XFMR - Crushing On You
Title: Crushing On You
Fandom: Transformers
Characters/pairings: Brawl/Ratchet
Rating: R
Summary: He could break, he could escape, or he could die. Maybe he'd just do all three at once.
Warnings: Erm. Mindfuckery, semi-graphic mech gore, master/slave, ish-non-con robo-porn, general disrespect of a dead corpse.
Notes: helestor helped me out once upon a time, and wanted 'anything with the aforementioned Brawl's crush on Ratchet' as a reward. At first, this was going to be Kick in the Head!verse, but them the Ratchet muse decided to be a melodramatic wench and throw this up at me.
And as for the 'aforementioned crush', this is straight from the back of the Legends class Rescue Ratchet/Brawl toy combo:
Decepticon Brawl laughs so rarely that when he does, it comes out as a creepy, creaking wheeze. Still, the one thing that amuses him to no end is watching Rescue Ratchet rush around a battlefield trying to save as many lives as possible. With the Autobots putting every last ounce of energy into snatching the AllSpark, Decepticon Brawl finds himself in a target rich environment. It amuses him to place his shots for maximum damage, scattering wounded in every direction, so he can watch the Autobot medic run himself ragged.
This shit is CANON. Printed right on the official merchandise. Good god, who needs a plot-bunny farm?
Table of Contents
o o o
It's been three hundred, sixty seven orns since he was captured, and Ratchet is beginning to wonder if he should keep waiting for a rescue.
He is in an underground Decepticon base, in a smallish, unadorned room with Decepticons in every room around him, above him, and below him. He knows this because Brawl showed him, the orn after he was purchased in a humiliating auction and he gained the status of Brawl's personal property. There is one door to his room, and two berths inside, though only one is for him. The energon dispenser in the corner puts out meager trickles of the lowest grade possible, and it makes his circuits buzz unpleasantly for long minutes after deprivation forces him to intake some. His chemical sensors tell him it is mildly contaminated with cobalt sludge.
Brawl comes to the room on an average of once every three-point-two orns, but it's quite impossible to predict when the single door will slide open. Sometimes he is gone from groons on end, sometimes he comes every night for a dozen nights. Sometimes Ratchet's chronometer tells him the sun is shining above ground when the Decepticon comes; sometimes it is the deepest depths of the night. Most times, he is alone, as Brawl is too jealous of his property to share often. Sometimes, he is not; another Decepticon along to watch and maybe participate, optics alight with sickening glee.
At first, Ratchet had resisted, had defied, had fought back. Then Brawl had bound him to the wall and forced him to watch the systematic torture and dismemberment of a score of Autobot prisoners. The entire time, Brawl had made sure that the Autobot knew that he was dying because Ratchet had disobeyed. After hearing the final words of twenty-three Autobots cursing his name, he had broken. He no longer openly resists, and though it hurts his pride, the memory of those twenty-three Autobots hurts his spark far worse.
Brawl walks in when Ratchet is mentally tracing the lines of the ceiling panels for the one-thousand and fifty-second time, and when Ratchet sees what is in the Decepticon's arms, his spark falls.
There are two kinds of times with Brawl. The nights Brawl comes in empty-handed are good nights, because all he wants is an overload or four. Ratchet obliges with quiet relief, working over his owner with all of a medic's considerable skill and knowledge. He puts just enough of himself into the act that he is sure Brawl will never attempt to overload him in return, for which Ratchet is deeply grateful. In some ways, Brawl is unpredictable. In some, he's more readable than a datapad as tall as the Prime.
The bad times are when Brawl comes in with his hands full. His burden is always a mech, Autobot or Decepticon or a Neutral who got caught in the middle, horribly mangled and just barely clinging to life. He sets the mech on the other berth and gives Ratchet a sneer, shoving him forward. "Fix him," Brawl orders.
Ratchet's hands tremble a little as he approaches the berth. He focuses, diving into the deep well of serenity that any medic worth his bolts can tap into, separating emotions from actions as he begins his impossible task. It becomes clear, too quickly, that the mech will not last much longer, but he tries anyway. Connections are respliced, rends in tubing are sealed, crushed or missing struts are removed. He has no extra supplies, he cannot make replacements for anything, but he works on, salvaging parts from the mech's leg to rebuild his leaking fuel pump.
He wishes, without believing, for a miracle. Miracle-worker, that's what Brawl had called him, that first orn. 'They say you work miracles,' the Decepticon had said. 'I've never seen a miracle. Show me one, and I'll let you go.'
The times when Brawl brings him a patient are the worst, because there's that little, tiny fleck of hope, way back in his processor, that Brawl isn't lying, that if he can just pull off one miraculous save, he can go free. And that little hope always makes it so much worse when he fails.
The mech dies under his hands. Ratchet is unsurprised, and bitterly disappointed.
