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Encrypted Communications

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“I pulled up your specs. Real heavy-duty. Aren’t you just something?”

The connection crackles, the video feed juddering and cutting out. Breakdown curses, thumping his commlink; in the unshielded slums of Delta, an errant radiation pulse can fry the whole array.

Knock Out’s voice is maddening. “You’re still coming through loud and clear, big boy. Stretch out. Show me those struts.”

The berth’s deserted this early. Breakdown glances round, all the same.

“Aw, you don’t wanna see that--” Nervousness pulses in his fuel lines; his engine purrs. He shifts his bulk, berth creaking.

“I showed you mine last time. Now you show me yours.” There’s a commanding edge in Knock Out’s tone.

Breakdown shivers. He’s still picking glossy wax off his chassis; Knock Out’s talons left delicate gouges. Breakdown traces them, remembering the heat of his touch, how his servos bit deep in the heat of the moment--

Remembering how Knock Out moaned, uninhibited and sweet--

But now he’s controlled, tight. “Come on, Breakdown. Don’t be shy .”

That does it; his engine revs. Breakdown never could resist a challenge.

“You asked for it.” He leans back, grunting, spreading his thighs with a hydraulic whirr. He’s too heavy to move as silently as a racer. He wonders if Knock Out felt his motors buzz under his talons.

He smells of motor oil, of mine dust, of hard labor.

Knock Out’s red paint gleams still on his hips.

“Oh. Oh, you’re massive.” Knock Out coos. Breakdown imagines his optics widening with cold delight. “That plating’s fifteen centimeters thick. Maybe twenty. That’d hold up to just about anything.”

It’s impossible to miss the leer. Breakdown’s fuel lines burn. He glances away, into the dingy darkness--

--but there’s nowhere to escape Knock Out’s voice, washing over him like the heat of a furnace.

“I bet I couldn’t even make a dent in you.”

“You’re a real aficionado.” Breakdown grits his dentae, feeling too exposed by half. “You got some kinda kink?”

“I’ve got your vital statistics on my end, Breakdown, so don’t get too mouthy. Mm. Seventeen tons. I can see it.”

Breakdown flushes. He’s heard it all before--heavy-duty, thick-treads--but rarely with such naked lust.

He’s not sure he likes Knock Out, all slick swagger and too-keen gaze. He can picture that gaze, pinning him like a specimen--

--but he likes Knock Out’s voice, and his chassis prickles with arousal. The air seems thick, hazy.

“Your racer buddies know you like ‘em big?”

Knock Out brushes it off with a cold laugh. “All muscle, too. Look at those arms. You could crumple me, easy.”

His fans whir, venting the heat rising through him. “That an invitation?”

“Pull back your plating.” Knock Out’s voice is hungry. No. Carnivorous. “I want to see what you’re packing.”

It’s been a while since he’s felt so wanted.

The berth’s dark, suffocatingly warm, the night heavy with dust and exhaust. Breakdown tastes his own lubricant on the air, sweet and faintly coppery. He’s getting wet already.

“Slag,” he breathes, shifting again, his legs falling open. “You, uh, you liking the view?”

“I’d pay for this.” Knock Out chitters. Breakdown imagines him languid and bored, running a delicate servo over his own chassis. “Plate off . No dawdling.”

Breakdown growls. “Hey. Easy.”

He reaches down, lets thick fingers linger on his plating, hands shaking a little with humiliation or desire. The heat’s pulsating, leaking through his plate, coiled like a spring ready to explode out.

A spark leaps from his plate to his finger. Breakdown grunts, pulls back. The pain’s heady; he tastes it as much as he feels it.

Electric blue lubricant leaks through his seams, puddling on the berth.

It’s been a few meta-cycles. Yesterday barely took the edge off.

“Thinking about me?” Knock Out purrs.

Breakdown’s voice catches. “Yeah.”

“I can almost smell you, all raw and dirty, all over me--”

Something clicks on the other end. He wonders if Knock Out’s pulling his own plating back. He remembers the sweet clean smell of racer lubricant, the biolights glistening round Knock Out’s inductor, the staticky crackle as they interfaced.

Breakdown presses deep. The plate sinks back, sliding with a soft hiss into his groin. Beneath his mesh is glowing faintly, sticky with lubricant. His terminals click, discharging into the air, faster and faster as his fingers brush around the hot metal rim of his plating. Breakdown’s fingers tingle.

“Mm.” Knock Out vents sharply. “You’re so wet. I can almost taste it.”

Breakdown shudders. By now Knock Out ought to be in his lap, grinding away--

Knock Out’s invisible presence is as sharp as the static. The crackle grows louder, staccato, Breakdown’s terminals dumping charge. His whole frame’s hot with electricity.

His jack leaks electrode gel, salty and bluish, mingling with his lubricant. Breakdown’s fingertip brushes over the slit in his mesh, coming away soaked.

It’s been a few meta-cycles--

Knock Out’s voice cuts through the haze in his processor.

“You’re making a real mess, Breakdown. Look at you. Someone’s going to have to clean that up.”

Knock Out groans a little at the thought. Breakdown shivers.

He’s got dazzling Knock Out moaning and rubbing his terminals--

“I bet you taste just amazing. Look at that cute little jack, all soaking wet. I’d like to lap that up.”

“Aw. You don’t wanna--”

But his hand moves unthinkingly, fingertip pressing into his jack. He’s not quite ready, the mesh still resisting, aching, sickly and hot. Lubricant and electrode gel trickle down his finger.

Breakdown’s hips buck, joints squeaking.

