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Breakdown has never quite understood the appeal of human culture, nor has he been able to wrap his thought processor around his partner’s affinity for it.
Perhaps his own unpleasant experiences with the fleshies - as he has deigned to call the inferior organic lifeforms - have left him with something of a bias; and the void left by his optic aches at the thought, leaving him with a scowl and a tension in his servos.
Your faceplates will age prematurely if you keep doing that. Knockout’s admonishment echoes in his audio receptors. He can still feel the way those slender digits had caressed his helm before teasing his mouth, eliciting a much more pleasing grin. You’re far too young to lose that luster of yours.
When he enters their shared quarters, however, he’s greeted not with any form of chastisement but a simple hum of acknowledgement; a blessing compared to other days, where his presence goes ignored until Knockout can be roused out of his stupor.
A familiar sight awaits him: Knockout, perched on his berth, the very essence of poise with his posture erect and legs dangling tantalizingly over the edge. One servo rests against his chin while the other cradles one of those primitive forms of literature.
Knockout goes about the simple task of reading in the same manner he does everything else - with an unparalleled grace. Some may find it superfluous, but the sight never fails to make Breakdown’s spark burn just a little brighter. As he ambles towards his own berth he can’t help but observe the way those dexterous digits turn the pages of the tome with fluid movements. He picks up the subtle fluctuation in his partner’s field, the pleased flicker it gives at how tactile the experience is. Data pads lack the same sort of charm.
“You’ve been doin’ a lot of reading lately.” A thud punctuates the act of him sitting down. “The fleshbags really write anything decent?”
“You’d be surprised.” Knockout finally spares a glance upward, his look of intense concentration giving way to a burgeoning smile. “For such unappealing creatures, their imagination is certainly admirable.”
Breakdown gives a noncommittal grunt. He props his legs up on the berth, venting in satisfaction as relief comes instantaneously. “Boss’ been working us into the ground lately. Must be getting desperate.”
“Mhm.”
After that brief moment of respite, Knockout resumes his trance. His optics and thought processor zero in on the text before him, leaving Breakdown to pick out the dirt and grime that has accumulated between his plates in silence.
“Had us down in the mines. Again. Even though Screamer told us we’d already stripped every scrap of energon from it. Autobots must not be the only ones running low on fuel.”
“So quick to trust our dear commandant? That innocence of yours is charming.”
“That’s not-” His protest dies as he gives the gears in his shoulder a good roll, and the sharp pain previously nagging him gives way to a dull ache. “It’s just. Tiring, is all. Feels like we’re not getting anything done.”
“You want a backrub?” Knockout suddenly ventures. Though his attention appears to be fully on the book, his field has a certain buzz to it, a playful energy that reaches out towards Breakdown, willing him to reciprocate.
Breakdown’s optic gives a few lazy blinks, and the servo that had been absentmindedly rubbing the plating on his thigh stills; what he wouldn’t give for an oil bath to soothe away those kinks. “What brought this on?”
“Is it really so out of character for me to treat you every once in a while?” Knockout’s tone carries a teasing lilt. “You’re not the only one that’s skilled with your hands, you know.”
“That’s not what I-”
Breakdown trails off as Knockout practically glides from his own berth to the other. The grace and speed with which he moves never fails to make Breakdown’s vents give a stutter, his intake slightly agape as Knockout kneels behind him and places those dexterous surgeon servos on his shoulder plating.
“You’ve been working hard. Relax.”
“Didn’t,” a contented sigh as Knockout’d digits work their way into seams long neglected, “answer my question.”
“Hm?”
“Why this, of all things? You just,” his optic shutters as a particularly tense cluster of wires is stroked, “feel like trying something different?”
“Well, you know me. I’ve always been the adventurous type.”
Breakdown falls silent for a moment, simply reveling in the way his partner skillfully works out all the knots of tension from another day spent doing grunt work. His broad chassis promises a rather arduous task, but Knockout seems willing to tackle it with zeal if the care he puts into every press and knead serves as any indication.
“It’s those, isn’t it. Those human books that you’ve been reading. Been giving you ideas.”
“What can I say? They really have a way of inspiring creativity.”
“Huh.”
They become lost in the gentle rhythm of it all. Breakdown eventually offlines his optic, allowing himself to becoming fully immersed in the pleasant sensation of the massage. Knockout never allows it to become monotonous, working the heel of his palm into a press or grazing the transformation seams with a claw every so often, each sending another energizing jolt through Breakdown or evoking a grunt of satisfaction.
