✧ 𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙁𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝘼𝙧𝙚 𝙁𝙤𝙧
ᴍɪʀᴀɢᴇ/ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ
sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You've been pent up and unsatisfied ever since fantasies of a certain Autobot started addling your mind. You're doing a good job of hiding it, all things considered. Except, turns out, Transformers can sense specific electromagnetic fields. Mirage is actually... very close to telling you that.
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 9.9k
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: nsfw; just a humble, first-time smut writer; I'm so lost ngl; PWP; a bit of a suspension of disbelief for how EM fields work 'cause huh; no use of (y/n) or specific physical appearance descriptors; fem reader.
ɴᴏᴛᴇ: This took me. SO LONG. :,) I use reading EM fields in this fic, but that isn't a given ability in all of my Transformers works. I think they're a fun idea to play with, but I don't always want the characters' underlying emotions out there yk?
The incessant, demanding electromagnetic pulses that had been radiating off of you were dizzying. Mirage had been around you plenty before, not a problem! Yet, for some reason, that’d… decidedly changed.
He’d noticed different versions of your field before, sure. Humans, Arcee had explained to him, didn’t have the cybernetic components to produce the much stronger signatures of – say – other nearby Cybertronians. Your species was expressly organic in nature, a far jump from the complex circuitry that comprised even a single one of his servos. Despite that limitation, however, pinpricks of any intense emotion you might’ve been experiencing still emanated off of you. More subtle, but still distinctly there.
Like when you were particularly happy and a lively buzz hummed in the space around you. Or when the two of you were fresh off a high-speed drive, adrenaline quickening the rise and fall of your chest, and you had this trust that gleamed in your eyes and vibrated through his processor. Or that faint brush of fondness – quiet, but steadfast.
Everything you just ignited something inconceivably tender within him.
He looked for you first whenever he entered a room, any space you had the off-chance of occupying. Your laugh was the one he strained his audial sensors for whenever he made one of his corny ass jokes. If, Primus forbid, he believed there to be even an implication of a threat, he was by your side. Sometimes, you’d blink up at him – like you were surprised to see him there. Sometimes, his optics would cycle as he looked down at you – uncertain of when he even decided to put his frame between you and the potential danger.
And then you started eliciting other instincts from him.
He started noticing it sometime last week, when he’d awoken from his stasis to you already in the warehouse they called HQ. You’d been shaking a spray can, several more at your feet – in the middle of tagging the smooth brick walls in various shades of vibrancy and monochrome. Mirage wasn’t quiet by any means, but you still jumped when you saw him, eyes wide. “Shit!” The paint rattled as it slipped from your grip, the sound of it colliding with the floor reverberating through the space.
Something like a laugh had shook his frame, his startup systems still blinking online in his periphery. To your credit, you regained your composure quickly.
“Fucking scared me,” you mumbled. And to think you’d just been ignoring him.
You glared at him like he was the one interrupting in what was essentially his own home. “Oh, c’mon,” he goaded playfully, stepping closer to avoid shouting across the large room and to discreetly peer at your newest project. Rarely did you ever work when someone was watching. “You love seeing this face.”
You rolled your eyes, an amused smile on your face regardless of the gesture. “Keep telling yourself that,” you replied sarcastically, bending down to pick up the fallen spray paint. Mirage forced his optics away until you straightened. Primus, this early? He needed to get a grip. “I thought this place was empty,” you explained, waving your arm out to gesture around you. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt your much needed beauty sleep.”
Your lighthearted slight snapped him back into focus. “Ouch,” the ‘bot winced, faux hurt flashing over his faceplates. He tilted his helm at you, his form fluid and casual in that way you weren't aware metal could be, as he shifted his weight to one pede. “Y’know, if you wanted to get me alone, you could just say ‘at. The lying’s unnecessary.”
You returned a devilish little smile, eyes sparking in the familiar back-and-forth the two of you shared. “Oh, if I’d known you were here…” There was something wistful in your voice as it trailed off; something that quickly darkened, thickened like honey. “You don’t wanna know what I would’ve done to you.”
The cooling fan positioned slightly below his middle kicked on with startling suddenness. The suggestive nature of your comment, the sultry and ever-so-slightly teasing tone you used to deliver it – those were expected. He wanted to rile that reaction out of you, even. Not that your dynamic didn’t affect him, but it’d never gone further than that. He never let himself think about it going further than that; not in the moment anyway. Later, though, with one servo fisted over his– fuck, he’s getting off track.
No. No, that familiar rhythm wasn’t the cause to his effect.
Now – standing so close to you, hearing those words drip from your tongue – he felt it: the heady, aching hunger that his sensors were saying originated from you. New. That was entirely new. All at once, your field heightened every awareness he had; coursed through his frame, shot straight to a neglected region behind his modesty plates.
The look on your face was peetering towards concerned. Mirage hadn’t said anything. What exactly did he say when his fool’s errand, otherworldly crush inadvertently broadcasted how turned on they were? He was leaning towards short-circuiting. Because there was no way you were doing it on purpose, right?
He sure as hell didn’t tell you about EM fields. That wasn’t a conversation suited to him – too many details, a lot unnecessary in his opinion. But did Arcee? Did anyone?
The squeal of tires had announced someone’s arrival, knocking him out of his stupor. Both of you perked up, his reaction slightly more delayed than yours, to identify the guest.
Bumblebee had cut the turn into the warehouse sharp, skidding onto the concrete and leaping into his bipedal form. A couple long strides slowed his momentum as the yellow ‘bot chirruped excitedly, likely having come off a particularly good drive. Mirage didn’t know if he was grateful for the Camaro’s interruption or if he wanted to scream. Third option: scoop you up, peace out, and explore his little discovery in Noah’s more secluded garage. Obviously (unfortunately), he chose to appear content just standing there while you and Bumblebee caught up.
Nevertheless, Mirage definitely used that memory of you in private one way or another.
Initially, he thought the read he got was a fluke. A result of something else; a faulty processor somewhere subconsciously trying to feed his more intimate fantasies. It was so brief, after all. Never before seen – a one time thing.
Then it happened again. And the next time he saw you. The time after that too.