Claws spin him around and he is pressed against the berth, and he can feel the dead mech's arm under his back when Brawl leans over him, leering. Brawl is already worked up from watching him work, tiny static charges flickering between components, and Ratchet dispassionately sets to building them into a full overload, knowing that the faster and harder it comes, the more likely Brawl is to leave after only one.
It doesn't take long at all until Brawl snarls and quakes against him, his claws digging into Ratchet's shoulders. Ratchet bears the pain with shuttered optics, not opening them again until Brawl straightens. Talons stained with his own energon trail along Ratchet's face, a cruel mockery of a lover's caress, and Ratchet shudders, turning his face away. Brawl chuckles, a sound that makes Ratchet's circuits crawl, and walks out of the room. "Still waiting for that miracle," he calls back over his shoulder as the door shuts, leaving Ratchet alone with the dead.
Ratchet waits just long enough that he's sure Brawl won't come back before he turns back to the dead mech. It is less than an eighth of an orn until the designated cleaners time, when tiny drones will scamper into the room to dispose of the corpse, and he has to act fast. The first thing he does is siphon off what energon he can, far cleaner than what comes out of his dispenser. He suspects Brawl knows that he leeches energon from his dead patients, but it probably pleases the Decepticon that he's sunk to such lows.
He hopes Brawl doesn't suspect what else he scavenges, as he carefully removes the few undamaged cells from a power converter in the mech's chest. Brawl is too stupid to put a full-time surveillance on his room, and even if he did, he's too thick to check it often. If he wasn't, Ratchet would have been caught long before this.
The cell's raw acid blisters his hand plating as he installs it into his arm, nestled in with the other cells he's gleaned from other mechs. He wires it into the casing he's built out of another's spark chamber, one of the few metal alloys that can withstand the acid. The cell is connected to the start of a gun in his forearm; his saws had been removed before he was sold, but he had spent enough time with Ironhide to pick up the basics of weaponsmithing. He puts that scant knowledge together with what he can figure out from his dead patients, carefully crafting a weapon, with an oversized power source, that will blend in with his tools until he actually brings it out.
He has to plan his escape carefully. He will only get one shot at it, and all of his plans hinge on his secret staying a secret, and on his gun actually working when he needs it to. If it doesn't, he will die.
A part of him doesn't view that possibility with as much fear and dread as he once would have.
It's been three hundred, sixty seven orns since he was captured, and Ratchet is beginning to wonder if it's worth still praying for a rescue.
Fandom: Transformers
Characters/pairings: Brawl/Ratchet
Rating: R
Summary: He could break, he could escape, or he could die. Maybe he'd just do all three at once.
Warnings: Erm. Mindfuckery, semi-graphic mech gore, master/slave, ish-non-con robo-porn, general disrespect of a dead corpse.
Notes: helestor helped me out once upon a time, and wanted 'anything with the aforementioned Brawl's crush on Ratchet' as a reward. At first, this was going to be Kick in the Head!verse, but them the Ratchet muse decided to be a melodramatic wench and throw this up at me.
And as for the 'aforementioned crush', this is straight from the back of the Legends class Rescue Ratchet/Brawl toy combo:
Decepticon Brawl laughs so rarely that when he does, it comes out as a creepy, creaking wheeze. Still, the one thing that amuses him to no end is watching Rescue Ratchet rush around a battlefield trying to save as many lives as possible. With the Autobots putting every last ounce of energy into snatching the AllSpark, Decepticon Brawl finds himself in a target rich environment. It amuses him to place his shots for maximum damage, scattering wounded in every direction, so he can watch the Autobot medic run himself ragged.
This shit is CANON. Printed right on the official merchandise. Good god, who needs a plot-bunny farm?
Table of Contents
o o o
It's been three hundred, sixty seven orns since he was captured, and Ratchet is beginning to wonder if he should keep waiting for a rescue.
He is in an underground Decepticon base, in a smallish, unadorned room with Decepticons in every room around him, above him, and below him. He knows this because Brawl showed him, the orn after he was purchased in a humiliating auction and he gained the status of Brawl's personal property. There is one door to his room, and two berths inside, though only one is for him. The energon dispenser in the corner puts out meager trickles of the lowest grade possible, and it makes his circuits buzz unpleasantly for long minutes after deprivation forces him to intake some. His chemical sensors tell him it is mildly contaminated with cobalt sludge.
Brawl comes to the room on an average of once every three-point-two orns, but it's quite impossible to predict when the single door will slide open. Sometimes he is gone from groons on end, sometimes he comes every night for a dozen nights. Sometimes Ratchet's chronometer tells him the sun is shining above ground when the Decepticon comes; sometimes it is the deepest depths of the night. Most times, he is alone, as Brawl is too jealous of his property to share often. Sometimes, he is not; another Decepticon along to watch and maybe participate, optics alight with sickening glee.
