Kick in the Head: Group Projects
Title: Kick in the Head: Group Projects
Fandom: Transformers
Characters/pairings: Ironhide/Wheeljack, mentioned Wheeljack/Ratchet/Ironhide
Rating: R
Summary: When two mechs finally find something they can both agree on, the results can be delightfully explosive.
Warnings: Plug-n-play mechporn, Gunkink.
Notes: Direct sequel to Cherrybombs. Should probably read Tug of War, too.
Table of Contents
o o o
Exhilaration.
He could only fire one cannon at a time, lest the recoil knock him on his aft, but they fired beautifully, by far the most exquisite weaponry he'd ever handled. The mechanisms were near-perfect, each piece moving with pinpoint precision along it's neighbors, impossibly complex and yet he could feel every screw and weld as if he had been born with it. He wasn't used to such craftsmanship from anyone but himself.
The silver-sharp tingle of deep scans reminded him he wasn't alone. Wheeljack stood at his side, his optics locked onto the weaponry - their weaponry - scanning every inch, monitoring every fluctuation. Ironhide almost told him to knock it off, but he resided. He may have designed the cannons, but Wheeljack had built them, entirely in his own precious spare time, an incredible gift from someone who normally greeted Ironhide with a barely hidden insult about his intelligence. Not that Ironhide didn't start most orns asking Wheeljack if he'd managed to bring one of his partners to a full overload yet, but that was just the pattern of their relationship.
If not for Ratchet, they might never have properly crossed paths. Sure, Ironhide knew who Wheeljack was before Ratchet had taken the inventor to his berth, but they had rarely talked, and it was always polite and cordial. Then Ratchet and Wheeljack had started fooling around, and Wheeljack had said something - Ironhide couldn't even remember what - that Ironhide took as a challenge, and while they had never come to a full argument, some of their exchanges had gotten quite barbed. By silent agreement, they kept Ratchet out of it as much as possible, but there was no denying that the medic was the crux of their bickering and insults.
And then one day, Wheeljack hadn't been in the mood to go a couple rounds in one of the lounges, like usual. He'd been going over some schematic, all but tearing out his own wiring in frustration over something or other, and Ironhide had pointed out that it looked like someone had added in extra lines that didn't belong. Wheeljack had gaped, Ironhide had smirked, and it didn't take them long before they were both leaning over the schematic, a tenuous truce between them as they poked it back into proper configuration. It continued, mostly whenever Ratchet wasn't around to laugh at them, and by the time Ironhide had brought out the designs for his dream cannons, they were almost sort of kind of friends.
Not that he particularly liked Wheeljack or anything. The mech just had a damn good processor for this kind of stuff.
And that kind of stuff was gorgeous. He'd need stabilizer gyros in his shoulders the size of his head, to take some of the kick out of the recoil, but they worked excellently, and as the target drones in the field were systematically destroyed, he felt a rush like he hadn't had in vorns. It felt so damn good, the flow of power from his core, down his arms and out in a blaze of plasma, the cycling of the pneumatic valves that launched each shot, the click-shift of each component-
"Left arm," he grunted. "A slide's catching, burred or something."
Wheeljack's vocal indicators flickered, a visual frown as Ironhide lowered his arm enough for Wheeljack to reach the cannon. "Where?" he demanded, his hand splitting into a couple dozen ridiculously thin fingers, each with its own tool in the tip.
Ironhide released the latches on the outer casing, the heady scent of plasma and hot metal wafting up from the cannon. "Here," Ironhide pointed. "Deep in, just under the linear isomat. Feels like it's catching on the transmicrometer." Well, almost perfect craftsmanship, anyway. With the high complexity of the twin cannons, a single burred slide wasn't anything to complain about. Wheeljack leaned closer, scanning furiously. "You're not going to catch it on a scan," Ironhide said impatiently. "The isomat's lead."
Wheeljack cursed, walking around the outstretched arm until he was on the inside, his back right up against Ironhide's chassis and the cannon in front of him and he started digging in, looking for the burred slide. Ironhide took a long, slow intake of air. The casing of the cannon was pretty much sensationally dormant, but the insides were highly sensitive, and Wheeljack's fingers were very particular about where they poked, and his frame against Ironhide felt just a little too much better than it should have and Ironhide blamed it all on the still-there rush he'd gotten while firing. He was a little too keyed up, too on edge, and if Ratchet or Optimus or even one of his occasional partners had walked in right then, he'd have them pinned up against a wall within a tick.
