Sleight of Hand
Mar. 19th, 2012 11:12 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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IDW, MTMTE
Drift, Rodimus, Ratchet
sticky, spoiler for MTMTE 3?
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tf_speedwriting: 13 Aug medibay during a lull
“Hey, pretty good, huh?” Rodimus grinned at Ratchet. Well, the top of Ratchet’s helm, as the other was bent over his new arms’ understructure as he perched on the repair table.
“Pretty good. You mean the waste.” Ratchet reached for another tool.
“Waste? You mean you wanted to study that damn thing?” The whole point was that the coolness of the sparkeater was its…unknownness. Whatever that word was. He had no problems melding that fragger to the engine block. End of that threat.
“I meant your arms.” Ratchet frowned. “You’re the leader. You’re supposed to be responsible.”
Rodimus frowned. “Hey, I am responsible. For this whole ship. The only one in any danger was me.” And he liked it like that. The center of the action.
“And Rung. And Skids. And that idiot Drift.”
“That idiot?” Drift’s voice, behind Ratchet.
Ratchet turned his head. “Yeah. You, with your telepathic beings of light, positive energy and all that slag.”
A shrug. “We’ll see,” Drift said, mildly. Hard to believe he was Deadlock, the sullen, snarling terror of the Decepticons. Almost a miracle, that kind of change.
If Ratchet believed in miracles.
“Yeah.” Ratchet pushed back, thrusting a microsprayer into Drift’s hands. More like…thunking it against his chassis, the startled hands fumbling for it. “Make yourself useful. That means parts of you that aren’t your mouth. I’m going to go check the armor fabrication.”
Rodimus snickered. “Your positive vibes are working, Drift. Drove Mr Sour-piston away.”
Drift frowned. “We’re lucky he came, though,” he said. “We need his skill.” He looked, bemused at the microcsprayer, then at Rodimus’s electrum hand frames, giving a ‘got it’ nod of his head. He took one of the hands, spraying it down with the fine oil, then working it in with a rag. He’d seen enough limb replacements in his time. The Decepticons hadn’t often bothered to use neural blocks for the pain.
Rodimus watched him work the oil into his hands, wiggling his fingers. “Feels pretty good.” This and the whole ‘oh frag I kicked aft’ high he always got. He hadn’t been this giddy since surviving that whole ‘shot down over the Decepticon base’ thing.
A strange quirk of a smile on Drift’s bent face. “Does it?”
“What? Not supposed to notice that, either? Is that irresponsible, too?” Like Drift would be one to talk.
“Probably.” Another twitch of the mouth, and Rodimus felt Drift’s friction-warmed hand slide between his thighs. “So’s this, though.”
Rodimus twitched as the oiled fingers slicked over his interface hatch. “What are you doing?” he stage-whispered. “Ratchet’s right over there.” He jerked his head to one side, where Ratchet was frowning at the fabricator’s console.
“Guess you’re going to have to be quiet, then,” Drift said, shifting his position, laying the microsprayer down as he opened the hatch. “My hands are greasy,” he murmured. “Need to clean them off.”
Rodimus squeaked as the slippery palm slid over his spike cover, the other hand still idly swiping the rag over his new arm endostructure. “You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I?” A warm, wet circle over the spike cover, and Rodimus felt his spike ping to full pressure. Drift’s deft little touches, the warm oil, the fading cyberdrenaline, and Ratchet, standing right there, who could turn at any time, catch them out….
His spike cover clicked aside.
A snort of triumph from Drift, the palm closing around the spike as it jutted out, already glossed with lubricant.
“We get caught,” Rodimus whispered, “I’m going to blame you.”
“Heroic,” Drift said, dryly, twisting his grip on the spike, pulling it toward him. “Ratchet always said you have no self-control. Here’s a chance to prove him wrong.”
Rodimus sucked in a vent of air, his entire awareness seeming to focalize on his spike and the other’s maddening touches along it, thumb glossing over the ridge, pressure and friction building a tingling over his net. His new hands squeaked as he squeezed them around the edge of the table, feeling the pressure and pleasure rise, swirling over him, surging around him toward overload. He could almost feel the hot burst of fluid down his spike, the ecstatic crackle of charge.
The fluid.
His hand gripped at Drift’s elbow. “Drift. When I overload. Fluid.”
Drift looked up, tearing his optics away from his hand’s ministrations on the spike. “Yes. All over you. Me. Everything.” His smile grew barbs. “Guess I’ll have to lick it off, then.”
Oh that did not help his self-control. Drift might have reformed, but frag, he still had a wicked side. “Ratchet,” he croaked.
