Kick in the Head - Study Hour
Title: Kick in the Head - Study Hour
Fandom: Transformers
Characters/pairings: Wheeljack/Ratchet/Ironhide
Rating: R
Summary: Payback is a bitch. Ratchet learns the hard way.
Warnings: Ridiculously over-technical robot porn.
Notes: Sequel to Group Projects. I seem to enjoy being mean to Ratchet. I love him to death, I swear.
For anyone interested, Interfacing from an engineer's standpoint. See Sae. See Sae technobabble. Babble, Sae, babble!
Table of Contents
o o o
Two orns after catching Ironhide and Wheeljack at the weapons range, Ratchet sent out a summons for the Weapon Specialist to come down to medical. Few mechs considered it important to have newly installed weaponry checked over by a medic, something that too-often led to infections or even full rejections. As far as he knew, no weapon Ironhide had ever installed, on himself or others, had ever had the slightest issue, but carefulness paid off.
Besides, he hadn't had a chance to properly rib his friend for interfacing with Wheeljack like a pair of over-energized sparklings.
That both Ironhide and Wheeljack had been avoiding him hadn't escaped his notice, and when Ironhide finally deigned to slink down to medical, looking decidedly unhappy about it, Ratchet gave him a brilliant, merciless smile. "Now, now," he said, in full 'doctor knows best' lecture mode. "You should know by now that any new installs need to be cleared through us within an orn."
Ironhide rolled his optics irritably. "And you should know that there's never a problem with any of my weapons," he grumped, but he followed Ratchet down a hall to a private examination room, anyway. Once the door shut behind them he stuck out his arms obligingly. "Let's get this over with."
"I refuse to hurry and take chances with your health," Ratchet replied primly, poking sensor-laden fingers into the monstrously-sized devices attached to Ironhide's arms. He had to admit, the workmanship was excellent, lacking the rough pieces and occasional misconnection that led to complications. He noted a few places that made Ironhide twitch when touched, and he grinned again. "So, a diagnostic gone awry?" he asked innocently.
"I'm not discussing it with you," Ironhide replied tightly.
Ratchet faked a wounded look. "You two finally start getting along, and I don't even get any details?" he lamented. "That's rather unfair." Deep down, he felt a little niggle of worry. Ironhide wasn't as promiscuous as some mechs, but he never tried to hide his personal life from anyone involved in it, either. Ratchet had expected grumpy annoyance, but Ironhide seemed genuinely upset. He frowned up at the mech. "That bad?" he prodded.
"Actually," came a voice from behind him. "It was damned good, and I resent the implication otherwise." Ratchet whipped around. Wheeljack leaned against the wall, arms folded. Ratchet glanced back at Ironhide, who looked far too smug, and he realized, too late, that Ironhide's attitude had been an act.
Slag.
Ratchet bolted for the door, as Ironhide made a grab for him. The weapon specialist was too slow to catch him, but Wheeljack was by far the fastest of them, and while he wasn't strong enough to hold Ratchet back, he delayed the medic enough for Ironhide to get both arms around him and haul him right up off the floor. "Put me DOWN!" Ratchet bellowed, kicking out with one foot, which Wheeljack caught.
"Aw, c'mon, Ratchet," Ironhide drawled, his voice sending almost-unwelcome shivers down Ratchet's cabling. "We finally get along and you don't even want in on it?"
"What, no, I don't have time for this!" Ratchet spluttered, trying to free his leg.
"Do, too," Wheeljack replied, vocal indicators lit in a wicked grin, his hands climbing up to Ratchet's knee. "Your next scheduled patient isn't for quite a while yet. I checked."
"This is a recovery bay," Ratchet fumed. "And I am on duty and this is entirely inapprop-ZZZZKSH!" His vocal processor dissolved into static mid-word when Wheeljack jabbed his fingers into the seam between Ratchet's leg and body and did something that made it hard to think about why this was a bad idea. "Can't," he rasped. "Can't, Splice will, slag, Splice'll-"
"If Splice gives you any grief," Wheeljack said, nonchalant. "Tell him he owes me a favor yet, and it can be for you to not get a reprimand."
