Fandom: Transformers 2007
Rating: R, for language and, y'know, robot sex.
Summary: Pre-war. Ironhide is annoying and Blackout is frustrated, and there's one particularly enjoyable way to work it all out.
Word Count: 2,930
Disclaimer: Yeah, Transformers? Not mine. No profit being made, it's all in fun, etcetera, etcetera.
A/N: My first attempt at the for-real-type robot sex. I THINK I DID GOOD. But I dunno for sure. Un-betaed and it's very early in the morning, so excuse typos. They shall be hunted out and taken care of appropriately.
Blackout liked watching Ironhide work. There was an intensity to the smaller mech, a dedication, that Blackout found absolutely compelling; he could sit and watch Ironhide tinker for hours.
It was a pity he didn’t have the time for it now, because his friend was really absorbed in the project he was working on. He was seated on a sturdy stool, leaning over the table, hands buried in what looked like an exploded particle cannon. There were components strewn everywhere, some of them warped and charred, others rendered completely unrecognizable by the damage they’d sustained.
“You’re hovering,” Ironhide pointed out without looking around, setting a relatively unscathed section of tubing down and picking up a bent cartridge coupling.
“I’m observing,” Blackout responded from his position leaning in the doorway.
“You’re bugging me.” Ironhide sat back on his stool, straightening up and turning to face Blackout. “You know I can’t work when I’m distracted.”
Blackout grinned. He happened to know that very well. He pushed away from the doorframe and strode over, standing just close enough to crowd Ironhide. “So take a break. Come to the rally with me.”
“No.” Ironhide turned back to the table and reached across the mess of parts for one of his tools.
Blackout reached over him and pinned his arm to the table. “Yes,” he said, leaning around him to catch his optics and not coincidentally pressing his chest to the other mech’s back. “You’ve been working on this forever. You need to take a break or your visual circuits will short.”
“Like the Pit they will,” Ironhide growled. “Leave me be, Blackout, I need to finish this commission on time.”
“And just who is it you’re working for, hmm?” Blackout asked, leaning more of his weight against Ironhide. “Who’s so important you can’t come out and have a little fun?”
Ironhide used his free hand to push Blackout’s off his arm, and shoved away from the table, knocking the bigger mech back. He resettled himself on the stool. “This is direct from the Lord High Protector himself.”
Blackout hadn’t known that—all Ironhide had told him when he’d first started work on this was that it was a big project for a high-profile client. “What did he hire you to do?”
“Classified.” Ironhide turned on the stool to face his companion; he was grinning, just a little. “It’ll be impressive if I can pull it off,” he said, “but I can’t tell you anything until then.”
Blackout advanced again, big fingers splayed. “I bet I could make you tell.”
Ironhide scowled. “Go to your little get-together and get out of my exterior plating,” he said, planting a foot in Blackout’s abdomen and kicking him away.
“You should come,” Blackout insisted. “Word on the net is Megatron himself will be there. Come see your boss.”
He shook his head. “And listen to him rant endlessly on the glory of Cybertron? No, thank you. I’ll take a commission from him, but that’s it.”
Blackout pulled his huge frame erect, feeling vaguely insulted. “He says some logical things, Ironhide,” he rumbled. “It might do you well to listen.”
Ironhide vented air in annoyance. “If you say so,” he said, in a distinctly dismissive voice.
Stubborn slagger. All thought of watching him work was gone, replaced by annoyance. “I don’t know how long I’ll be,” Blackout said.
“Fine,” Ironhide replied, watching him evenly.
“It may be late.”
“I’m sure I’ll still be active.”
“I might not return before the next solar cycle.”
“Good for you,” Ironhide said, leaning back against his work table. “Now will you leave? You’re still bugging me.”
Blackout snarled and threw up his arms in exasperation. “Fine,” he said. “Enjoy your work.” He turned and left.
Ironhide watched him go, then turned back to the disassembled cannon.
He was still bent over the table when Blackout returned, more than half the night cycle ticked away. The massive mech came in, highly animated and in clear good spirits. He was drawn inevitably to the light of Ironhide’s workroom, and shook his head in irritation. Maniac didn’t know when to stop.
