"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.
York gives a pleased rumble in response, right into Ratchet's ear. And it's moving a little fast but he slides his hand higher, the fabric of the other man's shirt bunching at his wrist. He can just reach his goal, fingertips stroking over Ratchet's ribs before finding and circling a nipple, teasing the sensitive skin. He lifts his head to watch, seeing Ratchet's bitten lip and lidded eyes. "It only gets better," he promises gently, holding back from claiming Ratchet's mouth again.
Ratchet makes a startled sound and drags York in to kiss him hard, muffling himself as his body pushes into York's fingertips. He lets York go when he pulls back, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushed dark.
"What--" Ratchet says, panting weakly as he squirms under York's weight, tugging at his back. "What, ah, what about you? What should I--?"
"Don't worry. I'm having fun, just enjoy it." He leans back in, his smile warm and fond. Ratchet's squirming is getting distracting, though, the little tugs at his back giving him the idea that maybe the other man just isn't sure what to ask for. He's already let most of his weight down, pinning Ratchet's torso to the couch. But...
York goes for another kiss as he shifts, slipping one leg between Ratchet's and straddling his thigh to get them both some pressure.
"Oh, but--" Ratchet's voice dies in his throat and his eyes go briefly wide as York pushes down against him, sliding their hips together. His breath stutters and he pulls out of the kiss to arch neck over the arm of the couch, his eyes slipping shut and his lips parting as he clutches at York and rocks up against him, a gasp shuddering into his lungs.
"Fuck," he hisses, then bites down hard on his lower lip to keep from making more noise.
York inhales sharply as Ratchet rocks up, rolling his hips. And it's been so long that he's too distracted to smile, to lean in close and murmur that he did say it gets better -- he just wants to make it better, and reaches up to tug Ratchet's lip free of his teeth, sliding his hand back into the other man's hair.
"You okay?" It can be a lot, he knows. Hell, it is a lot even for him, who's done this before, and they've still got their clothes on.
Ratchet leans into that hand in his hair and exhales on a shivery sigh, his eyelids fluttering and his cheeks flushed.
"Yeah. Yeah, m'good." He looks up at York with an effort, electric-blue eyes sharp and intent before his mouth crooks up lopsidedly. "Just trying not to bring the whole barracks thundering in here."
"Then I shouldn't do what I really want to," York muses, his smirk saying that he intends to do it anyway. "But with the noises you're making, they'll know better than to come in." He leans down for another kiss, speaking right against Ratchet's mouth. "Take your shirt off and keep kissing me." He wants more freedom to touch.
I think kissing you and taking my shirt off are mutually exclusive activities, Ratchet tries to say, but he finds it impossible with someone else's tongue in his mouth so he gives up, leaning up into York and working the thin fabric of his shirt up his torso while trying not to elbow York anywhere particularly tender. He pushes him back entirely for just a moment to strip the shirt off over his head and flop back down before he reaches out to curl his hands against the hem of York's, tugging lightly.
"You too?" he asks, still out of breath and his skin criss-crossed by a varied collection of now-visible scars.
"Yeah," he says breathlessly, lifting his arms so Ratchet can get it over his head. He's also pretty heavily scarred, bullet and knife wounds littering his torso and arms and he hesitates for a moment once Ratchet can see them. He'd never judge anyone else for their scars but he's sensitive about his own, always putting lots of attention to his grooming to try and control what he can about his appearance. These, he can't do anything about.
Ratchet looks up at him for a second, his eyes wide and dazed before he reaches up and tugs York in, his breath hitching at the warm slide of skin on skin. His hands slip up York's back, sensitive fingertips finding and stroking against each uneven patch of skin as his mouth finds a cut near York's collarbone and closes against it, kissing carefully, his grip on York tightening just a bit.
York gasps softly at the unexpected attention, turning and pressing his face into Ratchet's hair and just breathing in his scent. He can feel his throat welling up with some emotion he can't place and he reaches to cradle Ratchet's head, holding off on his own desire to touch until whatever kind of moment this is passes. It's a moment he appreciates.
