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"No." Razor's hands are shaking. His optics are spazzing, going in and out, and Mouse feels worry like stones in his tank.
"What happens if you don't feed?" he asks, making sure to keep his voice calm and level. He isn't afraid, but he knows how easy it is to mistake worry for fear. He puts a hand on Razor's chest, steadying him. "Razor. What happens."
Razor growls, grabbing at Mouse's wrists. "I eat people, Mouse," he rasps. He pulls Mouse off of him, but Mouse only leans in closer again.
"No. When you don't feed, you starve. And you don't get to just top off again and be fine." Mouse grabs at Razor's hands, slotting their fingers together to keep Razor in one place. "Razor, listen to me."
Razor growls again, but his optics find Mouse's anyway. The amount of fear in them makes Mouse ache.
Mouse reaches up, cupping a hand behind Razor's helm and petting his thumb gently over the spike along the back of his jaw. "You won't hurt me in a way that matters. I trust you. Razor. I trust you."
Razor's next vent is shaky and ragged. He brings his hands up, fluttering over Mouse's sides before he rests them on his hips. Oral solvent is beading in his mouth. Mouse can just make out the glint of it. "I—" His optics drop to Mouse's neck; hungry and wanting.
Mouse stamps down the shiver that runs along his spine. "A direct transfer won't work, right? You have to drink." He tips his head, baring his throat.
Razor Steel's optics shrink and narrow in on the pulse of oil through Mouse's lines. "I- I don't want to—" He vents deeply and a sound close to a moan slides out of him. "Mouse."
"Between the two of us, I'm the mechanic with his wits about him right now," Mouse says gently. He tightens his hold on the back of Razor's neck, pulling him down more firmly to be on more even ground with him. "I can make you stop if you go too far, but I can't bring you back from the dead if you starve. Medic's orders, Razor."
Razor pants, fangs extended, mandibles twitching. His blink is slow and almost sleepy, but he strokes a gentle claw over the cabling of Mouse's waist. "Promise me."
Mouse takes a deep vent and guides Razor's face down to his neck. The delicate part that is all cables and wires, too small to be protected with armor. "I promise. You won't hurt me." The warmth of Razor's ex-vent across his fuel lines makes him shiver, but it's not fear that makes his tanks flip and churn.
Razor makes a small, wounded sound. His hands tighten around Mouse's waist, claws dipping into seams and pressing down on pressure sensors embedded in his cabling. Mouse's hand twitches, tightening around the back of Razor's helm, as his fuel pump races.
The ghost of a glossa curls across his sensors and Mouse's knees go weak, a sound strangled in his throat before it ever made it out. He grabs at Razor more firmly, holding him there against his neck, and Razor leans in with it. His mouth is hot, so so hot, against the cool cables lining the sensitive wires on his neck. Razor licks at his neck again, his glossa curling between and around the fuel lines. Sussing out which one moved the fastest, the easiest.
Deciding where to make his mark.
Mouse bites the side of his cheek hard enough to taste oil and metal shavings just so he doesn't moan.
He doesn't even realize at first that Razor bit him. There was a small pinch and movement at his neck, those mandibles flexing just under his jaw, and then no pain at all. If it hadn't been for the way Razor growled, deep and throaty and possessive, as he hauled Mouse in closer, Mouse probably never would have known it happened until his systems pinged him to say he was low on oil.
As it is, he finds himself hauled into Razor's lap—when had they gotten on the ground?—and Razor purrs as his mandibles twitch again. Mouse notices them pulling out. There's cool air rushing in where it shouldn't and he shudders, gasping, but he has no time to worry about the injury leaking oil. Razor's mouth fits over the marks perfectly and when he sucks—
Mouse bites his glossa even as his frame rolls against Razor's, the motion involuntary. He gasps, silent and heated. Wisps of steam curl out of his mouth. He's grateful that Razor can't see it because he knows, oh he knows, exactly how debauched he looks immediately. But he can't help it. Just like he can't help the way his fuel pump races and trips over itself as the oil is drawn from him.