Okay, maybe he really was going to short-circuit. Contrary to his bravado, Mirage wasn’t actually as egotistical as he seemed. Assuming the changes in your field were from him – asking or acting on it – was a gamble he just wasn’t willing to take. What self-preservation remained wouldn’t allow it. The two of you? Friends! Friends whose quips alluded to something sexual more than not, but whatever. Shit, forget crossing that line – you were wholly different species. Yeah. Primus forbid he overlook that little detail.
But that twinge in your field had reappeared and lasted. And he sat there in it! Schooling his expressions into cool obliviousness, he couldn’t quite help the way his jaw clenched whenever you weren’t looking. It haunted him, almost; like he really was possessed, as Noah had first assumed in their little meet-cute.
Mirage had it bad for you before, for longer than he cared to brazenly admit, but this development? This was bad bad. In long forgotten parts of the city, in back alleys and structures probably on a demolition list somewhere, the mech found himself having to pop his interface panel with increasing urgency after being around you – his spike near painfully pressurized. Every. Damn. Time. With a sharp hiss, he’d rut into his own frenzied servo, chasing an overload from daydreams of an anatomy he’d never felt.
It was seriously throwing him off his game. It was like he was drunk off high-grade he hadn’t sipped in years – instructions occasionally taking two takes to fully register. His wit – while still very much present – came slower, his thoughts addled with something significantly off topic. Not to mention whipping his own EM field into presentable order. Embarrassment wasn’t a feeling he was familiar with, but he had some decorum, dammit. He wanted to avoid you for the first time since he’d met you; he wanted to never leave your side, devour you whole if you’d let him.
Then, the worst thing for his self control had to fucking happen.
In the midst of a Brooklyn heat, your air conditioner had so lovingly decided to stop working. One call-in later, your landlord told you he’d work on ‘finding a solution’ and to – essentially – hang tight until then. Ha! You’d sooner bear the sweltering wave outside and loiter in public spaces than be slow cooked alive in the stuffiness that had accumulated in your space.
Thankfully, you were graciously saved from that abhorrent first option. Noah, after you called him to lament your predicament, offered you an air-conditioned stay in his garage. Initially, he suggested swinging by his place. No one would actually be at his apartment by the time you’d arrive, though; so, with the door locked, he figured something was better than nothing.
“Don’t mind Mirage if he’s around,” he’d said, and you could practically envision the man’s one shoulder shrug – blasé to the psychological conditions of the whole save-you-from-melting setup. You hoped the line didn’t pick up your swallow at the mention. “He likes to crash there if someone’s on his ass.” A pause. “Not literally.”
…to the ‘crashing’ or the ass reference? A Díaz mystery.
On your way to the gift that was central air, you absentmindedly hoped the rest of the Autobots had been especially lenient with Mirage that day. Usually, you’d welcome the idea of company, but you weren’t sure how taut the bowstring-like tension in your body could be pulled. Sweat prickled on your brow, which could easily be excused by the heatwave, but you knew – embarrassingly – better: you were a feather’s weight from snapping.
A couple nights ago – shit, a week? – you’d dreamt of wandering metal servos and glowing blue optics. A certain snark. Slick skin and being stuffed full beyond human comprehension. The sound that left your lips after you’d woken up – alone in your bed, in your Brooklyn apartment – was just pitiful.
Painting didn’t help – you’d tried that the morning after and accidentally stumbled right into him for fuck’s sake. Made a stupid ass joke that probably made you worse off in the long run. Your own ministrations felt like trying to douse a wildfire with a cheap watergun. Humans, decidedly, weren’t what you were seeking. And telling someone about this? Even vaguely? Fuck, out of the question.
And you didn’t think mind readers existed, but you also hadn’t thought fucking aliens existed either. Now look at you – REM cycle containing images of smashing one. Not in a violent way. Not that the violent way would’ve been particularly better. Regardless, you needed to be on your best behavior. At least until whatever made your eyes roam and linger blew over. Yeah. Yeah.
The brick building housing the garage was about as secluded as you could get in the big city. It was quiet. Perfectly seated in the overlooked, yawning maws of far more conspicuous complexes. Even then, not much was populated back here. Fitted with top-of-the-line locks, even petty thieves with too much free time would remain incognizant to the extraterrestrial Porsche within.
The key for the door was nondescript, a little silver thing that you’d started carrying around in your pocket. Noah had presented you with one ever since the two of you bonded over robots from space, of all things. At first, you’d harbored half a mind that the guy was cute. Oh, how your taste had changed.
You twisted the key into the lock, the bolt retreating with a dull clunk. After fitting it snuggly back into your pocket, you popped the door open. A wave of cool, almost cold, air blew out. The two temperature extremes that coated your skin involuntarily elicited a low, satisfied sound from the back of your throat.
“Hello to you too,” a voice called from within. Well, fuck.
This had been a fantasy of yours at some point, you were sure of it. Now? Not so much. Not when you wanted to jump the poor mech, your friend – no dinner required. Sober, too.
Just existing next to the ‘bot felt like a crime recently. It was like your pent up, agonizing, little human brain had activated a damn sleeper agent in your rapidly overheating train of thought. No matter how hard you tried to just ‘be chill’ everything felt like the exact opposite of chill. You were definitely violating that guideline whenever your deft fingers snaked their way under your waistband at night.
Whatever. This was fine. Steeling yourself, you pushed through the doorway, and promptly resituated the lock behind you. This part of Brooklyn was dead, sure, but – sexual frustrations aside – no one wanted Mirage walked in on. Prime, Arcee, everyone – even Mirage – were all very clear on the whole undiscovered thing.
“Okay, I didn’t even know you were here,” you defended, finally seeing the ‘bot leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chassis.
“Just the thought of me then, huh? I’m flattered.”
He had no idea. “Not too much, I hope.” Internally, you were choking down another sigh from the sheer relief of the a/c washing over your senses. And trying not to recall what the ‘thought of’ Mirage really did to you. “Wouldn’t want you getting cocky.”
He pushed himself off the brick, his frame giving off a small whir. It was almost comical how few steps it took him to reach you. “Eh, too late, sweetheart.”
You wiped at your face with the hem of your shirt, hiding your smile – hiding how your stomach dipped at his endearment. He was– he should’ve been impossible. He was an alien who disguised himself as a Porsche, vain bastard, yet you’d never gotten along with anyone easier. Never wanted anyone more. His effect on you – shit, how much longer could you put that off? Even with your vision obscured, the weight of Mirage’s optics unmistakably settled somewhere over your midsection. And, okay, maybe the warmth that pooled there wasn’t entirely from the raging sun outside.
