Chapter Text
“Hey, Bulkhead. Thought we were in a fuel shortage.” Breakdown slugged his nineteeth mug of Visco: cheap factory runoff, and it left a salty film on his lips. So did the handful of ammonium-salted wheelnuts. “Share some with the rest of us, will you?”
He slapped his own belly. Immediately he regretted it: he’d eaten more than he’d thought, and his tanks gurgled and roiled. A warning flashed up on his HUD: primary tank at 97% capacity.
For the last metacycle he’d come to the Dirty Mudflap almost nightly. Knock Out’s placement exams were approaching, and Knock Out came home from the cadaver lab only to recharge (and that rarely); so Breakdown had taken to refueling at the bar after his shifts.
In the greasy darkness at the edge of the bar, leaning against the wall to balance the leaden weight of his tanks, he was almost invisible. He’d watched the gladiatorial matches and the lobbing championships, exchanging anonymous small talk with the barmech. And he’d drunk his pay, gallon by gallon, until picking a fight seemed inevitable—
“Fuel shortage?” The white mech in Bulkhead’s shadow sipped his own drink, optics narrow. “You drink it all, buddy?”
“C’mon, Jackie.” Bulkhead glanced away, though in the reflected neon light Breakdown caught the bitter set of his jaw. (Breakdown reveled in it.) “He’s not worth it.”
Breakdown’s faceplate heated—or perhaps the Visco was kicking in at last. He moved to rise, his hammer-hand twitching. Itching to be used.
The weight in his tanks had other ideas. Auxiliary fuel tank at 49% capacity.
Primus.
Breakdown sat down with a grunt. In the back of his intake he tasted salt. His tanks seemed to occupy his whole frame, pressing insistently against his engine block and ammo magazines; as he shifted his weight, his grille dug into a roll of mesh, his armor pinching the tender circuitry.
His engine sputtered with humiliation. He was too full to stand.
“I’ve been wondering, Bulkhead,” he growled, voicebox crackling. Breakdown steadied himself against the bar; his vents hissed. His gaze drilled like an auger through Bulkhead. “How’s it feel to have your own gravitational field?”
They’d wrestled in grease-stained alleyways, rolling and kicking and clawing at each other’s seams. He’d felt Bulkhead’s weight pinning him down, felt the soft mesh under his belly-plating give way beneath a staggering blow.
He’d thrown insults like punches. On Velocitron he’d learned a whole arsenal of fat jokes: quick haymakers; low and dirty blows; slashes through the tender mesh, right down to the Spark. He’d never hesitated. It had been easy, mean-spirited; he’d felt lazy and mean.
But he’d never been really aware of Bulkhead’s weight, of his ponderous movements. Of how he must be compensating for the iron ballast of his belly, leaning slightly back. Of how his armor fit him perfectly—though until tonight Breakdown had taken that for granted—
“You like it, huh? You’re real proud of being bigger’n Unicron?” The low menace in his tone was spoiled by a belch. Breakdown’s cheeks warmed, but he continued. “Hey, Bulkhead, I’m gonna launch your fat backside into orbit. Maybe I’ll call you Luna-3. You like that?” A tipsy laugh welled up in him, and another belch. He tasted Visco, salty and sickly-sweet. “How’s it feel, being—”
Bulkhead shook his head, disgust in his weak blue optics. Breakdown grinned; he’d scored a point.
But Bulkhead’s friend chuckled. “Keep packing it away, you’re gonna find out.”
He was too full to drive. On the transport home he slumped across three seats, rubbing his sides, watching the neon lights blur into streaks. The transport smelled faintly of salt and old grease, and as he shifted his weight the smell of ancient frying oil leached from the padding; to his annoyance he realized his chemoreceptors were tingling. As if expecting more food.
Eighty-three shanix for the food and the Visco. Five shanix for the transport. He’d eaten an entire solar cycle’s pay, mindlessly, because he’d liked the warmth in his tanks.
Breakdown glared, eyelids half-shuttered, at the elderly Disposable in the opposite seat. “You looking at something, lady?”
On his second try he made it up the fire stairs to their squatters’ habsuite; the rusted-out iron creaked threateningly beneath his weight. (Had it always?)
Knock Out stirred, his vocoder chirping, as Breakdown lowered himself gingerly into the cramped berth. “Getting a little contact buzz off you, big boy.”
“Drank too much.” His tanks felt bloated, as if he’d been filled with warm lead. There seemed no comfortable position; he shifted from side to side, keeping his weight off his belly, and groaned. “Ate too much.”
Knock Out opened one optic, then the other. A shadowy smile flitted across his faceplate. “That’s a first.”
“Real funny.” Breakdown knew that look; that look meant trouble. He rolled over, into the warm darkness, rubbing his aching gut. “Not tonight. I’m gonna bust a gasket if I move.”
