossas intertwining slowly, exploring with a patience that amplified the intensity. Ratchet moaned softly into the kiss, his servos rising to grip Drift's nape, holding him close as if afraid he might dissolve.

Slowly, with a delicacy that reflected the depth of their feelings, Drift released the latches of Ratchet's pelvic plating, exposing his array with infinite care. Ratchet did the same, his fingers trembling as he opened Drift, revealing his spike that pressurized gradually, rigid and throbbing with desire. There was no urgency in their touch; Ratchet wrapped a servo around the base of Drift's spike, stroking it with slow movements, feeling the metal warm under his palm, the pre-fluid lubricating the grip. Drift responded by brushing Ratchet's valve, his digits tracing the swollen edges, gathering the lubricant that already dripped, a sign of his growing arousal.

Their fields fully merged now, a whirlwind of emotions: love, trust, a sense of completeness that filled every void left by the war. Drift positioned his spike at the entrance of Ratchet's valve, pressing slowly, inch by inch, allowing the medic's body to adjust. Ratchet arched his back, his servos clawing at Drift's shoulders, the pleasure invading him like a slow, enveloping tide. He felt every ridge of the spike slide inside him, filling him with a fullness that went beyond the physical, touching his spark in a way that left him breathless.

Drift stopped when he was fully sheathed, their frames pressed against each other, their vents synchronized in a shared rhythm. He remained there, still for a long moment, letting Ratchet feel the beat of his spark against his own, the emotions flowing between them like an indestructible bridge.

Then, with infinite gentleness, he began to move, slow and deep thrusts that made Ratchet moan softly, each thrust an affirmation of devotion.

Ratchet's servos wandered over Drift's back, tracing the grooves of the plating, clinging as the pleasure built, a heat spreading from his valve's node to radiate throughout his frame.

Drift lowered his helm to kiss Ratchet's neck again, his glossa lapping at the exposed cables, while his servos caressed the medic's hips, holding him.

The rhythm remained steady, passionate but controlled, each movement designed to prolong the connection, to make that moment of perfect union last. Ratchet felt the overload approaching like a rising star, slow and inevitable, his valve contracting around Drift's spike, gripping it in a possessive embrace.

Drift accelerated imperceptibly, his own moans muffled against Ratchet's plating, the pleasure overwhelming him in waves that mirrored his partner's.

When the overload struck them, it was simultaneous, a shared explosion that left them trembling. Drift's transfluid filled Ratchet's valve in hot waves, while his frame contracted in spasms of ecstasy.

Ratchet clung to Drift, his servos shaking as the aftershocks coursed through him, a deep sense of peace seeping into his spark, as if everything was finally in its right place.

They remained joined, their frames still intertwined, their servos continuing to seek each other in lazy, post-overload caresses.

Drift partially collapsed onto Ratchet, his weight a comforting mantle, while their fields calmed slowly, entwined in an eternal embrace.