Hammerdown

May. 3rd, 2010 06:04 am
[identity profile] niyazi-a.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] shadow_vector
NC-17
Bayverse
Bluestreak/Ironhide
Sticky,

Autobots. : /   The request was for two Autobots and a gun kink.  Not sure I'm quite solid with the kink, but you will get your sharpshooting knowledge on....

 

The gun.  Bluestreak folded his arms over it protectively as he slumped in his seat in the cargo carrier.  No one else should touch it. No one else understood what it meant to him. Power. Control. It was…everything to him.

His fingers caressed the long barrel, the swell and dip of its components familiar as a lover’s body, the metal’s finish sleek and satiny.  It still had the smell of discharge—the high tang of electricity shot through metal—around it like an intoxicating perfume. He dipped down to fill his olfactory sensors with the scent. Heady. Thin and yet…potent.  He wanted to fire it again, to make the scent stronger, feel the barrel warm under his left hand, feel so much release from such a tiny, tiny gesture of his finger actuator.

His trigger finger practically itched at the thought. He rubbed it idly against his thumb, keeping it carefully from the triggerwell. As he had been trained, so long ago.  Trained well. And he had learned.  And it had saved him in more ways than one. 

He rested his cheek against the long barrel, trying to look as if he were merely tired, merely determined to do the soldierly thing and cop a recharge whenever he could.  Not trying to look, as he was, like he was so obviously taking comfort from its nearness, embracing it the way others did a lover.

 

**********

Oh sure, Ironhide thought. This’ll work well. Take the terrified Praxian who joined the Autobot army out of some…shellshocked despair, and make something out of him. Worse, the kid could barely sit still, and he was supposed to teach him marksmanship.  Disastrous on so many levels. Such as the one where they give the young mech a loaded weapon.

“Finger,” Ironhide snapped, for about the fortieth time, “outside the triggerwell.”  Bluestreak jumped, startled by Ironhide’s voice, his fingers curling reflexively in fear. Which is, Ironhide thought, exactly WHY you kept your slaggin’ finger out of the slaggin’ triggerwell!  Thank Primus they hadn’t loaded the gun yet, even with stun charges. 

Bluestreak nearly dropped the gun. Ironhide tried—and failed—to keep the look of disgust from his face. 

“What is your slaggin’ malfunction, kid?”

“Nothing!” Bluestreak said. “Just…weapon. You know.  Kills things.”

“That’s the point.”  Ironhide shook his head. Weapon. Yes.  What did the mechling think he was joining? 

The grey and red mech began shaking.  “I…don’t know if I can do that.”

Ironhide snatched the weapon away. “Fine, then don’t.  I don’t slaggin’ care, and I got no use for cowards.”

Bluestreak looked shocked.  “But—I…I lost everything.”

“Yeah? Think you’re the only one, huh?  You get to be special and coddled because you had something and you can’t get it back?” He thrust the gun back into Bluestreak’s hands. 

The younger mech saw something in Ironhide’s face—something desperate and agonized.  Fleeting, short, sharp.  He dropped his optics, ashamed. 

“Sorry.” He forced his shaking hands to wrap around the gun.  He could do this.  He would do something. Something to make things right. Something to make himself whole again. If Ironhide had lost something and had made something of himself, so could Bluestreak.  Finger out of the triggerwell. Right.  He laid it carefully along the charge housing, raising the weapon to his shoulder like he’d seen in hundreds of holovids.  “Like this?”

Ironhide’s lips curled in contempt, but he wrestled them down.  Not the mechling’s fault. Didn’t now any better.  That’s why you’re here.  That’s why you’re training him.  “First you’re going to do prone,” he said. Easier to get accurate with the front end stabilized on its firing bipod, and he wouldn’t have to deal with the mechling’s sloppy emotions.  He didn’t know how to deal with that soppy stuff, so…he just avoided it altogether. Always had.  He kicked his toeplate into the deck plating in the simulator room. “Get down.”

He pushed a slow angry breath from his ventilation as Bluestreak carefully folded himself to his knees, holding the gun as though he were afraid it would go off if air hit it too fast.  Ironhide couldn’t take it.  He grabbed the rifle again from the surprised fingers.

“This is how you descend to prone,” he snapped, and dropped forward, throwing the butt of the rifle out to catch his weight.  “Doesn’t go off, slaggit. As long,” he said, darkly, “as your finger’s not on the trigger.”

Bluestreak nodded, cowed. He pushed himself to his feet. “Can I try again?” he asked, meekly.

Ironhide blinked, getting to his feet.  Surprising. He’d expected the grey and red mech to keel over and die.  He handed the rifle back, trying not to plant his hands on his hip-frame.

