![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Technically, this is a flash fiction fill. One that got way out of hand. It's very much NSFW. It's a strange blend of cracky tactile/pnp/holographic/sticky interfacing. With a VR element.
It's not been beta'ed. But I've edited it to my best ability. Please enjoy.
Title: Diplomatic Liaisons
Universe: TF:Prime, sometime during season one before the finale
Rating: M
Characters: RatchetxKnock Out
Description: It's a philosophical quandary. If an Autobot and a Decepticon meet and no one's around to see it, do they have to fight? Knock Out's got other ideas.
Warning: interfacing of the pnp, tactile, hologram, and sticky kind. Sorta.
To fill camfield's flash fiction request for Knock Out/Ratchet, "do me dirty, doctor"
It's not often that Ratchet leaves the base for a leisurely drive. He rarely leaves their base at all, as a matter of fact. And when the familiar maroon vehicle pulls onto the deserted road behind him, seemingly out of nowhere, Ratchet remembers why.
Frag it all to the Pit. The one day he chooses to indulge in a little alone time and he has to run into the one Decepticon more annoying than Starscream.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” Knock Out transmits over an open comm line, one Autobot and Decepticon alike can pick up.
Ratchet speeds up just a little and ignores the Decepticon. Maybe Knock Out will get offended and leave on his own. The Decepticon “medic” isn't exactly known for his courage.
“Got a philosophical question for you, medic,” Knock Out transmits, practically riding on Ratchet's bumper. “If an Autobot and a Decepticon meet and no one's around to see them, do they have to cross blades?”
With finger figuratively posed over the button to contact base, Ratchet pauses, bewildered. “... What?”
“It's a horrible bore,” Knock Out continues, still trailing him, making no effort to attack. “And the scuffed paint is never worth it afterward. You and I both know that neither of us are capable of offlining the other.”
Ratchet reboots his comm network just in case he caught a wrong transmission. “Are you proposing we pretend we never saw each other and go our separate ways?” He doesn't bother to hide the suspicion in his tone.
Knock Out chuckles. “Or,” he starts slyly. “We could engage in a battle on a different playing field. One where we both win.”
Ratchet is, at first, confused. In battle, there cannot be two victors. Unless it's a draw but that can't be counted as a victory or a defeat.
Oh.
He should have known.
“What?” Ratchet squawks into the transmission, swerving out of his lane for a fraction of a second. “You want to interface? Are you glitched?”
Amusement filters through the transmission. “It is a curious observation that you've yet to call for back up.”
Well, he has a point. But this is supposed to be a nice, relaxing drive! Ratchet doesn't exactly want to go head to head with a Decepticon right now. He just wants to drive in peace and later go back to base to berate Optimus about his daily maintenance some more. Not engage in blaster fire with the local Decepticon hot rod!
“What part of robots in disguise don't you understand?” Ratchet hisses, though the Decepticons probably don't care about staying hidden from humanity. “I'm not going to interface where any human can wander by and watch!”
“That's not a no. Interesting.” Knock Out's chuckle is more of a purr, a caress over Ratchet's comm net. “That's some new kibble you've got there, but it can't hide the fact you're an older model, medic. Surely a little simulation isn't beyond your realm of experience.”
Ratchet splutters. “Not the point!” It's been eons since he engaged in anything close to simulation. It's never held any appeal for him. He prefers the real-world form of tactile play with a little spark action on the side.
“Oh, I see. You don't trust your firewalls. Understandable. I am, after all, a more skilled medic than you.”
Ratchet slams on his brakes, jerks off the interstate, and swerves around to face the aggravating Decepticon, ignoring the honks of irritated drivers. “I said nothing of the sort!” If he were in root mode, right now his plating would be clamped down tightly. Indignantly. The nerve of some... some... hacks!
Knock Out leisurely follows him off the road as though careful to avoid stirring up too much dust. “Then what have you to worry about? What's a little pleasure between two neutrals on neutral ground?” He flicks one headlight in semblance of a wink. “You look in need of some stress relief.”
Something else that is beside the point. He let Optimus pin him to a rock wall a few days after they landed here on Earth, but Ratchet hasn't interfaced since. Maybe that explains his aggravation and restlessness as of late. Too much charge in his systems. That much extra energy never does a mech good.
Ratchet is tempted. Very, very tempted. Knock Out is not unpleasing to the optics and there is a lazy sort of sensuality that implies a very good time would be had in the berth. But... he's a Decepticon.
