*zooms in, deposits fic, zooms away*
Title In Merciful Hands
Pairings Mirage/stimsticks, Mirage/Hound
Summary When Mirage's mission goes horribly wrong, there's no one else to turn to except... himself.
Author's Notes Decepticon name recycling, there are no canon cons here. Written for Mecha-Erotica's 'One' challenge. 1 breem is approximately 8 minutes. I think this could actually be Star Crossed compliant...
Warnings drug use, self-stimulation, voyeurism, implied non-con
cross-posted to
transficsation
He moved through them, a soft wind that danced around the mechs who shifted in recharge. A brief dip and the wind scooped up items hidden in the piles of junk, or stuck between teetering stacks of energon cubes. He knew which mech slept where, it had been a part of his initial recon. Each check verifying that they always arranged themselves in the same way.
So what was Sinker doing over here? He should be over with Hook and Line.
Mirage’s fingers twitched as he reached for the microphone he’d hidden in the tangle of dead wires right by Sinker’s head.
He really didn’t have to ask himself what the mech was doing here. The way that he lay, sprawled over the still form of another mech was evidence enough. Their cords tangled, one even sparking and sending convulsions through the smaller mech. But that wasn’t Drillbit under him.
Mirage tilted his head, trying to understand this anomaly in the midst of the normal patterns of this Decepticon unit. Then he saw the yellow brand on the mech’s arm: a neutral.
The spy’s systems churned uneasily, knowing what was in store for this poor mech, knew what was already happening, had happened. Slavery and death would be the least of his worries. That there was nothing Mirage could do about it, only served to intensify that unease. He clenched his jaw, resolutely completing his hand’s journey for the hidden equipment.
Suddenly Sinker’s optics snapped on, and he stared straight at Mirage’s hand before his nose. A hand that Mirage knew he shouldn’t be able to see.
“Who’s there?” The Decepticon sat up, hand lashing out toward Mirage’s arm.
The neutral came online as well, immediately scrambling out of the enraged Decepticon’s reach, whimpers squeezing out of his throat, his bared, scraped cord slapping at his thighs.
Mirage hastily retracted his arm toward his crouching frame. Stepping as softly as he could, and rising to his full height, he retreated out of the larger mech’s reach.
Sinker rose to his feet, blindly groping about where Mirage had once been. “I know you’re there, I can smell you. Here to help your friend, are you?”
They thought he was a neutral.
But Sinker’s loud words were rousing the rest of the camp, and Mirage realized that his escape route was swiftly turning into a mass of mechs. He had thought it was Line that had the sense of smell that could only be compared to Hound's, or a turbowolf.
He would have to leave the microphone, and hope nobody found it. The neutral curled into a ball, covering his head as the Decepticon camp rose to it’s feet. There was nothing Mirage could do for the mech, nothing… except…
No one deserved to be left among Decepticons.
Not alive, at least.
In an act he had repeated all too often in recent metacycles, Mirage delivered the neutral into Primus' merciful hands.
There would be no one but himself to know of his actions, once again. A burden, too heavy, he carried in this time of war.
Decepticons roared at the shot that had burst out of their midst. Mirage's position had been revealed. The spy quickly transformed, ducking and dodging around massive tank legs. Hands grabbed at him, slipping off his sleek form and even sleeker plating.
Overzealous in their efforts, a few opened fire on the ground, causing even more chaos as the tarmac exploded under their comrades' feet.
He muted his vocalizer against surging cries as fingers dug into his seams, finding purchase on his tailfin. He felt the hand that snagged on his cloaking device; digging, denting, tearing, the Decepticon nearly ripped it off.
His audio receivers filled with the roaring of angry voices, Mirage realized that he was flickering into sight. A fact verified by his diagnostics as they brought up the decreasing power rate of his cloaking device.
He abruptly changed tactics, whipping about and charging back into the camp. He wove his way through, continuing to create chaos with the shots being fired at him and around him. When the Decepticon commander, started to bring order to the camp, his voice thundering through the plaza, Mirage knew it was time to scoot.
He zoomed out of the encampment, aware of the thundering footsteps chasing after him, and the roars of jets above. Every time his cloak powered back on, he turned down an alleyway. The footsteps slowly, but surely, receded behind him.
He knew that relief would only be brief. The jets still circled above, following the energy trail of his busted cloaking shield. He had no choice but to uninstall it from his systems and disengage it from his frame. It dropped to the ground behind him, drawing the Seekers like an energon geyser.
He turned a few more corners before transforming, staggering, as his systems finally acknowledged the burned and blasted plating and wires. He groaned as he looked at himself. He was a mess.
A mess?
