[Transformers G1] Hangover - RatchxTwins
May. 30th, 2012 09:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Overall Series: Apple a Day
Desc: An apple a day keeps the doctor away. But Sunstreaker and Sideswipe have no clue what Ratchet has in store for them. The hunters become the hunted. Eventual RatchetxSunstreakerxSideswipe. And more.
Title: Hangover
Continuity: G1, part three in the Apple a Day series
Characters: Sideswipe, Smokescreen, Bluestreak, Tracks, Sunstreaker
Rating: T
Warnings: cursing, much talk about interfacing
Ten minutes after Ratchet flees the scene of the crime and Sunstreaker abandons him, Sideswipe musters enough energy to drag his aching carcass out of the berth.
Obviously, he'd consumed more than his twin, considering his state of utter agony. His tanks are churning. His sensors are bombarding his HUD with uncomfortable input. And there's a tight ache in his circuits. Like he'd spent the night overloading again and again and again....
His memory core responds with errors, static, and obvious glitches when he gives it a curious ping.
Sideswipe groans and staggers to the door, hoping some nice low grade might give him a reset. It's bright out in the hallway. He dials down his optics. On second thought, he dials down his audials, too.
The wall is his best friend right now, supporting him as he drags his aft to the Rec Room. One hand slides along the bright orange metal. Who, in their right processor, would pick orange? Oh yeah, Grapple. No accounting for taste then.
“Sides!”
The red twin winces as the shout assaults his sensitive audials. He turns to greet Smokescreen when an arm suddenly crashes down over his shoulders, a weight draping across his left side.
“Hey, Smoker,” Sideswipe says, staggering and dredging up a grin for one of his favorite partners-in-crime.
“You look like the Pit,” Smokescreen replies with an assessing glance from Sideswipe's helm to his pedes. “Guess you finally met something you couldn't handle.”
Sideswipe sags a little more. Has Smokescreen always been this heavy? “No way. I'm just feeling lazy today.”
“I call bullshit.” Smokescreen bears more of his weight down on Sideswipe, to prove his point.
Sideswipe wobbles and flares out an arm to compensate.
Grinning, Smokescreen leans closer, until his olfactory sensor is practically pressed to Sideswipe's shoulder. “And is that ozone I detect?”
Sideswipe pointedly looks himself over from helm to pede before looking back at Smokescreen with utter innocence. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Right,” the diversionary specialist drawls. “And Tracks didn't see Ratchet hightailing it out of your quarters twenty minutes ago either.”
Oh. Right. Ratchet.
What the frag's that all about?
Sideswipe helm throbs and he groans, tanks churning. Smokescreen steers them into the rec room. This time of the morning, it should be empty. Sideswipe's luck is not so great however and it's pretty much packed with every off-duty mech.
Oh. And Smokescreen's still waiting for him to say something.
Better to pretend he knows what Smokescreen's implying. Mech can sniff out humiliating info like it was high grade energon.
“Oh. Ratchet.” Sideswipe inclines his helm, wobbling toward the energon dispenser and grabbing himself a cube of something easy. “Wonder where he got off to?”
Smokescreen bursts into laughter, slapping Sideswipe across the back. “Cool as ice, aren't you? Especially when every mech in here saw Ratchet doing the seducing.”
Sideswipe scoffs, slumping down into the first available chair. “No way.”
“Yes way,” Bluestreak says, sliding in next to Sideswipe as Smokescreen brackets the red twin on the other side. “I took image captures and video just so I could prove it.” He nudges Sideswipe with an elbow. “And we always thought it to be a joke when we said Ratchet's the only one capable of wrangling you two.”
“And now it's time for details,” Tracks adds, appearing out of nowhere to sit across the table from Sideswipe, grinning like an idiot. He must have just come off shift, meaning Sunstreaker probably replaced him. “You know what they say about medics, right?” He winks.
Sideswipe feels a little trapped, surrounded if you will. He gulps down half his cube of low grade, biting back a groan as it hits his unsettled tanks with a gurgle. “A gentlemech never kisses and tells,” he hedges.
Smokescreen arches an orbital ridge. “Since when have you been a gentlemech?”
“Since when have you opted not to boast about your conquests?” Tracks adds.
Bluestreak laughs. “Yeah, I remember when you and Sunstreaker decided to welcome me to the crew. Best welcome I ever got. Since when do you play coy?”
“Since now,” Sideswipe bluffs and downs the rest of his cube, frantically pinging his memory core for details. An image. Something.
He gets a blur. A snippet of sound, Ratchet's voice moaning his designation. The sensation of ecstasy sparking across his frame. A glossa on his neck cables, a sharp nip of denta. A teasing look in Ratchet's optics.
Judging by the ache in his circuits, Sideswipe can only assume he'd had a good time. But fraggit, he can't remember.