Bluestreak gamely dropped to his knees, shoving the weapon out in front of him. It rang off the deckplates.  Not…quite right. 

“Better,” Ironhide said, grudgingly.  The mechling was trying, at least.  Better than those idiot twins. “We’ll work on it.”

***

Bluestreak cradled the gun more closely to his chassis as the carrier hit some turbulence.  He wasn’t afraid of the gun going off anymore. He’d gotten over that fear…ages ago. He just didn’t want anything to happen to it.  It had become an old friend, one of his constant companions. One that didn’t complain that he talked too much. One that never got tired of hearing his stories about Praxus, or told him that it was all ancient history and he was stupid for trying to keep alive those memories. 

Memories….

***

His first kiss. Their first kiss, really.  He’d been…overwhelmed.

He could still remember his qualification firing.  The day had been just a little cool, enough that he knew the first rounds would need adjusting until the barrel heated.  And he remembered the keen edged moments of focus, where he’d hovered for the entire time, from the first blast of the weapon that rocked him back on his heels.  Focus. Control. Breathe, suspend breath, wait, fire. Discipline. Control. Just as Ironhide had taught him. 

And when he’d finished, the target popping down almost as soon as they flipped up, focus, control, breathe, front sight, it had hit him like a physical force, a wave crashing into him: giddiness, overwhelming, tingling through his systems. And Ironhide had been there, and Bluestreak had swept him into a dizzy kiss before either of them could really process it, Bluestreak’s mouth urgent and earnest and grateful on Ironhide’s surprised lipplates.

Ironhide had pushed him off, roughly, his optics sparking with outrage, but both of them had felt that electrical connection, that half-instant where the older mech’s glossa had responded. 

 

Memories:

“Two pounds of pressure.  No more.  Tip of the finger.”  Ironhide’s voice gruff but always calm. Never losing his temper, always patient. The voice of discipline. The voice that shaped him.  “Most important: don’t tense for the trigger pull. Will jerk your shot out of alignment. “

 

Bluestreak nodded, earnestly, keeping his optic focused through the scope. 

“Should almost be a surprise when the hammer trips.”

Bluestreak nodded again, slipping his finger into the trigger well. Time to fire. Time to put the finger there.  He lined up his shot. Ironhide was silent, but he could still hear him—would ALWAYS hear him—as a ghost-voice in his audio. Slow down. Hold on the ex-vent.  Front sight. Front sight.  Relax. And…pull.

The pulse rifle went off with its characteristic electrical pop, the recoil jamming it into Bluestreak’s shoulder. He winced at the impact, but knew better than to move.  Control.  Discipline.

Ironhide grunted. “Good shot.  Try again.”

 

Memories. Fond. Power, control, discipline, arousal. The slow focus on the now, the bright present, no past, no future. More than just a soldier’s way to live—a sniper’s way. His sole focus becoming his target.  His target becoming him.  Complete presence in the moment. Complete presence.  A slow journey, stitched together by hundreds of these crystal moments, these sharp paving stones laid by Ironhide’s insistence, his rough voice, his demands. 

***

Not a memory, but overlaid with plenty of them: here in the dark of the armory, his olfactory sensors filled with the scent of gun oil and heated chargepacks.  His optics were blanked, as Ironhide instructed. As he’d always insisted, even in the armory’s deep velvety blackness. Bluestreak could stare only at the darkness of his optic shutters.  And focus, his entire sensornet seemingly rerouted from his optical scans to his dermal. 

He could hear Ironhide’s breathing, the soft slide of well-oiled joints, knowing the larger mech was waiting, thinking, deciding. Like a good sniper, patiently seeking his target.  He trembled in anticipation, forcing his breath slow and even.  The struggle was exquisite. 

He felt something across his chassis. A finger? A glossa?  There was no warm puff of air.  It traced around his grille, alternating light, feathery brushes with soft gliding slides.  His breath rasped out of him.

“Control,” Irohide’s gruff voice came out of the darkness.  Bluestreak nodded, knowing Ironhide could see him.  Right. Control.  He fought with his ventilations, wrestling them under control.  Long and slow.  Even.

The finger—it must be a finger, he thought—travelled lower, tracing the contours of his armor, rubbing in the gaps between plates.  Bluestreak fought the urge to talk, to babble, to say something, to try to build some connection with words. He fought, because he knew Ironhide was right. Ironhide was always right, and the connection of their bodies was more important, more powerful than mere words. “Puffs of air,” Irohide had called them, time and again, derisively. “Unimportant. Gone as soon as vocalized.”