His aux tank gurgled. Through his plating he felt his engine hum, soothing coolant trickling through delicate reserve lines. Even those felt strained. Stretched to their limit under his tanks’ weight. Cautiously he kneaded a seam with a knuckle.
The lower plate gave, with a tiny clink, and sprang back. Where he’d expected taut cable and unyielding strut, his probing finger met a soft bulge of mesh. He pulled back. Felt the mesh relax, swelling against the inside of his armor. Filling in the gaps. Pressing the plating gently outward.
That was new.
“Huh.” It came out dazed. Staticky. Strangled-sounding, as if the weight in his tanks were crushing his voicebox.
Knock Out slung an arm around him from behind, nestling softly against Breakdown’s back. Their berth was inset into the wall, with barely enough space for two. You put on any weight, Knock Out had drawled as they’d built it, and I’ll be recharging on top of your big blue bumper. A circuit blazed in Breakdown’s storage banks; the memory flashed, electric, through his mind.
“Swallow your voicebox along with all that fuel, Breakdown?” Knock Out’s fingers traced over his forearm, making him shiver and buck, and down to his belly. His claws ghosted along the seams—
—and if anyone would feel the weight and the strain and the burning tingle in his fiber optics, the soft swell beneath his armor, Knock Out would, and though his mind was swimming, Breakdown braced himself—
“Sure feels like you did. What have you got in there?” And there was shock in Knock Out’s voice, and a low raw edge of delight. “You’re ready to pop.”
He knew that tone. It hit like a thunderclap.
“Med school teach you that?” He’d tensed; now he relaxed into Knock Out’s arms, pinned down by the weight of his tanks. So he felt the wave of charge rush through Knock Out, felt the little stutter of his engine.
Knock Out’s hands kneaded his belly, strong and confident. Feeling along his flanks for the thinner armor. Pressing deep through the mesh, in tight taunting circles. “Oh, somebody’s full.”
He was; he grunted softly. The pressure danced on the edge of pain, his tanks roiling. He tasted Visco, muddy on his chemical receptors, and the bright ozone of Knock Out’s arousal.
“Does that hurt, Breakdown? Burp once for yes. Twice for no.” Knock Out’s claws dug deep.
Breakdown’s faceplate blazed—with embarrassment, he told himself dimly. He buried his face in the berth. “There anything that doesn’t get you revved up?”
For Knock Out had slung a leg around his thigh, grinding against his aft with little squeaks of metal on metal. “You’re too full to move. I could take your big juicy aft right here—” He broke off, his voice rising. “Mm. Been too long.”
It had. Breakdown rolled his optics, grinning reluctantly. “I’m beat. Service yourself and power down.”
Though Knock Out’s smirking delight was infectious.
“Breakdown.” Knock Out’s voice was tense as garrotte wire. “At least some oral? Wouldn’t be the first thing you’ve had down your intake tonight.”
His fingers tightened on the berth. Knock Out’s hands were sweet bliss; beneath them the ache dissolved into sleepy contentment. The mesh vibrated, sensitive and warm, at the frequency of his engine. Jiggling slightly.
“You kidding?” The words found his synth before he could stop them. “I’m packed so full, your connector's gonna bust me open.”
A come-on. Knock Out knew him well enough to recognize that.
He felt Knock Out’s motor hitch, jarring his whole system. Against his hip, Knock Out’s plate slid back with a well-oiled click; at the slick hot nudge of his connector, Breakdown let out a growl. Ground back.
“What say I open you up?” purred Knock Out, and his connector slipped with a soft squelch between Breakdown’s thighs. It vibrated with the buzz of their tangled bodies, its ridges brushing warm and wet over Breakdown’s plating. Setting his fiber optics alight. “Give your port a little loving.”
He considered, for long nanocycles, while Knock Out’s hands cradled his belly and Knock Out’s connector rubbed tenderly over sensitive plating. “Nah.” It came out in a stifled groan. “Too full.”
“Spoilsport,” drawled Knock Out into his armor. With a shudder and a moan he thrust, forward and back, arms wrapped around Breakdown’s belly. Falling into an easy pounding rhythm.
A haze of warm charge was building in the space between them. Breakdown tasted it, letting the air flow over his chemoreceptors. His optics shuttered, pulling him into welcome darkness.
His whole world was the tender fullness of his tanks, the sweet slick heat of Knock Out’s connector sliding between his thighs. Pressing tauntingly against his plate.
“Nice thighs.” Knock Out’s voice was choked. “A little something for the pushing.” His hands dug deep, squeezing and rubbing through the armor. A little pain, then. It danced on his fiber optics.
This was good, thought Breakdown dizzily, this was better than anything—
He was beyond words. He grunted and huffed, bucking back against Knock Out, his aft rubbing Knock Out’s perfectly taut stomach. Teasing him back.