When you dropped the fabric, you caught a glimpse of his helm snapping forward, the mech suddenly seeming fascinated by the garage’s structural supports. It was only when his optics – timidly, or was that your imagination? – slipped down that you remembered your state: sheening with sweat, barely covered in your attempt to cool down. Ah.
It was probably concerning that your first thought was of another circumstance – one that involved you wearing nothing at all. Your eyes dropped to the ground, unable to look at the Autobot in good conscience. Off to a great start.
“Uh, a/c broke,” you supplied, reaching around the back of your neck and resisting the urge to cringe at the stickiness of your skin. “Noah said I could stay here until the thing was fixed.” For a moment, it was like your words hadn’t registered. In the uncharacteristic silence, you brought your eyes up to his face. The ‘bot had that faroff stare again, situated somewhere over your shoulder, one you’d seen a lot recently. His name sounded tentative on your tongue, inflected into a question.
That broke his stare. “Huh? Sorry, I was–” he ex-vented with more force than you knew necessary. “I just remembered something.”
That piqued your interest. “What?”
“You wouldn’t believe it – there’s this crazy thing about ‘bots, right?” Mirage clasped his servos together, beginning to pace around the small space. “So!” He said it with so much enthusiasm, you nearly jumped. You raised a brow. It’s not like he ever stood still, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t acting strange. “Yeah, we can, like–” some hesitation, and you heard some muttering about how Arcee should’ve been the one to ‘explain this shit.’ “Have a sense of what people are feeling. I– we don’t try to a lot, just happens. Better read when they’re, y’know,” he gestured at himself, “but humans are fair game too.”
Humans are fair game. Outwardly, your features were blank – wiped clean in your processing of this new information. Inwardly, you were grappling against a very sharp chill of exposure. Did he know? He couldn’t know – could he? The knowledge that he’d been keen to your emotions as a whole wasn’t discomforting. Surprising, yes, but it wasn’t like he probed voluntarily. Still, the fundamental fear of getting caught doing something potentially reprehensible seized you. You just had to manifest mind readers, didn’t you? Not the same thing per se, but – shit – it might as well have been!
Mirage hadn’t stopped pacing. Not the most promising sign. You nodded slowly, peering at him carefully, “Uh huh. Now, you’re telling me this, why?”
He paused, his shoulders falling in defeat. The sound of his cooling systems flaring to life swiftly volunteered to fill the stillness. His massive frame turned to face you directly, servos rising to bracket his hips. “Look, I was… extra reminded of it. I mean, like, the couples at drive-in theaters are seriously unbearable, I don’t know how the guy puts up with it,” he rambled, clumsily referring to Bee. “They’re like– what was it? Rats?”
“Rabbits?”
“Thank you.”
You’d spoken out of the ridiculousness of his statement, your voice feeling disconnected from your thoughts. He knows. He definitely fucking knows. A stifled panic clawed further up your throat. “Have I been making you uncomfortable this whole time?”
His fans spun a little faster, and you had a hunch that it wasn’t from the heat outside. “Ah, well,” his optics flitted over your form. There was a hesitance there that was foreign to you. “I wouldn’t say uncomfortable’s the word for it.”
Your mind scrambled for an alternative. “Really uncomfortable?”
His throat visibly bobbed, a slight chuckle rumbling out of his intake with a gentle shake of his helm. Like he, too, was aware of the incredulousness of this conversation. Did he actually produce saliva to swallow? Wait, no, you weren’t sure if that information would do you any good. “Try a bit too comfortable.” He threw his servos up in what looked like surrender, letting them fall back down to his sides. “Can’t lie, it almost makes me forget we’re only work friends.”
All you could do was blink blearily at him. Forgive you if you weren’t at the top of your game after that sparkling little confession. Was it presumptuous of you to think he was saying what you think he was saying? For a moment, you let yourself think of a scenario where he’d felt the same. Hot under the collar, fidgeting with an unspoken need. Maybe let his optics linger where they shouldn’t – his mind somewhere depraved. A starved sound curled itself around your tongue, and you weren’t sure you could open your mouth without it escaping. “Mirage–”
“Hey.” It was abrupt, the word just a bit too enunciated. Like he’d lose his nerve if he spoke any later. He didn’t sound like he was berating you, but you stopped anyway; as cautious as you were curious. “Don’t worry about it. Uh, I’m not human, necessarily, but – if it’s really bothering you – I could lend you a hand with that, yeah?”
What was he– woah, okay.
That was… not where you were expecting this intervention to go. Suddenly, the garage didn’t feel much cooler than the air outside. Shit, could’ve been hotter for all you knew. It was very possible that the sun had just followed you in through the door – your body rendered molten.
“On your terms, of course,” he added; bowing at the waist, one servo crossed over his spark. Wow. A gentleman and a dumbass through and through. “But I am told I’m a quick learner.”
You refocused. Right, he’d offered his ‘helping hand’ like a question. Not that it was much of one – no way you were passing this up. Right? “I mean,” you began, your growing desire effectively snuffing out the last of your apprehensions. Mirage knew how you’d felt around him, friendship and biological differences aside, and he wasn't turning away. At least not yet. He was willing to participate. Submitting to satiate the aching parts of you. That had to be something. Right? “‘s what friends are for, right?”
He went quiet. “Friends.” Like he was turning it over in his servos, testing it on his glossa. “Yeah.” Despite his words, his tone betrayed him. ‘Friends’ wasn’t what he was looking for. Before you could ask, maybe apologize, do or say anything, the mech somehow made a vocal show of stretching. One you were content to watch. “Lucky for you, I already got the oil pumpin’ before this. Your cops, by the way? So slow.”
That stopped you short. “You ran from the cops before this?”
“What? Not like you mind a little thrill,” he teased, and you wondered if he too was remembering the several car chases the two of you had been caught up in. The speed. The race of your heart, nearly tripping over itself keeping up. “Clearly.”
“Easy, now,” you half-heartedly chided, face flush at his implication. Would explain why he was here then. After the circumstances he met Noah in, Optimus implemented a ‘laying low’ grace period after getting involved with the police. “I might change my mind.”
