Gaslight_Dreamer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wyntir_knight) wrote2016-06-02 10:59 am
wyntir_knight) wrote2016-06-02 10:59 am
Fic - Dinner, Music, and Dancing: An Unusual Graduation Gift
Title: Dinner, Music, and Dancing: An Unusual Graduation Gift Chapters: 3/4
Fandom: Transformer: G1 (Pre-Earth)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Prostitution, oral
Relationships: Ratchet/Smokescreen
Characters: Ratchet, Smokescreen
Summary: Ratchet has finally graduated from the Institute as a fully credited medic. He had been expecting his friends to throw him a party. Instead he finds an unusual gift standing on his doorstep.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Ratchet and Smokescreen barely arrived at the Symphonia in time to be seated. The greeter smiled in amusement as he eyed the scuff of dark blue on the side of Ratchet’s chest but said nothing; directing them to their private box in silence.
The small room was decorated with luxury in mind - a soft, adjustable couch sat in the middle of the space, flanked by two comfortable single chairs. The walls and floors were covered with plush fabric to catch and redirect the sound and varying weights of curtains crossed over the front of the space, blocking the spectators from the stage.
“What’s with the curtains?” Ratchet asked before the greeter left the room.
The greeter turned and smiled, running a light green hand over the heavy burgundy curtains, with an almost loving reverence.
“Blaster is trying something new. He wants his music to be properly experienced and he’s discovered that asking his listeners to offline their optics for the length of the work is unrealistic. Hence the curtains.”
“Seriously?” Smokescreen asked as he fingered the heavier curtain with interest. “And I suppose that it has the added benefit of giving Blaster a certain amount of privacy as well. Stops him from getting distracted by any guests moving around in the audience.”
“Wandering, discussing, whatever,” the greeter said with a negligent wave of his hand and a shrug, though the smile did become both knowing and amused. “The curtains dampen the sound to a certain extent. Though I wouldn’t get too rowdy up here. You can’t see them, but you have neighbours on both sides. Enjoy your evening, gentlemechs. The show will be starting soon.”
The mech reached the door then turned around and motioned to a small table set with various delicacies - a box of rust dusted miniature oil cakes and cubes of sparkling energon.
“The refreshments are complimentary,by the way,” he said before leaving the room and closing the door behind him.
“More food? I’m not sure that my tank can handle anything more,” Smokescreen murmured.
“Well the show is rather long. Maybe we'll have room later,” Ratchet replied before smiling and picking up one of the rust sticks and breaking off a small piece. The smile became seductive and wicked as he lifted it to Smokescreen’s lips. “Of course, it would be rude to not at least try some of it.”
“Oh, well we can’t be rude, now can we?” Smokescreen replied with a smile. He accepted the stick and as he did he captured Ratchet’s index finger with his mouth, sucking on it lightly.
Ratchet inhaled sharply as Smokescreen swirled his glossa around the tip before releasing the digit with a soft pop. The Praxian’s smile became predatory as he stepped in closer to the medic. He drew one blue finger over Ratchet’s chest, tracing the seals surrounding his windshield.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re completely adorable when you're being seductive?” Smokescreen purred. “If circumstances were different I might be sorely tempted to do horrible things to you right now.”
Ratchet took hold of Smokescreen’s hips and pulled him close. In the same move he leaned in and brushed his lips over the Praxian’s audial.
“I’m not entirely sure that I’d object right now.”
“Good thing the show’s starting then, isn’t it?”
Smokescreen pulled away, running the tips of his fingers over Ratchet’s armour, seeming to pause slightly at every angle and join. His doors flicked up slightly, reminding the medic of a come hither glance as he took his seat.
“Anyone ever told you that you’re a horrible tease?” Ratchet asked as he sat down beside the Praxian.
“Horrible? Funny, I thought I was doing it rather well,” Smokescreen replied in a whisper as the music began to play.