Ratchet bears down on his front axle, trying to loom over the smaller medic. “How do I know you're not trying to get under my plating to put a blaster to my spark?”
Knock Out rocks from side to side. “I don't have anything against you. I don't even care that you're an Autobot. I'm a Decepticon because I picked the winning side not because I hate all Autobots.”
Hmm.
Temptation wars with suspicion. Ratchet is confident in his firewalls. Knock Out won't be able to hack him by any means. And he has both weight and age on the smaller Decepticon, too. If it came down to it, Ratchet knows he'd come out on top in an altercation, though it wouldn't be without some damage. He simply wouldn't relish having to explain to Optimus just why he let Knock Out get so close without calling for back up.
“You could always call it a step toward interfactional diplomacy,” Knock Out wheedles, his transmission yet another resonating purr that sends a shiver across Ratchet's comm net.
It's been a long, long time. And Knock Out has a lazy sensuality that implies a very good time could be had. Neither is he part of Ratchet's team which is also a plus. Not that his fellow Autobots aren't attractive, but sometimes complications are... complicated. Optimus is different and no way is Ratchet getting into that right now.
He hems and haws and debates, all while under Knock Out's scarlet gaze.
Temptation wins.
“Fine,” Ratchet says with a thrum of his engine. “Then where do you propose we park ourselves?”
Knock Out pulls up right beside Ratchet, with less than a foot of clearance between them, and sinks down on his hydraulics. “Right here will do.”
By the roadside? Kinky fragger. Ratchet should have guessed. And no, that isn't a tiny, eager surge in his spark. He's not at all aroused by the thought of clueless humans driving by, not realizing that the two parked vehicles are interfacing in front of all and sundry!
“Hmph.” Ratchet sinks down too, wriggling his tires to get comfortable. “Cable,” he grunts.
Knock Out tilts a mirror just so, catching a gleam of sunlight designed to make him more appealing. “Don't mind if I do.” From his undercarriage, a narrow cable makes an appearance.
This is such a bad idea. Nevertheless, Ratchet slips out his own cable and connects with the Decepticon's, a surge of desire instantly transmitting across the basic link.
“You pick the place, I'll pick the program,” Knock Out purrs.
Ratchet should have guessed. It's been so long since he's done this he doesn't where to start. Best to settle for something comfortable and familiar. He picks Iacon: not Iacon as it is now, but Iacon as he remembers it.
Initiating Iacon simulation. Invitation extended to Decepticon Medic Knock Out. Invitation accepted.
There's a brief moment of calm, where Ratchet's awareness is still focused on the outside world and the occasional car zipping by. And then, he's dragged inward, pulled into a virtual world that is a replica of Iacon in the golden years, alive and prosperous. Real enough to make Ratchet's spark ache with memory.
The specific location, however, is a hotel room in one of the high towers, a place Ratchet has only visited once in his entire existence. Yet, it remains with him. Beautiful and subtle, with a view that extends all over Iacon and to the distant Towers on the horizon.
It's a place that doesn't exist, except for the virtual imagery created by Ratchet within his very own processor. Some of the same sensations may transfer to his physical form, but for the most part, he's still just an ambulance sitting on the side of the road.
He materializes in the middle of the room, Knock Out quickly following. They are both of them in root mode, though with their Earth kibble. The Decepticon looks around, orbital ridge arched.
“Iacon. How fitting,” he comments, and crooks a finger at Ratchet. “C'mon, medic. My turn.”
“I have a designation,” Ratchet huffs, but he crosses the floor all the same, extending a virtual interface cable.
“Oh, I know,” Knock Out purrs, optics brightening with obvious arousal. He takes Ratchet's cable in hand, fingers stroking the thin line in consideration. “But let's not make things complicated, shall we?” He plugs Ratchet into an interface port and immediately a file is made ready for download.
Initiating Program Earth. Stand by for application of program parameters.
Program Earth? Primus, Ratchet isn't sure he even wants to know. What could the perverted Decepticon have concocted in that glitched processor of his?
A shudder rakes down Ratchet's backstrut. He feels his virtual representation flicker, and for a moment, all sensory coding offlines as his internals rearrange themselves to support whatever the program requires. He half-expects for his entire outer appearance to change because of the way Knock Out is smirking at him. Part of him anticipates flesh and blood like the dominant species on Earth. But no, by the time the program is finished uploading, Ratchet doesn't feel any different than before. He's still in his Cybertronian form with Earth kibble attached.