Were he inclined to poetry, he might detail how it felt like fire and coals—a fever swelling through his lines that set his coding racing. Mouse is not a poet. Mouse is a doctor.
The oil is slowly coming out of his lines. The pressure of Razor's mouth and glossa against the fuel lines stop Mouse from bleeding too quickly. The holes themselves are small, only large enough for Razor to get the mouthfuls he needs and nothing more. His sensors are scrambled enough that he doesn't register any of it as pain. Oh no, it's not painful at all.
Razor moans into his neck. His claws press pinpricks into Mouse's plating and peel the paint off in thin lines. The pressure on his hips drives Mouse into another roll, and this time he can't stop the soft sound that slips out of him. His optics slide closed under the slow glide of Razor's glossa.
"Razor," he gasps, all heat and want that sparks inside his lines. Razor makes a sound back, drawing a hand up Mouse's spinal strut until it pushed between the boosters Mouse kept. It rests there, holding Mouse firm, and Mouse is powerless at that moment.
There's a hundred things he can do if he has to and he knows he won't do a damned one of them if it keeps Razor's mouth on him like this.
But Razor gentles his mouth. The sucking is less urgent. Instead, his engine starts to purr in fits and starts. His glossa glides over the wounds, coaxing out the oil instead of taking it by force. Mouse shudders and pants, an almost moan rising from deep inside. He's dizzy with the touch and the vibration of Razor's more powerful engine.
It's both a lifetime and no time at all before Razor stops drinking his oil entirely. The sucking sensation is gone, as is the dripping one. All that's left is the harmony of their vents and the flex of Razor's claws.
Mouse swallows. His throat bobs. He can feel that deep, ravenous hunger just under the surface. He wants more too. It's not the right time though. Even if Razor panting against his neck is driving Mouse crazy.
Razor laps gently at the puncture wounds and Mouse quivers. "R-ah-Razor…" He slides his hands up to cradle Razor's helm, and Razor makes a small sound in answer. "Fuck, Razor." Mouse guides his head up, pressing their foreheads together. Razor's optics are still glitching, wide and red and unfocused. He's running hot. But he looks from Mouse's optics down to his mouth and licks his lips.
It takes every ounce of self-control Mouse has to pull away and not kiss Razor. Sitting in Razor's lap isn't the best place to do an examination, but he has to double-check that Razor took enough to get them home. His oil levels are stable. Certainly low, but enough that he can make it back. But Razor…
Mouse strokes Razor's cheek gently, and then guides his thumb down to run along his mandible. Gentle. Gentle gentle because he can, because Razor deserves gentle things, because he cares so much it burns inside of him and threatens to light him on fire until he's naught but a shell of himself. "Give me your fuel readout, Razor."
Razor blinks at him, slow and sleepy as he draws his focus back up to Mouse's optics. "Low," he says, no louder than a quiet rumble. "But acceptable for moving."
Mouse nods and gets his feet under him, standing up. "Come on then, big boy. Let's get you home and fed." He tugs until Razor stands and slides an arm around his waist. He knows it does little to help, but it makes him feel better. Makes him feel like he's doing something more than clinging to Razor to stop the shaking of his legs as the extra charge roils inside of his systems.
Home. Home first. Everything else could wait.
"Do you even realize how close you came to disaster?" Ricochet's voice is sharp, biting. Mouse winces at it, one hand on his helm. He's had a headache ever since they'd gotten back and gotten more fuel in their bodies. He didn't know if it was a hangover from being fed off of or the excess charge he'd had to bleed off through manual grounding, but it was a doozy of an ache that had lasted over a day now.
"I know that it would have been a hell of a lot worse if I hadn't acted?" He reaches up to rub at his audial, grumbling quietly.
"It should never have gotten to that point to begin with!" Ricochet Blue paces across the small room. She has her arms folded tightly, her fingers tapping against her arm plating in a rapid pattern. "What were the two of you doing that he got that low on fuel in the first place?"