The concert was incredible. It was everything Ratchet had come to expect from Blaster’s reputation. Mathematical perfection with hints of chaos running through the entire piece and fraying at the edges of the notes. A golden ratio rose and fell as order was granted to the universe only to be torn apart a moment later as new notes were added to the sequence. Music became noise, noise became function, function became all, until that all was pulled down again and again and again. It was indescribable, and as his processor tried to hold onto the parts that made logical sense, it reeled from the inherent chaos presented as art.
And if he was having problems, Smokescreen had to be having it far worse. Yes, he was different from the other Praxians that Ratchet had met, but he was still a Praxian, and his battle computer must have been glitching something fierce as it tried to organize pure chaos.
He turned to his partner for the evening to ask is he was okay, and was taken aback by the sight. Smokescreen’s optics were offline, his head tilted back slightly, his mouth open the slightest bit as he vented in time with the down beat. His doors were flared up and out, shivering slightly as the sensor panels collected all the energy patterns underlying the notes; energy patterns hat Ratchet could barely discern. And on Smokescreen’s face was a look of pure, unadulterated rapture. And in that moment, in the dim lighting and shadows cast off the curtains, he looked gorgeous.
As if sensing that he was being watched, Smokescreen turned to look at Ratchet, a small bemused smile pulling at his lips.
“What?” he asked in a breathy whisper.
“Nothing. I’m just-” He broke off with a shake of his head. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I am. Are you?” Smokescreen asked.
“I am,” Ratchet replied slowly as he tried to attach words to his feelings. “I’m just having a little trouble processing the music. The chaos of it.”
Smokescreen’s smile turned compassionate. “You’re trying too hard. You need to just let yourself go. Separate yourself from your processor.”
“That doesn’t sound possible,” Ratchet said softly. “I mean, no offense to Blaster, the work’s incredible, but every time I try to follow one track, I get distracted by the three others strains. It’s a little overwhelming. … I keep thinking that it’d be easier to follow if I got drunk …”
“Well, that might be the purpose of the sparkling high grade,” Smokescreen said with a chuckle. “But I might be able to offer a different way to relax and let go. If you trust me?”
Ratchet looked at Smokescreen, taking in that small seductive pull of the Praxian’s lips and the slight twitch of his doors. He had no reason to not trust the escort. Of course, he also had no real reason to trust him either. He just wanted to. He really wanted to. The hitch in his intakes was barely audible as he nodded.
Smokescreen moved in closer to Ratchet until he was almost sitting in the medic’s lap.
“Offline your optics and let me help you relax. You just need to give yourself over to the experience,” Smokescreen murmured into Ratchet’s audio as he placed one gentle hand on his knee.
“We’re in public,” Ratchet whispered, but the burr fritzing in his vocalizer was betraying his rising desire.
“We’re in a private box, surrounded by curtains,” Smokescreen replied. “I promise that I won’t do anything to embarrass you. Or get us kicked out. Just sit back, offline your optics, and relax. I promise I’ll stop if you ask me to.”
Ratchet nodded and did as he was bade, letting out a slightly shaky breath as he did.
Blaster’s music continued, rising and falling in a wild, almost manic rhythm. As the music swelled, Ratchet felt Smokescreen’s fingers begin to trace over the exposed mechanisms in his knee, mapping every edge and seam and join. A second hand began to trace over his other knee before moving up his thighs. The movements were slow and precise, yet somehow perfectly in time with the music. Fingers massaged their way over his legs, covering every surface with a teasingly light touch.
At the very gentle nudge of Smokescreen’s hands pressing at his knees, Ratchet spread his legs and felt Smokescreen slip between them. They probably shouldn’t be doing this. After all, they could be interrupted at any time, or if things were going where he thought they were … Ratchet knew that he could get loud when things were good, and he suspected that Smokescreen would be good.
“You might want to offline your vocalizer, sweet spark,” Smokescreen murmured as if reading Ratchet’s processor. “I’m on channel 42-Zeta-87-b. Tell me if you want me to stop at any time.”
Ratchet’s optics onlined just in time to see Smokescreen nestled between his thighs, a wicked grin pulling at his lips as he leaned in to blow a hot puff of air over Ratchet’s closed panel.