"Besides," Ironhide chuckled behind him. "You're allowed to take the occasional break while on duty, and as far as I'm aware, there's nothing saying what you can't do on break."
"Slaggers," Ratchet ground out, trying rather hard not to wiggle. "You can go back to not liking each other again, just stop plotting against me!"
"Later," Wheeljack said. "For now, we're gonna show you a neat little trick we figured out together."
"What?"
"Promise, you'll enjoy it," Ironhide said, right against his audial. Wheeljack's fingers touched the cover of one of the ports on Ratchet's neck, the one that would allow someone to lock down his systems and what the slag were they planning? "Trust us?" Ironhide prodded.
Nervousness coiled through his processor, but neither of them had ever hurt him. "Trust you," he replied heatedly, making the words a challenge and unable to help it. It didn't matter. Wheeljack flipped open the cover and jacked into his systems -inside!- gently sifting through his protocols, and then Ratchet went limp.
They sank to the floor in a tangle of metal limbs and Ratchet felt his nervousness renew. Wheeljack had disabled most of his ability to move under his own power, leaving him helpless in their grasp. His head and torso remained mostly his, but his limbs might as well have belonged to someone else, for all the control he had over them. No, that wasn't quite true. He still had a tiny bit of control, could move just a little; slow and sluggish, but there. And Wheeljack had left his inner control protocols alone - he could regain full control if he wanted. Wheeljack had probably realized he wouldn't have enjoyed being under total lockdown, no matter what they did to him, and gratitude shoved down some of the nervousness.
Ironhide was arranging him, propped up in the warrior's lap with his legs spread and draped over Ironhide's knees. Wheeljack knelt between their legs, right up close and, to Ratchet's mind, being particularly fussy about where everyone's limbs were going. After a moment, Ratchet had a cold realization - he was ungrounded. No part of him touched the floor, to allow a path for interface static to travel. The way he was sitting, the voltage would just build up until there was enough current to jump between their non-conductive armors, an incredible amount, possibly a dangerous amount. Then he realized this was intentional, and he leveled as best a glare at Wheeljack as he could. "You are replacing every part you fry," he growled.
Wheeljack grinned, draping Ratchet's hand against his own neck. "I look forward to it," he said, taking brief control of the limb. Ratchet's fingers moved without his permission, jacking into Wheeljack's neck - neural piggyback. His physical awareness doubled, then tripled; Ironhide, too, and Ratchet could feel himself three different ways, himself and the way Ironhide felt him and the way Wheeljack felt him and the effect was disorienting, surreal. His systems steadied, adapting to the new flow of information just in time for Wheeljack to start prodding at him again, a slow, steady stroke under the edge of his abdominal plating. Ratchet groaned and shifted as much as he could, widening the gap between the plates and letting Wheeljack dig deeper.
He had always enjoyed touching others, possibly more than he enjoyed being touched, and Wheeljack knew it, played on it, keeping his every movement slow and precise and feeling the sensation from both sides made Ratchet's head reel. Another hand against him, larger fingers on his leg and Ratchet had never known, before, how much restraint Ironhide placed on his strength until he felt it as his own. Wheeljack was working his way deeper, his fingers splitting from the tip down, more changes to what he knew and how could Wheeljack stand having fingertip sensors that sensitive?
Then Ironhide leaned forward, his free hand dragging along Wheeljack's chest, a harsher touch that was only interpreted as pleasant from them both. Wheeljack made a sharp noise and returned the favor, seeking out and attacking the tire hidden beneath Ironhide's thigh armor with too many tools to count. The contrast was exquisite, the carefully planned way they touched him against the almost-frantic contact with each other. They worked in tandem, every slow stroke of his wiring counter pointed by a pinch or rough slide against armor or the sharp heat of a welder or the low thrum of some small weapon laid against energon lines.