“It’s fascinating,” Knockout suddenly says, his voice a gentle murmur against Breakdown’s audio receptor. “The ways humans show their affection for one another. Some are so similar to our own-”
“Tell me about it. Actually saw two of the fleshies holding hands the other day. Made me want to purge.”
“-but then there are others.”
Breakdown can practically hear Knockout’s smirk, and he certainly feels the way the servos attending to him give a firm squeeze that’s no doubt a prelude to mischief.
His optic flickers back to life, and he claps one of Knockout’s slender wrists, halting his partner’s ministrations. “...Am I gonna like where this is going?”
Knockout’s laugh carries that same rich resonance as words, which he always manages to make sound just a touch sultry. “Have I ever given you any reason to doubt me?”
Breakdown makes a noise akin to a snort. Knockout leans forward, draping his arms over Breakdown’s chest in a sort of embrace.
“Humans are so enamored with these bizarre courtship rituals of theirs. There must be some appeal to them. And if not, at least they’ll be good for a laugh.”
“I think you’ve been spending a little too much time reading about human culture,” Breakdown says, but the slight smile gracing his mouthplates and the way he places a considerably more bulky servo over Knockout’s own indicate surrender. He glances over in the direction of the abandoned book, noting the presence of what he assumes to be a human couple on the cover. “Romance novels. Should’ve known.”
“Some border more on horror if you ask me.” Knockout nestles his helm in the crook of Breakdown’s neck. “As amusing and curious as their ways of expressing affection are, the thought of humans interfacing is-”
A shudder wracks through Breakdown’s entire frame, and his vocalizer emits a sound of distress laced with static. “Alright, alright, enough of that!”
“-repulsive. Oh my, I was supposed to be helping you relax, wasn’t I? You’ll have to forgive me.”
Smart aft, Breakdown thinks as his partner situates in front of him with an unapologetic grin. He remains seated on the berth with the shorter mech now at optic-level.
“You might have guessed, but the humans are very touchy. Handsy.” Knockout takes Breakdown’s servos in his own, his digits gently caressing the worn metal. Were he fluent in chirolinguistics, perhaps he could whisper sweet nothings with little more than a few well-placed presses. “Nothing too unfamiliar there. But you’ll never believe the fascination they have with using those mouths of theirs.”
Breakdown’s browplates furrow slightly as a sense of trepidation crawls along his sensornet. “What?”
Knockout’s optics practically glimmer in a look that screams pure trouble. “I could tell you, but that’d be awfully boring, don’t you think? I’d much rather show you.”
In a fluid motion - how it makes Breakdown’s very spark tingle - Knockout perches on Breakdown’s lap, wrapping his legs and arms around his partner’s waist and neck respectively.
“Is this ok?” he asks, maintaining optic contact and stroking one of those broad cheeks with a digit.
Breakdown places his own servos on Knockout’s lower back with a tenderness ill-befitting his size and strength. “Yeah.”
“You trust me?”
“Always.”
With a smile lacking any of his usual facetiousness - so adept at getting a rise out of quick-tempered commanding officers - just sincerity in its purest form, Knockout reaches up and begins by touching his helm to Breakdown’s own; somewhat of a feat considering the bruiser’s bulky chassis, but he loves it all the same. He feels his partner relax into the familiar form of contact, and that consternation in Breakdown’s field starts to dissipate.
“In my studies,” and how he relishes the word of his glossa, “I’ve found that they’re awfully fond of this...”
Knockout leans inwards, venting a warm puff of air that ghosts along Breakdown’s face. He closes the gap between them with an agonizing slowness before finally bringing their mouthplates together. He does so tentatively, lacking that same bluster with which he usually goes about displays of affection; the foreignness of this territory leaving even him noticeably hesitant.
Breakdown’s optic widens at the contact. He nearly loses his supportive grip as instinct, reflex, and higher levels of functioning alike erupt into a maelstrom. For a moment he can do little more than restart his optic and try to sort something out in the muddled thought processor, before he eventually attempts to throw any sort of cognizance to the wind and focuses in on the sensation. Knockout’s mouthplates press chastely against his own, not quite venturing any further; though the way his hold gets a little bit tighter is a testament to the underlying desire to do so.