Ratchet gasped at the sensation and offlined his vocalizer but kept looking down at Smokescreen.
“Offline your optics too. After all, this is about you experiencing the music properly. You can’t do that fully if you’re busy watching me and what I’m about to do to you,” Smokescreen purred.
Ratchet nodded as he offlined his optics, suddenly very, very glad he’d disengaged his vocalizer as another hot breath ghosted over his panel. Gentle fingers moved over his plating - thighs, midriff, back to thighs, and teasing over an increasingly warm panel. Hands ghosted over to his hips, pressing him into the soft cushion with surprisingly strong hands. Smokescreen’s movements were slow and gentle as he teased Ratchet’s port cover open with fingers and lips.
Ratchet gasped silently as Smokescreen’s glossa flicked out to lick his hot port, hands coming down on Smokescreen’s wrists. He felt more than heard the low chuckle as his hands were gently moved to his sides, the motion a slight admonition to keep his hands to himself.
Smokescreen was good. More than good. He worked Ratchet’s port in perfect time with the music’s downbeat and soon that was all Ratchet knew. Music and sensation. Each note flashing brightly in his offlined optics. His processor stopped trying to follow the music and just did as he lost himself in every moment of bliss. He was filled pleasure, his calipers cycling down rhythmically in time with Smokescreen’s ministrations as the Praxian seemed to hum in time with the music. His spark thickened his his chest as his internal receiver prepared for a hardline connection and his entire world compressed to something that was logically indefinable.
Notes rose and fell. Smokescreen licked, suckled, nibbled, consuming Ratchet utterly and suddenly that pinprick of awareness exploded out as Smokescreen expanded his own field and ghosted it against the edge of Ratchet’s own. And not for the first time, Ratchet was dimly aware that it really had been a good idea to turn off his vocalizer. Overload ripped through his systems - calipers cycling down on nothing as they tried to force a nonexistent plug into place, spark reaching out for a connection that wasn’t quite in reach. Smokescreen’s mouth formed a firm suction over Ratchet’s port, and finger traced over seams as he soothed the medic through his overload.
Ratchet was sure that his engine and cooling systems were roaring loud enough to drown out the music, but as he came back to himself, as he became aware of his surroundings again, he realized that the music was still playing and there was no indication that they were disturbing anyone.
“Better?” Smokescreen asked, still kneeling between Ratchet’s knees, a smile pulling at his lips as he pulled a cloth from subspace and cleaned some spilled lubricant off of the medic’s thighs..
“Yeah, I -” Ratchet broke off with a slight frown as he realized that the music was no longer causing his processor to fritz. “Yeah, I am. How did you do that?”
Smokescreen’s smile became predatory as he moved seductively up into Ratchet’s lap.
“I would think that a medic, no matter how new, wouldn’t need a lesson in what I just did,” he said before kissing Ratchet deeply.
Ratchet shivered as he tasted his own lubricant on Smokescreen’s lips and glossa.
“No, I mean,” he began as he finally pulled away, “how did you manage to so thoroughly distract my processor? Even now the music isn’t fritzing me up. It really is quite beautiful when you stop trying to categorize it.”
“I think you just answered your own question,” Smokescreen replied. “There’s a psychological theory that suggests that we can reprogram our own personal outlook with the right conditions and stimuli. I distracted you and you allowed yourself to listen to the music with something other than your logical centers. Once you started, you didn’t stop.”
“Practicing your lessons on me?” Ratchet asked, and it was clear in his tone that he was teasing.
“Maybe,” Smokescreen replied with a genuine grin. “It could have been worse. At least I’m focusing on behavioural theories rather than true reprogramming.”
Ratchet chuckled and pulled Smokescreen as close as their frames would allow. Blaster’s music swelled back up into the third movement of his opus, and the lights in the small space began to shift and break from a clear white to a rainbow spectrum that swirled and coloured the walls and curtains with splashes of near-imagery. Smokescreen leaned against his chest comfortably, his optics dimmed and his doors swaying slightly in time with the music.