So Blluestreak fought to let the connection of their bodies happen, his systems thrumming under Ironhide’s careful touch.  Oh it felt so good.  It was the only way he could give up his hard-won control—to Ironhide, who had given him the only route to power, to safety, that he had.

He heard movement, trying to track it in the blackness of his vidscreen.  He could feel the soft brush of an EM field against his own, over him, and then the firm pressure of Ironhide’s mouth on his, demanding admittance. He opened, he yielded; his glossa reaching tentatively for Ironhide’s, flickering around it shyly, still shyly.  The mouth pushed down hard against him, the metal plate grinding over his. His hands came up, hesitantly, reaching for where he knew the torso must be, groping for armor. 

The mouth broke away from his, almost painfully abrupt. “No touching.” The voice was harsh, insistent. 

“Right, I’m sorry, I just….” Bluestreak clamped his mouth shut.  He could feel the soft burst of air, half a snort, half a laugh, across his cheekplates.  He dropped his hands, feeling them fist up helplessly, so wanting to touch Ironhide that his palms almost prickled at the thought.

A weight on his chassis, one leg shoving his thighs apart almost roughly.  Yes, he thought. Please. He’d come straight from the battle, his armor still scorched and blackened, his hands still reeking of expended charge cartridges.  He’d always had his systems up after combat, trembling on the edge, as if dealing death made his urge to assert life more insistent as well; as if everything popped into vivid focus. 

He felt armor slide over his own, pelvic plate to pelvic plate.  He pushed his hips upward into the move.  His spike throbbed in its housing, lubricant pushing alongside it.  He forced his vents to slow. Long and even and controlled.  His hands lay by his sides, locked down, trying to resist the urge again to touch Ironhide. To make sure he was there. To make him real to his hands.

Ironhide ground against him. Bluestreak made a choking squeak as desire rushed through him.  Ironhide could do this to him, the only one who could.  And so easily.  He hadn’t even opened Bluestreak’s interface hatch and already the younger mech was trembling with desire.

Ironhide grunted in satisfaction, his hands coming to brush Bluestreak’s face.  Bluestreak tried to imagine the wry smile, Ironhide hating to admit to desire, to tenderness, even on these terms, even this much.  He turned his cheek into the touches. 

Irohide growled, pushing off him, fighting his own battle for self-mastery. His hands were rough on the interface hatch, snapping it open with force.  Bluestreak arched up into it, trying to coax contact with his spike cover.  Ironhide shoved him down by the hip. “Control,” he snapped. 

Bluestreak whimpered, biting his lower lip plate as he forced himself to lie flat.  Ironhide’s hand teased over the covers, alternating between spike and valve, as if unable to decide. “Tell me,” Ironhide said, his voice neutral. “How’d the battle go?”

Bluestreak writhed, inwardly and outwardly. Did NOT want to think about After Action Review just now.  He groaned,” Fine! It went fine!”  Ironhide said nothing, his fingers continuing to tease around the equipment covers.  Bluestreak felt another dollop of lubricant ooze from his spike.  “Frag!” Bluestreak said, trying to keep himself still, as Ironhide required.  “Okay! I was a little high on a few of the last shots.  Still killshots, but not centermass!”

Ironhide tsked.  “Midfire corrections.”

“I know.”  Bluestreak squirmed, uncomfortable, his riled up desire colliding inside him, crashing against itself.  “I’ll do better next time.”

“Talk,” Ironhide said, dismissively.  “Just air.” But his voice had a strange, silky edge to it.  Bluestreak felt the EM field push against him, heard one hand land on the floor next to his audio.  The other hand dragged around his spike cover, which yielded, snicking open.  Another snort, strangely playful, and Bluestreak gasped as the other hand clamped around his slicked spike.  He squeaked, trying not to make a sound. 

“Goooood,” Ironhide murmured, his mouth close to Bluestreak’s audio. “Control.” His hand moved along the spike, twisting, pulling, tugging.  Bluestreak fought for his ventilation.

Bluestreak nodded, blindly.  Frag he wished he could touch Ironhide. But he wanted even more for Ironhide’s hand to keep up its gentle stroking of his spike.  His body thrummed with desire, electricity, confusion, adoration. Ironhide was everything to him.  His source of strength. The mech who had given him back a world worth having. The only voice, the only touch in this darkness, literal and symbolic.  He fought the urge to rise up, to surge his hips into Ironhide’s hand, forced himself to lie still.