“You won’t.”
Your eyes met his – rose to the challenge you thought you’d find there. But, for all of his posturing, the mech didn’t sound so sure. A thin layer of doubt laid underneath the syllables, slathered in swagger. It made your stomach twist. Uncertainty was strange on him. You took in a shallow breath. Voicing your devotion wasn’t enough – you were going to prove it. You were really doing this. No backing down now.
“I won’t.”
Tension snapped from his shoulders. “That’s the spirit,” he chimed, lowering himself to the ground. In a way you’d seen a couple times before, but never like this, Mirage settled himself into a sitting position – minding his tires, legs splayed out in front of him. The height difference was definitely still there, but more practical now. After a bit of wiggling, adjustments you knew were meant to preserve his paint, he patted his leg. “Step right up! I don’t bite – promise.”
You scoffed, grinning as you obliged. “And what if I do?”
The ’bot shrugged. “I’m durable. And maybe I’ll like it.”
His attempts at levity were more than welcome. They helped ease the nerves that tangled themselves behind your ribs. A soft reassurance: he was still Mirage, after all. He always made the risk worth it.
You were preparing to hoist your body onto his lap when an unhurried servo assisted you, making the climb near effortless. His frame bore the entirety of your weight without a second thought. You were about to thank him, but the impact of his proximity stunned you into silence. He was composed of so many moving parts, flickering beneath the surface with that foreign energon glow. You’d never seen him so close, and certainly not from this angle before. And, for a moment, you weren’t sure what you were supposed to do now that you were. The look you gave him probably mirrored that of an expectant doe – highbeams unsure and searching.
He spoke first: “So, I can’t take you out for dinner, but can I kiss you?”
The laugh that bubbled out of you bled into your answer: “Fucking dork. Yes.”
Mirage was smiling. And it was goofy and a bit crooked, but you loved it. You loved a lot about him, down to tiny things you’d been collecting for a long while now. The rev of his engine, the slight corniness he carried with him. His easygoing nature, and how the two of you bounced the most arbitrary conversations back and forth. The way he was never held in a still frame. How he let you pen your initials on one of his fake glovebox papers – your initials followed by a, ‘was here’ and a stupid emoticon. You didn’t remember when you’d started doing that, but you hadn’t stopped – filing your findings away only for the image of his face, alight with joy and mischief, to emerge in the evening as you folded laundry.
“Just one question, how exactly is that happening?” Not like you hadn’t imagined it in about a dozen different ways, but you weren’t about to admit that. Your arousal had essentially been a popup for him, and you weren’t fully recovered from that level of mortification yet.
He batted the air, like this was no big deal – an easy fix! “Don’t worry ‘bout it, I’ve got ya.”
With that, the ‘bot scooped you up and let you find your bearings over his chassis. Unrelated: your cheeks were burning. His servos hovered over your middle, letting you move freely, but were nonetheless present in the event you slipped. Straddling, you deduced, was easiest. His patience with you getting comfortable, however, must’ve been the last of his restraint. You’d barely registered how close he was, how warm, when he leaned in. He was slow. In any other context, you’d tease him about that fact. You could have stopped him, had your mind really changed. You didn’t.
He was gentle at first. Navigated with you until the kiss felt right. Despite being made of metal, his lips were warm and malleable. Fit against your mouth with a barely concealed hunger that surprised even him. Less plush than the humans you had experience with, but not bruising or painful. Just firmer. Steady. All you could think of was to touch him; resting your palm on his cheek, another hand landing on the junction between his neck and shoulder. He held you like he was trying to convince himself this wasn’t a dream, like you’d evaporate into the heatwave under his touch. A servo skated across your back. Settled itself against your spine when he felt you shiver. He does produce saliva, you learned. Inoffensive in taste, and doing a number on the throbbing between your thighs.
You were testing waters pre-Mirage you would balk at. I’m not going to half-ass this. Any fears you’d reserved were met with that mantra. I’ve had literal fucking dreams about this.
Experimentally – seeking more – you flicked out your tongue, narrowly grazing his bottom lip. His engine purred. And, in response, you got what you were looking for. Something hot and much larger than your own reciprocated the motion. Your inhale was sharp. God, the size of him. It fueled countless fantasies then, and it was fueling the searing want in you now. And that was just his tongue. Thankfully, he seemed aware of himself. His glossa slid past your teeth, explored your mouth; eager, but was never shoved down far enough to gag you. The amount of spit you were producing, mixed with whatever lubricant he possessed, was borderline sinful. In any other circumstance, you would’ve curled up in abject shame at the quantity. Mirage, however, appeared more than happy to drink you down.
Time blurred as the two of you moved in tandem, becoming increasingly urgent. You felt digits squeeze around your thigh, attempt to hoist you inconceivably closer. The adjustment ripped nothing short of a whine out of you. Angled like this, through the thin material of your shorts, you could feel how your clit dragged across the hard ridges of his body with every minute shift. Fuck, did that pressure feel good. Without thinking, you ground into the sensation, chasing the sparks that lanced through your core with every roll of your hips.
Mirage was the first to pull away, and your tempo stuttered. “I see someone has a sweet spot,” he interjected, optics bright and full. They dropped to where you needed him most, the servo that laid on your upper thigh sliding imperceptibly inward. “Can I– shit,” he hissed, his critical thinking officially hitting an all time low, “what do you want, sweetheart?”
Your reply was immediate. “Touch me. Please.”
He nodded, and you could hear his increased airflow. “Just tell me what feels good,” the mech hummed, thumb prodding at the general area you’d been rubbing against his frame. You made diminutive alterations to your position, clumsily aligning your sex with his servo. His movements were accented with a small tremor, radiating all the way up his arm.
There was a climbing temperature gauge in his peripherals, one he couldn’t bring himself to care about because then he’d have to look away from you. Whatever was making your eyes flutter like that, he wanted more of it. Shit, he’d never felt such a high rocket through his systems – and he’d been involved in his fair share of high stakes.
