Fatty Blog

The day was brightened by the fact that it was Taco Tuesday at Swerves. And Drift couldn’t leave the spicy foods alone! He loved things hot- ever since that one day he managed to get a spicy meal from a kind stranger back in the Dead End, foods that packed heat just did something to him. Maybe it was how they warmed his frame on those long, cold nights? Or perhaps the memory of rare compassion shown that day influenced his taste receptors.

Drift didn’t care: if zesty food was being served, he was there.

The red and white entered, being third in command, he should attempt to mingle, even if his status of ‘Ex ‘Con’ rubbed some mechs the wrong way. Staying holed up in his habsuit wouldn’t prove to the crew that he had, indeed, changed. The bar was full, not quite packed, but a lot of mechs were enjoying the festivities.

Or the booze brought them in. Who knows.

The room was scanned, and once a table of non-intoxicated mechs was spotted, Drift steeled his nerves and walked over. First Aid and Ambulon. Safe mechs. Interesting mechs. Probably the only good thing that came out of that whole Delphi dilemma was having these two join their crew.

First Aid, while a little bubbly in nature, was kind. Ambulon was the more reserved of the two, but being an Ex Decepticon himself, he knew better to judge. Or to make a scene. In fact, the tattered medic was the first to offer Drift a seat at their table by kicking out a chair. The act is an unspoken understanding between the pair.  Drift curtly nodded and sat down.

“Hey Drift!” First Aid chirped. “Come for some grub?”

“Taco Tuesday...” Ambulon muttered.

“How is it?” Drift asked.

“Surprisingly tasty.” Aid answered, then offered a glass of yellow liquid. “Would you care for a drink?”

“...” It was polite etiquette to accept what was offered, however being ascetic from engex may give the wrong impression.

“It’s crystal lemonade.” Ambulon hinted a smile. “We are on shift later tonight. No engex.”

The clenched fist over his spark eased. He nodded his helm, and the ice cubes clinked against the glass as the liquid flowed. The sound was refreshing. Seeing the mechs at the table smile at him was comforting. Maybe getting to know mechs better wasn’t a bad idea.

“Be careful of the burritos,” the taller medic warned. “Unless you like your aft to be kicked by fire.”

“Spicey?”

“To say the least.”

“Psshhhh....” Aid waved his hand dismissively. “That didn’t stop you from eating a few.”

“I am not going to waste my credits on food and not eat it.”

“Your credits?” The younger medic balked. “You have none. I paid!”

Ambulon grinned, stifling a laugh. “My treat, Drift. Order up.”

A little datapad was pushed his way that displayed a selection of Mexican-themed foods. There were the classics: tacos loaded with cheese, shredded lettuce, onions, and crystal tomatoes. The enerbean burritos stuffed with refried beans that were seasoned with garlic and chili powder looked appetizing. But what snagged the speedster’s attention was the Camarones a la Diabla. AKA Devils shrimp.

And next to this selection were several flames.

This dish not only looked hot, being a fiery red color, but with the ingredients listed containing the hottest chiles known to mechs, it was bound to set his mouth on fire! Big, thick pieces of shrimp, roasted tomatoes, and onions floated in a thick sauce that contained ancho, Chile de árbol, and guajillo, no doubt. The dish looked like a perfect work of art! He licked his lips as his stomach grumbled in anticipation.

“Did ya find something you liked?” Aid chirped. “Order whatever you want. Amby’s treating.”

The TIC tilted his helm. “I thought you said Ambulon didn’t have any creds...”

“I got ya covered, don’t worry about it.” Aid slid out his card and smirked. “He’ll pay me back later by having to organize the dreaded junk drawer in the med bay. That one Ratchet has been grumbling about the last few days.”

Ambulon’s optics widened as his jaw dropped. “Hey!”

“As long as it’s alright.”

“I insist, Drift.” Aid’s face was serious.

“I know what I want.” His fingers danced over the screen as he made his selection. “Devil’s Shrimp.”

“Awaaaaaaa?” Both Aid and Ambulon spouted at the same time.

“Dude, are you sure?”

“That’s the hottest dish on the menu!”