Mouse balks, looking up at her sharply. "Nothing? We were out walking. Talking. Nothing that should have drained him that fast." Her optics narrow at him and Mouse sits up straighter, indignant rage burning hot inside his lines. "Nah uh, no. I would never put him at risk like that so you take that thought tree and shove it in the recycle bin."
"Mouse, he could have killed you. You offering your oil was reckless at best and suicidal at worst—"
"Razor would never—"
"He's done it before!"
Mouse stops, frozen, and blinks slowly at Ricochet. He'd half stood, but now he sits back down. Numb. "What?"
"He's done it before," she repeats, slower this time. She ex-vents, slow and measured, and runs her hands over her face. "Razor killed his original team when the hunger got bad. Ate them alive. He could have done the same to you. It was reckless. He would never have forgiven himself if he hurt you."
Mouse frowns, looking down at the tiled floor. He rubs the tip of his foot against a scuff mark. His finials twitch. "He didn't have enough fuel to get home, there was no oil near enough for me to get it and come back in time, and a line transfer wouldn't have taken for him," he says softly. "I made the best decision I could at the time for the health and safety of my patient."
"You know he would rather—"
"I know that as a medic it is my job to care for my patients to the best of my ability," he cuts her off. He looks up, catching her optics and holding them. "I would do it again to save his life."
Ricochet blinks and then deflates all at once, heaving out a sigh so gusty he can feel it from where he sits. "Damn it Mouse, you've got it bad don't you."
His smile is weak and crooked. "Plead the fifth?"
"You aren't American."
"Was worth a shot."
Ricochet rolls her optics and approaches him, grabbing him by the chin and tilting his head carefully. He knows she's looking at the bite marks on his neck, the careful holes left by Razor's mandibles in his fuel lines that have already healed over. "Just… be careful, yeah? Razor really would never forgive himself if he broke you. And don't- Mouse look at me right now. Do. Not. Turn it into a kink. I know your type. Don't do it."
Mouse purses his mouth in a thin line and averts his optics, grateful for his darker paint job that makes his flush impossible to make out. But all the same, he hears the frustrated, disbelieving sound Ricochet makes.
"Impossible. Both of you. You're impossible." She lets go of him, throwing her hands in the air. "I'll lower the bar. Don't be stupid. Can you do that, Mouse? Can you be not stupid?"
"Jury's still out but I'll try," he quips. He twitches one audial on purpose and smiles at her. "Take a breath, Ricochet. I do know how to take care of myself."
"And yet somehow I doubt that very much." She spins on him and points. "Go and see Razor about an inhibitor for that headache you have. And absolutely no letting him drink from you further until we make sure there are no side effects. And will you talk to him about your damn emotions already? You're killing us here. The UST is so strong."
He chokes on his vents but nods as he stands up. "Yep, yep, got it, uh huh, bye, thanks Ricochet." Emotions. Not the talk he wanted to have with anyone, let alone Ricochet. But he owed it to Razor. He could do that.
Mouse is almost disappointed by how easily things go back to normal after. Razor doesn't treat him any differently, their late-night walks are just as calm as they usually are, and it's like nothing at all has changed.
He is a little startled to realize how much he has wanted things to change.
He sits on the counter of Razor's workshop, chin in hand with one leg propped up on the edge, and watches the ice skater at work. Razor has an oil lolli today, the stick shifting idly as he moves the candy from one side of his mouth to the other.
Mouse can think of better things to be doing with that mouth-
He blinks and drops his attention down to the replacement part Razor is building. He'd be lying if he said that Razor wasn't extremely attractive when he was focused. All narrowed optics and hyper-focus. Steady hands and even vents. He wields the soldering iron like an extension of his frame instead of a tool. Mouse thinks it must be similar to how he skates, though he hasn't had the privilege of seeing it yet.
Honestly, Mouse isn't even sure what Razor is building. He has his projects he should be working on. His own clinic he should be looking after. But instead, he's here, checking in on Razor with no reason beyond wanting to be in his presence. Oh sure, he'd used the excuse of dropping off oil candy, but that was hardly noteworthy. Mouse could have done that at any time. Hell, they'd been scheduled to hang out tomorrow and he could have waited until then.