He's certainly not any of the known programs, that's for certain. Not Quintesson or Nebulan or Skuxxoid, thank Primus for the last one.
“That's it?”
Knock Out grins, unplugging Ratchet's cable and handing it back. “Oh, you'll see.” He steps forward, plants his hands on Ratchet's chassis, and tugs him into a messy kiss with a clang of metal on metal.
Ratchet stumbles, but catches himself. Knock Out is eager as he sweeps his glossa inside Ratchet's mouth, chemoreceptors detecting the faint spice of aged energon. Ratchet groans into the kiss, feeling heat spread through his internals, his engine giving a roar of approval. And there's a tingle southward, a feeling of pressure in the plating at the apex of his thighs. What the frag?
Knock Out draws back from the kiss, hand skating down Ratchet's plating to cup the warm, pressurized spot with his fingers. A burr of static rises where metal collides and Ratchet hisses, pleasure coiling within him.
“This,” Knock Out says with another deft stroke, “is what I like to call Project Earth.” He taps over the small, domed panel. “Open.”
Open? Open what?
Luckily, Knock Out's program doesn't seem to need Ratchet's command to obey. The metal panel slides aside and something long and thick emerges. Knock Out's fingers curl around it, igniting a surge of delicious static.
Ratchet hisses in air through his vents, pleasure sizzling across his sensor net. He arches toward the Decepticon, hands landing on Knock Out's shoulders.
“I call this a spike,” Knock Out purrs, fingers stroking said spike from root to tip, gliding smoothly over thin, imbricated plating that seeps a slick fluid. “Nice, isn't it?”
What Ratchet manages to say lacks words and is only a glyph-laden plea for more. There's something broiling inside of him, something formed of heat and pleasure, that makes his plating clamp and his backstrut tingle. Distantly, in the awareness of his physical form, he sinks down on his hydraulics.
“There's more,” Knock Out says and steps away, releasing Ratchet's spike.
He reaches for the Decepticon before he can think twice about it, feeling like an errant youngling who's just discovered interfacing for the first time. Knock Out chuckles, smug, and pulls himself up onto the berth. He parts his legs, shamelessly stroking his fingers over the same paneling at the apex of his thighs. The domed panel is present, but there is something else, something that cycles open at the touch of his fingers.
“I call this a valve,” the Decepticon purrs, dipping one finger into the dark opening. “I don't suppose you need a diagram to guess what goes where.”
Ratchet has to perform a systems check. His spike, he notices, seems to be magnetically interested in Knock Out's open valve. “You modeled this after the humans. Didn't you?”
Knock Out laughs, still playfully teasing his own valve, adding a second digit as he strokes in and out, some kind of lubricant glistening over his fingers. “Their style of interfacing is so messy, but it has a certain raw and visceral appeal. Though I made some modifications.”
He withdraws his fingers as the panel above snaps open, spike jutting into view. Knock Out grips his own spike, stroking it slowly, sensually. “Why limit ourselves to only half the pleasure?”
Ratchet finds himself standing at the edge of the berth, hands sliding down Knock Out's legs, before he really notices what he's doing. “You... you pervert.”
Knock Out laughs, a sound staticky and husky all at once. “You haven't seen the program I snatched from Soundwave yet.” He lets go of his spike, fingers dipping down to circle the rim of his valve again. “Don't tell me you're not curious.”
Oh, but he is. Curious and tempted and he's a scientist, isn't he? All in the name of science!
Ratchet's ventilations stutter. “I'm not backing out now,” he grunts, trying to sound gruff when really, heat is pouring through his systems faster than his cooling fans can expel it. “I should have guessed this from a Decepticon.”
“Ratchet,” Knock Out croons, using his designation for the first time. “Pleasure has no faction. I'm waiting. Do me dirty.”
He splays across the berth, legs wide in invitation, quite possibly the most lewd and yet seductive position Ratchet has ever seen. If there was a moment to back out, it's long since passed. And Ratchet can no more eject himself from this program then he can stop himself from closing the tiny bit of distance and run his hands over Knock Out's gleaming, crimson armor.
Knock Out's plating vibrates under his touch, heat palpable, arcs of blue static tingling over Ratchet's fingers. His engine rumbles and Ratchet climbs up onto the berth, eager as a youngling to have a taste. And no, he absolutely doesn't need a diagram to guess what goes where.
