Summary: It had been the consequence of losing a bet that Ratchet had one odd tool installed into his hands millions of stellar cycles ago. He'd never gotten the opportunity to have it removed. Drift finds out about it and does what Drift naturally does.
Author's notes: OH MY GOD PLEASE STOP MY BRAIN this might be some of the weirdest slag I've ever written.
Warning note: there are valves where there should not be valves. This was an idea that spawned before work, so you know it's weird. Lmaooooo ratchet got a pocket pussy in his hands
.o
Was it fate that led to the two of them sitting in the med bay now, being worked on by other medics, or was it sheer coincidence?
It was idiocy, for certain.
The transformation bearings in his metacarpophalangeal joints were extended to their limits to make way for First Aid, who was attempting to find the bent-out-of-place springs that were causing him agony. The bushels of his unique make were giving the other medic grief, making it more difficult to find these tiny but necessary components.
"What caused this in the first place?" First Aid asked, prodding at something that caused Ratchet's servo to spasm.
Ratchet grumbled something under his breath, glaring at Drift, who was also lying on a table with Ambulon realigning calipers in Drift's valve that had been bent out of place. Ratchet would do it himself, but, well, sprung spring and all.
If the other medic was smart, he was certain they could put two-and-two together, given the circumstances. Ratchet had had both servos occupied in that valve, two fingers from each playing around in there, when the kid had squeezed too tightly. When Ratchet had tried to move? Voila, the springs basically exploded. "Just fix it already."
"I'm trying, but you've got a weird setup going on here," First Aid explained. "The springs should be here, but they're not," he poked at the area in question.
He asked Ratchet to rotate a rack of caliper-lined gimbals 30 degrees on the Z axis, which finally revealed the offending springs.
"Why's your hand configuration so strange?" The servicing medic asked as he began replacing the springs.
I'll tell you about it later, Ratchet commed him.
When there was silence, save for the soft rustle of mechanical beings moving, it caught Drift's interest.
"I know you were talking privately," he gazed between them.
"It's nothing, kid."
"If it were nothing, you'd have nothing to hide."
Ratchet knew this would be the end of him.
.o
There was no escape from Drift's questing. Not even in a corner booth in Swerve's bar.
"C'mon Ratchet, please tell me?" Drift had no boundaries when it came to medic secrets. It was like he was programmed to seek all knowledge and hoard it like some sort of mechanodragon.
"For the last time, no!"
"What could possibly lie in those hands that's so dangerous that you don't want even I, the medic-loving-wonder, to know?" Yes, what did Ratchet not want the medic-obsessed lughead to know?
When there was no follow up, Ratchet relaxed in his seat, relieved that the matter had been settled.
"I'll make those energon truffles."
He thought it'd been settled.
Ratchet balked, mouth watering with just the thought of him being able to experience that overload-worthy delicacy once more. Despite being a menace to society as a Decepticon, and likely having no experience cooking as a siphoner, Drift was a surprisingly good chef. Those energon truffles took weeks to prepare correctly, which was why he'd only been privy to taste those once in his lifetime.
Ratchet looked as though he were making a decision between life and death.
"Fine," he gritted out. "But not here."
.o
They were huddled in Drift's quarters (it was simply closer to the bar), Ratchet sitting in the one chair in the room and Drift perched on his berth. Ratchet had Drift's unwavering attention.
"It was a long time ago," Ratchet began, optics dimming as his processor accessed files it hadn't touched in millions of stellar cycles, "during medical school. I'd… lost a bet against one of my medical colleagues. As a result…" he seemed to struggle to finish the sentence. Drift leaned forward, hanging on to every word.
Instead of finishing the sentence, Ratchet let the evidence speak for itself. He held his hands out in front of him, holding them together, and they shifted in a configuration Drift hadn't seen before. Eventually, what remained was—
Was…
Was that a valve?!
"Yes. It is." Drift must have spoken it aloud without realizing it. His jaw dropped. That dumbfounded look was kind of cute on him.
"Now that you know, you can leave me be."
"No, no. I gotta see that more." He hopped off the bed, invading Ratchet's space, admiring the medical marvel, observing it from every angle. Drift had never seen the components of a valve that held it in place inside of a mech; it was fascinating seeing the pieces that held it together to the mech. It was almost alien, in a sense.
The opening of the valve was of standard size, a clean rubber ring lining the circular entrance. It was like a valve straight off the assembly line. It glistened with a small production of lubrication. No biolights to entice, and the entire thing was painted red.
Drift wanted to see if the inside was red as well. Two fingers hooked at the opening ring to expand the valve for a better visual, causing a full-body shudder from Ratchet.
"Careful, kid. It's a lot more sensitive than a normal valve, because it's my hands."
He nodded, spreading that flexible ring and seeing the internal calipers. They were red as well, sparkling with lube. He couldn't help himself; he stuck a digit in there and pressed at those calipers like a piano key. Ratchet sucked in a breath, leaning back in the chair.
"Does it have the same configuration as your valve?" Drift asked, tracing the rotating aperture that would function to give a healthy squeeze around a spike. It flexed, gently holding that finger in place. The movement made a sound like a camera shutter. He tried pulling back his finger but that aperture held steady. Drift gulped, fans clicking on.
"No. This is a standard model," Ratchet relented, releasing Drift's finger. The ministrations were causing a charge to develop, localized to his hands. The feedback from his hand valve was being interpreted by his CPU as ministrations from both his hand and his valve, twice more.
"D-do you still have your valve when this is active?" Drift looked like he had an idea. Ratchet had an inkling of where this was headed. He wasn't known as the Party Ambulance in his heyday for nothing.