Ironhide was welding two spidery components together, handling them delicately. He was absorbed, oblivious—he didn’t acknowledge Blackout at all as he slid into the room and stood against the wall, watching.
Or so Blackout thought. Ironhide set down the welding torch, retracted the protective facemask, and swiveled on his stool to face his observer. “I thought you would be gone until tomorrow?”
“It was starting to get rowdy,” Blackout said, grinning broadly. “Thought it prudent to leave.”
“An event sponsored by the Lord High Protector got rowdy?” Ironhide asked guilelessly. “You don’t say.”
Again, that frisson of annoyance, like a power surge in his tactile net. “He wasn’t there for that,” Blackout said, keeping is voice level. “He spoke briefly and left early.”
“And then it got rowdy.”
Ironhide leaned one elbow against the table, a perfect picture of nonchalance. “But you were smart enough to get your aft out of there.”
“Some of the attendees were new recruits of Megatron’s task force,” Blackout said, referring to the corps of fighters under the Lord High Protector’s control, held in reserve against attack or invasion. “You know how they can be.”
“We’re not too far removed from them ourselves, you know,” Ironhide said, contemplative. “Not really. People say the same things about us.”
Blackout was not in the mood for another one of those discussions; not now, with his energy draw still high and his senses functioning at near-maximum capacity. “We’re not like them,” he said firmly, sauntering away from the wall and towards Ironhide.
The smaller mech watched his approach evenly. “I’m not going to get anything else done tonight, am I?” he asked.
“Nope,” Blackout said, wrapping his hands around Ironhide’s arms and lifting him up off the stool.
“Good.” Unexpectedly, Ironhide shoved against him, briefly pressing them together along almost the full length of their bodies before pushing away. “I was ready for a break anyway.”
Blackout reached for him, but Ironhide spun away, eluding the blunt fingers. “Get back here,” Blackout growled.
“I don’t take orders form you.” Somehow, Ironhide had gotten himself between Blackout and the door, and he ducked backwards out of the lab. Blackout gave chase, expecting to be led on a chase—he didn’t expect an ambush. Ironhide, standing just outside the door, palmed it closed and rushed Blackout. He actually managed to slam him back against the far wall of the hallway.
It wasn’t often that Ironhide had the physical upper hand—Blackout massed too much more than him, was too hard to overpower through force alone. Even as Ironhide grappled with him, reaching for his sensitive places, Blackout managed to force him away, using the wall for leverage.
“Nice try,” Blackout chuckled.
“I’m not done yet,” Ironhide responded.
Then the chase began. Ironhide dodged around him, actually managing to slide on the hard floor, dragging the fingers of one hand along Blackout’s hip as he went. Blackout grabbed for him, missed, and lost a moment trying to regain his balance.
Ironhide abandoned the professional section of the building they shared for the residential, remaining just out of reach the whole way and being really obnoxious about it.
“Tease,” Blackout snapped, straining for him. He was still energized, riled up from the high emotion of the rally, and impatient. Ironhide laughed, and disappeared through a doorway. The recharge room. Maybe not so much of a tease, then.
Blackout slowed and drew himself up, already anticipating what the next few moments might hold. There was no other entrance into the recharge room; the chase was over. He stepped through the door—and promptly tripped over the storage locker that had been thrust into the doorway.
Ironhide fell on top of him. He was smaller than Blackout, yes, but not substantially so, and was more than capable of pinning him to the floor.
“You sneaky little scrapheap!” Blackout snarled. Ironhide chuckled again, and then there were his hands, spreading across the joints of Blackout’s shoulders, touching just enough to stimulate the nerve net. Blackout’s arms twitched involuntarily, and he tried to draw them up, to push himself up off the floor, to roll Ironhide off him and take back control of this encounter. Ironhide shifted his weight, pinning Blackout’s arms with his knees and making it even harder for the top-heavy mech to heave him off.