Lubricant glistens on Knock Out's thigh and Ratchet drags a finger through it, eliciting a shiver from the attractive Decepticon. Ratchet's spike gives a heated tingle, interfacing protocols pinging him with desires to complete the circuit.
“Don't tease,” Knock Out purrs, grabbing Ratchet's arm and jerking the larger medic over him. “We don't have all day. Sooner or later, your precious Prime is going to get to looking for you.”
All day? Frag, Ratchet thinks he's going to be lucky if he lasts longer than a handful of thrusts.
Knock Out tugs and mechhandles Ratchet, legs clamping tight around Ratchet's frame and holding him in place. The tip of Ratchet's spike nudges against the rim of the Decepticon's valve, tempting slick heat beckoning him closer. It's unlike any sensation he's ever experienced and it's no small wonder that mechs enjoy simulated interfacing so much. Is this what he's been missing?
Another heated shudder rakes through Ratchet's systems, charge coiling in his groin plating, and he rocks his hips forward, pushing his spike into Knock Out's valve. Instantly, he's surrounded by slick, spiraling heat. Knock Out moans long and low, arching toward Ratchet's thrust, hands scrabbling to pull him deeper.
Cybertronian's have no instinct for organic-style interfacing. But Knock Out must be the Prime of simulated interfacing programs because his coding has provided all the instinct Ratchet might need. No instruction necessary. Just a slow thrust inward, a slow drag outward, immediately followed by a deeper push.
Heat and hunger spiral through him. Knock Out shudders beneath him, hands roaming over Ratchet's frame, dipping into seams and igniting his sensory net. The slick slide his of spike within Knock Out's cycling valve is intoxicating. Ratchet can feel the charge sparking between their interface hardware, blue static dancing through lubrication and over smooth metal.
Ratchet's hips seem to take a rhythm of their own accord, slow and deep thrusts that rake across sensory nodes, dragging out the pleasure. The clash of metal hitting metal is a cacophony echoing around the room. Knock Out moans and writhes beneath Ratchet, bucking up to meet each thrust, desperately seeking his overload. One hand wanders down, grasping his spike and stroking himself in counterpoint to Ratchet's thrusts.
It's the hottest thing Ratchet's seen since Optimus pinned him to a wall.
“Harder,” Knock Out demands, fingers locked under Ratchet's plating, pulling him deeper with each harsh tug. “C'mon, old mech.”
“Not old,” Ratchet grounds out, snagging the Decepticon's wrists and firmly pinning them to the berth.
He bends Knock Out over, changing the angle, and thrusts much deeper this time, into near-scorching heat. Knock Out all but keens, arching upward, and the sight is erotic in all the best kinds of ways. Ratchet's spike strikes something electric in Knock Out's valve and the Decepticon spasms, howling his overload to the ceiling as charge races across his frame.
Ratchet shudders, his spike trapped in the wet, cycling pressure of Knock Out's valve. It's tight, erotically so, and Ratchet has no defense against such a new sensation. His overload crashes through him, charge crackling across his spike and some kind of lubricant spilling from the tip of it.
It takes great effort for Ratchet to tilt himself to the side, sprawling on the other half of the berth as his cooling fans struggle to dispel the gathered heat. The scent of discharged ions, hot metal, and the nameless lubricant fills the room. It's tantalizing on Ratchet's chemoreceptors. His real form gives a tangible shudder.
Knock Out draws up one leg, reaching down and lazily swirling a finger through the fluid spilled between his thighs and over the berth. “Hmm. Not bad for an older model.”
Still tingling from the aftermath of his overload, Ratchet musters up enough energy to glare at the Decepticon. “You are one fragged up pervert.”
Knock Out tilts his helm toward Ratchet, optics gleaming mischievously. “No one's found us yet. We have time for another round.” He leans up on his elbow toward Ratchet, fingers of his other hand teasing at his spike casing. “Want to test out your valve?”
Temptation thy designation is Knock Out.
Ratchet's tired, running low on energon, and due back at the base in an hour. Funny how the word 'no' never crosses his processor.
He flops over on his back, engine thrumming. “Do your worst, Decepticon.”
Knock Out smirks, running his glossa over his lipplates. “I always give my best, medic. Now open.”
****
a/n: This is my first time writing anything that resembles sticky. Feedback is welcome. I have a feeling that we may be seeing what program Knock Out took from Soundwave in the future. *evil laugh*
I hope you enjoyed!