Perhaps the unfamiliarity of it all has left him incapable of fully surrendering to the feel of it, compounded by that paranoia always lurking in his processor like a malignant virus that provides fertile ground for restless thoughts. Whether overthinking things is the cause or not, however, Breakdown finds himself leaning more towards unsatisfied than lost in blissful pleasure when they finally separate.
“Huh,” he manages, after rebooting his vocalizer.
Knockout appears to be equally perplexed. He fiddles with his mouthplates, rubbing them together, worrying his bottom lip with his denta as if doing so will unearth the fabled ecstasy promised by the literature he’s poured over for cycles. He utters a barely audible “hm” before lapsing into a contemplative silence, barely registering the bulky servo that’s now stroking his back.
“So, uh.” Breakdown gives an imitation of a cough. “What was that?”
“The humans call it a ‘kiss.’” Knockout stills seems to be lost in thought. His brows are furrowed, and now a digit runs tentatively along his mouthplates searching for...whatever it is he’s convinced himself would arise from this little experiment. “How odd. All the authors I’ve encountered have described the experience much differently.”
“That so.”
“No two of their novels’ depictions are the exact same, but there are commonalities between them: passionate, electrifying, thrilling, spicy, gratifying, exhilarating, titillating,” Knockout prattles on, the scientist in him mulling over all the specifics of his research, considering every possible confounding variable and formulating alternative hypotheses.
Breakdown fetches the discarded book with his free servo and begins leafing through the pages, squinting at the walls of text that greet his optics. “Right. Is this...‘kissing’ something that the fleshies do a lot?”
“Their literature leads me to believe so. Each romance novel I’ve read has had numerous kiss scenes between the protagonist and love interest without fail.”
“Gross. Sounds like a good way to spread disease.” He grins, giving his partner’s back a firm pat. “Maybe they’ll wind up killing each other off this way. No more fleshbags on this rotten planet.”
At first, Knockout simply regards Breakdown with skepticism - and that underlying disappointment from this failed endeavor - but it gives way to hearty laughter, and he hugs his partner with renewed vigor.
“Oh, Breakdown. You know just the way to a bot’s spark.”
They allow themselves to enjoy the intimacy of silence, bothered not by the hum of the Nemesis as it orbits the Earth or the occasional footfalls of Vehicons patrolling the halls. They simply relish the sensation of one another, servos lazily exploring, helms pressed together, the gentle whirr of their vents that creates a soothing melody in their synchronization.
“Was that all you wanted to try?” Breakdown asks after a few minutes like that. His voice is slightly muffled against Knockout’s neck, and he can smell the polish from a recent buffing.
Knockout arches a brow. “What’s this now?”
“Well, you know you. Always the,” and there’s that rare glint of mischief in Breakdown’s optic as he puts on his best imitation of the mech in his arms, “adventurous type. Didn’t think you’d be satisfied with just that.”
He receives a playful kick in the aft for that. “Who would’ve thought you of all Cybertronians would have a sense of humor somewhere in that processor of yours.”
His grin turns positively cheeky. “Oh come on, no need to have a breakdown over it.”
“Alright, alright.” Knockout can’t help but concede with a smile. “I get it. You’re a real knockout.” He extricates himself then, already missing the warmth from their contact and the thrum of Breakdown’s spark as he begins to situate himself on the berth. “Here. Lay down next to me.”
Breakdown follows suit, mindful of the limited space and the way his bulk takes up a considerable amount of it. “Like this?”
“Don’t be shy. Get in here.”
“And uh...what is this, exactly?”
“It’s called - here, put your arms around me - spooning.” Knockout settles his back against Breakdown’s chassis. Not a perfect fit, but cradled in those powerful arms, he could almost slip right into recharge. “Humans are quite fond of this as well.”
“Huh,” comes Breakdown’s eloquent response. Knockout’s legs are intwined with his own, and when a pede gives his own a gentle rub, he returns the favor by lacing their digits together and giving Knockout’s servo a squeeze. “It’s, uh...different. Not sure we’re really built for this, either.” He readjusts a bit, silently cursing the way his chest plating juts out.
“Indulge me,” Knockout murmurs as he settles back against Breakdown’s frame to the best of his ability.
He listens to the steady beat of that spark until the cadence of it lulls him a reverie.
Perhaps he’ll save telling Breakdown about the human version of the conjunx ritus for another day, and for now simply revel in this moment.