"Ah--hhah," Ratchet manages, feeling the wet heat of York's mouth against his throat, clutching at him as he settles closer, his weight pinning Ratchet to the sofa. That feels good, the soft heat of York's body pressed along his, and he tips his head back farther and gasps for air. He feels dazed and useless and he's waiting to get accustomed to this new, strange sensation so he can actually participate, but that goes straight out the window when he feels York's hand under his shirt.

He bites his lower lip and curls one hand in York's hair, clutching carefully as York's fingers trace up his side. No one besides the medtechs here have really touched him anywhere habitually covered by clothes and the sensation is dizzying. He presses into it, making a taut sound in his throat before he gasps York's name.