“There– hah, right there,” you babbled, stilling as you sank into the pleasure. Making good on his promise, his thumb started to trace fast, tight circles over your swollen bud – eliciting a cry from deep in your throat. The way he looked at you… it was pure awe. Primus, you were a divinity he’d pledge his spark to, pour every fragment of his being into, again and again. His helm dipped, and, for a second, your mouth tried to follow his. Instead, you felt his lips brush against your neck, warm and sticky as he trailed messy kisses across his canvas. Every nerve ending felt like it was on fire under his administrations, melting you to the spot. Even then, a hazy conclusion flared to life: the friction, although better, wasn’t enough.
Suddenly, your very breathable and scarce clothing felt very heavy and restrictive. Off. You needed them off. “Wait, uh, wait one second,” you managed to plead.
Mirage righted himself, optics cycling blearily – the mess he’d been making on your skin shining on his mouth. The wide expanse of his thumb, woefully, slipped from your clit. He swallowed. “Everything okay?” It was so tender, so innocent, you felt your heart swell.
“Better,” you assured. “Really good, actually. I just need out of, um, my clothes.”
“Oh,” his fans whirred with a new intensity. “Right. Y’know, you humans have a lot of steps for things.”
You rolled your eyes, reaching for the bottom hem of your shirt. “That’s just not fair – you don’t even wear clothes.”
“The universe knew it would be a shame if I did. Besides, I’m still plenty modest.”
With a laugh and a quick snap of your wrists, you hefted the inverted fabric off of your torso with a flourish. A retort was teetering on the edge of your tongue – something about a bare chest and modesty – when you saw his face. For joking just a moment ago, there was no trace of humor left in his expression. Only unadulterated wonder.
“You are,” he sounded breathless and so painfully earnest, “so beautiful.”
The desire that gripped you was white-hot. Wordlessly, you removed the rest of your clothing with a newfound necessity, tossing the articles somewhere off to the side. Your shorts had only just landed when you scrambled for the cabling at the back of his neck, drawing him into you. He followed without protest. Together, you collided in a flurry of tongue and the lightest hint of teeth.
The heat outside had become the heat in here – scorching your skin as you let your hands unashamedly wander. Over his face, his pecs, the hidden places only your fingers could reach. Every noise you received only served to heighten your ambition. Excruciatingly, you felt his servo shift, swipe over your chest. Exposure blasted through you. Now, you could feel the tiny vibrations that thrummed through his chassis, his engine. Sweat was starting to gather wherever your two bodies met, naked flesh and metal, muddling with the slick that seeped from your core. The only time you’d been even remotely as wound up as this… it must’ve been the night of your interstellar wet dream. Isn’t that a milestone.
You were just about to surface for a breath when he broke away, a sort of strangled gasp leaving his voice synthesizer. “Sorry, sorry, I have to– fuck,” he bit out.
“Please do.”
“Oh, c’mon,” he half-laughed, strained. His vents sputtered. "Don't do that to me.” The low timbre of his voice had you clenching around nothing. Whatever that was, you wanted to do it again. After affirming that his systems weren’t short-circuiting, miraculously, he said, “Am I allowed to take off my clothes now?”
You stared at him.
“I’m only half joking,” he deadpanned. Then, a conspiratorial whisper, “Just don’t ask me which part of my body I’m undressing.”
Fending off the half-smile, you commented, “This feels like it could be a stripper thing.”
His brow ridges furrowed. “What’s a stripper?”
Oh. “Forget it.”
“Good, because I was seriously getting pent up there, sweetheart.”
You heard the familiar clicks and hums you’d associated with his transformation mechanisms, urging you to look down. Below you, Mirage gave the barest of sighs. Thin tendrils of steam rose from the opening like a damn sci-fi movie, the shift in his panelling revealing something prettier than any human counterpart. Bigger too. Sleek. Silver. Blue accents, like the markings his alt-form sported, ran down either side. It looked pliable, material more akin to the biomesh of his glossa than – say – his digits. And was that a curve? Subtle, unlike the rest of him. Fuck, it was like you could already feel it punching the air from your lungs.
He was trying not to squirm under your observations. Was it too different from what you wanted? Mirage also had enough sense to know, even if he wasn’t anything crazy on Cybertron, that his spike was far above average for any guys you’d be familiar with. Was this too much for you? “Different, huh?” Careful. Gauging your reaction.
You drank down a gulp of too-hot air before answering. “A good different,” you murmured. “You have no idea.”
It twitched. Holy. Shit.
His optics took you in; unapologetic in their path from your face, down to how your bare legs straddled him. The mech bit absentmindedly at his lip. “I have a pretty good guess.”
“Well,” you breathed, “my apologies for assuming.”
He grinned. “Forgiven.”
Now your patience was fraying. His adoration of you, how blatant he’d made it so far, plucked at the delicate strings of your heart. You felt like an impossibility, a beautiful illusion, a subject he was all too willing to learn. “Am I allowed to touch?”
A sharp in-vent. “Please.”
God, you were going to devour him.
With surprising ease, you lowered yourself down to his lap – the condensation that’d accumulated, and the sweat prickling at your skin, assisting your readjustment. Graceful? Maybe not, but it wasn’t like there was anything glamorous to compare it to. I mean, how often did people smash aliens over twice their size? You were trying your best!
There was a fluid beading from the tip, pink and mostly transparent. Exploratory, you reminded yourself. This is exploratory – like, basically judge free. I hope so, at least. Collecting some in your palm, your hand glided over the entirety of his length. Mirage gave you a muted sound of appreciation, optics falling shut. “That’s good.” His mouth fell open with a pant. You liked that. You liked that a lot. Emboldened, you wrapped your fingers around – so damn small in comparison – and stroked. “Ye–ah, that’s good.” His spinal strut arched. The power you felt? Immeasurable.
Every aspect of this subconscious fantasy had been assembled from mismatched parts of experience and guesswork. There had been a learning period, yes; one that consisted of drawing parallels between the terminology for your respective anatomies. It included a lot of Arcee explaining and even more of Mirage interrupting to be the ‘reference.’ Reproductive systems, however, had been notably left out of that lecture. So, while somewhat theorizing that ‘bots just didn’t have parts to jam together, you’d improvised. Yet, this… this was beyond your imagination. Dreams couldn’t even begin to compare to the reality of touching him like this.
But when dipped your head to get a taste, the puff of your exhale sending a jolt through his whole array, Mirage held you back.