Then Tracks looks at him, something shrewd in optics. “Primus!” he exclaims, with a tone that's half-incredulous and half-ecstatic. “You don't remember!” He half-rises, pointing at Sideswipe in sudden revelation. “He completely blew your circuits, didn't he?”
“Really?” Bluestreak's doorwings perk upward in obvious interest. “He did? Sunstreaker, too? Wow! I'm jealous, so jealous. You two always have the best luck.”
Smokescreen laughs so hard that all the mechs in the rec room turn and stare, which includes several minibots, the entire Aerialbot gestalt, three-fifths of the Protectobots and an assemblage of scientists – including Perceptor.
“How many circuits did he fry?” Smokescreen demands, slapping the table in his hilarity. “No wonder you look like slag!”
Sideswipe groans and puts his helm down on the table, burying his faceplate in his arms. He has no words. None. And apparently, he doesn't have any friends, either. Just mechs who are going to tease him to offlining.
--Hey, Sunny,-- he says, trying to ping his twin on their private comm line.
He doesn't get an answer. Fragger's ignoring him.
--Sunny?--
“Two cubes of Polyhexian says he's gonna need a circuit board replaced,” Smokescreen says.
Tracks chuckles. “A tin of Iacon's Finest says that he'll be begging for more.”
Bluestreak leans forward, across the table. “Oo! Let me in on that one. I have two cubes of Wheeljack's special to put up for grabs!”
“Guys,” Sideswipe says, his words muffled against the tabletop. “I'm right here.”
An elbow digs into his backplate as Smokescreen leans over him, using his frame as a rest. “Oh, we know. Is Wheeljack's special from before or after he was banned from using potentially explosive chemicals?”
“Before,” Bluestreak informs them smugly.
“I am so in,” Tracks announces.
--Come on, Sunny. Talk to me!--
His helm aches. He could really use some kind of medical help. Maybe if he asks Hoist nicely...?
“Fair warning, it's toxic,” Bluestreak says with a cheerful chirp. “C'mon, Sideswipe. I don't want to lose this cube. How many circuits did Ratchet blow?”
--Sunny!--
--Don't call me that,-- his brother finally responds with a surge of irritation passing across their link. --What the frag do you want?--
Where's a Decepticon attack when you need one?
Sideswipe groans. --Do you remember anything from last night?--
--Of course not.--
Frag.
He's never going to live this down.
****
a/n: I've got at least one more ready, another in progress, and more ideas brewing (which is totally distracting me from writing my bigbang fic. lol)
Let me know what you thought. Funny or lame? lol
Desc: An apple a day keeps the doctor away. But Sunstreaker and Sideswipe have no clue what Ratchet has in store for them. The hunters become the hunted. Eventual RatchetxSunstreakerxSideswipe. And more.
Title: Hangover
Continuity: G1, part three in the Apple a Day series
Characters: Sideswipe, Smokescreen, Bluestreak, Tracks, Sunstreaker
Rating: T
Warnings: cursing, much talk about interfacing
Ten minutes after Ratchet flees the scene of the crime and Sunstreaker abandons him, Sideswipe musters enough energy to drag his aching carcass out of the berth.
Obviously, he'd consumed more than his twin, considering his state of utter agony. His tanks are churning. His sensors are bombarding his HUD with uncomfortable input. And there's a tight ache in his circuits. Like he'd spent the night overloading again and again and again....
His memory core responds with errors, static, and obvious glitches when he gives it a curious ping.
Sideswipe groans and staggers to the door, hoping some nice low grade might give him a reset. It's bright out in the hallway. He dials down his optics. On second thought, he dials down his audials, too.
The wall is his best friend right now, supporting him as he drags his aft to the Rec Room. One hand slides along the bright orange metal. Who, in their right processor, would pick orange? Oh yeah, Grapple. No accounting for taste then.
“Sides!”
The red twin winces as the shout assaults his sensitive audials. He turns to greet Smokescreen when an arm suddenly crashes down over his shoulders, a weight draping across his left side.
“Hey, Smoker,” Sideswipe says, staggering and dredging up a grin for one of his favorite partners-in-crime.
“You look like the Pit,” Smokescreen replies with an assessing glance from Sideswipe's helm to his pedes. “Guess you finally met something you couldn't handle.”
Sideswipe sags a little more. Has Smokescreen always been this heavy? “No way. I'm just feeling lazy today.”
“I call bullshit.” Smokescreen bears more of his weight down on Sideswipe, to prove his point.
Sideswipe wobbles and flares out an arm to compensate.
Grinning, Smokescreen leans closer, until his olfactory sensor is practically pressed to Sideswipe's shoulder. “And is that ozone I detect?”
Sideswipe pointedly looks himself over from helm to pede before looking back at Smokescreen with utter innocence. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Right,” the diversionary specialist drawls. “And Tracks didn't see Ratchet hightailing it out of your quarters twenty minutes ago either.”