This felt very comfortable, especially in the afterglow of overload, and Ratchet decided it really was a good thing that his friends had surprised him with this gift.
Chapter 4
Fandom: Transformer: G1 (Pre-Earth)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Prostitution, oral
Relationships: Ratchet/Smokescreen
Characters: Ratchet, Smokescreen
Summary: Ratchet has finally graduated from the Institute as a fully credited medic. He had been expecting his friends to throw him a party. Instead he finds an unusual gift standing on his doorstep.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Ratchet and Smokescreen barely arrived at the Symphonia in time to be seated. The greeter smiled in amusement as he eyed the scuff of dark blue on the side of Ratchet’s chest but said nothing; directing them to their private box in silence.
The small room was decorated with luxury in mind - a soft, adjustable couch sat in the middle of the space, flanked by two comfortable single chairs. The walls and floors were covered with plush fabric to catch and redirect the sound and varying weights of curtains crossed over the front of the space, blocking the spectators from the stage.
“What’s with the curtains?” Ratchet asked before the greeter left the room.
The greeter turned and smiled, running a light green hand over the heavy burgundy curtains, with an almost loving reverence.
“Blaster is trying something new. He wants his music to be properly experienced and he’s discovered that asking his listeners to offline their optics for the length of the work is unrealistic. Hence the curtains.”
“Seriously?” Smokescreen asked as he fingered the heavier curtain with interest. “And I suppose that it has the added benefit of giving Blaster a certain amount of privacy as well. Stops him from getting distracted by any guests moving around in the audience.”
“Wandering, discussing, whatever,” the greeter said with a negligent wave of his hand and a shrug, though the smile did become both knowing and amused. “The curtains dampen the sound to a certain extent. Though I wouldn’t get too rowdy up here. You can’t see them, but you have neighbours on both sides. Enjoy your evening, gentlemechs. The show will be starting soon.”
The mech reached the door then turned around and motioned to a small table set with various delicacies - a box of rust dusted miniature oil cakes and cubes of sparkling energon.
“The refreshments are complimentary,by the way,” he said before leaving the room and closing the door behind him.
“More food? I’m not sure that my tank can handle anything more,” Smokescreen murmured.
“Well the show is rather long. Maybe we'll have room later,” Ratchet replied before smiling and picking up one of the rust sticks and breaking off a small piece. The smile became seductive and wicked as he lifted it to Smokescreen’s lips. “Of course, it would be rude to not at least try some of it.”
“Oh, well we can’t be rude, now can we?” Smokescreen replied with a smile. He accepted the stick and as he did he captured Ratchet’s index finger with his mouth, sucking on it lightly.
Ratchet inhaled sharply as Smokescreen swirled his glossa around the tip before releasing the digit with a soft pop. The Praxian’s smile became predatory as he stepped in closer to the medic. He drew one blue finger over Ratchet’s chest, tracing the seals surrounding his windshield.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re completely adorable when you're being seductive?” Smokescreen purred. “If circumstances were different I might be sorely tempted to do horrible things to you right now.”
Ratchet took hold of Smokescreen’s hips and pulled him close. In the same move he leaned in and brushed his lips over the Praxian’s audial.
“I’m not entirely sure that I’d object right now.”
“Good thing the show’s starting then, isn’t it?”
Smokescreen pulled away, running the tips of his fingers over Ratchet’s armour, seeming to pause slightly at every angle and join. His doors flicked up slightly, reminding the medic of a come hither glance as he took his seat.
“Anyone ever told you that you’re a horrible tease?” Ratchet asked as he sat down beside the Praxian.
“Horrible? Funny, I thought I was doing it rather well,” Smokescreen replied in a whisper as the music began to play.
The concert was incredible. It was everything Ratchet had come to expect from Blaster’s reputation. Mathematical perfection with hints of chaos running through the entire piece and fraying at the edges of the notes. A golden ratio rose and fell as order was granted to the universe only to be torn apart a moment later as new notes were added to the sequence. Music became noise, noise became function, function became all, until that all was pulled down again and again and again. It was indescribable, and as his processor tried to hold onto the parts that made logical sense, it reeled from the inherent chaos presented as art.