It was hardly a servo on your shoulder – more like half a digit with how everything, except the area below his thumb, hovered – but it had enough strength in it to prevent your advance. It wouldn’t bruise, though. He was being too careful. Your confusion was met with that cerulean gaze of his.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he rasped, a ghost of a smirk on his face as his hips gave the barest of twitches. “I already know I’m not lasting with you–” his optics darted over your form, all kinds of disheveled just for him “–looking like, like that.” His glossa flicked out from between his lips. “So, to keep this from being too embarrassing for me,” a short, breathy laugh escaped his chassis, “can we just– hey, just c’mere.”
Before you were able to decide whether that was supposed to be an ego boost or not, Mirage was carrying you again. So, so gently. The mech handled you like porcelain, making sure every major part of you was amply supported. You thought– thought he was going to place you back on his chassis. But, as you ascended, you noticed how high up the ‘bot had really brought you. Past the broad expanse of his shoulders, too awkward for it to be meant for kissing.
You felt like someone who’d missed their bus stop. Looking down, you queried, “Uh, Mirage?”
He met your eyes with a tilt of his chin, looking as though you’d snapped him out of a daze. His fans were still working, seemingly growing in their effort with each passing second. “Yeah, sweetheart? Something wrong?”
No. Yes? A pinprick of heat was threading its way downward, meshing with the flame licking down your thighs. “No, I just– what are you doing?” Suddenly, as the words left your mouth, you were very aware of where this was going. Of what was about to be going in you.
His grin bordered on wicked. “Relax, sweetheart. You ride me all the time.”
“Not like– oh!” It was a sight you couldn’t look away from, his lips parting to lick a languid stripe over your sex, even as you wanted to throw your head back – cry out again. His glossa, guided seamlessly by his generous coating of lubricant and the natural wetness that had been pooling there, plunged deep into your needy cunt. God, did it feel good to tighten around something. You felt your eyes water, the sensation of being filled with just his tongue almost too blissful to bear.
Needing to do something, anything, with your limbs, you scrambled to find footholds – slots in his plating you could latch yourself onto. Your legs were feebly wrapped somewhere around the apex of his neck, fingers foolishly trying to pull him closer. To hold. Even as you knew Mirage wouldn’t let you fall, his servos still cradling you as though he didn’t have his glossa shoved between your legs.
He was making unintelligible noises, ones that simply couldn’t have been words. The ‘bot was in his glory. You tasted so different – like sweetness and salt and sex. He wondered how long it would linger in his mouth, if somehow your taste could intoxicate because he was certain he was getting dangerously close to that point – static straining across his voice synthesizer. And you. He wasn’t exaggerating before in the slightest, underselling if anything; Mirage had seen stars less magnificent than this – this radiant woman he’d been thrown under the mercy of. Because, though you were on the receiving end of things for now, he could’ve been made of putty beneath your touch for all he knew. Your loyal devotee. Would you still let him be, after your needs were met? He really hoped so – this was starting to feel like more than a favor. Fuck, who was he kidding? It’d always been more than that, and he damn well knew it.
That was something to dwell on later. For now, he started to rock your quivering form back and forth, gently dislodging the grip you had on him. He had you, he had you. Just relax. Fucking you with his mouth like this, lapping you down like a man starved, Mirage further tested the waters with the slightest curl of his glossa. You keened. Warbled at him not to stop. Primus. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to close his optics, lose himself in the feel and sound of you, or never look away.
Your clit bumped against his nose, a whimper rising out of you. There was a low pressure building in your lower abdomen, a tautness you so desperately wanted to snap. Needed. “Mirage,” holy shit, you sounded wrecked already, “I want to come, please. I need– fuck, please– I need more of that, ah!” He understood, listened as fast as you told him; pulled you down to the hilt, closed his mouth, and sucked. Right over your sensitive bud.
The stimulation, the stretch of being so damn full– you couldn’t take it. Maybe you cried out his name. Maybe he moaned against you in response, sending brilliant little vibrations through your hyperaware nerve endings. You weren’t sure anymore. Your vision blurred as your release washed over you in a tidal wave – swept up every rational thought into a euphoric storm – leaving you a sticky mess of shaking muscles and verbal nonsense.
Mirage kept working your dripping hole, though slower now, to drag out your orgasm just right. Revelled in how it shamelessly squeezed around his biomesh like a vice. The thought of that pressure somewhere else? His spike throbbed, hips bucking once – consumed by a search for stimulation he wasn’t getting. He could service himself right here, overload in record time. But that would mean letting go of you, trusting one servo to hold your body aloft, and – though he knew his components to be plenty capable – he just wasn’t risking that. He pressed his glossa to that tender spot he found you liked, trying to wring out one more of those tremors that racked your whole, soft, human body.
“Okay, okay, okay,” you sputtered, your head buzzing with a luscious glow as you tapped his helm. “Take me back down.” The mech obeyed, carefully sliding you off his tongue as his servos guided your tempered body lower. You looked up at him. “You are… weirdly good at that.”
He shrugged a mechanical shoulder, a stark contrast to the loud droning of his cooling units. His chin was shiny with you, and you found that you couldn’t look at it without your face heating. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything. His glossa, however, darted out to lick some of it away. Oh. “I wouldn’t be much help if I weren’t.”
Ah, right. He was ‘helping.’ “God,” you groaned, slammed with a vivid awareness of everything you might not proudly reflect on tomorrow. “You sound so smug about it.”
“I don’t see you complaining.” Point made.
Curiously, you dropped your gaze, letting it land on his spike again. It drooled transfluid, twitching in sheer need. And the thought of what you could do with that was all too enticing. “Y’know, I don’t get any complaints either.”
A pause. “You sure, sweetheart?” Genuine, not painted in mockery or challenge.
You wanted him to know you meant it. “Yes,” accentuated with a nod.
With an acknowledging hum, he set you down in his lap. You were really, really doing this. Wasting no time, not when your body was finally yielding enough to be able to accommodate his size, you straddled him – maneuvered your molten core over his length. “I could– mmph,” his tip skimmed your entrance as you found something comfortable – warm, wet, and so agonizingly soft. “I could help you? Just tell me what you need.”
Finally settled, you lingered in the anticipation. “Give me a minute, I’ll start so you don’t break me.” It was a joke, delivered as such and intended that way, but his processor was well aware that was a very real possibility if he ever lost himself, forgot your human fragility. And he couldn’t hurt you. It just wasn’t an option, never had been. Especially now, during interfacing, when you were so vulnerable – had so much trust placed in him.