Oh. Right. Ratchet.
What the frag's that all about?
Sideswipe helm throbs and he groans, tanks churning. Smokescreen steers them into the rec room. This time of the morning, it should be empty. Sideswipe's luck is not so great however and it's pretty much packed with every off-duty mech.
Oh. And Smokescreen's still waiting for him to say something.
Better to pretend he knows what Smokescreen's implying. Mech can sniff out humiliating info like it was high grade energon.
“Oh. Ratchet.” Sideswipe inclines his helm, wobbling toward the energon dispenser and grabbing himself a cube of something easy. “Wonder where he got off to?”
Smokescreen bursts into laughter, slapping Sideswipe across the back. “Cool as ice, aren't you? Especially when every mech in here saw Ratchet doing the seducing.”
Sideswipe scoffs, slumping down into the first available chair. “No way.”
“Yes way,” Bluestreak says, sliding in next to Sideswipe as Smokescreen brackets the red twin on the other side. “I took image captures and video just so I could prove it.” He nudges Sideswipe with an elbow. “And we always thought it to be a joke when we said Ratchet's the only one capable of wrangling you two.”
“And now it's time for details,” Tracks adds, appearing out of nowhere to sit across the table from Sideswipe, grinning like an idiot. He must have just come off shift, meaning Sunstreaker probably replaced him. “You know what they say about medics, right?” He winks.
Sideswipe feels a little trapped, surrounded if you will. He gulps down half his cube of low grade, biting back a groan as it hits his unsettled tanks with a gurgle. “A gentlemech never kisses and tells,” he hedges.
Smokescreen arches an orbital ridge. “Since when have you been a gentlemech?”
“Since when have you opted not to boast about your conquests?” Tracks adds.
Bluestreak laughs. “Yeah, I remember when you and Sunstreaker decided to welcome me to the crew. Best welcome I ever got. Since when do you play coy?”
“Since now,” Sideswipe bluffs and downs the rest of his cube, frantically pinging his memory core for details. An image. Something.
He gets a blur. A snippet of sound, Ratchet's voice moaning his designation. The sensation of ecstasy sparking across his frame. A glossa on his neck cables, a sharp nip of denta. A teasing look in Ratchet's optics.
Judging by the ache in his circuits, Sideswipe can only assume he'd had a good time. But fraggit, he can't remember.
Then Tracks looks at him, something shrewd in optics. “Primus!” he exclaims, with a tone that's half-incredulous and half-ecstatic. “You don't remember!” He half-rises, pointing at Sideswipe in sudden revelation. “He completely blew your circuits, didn't he?”
“Really?” Bluestreak's doorwings perk upward in obvious interest. “He did? Sunstreaker, too? Wow! I'm jealous, so jealous. You two always have the best luck.”
Smokescreen laughs so hard that all the mechs in the rec room turn and stare, which includes several minibots, the entire Aerialbot gestalt, three-fifths of the Protectobots and an assemblage of scientists – including Perceptor.
“How many circuits did he fry?” Smokescreen demands, slapping the table in his hilarity. “No wonder you look like slag!”
Sideswipe groans and puts his helm down on the table, burying his faceplate in his arms. He has no words. None. And apparently, he doesn't have any friends, either. Just mechs who are going to tease him to offlining.
--Hey, Sunny,-- he says, trying to ping his twin on their private comm line.
He doesn't get an answer. Fragger's ignoring him.
--Sunny?--
“Two cubes of Polyhexian says he's gonna need a circuit board replaced,” Smokescreen says.
Tracks chuckles. “A tin of Iacon's Finest says that he'll be begging for more.”
Bluestreak leans forward, across the table. “Oo! Let me in on that one. I have two cubes of Wheeljack's special to put up for grabs!”
“Guys,” Sideswipe says, his words muffled against the tabletop. “I'm right here.”
An elbow digs into his backplate as Smokescreen leans over him, using his frame as a rest. “Oh, we know. Is Wheeljack's special from before or after he was banned from using potentially explosive chemicals?”
“Before,” Bluestreak informs them smugly.
“I am so in,” Tracks announces.
--Come on, Sunny. Talk to me!--
His helm aches. He could really use some kind of medical help. Maybe if he asks Hoist nicely...?
“Fair warning, it's toxic,” Bluestreak says with a cheerful chirp. “C'mon, Sideswipe. I don't want to lose this cube. How many circuits did Ratchet blow?”
--Sunny!--
--Don't call me that,-- his brother finally responds with a surge of irritation passing across their link. --What the frag do you want?--
Where's a Decepticon attack when you need one?
Sideswipe groans. --Do you remember anything from last night?--
--Of course not.--
Frag.
He's never going to live this down.
a/n: I've got at least one more ready, another in progress, and more ideas brewing (which is totally distracting me from writing my bigbang fic. lol)
Let me know what you thought. Funny or lame? lol