“No, you don’t—”
A quick flurry of slaps and pinches to his gut. His armor might have been tinfoil, so sensitive was his belly. Breakdown groaned. Fingers digging into the berth. Jaw clenching until bright stars popped in his processor.
“You’ve had your fun fueling up, big boy,” whispered Knock Out, over the creak and squish of his connector sliding forward and back. His voice hitched, static breaking through. “Now it’s my turn to play with you like a big, squirming toy crammed full of stuffing—”
He pressed his faceplate, scorching and damp with condensate, into Breakdown’s back. The air rushing from his vents was hot, humid, choking Breakdown’s circuits.
Breakdown squeezed his thighs together, around the sweet crackling charge. Panting, his fans picking up. Gritting his teeth, as if the pleasure would break him.
They moved as one.
Knock Out’s whole body jerked, grinding into Breakdown. A stream of static poured unbroken from his synthesizer. Transfluid pumped in spurts, hot with electrical charge, over Breakdown’s thighs; the current spread through him, over him, in warm waves. Filling him up.
Knock Out’s overload was heady as Visco. Breakdown’s head swam with it. For the second time that night he felt sated.
Knock Out’s fingers traced the seam of his thigh, swiping through the thick fluid. A talon brushed Breakdown’s lip; automatically he opened, and obediently he licked it clean. Knock Out tasted almost sweet. The residual charge buzzed on Breakdown’s lips.
“Good boy,” gasped Knock Out, his vocalizer clicking. He slumped against Breakdown’s back, his warmth wonderfully grounding.
Breakdown felt a smug grin tug at his lips. Still he did not open his optics. “You’re easy.”
“Guilty as charged, big boy.” It felt pointed. “You scratched my itch. Want me to scratch yours?”
And indeed, the warmth pulsed still between Breakdown’s thighs, beneath his plating. Scarcely distinguishable from the warm ache of his full belly. He felt heavy and weighed down; he felt content. “Nah. Rather just sleep this off.”
They lay in near-silence, listening to the steady rumble of Breakdown’s engine and the gurgle of his tanks. After a cycle, Knock Out stretched with a series of clicks, going for the cleaning cloths.
“I’d say that burned a few kilojoules, eh?”
The berth felt abruptly very large and very empty. Breakdown curled in on himself, grunting at the pressure on his tanks, at the pinch of a roll of mesh in his armor. “I can lose this, no problem. Gimme a couple quartexes.”
A moment’s silence, but for the squeak of cloth on Knock Out’s sleek plating. “Right.” His synth clicked. “Could do that.”
They’d known each other too long. He could envision Knock Out’s expression perfectly: the raised brows, the tight mouth.
He searched for words, finding only a low growl.
“Really, it’s barely noticeable. Wasn’t sure myself until tonight.” A neat little laugh. The too-polished laugh of a mech avoiding something. “Armor like yours can hide a lot.”
Breakdown shifted, slinging an arm over his optics. He was in no hurry, he decided, to meet Knock Out’s gaze. “You gonna make this weird?”
His free hand found the dings and fresh scuffs where Knock Out’s talons had dug into his plating. Where Knock Out had groped his belly eagerly as they interfaced.
“Moi? Never. Can’t imagine how.” Knock Out settled with a hydraulic whir into the berth. Almost tenderly he spread Breakdown’s legs, swiping a warm rag along his seams. “Your thighs really are luscious. Sturdy. Always thought so.”
He was a bad liar. He’d always been a bad liar, or else Breakdown knew him too well by now.
“Not like you to get embarrassed. Touchy subject?” It hung in the air. Knock Out’s hand lingered on his inner thigh, waiting. He pushed forward, though his voicebox felt made of tar. “You want me to keep it on, you say so.”
It seemed to sizzle on his lips. A little pulse of current washed through him.
Between his legs, Knock Out shifted. The air seemed charged again, as if any movement would shatter the silence with crackling arcs of electricity. “You’re no racer—”
“No scrap.”
“Never been what I’d call svelte. Built for brute strength, not speed.” Knock Out paused delicately. “Big fuel tank. Bigger appetite.” His voice crackled, synth humming. “Heavy-duty.”
Breakdown grunted agreement, cutting him off. Mercifully, he thought. “Say it.”
He buried his faceplate in the crook of his elbow, optics squeezed shut. He sounded, he knew, more certain than he felt.
Knock Out vented sharply; Breakdown heard his lights click on. “Takes two to tango, Breakdown, and I’m not the only one with a little kink here. Or should I say a big kink?”
The tension in the air discharged. Breakdown could almost feel the snap.
And before Breakdown could blurt a response, Knock Out was up, padding to the door. “Should hose off. Get some recharge, big guy.”
The door squeaked shut. A cycle later, solvent spattered the fire stairs rhythmically, like mercury rain.