Wheeljack overloaded first, quaking with a muttered curse. The physical sensation of it slammed into Ratchet, a high feedback whine escaping his vocalizer. But his own body still hummed with energy, denied the relief of overload despite experiencing Wheeljack's and it was another contrast, his own cabling tight with stored voltage while Wheeljack's was lax, and Ironhide rumbled laughter against the side of his neck. "An overload without overloading," he murmured, mouth components dragging along his neural column. "I don’t think I've ever seen you look so frustrated in the middle of an interface before."
"I don't know, I think I kind of like that look," Wheeljack teased, angling his fingers just so and Ratchet arched. "Might get that frontliner artist next time we do this, show all of Cybertron."
"You perverted maniacs just want a holo-sim for when I'm not around," Ratchet growled, trying to wiggle enough to dislodge his foot from Ironhide's knee. Without his limbs, though, he lacked the leverage he needed, and he made a frustrated noise when Ironhide settled his foot more firmly.
"Hm, you're right," Ironhide said thoughtfully, working his fingers along the inside of Ratchet's ankle joint. "Maybe we should do it to him a couple more times, to see what'll look the best."
"Good idea," Wheeljack said. He abruptly leaned forward, jabbing his hand between Ironhide's chest plates, scraping the spark chamber and surprising the warrior into overload.
Ratchet quaked, protesting even as he rode Ironhide's overload through. His muscle cabling twinged, wound too-tight with power and with no where for it to go. Systems carefully protected against short-circuits now worked against him, trapping the rising voltage, tiny eddy currents pinging within his wiring and sparks jumping from component to component. But any parts of Ironhide or Wheeljack able to carry the current to ground were too far away, blocked by air and insulated armor too thick to jump.
And damned if it didn't feel impossibly good, overload after overload without losing that tension, borderline pain as his systems warned him about the stresses being put on them.
And still, they encouraged it to build, stroking under armor and along wiring and around bolts and struts, both his and each others, static voltage rising where non-conductive fingers met too-conductive components. A spark jumped anyway, a short spike making it from his leg to Ironhide's hand, tiny relief, and they immediately stopped touching him, focusing on each other instead and letting him writhe between them. Primus, it was unfair, being able to feel everything they did without being able to respond except verbally, and when Wheeljack tipped into another overload, even speech was taken from him, his vocal processor shutting down to protect the delicate component.
"Think he's ready?" Ratchet could barely hear past the pleasure-pain to focus on Wheeljack's words.
"Ready enough," Ironhide agreed, and before Ratchet could divine their meaning, Ironhide shifted, and Ratchet’s leg hit the ground. Lightning slammed through his systems, stored voltage arcing to ground in a dizzying, impossible rush, and Ratchet would have screamed in both agony and ecstasy, had he been capable. Warnings blared red at the edge of his vision as his systems crashed, one by one, sending him spiraling into darkness.
o o o
An internal alarm woke him, a gentle mental beeping reminding him of his next patient. With a huff of his intakes, Ratchet sat up, alone, carefully stretching his limbs. Ridiculously languid, and a slight twang in places marked recent repairs. It seemed Wheeljack had made good on his promise to repair any damage they caused him.
Primus. Ratchet shivered at the memory files. With lovers like those two, who needed a war?
First Aid was waiting for him outside of the examination room, his visor and face shield unable to hide the amusement in his voice. "I thought about calling security," the young mech said wryly, falling in step beside his mentor. "Until I realized that whatever they were doing to you, you were enjoying it. I think."
"Great," Ratchet said flatly. "I assume everyone in medical knows?"
"Splice says he's angry," First Aid replied cheerfully. "But no reprimand. Just that you should take it to one of the sound-proofed rooms, next time. Oh, and Bolts won fifty credits by predicting this." He held out his hand, and Ratchet took the tiny item, confused. A blackened fuse lay on his palm, the ferrules scorched and the element inside its glass case clearly broken. Ratchet's optics flared when he realized it was his own, that those utter slaggers had actually caused him to, literally, blow a fuse from interfacing; something he knew was possible, but incredibly unlikely, and a dream of many of the more hedonistic of their kind.
With a snarl, Ratchet crushed the fuse in his hand, stalking away with his laughing assistant at his side.