At first, Ratchet had resisted, had defied, had fought back. Then Brawl had bound him to the wall and forced him to watch the systematic torture and dismemberment of a score of Autobot prisoners. The entire time, Brawl had made sure that the Autobot knew that he was dying because Ratchet had disobeyed. After hearing the final words of twenty-three Autobots cursing his name, he had broken. He no longer openly resists, and though it hurts his pride, the memory of those twenty-three Autobots hurts his spark far worse.
Brawl walks in when Ratchet is mentally tracing the lines of the ceiling panels for the one-thousand and fifty-second time, and when Ratchet sees what is in the Decepticon's arms, his spark falls.
There are two kinds of times with Brawl. The nights Brawl comes in empty-handed are good nights, because all he wants is an overload or four. Ratchet obliges with quiet relief, working over his owner with all of a medic's considerable skill and knowledge. He puts just enough of himself into the act that he is sure Brawl will never attempt to overload him in return, for which Ratchet is deeply grateful. In some ways, Brawl is unpredictable. In some, he's more readable than a datapad as tall as the Prime.
The bad times are when Brawl comes in with his hands full. His burden is always a mech, Autobot or Decepticon or a Neutral who got caught in the middle, horribly mangled and just barely clinging to life. He sets the mech on the other berth and gives Ratchet a sneer, shoving him forward. "Fix him," Brawl orders.
Ratchet's hands tremble a little as he approaches the berth. He focuses, diving into the deep well of serenity that any medic worth his bolts can tap into, separating emotions from actions as he begins his impossible task. It becomes clear, too quickly, that the mech will not last much longer, but he tries anyway. Connections are respliced, rends in tubing are sealed, crushed or missing struts are removed. He has no extra supplies, he cannot make replacements for anything, but he works on, salvaging parts from the mech's leg to rebuild his leaking fuel pump.
He wishes, without believing, for a miracle. Miracle-worker, that's what Brawl had called him, that first orn. 'They say you work miracles,' the Decepticon had said. 'I've never seen a miracle. Show me one, and I'll let you go.'
The times when Brawl brings him a patient are the worst, because there's that little, tiny fleck of hope, way back in his processor, that Brawl isn't lying, that if he can just pull off one miraculous save, he can go free. And that little hope always makes it so much worse when he fails.
The mech dies under his hands. Ratchet is unsurprised, and bitterly disappointed.
Claws spin him around and he is pressed against the berth, and he can feel the dead mech's arm under his back when Brawl leans over him, leering. Brawl is already worked up from watching him work, tiny static charges flickering between components, and Ratchet dispassionately sets to building them into a full overload, knowing that the faster and harder it comes, the more likely Brawl is to leave after only one.
It doesn't take long at all until Brawl snarls and quakes against him, his claws digging into Ratchet's shoulders. Ratchet bears the pain with shuttered optics, not opening them again until Brawl straightens. Talons stained with his own energon trail along Ratchet's face, a cruel mockery of a lover's caress, and Ratchet shudders, turning his face away. Brawl chuckles, a sound that makes Ratchet's circuits crawl, and walks out of the room. "Still waiting for that miracle," he calls back over his shoulder as the door shuts, leaving Ratchet alone with the dead.
Ratchet waits just long enough that he's sure Brawl won't come back before he turns back to the dead mech. It is less than an eighth of an orn until the designated cleaners time, when tiny drones will scamper into the room to dispose of the corpse, and he has to act fast. The first thing he does is siphon off what energon he can, far cleaner than what comes out of his dispenser. He suspects Brawl knows that he leeches energon from his dead patients, but it probably pleases the Decepticon that he's sunk to such lows.
He hopes Brawl doesn't suspect what else he scavenges, as he carefully removes the few undamaged cells from a power converter in the mech's chest. Brawl is too stupid to put a full-time surveillance on his room, and even if he did, he's too thick to check it often. If he wasn't, Ratchet would have been caught long before this.
The cell's raw acid blisters his hand plating as he installs it into his arm, nestled in with the other cells he's gleaned from other mechs. He wires it into the casing he's built out of another's spark chamber, one of the few metal alloys that can withstand the acid. The cell is connected to the start of a gun in his forearm; his saws had been removed before he was sold, but he had spent enough time with Ironhide to pick up the basics of weaponsmithing. He puts that scant knowledge together with what he can figure out from his dead patients, carefully crafting a weapon, with an oversized power source, that will blend in with his tools until he actually brings it out.
He has to plan his escape carefully. He will only get one shot at it, and all of his plans hinge on his secret staying a secret, and on his gun actually working when he needs it to. If it doesn't, he will die.
A part of him doesn't view that possibility with as much fear and dread as he once would have.
It's been three hundred, sixty seven orns since he was captured, and Ratchet is beginning to wonder if it's worth still praying for a rescue.