Drift grinned, making a show of sipping his cold lemonade- the sweetness mixed perfectly with the tartness. “I can take the heat, unlike some.”

~~~~~~

The warning that came with the meal- and the two acquaintances- was not lying. The heat of the dish was felt even before the spoonful entered his mouth. And when his lips wrapped around the utensil and the shrimp and sauce slid onto his tongue, it was as if he ate lava straight from the erupting volcano! First Aid and Ambulon watched with optics full of wonder... but Drift simply smiled!

The shrimp was tender, squishing out fiery juice when bitten. The TIC hummed his enjoyment. The a hint of Guajillo chiles tasted amazing between the intense fiery flavor of Chile de árbo! Guajillo provided that pleasant earthy taste that contrasted the bold heat of the árbo.  The cooling side, often provided along such a hot dish, was a bed of Mexican rice.

And that first swallow resulted in that burning heat to slather down his pipes and warm his tanks nicely- just like that first time back on the streets. The lingering sting made him feel all warm and cozy, begging for yet another helping of liquid fire. And who was Drift to deny? Another mix of rice and shrimp loaded the spoon and went on the digestive tract ride.

“You weren’t kidding about takin’ the heat!” Aid spouted as if watching an amusing magic trick.

“Just because he doesn’t drench everything in ketchup like you, Aid.” Ambulon raised his brow as he poured himself another glass of lemonade.

“Well, sometimes the food here needs a little help.”

Ambulon paused mid-pour, glaring at the younger medic.

“Okay, okay. A lot of help.” Aid sat back and sighed. “What time did Ratchet say he was finishing up?”

“He didn’t,” Ambulon answered. “At least not clearly...”

The pair of medics rambled on, but the mere mention of Ratchet made Drift’s body heat up- differently than the spicy food he was consuming. Thinking of that older medic flashed comforting memories through his processor. Their first meetup... while drugged out of his mind, Drift remembered the kindness poured into his treatment. Needles pierced into his tubing, delivering meds to counteract the overdose. Iv’s delivering much-needed hydration to his frame. Advice given to make a much-needed change in his life.

Too bad he didn’t listen.

But the image of that grouchy angel never left his mind. Every sharp edge of that doctor was etched into his memory. The fact that he was a streetwalker suffering from addiction did not alter Ratchet’s respect for him as a living being, and not many mechs in Cybertron’s society could do that. He was a diamond in the rough. How many vorns had he spent lying awake at night just dreaming of that red and white mech suggested had his life taken a different path.... the path that the medic had recommended?

“Drift?” First Aid’s voice cut his memories short.

“Hmmm?” The speedster paused midbite.

“So, why did you join up on this voyage?” Aid chirped.

That was a loaded question that needed a few seconds of thought before answering. The desire to help and the longing for a second chance were reasons. Drift picked the safest answer. “Quite simply, Rodimus asked me to.” He shrugged. “He wanted to get off Cybertron. Said it was stifling him.”

“Stifling him?” Aid asked. “I mean, I know it’s going through a lot of changes recently...”

“And I think Rodimus may have some slight issues with change.” The TIC shook his helm. “But he wanted to lead a new adventure so to speak. And in the shortest terms, he needed someone to keep him in check.” More spicy food entered his mouth, searing hot warmth down his pipes and into his gurgling belly. This dish apparently bit back.

While mostly true, the second reason as to why he joined would remain a secret. There was no way he would admit to the other pair he joined because of Ratchet. Yes, as sappy as that may have sounded, when looking over the proposed roster and seeing that doctor's name in the sea of others made his spark skip a rotation. After all those years of homelessness, war, then self-healing...maybe this voyage was the opportunity to get to know the mech he desperately crushed on.

“We were rescued. Obviously.” Ambulon sipped his drink. “Thankfully.”

“I can’t imagine Delphi being great...”

“In the beginning it was.” Aid shrugged. “I mean... Pharma was a great doctor. Figured it would be a great learning experience. And it was... until...”

“Until it wasn’t.” Ambulon’s face soured as if he bit into a lemon. “I was stationed there simply because no one else would accept someone like me...”

Drift nodded, knowing that feeling all too well. “Past actions have consequences. I understand that. But one shouldn’t be judged solely on some bad choices.”

While only slight, that smile from Ambulon spoke volumes. These two understood each other.  As if sharing the same thoughts, both ex ‘Cons lifted their glasses, then clinked them together in a toast.

First Aid, late to the party, lifted his glass. His face dropped when his glass remained untouched.

“It’s an ex ‘Con thing, Aid.” Ambulon sputtered.

“How do you know I wasn’t secretly a Decepticon, hmmm?”

While the young medic was serious, both mechs optics met, then barked out fits of laughter.

“Really, Aid?” Ambulon nearly spit out his lemonade. “You couldn’t be a Decepticon if your life depended on it!”

“Wha—"