Ironhide’s hands were roaming, delivering threshold-light touches all across sensitive joints and seams. Blackout knew what those powerful fingers were capable of—this was almost annoying in comparison.
“Stop squirming,” Ironhide commanded, rapping him hard directly between the shoulders.
“Get off me,” Blackout replied.
“Oh no,” Ironhide said, drawing one finger down the center of a dorsal armor plate. “This is what you get for bothering me when I was trying to work.” The fingertip slid along the edge of the plate, then slipped under. (Blackout had to mute the warning alarm that began to go off with the intrusion, disabling the whole system and annoyed he’d forgotten to do so before.) Ironhide slid the finger back and forth, friction generating heat generating sensation. Blackout tried more determinedly to knock him off.
The finger withdrew, leaving a residual tingle, and for a moment Ironhide did nothing more than sit there, keeping Blackout prone on the floor.
“What are you doing up there, recharging?” Blackout snapped.
The hands descended again, with none of the delicacy of before. It was an attack, fast and brutal, a relentless burrowing through the external armor and into the sensitive components below. Blackout let out a strangled sound—involuntary—and his attempts to twist free were still failing spectacularly. There was pleasure in Ironhide’s invading hands, but he refused to enjoy it. He couldn’t; not here, not like this, flat on his face. It was undignified.
Still. Ironhide knew him, knew right where to go to elicit a response, and Blackout had been so eager when he came in, and Ironhide knew that too. Why else linger, why else take his time, probing and scratching and scraping, hard, but doing it so agonizingly slowly?
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Coherence disintegrated; more basic subroutines started coming to the fore. He squirmed again, trying to worm his way free. He had to regain control—
Ironhide leaned back just a little too far, a little too sure in his dominance right now, and Blackout was able to wrench his arms free. He rolled to one side, throwing Ironhide off, and scrambled to his hands and knees. Ironhide was in motion too, struggling to his feet, and Blackout didn’t want to know what he planned to do next. He lunged, knocking the smaller mech’s legs out from under him and bringing him to the floor.
They came together, each trying to get the advantage over the other. Hyper-sensitive, Blackout had trouble focusing beyond the sensation of Ironhide against him; Ironhide pinned him again, with little trouble, but this time on his back, and this time using the full length of his body to hold him down. He was grinning again, and already his hands were pulling at the seams along Blackout’s side, seeking entrance.
Blackout could give it back now, though, his own big hands rising and latching on, prying directly into the circuitry underneath. Ironhide bucked against him, sucking air into his intakes and clenching his fingers. Something wrenched painfully and Blackout snarled, “Easy!”
“You hate it easy,” Ironhide said, laughing. There was an erratic hitch in his voice.
“Maybe I’m not—” Ironhide stroked along a particularly tender length of cable casing, distracting him. “Maybe I’m not in the mood for rough right now.” Ironhide’s fingers clenched again, causing a spike of pain that made Blackout arch.
“Don’t lie,” Ironhide admonished. “You’re terrible at it.”
Blackout could have come up with some witty retort to that, but preferred to respond with his body, locking his arms around Ironhide and inducing contact along the entirety of their ventral surfaces. Ironhide moved against him, full-length sensation—Blackout dug his fingers into Ironhide’s back and they ground together.
“All the way?” Blackout hissed.
“A-all the way.” The space between them decreased again as Ironhide pressed himself closer. Sections of plating slid back, couplings and cables coming together, connecting them. Data-flow started, sensation sharpened, and Blackout made his move, reaching for that one vital link and disconnecting Ironhide’s optical circuit.
Ironhide reached for the connection and Blackout pinned his hands. “Uh-uh. None of that!”
“That’s not fair,” Ironhide snapped, straining against Blackout’s grip.
“Neither is a locker in the doorway,” Blackout said, inclining more of his weight against Ironhide and conveniently pinioning his knees.
“You are a slagger,” Ironhide grated, but he stilled.
“And you adore it,” Blackout said, his laugh more a deep rumble than anything else. He straddled Ironhide, transferring both his hands to one wrist and using the newly freed hand to trace a track down the side of his face. He tried to twist away, still obviously angry; Blackout let the finger trail down his throat struts and into the plating on his chest. Ironhide arched his torso into the touch, then growled and tried to wrench his arms free again.