He felt the charge prickle over his spike, across his sensornet, but it was only a secondary echo of desire, just a physical repeat of his real arousal. He felt more lubricant ooze, could feel Ironhide’s exvents with exquisite sensitivity across his chassis.  He could feel—he’d swear it—Ironhide’s gaze upon his spike, the dark fingers sliding up the silvery metal, flashes of brightness.  Ohhhh. It was so hard to concentrate, the sensations pouring through him like a wild cataract, his emotions tangled with the scent of gun oil, Ironhide’s warm vents, the hiss of his cooling fans and the hum of Ironhide’s engines and the slick wet sound of the hand on his spike.  It was impossible to separate the physical from the emotional, real from what his imagination was filling in against the velvety backdrop of his optics. He was always confused, always muddled, his sentences masses of parataxis, never ending run-ons of unsorted thoughts and feelings. 

He was, as Ironhide had always told him, a mess.  Needing discipline. Straightening out. Sorting.  Control.  He struggled with his breath, his head rolling back against the floor’s rubber, feeling his body quiver in time with Ironhide’s strokes at his spike.  His mouth opened, soundless save for the strange clicking of him overriding his vocalizer, the clicks in time with Ironhide’s motion on his spike.  His hands clutch together, finally seizing around his own thigh armor, hard enough to dent. The sudden pain caused a cool ripple across his heated sensornet.

He heard a growl, the only sign he had of Ironhide’s own arousal. While Bluestreak struggled to keep himself together, Ironhide was too contained.  Still, the sound, the tiny leak into Ironhide’s own arousal, pushed Bluestreak over the edge, as his processor fed him the image of Ironhide, hanging over him, taking him in, controlling him entirely, utterly.  He cried out, unable to contain himself, his body arching up off the floor, palms slapping down, as the overload fired through his systems. 

He trembled, feeling his transfluid spatter down across his chassis, Ironhide’s hand slowly, slowly, stopping its stroking movement.  “Sorry!” he gasped. “Sorry. I just couldn’t….” 

“Control,” Ironhide said, unwrapping his grip, one digit at a time, from the spike.  “Trigger finger.  Light pressure.”

Bluestreak grinned in the dark. “Should be a surprise when the hammer trips.”



 


Date: 2010-05-03 11:55 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ultharkitty.livejournal.com
Very nicely done. I know next to nothing about guns, but I absolutely love the description in the first section - and the parallels between training and the more intimate interaction with Ironhide.

Edited Date: 2010-05-03 11:56 am (UTC)

Date: 2010-05-03 12:36 pm (UTC)
katsuko: image of a lighthouse (Hellsing // Alucard)
From: [personal profile] katsuko
Somehow, I'm never going to look at Ironhide the same way again. And I love it!

I know Autobots aren't easy for you to write, but I think you pulled this one off marvelously. The descriptions are wonderful, and it's clear that you know your stuff where the technical know-how comes in.

Great work! Now off to procrastinate a little bit longer before trying to work on any writing....
(deleted comment)

Date: 2010-05-03 02:07 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] xxsomeoneelsexx.livejournal.com
hfdhsfadlfgnnnnnnnnn. That was awesome. You were a little off the kink, I suppose, but what with the parallelism and hotness, I do not mind in the slightest. 8D Parallelism is love.

Date: 2010-05-03 03:03 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] mmouse15.livejournal.com
Um...wow. I think I need to take a cold shower. That was blazingly hot and very sexy. I dunno about the kink, but the story rocks.

Date: 2010-05-03 03:06 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] aprilraven.livejournal.com
A good Monday morning read, and I'm so glad I did. :D A gruff, no-nonsense Ironhide, a Bluestreak who's not constantly talking *shock* and the parallels between gun training and hott are pure love. I think you write ABs rather well and I'd love to read more.

Date: 2010-05-03 03:32 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] sasuke-emosauce.livejournal.com
Oh. My. Primus. And you say you can't write Autobots. ^__^

His fingers caressed the long barrel, the swell and dip of its components familiar as a lover’s body, the metal’s finish sleek and satiny. It still had the smell of discharge—the high tang of electricity shot through metal—around it like an intoxicating perfume.

Entirely hot, and the ending--akdkjflsdg <3

Yeah, the scent of a freshly fired gun turns me on... *hides*

Date: 2010-05-03 04:45 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] dragonchickie.livejournal.com
Squee!!! You wrote Autobots like they are actually in the army and not just some carebear cuddlebunnies. :D I hate how so many fics totally ignore the war aspect. This is a very nice example of mixing a sniper's control with smut. If this is your example of 'don't write Autobots well', then PLEASE continue writing them. ;) We need more army life thrown in to the stories!

The end sentences wrapped up the fic oh so well:

“Control,” Ironhide said, unwrapping his grip, one digit at a time, from the spike. “Trigger finger. Light pressure.”