“It’s a good thing, Aid. Really.” Drift spoke softly as his stomach clenched from the laughter. Or the food.

“First Aid, you are way too kind. Caring. Compassionate.” Ambulon added. “The Decepticon army would have eaten you alive.”

“Then spat you back out.”

“And stepped on you.”

“Then get mad that you made a stain on their pedes.”

The glance the medic and the TIC shared was all-knowing, silently conveying the truth without a word. Ambulon may be new to join their ragtag team, but Drift felt a comforting aura as if he knew the mech longer. Definitely a good mech to buddy up with.

“Here,” Drift lifted his glass. “We can do another toast. To present friends...”

“To present friends!” Aid chirped, raising his glass. Ambulon smiled and followed suit. All three classes clinked together before hearty swigs were gulped.

By the time Drift’s plate was cleared, his belly was singing the blues. The meal tasted amazing. Filled his processor with sweet, comforting memories and filled his frame with fiery warmth. And gas, as his abdomen bloated painfully behind its plating. This symptom wasn’t always guaranteed to happen... but the chilies used formed the perfect storm.

“So, what time do you guys go in for your shift?” Drift asked, dabbing his lips with a napkin as he shifted in his chair. His belly gurgled, not loudly, but enough that he could feel the tickle of the gas bubbles that formed.

“Ratchet said he’ll come get us.” Ambulon shrugged. “Who knows when that will be?”

“Should be anytime now.” Aid frowned. “What could be taking him so long? He texted saying it was slow.”

The bubbles in his belly shifted, and for a second, the TIC feared them rising upward in an undignified belch. He swallowed hard a few times, and the pressure lowered, tickling further down. He sighed in relief. While burping could be seen as a compliment to the chef, he wanted to avoid the risk of embarrassing himself in front of possible new friends.

“You know how he gets.” Drift smiled.  The senior medic took pride in his work. So much so that he neglected to take care of himself at times. Oh, there is nothing he would love to do more than force that grumpy medic onto his berth and give him a full-body massage to work out all those kinks.

Nothing sexual, mind you. At least not yet.

His belly groaned again; this time, the pressure grew intense and worked its way down his digestive tract. The sensation no longer tickled, but rather felt like hot needles poking against his internals. The trapped air may not be coming out in the form of belches... but their release would be made elsewhere.

Drift pressed his lips together and planted his aft on the chair. Golly, what a predicament! The mere chance of meeting Ratchet tonight made leaving undesirable. But this buildup of gas... No sooner did he think of excusing himself (maybe he could go to the bar and get another type of non-alcoholic drink) did that pressure greet his port. And no matter how much he clenched, that pressure strained against his shutter. His frame scorched as he held his breath, fearing accidental seepage.

“Drift, you feeling alright?” Ambulon casually asked.

“Yes... Yes.” He chuckled, optics darting between the two of them. “Okay.... the dish may have been a little spicy.”

“You look a little... flustered,” Aid cooed, trying not to look smug as he made a playful jab that the TIC only half heard.

This fart was coming! With his cheeks pressed against the chair, it was bound to make noise and cause a scene! With cautious optics, Drift examined his dinner party, who resumed playful bantering back and forth. The speedster exhaled. He carefully spread his aft cheeks apart, slightly lifting one side. He relaxed his sphincter in a controlled manner. And with all the focus he could muster, he carefully let that gas slip out.

Fffffsshhhhhhhhhhhhhhh......

He cleared his throat. Faked a few coughs as short bursts of hot air escaped from his aft. His cheeks felt warmed from the humid gas. His intestinal tubing deflated. His belly didn’t feel as bloated. The relief felt was instant! With each puff of wind released, he felt better. The fear of embarrassment diminished.

Until the smell hit.

The noxious odor rose from his buttocks, smelling of putrid, rotting eggs. But with each passing second, and gusts of wind from passing mechs, the smell intensified, nearly making his optics water. Now, a scent best described as moldy fish overcooked in a microwave burned his olfactory senses. He couldn’t help but stifle a cough, but nothing eased that stench!

“What’s that fraggin’ smell?” Aid all but shouted as he scrunched up his face. “Do you guys smell it?”

Ambulon took a sniff, then shook his helm no. “Perhaps it’s your upper lip?”

“Hah hah, Amby.” Aid took a big sniff, then immediately gagged. “Is it just me?”

Great. Now Ambulon was sniffing the air. Could these two get any more obnoxious?

“OOouugghhhh....” Ambulon groaned, pulling back and covering his nose as if something just bit it. “It smells like something died in here!”

“Maybe the plumbing backed up again!” This time, Aid frantically waved his servo in front of his face. One thing First Aid didn’t do was discreet. “Primus- it’s gonna make me hurl!”

“Don’t...” Drift started, hating how easily his Divine entity’s name was taken in vain.

“Ah, my bad.” Aid covered his nose and wretched. “Don’t you smell it?”