And if he was having problems, Smokescreen had to be having it far worse. Yes, he was different from the other Praxians that Ratchet had met, but he was still a Praxian, and his battle computer must have been glitching something fierce as it tried to organize pure chaos.
He turned to his partner for the evening to ask is he was okay, and was taken aback by the sight. Smokescreen’s optics were offline, his head tilted back slightly, his mouth open the slightest bit as he vented in time with the down beat. His doors were flared up and out, shivering slightly as the sensor panels collected all the energy patterns underlying the notes; energy patterns hat Ratchet could barely discern. And on Smokescreen’s face was a look of pure, unadulterated rapture. And in that moment, in the dim lighting and shadows cast off the curtains, he looked gorgeous.
As if sensing that he was being watched, Smokescreen turned to look at Ratchet, a small bemused smile pulling at his lips.
“What?” he asked in a breathy whisper.
“Nothing. I’m just-” He broke off with a shake of his head. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I am. Are you?” Smokescreen asked.
“I am,” Ratchet replied slowly as he tried to attach words to his feelings. “I’m just having a little trouble processing the music. The chaos of it.”
Smokescreen’s smile turned compassionate. “You’re trying too hard. You need to just let yourself go. Separate yourself from your processor.”
“That doesn’t sound possible,” Ratchet said softly. “I mean, no offense to Blaster, the work’s incredible, but every time I try to follow one track, I get distracted by the three others strains. It’s a little overwhelming. … I keep thinking that it’d be easier to follow if I got drunk …”
“Well, that might be the purpose of the sparkling high grade,” Smokescreen said with a chuckle. “But I might be able to offer a different way to relax and let go. If you trust me?”
Ratchet looked at Smokescreen, taking in that small seductive pull of the Praxian’s lips and the slight twitch of his doors. He had no reason to not trust the escort. Of course, he also had no real reason to trust him either. He just wanted to. He really wanted to. The hitch in his intakes was barely audible as he nodded.
Smokescreen moved in closer to Ratchet until he was almost sitting in the medic’s lap.
“Offline your optics and let me help you relax. You just need to give yourself over to the experience,” Smokescreen murmured into Ratchet’s audio as he placed one gentle hand on his knee.
“We’re in public,” Ratchet whispered, but the burr fritzing in his vocalizer was betraying his rising desire.
“We’re in a private box, surrounded by curtains,” Smokescreen replied. “I promise that I won’t do anything to embarrass you. Or get us kicked out. Just sit back, offline your optics, and relax. I promise I’ll stop if you ask me to.”
Ratchet nodded and did as he was bade, letting out a slightly shaky breath as he did.
Blaster’s music continued, rising and falling in a wild, almost manic rhythm. As the music swelled, Ratchet felt Smokescreen’s fingers begin to trace over the exposed mechanisms in his knee, mapping every edge and seam and join. A second hand began to trace over his other knee before moving up his thighs. The movements were slow and precise, yet somehow perfectly in time with the music. Fingers massaged their way over his legs, covering every surface with a teasingly light touch.
At the very gentle nudge of Smokescreen’s hands pressing at his knees, Ratchet spread his legs and felt Smokescreen slip between them. They probably shouldn’t be doing this. After all, they could be interrupted at any time, or if things were going where he thought they were … Ratchet knew that he could get loud when things were good, and he suspected that Smokescreen would be good.
“You might want to offline your vocalizer, sweet spark,” Smokescreen murmured as if reading Ratchet’s processor. “I’m on channel 42-Zeta-87-b. Tell me if you want me to stop at any time.”
Ratchet’s optics onlined just in time to see Smokescreen nestled between his thighs, a wicked grin pulling at his lips as he leaned in to blow a hot puff of air over Ratchet’s closed panel.
Ratchet gasped at the sensation and offlined his vocalizer but kept looking down at Smokescreen.