“Reenable my optical feed, you glitchy waste of a spark,” Ironhide said. His attempt to sound intimidating was somewhat defused by the fact that was flat on the floor with his arms restrained and his eyes blinded.
“And what’ll you do if I don’t?” he asked, running his thumb along the edge of an external plate tantalizingly. “Hmm?”
Ironhide made an incoherent sound. Blackout loved it when he did that. He slid his massive frame off to better access some of the hidden nerve nodes down at the joints of his hips. Ironhide trembled, then kicked his legs up and around, catching Blackout square in the side. The top-heavy mech toppled.
Ironhide was on his feet faster than Blackout had thought possible, crouching with one hand bracing himself and the other reaching back to fix the connection. The blue flickered back into his narrowed eyes. He launched himself at Blackout, but instead of another aggressive encounter, he seized him and hauled him to his feet. “I wouldn’t be doing this,” he said, scraping his palms down Blackout’s sides, “if I couldn’t see.”
“Oh, I think you know me well enough to not need your eyes,” Blackout said, his voice low, one hand reaching for the sensitive zones so recently denied. Ironhide thrust against the questing fingers, pressing against Blackout, forcing him back towards the wall. He wasn’t going to let that happen again; he pivoted them around and pinned him instead.
That was more like it.
They could never keep up that coyness, that long, teasing bouts of caress and distraction that characterized other couplings—not for long, anyway. They’d tried it a couple of times, but the cuddling didn’t interest them nearly so much as the tussling. Let tame mechs be satisfied by tame pursuits.
Ironhide’s vocal processor was hitching again, his movements losing coordination. Blackout would have been delighted, would have loved to prolong the encounter, would have shown Ironhide what he got for being a tease and a trickster, for trying to cheat his way into control. But dammit, he had come in here horny and he had been humiliated and he wanted overload. Now.
“Synchronize,” he hissed, forehead-to-forehead with Ironhide, pressing him hard into the wall. “All the way!”
“All the way,” Ironhide echoed faintly. He grabbed Blackout by the hips, forcing them together. Coupling jacks linked, connected, and an electric thrill swept them both—
“Hnh! There! Yes!”
“Do that keep doing that don’t stop!”
Circuits all across Blackout’s processors stuttered and tripped, interrupting themselves; he pitched against Ironhide and barely managed to catch himself against the wall. Intake valves opened all the way, sucking air in and across overheating pumps and servos. He moved to disconnect, but Ironhide was still clinging to him, quaking and clawing at him and…was he growling?
His processors weren’t fully rebooted, not yet, but Blackout knew what Ironhide needed anyway. He reached down, closed his hand and pulled, and his neural net erupted with feedback from Ironhide’s overload. The smaller mech started ventilating too. He was twitching, his fingers clenching and unclenching rhythmically; then he relaxed. Only Blackout slumped against him kept him upright.
“Off,” Ironhide said eventually, shoving at Blackout. He shook his head; he was comfortable leaning against the wall, Ironhide cooling down beneath him. It was unusually peaceful. “I swear to Primus, Blackout, if you go into recharge on top of me…”
“Fine.” Blackout pushed himself upright and disconnected, stepping back as his exterior plating reverted to its usual configuration. Ironhide stumbled forward, apparently not expecting such prompt acquiescence; Blackout grabbed him by the shoulder, steadying him. Ironhide shook his hand off.
“I should get back to work,” he muttered, looking towards the door.
“Ha!” Blackout grabbed him and shoved him towards his berth. “Recharge, or you’ll addle your processors too much to do anything useful.”
Ironhide stumbled, then glared at Blackout. “I still don’t take orders from you.”
“Go, or I’ll drag you there myself.”
Ironhide went, and Blackout followed.
Meme drabbles coming soon!
ETA: Oof. Note to self--no more posting at 3:30 in the morning. Ninja-edited for grammar and some really poor word choice in a coupla places.