Slag, yeah, he smelt it! But he didn’t want to make a fuss. He didn’t want them to know he was the culprit! “Could be the pipes... I guess I can call someone to check on them.”

Now, all the TIC could think about was a swarm of mechs flooding this place, trying to locate the source of the smell. As silly as it may sound, he imagined mechs sniffing like bloodhounds... following the smell until it led straight to his aft.

“But who knows, it was just a one-time thing.” Drift shrugged, thinking of a way to make his great escape. “Let me check something-“

“Ahh, Ratchet!” Aid jumped up. “Just in time!”

Drift froze mid-stand. His crush had picked the worst time to make his appearance! Could his night get any worse?

The older Doctor eyed the younger one. “Are you being smart?”

“No, no...” Aid said. “Glad you made it out of the medbay!”

Another stern look.

“Anything to report?” Ambulon said, tossing his napkin on the table as he stood up.

“No patients. Hoping it stays that way.” Ratchet sighed. “The other doctor is on shift for another hour or so. I left a list of chores that can be tended to in the downtime.”

“Gotchya.” Aid said. “We’ll get right on it.”

Ambulon gave a nod. “It was nice talking with you, Drift.”

“We’ll have to meet up again!” Aid chirped as he waved, which quickly turned into fanning in front of his nose. He then pulled Ambulon along.

“Mind if I joined ya?” Ratchet asked but sat down anyway. “Looks like Taco night is a blast.”

“Y...yeah.... you could say that...” And just like that, his hopes of making a great escape fizzled. Ratchet snagged a menu and glanced over it. Any joyous plans of a chance encounter soured- just like his belly. The pressure grew again, and Drift knew what was in store. So much for a sparkfelt chat filled with admiration, appreciation, and making sure the doctor was okay after the Delphi fiasco!

“Have any recommendations?” The medic’s blue optics rose from the menu, and his lips hinted at a tired smile.

“Ahhh....Ambulon said the burritos were tasty.”

“What did you try?” Ratchet tapped the datapad, then looked up. “Hey, it ain’t gonna bother you if I grab a drink?”

“No, no, be my guest.” Drift smiled. “I had the Devil’s shrimp.”

Ratchet made a face and exhaled. “You’re gonna burn your afthole with that!”

“It wasn’t that bad.” What a flat-out lie! Well, the dish was scrumptious! But the heat was already making its way through his digestive tract. The uncomfortable bloating returned. The needle-like sensation pricked down his sides- worse than the first time. Any gurgling heard erupted from deep within his bowels.

Of all the times to suffer a bad bout of gas! There was so much he wanted to say, but the pressure built up. Steady. Forcefully. Painfully! His whole lower abdomen ached as his cabling inflated like balloon animals- complete with being twisted and turned into shapes. And it was only a matter of time before he popped.

“Just what was going on before I arrived? Aid seemed all excited over something.” Ratchet questioned, stifling a laugh. Then gently sniffed the air, his once casual face forming a slight grimace.

Drift’s cheeks felt flushed. His stomach tightened. His port fluttered. “I...ah... I dunno....”

The CMO cocked his helm. “You don’t know?”

Sweat beaded on the TIC’s brow as he licked his lips and squirmed. The queasiness rose with each clench of his aft. The pressure reached his port, pressing against the plating without a care in the world. Slag, he needed to get out of here, and fast!

“Is everything alright, Drift?” Ratchet set down his datapad and gave a good diagnosing look. “You’re looking a bit under the weather... You know, I hope there isn’t something wrong with the food... I am smelling the hint of something rotting.”

“I’m fine..AH...” His servos grasped his abdomen as his optics clenched shut. This was happening!

“You sure?”

Another loud gurgle erupted, this time loud enough for his dinner guest to hear. It started out high-pitched, then rumbled deep like thunder. His cheeks grew warm as tears welled in his optics before rolling down his cheeks. Drift opened his mouth to speak, but instead, that pressure inside him broke free. He could no longer hold back as hot air forcefully- and loudly- expelled from his aft.

Art: colored refined sketch, ref used for Hook's expression- I think that's a dead giveaway which I used, but posted below since I used the same expression.

Story:

Just how did he end up in this mess? Well, he was courting First Aid, that’s why. The medic was deeply compassionate and extremely kind. In fact, it was a shock that they had become friends, let alone lovers. But that little medic did something to him that he couldn’t explain.

And that something had him staring at the image in the mirror. He was a mighty Decepticon (ok, factions may not mean that much anymore now that the war is over), known for his fierce, brutish power. Now, he just looked.... pathetic.

Hook gave his legendary sneer at that word. Someone of his stature should never be seen as pathetic.

But one thing Hook was not about to do was be dishonest to his lover. He had promised to put on the getup in the box, and when he gave his word, he meant it. There was nothing more insufferable than a mech who took back what he said.

Next time, the Contructie wouldn’t blindly agree. First Aid may be a sweetspark... but he had a devious side.