But there was only Wheeljack. Wheeljack, who he'd rarely touched, even when they had Ratchet trapped between them and all but wailing. Prickly Wheeljack, who traded snide insults and deeper jabs, who knew just how to get under a mech's armor and drive him insane with words alone-
-whose touch felt way too damn good right now.
Ironhide snapped off his vocalizer on a low moan, trying to suppress a full-body shudder as Wheeljack found the burred slide and attacked it with a tiny grinder. The components were still too new, too sensitive, and the sensation traveled straight up his arm. Primus, he was going to overload just standing here.
Wheeljack finished with the grinder and plugged his free hand into a couple jacks near Ironhide's elbow, forcing the cannon to cycle and monitoring the results. Smooth as graphite, and Ironhide clenched his other fist and shuttered his optics, trying not to think about how that felt. Wheeljack didn't stop at one cycle, flexing other parts of the cannon, testing, prodding, going over every bit with an engineer's obsessive perfection-
"Stop," Ironhide rasped.
"What, am I hurting you?" Wheeljack snorted, and Ironhide noted on some level that Wheeljack sounded just a little unsteady. The gun cycled again. "Primus 'Hide, can't take a little-"
Ironhide reached around Wheeljack to grab the tool-hand still deep in his arm. "Stop," he said again, low and dangerous and -Primus - and wanting, but he couldn't help it. Wheeljack twisted around in the cage of his arms, looking back and up at him without moving his hands. The vocal indicators that framed the engineer's face were brilliant in excitation, filaments of sun-bright lightning trolling the edges of the glass-covered plasma - static from his body discharging into the indicators. Wheeljack was enjoying this as much as he was.
Wheeljack looked at him for a long moment, then cycled the gun three times, hard and fast.
Ironhide didn't hold back this time. His hand dropped from Wheeljack's wrist to the engineer's midsection, dragging him back against his chassis, their engines revving. Wheeljack arched back against him, his hand working madly among the flexing pieces of the cannon. The constant cycling without actually shooting built up friction-induced current in the cannon, a too-pleasant ache whipped into harsh stabs of pleasure by Wheeljack's tools. Ironhide growled, snugging the right cannon up against a break in Wheeljack's chest armor, letting it thrum up to power.
Wheeljack whined, dropping his tools to clutch at Ironhide's wrist. Ironhide held the power in the cannon for as long as he dared, before he snapped it up to blast at one of the drones still skittering around the field. "Let me feel," Wheeljack groaned, fingers skittering along Ironhide's neck, looking for an access port. Ironhide allowed the connection, let Wheeljack link into his systems and piggyback on his neural network, not able to control but able to feel everything as he did.
Wheeljack kept cycling the left cannon, and Ironhide swung up the right again, his own sensations of the cannon combining with Wheeljack's hyperawareness of the machine he had built. The blast rocked them both badly, almost tumbling them to the ground, but Ironhide caught himself and braced them as he shot, again and again. Drones exploded in fast succession, almost faster than they could be sent from the central hub, and it was between one blast and the next that Wheeljack let out a garbled cry, overloading and somehow managing to direct the spiking current out through his hands. Ironhide let out a shout, spasming into his own overload, one last shot almost off-lining him.
Wheeljack seemed content to remain crushed up against his chassis for a moment, both hands still jacked into Ironhide's systems. Almost reluctantly, Ironhide straightened, short pangs marking the moment when Wheeljack disengaged. Until about a breem ago, he'd known exactly where he stood with Wheeljack, and now that was - literally- shot to pieces. He went to say something - what? - and was interrupted by laughter.
Slag. He knew that laugh.
Ratchet stood near the entrance to the firing range, his hands on his hips and his head thrown back in mirth. "I never though I'd see the day," he said, far too happily. "Where you two set aside your differences long enough to actually, ah, enjoy each other's company." He gave a conspiratory grin. "I'm fairly certain Tracks just made a large number of credits from the betting pool."
"Primus," Wheeljack muttered, folding his arms. "Did you just have to let the entire army know?"
"I didn't have to," Ratchet replied cheekily. "You two were making enough noise that I'm sure the Decepticons know, too." He turned and walked away, waggling his fingers back over his shoulder as he went. "Enjoy the rest of your orn, my friends," he said, before disappearing around a corner.
"For that," Ironhide said after a moment. "We are working him over until he overloads hard enough to blow a fuse."