Fandom: Transformers
Characters/pairings: Wheeljack/Ratchet/Ironhide
Rating: R
Summary: Payback is a bitch. Ratchet learns the hard way.
Warnings: Ridiculously over-technical robot porn.
Notes: Sequel to Group Projects. I seem to enjoy being mean to Ratchet. I love him to death, I swear.
For anyone interested, Interfacing from an engineer's standpoint. See Sae. See Sae technobabble. Babble, Sae, babble!
Table of Contents
o o o
Two orns after catching Ironhide and Wheeljack at the weapons range, Ratchet sent out a summons for the Weapon Specialist to come down to medical. Few mechs considered it important to have newly installed weaponry checked over by a medic, something that too-often led to infections or even full rejections. As far as he knew, no weapon Ironhide had ever installed, on himself or others, had ever had the slightest issue, but carefulness paid off.
Besides, he hadn't had a chance to properly rib his friend for interfacing with Wheeljack like a pair of over-energized sparklings.
That both Ironhide and Wheeljack had been avoiding him hadn't escaped his notice, and when Ironhide finally deigned to slink down to medical, looking decidedly unhappy about it, Ratchet gave him a brilliant, merciless smile. "Now, now," he said, in full 'doctor knows best' lecture mode. "You should know by now that any new installs need to be cleared through us within an orn."
Ironhide rolled his optics irritably. "And you should know that there's never a problem with any of my weapons," he grumped, but he followed Ratchet down a hall to a private examination room, anyway. Once the door shut behind them he stuck out his arms obligingly. "Let's get this over with."
"I refuse to hurry and take chances with your health," Ratchet replied primly, poking sensor-laden fingers into the monstrously-sized devices attached to Ironhide's arms. He had to admit, the workmanship was excellent, lacking the rough pieces and occasional misconnection that led to complications. He noted a few places that made Ironhide twitch when touched, and he grinned again. "So, a diagnostic gone awry?" he asked innocently.
"I'm not discussing it with you," Ironhide replied tightly.
Ratchet faked a wounded look. "You two finally start getting along, and I don't even get any details?" he lamented. "That's rather unfair." Deep down, he felt a little niggle of worry. Ironhide wasn't as promiscuous as some mechs, but he never tried to hide his personal life from anyone involved in it, either. Ratchet had expected grumpy annoyance, but Ironhide seemed genuinely upset. He frowned up at the mech. "That bad?" he prodded.
"Actually," came a voice from behind him. "It was damned good, and I resent the implication otherwise." Ratchet whipped around. Wheeljack leaned against the wall, arms folded. Ratchet glanced back at Ironhide, who looked far too smug, and he realized, too late, that Ironhide's attitude had been an act.
Slag.
Ratchet bolted for the door, as Ironhide made a grab for him. The weapon specialist was too slow to catch him, but Wheeljack was by far the fastest of them, and while he wasn't strong enough to hold Ratchet back, he delayed the medic enough for Ironhide to get both arms around him and haul him right up off the floor. "Put me DOWN!" Ratchet bellowed, kicking out with one foot, which Wheeljack caught.
"Aw, c'mon, Ratchet," Ironhide drawled, his voice sending almost-unwelcome shivers down Ratchet's cabling. "We finally get along and you don't even want in on it?"
"What, no, I don't have time for this!" Ratchet spluttered, trying to free his leg.
"Do, too," Wheeljack replied, vocal indicators lit in a wicked grin, his hands climbing up to Ratchet's knee. "Your next scheduled patient isn't for quite a while yet. I checked."
"This is a recovery bay," Ratchet fumed. "And I am on duty and this is entirely inapprop-ZZZZKSH!" His vocal processor dissolved into static mid-word when Wheeljack jabbed his fingers into the seam between Ratchet's leg and body and did something that made it hard to think about why this was a bad idea. "Can't," he rasped. "Can't, Splice will, slag, Splice'll-"
"If Splice gives you any grief," Wheeljack said, nonchalant. "Tell him he owes me a favor yet, and it can be for you to not get a reprimand."