But he didn't. He didn't wait until tomorrow because he wanted Razor's focus on him now. Well, he always wanted Razor's focus on him but this felt especially poignant. He could still feel the ghost of Razor's mouth against his neck, the slide of his claws along his plating, the gasp of each heated vent… If Mouse wasn't careful those memories drove him to very indecent places very quickly.
"You're doin' an awful lot of staring today, Mouse," Razor drawls. The lollipop clicks against his dentae as he moves it, and his optics catch Mouse and hold him.
Mouse is breathless in the light of those red optics. His hand curls against his chin and he swallows. "What, can't appreciate a good view?" he asks. Rasps, really. It's hard not to notice how dry his mouth suddenly is, or how much his internal heating has skyrocketed.
Razor arches a brow and straightens up. Is that surprise there? It shouldn't be a surprise. Mouse had all but climbed him like a tree when Razor had been close enough, surely it wasn't—
"Didn't know you were doing that kind of looking." Razor picks up a rag and cleans his hands, meticulous as he works the grease off and rubs any excess into his joints. Mouse is, unabashedly, staring.
"What do you mean you didn't know?" he manages to ask when he tears his gaze back up to Razor's optics. That is just as dangerous because he knows he's going to get trapped there. "I was practically humping your leg when you bit me the other day."
Razor flushes and looks away, his hands pausing. "That's just the—"
"Whoa, no. Wait. Nope. Hold up." Mouse holds up both hands and drops his legs off the counter, letting his feet dangle above the floor. "Okay. This is my bad, I should have spoken up sooner, but I thought it was, like, kind of obvious. I have been looking at you since the day I met you." He gestures with one finger, and Razor drifts closer slowly, like a moon caught in a planet's orbit. Or something poetic like that.
Mouse catches his hand, lacing their fingers together, and tips his head back a little to look at him. "Razor, you're like… bad boy super hot, the guy of my fuckin' dreams, I have literally stood next to you and plotted our entire futures together while you explained cold welds versus hot welds to a newbie mechanic. I just never said anything cause you always felt disconnected. And I was okay with that, with just daydreamin', cause you were busy, and I was busy, and the clinic was taking off and going crazy and you've been up to your neck in Lost Boys shit, but—"
He pauses to take a deep vent and reaches up to touch Razor's face with his free hand, gliding gentle fingers over his mandibles and then back to his finials. "So no, it wasn't just the bite or whatever thrall you think you had over me that made me react like that in your lap. That was me, one hundred percent, trying really fuckin' hard not to jump you in the middle of a run-down warehouse when we're supposed to be heading home because you're impaired and unable to make rational judgments."
Razor blinks at him, tilting into the touch on his face. He blinks again when Mouse smiles.
"I'd have kissed you then if I thought you'd be able to consent," Mouse admits.
Razor's hand twitches in Mouse's. "I—"
Mouse's optics fall half shut and he tips his head back further. It bares his throat and shows off the two gleaming sets of scars from Razor. Razor's optics are drawn to it, hypnotized, and his other hand rests on the counter next to Mouse.
"Mouse…" he breathes.
Mouse smiles, quirking his fingers under Razor's jaw. "It felt good, Razor. No pain, just pleasure. You're good with your mouth."
The lollipop crunches as Razor bites down on it sharply. "It was—"
"Dangerous, yes, I know. But see, here's the thing. I trust you to stop. I trusted you then, and I trust you now, and every time something scary has happened you either put me first or you stop if I say. So I'm not scared of you, or what you can do, because I know you won't hurt me, and if you did, it's definitely not on purpose." Mouse pets the pad of his thumb along the swell of Razor's bottom lip, delighting in the shocked inhale that got. "You don't scare me."
"I should." Razor sways in closer. His optics spiral wide, watching the curl of Mouse's mouth as he speaks. Mouse purposefully slows his speech so that Razor can appreciate the motion. "I should scare you. I'm a monster."