Ratchet makes a warm sound, just feeling York wrapped all around him for a moment, York's face buried against the top of his head and York's skin against his lips. He tracks lazy, wandering kisses up along York's shoulder to his throat, finding the pulse there and making a low sound as he presses his mouth to it, feeling it beat against sensitive skin before his lips part and he licks there, delicately, his grip tightening across York's back.
Things have taken a turn from what he'd planned but he's not complaining, instead giving a sigh and shudder as Ratchet's tongue caresses his skin. He sure catches on fast. York bares his throat and grips Ratchet's shoulder, fingertips digging into the muscle there as he holds on. "I thought I was supposed to be driving you crazy."
Ratchet laughs against York's skin, stroking light, curious fingertips up along the length of his spine.
"Nobody's stopping you," he says, his voice low and warm. His whole body is still shivery and sensitive, a dull ache throbbing out with each heartbeat where York's hips press to his. He doesn't push for more, though, apparently content to map York's skin with his fingertips and kiss carefully at his throat, his own breath shaky as he struggles to relax under York's weight.
"You're distracting," York murmurs, letting himself just enjoy the touches for a moment longer before pulling away, lifting his weight off Ratchet to slide lower so his hands and mouth can wander across the other man's torso. Exploring, mostly, dragging his fingertips over warm skin and swirling his tongue slowly lower. He kisses a hot, meandering path down Ratchet's chest and stomach until he hits the waistband of his sleep pants and glances back up, asking permission.
Ratchet makes a dissatisfied little sound as York draws back, the sudden loss of heat making him shiver. He sucks air into his lungs as York's hands smooth over his chest and belly, mouth following, and Ratchet bites his lower lip again and closes a hand on York's shoulder to squeeze as the other settles softly against York's hair, just stroking there steadily. His eyes widen as York's lips brush the apparently very sensitive skin just above his waistband and he bites hard at his lip again to keep from making any more noise.
His hand slides down, avoiding York's scar but stroking carefully along his cheek, feeling his chest rising and falling as he gasps for breath and looks down at York's face, his heart pounding.
York reaches up and tugs Ratchet's lip free of his teeth again, a soft smile curving his mouth. He needs to stop doing that, attractive as it is. "You're gonna bite straight through it when I do this."
And then his hand is back in front of him, curling into Ratchet's waistband and tugging gently. Giving the other man plenty of time to change his mind.
"Oh," Ratchet says. "What--" But he lifts his hips up obligingly to let York slide the fabric down over his hips, his face bright red and looking a little dazed again. He lets go of York and fists his hands in the sofa cushions instead, trying to slow his breathing and unable to take his eyes off York's face.
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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.
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"What--" Ratchet says, panting weakly as he squirms under York's weight, tugging at his back. "What, ah, what about you? What should I--?"
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York goes for another kiss as he shifts, slipping one leg between Ratchet's and straddling his thigh to get them both some pressure.
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"Fuck," he hisses, then bites down hard on his lower lip to keep from making more noise.
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"You okay?" It can be a lot, he knows. Hell, it is a lot even for him, who's done this before, and they've still got their clothes on.
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"Yeah. Yeah, m'good." He looks up at York with an effort, electric-blue eyes sharp and intent before his mouth crooks up lopsidedly. "Just trying not to bring the whole barracks thundering in here."
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"You too?" he asks, still out of breath and his skin criss-crossed by a varied collection of now-visible scars.
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"Nobody's stopping you," he says, his voice low and warm. His whole body is still shivery and sensitive, a dull ache throbbing out with each heartbeat where York's hips press to his. He doesn't push for more, though, apparently content to map York's skin with his fingertips and kiss carefully at his throat, his own breath shaky as he struggles to relax under York's weight.
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His hand slides down, avoiding York's scar but stroking carefully along his cheek, feeling his chest rising and falling as he gasps for breath and looks down at York's face, his heart pounding.
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And then his hand is back in front of him, curling into Ratchet's waistband and tugging gently. Giving the other man plenty of time to change his mind.
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