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    Summary

    "You weren't in the labs earlier today." Optimus motions with a tilt of his helm, pointedly glancing at the frame-less helm Ratchet still held, mesh itching with every second his lover's hands stayed off his own frame.

    Ratchet notices, smirk widening, and lets go of the helm he'd been holding, not minding the way it thuds to the ground, and walks closer to Optimus, step by step, until they're almost helm-to-helm, and Optimus can breathe him in without effort.

    "I was. Left three cycles ago." He pushes Optimus against the berth, straddling him and pinning him down with his hips. The air grows heavy as Ratchet reaches up to fiddle with Optimus's dentae, their optics meeting for a moment before Optimus groans softly, knowing what comes next. His spike throbs in its chamber.

    Language:
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