"So?" Mouse pets over his lower lip again. "I like that about you." He leans up even as he uses his grip on Razor's chin to pull him down. "I like you, Razor Steel, monster and all, oil-sucking and all. I want you to bite me. I want you to come to me in scary cases like that. I want to hold you and kiss you and sit in your lap—"
"You want me to bite you?" Razor has gone stiff again, the heat bleeding out of his optics until he's simply pale. Pale and worried. He smells vaguely of sweet oil from the candy.
Mouse tips his head. "Yes? What part of it felt good did you miss? The part where it felt good or the part where it was hot as fuck and I would roll over for you right now without a question if you said you were going to?"
Razor blinks slowly and carefully, his mouth parted in surprise. Mouse can just barely make out the top of one incisor like that. "I've… never… It's—? I've never—? It's never been a sex thing? I literally do this to feed and you—" He blinks again, rapidly this time. "You think it's hot?" He lifts both brows, incredulous, and rears back enough to look at Mouse.
Mouse only offers him a shrug and a smile. "What can I say, I like to live life on the wild side." He squeezes Razor's hand. "I don't think you quite understand how it felt, so maybe I should give you a hands-on demonstration."
Razor barks out a laugh, relaxing incrementally under the touch of Mouse's fingers. "Sounds like you enjoy flirting with danger."
"Maybe," Mouse purrs. He tips his head up and ghosts his mouth across Razor's jaw. "Or maybe I just like flirting with you and all of your dangers." Razor shivers, a low sound escaping him, and Mouse chuckles lowly. "Razor," he murmurs, "are you going to kiss me or not?"
Razor sucks a vent in through his dentae, and the stick from his lolli falls from his mouth. It falls on the ground, silent, tracked only by Mouse's optics. He smiles, his mouth curving against Razor's jaw, and then Razor crushes their mouths together. It's heated and hard, months of pent-up frustration and desire coming to a head all at once. Mouse moans into it, overwhelmed, and Razor only pushes him down on the countertop.
He ends up sprawled on his back, legs hooked over Razor's hips, and clinging to his shoulders for dear life as Razor methodically takes him apart with just his mouth. Mouse has never had trouble keeping up with someone before but here… oh here he begins to falter. Because Razor is all-consuming. The oil on his glossa is warm, hinted with cinnamon. His lips are soft and his hands are hot where they stroke down Mouse's sides. Mouse is helpless to do anything but take it, arching into his talented hands with a sound that is swallowed by Razor's mouth.
A fang drags over his lower lip. Mouse groans. Razor groans in turn and tightens his hold on Mouse's waist, prompting the medic to squirm with a needy whine. The charge arcing inside of him, spiraling up into his lines, is setting in so much faster than he could have expected or anticipated. It snaps between diodes and sensitive plates, lighting his seams electric white in fits and bursts as it discharges.
Razor drags his mouth down, away, and over the curve of Mouse's cheek guard, down to his jaw and his neck. He drags his glossa over the scars from before. Mouse shivers, digging his fingers into Razor's shoulders. The faux feathering flares at the touch, displaying wide and showing off for Mouse.
"Fuck," Mouse gasps. "God."
Razor presses his moan into Mouse's neck and laves his glossa over the sensitive cabling there. He nicks it, gently, with his fang, and Mouse throws his head back with a guttural groan. Fuck that was fast. Fuck they were moving very fast— "More," he chokes out. "Please." He slides a hand to the back of Razor's helm and presses him further into his neck.
Razor hesitates, his mouth going slack, and Mouse lightens his touch immediately. He pulls back, blinking hazily up at Razor with a confused moue. "Razor?"
"I don't want to hurt you," Razor says. He leans back a little, his hand shifting to cradle Mouse's cheek like something precious and fragile. "I know you said it feels good but I—" He cuts himself off with a click of his dentae and a pained sound.
Mouse chirrs quietly and tugs Razor down, peppering his face with gentle kisses. He smooths his hand over Razor's back, then up and over his shoulders. "I know, sweet thing, but I promise if it starts to hurt at all I will tell you. And you don't have to. You can just do this instead. You can just kiss me. Trust me that feels plenty good too."
