quidamling | Cyborg (1) (Reply)

Title: Cyborg: Innocent Request
'Verse: moya_koordinat 's Machine-verse, with warps and reflections.
Characters / Pairings: Ironhide/Ratchet
Summary: Some time in the future, Autobots have been under the radar except for the government's awareness.
Rating: R, eventual fighting, pain and angst. Things fall apart.
Warnings: There be mech/mech smex here.
AN: Umm. Massive credit where credit is due. I do pic fics, apparently. This (will make sense later) was to http://community.livejournal.com/tf2007fun/854482.html

Disclaimer: No, I am poor, don't own anything. I just push them around into situations I find amusing. They belong to Hasbro/Dreamworks/rich people.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The searing pain carried through their bond like he himself was being shot. That was actually the case, but this doubled the sensation. He knew that opening the floodgates was unintentional on the part of his bonded, brought on by the stress and vicious nature of the attack upon them. But he didn’t blame his beloved, even if the burning that he felt pouring through in his chassis was making it difficult to focus and keep fighting. He needed to keep fighting.

What the frag was going on?

~~~~~~~~

There had been peace between the Autobots and the humans.

True, there was residual tension after Mission City, collateral damage, unintentional lives lost. But the government had worked to quiet the issues, worked to keep the Autobots under the collective radar of the world, given them space and supplies and energy allotments for converting to energon. They had even offered a secure place to lay Jazz to rest. In return, they had simply asked to have access to research a bit of Cybertronian technology. The agents and their organization insisted that it was simply to improve and modify power use, make existing technology more efficient. The four remaining Autobots had debated, but eventually agreed. Each had gone off with the humans to spend about a week at a very carefully classified facility; systems were examined, questions asked, general information gathered. They all returned and time passed. A vorn is roughly a human lifetime, what is a few years to a Cybertronian? The odd little request from the human organization had largely been shuffled to the back of their collective processors.

Until another request was received.

They wanted to check back in with Ratchet. Seems that there had been a computer error during an office move and some of the medic’s specifications had been lost.

Would the Chief Medical Officer mind terribly coming to the new address and rehashing the information? No? Oh, thank you so much, our deepest apologies for the inconvenience. These are the coordinates. Yes. Coordinates instead of an address, well you know how classified government locations can be. Thank you very much. Yes, those coords tomorrow at 0800. Thank you, once again.

~~~~~~~~

Ironhide was not a morning mech by any stretch of the imagination. But when Ratchet’s internal alarm system woke the medic, he was roused by the other’s movement.

“Frag, Ratch…” he mumbled, nuzzling at the Hummer’s helm and tightening his arm around that sleek waist.

“Yes, ‘Hide, I need to get up. Just like I did yesterday. Just like I will tomorrow. I would expect that this pattern will have worked its way through your thick processors by now.” The CMO contradicted his snarky tone and resettled his head in the space between broad black shoulder and neck.

A soft possessive engine rumble, “But I like you here. And processors have nothing to do with it.” The TopKick shifted his chest against the other mech’s, and tightened his arms around the Hummer as he rolled to his back, bringing Ratchet with him.

“Alright, boltbucket. You only like me for my frame.” He ignored the indignant snort from the mech below him. “Still, I have an appointment. You may have me when I return.”

“That’s too long,” was the low growl in return. “I’m going with.”

“Fine, then you need to actually get your sorry aft out of the berth,” Ratchet replied, disentangling himself from Ironhide’s arms and climbing off of him. “I’m leaving in a few breems.”

“Primus-forsaken dedication to duty,” he groused at the Hummer, who returned the few steps he had moved off and leaned over the ebony frame still on the berth.

“Scrapheap. You’ve jumped between a pulseblast and Prime, or some other mech, how many times?” The sole silver digit on a chartreuse hand reached and flicked the crest above Ironhide’s forehead; the prone mech twitched and growled, his optics flashing. “…You have no right to cast aspersions.” But then Ratchet pushed his luck and traced the three glyphs etched into plating. Protection, honor and loyalty. Deep blue optics flickered, dark helm nuzzling into the touch like a dog into his master’s hand.

Blunt gray fingers snaked around the medic’s wrist. Leaning as he was, Ratchet was easy prey for his mate’s quick yank and he toppled ungracefully back onto Ironhide’s frame. At first, the CMO’s expression was thunderous, and he huffed annoyance while moving to push himself back upright. What stopped him was the look in the weapons specialist’s optics. He gazed up at the rescue Hummer with an intense look that would have unnerved anyone else, but there was tenderness hidden in places where only Ratchet knew to look.

While the other mechs remained in the languages of their new planet, Ratchet and Ironhide had taken to reverting back to Cybertronian at certain moments. It was something unique, an echo of home and familiarity just between the two of them. The TopKick choose that moment to slip into their native language. His vocalizer made a low rumble and grating hiss, clang-hum, metallic scratch, followed by the crack-whine of Ratchet’s affectionate designation, – “It’s only duty with the others, Ratch.”