It's not been beta'ed. But I've edited it to my best ability. Please enjoy.
Title: Diplomatic Liaisons
Universe: TF:Prime, sometime during season one before the finale
Rating: M
Characters: RatchetxKnock Out
Description: It's a philosophical quandary. If an Autobot and a Decepticon meet and no one's around to see it, do they have to fight? Knock Out's got other ideas.
Warning: interfacing of the pnp, tactile, hologram, and sticky kind. Sorta.
To fill camfield's flash fiction request for Knock Out/Ratchet, "do me dirty, doctor"
It's not often that Ratchet leaves the base for a leisurely drive. He rarely leaves their base at all, as a matter of fact. And when the familiar maroon vehicle pulls onto the deserted road behind him, seemingly out of nowhere, Ratchet remembers why.
Frag it all to the Pit. The one day he chooses to indulge in a little alone time and he has to run into the one Decepticon more annoying than Starscream.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” Knock Out transmits over an open comm line, one Autobot and Decepticon alike can pick up.
Ratchet speeds up just a little and ignores the Decepticon. Maybe Knock Out will get offended and leave on his own. The Decepticon “medic” isn't exactly known for his courage.
“Got a philosophical question for you, medic,” Knock Out transmits, practically riding on Ratchet's bumper. “If an Autobot and a Decepticon meet and no one's around to see them, do they have to cross blades?”
With finger figuratively posed over the button to contact base, Ratchet pauses, bewildered. “... What?”
“It's a horrible bore,” Knock Out continues, still trailing him, making no effort to attack. “And the scuffed paint is never worth it afterward. You and I both know that neither of us are capable of offlining the other.”
Ratchet reboots his comm network just in case he caught a wrong transmission. “Are you proposing we pretend we never saw each other and go our separate ways?” He doesn't bother to hide the suspicion in his tone.
Knock Out chuckles. “Or,” he starts slyly. “We could engage in a battle on a different playing field. One where we both win.”
Ratchet is, at first, confused. In battle, there cannot be two victors. Unless it's a draw but that can't be counted as a victory or a defeat.
Oh.
He should have known.
“What?” Ratchet squawks into the transmission, swerving out of his lane for a fraction of a second. “You want to interface? Are you glitched?”
Amusement filters through the transmission. “It is a curious observation that you've yet to call for back up.”
Well, he has a point. But this is supposed to be a nice, relaxing drive! Ratchet doesn't exactly want to go head to head with a Decepticon right now. He just wants to drive in peace and later go back to base to berate Optimus about his daily maintenance some more. Not engage in blaster fire with the local Decepticon hot rod!
“What part of robots in disguise don't you understand?” Ratchet hisses, though the Decepticons probably don't care about staying hidden from humanity. “I'm not going to interface where any human can wander by and watch!”
“That's not a no. Interesting.” Knock Out's chuckle is more of a purr, a caress over Ratchet's comm net. “That's some new kibble you've got there, but it can't hide the fact you're an older model, medic. Surely a little simulation isn't beyond your realm of experience.”
Ratchet splutters. “Not the point!” It's been eons since he engaged in anything close to simulation. It's never held any appeal for him. He prefers the real-world form of tactile play with a little spark action on the side.
“Oh, I see. You don't trust your firewalls. Understandable. I am, after all, a more skilled medic than you.”
Ratchet slams on his brakes, jerks off the interstate, and swerves around to face the aggravating Decepticon, ignoring the honks of irritated drivers. “I said nothing of the sort!” If he were in root mode, right now his plating would be clamped down tightly. Indignantly. The nerve of some... some... hacks!
Knock Out leisurely follows him off the road as though careful to avoid stirring up too much dust. “Then what have you to worry about? What's a little pleasure between two neutrals on neutral ground?” He flicks one headlight in semblance of a wink. “You look in need of some stress relief.”
Something else that is beside the point. He let Optimus pin him to a rock wall a few days after they landed here on Earth, but Ratchet hasn't interfaced since. Maybe that explains his aggravation and restlessness as of late. Too much charge in his systems. That much extra energy never does a mech good.
Ratchet is tempted. Very, very tempted. Knock Out is not unpleasing to the optics and there is a lazy sort of sensuality that implies a very good time would be had in the berth. But... he's a Decepticon.
Ratchet bears down on his front axle, trying to loom over the smaller medic. “How do I know you're not trying to get under my plating to put a blaster to my spark?”