“Come on, baby.” Aid’s voice rang from behind the closed bathroom door. “I wanna see my big sexy studmuffin all dolled up for me.”

“I may look like a lot of things...” Hook scowled at the term studmuffin. “But sexy ain’t one of them.”

“Oh, be a sport! Bring those sweet cheeks out here!”

Cheeks... Speaking of cheeks, he could tell that the garments that came with this odd uniform barely covered his aft! Not to mention the silly puffball of a tail attached to the back. And the odd garters hugged his thighs and waist in such an awkward way. The shirt was low cut- meant for beings that had what organics called breasts- and was complete with frilly sleeves. Hook didn’t do frilly! And these... what were they called? Studded harness straps? They hugged his armpits and hips. Just what did Aid see in him dressing as some sort of deranged clown?

“Don’t make me be the big, bad wolf and huff and puff that door down, sugar.”

“No biggie. I can rehang it in a snap.”

“Hook...” Aid's voice dropped lower. “Come on. Let me see you.”

“Just... answer me this. Why?” His green digits pulled at the harness, snapping it against his hip plating.

“Doctor’s Orders.”

“Aid-“

“I picked that outfit out just for you, that’s why.”

“No, Aid.” Hook sighed. “Why do you want me to dress in this...this costume?”

“Remember when you asked me what really ground my gears?”

Hook remembered. It wasn’t often partners other than his gestalt would trust him enough to be as rough as he liked in the berth, but that little Autobot didn’t even hesitate when he shyly asked. A safe word was instantly chosen, and the Autobot instantly submitted. Hook had his way with his new toy.

Naturally, it was only fair to reciprocate.

And when asked, Aid’s cheeks flushed red as he bit his lip. But after some poking and prodding, the ‘Bot spilled the beans. He loved it when his lovers dressed up. Leather Daddy’s. Bad cops. And whatever the slag this was supposed to be.

‘Just what the fuck did Vortex have to dress up as?’ A voice grumbled in his processor, but Hook dared not ask about an ex-lover. Hopefully, it was something lame like little Bo Peep.

Hook shook his helm and smirked. In the end, First Aid was a very good partner. Very considerate- and not just to him, his entire gestalt. Sure, the beginning was a little awkward, but who could blame the red and white medic when being confronted by 5 other green giants? The Constructicons could be very intimidating.

Usually, that was a good thing, but it didn’t take long for the rest of his team to warm up to his date. Aid took the time to get to know every member of Devastator. Even brought them back some gifts based on their tastes out of the kindness of his spark.

Now, that brought a smile to his face. Everyone knows that in order to date one member of a Gestalt, you have to get in good with the rest, and First Aid made himself right at home.

“Promise you won’t laugh?” Hook spoke, running his servos over the outfit again, smoothing out what he could. And picking the wedgie the skimpy panties kept giving him. He may not like the way he looks in this ridiculous thing, but that was no excuse for it not to fit his frame perfectly.

“Laugh? I won’t laugh. Can’t promise not to jump start that hot frame of yours right out of the door, though.”

A faint smile graced Hook’s lips as he reached for the door. There was no time like the present. When that door swished open, First Aid stood at the ready. His optics jolted open, raking up and down Hook’s frame. His servos opened and closed in sheer excitement. Happy little squeals erupted from his vocalizer before he threw himself at his dolled-up lover.

“Primus, Hook!” Aid purred, engines rumbling as those servos rubbed all over the Constructicon’s body. “You look sexy as slag.” He sucked in air sharply as a finger traced over his chest, only to gently tug at the frilly shirt. “Oh, Hook the things I can do to your frame right now.”

“Like what?” Despite not really liking the outfit, he loved how worked up it made his lover. Feeling the hot air waft from his frame, the rumbling of his engines, and the groping of wondering hands made up for the awkwardness of this ‘fancy dressup.’ He even liked it when those servos slapped his barely covered aft.

“Like what ya see?”

“Very much so,” Aid tugged on the harness straps, pulling the Structie forward. “What a treat.” Red servos guided the taller, green and purple mech ninety degrees counterclockwise, then backward. “It’ll be a shame to rip such lavish garments from your gorgeous frame.”

Suddenly, those servos gave a firm push. Hook faltered backward, his legs hitting the berth. It wasn’t every day a mech of small stature could bring down a giant, but before Hook could muffle a startled cry, his back flopped against the berth. Before the ‘Con could voice any protest, he saw Aid crawling on top of him like a cybercat stalking its next meal.

But knowing his experience with Octane, the Autobot couldn’t blame the disgruntled mechs hurrying from the table of sweets. Octane was a good mech—once you overlooked the sleazy old-mech vibes.

Interfacing was good- there was no denying the joys of blowing your circuits. But Primus, Octane always came across as too eager to get his spike wet to the point the ‘Con could even be called desperate! He wasn’t shy to throw out the first move, and being discreet wasn’t in his vocabulary. At all.