Slowly, you sunk down. He wasn’t just warm, he was nearly hot underneath. The head slid past your entrance with a pop and you nearly sobbed, the pitiful sound blurring with one of his. Thank god you’d finished once before trying this, the pleasant bonelessness of your body and the added slick of arousal and lubricant essentially necessary. It was too much and not enough – a delicious stretch and still so, so short of everything you’d been craving. Taking all of it was a feat you weren’t sure you were capable of, but you’d be damned if you didn’t try to stuff yourself full regardless.
“You got room f’me in there, baby?” Mirage was forcing his frame to be painfully still. He wasn’t sure how far ‘start’ entailed, but he wasn’t doing shit until you asked. Despite that, he couldn’t help but whine at the feel of your silken walls taking more of him in. So fucking soft. Just tight, wet, and soft. In lieu of a response, you shifted back, allowing gravity to pull your weight farther downwards. Any flash of pain was quickly smoothed over by pleasure. Occasionally, you’d roll your hips, mewling as you tried acclimating. Well, as much as you could. You doubted you’d ever get fully used to pure size like this. “Yeah,” something like an awestruck moan escaped him; a labored, hoarse sound. The mech was mesmerized. You could feel him pulsing inside you. Fuck, could you come just from that? “You got room f’me in there.”
His servos were stationary at his sides, planted flat against the concrete flooring. Only spasmed every now and then, like he was restraining himself from reaching for you. You missed them. “You can, ah, you can touch, y’know.”
A whoosh of an ex-vent left him. Shit, could he put out more steam? At this rate, probably. Mirage busied himself – kneading the curve of your ass, roaming over your chest, brushing your cheek. Every graze of metal left a fire in its wake. “Thank Primus for whatever was getting you all hot and bothered, sweetheart, shit.”
Whatever..? Okay, maybe he didn’t know. Not entirely at least. EM fields must’ve been vague enough to be deniable, unattributable. You could work with that. Yeah.
You made a choked sound in the back of your throat at the last of your progress, pubic mound just short of his modesty plating. There must’ve been an inch or two you just couldn’t wiggle in, your body weakly protesting with an overwhelming sense of fullness. The mech below you sounded like a computer on the brink of bluescreening. Was he okay? Throwing your eyes upwards, you met optics blown wide with adoration – afraid of blinking. “So pretty,” he marveled, approaching pathetic with how his voice was shaking. Mirage said your name like it was the loveliest thing ever conceived. “Taking me so well.”
The praise left you glowing. Yet, as you finally tried moving, you found it to be clumsier than you’d like. Your legs wouldn’t stop trembling, straining with every bounce. And bounce was generous. Even fully extended, you weren’t getting enough friction. A unique problem, to say the least. Mirage seemed oblivious to it; his hold on you tightening, moans filling the garage. Regardless, you were growing frustrated, feeling laughable in your attempts. A different kind of flush stained your face. The speed and intensity you chased were out of your capabilities. “I can’t do it,” you near sobbed, tears threatening to spill from the futility, stimulated too much and too little. You felt blood rush up your neck at the admission. “Need you to do it for me– just move. Please.”
A chirrup of his fans. A part of his processor still couldn’t believe this was happening at all, let alone what you were asking of him now. But he said he’d satisfy you, and you’d actually allowed him to try. That was the only thing he could bring himself to care about. “You– oh, shit. You want a certain pace, sweetheart?”
Making a decision seemed like an impossible task in your state. You just craved something. Anything more than you were currently getting. “Ah, your choice. You won’t hurt me, Mirage. I know you won’t.”
The mech nodded, a latent affection simmering in his optics. Your muscles loosened, letting him take over, as he altered his grasp on your malleable little body.
“And Mirage?” Dangerous, you knew.
He watched, waited.
“I want you to fit all of it.”
Steam left his vents. And he did what you wanted. His servos held your waist, one thumb petting your stomach while the other occupied itself over your clit – right before sinking you down and rolling his hips, sliding the last of his spike home. Both of you cried out in unison. Mirage ground your sexes together; savoring, colliding with that gooey spot inside. He hoped to Primus he didn’t overload too soon, as tempting as the notion was. Not that he’d be opposed to you being the one to draw it out of him. Then, before you could get impatient, he started to push up as he pulled you down, holding contact with all your most sensitive parts. Stars exploded across your vision. Again, you were reminded of the ‘bot’s strength, the rate of his thrusts quickening. There it was – the stretch, the rhythm, the pleasure you were looking for. You weren’t lasting like this, and you doubted his overworked frame was either. More, more, more. Almost there.
One thrust was particularly deep, ripping a yelp from your lungs. You felt him making changes to the angle, trying to replicate exactly what he’d heard you respond to again and again. “That’s it, pretty,” he panted, sounding drunk and deliciously uncontrolled. And his composure slipped. Just a bit. “Only I can make you feel like this, yeah? Nobody else, not whoever was– fuck– wasn’t taking care of you properly.”
He still didn’t get it, did he? You wanted to correct him. Over your pride. Over whatever dignity you clung to. The confession left you in a mindless stream: “Mirage, how I’ve been is– ah, hah– is because of you.” His rhythm grew sloppy, his pace slowed; you knew he was listening. You kept going. “It was like a damn switch, I– oh, fuck. Just couldn’t look at you without thinking about exactly this.”
He stopped. You didn’t want him to stop.
Profanities filled your mind. That was a mistake. He thinks this was a mistake. I’m too involved, I’m too– Frantically, a wave of awareness drenching you, you tried to explain: “I’m sorry, I didn’t– I wasn’t–”
He cut you off.
Cupping your ass for support, Mirage stood and lifted you – still speared on his spike – with supernatural ease. He turned, pressed your back against the wall; wood and ribbed metal sheets. The new surface was cool to the touch, a relief for your burning exterior even as the air left your lungs in a gasp. Unthinking, your legs repositioned themselves, trying to wrap around him. For support or proximity, you weren’t sure. Blue and silver filled your vision. He was all you could see, all you wanted to see. With renewed clarity, he stammered, “No, wha– you should’ve said something sooner, I– fuck, sweetheart,” he dropped the front of his helm to the wall. An ironic little smile teased his lips. “I would’ve given you whatever you wanted.”