“What?” Ratchet said, over his shoulder. “I’m kind of busy. Is Drift screwing up?”
A hard squeeze on his spike, Drift stepping in and turning his hips, the broad scabbard blocking the view. Rodimus choked on his answer. “No! No. Everything’s fine.”
Ratchet grunted, turning back to his console.
“Screwing up,” Drift murmured, his voice husky. “Am I?” His hand worked the spike again, slow, steady pulls. “Do you want me to stop? I could leave, now, like this. Maybe,” he leaned closer, “call Ratchet over. And he’d see your spike out, like this. Want him to see it?”
A tremor ran through Rodimus’s frame, a wildfire of shock and desire.
The head tilted, considering. “It is a pretty nice spike.”
“You fraggin—“ Yeah, he was going to give up on words and just concentrate on not moaning. Or how not-far Ratchet was, and what sorts of terrible things he would do to them if he turned around.
The hand sped up, inexorable, and he felt his thighs, his inner systems tightening in anticipation, rigid with the need to release, needing that last push of sensation from Drift’s hand, the last bit of gatecharge over his nodes.
His hands bit into the table, choking off a cry, and just as the overload hit his systems, Drift bent, encircling the head of the spike with his mouth in a seal that caught the spurt of transfluid neatly, his hand still stroking, two fingers milking at the spike, while his glossa circled the arcing nodes. He gave a soft, almost contented hum as he swallowed, releasing the spike with one last glossal flick on the tip.
“Drift!” Ratchet’s voice, harsh and disapproving. “What are you doing?”
“Dropped the rag,” Drift said, smoothly, righting himself, holding out the dingy cloth.
“Hmph. Ask you to do a simple job…,” Ratchet griped.
“I’ll get a new one,” Drift said, stepping closer, the heel of his other hand closing the interface hatch. His blue optics winked at Rodimus.
“Never mind. Armor’s fabricated.” Ratchet moved over toward the berth, and Rodimus twitched, looking frantically down for any sign of what had happened—a stray drop of fluid, a leak of lubricant. Nothing.
Drift nodded. “All right. I’ll get the report from the engine room.” He stepped back toward the door, then stopped, turning, waiting until he caught Rodimus’s gaze over Ratchet’s shoulder. And then he raised his lubricant wet hand, licking slowly along the digit’s length, his optics smoldering with promise.
IDW, MTMTE
Drift, Rodimus, Ratchet
sticky, spoiler for MTMTE 3?
for
tf_speedwriting: 13 Aug medibay during a lull“Hey, pretty good, huh?” Rodimus grinned at Ratchet. Well, the top of Ratchet’s helm, as the other was bent over his new arms’ understructure as he perched on the repair table.
“Pretty good. You mean the waste.” Ratchet reached for another tool.
“Waste? You mean you wanted to study that damn thing?” The whole point was that the coolness of the sparkeater was its…unknownness. Whatever that word was. He had no problems melding that fragger to the engine block. End of that threat.
“I meant your arms.” Ratchet frowned. “You’re the leader. You’re supposed to be responsible.”
Rodimus frowned. “Hey, I am responsible. For this whole ship. The only one in any danger was me.” And he liked it like that. The center of the action.
“And Rung. And Skids. And that idiot Drift.”
“That idiot?” Drift’s voice, behind Ratchet.
Ratchet turned his head. “Yeah. You, with your telepathic beings of light, positive energy and all that slag.”
A shrug. “We’ll see,” Drift said, mildly. Hard to believe he was Deadlock, the sullen, snarling terror of the Decepticons. Almost a miracle, that kind of change.
If Ratchet believed in miracles.
“Yeah.” Ratchet pushed back, thrusting a microsprayer into Drift’s hands. More like…thunking it against his chassis, the startled hands fumbling for it. “Make yourself useful. That means parts of you that aren’t your mouth. I’m going to go check the armor fabrication.”
Rodimus snickered. “Your positive vibes are working, Drift. Drove Mr Sour-piston away.”
Drift frowned. “We’re lucky he came, though,” he said. “We need his skill.” He looked, bemused at the microcsprayer, then at Rodimus’s electrum hand frames, giving a ‘got it’ nod of his head. He took one of the hands, spraying it down with the fine oil, then working it in with a rag. He’d seen enough limb replacements in his time. The Decepticons hadn’t often bothered to use neural blocks for the pain.
Rodimus watched him work the oil into his hands, wiggling his fingers. “Feels pretty good.” This and the whole ‘oh frag I kicked aft’ high he always got. He hadn’t been this giddy since surviving that whole ‘shot down over the Decepticon base’ thing.