Sandstorm shook his helm and smirked as a blue-and-yellow femme balked, then shuffled away. Octane threw up his hands, looked forlorn for a second, then scanned the crowd for interest. “Gotta hand it to you—you’ve got perseverance.” If Sandstorm got rejected that many times that fast, he’d tuck tail and run.

But Octane continued, his smooth voice working the crowd while not daring to leave his table of delights as if he was an exotic bird displaying gathered treasure to a potential mate ( or any mate, really). Sandstorm didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the sight. He knew how to put on a pathetically good show.

“Looks like I gotta swoop in for the save yet again, buddy.” Sandstorm emptied his glass in one gulp, then slowly strode over to his on-and-off acquaintance. Yes, their paths crossed before. Several times. But their paths never stuck- the morning after always resulted in waking up alone. That flier departed as quickly as he landed.

It was a shame, really. Sandstorm liked Octane. Time together was fun, exciting, but always too short.

Attempts were made for lasting meetings, but Octane was too aloof to stay. He had places to be, mechs to do, and craved change—not commitment.

But that didn’t mean the Autobot was going to throw in the towel. He wasn’t a quitter, after all.

“Heeey, good lookin’,” Octane greeted with a sly smile, optics raking up and down the Autobot’s frame.

Yeah, he had no shame about his intentions either. “Still working the usual crowd, hmmmmm?”

The Cheshire-like smile faltered, but only for a brief second.

“Tough crowd tonight, Octane?” Sandstorm grinned, admiring the other’s lithe, glossy frame as it casually rested against the table. Yeah, this mech worked every angle that he could. Wings gently fanned. Those eyebrows hitched. Those hips twisted in such an alluring way.

“Sandy- baby.” He licked his lips. “Are you made of copper and tellurium? Because you are Cu-Te.”

Yeah. Octane was going with the classics tonight.  Sure, he looked fine as hell. But the words that erupted from his mouth were a hot mess. Perhaps his processor was malfunctioning, and the filter didn’t quite remove the cheese.

“And just what do we have here...party favors?” The orange mech relaxed his optics as he tore his gaze from the flyer and examined the table.

“Some fine treats. You know, a little of this. A little of that.” Pearly white appeared as Octane stepped forward. “Some pre-game for what is to come... Would ya care for a bite?”

A mix between a snort and a barking laugh spat from Sandstorm's mouth. “Primus, Octane, you never change!” The question was, did he really want him to? Well, aside from the disappearing act, that is. He cleared his throat, then sat down. “So, what’s the special occasion?“ A frown hinted. “Other than wanting to get laid.”

“Ah, Sandy-baby, don’t be like that.” In one quick and smooth motion, the second chair slid over, and Octane parked his aft down. Just inches away from the other. And that servo boldly reached out to roam up his thigh. “Would you like me to fill you up with something nice and creamy?”

That roaming servo was slapped away. He had standards! Well, some at least. “You know better, you scoundrel. I need to be wined and dined first.”

“You always make me work, donchya?” Octane playfully rolled his optics. “Luckily, I don’t mind getting my hands dirty.”

The Autobot’s only response was the shaking of his helm. He pulled a dish containing flan closer. The Decepticon only had one thing on his mind: feeling good. Slag, who can blame him? Interface felt amazing- especially from one so good in berth as he. Despite the radiating cockiness, Octane was a very attentive lover, always game for anything, and made sure his partners were satisfied. Credits weren’t the only thing he preferred ‘spent.’  Not that he’d ever tell him that- it would go right to his helm!

Now if only Octane got over the ‘hit and run’ gig...

The fork easily cut through the firm, gelatin-like substance and carefully traveled to his mouth, jiggling all the way. “Mmmmmmmmm....” The taste was perfect! The custard was thicker than pudding, but soft and velvety enough to melt in his mouth. While mildly sweet, the milky caramel flavor took hold. This was top-of-the-line grub! “Must have pulled off a big heist to be able to afford this.” His fork eagerly went back for seconds.

“Well, you know I have my ways of getting around...”

Golly, those eyebrows were going to fly off his face the way that ‘Con kept wagging them! Yes, there was no denying his enjoyment of his crush's amorosity. And not to shame one who enjoys romps in the berth, Octane was the pure definition of a ‘Decepti-slut.’ He came in fast. He ran hot. And he always finished what he started.

Sandstorms plating flared, and he shivered at that thought.

“If you like that dish, just wait until I serve the main course.”

Sandstorm swallowed and stared as the flier shifted in his chair, anxiously awaiting the follies to come. (Sandstorm couldn’t deny him, not when he wanted him so desperately!) But what if he changed it up? As used to these lame pick-up lines and crude comments he was, couldn’t that mech just shut up and enjoy each other’s company for a moment? Did everything have to allude to what he wanted?

“Come close, baby.” Sandstorm smiled as Octane scooched his chair forward, their thighs nearly touching.