"Agreed."
Fandom: Transformers
Characters/pairings: Ironhide/Wheeljack, mentioned Wheeljack/Ratchet/Ironhide
Rating: R
Summary: When two mechs finally find something they can both agree on, the results can be delightfully explosive.
Warnings: Plug-n-play mechporn, Gunkink.
Notes: Direct sequel to Cherrybombs. Should probably read Tug of War, too.
Table of Contents
o o o
Exhilaration.
He could only fire one cannon at a time, lest the recoil knock him on his aft, but they fired beautifully, by far the most exquisite weaponry he'd ever handled. The mechanisms were near-perfect, each piece moving with pinpoint precision along it's neighbors, impossibly complex and yet he could feel every screw and weld as if he had been born with it. He wasn't used to such craftsmanship from anyone but himself.
The silver-sharp tingle of deep scans reminded him he wasn't alone. Wheeljack stood at his side, his optics locked onto the weaponry - their weaponry - scanning every inch, monitoring every fluctuation. Ironhide almost told him to knock it off, but he resided. He may have designed the cannons, but Wheeljack had built them, entirely in his own precious spare time, an incredible gift from someone who normally greeted Ironhide with a barely hidden insult about his intelligence. Not that Ironhide didn't start most orns asking Wheeljack if he'd managed to bring one of his partners to a full overload yet, but that was just the pattern of their relationship.
If not for Ratchet, they might never have properly crossed paths. Sure, Ironhide knew who Wheeljack was before Ratchet had taken the inventor to his berth, but they had rarely talked, and it was always polite and cordial. Then Ratchet and Wheeljack had started fooling around, and Wheeljack had said something - Ironhide couldn't even remember what - that Ironhide took as a challenge, and while they had never come to a full argument, some of their exchanges had gotten quite barbed. By silent agreement, they kept Ratchet out of it as much as possible, but there was no denying that the medic was the crux of their bickering and insults.
And then one day, Wheeljack hadn't been in the mood to go a couple rounds in one of the lounges, like usual. He'd been going over some schematic, all but tearing out his own wiring in frustration over something or other, and Ironhide had pointed out that it looked like someone had added in extra lines that didn't belong. Wheeljack had gaped, Ironhide had smirked, and it didn't take them long before they were both leaning over the schematic, a tenuous truce between them as they poked it back into proper configuration. It continued, mostly whenever Ratchet wasn't around to laugh at them, and by the time Ironhide had brought out the designs for his dream cannons, they were almost sort of kind of friends.
Not that he particularly liked Wheeljack or anything. The mech just had a damn good processor for this kind of stuff.
And that kind of stuff was gorgeous. He'd need stabilizer gyros in his shoulders the size of his head, to take some of the kick out of the recoil, but they worked excellently, and as the target drones in the field were systematically destroyed, he felt a rush like he hadn't had in vorns. It felt so damn good, the flow of power from his core, down his arms and out in a blaze of plasma, the cycling of the pneumatic valves that launched each shot, the click-shift of each component-
"Left arm," he grunted. "A slide's catching, burred or something."
Wheeljack's vocal indicators flickered, a visual frown as Ironhide lowered his arm enough for Wheeljack to reach the cannon. "Where?" he demanded, his hand splitting into a couple dozen ridiculously thin fingers, each with its own tool in the tip.
Ironhide released the latches on the outer casing, the heady scent of plasma and hot metal wafting up from the cannon. "Here," Ironhide pointed. "Deep in, just under the linear isomat. Feels like it's catching on the transmicrometer." Well, almost perfect craftsmanship, anyway. With the high complexity of the twin cannons, a single burred slide wasn't anything to complain about. Wheeljack leaned closer, scanning furiously. "You're not going to catch it on a scan," Ironhide said impatiently. "The isomat's lead."
Wheeljack cursed, walking around the outstretched arm until he was on the inside, his back right up against Ironhide's chassis and the cannon in front of him and he started digging in, looking for the burred slide. Ironhide took a long, slow intake of air. The casing of the cannon was pretty much sensationally dormant, but the insides were highly sensitive, and Wheeljack's fingers were very particular about where they poked, and his frame against Ironhide felt just a little too much better than it should have and Ironhide blamed it all on the still-there rush he'd gotten while firing. He was a little too keyed up, too on edge, and if Ratchet or Optimus or even one of his occasional partners had walked in right then, he'd have them pinned up against a wall within a tick.