“Offline your optics too. After all, this is about you experiencing the music properly. You can’t do that fully if you’re busy watching me and what I’m about to do to you,” Smokescreen purred.
Ratchet nodded as he offlined his optics, suddenly very, very glad he’d disengaged his vocalizer as another hot breath ghosted over his panel. Gentle fingers moved over his plating - thighs, midriff, back to thighs, and teasing over an increasingly warm panel. Hands ghosted over to his hips, pressing him into the soft cushion with surprisingly strong hands. Smokescreen’s movements were slow and gentle as he teased Ratchet’s port cover open with fingers and lips.
Ratchet gasped silently as Smokescreen’s glossa flicked out to lick his hot port, hands coming down on Smokescreen’s wrists. He felt more than heard the low chuckle as his hands were gently moved to his sides, the motion a slight admonition to keep his hands to himself.
Smokescreen was good. More than good. He worked Ratchet’s port in perfect time with the music’s downbeat and soon that was all Ratchet knew. Music and sensation. Each note flashing brightly in his offlined optics. His processor stopped trying to follow the music and just did as he lost himself in every moment of bliss. He was filled pleasure, his calipers cycling down rhythmically in time with Smokescreen’s ministrations as the Praxian seemed to hum in time with the music. His spark thickened his his chest as his internal receiver prepared for a hardline connection and his entire world compressed to something that was logically indefinable.
Notes rose and fell. Smokescreen licked, suckled, nibbled, consuming Ratchet utterly and suddenly that pinprick of awareness exploded out as Smokescreen expanded his own field and ghosted it against the edge of Ratchet’s own. And not for the first time, Ratchet was dimly aware that it really had been a good idea to turn off his vocalizer. Overload ripped through his systems - calipers cycling down on nothing as they tried to force a nonexistent plug into place, spark reaching out for a connection that wasn’t quite in reach. Smokescreen’s mouth formed a firm suction over Ratchet’s port, and finger traced over seams as he soothed the medic through his overload.
Ratchet was sure that his engine and cooling systems were roaring loud enough to drown out the music, but as he came back to himself, as he became aware of his surroundings again, he realized that the music was still playing and there was no indication that they were disturbing anyone.
“Better?” Smokescreen asked, still kneeling between Ratchet’s knees, a smile pulling at his lips as he pulled a cloth from subspace and cleaned some spilled lubricant off of the medic’s thighs..
“Yeah, I -” Ratchet broke off with a slight frown as he realized that the music was no longer causing his processor to fritz. “Yeah, I am. How did you do that?”
Smokescreen’s smile became predatory as he moved seductively up into Ratchet’s lap.
“I would think that a medic, no matter how new, wouldn’t need a lesson in what I just did,” he said before kissing Ratchet deeply.
Ratchet shivered as he tasted his own lubricant on Smokescreen’s lips and glossa.
“No, I mean,” he began as he finally pulled away, “how did you manage to so thoroughly distract my processor? Even now the music isn’t fritzing me up. It really is quite beautiful when you stop trying to categorize it.”
“I think you just answered your own question,” Smokescreen replied. “There’s a psychological theory that suggests that we can reprogram our own personal outlook with the right conditions and stimuli. I distracted you and you allowed yourself to listen to the music with something other than your logical centers. Once you started, you didn’t stop.”
“Practicing your lessons on me?” Ratchet asked, and it was clear in his tone that he was teasing.
“Maybe,” Smokescreen replied with a genuine grin. “It could have been worse. At least I’m focusing on behavioural theories rather than true reprogramming.”
Ratchet chuckled and pulled Smokescreen as close as their frames would allow. Blaster’s music swelled back up into the third movement of his opus, and the lights in the small space began to shift and break from a clear white to a rainbow spectrum that swirled and coloured the walls and curtains with splashes of near-imagery. Smokescreen leaned against his chest comfortably, his optics dimmed and his doors swaying slightly in time with the music.
This felt very comfortable, especially in the afterglow of overload, and Ratchet decided it really was a good thing that his friends had surprised him with this gift.
Chapter 4
no subject
no subject