(no subject)
Title: This Generation
Universe: Beast Wars, Season One
Summary: Whatever happened to class? Rattrap, Dinobot, sex, crude, short and charmless. Just me musing on TF gender. And probably going to hell.
Warnings: Rattrap would like it clarified that he absolutely isn’t like that.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
It was a generally recognised fact that the after you spent two minutes talking to someone you were compatible with, you knew. Your systems -which ones, well, that varied from person to person, sometimes it was the sensory grid, sometimes the internal repair unit, whatever- would let you know, would sort of ping or zip or shock you, and you’d know.
Rattrap had had eighteen compatibles before; most were dead, one had run off with some guy Rattrap did not know the name of, the rest were back on Cybertron, probably pining after him.
He’d felt the ping, or zip, with all of them. He didn’t feel it with Dinobot. All he felt with Dinobot was a pressing need to shove the turncoat against something stable and have his way until neither of them could walk.
Now, of course, frequently only one of the two of you would ping, or zip. The other would have to be persuaded and flirted with, and brought shiny things that you stole for them. Which implied, in Rattrap’s mind, that Dinobot had been the one to feel the ping, and the slagger hadn’t bothered to do anything about it.
Not that Rattrap was a sucker for shiny things. But he’d always made an effort persuading and flattering his compatibles, and he felt a little resentful that he didn’t get the same treatment foisted upon him. Stranded on alien planets was no excuse for bad manners.
Still, he wasn’t picky. Maybe it was because the Chopper was a dirty Pred; who knew how they did things? So he had decided not to wait to be seduced, and had just locked his mouth onto said dirty Pred’s own in the middle of a ditch after shooting down Terrorsaur and Inferno with two clean rounds.
Which had been nice, and had been even nicer when the dirty, sleazy Pred faceplugged him right back, right there, right then.
Rattrap allowed himself to feel smug; not even filthy ‘conware could resist his sexy self.
Two diurnal cycles later, when they first tried to have sex, Rattrap looked down at his port, looked over to Dinobot’s port, and noticed that they were incompatible.
“…Oh,” he said.
Every bartender would have one to tell about that dumb bit that tried it with a guy he couldn’t even access ‘cause they weren’t compatible. And the drunk idiot crowd goes wild! It was the stuff of nightmares, and Rattrap had assumed that it would never happen to him.
“Heh. Well, ah…that’s awkward. Ah, slag, forget it, you’d probably just try to eat me halfway through, anyway."
Dinobot’s eyes were really, really narrow.
“Vermin,” he hissed, and made the nostrils-flaring, teeth-gnashing snorting sound that his primary mode had adopted from his beast mode, “do you mean to tell me that…”
“Hey, don’t pin this on me!" he said, rearing back. "You didn’t let me know you didn’t feel it!”
“’Didn’t feel it?’ Do you mean to say that you ‘didn’t feel it’?!”
“No! I thought you did!”
“Then why did you assault me?”
What-? Oh, that was afterburn.
“Assault ya? The slag? I kissed you!”
“Without my consent! Without knowing whether we were even compatible!”
Rattrap had fifteen small grenades on him and two pistols, but neither of those options was looking half so attractive as the big rock lying innocently by his foot. But the fact of it was that he was wound tight from the disappointment and the humiliation, and the fact that he was still hungry for him, and starting a tussle with Choppahface right now would result in more physical contact than he thought he could currently stand. So the rock would have to wait.
“Meathead! I ‘assaulted’ ya because I happened to think we’d have some good, clean fun. You know, fun? That thing you don’t know anything about?”
“Fun.”
“Yeah, slag, fun, geez, wasn’t like I wanted to marry you or anything.”
Dinobot shoved him off in disgust and sat up, wiping the mud from his elbows. It had been Rattrap’s idea to get to it in a swamp, on account of Dinobot’s not wanting Cheetor around and Rattrap’s own wanting to pay homage to that ditch. Besides, he’d checked their maps; the swamp was one of the only places on the continent where the energon concentration was low enough to not cook you in fifteen clicks.
They sat, uncomfortable, angry and deeply frustrated while crickets began to chirp and other varieties of swamp life began to eat them. Rattrap would have continued the argument, because arguing with Choppahface had a nice way of solving all his problems, but he was too absolutely embarrassed to start. He felt like he may be too embarrassed to ever return to the base with Choppahface ever again.
Eighteen partners, he’d had. He’d never, ever gotten revved up for someone whose port wouldn’t even fit his. Primus.
“…so, what format are you?” he asked.
“Epsilon 48.3. Not that it is of any relevance.”
Rattrap winced. “I’m Atares 164. Slag; that woulda been weird.”
“More or less weird than your assaulting a non-compatible?”
“Slag you, I didn’t know. You weren’t exactly protesting against bein’ assaulted, if I remember correctly. You were squirming around like a salamander in…”
“You’ve made your point, pestilence. We are both guilty of perversion.”