A moment for you to take that in. For the anxiety to dispel itself with every exhale. “Whatever I wanted?” It left you in a rush.
“Yes,” he gritted out, and – fuck – did it sound desperate. His glossa practically dripped with it. As if he weren’t already buried inside you. “Anything.”
“Then just help me– fuck me, please.” And he was yours.
If you thought his thrusts were powerful before, they were borderline brutal now. Repetitive snaps of hips slammed into you, dragging along your walls and hammering back in – the tip pressed incessantly to that spot. You were babbling incoherencies, face torqued up in pleasure. Tears spilled from your eyes. A digit found your clit again – the motions unpractised, but determined. Anything you’d wanted, dreamed of, he gave. And it was so fucking good. He really was going to ruin you for anything or anyone else. You didn’t mind that.
The salacious sound of metal against skin, the slick noise of your cunt sucking him in, muddled with the obscene sounds the two of you spouted. His servos held you just a bit too tight. Your hands clamored for somewhere to hold onto; landed on his wrists, his servos. You looked down. You watched him disappear into you, over and over. All you could do was cry out and take it as his hips pistoned mercilessly into yours.
“Oh, you like that?” He rasped against your skin, hissing as you clamped down – his voice so close to your ear. Your mind was a haze. An unorganized haze of Mirage, Mirage, Mirage. Your field had been driving him crazy, and now? It sent jolts of utter pleasure straight to his spike. “Yeah,” he laughed humorlessly, letting loose a broken noise of his own, “yeah, you do.”
You did. Maybe concerningly so. And you were unraveling fast. “Mir–age,” you garbled, his designation breaking in the middle. It was an effort to speak, to think, but – for some reason – you just needed to tell him. That coil was reaching its limit, and you were hurdling towards a peak incomparable to anything you’d ever leapt from. “Please, I’m so close, I’m gonna– oh my fuck!”
His pace became frenzied, the circles he was rubbing between your thighs inexplicably tighter and faster. He needed you to come before he did – before he crumpled like a tin can, before he fucking lost it. He groaned, slurred praises falling from his lips with no small amount of reverence. You were an altar he’d worship in the early mornings, the fluidity of midday, the intangible parts of the night. Under this quaint planet’s waning moon and the blazing sun that sustained it. He wanted you to be his, and for his entire being – his spark, his body, every processor he possessed – to belong to you. His hips stuttered. For fuck’s sake, you weren’t just friends. You never were.
You let your head fall back. Nothing existed to you except the pump of his spike, the digit on your clit, the sweet nothings in your ear– and you came undone. Beautifully, wholly undone. It was like lightning cracking through your veins; a full bodied, whirling inferno that left everything rearranged and smoldering. Though your head was fuzzy and quiet, heart drumming rapidly against your ribs, you were anything but – writhing with every continued movement, sobbing a blend of his name and breathless exaltations. Mirage was your only tether, the only cohesion you had. He kept giving and you kept taking. Or maybe it was the other way around. Your other senses were too dull to differentiate.
And Mirage– fuck, he felt like his engine was on the brink of exploding. His fans were at their maximum and his internals were still way too hot, your syrupy moans clouding his processor with need. Subconsciously, he’d already decided that he would only stop for one thing: your word. He needed to see that blissed out expression on your face a little longer, to know your body was being rampaged by the same feral gratification as his. The mech couldn’t bring himself to care about anyone or anything else. The way your pretty little cunt squeezed him? Lethal.
His overload was unlike any thrill, any ecstasy he’d ever experienced. Mirage screwed his optics shut against the white, the blur – the tremble that’d seized his limbs since you climbed on him turning into a violent shudder. He moved mindlessly, riding out his high along with prolonging yours. The noises he made were downright filthy. Just shattered cries of pleasure, undulating into whimpers he didn’t think his synthesizer capable of. Transfluid poured into you, only to seep out with every uneven jerk of his hips – coating your thighs and a decent patch of the concrete below. He was half-sure his knees would buckle, that’s how bad you made him.
You tensed against the grinding, your nerves abused and raw. All you could manage was a series of faint whines in reply. If you could feel so much now, you weren’t sure you were looking forward to tomorrow’s consequences. Not that you’d regret it. No. Together, your sounds softened, the taste of them persisting like honey in your mouths. And, after what felt like an eternity, consciousness trickled back in. The aftershocks left you feeling weightless, drifting on light waves of satisfied endorphins. Mirage stilled, his whole body sighing.
Wordlessly, he sank back down, cradling you carefully to his frame. He murmured a soft apology when he jostled you, sensitivity lancing through your delicate form. Pointedly, he avoided the newly-formed, sticky, pink puddle. The ‘bot settled in a position he hoped was comfortable for you, stroking your back. He was still shaking. You curled into his chassis instinctively, relishing in the idiosyncrasies of him. His spike – still sheathed inside – was depressurizing slowly, twitching every now and then. Alas, you couldn’t keep it. With a hiss, he pulled you up and off with a sloppy pop, suddenly agreeing with your mumble of protest. You’d been so snug and warm. Now, your hole spasmed around nothing. Shit.
“Can’t even fucking stand,” he mumbled finally, drawing a laugh out of you.
“I’m not even gonna try.”
“Glad we’re mutual on that.” He mulled something over, watching you with curiosity and a great sum of tenderness. “Satisfied, sweetheart?” You nodded lazily, not trusting your voice. He chuckled, low and content. “Good,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You were perfect.”
“Thank you,” you croaked. Your voice was wrecked, body spent. You’d been in better shape, sure, but you’d trade it all again for the contentment that thrummed through you.
The garage was quiet again, smelling of sex and probably a couple degrees hotter despite the air conditioning’s protest. It was peaceful – only disrupted by your breathing, the whir of Mirage’s cooling fans as they winded down. They were dripping condensation. You almost felt bad. Almost.
“Think Noah will be back anytime soon?” He asked.
You thought for a moment. At first, you hadn’t even registered what he was referring to, and had to remind yourself why Noah was relevant to your situation. What time was it? Did it matter? You landed on, “I hope not.”
“I’m telling him that.” But, secretly, he hoped to keep you a little bit longer, too.