This isn’t his first time at the racetrack--

--but he’s never done it for an audience. With Auger he interfaced in pitch blackness, lit only by their biolights, fingers fumbling on metal damp with mineshaft condensation; Crosscut he brought to overload with hands and glossa alone.

So dirty, Crosscut whispered, half in disgust, half in arousal. So crude, so brutish, stinking of mine--

Now Knock Out watches, ravenous and rapacious.

“Push it in,” breathes Knock Out, his voice rising a little. “All the way.”

There’s a frantic note in his voice. His synthesizer stutters.

It occurs to Breakdown that he’s got Knock Out by the wires.

“Can’t do it,” he rasps, venting hard. “Look at that. Can’t even get it in there--”

He calculated right, and Knock Out groans again.

“You’re so big--”

Breakdown brushes a fingertip over his jack again, spreading warm lubricant. His terminals clatter frantically.

One by one, biolights click to life. Breakdown’s mesh glows dimly, the gold of his eyes, lighting his fingers.

“So big.” It feels taboo, more intimate than a curse. “You like that?”

“You can’t even get your fingers in your jack --”

He should be insulted, but Knock Out’s tone is worshipful.

And it’s not humiliation that surges hot in Breakdown’s core.

“So damn big,” he rasps instead, raising a fingertip to his mouth. His lubricant tastes--

--mineral, yes, of mine and sweat and hard labor.

Uncertainly Breakdown sucks his finger clean.

It tastes good.

He slumps against the berth wall, his engine humming.

“How’s the view?” he gasps.

“Primus, you’re breathtaking.” For all that Knock Out still sounds almost controlled, though he’s venting hard, too. “You’re a marvel. Forget heavy-duty. You’re a tank .”

Breakdown’s terminals crackle, discharging hard. His lights flicker on, almost blinding in the cramped berth; Breakdown screws up his optics.

“You’re losing control--” Knock Out pants. “You hunk--you big brawny beast --”

Breakdown groans, shaking his head a little.

“Put it in.” Knock Out’s voice shakes. “Just one finger. Feel the stretch. No--don’t take out your inductor--”

He thinks he could get used to taking orders from Knock Out.

Breakdown spreads wider, raises his hips from the berth to make room. Presses his finger against his warm tight jack.

He grits his dentae again, feeling himself open, hot and prickling with static. His mesh squeaks, stretching.

His finger slips, by fractions, inside.

“Frag--” growls Breakdown, overwhelmed. The pressure’s maddening. His whole hand is alight with static.

“Good boy,” coos Knock Out. “Hold it there. Really feel it. Aw--” There’s a leer in it now. “You’re squirming--”

And he is. A low moan escapes Breakdown.

“Now relax.”

He’s no more capable of resisting Knock Out than he is of protesting. Breakdown clenches his jaw. Bears down.

The mesh clinks, links pulling taut.

“Don’t hold back, big guy. Make some noise.” Knock Out’s voice is wicked.

Breakdown whimpers, really whimpers. Every twitch of his servo sends a wave of shock through him, brushing inner nodes. His terminals blaze, clicking too fast to follow.

Knock Out tuts. Vents. “I said--”

Breakdown grunts through his dentae. He’s gushing around his finger, tasting hot steel and lubricant. With every motion he discharges static.

“Did you hear me, Breakdown?”

Breakdown nods, not trusting himself to speak.

“Not good enough,” snaps Knock Out. “Did you hear me?”

Breakdown’s optics cycle off. For a moment there is nothing but the taste of exhaust, the burn of his mesh around his finger.

“I heard you.”

“Good boy,” purrs Knock Out, maddening, intoxicating. “Now rub your terminals. I want to hear that big old motor roar .”

Breakdown rubs his terminals, his thumb popping with charge. His whole groin’s lit up in soft golden biolight. And his motor’s growling.

Venting heat, moving as slow as he dares, he works his finger in and out. The tip hits some hot node just inside his jack, stretching it, and Breakdown moans--really moans. His plating burns.

With every thrust he pushes a little deeper. Breakdown’s thumb circles his rim.

“I knew I wanted you--” Knock Out breaks off, and Breakdown imagines him finger-deep in his own jack, optics hazy. “As soon as I saw you. You’re magnificent. Better than magnificent. Seventeen tons. You’re a titan. And Breakdown, you’re going to learn--”

The connection crackles. Knock Out must, Breakdown guesses, be close to overload. The thought sends a wave of charge down his struts.

“I always get what I want--”

Breakdown’s finger plunges into his mesh.

He’s overloaded dry before, his inductor still tucked away. Still it hits him by surprise.

Something pops, like a flashbulb behind his optics. Breakdown hears himself roar, lights flashing, free fist pounding the berth.

“You’re beautiful --” The connection frays, dissolving for a nanocycle into static.

Breakdown’s finger slides free, the finish blue with lubricant. His jack aches already, sweet and warm like a fresh bruise.

He slumps back, venting waves of heat. Kliks pass. One by one the terminals die away, though the air’s still heady with charge.

“Clean yourself up,” whispers Knock Out, crystal clear in his audial, all business again. “I can’t wait to see you again, big boy.”

Breakdown grunts. It could mean anything.

He takes his time sitting up, surveying the damage. His jack’s throbbing, lubricant and conductive gel still dripping from the slit. Searingly blue lubricant stains his thighs, his berth, his finger to the first knuckle. He tastes Energon--he must’ve bitten his glossa, he realizes.

He’s a mess. In the close air he smells unmistakably of sex, of cheap and mineral miner-lubricant.

Breakdown’s core throbs with humiliation.

The connection winks out. Breakdown lies alone in his berth, willing his fellows not to return.

Longing to have Knock Out say big boy once more, with desire, not contempt.