Rattrap lifted his head from his hands. “I wouldn’t have pegged you fer an Epsilon. Yer too grumpy an’ irritable, for one. For the sake of Saint Ratchet, Airazor’s an Epsilon; I asked her.”
“I’m sure you did, you obnoxious, nosy vermin. And if we’re going to discuss gender stereotypes, you make a perfect Atares. Small, defeatist and worthless in combat.”
“Slag you.”
Rattrap kicked a twig into the swamp. He didn’t feel angry any more; he felt sullen.
“Shoulda guessed it,” he said. “Strictly speakin’, we don’t exactly look compatible. Yer like, a tree, an’ I’m…”
“A shrub,” supplied Dinobot, sounding gloomy. Rattrap felt his pain; he had been used to a prodigious sex life from his previous eighteen partners. Staying celibate as a monk since leaving Cybertron hadn’t settled well.
“It hadn’t even occurred to me that we might be, until you…launched yourself. I presumed that you had felt the compulsion.”
Rattrap assumed that was the Pred word for the ‘ping’ feeling. Typical of Preds to make it sound heartless and sterile. What had he been thinking?
“I knew this guy,” he said. “Said he was ‘universally compatible.’ Didn’t matter if it was Atares, Epsilon, Quadrant, whatever. If it moved, he’d done it.”
“Disgraceful,” murmured Dinobot, shaking his head. “What has happened to society?”
With a sigh, Rattrap placed a hand on his back. “Ya got me. Used to be, during the war, interfacing was something special, you know? Something ya saved until you met someone ya thought was right.”
Dinobot was nodding. “Something with a…a…sacredness to it.”
“That’s it. Good word. I mean, flirting and kissing, sure, ya can throw that around all you want. But sex… this generation, they don’t got any respect, you know?”
“Indeed. Take Terrorsaur as a prime example.”
Rattrap made a face. “Aw, slag, don’t.”
“Waspinator. And three hundred others, if his boasting is to be believed.”
“There’s ‘universally compatible’ for ya,” muttered Rattrap; they both laughed darkly. “Tell you something,” he said with a grin, warming to the theme, “the spiderfemme’s the same. I’d be slaggin' surprised if there’s a single person on this planet ain’t compatible with her. You know? I saw the kid making eyes, and you bet Tarantulas made her compatible fer him.”
Both of them grimaced at the thought. The thought of Tarantulas even having a gender format felt obscene.
“’Course, I ain’t like that,” he quickly clarified. “None a’ that gross stuff for me. Stick strictly ta other Atares. Safer, yeah?”
“Indeed. Yes.”
Chopperface was being weirdly monosyllabic over this, which was a big red siren and Rattrap whipped his head around to stare at him.
“You…holy slag, yer embarrassed!”
“Most certainly not, you…”
“Are so, ya big prude! Yer not even looking at me!”
Dinobot brought his gaze down from the tree line to look at him defiantly and…Rattrap was suddenly aware that they were still sitting close enough for him to feel the warmth off Dinobot’s core.
“You know,” he said, looking away. “Sure sounds like a load of scrap but I hear, some guys, they can actually pull off that ‘universally compatible’ thing. Not, you know, universally…”
He was getting tongue-tied. Which was stupid, because only the other eighteen had ever made him tongue-tied; this was the Chopper.
“…that’d just be weird and gross an’…uh…”
“Morally deficient,” snarled Dinobot, firmly. The Predacon brought his legs up and crossly picked a young snake off. He had gone back to avoiding Rattrap’s optics.
“Egg-zactly,” said Rattrap slowly, and felt his confidence coming back. “But these guys, you know, some of them figure out how to do it with a non-compatible, not so’s they can go on a spree, do it with anyone, but just so…just so they can do it. Like, if they really, really want to go fer a mech or a femme who ain’t got the right style port.”
“Hrm. Really. How…debased.”
“Yeah...yeah, just what I was thinking.”
Like petting a seeker, he brought up a hand…very, very gentle, he ran it down the curving strut down Dinobot’s back, and examined his face carefully.
Morally deficient or otherwise, the slagger was shivering. After fifty cycles without anything resembling sex, Rattrap just wasn’t ready to see that. So he sat up a little, leaned on Dinobot’s shoulders a little, ignored the soft warning growl and deposited himself in the filthy ‘conware’s lap. It was nice, and if the warmth he felt Dinobot’s core giving off increased one degree, they were both going to overheat without even touching the ports. He placed his forehead against it, and muttered.
“Wanna experiment?”
“Hrrr…perversion. If the war was still ongoing they’d smelt both of us for this,” Choppahface managed, then dug his claws into the smaller mech’s sides. Rattrap squeaked and choked out a retort.
“If the war was still on, I’d be putting three in your core right now.”
It was his first time with a Pred and his first time with a non-compatible and by the time it was over he was absolutely sure that he was never, ever going to fuck anyone else.