Knock Out rocks from side to side. “I don't have anything against you. I don't even care that you're an Autobot. I'm a Decepticon because I picked the winning side not because I hate all Autobots.”
Hmm.
Temptation wars with suspicion. Ratchet is confident in his firewalls. Knock Out won't be able to hack him by any means. And he has both weight and age on the smaller Decepticon, too. If it came down to it, Ratchet knows he'd come out on top in an altercation, though it wouldn't be without some damage. He simply wouldn't relish having to explain to Optimus just why he let Knock Out get so close without calling for back up.
“You could always call it a step toward interfactional diplomacy,” Knock Out wheedles, his transmission yet another resonating purr that sends a shiver across Ratchet's comm net.
It's been a long, long time. And Knock Out has a lazy sensuality that implies a very good time could be had. Neither is he part of Ratchet's team which is also a plus. Not that his fellow Autobots aren't attractive, but sometimes complications are... complicated. Optimus is different and no way is Ratchet getting into that right now.
He hems and haws and debates, all while under Knock Out's scarlet gaze.
Temptation wins.
“Fine,” Ratchet says with a thrum of his engine. “Then where do you propose we park ourselves?”
Knock Out pulls up right beside Ratchet, with less than a foot of clearance between them, and sinks down on his hydraulics. “Right here will do.”
By the roadside? Kinky fragger. Ratchet should have guessed. And no, that isn't a tiny, eager surge in his spark. He's not at all aroused by the thought of clueless humans driving by, not realizing that the two parked vehicles are interfacing in front of all and sundry!
“Hmph.” Ratchet sinks down too, wriggling his tires to get comfortable. “Cable,” he grunts.
Knock Out tilts a mirror just so, catching a gleam of sunlight designed to make him more appealing. “Don't mind if I do.” From his undercarriage, a narrow cable makes an appearance.
This is such a bad idea. Nevertheless, Ratchet slips out his own cable and connects with the Decepticon's, a surge of desire instantly transmitting across the basic link.
“You pick the place, I'll pick the program,” Knock Out purrs.
Ratchet should have guessed. It's been so long since he's done this he doesn't where to start. Best to settle for something comfortable and familiar. He picks Iacon: not Iacon as it is now, but Iacon as he remembers it.
Initiating Iacon simulation. Invitation extended to Decepticon Medic Knock Out. Invitation accepted.
There's a brief moment of calm, where Ratchet's awareness is still focused on the outside world and the occasional car zipping by. And then, he's dragged inward, pulled into a virtual world that is a replica of Iacon in the golden years, alive and prosperous. Real enough to make Ratchet's spark ache with memory.
The specific location, however, is a hotel room in one of the high towers, a place Ratchet has only visited once in his entire existence. Yet, it remains with him. Beautiful and subtle, with a view that extends all over Iacon and to the distant Towers on the horizon.
It's a place that doesn't exist, except for the virtual imagery created by Ratchet within his very own processor. Some of the same sensations may transfer to his physical form, but for the most part, he's still just an ambulance sitting on the side of the road.
He materializes in the middle of the room, Knock Out quickly following. They are both of them in root mode, though with their Earth kibble. The Decepticon looks around, orbital ridge arched.
“Iacon. How fitting,” he comments, and crooks a finger at Ratchet. “C'mon, medic. My turn.”
“I have a designation,” Ratchet huffs, but he crosses the floor all the same, extending a virtual interface cable.
“Oh, I know,” Knock Out purrs, optics brightening with obvious arousal. He takes Ratchet's cable in hand, fingers stroking the thin line in consideration. “But let's not make things complicated, shall we?” He plugs Ratchet into an interface port and immediately a file is made ready for download.
Initiating Program Earth. Stand by for application of program parameters.
Program Earth? Primus, Ratchet isn't sure he even wants to know. What could the perverted Decepticon have concocted in that glitched processor of his?
A shudder rakes down Ratchet's backstrut. He feels his virtual representation flicker, and for a moment, all sensory coding offlines as his internals rearrange themselves to support whatever the program requires. He half-expects for his entire outer appearance to change because of the way Knock Out is smirking at him. Part of him anticipates flesh and blood like the dominant species on Earth. But no, by the time the program is finished uploading, Ratchet doesn't feel any different than before. He's still in his Cybertronian form with Earth kibble attached.