Bluestreak grinned in the dark. “Should be a surprise when the hammer trips.”

THAT sums up the gun kink perfectly.

Date: 2010-05-03 04:55 pm (UTC)
ext_8873: (Prowlicade)
From: [identity profile] darkdanc3r.livejournal.com
Hot. Damn.

This was absolutely gorgeously done. More than anything, I know enough about Ironhide - and I'm learning about Bluestreak - to see the gunkink under the training and memories. Asking about the battle even mid-tease, the line about the hammer tripping.

This was fun. And one hell of a way to start my work week.

Date: 2010-05-03 05:14 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] seiberwing.livejournal.com
You know, I think the reason I like this is that the smut is secondary to the characterization and development--the sex almost an afterthought compared to the people having the sex.

And that's how I like my porn.

Date: 2010-05-03 05:19 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] albydarned.livejournal.com
*incoherent sounds of happy and uncontrollable clapping*

YAY! It's so weird, that I've never seen and/or really thought about Bluestreak and Ironhide and their shared passion for guns. WOW. This was hot! It was just SO ... Ironhide trying to mold Bluestreak into a competent soldier and then so much MORE and it was sexy and powerful and woah.

I like Mondays because of you. ;)

Date: 2010-05-04 04:35 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] albydarned.livejournal.com
LOL, I will be finished with this semester in less than 24 hours, which will free me up to start writing again. Expect porntastic things in the future! (Any suggestions of what you might want to see? I'm always looking for inspiration!)
(deleted comment)

Date: 2010-05-03 06:46 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] quidamling.livejournal.com
Hun, I think you get Autobots better than most. They're soldiers, they have been for a long time, and the ones that can't hack that were weeded out ages ago. So the super fluffy Autobots are just... wrong.

Both sides think they are just as right, and doing just what needs to be done. The motivation is damn similar, I think it's just the mindset and tactics that change between factions.

Anyway. Damn, that worked. I liked Blue slowly settling into training (and just how bad a fit he was for a soldier at first) and the flickers of history Ironhide let slip. Nice work.

Date: 2010-05-03 06:54 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] spectrumpheonix.livejournal.com
I have no words. Epic, sheer epic. A very good take on the gun kink idea and with a strangly...workable pairing.

Date: 2010-05-03 07:24 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] konabluemustang.livejournal.com
hnnnnggggggggggg

Cold shower, I need one.

Date: 2010-05-04 01:17 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] konabluemustang.livejournal.com
Damn straight.

Please miss, may I has some more?

Date: 2010-05-03 07:45 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] femme4jack.livejournal.com
I have to take a cold shower every time you write Ironhide. And you say you can't write autobots? Whatever! This was hot!

Date: 2010-05-03 07:48 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] femme4jack.livejournal.com
PS. Please please please more Hide/Elina. Pretty please with Starscream on top?

Date: 2010-05-03 08:20 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] mpinsky.livejournal.com
Reads like gunkink to me! And the factual and technical descriptions are the icing on the cake. Yum!

Awesome sentence flow--read like poetry. Loved it.

I'm really at a loss for words for this one to describe just how well this one is written. Maybe when I'm more coherent, I'll get around to a real review. For now...*fans self*

Date: 2010-05-03 08:25 pm (UTC)
swordage: rotf Soundwave (giant robots are kinda obvious)
From: [personal profile] swordage
Oh. My. Goodness. I am so glad I waited to read this until I could devote some serious time to it. You totally nailed them spot-on! I love Bluestreak trying to reign himself in, and oh my gosh Ironhide. So big and looming and a peculiar mix of gruff, gentle, and hard as a rock. Beautiful. And my goodness, the opening scene - snuggling up to his gun - daaaamn that hit my kinks hard. :3

Date: 2010-05-04 12:24 am (UTC)
swordage: rotf Soundwave (giant robots are kinda obvious)
From: [personal profile] swordage
Psst, I do too! mmm gunpowder

I think you have a better handle on Autobots than you think. :3 And mmm, the contrast between Ironhide's cannons and Bluestreak's rifle is just, mmmm. Both of them are walking weapons in their own way, but the differences between them are very striking.

mmmm guns.

Date: 2010-05-03 11:08 pm (UTC)

Date: 2010-05-04 12:54 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] anontfwriter.livejournal.com
Awesome fic. Very hot. Keep up the good writing!

Date: 2010-05-04 05:00 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] 12012.livejournal.com
I absolutely LOVE how you manage to characterize our robo-bois so perfectly, Autobot and Decepticon alike. It's so nice to read fic about Bluestreak where he's actually stfu :D!

I always look forward to your stories - educational AND hot at the same time :)

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