There were few occasions when Ratchet, the highly vocal medic, was struck silent, but those rarities tended to be because of his bondmate. He blinked down at the black mech, Ironhide never said much, but what few words he uttered were often loaded. Ratchet shifted his hand down along the side of his bonded’s face, still with ‘Hide gripping his wrist. The gray hand shifted with the motion while tender digits traced over scraped paint, the ever-mangled brow of Ironhide’s right optic, down the cheek and cupped along his jaw.

The deeper engine purred, and TopKick turned his head enough to press his lip components into Ratchet’s suddenly unsteady palm. He trailed charge with the motion, and stroked his thumb along the plating edge at the base of the CMO’s wrist. A low resonating rumble of appreciation when he heard the gasp and click from the Hummer’s hitching intakes. His free hand slid down that lither frame, settling at the back of Ratchet’s hip, guiding the still-sprawled mech to settle more comfortably over him.

Ratchet braced his other hand against the berth near Ironhide’s neck. He supported himself over the TopKick’s chest until he disentangled their legs enough to straddle himself over hips and sit rather upright. Once his center of balance shifted enough, he looked down at his mate. Ironhide gazed back up at him with unwavering devotion glazing over feral desire.

“You are utterly incorrigible, you know that ‘Hide?” The Hummer flexed his hand against lip components, and Ironhide took the opportunity to flick his glossa over exquisitely sensitive finger pads. The medic moved his other hand from supporting himself up off of the berth and the weapons specialist, to running his hand over cabling and neural relays near black neck plating.

“You’re forgetting you encourage it.” Ironhide snapped back, shuddering with the touch and nipping at chartreuse fingertips in retaliation. The hand at Ratchet’s hip pretended to remain latched innocuously there while the digits along the medic’s wrist glided up his arm, over his shoulder to find black caging.

Ratchet hissed, more in appreciation than shock. “You and- gah, sweet Primus… those fragging bullbars.”

A dark, husky chuckle issued from Ironhide’s vocalizer. “They get the good reactions,” came the smug, unrepentant retort.

The medic harrumphed, as if that could overshadow the delectable trembling of his frame when the dark mech rolled thumb and forefinger around the base of a spotlight. His spark flared, hammering against plating and the TopKick’s responded in kind.

The Hummer tipped his helm back, pressing his chassis into Ironhide’s hand. Part of him realized that this little distraction was going to make them late for his appointment, but when the other gray hand moved from his hip to knead and squeeze at his aft, all rational thoughts slipped his processors.

When the medic’s normally sure hands trembled against his neck and lip components, ‘Hide made a low growl. The vibration resonating against the chartreuse hands at neck and lips, Ratchet warbled, rocking back and forth against hips in a slow sensual glide.

Ironhide bucked, devouring his mate with his optics. He adored this position, getting to watch the smooth easy motions of the mech above him, while his hands had access to get at aft and chest simultaneously. After rubbing at the lighting connections, the weapons specialist slipped his arm down, letting him sneak beneath the protective bars to press at warm and shivering chestplating. Ratchet mewled, tugging on a neural cable along his bondmate’s neck as the thin transformation seam creased down the center of his chest. The TopKick’s engine growled encouragement while fingertips scattered charge along the seam.

The medic’s intakes hitched, and he made a shaky digital trill, translating to Ironhide’s Cybertronian nickname. Bars and chestplate lifted and pulled aside, exposing Ratchet’s sparkchamber. ‘Hide ground a palm against the Hummer’s aft, and dove the other hand in to strum along the wire’s feeding into his lover’s sparksystem. The casing split, and Ratch rocked forwards, washing the weapons specialist in beautiful blue-white spark energy. Having fairly instigated things, that was all it took for Ironhide to dismiss both barriers over his own spark and arch up, moving to pull the other mech to his chest.

Their sparks surged, tendrils of energy caught and bound. They ground their chests together, shifting the outer fields of their sparks over the other’s. Ratchet keened against the ebony helm, right over ‘Hide’s audio. He nuzzled at the medic’s jaw and his engine kicked, sending tickles of vibration through both frames. The two sparks flared and merged as one, reaffirming the shared bond between them; processors, frame and spark.

All that was Ironhide was Ratchet’s, as all that was Ratchet was Ironhide’s. Shared memories, feeling the emotions and sensations of the one they loved. ‘Hide nudged at the medic’s helm, nipping a jaw guard and then capturing those so often scowling lip components with his own. Their glossa tangled, then Ratch purred and bit dental plates to the bar of his mate’s lower lip and tugged. It was enough to tip the weapons specialist over the edge and drag the CMO along with him. Just before they slipped into the bliss of overload, there was a chirpwhistle-purr of Cybertronian, from both and either, - “I love you.”