Razor's brows furrow and he looks carefully at Mouse. "But you wanted me to bite you."
"Not at the cost of your comfort." Mouse brings his hand back forward on Razor's face, petting over his mandibles and smiling when they quiver. "Seriously. It's hot as fuck but I'd much rather the rest of you in my bed."
Razor hesitates again, his optics doing something funny. "Just in your bed?"
Mouse feels his engine kick on, the low hum of it vibrating through his chassis. "Well… not jus- ah!" Razor tweaks the cable in his side once more with a shit-eating grin and Mouse whines, rocking his hips up into Razor's. "God… Razor…" He clings to his shoulders again, pulling him down a bit closer. "Razor, I—"
Razor puzzles their mouths together again, dragging his glossa slowly over the curve of his lower lip, and Mouse practically sobs with it. He's overwhelmed in the best of ways; his fuel pump racing and his circuits lighting up with that electric white pleasure. Mouse holds tighter to his shoulders, his back bowing, and tries to keep up.
Razor huffs a laugh against Mouse's mouth, sliding his hands down to grab Mouse's thighs and squeeze. "You," he breathes, "were built by mechanophile."
Mouse brushes a hand over the faux feathers on Razor's shoulder and tips his head up to bite Razor's lower lip. He sucks on it just long enough for Razor to groan, and he smirks as he lets go. "I know. I designed that part myself after I left the league." He flexes his thighs around Razor's waist, pressing his heel into the small of Razor's back and pushing him into a roll that made their plating spark.
Razor makes an unintelligible sound, dragging his mouth over the curve of Mouse's jaw and biting gently at a cable just under his chin.
"Fuck," Mouse groans. He rolls his head, giving Razor all the room he could possibly want or need. Razor was still kneading his thighs, his fingers trailing between the flexible cabling of his hips and the hard plating that covered his thighs. Mouse drags his hands down, petting over Razor's chest and dipping into flared seams, and whines quietly.
"Can— ah, gods, Razor—" He arches his back as Razor bites his neck again, still gentler than Mouse would like but there nonetheless. "Fuck, sweetheart, cable with me," he gasps out.
A side panel hisses open on Razor's chest and Mouse fumbles at it. He presses his fingers to the delicate ports and connectors, shivering when it makes Razor moan. That's a sound he's going to get very addicted to. It's already becoming one of his favorites.
Static discharges from his fingertips, grounding against a port, and Razor writhes above him for a moment. Mouse breathes through the rush of pleasure and desire in order to grab Razor's cable, unspooling it between them. It's simple enough to undo his own panel, just a small one on his side because if he lifted Razor off of himself he thinks he might go insane.
Razor digs his claws into Mouse's hips at the same moment Mouse plugs Razor into himself. The double wave of feedback makes him dizzy in the best of ways. It's all he can do to stay functioning as he practically wails. The hunger fed through Razor's line is so deep and consuming that it darkens Mouse's own wants. It's a welcome change, something he embraces wholeheartedly. His hand only shakes a little as he goes to return the favor, unspooling his cable and plugging it into Razor.
The completed handshake and circuit make Mouse's internals sing.
He moans and clings, his hand tightening around Razor's port. His fingers fluttered over the sensitive connection points and dipped into the back of his panel. Razor snarls a half-broken sound against his neck and shoves a data packet of raw need through their connection, and Mouse writhes on the counter.
"Fuck!"
Razor laughs softly and drags his hands up Mouse's sides. He pets over his plating, dipping into the gaps, and tweaks a cable. Mouse twists, his hands sliding down to grasp at Razor's sides, and whines high in the back of his throat.
"Razor!" Static is licking at his internals, and his optics short out. The charge cycles high fast and he feels lost in the rush. But there is the glimmer of Razor in his systems; a homing beacon he can grab to to keep himself present. He throws his pleasure back at Razor and burns when Razor muffles his groan against his neck cables.