He's certainly not any of the known programs, that's for certain. Not Quintesson or Nebulan or Skuxxoid, thank Primus for the last one.
“That's it?”
Knock Out grins, unplugging Ratchet's cable and handing it back. “Oh, you'll see.” He steps forward, plants his hands on Ratchet's chassis, and tugs him into a messy kiss with a clang of metal on metal.
Ratchet stumbles, but catches himself. Knock Out is eager as he sweeps his glossa inside Ratchet's mouth, chemoreceptors detecting the faint spice of aged energon. Ratchet groans into the kiss, feeling heat spread through his internals, his engine giving a roar of approval. And there's a tingle southward, a feeling of pressure in the plating at the apex of his thighs. What the frag?
Knock Out draws back from the kiss, hand skating down Ratchet's plating to cup the warm, pressurized spot with his fingers. A burr of static rises where metal collides and Ratchet hisses, pleasure coiling within him.
“This,” Knock Out says with another deft stroke, “is what I like to call Project Earth.” He taps over the small, domed panel. “Open.”
Open? Open what?
Luckily, Knock Out's program doesn't seem to need Ratchet's command to obey. The metal panel slides aside and something long and thick emerges. Knock Out's fingers curl around it, igniting a surge of delicious static.
Ratchet hisses in air through his vents, pleasure sizzling across his sensor net. He arches toward the Decepticon, hands landing on Knock Out's shoulders.
“I call this a spike,” Knock Out purrs, fingers stroking said spike from root to tip, gliding smoothly over thin, imbricated plating that seeps a slick fluid. “Nice, isn't it?”
What Ratchet manages to say lacks words and is only a glyph-laden plea for more. There's something broiling inside of him, something formed of heat and pleasure, that makes his plating clamp and his backstrut tingle. Distantly, in the awareness of his physical form, he sinks down on his hydraulics.
“There's more,” Knock Out says and steps away, releasing Ratchet's spike.
He reaches for the Decepticon before he can think twice about it, feeling like an errant youngling who's just discovered interfacing for the first time. Knock Out chuckles, smug, and pulls himself up onto the berth. He parts his legs, shamelessly stroking his fingers over the same paneling at the apex of his thighs. The domed panel is present, but there is something else, something that cycles open at the touch of his fingers.
“I call this a valve,” the Decepticon purrs, dipping one finger into the dark opening. “I don't suppose you need a diagram to guess what goes where.”
Ratchet has to perform a systems check. His spike, he notices, seems to be magnetically interested in Knock Out's open valve. “You modeled this after the humans. Didn't you?”
Knock Out laughs, still playfully teasing his own valve, adding a second digit as he strokes in and out, some kind of lubricant glistening over his fingers. “Their style of interfacing is so messy, but it has a certain raw and visceral appeal. Though I made some modifications.”
He withdraws his fingers as the panel above snaps open, spike jutting into view. Knock Out grips his own spike, stroking it slowly, sensually. “Why limit ourselves to only half the pleasure?”
Ratchet finds himself standing at the edge of the berth, hands sliding down Knock Out's legs, before he really notices what he's doing. “You... you pervert.”
Knock Out laughs, a sound staticky and husky all at once. “You haven't seen the program I snatched from Soundwave yet.” He lets go of his spike, fingers dipping down to circle the rim of his valve again. “Don't tell me you're not curious.”
Oh, but he is. Curious and tempted and he's a scientist, isn't he? All in the name of science!
Ratchet's ventilations stutter. “I'm not backing out now,” he grunts, trying to sound gruff when really, heat is pouring through his systems faster than his cooling fans can expel it. “I should have guessed this from a Decepticon.”
“Ratchet,” Knock Out croons, using his designation for the first time. “Pleasure has no faction. I'm waiting. Do me dirty.”
He splays across the berth, legs wide in invitation, quite possibly the most lewd and yet seductive position Ratchet has ever seen. If there was a moment to back out, it's long since passed. And Ratchet can no more eject himself from this program then he can stop himself from closing the tiny bit of distance and run his hands over Knock Out's gleaming, crimson armor.
Knock Out's plating vibrates under his touch, heat palpable, arcs of blue static tingling over Ratchet's fingers. His engine rumbles and Ratchet climbs up onto the berth, eager as a youngling to have a taste. And no, he absolutely doesn't need a diagram to guess what goes where.