"Of course." He wiggled his hips forward and leaned back further, planting his legs on the ground more firmly for Drift to get a visual as his crotch plate retracted, exposing his valve. His original valve had black internals with biolights near the entrance matching the colour of those lining his chest and shin guards. They pulsed to the beat of his spark, a rhythm Drift had memorized.
Drift pulled back, stepping backwards and patted the berth's surface. "I think you should hop on."
"Why?" Ratchet asked, though he was getting up on there anyways.
"I got a treatment for my medic," Drift replied, climbing atop Ratchet once he situated himself. Drift's back was to Ratchet's face.
"C-can I…?"
Ratchet inferred what Drift was talking about. "This is the only time," he warned. Truth be told, he really didn't mind. It just tended to put a huge strain on his wrists due to the attachment point. Any fragging with his hand valve usually meant several solar cycles of achy joints.
"Sure, sure," that non-committal response told Ratchet this wouldn't be the last.
Drift leaned forward, arms draping languidly over Ratchet's spread thighs, fingers scratching over the inner surface. He pressed more weight forward, arching his back for Ratchet, displaying the junction between his legs, knowing Ratchet loved to ogle at the pistons extending between his thigh and his crotch. The crotchplate retracted, Ratchet hungrily watching as that dark spike extended, ending with small red biolights flaring into view. That was one thing that hadn't changed since Drift had converted from Deadlock; it was a remnant of his past.
Ratchet initiated a partial transformation of his shoulders, allowing them to move further back, which better aligned his hand valve to Drift's spike. He could feel Drift's hot breath wafting against his original valve, causing his thighs to tremble. He wanted to clamp those thighs around that spikey head and rut himself into an overload.
"We think so alike, don't we," Drift moaned, referring to them setting themselves in this situation without having to communicate it. A hand reached down to guide his spike to the entrance of the hand valve. Ratchet shuddered when the tip of it grazed the opening. It slowly penetrated, spreading components that hadn't been stretched in this configuration for millions of stellar cycles. The result was Ratchet groaning, pushing his hips upward into an inviting mouth, one that eagerly feasted as though it were Drift's Adaptus-given function.
Drift slid in gently, keeping the caution in his mind of these being Ratchet's hands. He didn't want to damage something important. The valve was standard but it sure felt like a tight fit. The calipers seemed to catch on every single ridge and attempt to hold in between those gaps, which startled Drift.
"I have better control over the parts in my hand than one would have in their valve, normally," Ratchet explained smugly when he heard Drift yelp. "I can feel every part of you like I would with my hands.
A wave of lubricant washed through both valves, causing Drift's lapping to sound sloppier. He slurped at the valve, moaning into it, glossa extending to tease the rotating rings and calipers that quivered around it. He used two fingers to spread that valve further open, a fang barely glossing against the internal part of the valve. Ratchet kicked a leg out, cursing, wishing his had the hands to force Drift's head down to repeat that sensation.
Ratchet focused on where his hands and Drift were making contact, hypnotized by the rhythmic thrusting—however slow and gentle it was compared to their normal flings—and the way it pulled out bubbly founts of lubricant. Each stroke was a stroke to his valve and to his spark, bringing him to the precipice quicker than a standard fragging. When Drift bottomed out with a rougher thrust, the calipers in his hands dug their grip into the bottom-most rung of his spike as Ratchet locked his joints through an overload. A surprised, muffled grunt vibrated through his original valve as his original rings clamped down on Drift's tongue, spiraling tightly enough that it locked him in place as well. The released charge crawled through Drift's mouth, causing his intakes to run ragged, and his hips jerked erratically from its delivery. He heard Ratchet call his name, and his spark sung as a result.
When the calipers loosened, he continued thrusting into that hand valve, now chasing his own overload. Plunged in and out of that now messy array, paint transferring white onto that once pristine Ratchet's red, perhaps a bit rougher than he intended, but it was all the same. His audials rang as he stroked through his overload, snarling into the valve he'd been licking dry. His fingers gripped at the thighs on each side of his head for support, comforted by who they were owned by.
He found it difficult to lift himself out of Ratchet's hand valve from this position with his circuits resetting from the overload, but eventually he did. Lifted himself up and perched his aft on Ratchet's waist, fans rattling, engine purring.
He looked back, flashing a cheeky grin, but it froze when he realized that Ratchet was rebooting. He hadn't caused that to happen in a long time. He adjusted himself so that he was laying chest-to-chest with Ratchet, opting to look him in the optics as they flickered online. He flicked Ratchet's nose, a softer smile painting his face.
"Hey," he said, wiping away a bit of his transfluid that had managed to splash onto Ratchet's face. He was a messy boy.
"You… are incorrigible," Ratchet said, giving a small peck on Drift's cheek.
"I didn't hear you complaining," Drift retorted, pulling Ratchet's head forward into a kiss. His mouth hadn't yet run a cleaning cycle, so Ratchet could detect the chemical makeup of his own fluids on Drift's lips, in his tongue, on his teeth… He hummed, pleased.
He couldn't transform his hands back until his hand valve completed a self-cleaning cycle, so he opted to circle his thighs around Drift's waist, engine rumbling in contentment.
"Round two?" Drift asked hopefully.
"I have to clean this mess out before it gums up my gears and we're right back where we started in the med bay."
That tell-tale smirk spoke of nothing but evil. "I got a few ideas we could do with that new valve in the med bay."
If Ratchet tuned out the depraved mech's ramblings, he could simply enjoy the beauty of the mech's face and appreciate the overload he just gave him.
Instead, he was a fool and decided to listen to what Drift was saying. It was how they got into this situation in the first place.
.o
Author's notes: Next time on dragon ball z: Ratchet's Hands Are Haunted?! Stay tuned!