Megatron and Impactor made a habit of getting into small, tight places.


Title: Miners & Holes

Warning: Sex. Handjobs, blowjobs, masturbation, size kink, non-gore vore, fluids, aft port.

Rating: NC-17

Continuity: IDW

Characters: Impactor/Megatron

Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors.

Motivation (Prompt): Prewar miners + postwar vore Impactor/Megatron commission for Baiku, in a legitimate purchase of a miner's aft.


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Pt. 1

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Light was a precious commodity down in the mines. They had equipment for it, but energy cost money. Electric conduits lined the top of the main living shafts to feed the bare bulbs regularly studding the ceilings in and out of the bunk slots, and a miner could count on one hand the amount of lights actually on at any one time.

Everything down in the mines centered around saving money. Safety regulations and ease of access were less important goals. Miners paid their own way; light was expensive.

Shifts shared bunk slots because, the operations manual claimed, it promoted mingling between the shifts. Theoretically, if someone from the previous shift didn't show up before his slotmates left for their own shift, they would notice the empty bunk and alert the sector manager. In practice, the bunks were only used for recharge. Nobody kept track of anybody's whereabouts unless it was a friend. The lights were always off for the energy conservation, so it'd take sitting on someone to find out if the bunk opposite was currently occupied. Alerting the sector manager that one of their slotmates hadn't come back last shift just annoyed everyone involved as, more likely than not, the mech in question had slipped in and out unnoticed in the perpetual darkness, or he'd taken an off-shift to hit the surface for some fresh air.

In the case of the miner who'd bunked in Slot #113 before Megatron, he'd been missing an undetermined amount of time before the twice-a-year trash sweep logged the bunk as empty. For all anyone else in the slot knew, he'd quit, died, or moved into a fragbuddy's bunk permanently. The sector manager never cared to look. He simply noted there was an empty bunk and assigned it to the newbie.

Impactor hadn't noticed his shift-buddy leaving. They worked different tunnels, barely nodding in passing if they bothered to recognize each other that much. Impactor typically hadn't. He didn't get attached to people down here. First shift in Slot #133 had the upper bunks, second shift had the lower, and what that boiled down to in the end was Impactor rolling over to put his back to the rest of the room. Slots were for sleeping, not socializing. He had places to be and work to do down here, and other people's input on his habits and hobbies wasn't welcome. The most he could say about the missing mech was that he'd kept to himself, and Impactor was left with the vague impression of a body taking up space in the bunk next to his.

So what's-his-face disappeared without anyone noticing, and Megatron joined Slot #113 as Impactor's shift-buddy. That, Impactor noticed.

Where Megatron went, the light of a tiny tablet went. Light was a precious commodity, almost as rationed as energon or free time. To see it glowing in the hands of a miner meant nothing to the official regs but defied every unwritten guideline for living beneath the surface. The small rectangle of light and words was a self-contained act of passive, subversive resistance to unspoken social rules. Megatron didn't get above his station the way some miners did by installing mods or buying extra chrome, but he was giving the higher-ups a rude gesture all the same.

This was Impactor's kind of mech.

Impactor, on the other hand, wasn't Megatron's usual crowd. Megatron was some sort of nerd, one of those people who didn't belong in the body he had. He was gentle, well-read, and articulate in a frustratingly round-about way that always made Impactor feel as though the mech couldn't get straight to the point. Megatron had to talk three times as much to reach the same place, all the while using fancy metaphorical phrasing and harmonious wording that was supposed to make it deeper and more meaningful but could ultimately be ignored, in Impactor's opinion. Short and to the point was more Impactor's style. It came out the same in the end, he thought.

Megatron didn't agree. The mech valued his opinion, however, and continued to read him poems. He insisted Impactor give him an honest reaction so they could talk about it.

Since Megatron had come into the slot, Impactor had argued more over literature than ever before in his life, including the vast, engex-lubricated complaint marathons the miners held about the mine operations manual. The manual made more sense, and that was saying something. Megatron's poetry gave Impactor a processor ache trying to parse the message into something a miner could understand.

"But that's the point," Megatron said, leaning across the narrow gap between their berths, his handful of light spilling in a glittering waste of energy onto Impactor's dull paintjob. "You're not just a miner. You said yourself that you've had no formal education, but you're capable of understanding my meaning despite being kept ignorant! You're more than a machine they just point at the ground and forget about. You've picked up a wider understanding by exposure alone. Imagine what you'd be like without the Functionalists telling you what you can and can't learn."

Talk like that was as rebellious as a punch to their supervisor's face, only less violent and more likely to get a mech disappeared in the dark if the words reached the wrong audios. Impactor stared at Megatron's earnest expression and felt a stirring in his gut he associated with a flash chassis up on the surface. Not that squared angles and caution paint didn't do it for him, but brakes on a highway if Megatron revved up on poetry didn't turn his engines.

Light flickered on the walls of the slot as Impactor knocked aside the tablet, curbing his strength to avoid cracking it, careful in his carelessness as only a fellow miner could appreciate. He curled his hand behind Megatron's neck, up under the helmet where his fingertips could tease the fragile edges of broadcast panels. Megatron dragged in a short breath, not quite a gasp but something surprised, a word half-said because what would this glitch be without trying to complicate the primal simplicity of lust with ornate words? Impactor chuckled and pulled, drawing him closer.

Megatron relaxed into him, and Impactor let go in order to delve between Megatron's thighs, fingers sliding through the shadows cast by the tablet's screen. Impactor lit one optic to watch even as rough teeth and lips kept the other miner distracted. The scarcity of light turned the slow rise of a spike into a fiercely erotic sight. He could see it all he wanted up on the surface, but here shadows dappled his hand into flashes of seen and unseen, hidden and in plain sight, bringing out into the open what miners usually did in the dark.

He felt uncomfortably exposed, pumping Megatron's spike in the light. Miners didn't do that. It looked too much like giving instead of taking, and manual labor builds didn't do that. They weren't allowed to do that. The Functionalists never explicitly said it, but the darkness made it pretty clear how they thought miners should act. Hook-ups in the dark, connections made quick, fast, and silent, and then anonymous hands and mouths went their way to slots where no one knew if the right mech had taken the empty bunk.

Impactor watched Megatron's spike thrust in and out his hand, lit by unnecessary light for whom and what they were, and he smirked into the kiss. Megatron was gasping now, muted hitches in time with the squeeze of Impactor's fingers. That was poetry, to him. This was as nonviolent as his defiance got, crude action and no words, but the same subversive attitude as the nerd's prettied up poems.

Megatron shuddered, spilling out into his hand, and they left the light on.


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