A strange quirk of a smile on Drift’s bent face. “Does it?”
“What? Not supposed to notice that, either? Is that irresponsible, too?” Like Drift would be one to talk.
“Probably.” Another twitch of the mouth, and Rodimus felt Drift’s friction-warmed hand slide between his thighs. “So’s this, though.”
Rodimus twitched as the oiled fingers slicked over his interface hatch. “What are you doing?” he stage-whispered. “Ratchet’s right over there.” He jerked his head to one side, where Ratchet was frowning at the fabricator’s console.
“Guess you’re going to have to be quiet, then,” Drift said, shifting his position, laying the microsprayer down as he opened the hatch. “My hands are greasy,” he murmured. “Need to clean them off.”
Rodimus squeaked as the slippery palm slid over his spike cover, the other hand still idly swiping the rag over his new arm endostructure. “You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I?” A warm, wet circle over the spike cover, and Rodimus felt his spike ping to full pressure. Drift’s deft little touches, the warm oil, the fading cyberdrenaline, and Ratchet, standing right there, who could turn at any time, catch them out….
His spike cover clicked aside.
A snort of triumph from Drift, the palm closing around the spike as it jutted out, already glossed with lubricant.
“We get caught,” Rodimus whispered, “I’m going to blame you.”
“Heroic,” Drift said, dryly, twisting his grip on the spike, pulling it toward him. “Ratchet always said you have no self-control. Here’s a chance to prove him wrong.”
Rodimus sucked in a vent of air, his entire awareness seeming to focalize on his spike and the other’s maddening touches along it, thumb glossing over the ridge, pressure and friction building a tingling over his net. His new hands squeaked as he squeezed them around the edge of the table, feeling the pressure and pleasure rise, swirling over him, surging around him toward overload. He could almost feel the hot burst of fluid down his spike, the ecstatic crackle of charge.
The fluid.
His hand gripped at Drift’s elbow. “Drift. When I overload. Fluid.”
Drift looked up, tearing his optics away from his hand’s ministrations on the spike. “Yes. All over you. Me. Everything.” His smile grew barbs. “Guess I’ll have to lick it off, then.”
Oh that did not help his self-control. Drift might have reformed, but frag, he still had a wicked side. “Ratchet,” he croaked.
“What?” Ratchet said, over his shoulder. “I’m kind of busy. Is Drift screwing up?”
A hard squeeze on his spike, Drift stepping in and turning his hips, the broad scabbard blocking the view. Rodimus choked on his answer. “No! No. Everything’s fine.”
Ratchet grunted, turning back to his console.
“Screwing up,” Drift murmured, his voice husky. “Am I?” His hand worked the spike again, slow, steady pulls. “Do you want me to stop? I could leave, now, like this. Maybe,” he leaned closer, “call Ratchet over. And he’d see your spike out, like this. Want him to see it?”
A tremor ran through Rodimus’s frame, a wildfire of shock and desire.
The head tilted, considering. “It is a pretty nice spike.”
“You fraggin—“ Yeah, he was going to give up on words and just concentrate on not moaning. Or how not-far Ratchet was, and what sorts of terrible things he would do to them if he turned around.
The hand sped up, inexorable, and he felt his thighs, his inner systems tightening in anticipation, rigid with the need to release, needing that last push of sensation from Drift’s hand, the last bit of gatecharge over his nodes.
His hands bit into the table, choking off a cry, and just as the overload hit his systems, Drift bent, encircling the head of the spike with his mouth in a seal that caught the spurt of transfluid neatly, his hand still stroking, two fingers milking at the spike, while his glossa circled the arcing nodes. He gave a soft, almost contented hum as he swallowed, releasing the spike with one last glossal flick on the tip.
“Drift!” Ratchet’s voice, harsh and disapproving. “What are you doing?”
“Dropped the rag,” Drift said, smoothly, righting himself, holding out the dingy cloth.
“Hmph. Ask you to do a simple job…,” Ratchet griped.
“I’ll get a new one,” Drift said, stepping closer, the heel of his other hand closing the interface hatch. His blue optics winked at Rodimus.
“Never mind. Armor’s fabricated.” Ratchet moved over toward the berth, and Rodimus twitched, looking frantically down for any sign of what had happened—a stray drop of fluid, a leak of lubricant. Nothing.
Drift nodded. “All right. I’ll get the report from the engine room.” He stepped back toward the door, then stopped, turning, waiting until he caught Rodimus’s gaze over Ratchet’s shoulder. And then he raised his lubricant wet hand, licking slowly along the digit’s length, his optics smoldering with promise.
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Date: 2012-03-19 03:48 pm (UTC)