“Have you been out in the sun too long?”

Sandstorm braced himself. There was such a thing as too much...

“Because you’re looking awfully hot.”

“Octane.” His voice was stern. “You know I am sitting right here. You know you got me right?”

“Got ya right where I wantcyha...” The purple flyer’s helm tilted slightly to the side. “Almost. Just a few floors up and a couple of feet-“

The spoonful of flan that Sandstorm was moments away from enjoying was shoved into that ‘Con’s mouth. The flier’s optics briefly widened. Once again, those sultry optics returned as he hummed as he chewed the mouthful, then swallowed.

“Tastes almost as good as-“

Another heaping spoonful stifled another lewd comment. Maybe if his mouth was full, Sandstorm would be able to enjoy some quiet time for once! Perhaps he would get the hint.

Every time the babbling mech would open his mouth to warble a cringeworthy line, another mouthful of food would barge in. Every time that face would soften, optics would half-moon in delight, and that husky moan would rumble past his lips as if in the throes of eating....something else. But the shoveling of food was never denied. And Sandstorm never stopped feeding.

Even when that dish of caramelized flan was devoured, the table offered a plethora of options to continue the feast. A nice peanut butter pie was selected, its top slathered in whipped cream and rich chocolate crumbles. The younger mech didn’t even bother to cut a slice, just took the entire round treat and stabbed in, balancing a heaping forkful to the other’s open mouth.

Well, that was a stretch. Words were coming from that mouth before the pie silenced them. But his plan was working, and seeing the enjoyment from the food wash over his wanted-to-be lover was unexpectedly erotic. As lewd as the sounds were, Sandstorm couldn’t help but feel his engines amp up over them. That coy but sensual expression as he bit was thoroughly enjoyed, threatening to bring his cooling fans whirling to life. The way those red optics stared at him or how the tip of Octane's tongue ran over plump lips just egged his desire on. Just how much would this dirty old mech eat for him?

There was only one way to find out.

Bite by bite, that decadent pie disappeared- but the enjoyment of it never faltered. Each mouthful was swooned over as if it were the first. Octane squirmed in delight with any bit of attention thrown his way. Hinted smiles. Full body glances. And apparently, spoonfeeding him over and over again was enough to tickle his fancy. Soon enough, that dish was scraped clean.

“Oh, look at that! You gobbled that up, no problem.” Sandstorm cooed and set the empty plate back on the table.

“That’s not the only thing I like to gobble up.”

Those eyebrows wagged annoyingly again as that shit-eating grin widened over his smooth faceplates. So much for his moment of silence! However, there were more foods to silence that mouth of his. With a smirk of his own, the Autobot selected yet another dish.

“I think it’s time to put that mouth of yours to good use.” The dish of green ener-icecream was selected. Drips had started to cascade down its surface, succumbing to the warmer ambient temperature of the room.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!”

A spoonful was held out. Octane’s joyous expression deadpanned.

“You can’t have dessert unless you finish your meal.”

The flier’s face all but screamed ‘seriously?’ But Sandstorm's face remained firm. Yes, he caved a lot for Octane, but now wasn’t the time for giving in. If this geezer wanted a piece of him, he would have to earn it this time.

As if knowing this song and dance- and oddly agreeing with it- Octane sank back into his chair. He cocked a brow ridge, goading the younger mech on. “Alright then, baby-cakes.” His servos roamed over his stomach and playfully slapped at the plating as if he were playing a set of bongos. “I don’t mind being topped off.”

That was enough fuel for the fire to make that spoon shove past those lips. Primus, Octane could just be so extra at times! But the lies told didn’t suppress that giddy feeling rising with spoon-feeding the other. Why? Sandstrom didn’t quite know. But watching as the ice cream slowly disappeared was enticing. Each gulp from the Decepticon made his stomach flutter with joy. And when the pace quickened, each gasp for air after swallowing just jump-started his engines. Feeding did something; it ignited some kind of flame, so to speak.

Surrounding noises became muffled by stomach grumbles and his own pulsing spark. Watching those lips part captivated him. Hearing those servos gently pat at his belly was alluring. While there was no physical contact, the Autobot’s frame felt as if he was riding the aftershocks of a tune-up. His plating flared. Engines idled. His core temp rose.

The routine continued; one dish vanished, another took its place. Cannoli’s loaded with thick, velvety cream disappeared as they crunched between teeth. The older mech’s servos continued to rub at his growing belly. Donuts covered with talc powder or mica sprinkles filled the flyer's mouth only to be washed down by a tall glass of cold enermilk.  Flab accumulated, pushing against abdominal plating and spilling over his hips.