Lubricant glistens on Knock Out's thigh and Ratchet drags a finger through it, eliciting a shiver from the attractive Decepticon. Ratchet's spike gives a heated tingle, interfacing protocols pinging him with desires to complete the circuit.
“Don't tease,” Knock Out purrs, grabbing Ratchet's arm and jerking the larger medic over him. “We don't have all day. Sooner or later, your precious Prime is going to get to looking for you.”
All day? Frag, Ratchet thinks he's going to be lucky if he lasts longer than a handful of thrusts.
Knock Out tugs and mechhandles Ratchet, legs clamping tight around Ratchet's frame and holding him in place. The tip of Ratchet's spike nudges against the rim of the Decepticon's valve, tempting slick heat beckoning him closer. It's unlike any sensation he's ever experienced and it's no small wonder that mechs enjoy simulated interfacing so much. Is this what he's been missing?
Another heated shudder rakes through Ratchet's systems, charge coiling in his groin plating, and he rocks his hips forward, pushing his spike into Knock Out's valve. Instantly, he's surrounded by slick, spiraling heat. Knock Out moans long and low, arching toward Ratchet's thrust, hands scrabbling to pull him deeper.
Cybertronian's have no instinct for organic-style interfacing. But Knock Out must be the Prime of simulated interfacing programs because his coding has provided all the instinct Ratchet might need. No instruction necessary. Just a slow thrust inward, a slow drag outward, immediately followed by a deeper push.
Heat and hunger spiral through him. Knock Out shudders beneath him, hands roaming over Ratchet's frame, dipping into seams and igniting his sensory net. The slick slide his of spike within Knock Out's cycling valve is intoxicating. Ratchet can feel the charge sparking between their interface hardware, blue static dancing through lubrication and over smooth metal.
Ratchet's hips seem to take a rhythm of their own accord, slow and deep thrusts that rake across sensory nodes, dragging out the pleasure. The clash of metal hitting metal is a cacophony echoing around the room. Knock Out moans and writhes beneath Ratchet, bucking up to meet each thrust, desperately seeking his overload. One hand wanders down, grasping his spike and stroking himself in counterpoint to Ratchet's thrusts.
It's the hottest thing Ratchet's seen since Optimus pinned him to a wall.
“Harder,” Knock Out demands, fingers locked under Ratchet's plating, pulling him deeper with each harsh tug. “C'mon, old mech.”
“Not old,” Ratchet grounds out, snagging the Decepticon's wrists and firmly pinning them to the berth.
He bends Knock Out over, changing the angle, and thrusts much deeper this time, into near-scorching heat. Knock Out all but keens, arching upward, and the sight is erotic in all the best kinds of ways. Ratchet's spike strikes something electric in Knock Out's valve and the Decepticon spasms, howling his overload to the ceiling as charge races across his frame.
Ratchet shudders, his spike trapped in the wet, cycling pressure of Knock Out's valve. It's tight, erotically so, and Ratchet has no defense against such a new sensation. His overload crashes through him, charge crackling across his spike and some kind of lubricant spilling from the tip of it.
It takes great effort for Ratchet to tilt himself to the side, sprawling on the other half of the berth as his cooling fans struggle to dispel the gathered heat. The scent of discharged ions, hot metal, and the nameless lubricant fills the room. It's tantalizing on Ratchet's chemoreceptors. His real form gives a tangible shudder.
Knock Out draws up one leg, reaching down and lazily swirling a finger through the fluid spilled between his thighs and over the berth. “Hmm. Not bad for an older model.”
Still tingling from the aftermath of his overload, Ratchet musters up enough energy to glare at the Decepticon. “You are one fragged up pervert.”
Knock Out tilts his helm toward Ratchet, optics gleaming mischievously. “No one's found us yet. We have time for another round.” He leans up on his elbow toward Ratchet, fingers of his other hand teasing at his spike casing. “Want to test out your valve?”
Temptation thy designation is Knock Out.
Ratchet's tired, running low on energon, and due back at the base in an hour. Funny how the word 'no' never crosses his processor.
He flops over on his back, engine thrumming. “Do your worst, Decepticon.”
Knock Out smirks, running his glossa over his lipplates. “I always give my best, medic. Now open.”
a/n: This is my first time writing anything that resembles sticky. Feedback is welcome. I have a feeling that we may be seeing what program Knock Out took from Soundwave in the future. *evil laugh*
I hope you enjoyed!
no subject
Date: 2012-04-16 03:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-16 05:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-16 05:11 am (UTC)