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Silence falls between Ratchet and Ironhide once Orion leaves the room.
The new gap in Ironhide’s dentae has finally stopped leaking, thank Primus , but his entire jaw aches . His entire frame aches, actually. He is covered in scrapes and dents and, even after getting cleaned up, he still feels grimy, as if he still has energon drying on him. It makes him feel twitchy . Of course, that could also be caused by the medic glaring at him from the chair on the other side of the living space, but–he’s going to ignore that for now. Or at least try to.
All Ironhide wants is a long soak in the washrack. Maybe Ratchet would let him use his before he leaves; Ratchet’s is bigger and a whole lot nicer than the public washrack in the academy’s living quarters.
…then again, judging by the annoyance Ironhide can feel radiating off of the medic, maybe not.
“That was stupid .”
Ironhide just hums in agreement, not bothering to look away from the ceiling. It was.
“Even for you .”
Ironhide hums again. It really was.
After a couple more moments of silence, Ratchet stands and walks over to the couch. Ironhide raises his helm to watch, tensing in case he has to catch the mech should he fall - Ironhide had gotten into the brunt of the fighting, but Ratchet had taken a good punch or two, as well, and that was after a few drinks - only to make a disgruntled noise when Ratchet grabs his chin, forcing him to open his intake. It’s not rough , but it’s firm, and Ironhide glares as Ratchet takes a look at the gap the missing fang has left.
“You can get it replaced,” Ratchet says matter-of-factly, tipping Ironhide’s helm back to get a better look. “You’ll need to go to someone that handles mods like the one you have, but otherwise there’s no damage that time won’t take care of.” He tips Ironhide’s helm in another direction, then, seemingly satisfied with the quick examination, he lets his servo fall away.
Ironhide isn’t sure if he actually felt that slight lingering press of a thumb to his bottom lipplate, or if he just imagined it.
Narrowing his optics, Ironhide runs his glossa along his dentae before shaking his helm. “Nah,” he says, giving a somewhat-tired but nonetheless proud grin. “I think I’ll leave it. I think it adds character .”
Ratchet mutters something under his breath; it sounds suspiciously like sure adds something , but before Ironhide can complain about it Ratchet collapses onto the couch next to him, making Ironhide jump in surprise. He reaches out to make sure the medic is alright, but freezes and lets his servos fall back to his lap when Ratchet grunts.
He’s fine.
More silence. Somewhere down the hall, Orion bangs around a bit, putting the stuff he’d used to help clean Ironhide up away in the washroom. Ironhide can almost hear him grumbling from all the way out here; Orion hadn’t gotten hurt at all, thank Primus - he’s so small and Ironhide always worries - but he’s probably even more upset than Ratchet is. Not just at Ironhide , he’s mad at Ratchet, too, because this was mostly Ratchet’s fault in the first place, really, but–
Ironhide chuckles, deactivating his optics. What a right mess this night has been.
After a few moments, Ratchet turns his helm to face Ironhide. Even with his optics deactivates Ironhide can tell he’s being glared at again.
“That was really stupid .”
Ironhide lets out a sighing exvent. “Yeah, well,” he says, reactivating an optic to peer at the medic, “if you haven’t noticed by now, Ratch, I’m not exactly the smartest mecha at times.” Especially when it comes to you. He gives a shrug and deactivates it once more. He had sounded a lot more weary than he’d meant to saying that. A lot more honest .
Whoops.
“Yes, I’ve noticed.”
This time it’s Ironhide’s turn to grunt. He should probably leave now. Nevermind the washrack, Ironhide can use the public one when he gets back to the academy. Or just–crash on the cot in the back of the workshop and worry about it next day cycle. Either way.
He should probably leave now .
Ironhide sighs again and resets his optics, opening his intake to tell Ratchet he was going, but all that escapes is a short noise of surprise when Ironhide suddenly has a lapful of medic to catch. He grabs Ratchet’s hips without thinking, wanting to make sure he doesn’t tip over from the suddenness of the movement. He looks at the other mech in confusion, but before he can ask just what in the Pit Ratchet is doing, Ratchet crashes their lipplates together in a rough semblance of a kiss. Ironhide makes another small noise, not necessarily one of pleasure - his jaw fragging hurts - but after a few moments it morphs into a moan, and Ironhide melts.
Ratchet tastes like magnesium and expensive engex.
The medic settles into Ironhide’s lap, pressing into his frame and holding his helm between his servos. He’s a bit sloppy, but Ironhide doesn’t blame him, nor does he care; Ironhide’s faceplates can be a bit awkward when it comes to kissing, at first. But Ratchet seems to catch on pretty quickly, and he tips the weaponsmith’s helm until he’s happy with the angle, teasing at Ironhide’s glossa with his own and nipping at his bottom lipplate when Ironhide can’t help but laugh. Nipping hard .
Breaking the kiss for a moment, Ironhide groans and reactivates his optics - when had he deactivated them again ? He moves his servos up Ratchet’s sides, automatically dipping his digits into any gaps he can find in search of something sensitive to play with, and at the same time Ratchet drops one of his servos to Ironhide’s chest and pulls , as if to bring their frames even closer together. He exvents against Ironhide’s faceplates, still glaring, but even Ironhide can see it’s half-sparked at best.