He wants Razor to bite him. He wants Razor to bite him so badly. A garbled plea slips out of him as he arches his back; the sound of paint transferring is undeniable. Good. Let him be covered in Razor's calmer blues.
Mouse turns his head, ghosting his mouth across Razor's jaw and mandibles down to his neck. He wastes no time at all before he bites down on a cable. Electricity nips at his dentae and glossa, making him shudder with the aftereffects of charge. And Razor slams a hand down on the counter next to Mouse's head, a raspy, broken sound slipping out of him.
Razor's pleasure swells and sinks into Mouse's lines; liquid warmth and golden fire. It's almost warm enough to feel cold. Or maybe that's just Mouse's systems failing at registering what he's actually feeling. He doesn't know. Mouse can barely process anything at this point. All he knows is that each packet of data passed between them is more in the way that an oil bath is relaxing, or a warm cup of oil is the perfect way to defrost after a day on the ice.
He shifts enough to get his hands on Razor's shoulders, on the back of his neck, hauling Razor in closer as he adjusts just enough to bite down again. Razor isn't the only one with sharp teeth after all, and while Mouse isn't aiming to draw oil, he is certainly aiming to leave a mark.
The snarl of Razor's engine makes Mouse mewl, hitching his legs up higher. He can feel that vibration all the way through his soul. It makes his internals rattle and electricity sparks white-hot through him, leaping from his plating to Razor's, and there's a direct line from his glossa to Razor's neck cables.
"Mouse," Razor groans. The counter whines under the force of Razor's claws, and Mouse knows there are going to be gouges there.
He laves at Razor's neck, pulling a cable into his mouth and sucking hard. He sinks a hand into Razor's shoulder gap, twisting into the cables there. Razor's charge snaps through him, and abruptly Mouse realizes that Razor is shaking apart above him. Breathy whines and gasps fill his audials as the information flow from Razor spikes and then crashes all at once.
The overload takes him by surprise and crashes his systems.
Mouse comes back online to shaking fingers tracing over his finials and ear decorations, and a hot mouth working at the cables on his neck with a precision he's never felt before. He throws back his head with a cry, scrabbling at Razor's plating, as pleasure rushes through him. It's static running through him again, hot on the heels of his overload.
"Razor, Razor, fuck Razor!"
Razor growls and presses Mouse more firmly into the counter. His fangs scrape against the line of cables, sharp as can be, and Mouse doesn't know what sound he makes in response, but it sure is a sound. It only spurs Razor on as he ghosts his dentae over the lines again and again.
"Please!" Mouse gasps, and sobs, grabbing at him. His charge is cycling up again; each spark is stronger than the last. "Razor!"
"Can—"
"Yes, please, fuck, anything-!"
Razor's teeth sink into Mouse's neck, his glossa curling under the line to catch the oil that wells and slides down. Razor's moan is filthy, a sound that Mouse knows is going to get stuck in his very circuits, and it sends Mouse flying right off the metaphorical ledge once more.
He seizes with a cry loud enough to echo in the room, locking his arms around Razor, and holds on for dear life. He can't do anything but ride it out, panting steam and crackling static with the second overload. And still, he twitches with each lap of Razor's glossa, heat curling through him.
"Razor," he whines.
Razor pulls off slowly, pressing their foreheads together as he pants in turn. Pleasure rolls through them in waves, shared back and forth, and it ebbs slowly into a gentle warmth. Mouse basks in it, relaxing down on the countertop and petting gently over Razor's helm and back.
"Ricochet is gonna give us shit for being as bad as Magnum and Coronet," he says after a long moment.
Razor laughs and presses a kiss to Mouse's cheek, his satisfaction a warm packet of data bleeding into Mouse's lines. "We will never be as bad as them."
Mouse smiles, curling his fingers gently under the edge of Razor's helm and pulling him up into a fleeting kiss. "Mm, no. But we can give them a run for their money."
Razor snorts, his shoulders shaking, and Mouse is smiling as he kisses the laughter out of his mouth.