But there was only Wheeljack. Wheeljack, who he'd rarely touched, even when they had Ratchet trapped between them and all but wailing. Prickly Wheeljack, who traded snide insults and deeper jabs, who knew just how to get under a mech's armor and drive him insane with words alone-
-whose touch felt way too damn good right now.
Ironhide snapped off his vocalizer on a low moan, trying to suppress a full-body shudder as Wheeljack found the burred slide and attacked it with a tiny grinder. The components were still too new, too sensitive, and the sensation traveled straight up his arm. Primus, he was going to overload just standing here.
Wheeljack finished with the grinder and plugged his free hand into a couple jacks near Ironhide's elbow, forcing the cannon to cycle and monitoring the results. Smooth as graphite, and Ironhide clenched his other fist and shuttered his optics, trying not to think about how that felt. Wheeljack didn't stop at one cycle, flexing other parts of the cannon, testing, prodding, going over every bit with an engineer's obsessive perfection-
"Stop," Ironhide rasped.
"What, am I hurting you?" Wheeljack snorted, and Ironhide noted on some level that Wheeljack sounded just a little unsteady. The gun cycled again. "Primus 'Hide, can't take a little-"
Ironhide reached around Wheeljack to grab the tool-hand still deep in his arm. "Stop," he said again, low and dangerous and -Primus - and wanting, but he couldn't help it. Wheeljack twisted around in the cage of his arms, looking back and up at him without moving his hands. The vocal indicators that framed the engineer's face were brilliant in excitation, filaments of sun-bright lightning trolling the edges of the glass-covered plasma - static from his body discharging into the indicators. Wheeljack was enjoying this as much as he was.
Wheeljack looked at him for a long moment, then cycled the gun three times, hard and fast.
Ironhide didn't hold back this time. His hand dropped from Wheeljack's wrist to the engineer's midsection, dragging him back against his chassis, their engines revving. Wheeljack arched back against him, his hand working madly among the flexing pieces of the cannon. The constant cycling without actually shooting built up friction-induced current in the cannon, a too-pleasant ache whipped into harsh stabs of pleasure by Wheeljack's tools. Ironhide growled, snugging the right cannon up against a break in Wheeljack's chest armor, letting it thrum up to power.
Wheeljack whined, dropping his tools to clutch at Ironhide's wrist. Ironhide held the power in the cannon for as long as he dared, before he snapped it up to blast at one of the drones still skittering around the field. "Let me feel," Wheeljack groaned, fingers skittering along Ironhide's neck, looking for an access port. Ironhide allowed the connection, let Wheeljack link into his systems and piggyback on his neural network, not able to control but able to feel everything as he did.
Wheeljack kept cycling the left cannon, and Ironhide swung up the right again, his own sensations of the cannon combining with Wheeljack's hyperawareness of the machine he had built. The blast rocked them both badly, almost tumbling them to the ground, but Ironhide caught himself and braced them as he shot, again and again. Drones exploded in fast succession, almost faster than they could be sent from the central hub, and it was between one blast and the next that Wheeljack let out a garbled cry, overloading and somehow managing to direct the spiking current out through his hands. Ironhide let out a shout, spasming into his own overload, one last shot almost off-lining him.
Wheeljack seemed content to remain crushed up against his chassis for a moment, both hands still jacked into Ironhide's systems. Almost reluctantly, Ironhide straightened, short pangs marking the moment when Wheeljack disengaged. Until about a breem ago, he'd known exactly where he stood with Wheeljack, and now that was - literally- shot to pieces. He went to say something - what? - and was interrupted by laughter.
Slag. He knew that laugh.
Ratchet stood near the entrance to the firing range, his hands on his hips and his head thrown back in mirth. "I never though I'd see the day," he said, far too happily. "Where you two set aside your differences long enough to actually, ah, enjoy each other's company." He gave a conspiratory grin. "I'm fairly certain Tracks just made a large number of credits from the betting pool."
"Primus," Wheeljack muttered, folding his arms. "Did you just have to let the entire army know?"
"I didn't have to," Ratchet replied cheekily. "You two were making enough noise that I'm sure the Decepticons know, too." He turned and walked away, waggling his fingers back over his shoulder as he went. "Enjoy the rest of your orn, my friends," he said, before disappearing around a corner.
"For that," Ironhide said after a moment. "We are working him over until he overloads hard enough to blow a fuse."
"Agreed."