Despite awkward glances from the snickering crowd, Sandstorm kept feeding with wide, mesmerized optics. Cookies with feldspar flecks. Chocolate-covered crystal strawberries. Warm and gooey cherry pies with pink whipped cream on top. There was so much food, and Octane inhaled whatever was pressed to his lips.

And when the last chunk of the multilayer cake was stabbed into, only then did Octane show signs of succumbing to a food coma. His breaths came in ragged gasps, and those hands now clasped against a swollen ball of a belly. He looked beat, as if just participating in a triathlon.

“Don’t tell me ya bit off more than you can chew, Octane.” The thick morsel of cake balanced on the fork.

With a grumbling stomach, the purple flier grinned. “Have no fear, my sweats. You know I can make it fit.” Said belly was gently slapped, resulting in more angry noises erupting.

How was he able to eat so much? That belly now swelled like an overinflated balloon and heavily rested on his lap. Gone was that lithe and sleek abdomen, only to be replaced by pudge. Seeing how that forkful of cake nearly missed its mark, Sandstorm was enjoying the sight before him. That tummy... looked so full... so lavish...so plump. So kissable.

“Helloooo... Sandy-babes...” Octane smacked his lips. “My optics are up here.” A wide grin appeared. “Hard to keep your optics off me, ain’t it?”

The last of the cake was shoved in, mainly to save face. He was caught gawking, and the other wouldn’t let him live it down. But what was even worse was knowing this....whatever this was had come to an end. All the plates were scraped clean. The joys of feeding ended.

But that belly remained.

And it was a hot, gurgling mess! Though Octane would never admit it, his face strained slightly with each sharp rumble. Ragged breaths of cool air were sucked in as fingers clenched at the bursting seams. Oh, how badly did Sandstorm want to rub his servos all over that rounded mass- press his lips to it, perhaps even nip at it.

Another pained gurgle erupted, and Octane stifled a burp with his hand.

“You.... ah... that looks uncomfortable...” The Autobot mumbled, biting his lower lip. The joy from his actions was lost to the prospect of causing the other pain. “That plating looks awfully tight...Do... do you want me to loosen it? Take it off-“”

A haughty chuckle interrupted. “So, you wanna get underneath my plating, huh?”

The orange mech’s jaw dropped. “You scoundrel! I... I just...”

“Wanna touch?” Octane didn’t wait for a response, just grabbed dark hands and brought them to that belly.

And it felt delightfully firm! Warm. And with each groan, he swore he felt vibrations. But his highly anticipated moment was cut short by the sound of laughing.

Sandstorm looked up and suddenly realized they weren’t alone, but rather in the crowded bar. A bunch of faces glanced their way, some hiding laughs behind their servos, others looking away in disgust. His cheeks felt warm, flushed bright red, no doubt. He yanked his hands away, suddenly ashamed of this behavior. And to make matters worse, his engines were rumbling, his cooling fans rattled as they worked to cool off his frame. It was blatantly clear he was turned on.

What a display they must have put on! Here he was, heating up and engines roaring over feeding Octane and ogling that belly. And he had the audacity to criticize the ‘Con for going after what he wanted? The Autobot sank into his chair, plating drawing close. He could feel the other’s piercing gaze scorching through his frame.

Did he bring shame upon them both? Would Octane be mad?

Slowly, his optics rose only to see Octane leaning back in his chair, legs spread wide as he made a show of rubbing his hands around the vast circumference of his belly. Primus, no matter his frame shape, he had no qualms about showing off.  Cat calls were made to anyone close to his vicinity. Wide, mischievous smiles given. Brows wagging like crazy.

Octane loved whatever kind of attention he could get!

Sandstorm stood up, bashfully glancing at the table littered with empty plates. “Octane, let’s go.”

The ‘Con spun his chair around, giving that all-knowing look. “Did you get your fill, Sandy baby?” His servos patted his swollen paunch. “Is it time I get my fill?” His belly clenched hard enough to make those quirked brows clench.

“Let’s loosen that plating to soothe that angry belly of yours.” Sandstorm bashfully glanced around, then whispered. “In private.”

“Hmmmm.... eager to take my plating off, I see...” That cheesey look returned to his face. “You just can’t wait to get your servos all over me, huh?”

Sandstorm pressed his lips into a firm line. Obviously, the answer was yes! Primus, he wanted to caress that starter belly, feel its firmness, and spend all night tending to its needs. But he was not going to mention that. He just held out his hand, which the ‘Con took as he hefted his heavier frame out of the chair.

Octane sauntered close to his admirer, that belly pressing against his side. “Time for me to get my dessert, huh?” An arm wrapped around the orange and yellow mech, guiding him towards the stairs to his room, no doubt.

The warmth that radiated from Octane’s touch made his plating flare. Feeling the warm breath ghost over his neck cables sent shivers down his struts. Smelling the faint hint of leather mixed with polishing wax simply primed his engines!

“You sure you’re gonna be able to perform with that big ol’ belly?” Sandstorm cocked a brow in question.