"Besides," Ironhide chuckled behind him. "You're allowed to take the occasional break while on duty, and as far as I'm aware, there's nothing saying what you can't do on break."
"Slaggers," Ratchet ground out, trying rather hard not to wiggle. "You can go back to not liking each other again, just stop plotting against me!"
"Later," Wheeljack said. "For now, we're gonna show you a neat little trick we figured out together."
"What?"
"Promise, you'll enjoy it," Ironhide said, right against his audial. Wheeljack's fingers touched the cover of one of the ports on Ratchet's neck, the one that would allow someone to lock down his systems and what the slag were they planning? "Trust us?" Ironhide prodded.
Nervousness coiled through his processor, but neither of them had ever hurt him. "Trust you," he replied heatedly, making the words a challenge and unable to help it. It didn't matter. Wheeljack flipped open the cover and jacked into his systems -inside!- gently sifting through his protocols, and then Ratchet went limp.
They sank to the floor in a tangle of metal limbs and Ratchet felt his nervousness renew. Wheeljack had disabled most of his ability to move under his own power, leaving him helpless in their grasp. His head and torso remained mostly his, but his limbs might as well have belonged to someone else, for all the control he had over them. No, that wasn't quite true. He still had a tiny bit of control, could move just a little; slow and sluggish, but there. And Wheeljack had left his inner control protocols alone - he could regain full control if he wanted. Wheeljack had probably realized he wouldn't have enjoyed being under total lockdown, no matter what they did to him, and gratitude shoved down some of the nervousness.
Ironhide was arranging him, propped up in the warrior's lap with his legs spread and draped over Ironhide's knees. Wheeljack knelt between their legs, right up close and, to Ratchet's mind, being particularly fussy about where everyone's limbs were going. After a moment, Ratchet had a cold realization - he was ungrounded. No part of him touched the floor, to allow a path for interface static to travel. The way he was sitting, the voltage would just build up until there was enough current to jump between their non-conductive armors, an incredible amount, possibly a dangerous amount. Then he realized this was intentional, and he leveled as best a glare at Wheeljack as he could. "You are replacing every part you fry," he growled.
Wheeljack grinned, draping Ratchet's hand against his own neck. "I look forward to it," he said, taking brief control of the limb. Ratchet's fingers moved without his permission, jacking into Wheeljack's neck - neural piggyback. His physical awareness doubled, then tripled; Ironhide, too, and Ratchet could feel himself three different ways, himself and the way Ironhide felt him and the way Wheeljack felt him and the effect was disorienting, surreal. His systems steadied, adapting to the new flow of information just in time for Wheeljack to start prodding at him again, a slow, steady stroke under the edge of his abdominal plating. Ratchet groaned and shifted as much as he could, widening the gap between the plates and letting Wheeljack dig deeper.
He had always enjoyed touching others, possibly more than he enjoyed being touched, and Wheeljack knew it, played on it, keeping his every movement slow and precise and feeling the sensation from both sides made Ratchet's head reel. Another hand against him, larger fingers on his leg and Ratchet had never known, before, how much restraint Ironhide placed on his strength until he felt it as his own. Wheeljack was working his way deeper, his fingers splitting from the tip down, more changes to what he knew and how could Wheeljack stand having fingertip sensors that sensitive?
Then Ironhide leaned forward, his free hand dragging along Wheeljack's chest, a harsher touch that was only interpreted as pleasant from them both. Wheeljack made a sharp noise and returned the favor, seeking out and attacking the tire hidden beneath Ironhide's thigh armor with too many tools to count. The contrast was exquisite, the carefully planned way they touched him against the almost-frantic contact with each other. They worked in tandem, every slow stroke of his wiring counter pointed by a pinch or rough slide against armor or the sharp heat of a welder or the low thrum of some small weapon laid against energon lines.