“ Stupid ,” Ratchet says again, the servo on Ironhide’s chest beginning its own exploration as Ironhide continues his. Ironhide just makes a noise of agreement before a thumb is pressing his intake open again, and Ratchet dives back in.
They spend several minutes panting into each other’s intakes and pawing at each other in an attempt to get a reaction out of the other, but before long Ratchet seems to get upset and he pulls away, getting off of Ironhide’s lap and standing to his pedes. Before Ironhide can even think about asking what’s wrong, Ratchet yanks at him by the protruding components on his chest, maneuvering Ironhide until he’s laying down flat on the couch, and once Ironhide realizes what Ratchet is trying to do he does his best to assist, propping himself up on his elbows and letting one leg fall over the edge of the seat so Ratchet has enough room to climb back up and kneel between his thighs before practically sprawling over Ironhide, chestplate to chestplate. The movement grinds their modesty paneling together, and one of them gasps , Ironhide isn’t sure which.
It might’ve been both of them. Ironhide’s betting on it having been both of them.
Ironhide’s servos return to Ratchet’s hips, and one of Ratchets slips underneath a pauldron, making Ironhide moan as Ratchet begins tracing at the rarely-touched components he finds there. Ratchet kisses at the side of Ironhide’s helm, around the disk of Ironhide’s audial sensor, dragging his dentae against the metal, and Ironhide gasps again, jerking up into the medic as he tilts his helm to give him access to his neck. Ratchet seems all to happy to take the invitation, and he works his way down to Ironhide’s throat before nipping, and Ironhide keens . “ Ratch –”
Belatedly spurring himself into action, Ironhide’s servo moves from Ratchet’s hip towards his modesty paneling, and he paws at the warm metal, making little noises in askance. Much to his delight, Ratchet actually opens up, and his spike slides right into Ironhide’s servo, making the medic groan into Ironhide’s audial as Ironhide gives it an experimental stroke. Reaching off from underneath Ironhide’s pauldron, Ratchet shifts his weight from one servo to the other and reaches down for Ironhide’s paneling, making the weaponsmith hesitate. That damn codpiece actually has to be removed , he can’t just open up and that means stopping –
For the umpteenth time this cycle, Ratchet manages to surprise him. Somehow he gets the manual latches undone - really Ironhide can almost understand it, Ratchet is a medic and he’d know stuff like that from just looking at a mecha, wouldn’t he, and gods thinking is very difficult right now - and he shoves at the disengaged plating, sending it clattering to the floor next to the couch before his servo immediately returns to palm at Ironhide’s spike housing. Ironhide arches into the pressure with a hiss, releasing his spike and thrusting up into Ratchet’s grip. Ratchet returns it with a thrust of his own, grinding down into Ironhide, and Ironhide sets to a rhythm against Ratchet’s spike, stroking up the shaft a couple of times before rubbing at the crown of the head with his thumb, spreading the bit of fluid already leaking out. Ratchet does something similar, and Ironhide makes a long, low noise, deep in his voicebox, before ducking his helm to capture Ratchet’s lipplates in another kiss.
Everything beyond that point is a bit of a blur; Ratchet’s frame is hot and heavy on top of Ironhide’s, and his servos are firm but gentle on his spike, playing the weaponsmith like a fine-tuned plasma harp. Ironhide does his best to keep up, trying to find out what amount of pressure works the best for drawing a specific noise out of the medic, or what speed makes him twitch into Ironhide’s servo, but it’s a losing battle - for both of them. Eventually they simply end up rutting against each other, into each other’s servos, Ratchet panting wordlessly against Ironhide’s neck while Ironhide himself exvents in a quiet litany of oh, gods and please, Ratchet and yes, like that, like that and–
Ironhide overloads first, a loud cry escaping his voicebox as something pop s in his spark, sending charge searing throughout his frame as he spills onto his abdomen, Ratchet still working at his spike. Ironhide increases his pace on Ratchet’s, desperate to bring Ratchet over as well, and between that and the charge transferring from Ironhide’s frame to his, he follows in a matter of moments, grunting into Ironhide’s neck as his hips stutter through the sensations. Only when Ratchet falls still does Ironhide remove his servo, sticky from Ratchet’s transfluids, and rest it back on Ratchet’s hip as he catches his breath.
Ratchet manages to remove his servo from between them, as well, just before collapsing into Ironhide, making the weaponsmith grunt at the oversensitivity. He makes no effort to move Ratchet otherwise, though, and instead uses his servo - the clean one - to rub at the medic’s backplates, holding him close as they both come down from their post-overload highs.
…they’re going to have a lot of talking to do. And hopefully Ratchet will let him use the washrack before he leaves tonight. Ironhide has no shame about making a mess, but walking from one end of Iacon to the other coated in both his and his partner’s transfluids is another thing entirely.
…maybe he wouldn’t have to leave, though.
How Ratchet and Ironhide missed Orion slamming the door after himself as he rushed out of the apartment right before paneling started opening, Orion will never know. He is beyond glad those two stopped being idiots about everything, but he is still very mad about the fight, too, and he fully intends on chewing them both out in the morning.
Maybe a few good overloads from each other will relax those glitches into actually listening to him .