Wheeljack overloaded first, quaking with a muttered curse. The physical sensation of it slammed into Ratchet, a high feedback whine escaping his vocalizer. But his own body still hummed with energy, denied the relief of overload despite experiencing Wheeljack's and it was another contrast, his own cabling tight with stored voltage while Wheeljack's was lax, and Ironhide rumbled laughter against the side of his neck. "An overload without overloading," he murmured, mouth components dragging along his neural column. "I don’t think I've ever seen you look so frustrated in the middle of an interface before."
"I don't know, I think I kind of like that look," Wheeljack teased, angling his fingers just so and Ratchet arched. "Might get that frontliner artist next time we do this, show all of Cybertron."
"You perverted maniacs just want a holo-sim for when I'm not around," Ratchet growled, trying to wiggle enough to dislodge his foot from Ironhide's knee. Without his limbs, though, he lacked the leverage he needed, and he made a frustrated noise when Ironhide settled his foot more firmly.
"Hm, you're right," Ironhide said thoughtfully, working his fingers along the inside of Ratchet's ankle joint. "Maybe we should do it to him a couple more times, to see what'll look the best."
"Good idea," Wheeljack said. He abruptly leaned forward, jabbing his hand between Ironhide's chest plates, scraping the spark chamber and surprising the warrior into overload.
Ratchet quaked, protesting even as he rode Ironhide's overload through. His muscle cabling twinged, wound too-tight with power and with no where for it to go. Systems carefully protected against short-circuits now worked against him, trapping the rising voltage, tiny eddy currents pinging within his wiring and sparks jumping from component to component. But any parts of Ironhide or Wheeljack able to carry the current to ground were too far away, blocked by air and insulated armor too thick to jump.
And damned if it didn't feel impossibly good, overload after overload without losing that tension, borderline pain as his systems warned him about the stresses being put on them.
And still, they encouraged it to build, stroking under armor and along wiring and around bolts and struts, both his and each others, static voltage rising where non-conductive fingers met too-conductive components. A spark jumped anyway, a short spike making it from his leg to Ironhide's hand, tiny relief, and they immediately stopped touching him, focusing on each other instead and letting him writhe between them. Primus, it was unfair, being able to feel everything they did without being able to respond except verbally, and when Wheeljack tipped into another overload, even speech was taken from him, his vocal processor shutting down to protect the delicate component.
"Think he's ready?" Ratchet could barely hear past the pleasure-pain to focus on Wheeljack's words.
"Ready enough," Ironhide agreed, and before Ratchet could divine their meaning, Ironhide shifted, and Ratchet’s leg hit the ground. Lightning slammed through his systems, stored voltage arcing to ground in a dizzying, impossible rush, and Ratchet would have screamed in both agony and ecstasy, had he been capable. Warnings blared red at the edge of his vision as his systems crashed, one by one, sending him spiraling into darkness.
o o o
An internal alarm woke him, a gentle mental beeping reminding him of his next patient. With a huff of his intakes, Ratchet sat up, alone, carefully stretching his limbs. Ridiculously languid, and a slight twang in places marked recent repairs. It seemed Wheeljack had made good on his promise to repair any damage they caused him.
Primus. Ratchet shivered at the memory files. With lovers like those two, who needed a war?
First Aid was waiting for him outside of the examination room, his visor and face shield unable to hide the amusement in his voice. "I thought about calling security," the young mech said wryly, falling in step beside his mentor. "Until I realized that whatever they were doing to you, you were enjoying it. I think."
"Great," Ratchet said flatly. "I assume everyone in medical knows?"
"Splice says he's angry," First Aid replied cheerfully. "But no reprimand. Just that you should take it to one of the sound-proofed rooms, next time. Oh, and Bolts won fifty credits by predicting this." He held out his hand, and Ratchet took the tiny item, confused. A blackened fuse lay on his palm, the ferrules scorched and the element inside its glass case clearly broken. Ratchet's optics flared when he realized it was his own, that those utter slaggers had actually caused him to, literally, blow a fuse from interfacing; something he knew was possible, but incredibly unlikely, and a dream of many of the more hedonistic of their kind.
With a snarl, Ratchet crushed the fuse in his hand, stalking away with his laughing assistant at his side.