Like a surge of processing power, Mirage had a sudden brainstorm. His Autobot insignia came off, stored away in a crack in a building, followed quickly by his gun and shoulder launcher. He couldn't risk a subspace sweep if the Decepticons came upon him. He was too far away from base to radio for help, and he wasn't about to lead a whole unit of Cons to Jazz at their hideaway.
Too white, too clean, Mirage found a puddle of acidic grime. He grimaced at the burning, gritty feel of the stinking gunk as he smeared it over his plating. He packed it into joints and ports, wincing at the feel of it in him. He didn't spare any gentleness on his frame either. He left deep marks and scraped the paint off his plating, grunting at the surges of pain going through his sensory net. The grime did a part of the work for him, eating at his paint and tarnishing the metal beneath. He swiftly changed out his optic lens for a yellow pair, intended for just such an occasion.
One last thing and he'd be set.
Just before his mission, Jazz had handed him a package, warning him not to use it unless he absolutely had to. And if he used it, he'd damn well better have a 'slaggin' good reason.' Mirage hadn't needed to open the package to verify its contents, Jazz handed him the same package (Mirage had marked it once to be sure) every time and gave him the same warning.
Mirage pulled the package out, popping the seal and shaking out the innocent seeming drive sticks.
Plain, and unassuming; Mirage would be thrown in the brig and courtmartialed if he was caught with them.
The first one, placed in a port in his inner arm, program installed successfully, sent a heady sensation through his systems. The second, placed in a thigh, and the world spun around him.
His fingers lingered on seams and exposed circuits and he gasped as his own touch surged through his circuits like... well not even Hound could compare to this.
The third and his systems churned, his fuel tank lurching at the sudden demand to direct power to his sensors. Fire coursed through his face, and his coolant system and ventilators strove to bring the suddenly high temperature down.
The world pounded around him, the steady rhythm of running feet that clattered his dental plates by sheer volume. Proximity warnings went off within his processor, but he found it harder and harder to care. He staggered against and slid down a wall, the concrete scrapping against his plating and drawing a pleasured whimper out of his vocalizer.
He held a fourth and final stick in his hands. He couldn't imagine it feeling anymore intense. But, Primus, if three felt like this, what would a fourth feel like. Shaking hands rattled the port into place and he gasped as the very air seemed to rub against him needfully.
Voices shook his audio receptors, each word coursing through his processor at intoxicating speeds. Even the proximity alarms going off in his cortex sent an ecstasy of static through his vision, eliciting a moan of pleasure from his vocalizer.
“Is this the rubbish, Sinker?”
Mirage laughed at the Decepticon's distorted face, an overload of information spiking through his cortex and warping his perception. Everything felt so good, a lover's kiss, a sensual touch, that swept through him like a whirlwind.
“Ooh! Hey lookit the show! Put your fingers on your ports, we wanna see whatchu got.”
He couldn't identify the speaker, they all looked the same to him, a sense of shapes that fired up his comparison software, sending another thrill through his system; a gasp, a choked whimper. But he moaned as he shifted, the concrete digging into his aft, his optics surging in contrast to what he felt.
Another Decepticon stepped forward and Mirage laughed again, vocalizer surging helplessly with the noise, his hand dropping to his side with a pleasant clang. He felt like he should recognize the Decepticon and he lifted his hand to point at the mech, but the breeze felt so good on his arm that he forgot his question and waved his hand about to stimulate the sensors on his hand. He shook, he realized as he watched his fingers tremble with vibrations that clattered along his frame, even his panting breaths sounded halting and shaky. And the vibrations jolted him, sending sensations to his processor, the data of every plate striking his own frame and washing through his processor. His quivering mouth hung open, the air rushing through it and pinging every one of his dental sensors, and soothing over his glossa.
Sinker sneered in disgust, talking through the murmur that built up at the sight of the mech before them. “No, this trash isn't him. Stim junkie,” the words spat out with an explosion of sound that lit Mirage's audio sensors “We need to find him.”
The surrounding mechs moved to leave, a few transforming into jets and firing up turbines. The blast of their ascent scored through him, causing him to yowl at the pleasure, to throw his head back in ecstasy. Nothing felt so good, oh Primus, he wanted to feel that again. He moaned. Feel that power radiate through him.
But he had no turbines, no boosters, and his engine jumped and rumbled eagerly already. He had nothing...
He had... He had...
Fingers! He laughed, aloud, at himself. Fingers that he clenched and rubbed delectably into the seams of his palms. They scraped across his thighs and over the storage hatch on his chest. He couldn't find a place that would bring him to relief, and he whimpered with need. Even the sticks still in his ports rubbed against plating as he bent his joints to find even sweeter spots to touch. He dug into the seams of his thighs, arcing his back as he repeated the gesture on the other cry. Bliss cried out of his vocalizer, surging data scrolling across his HUD.
“He's really into that. Oh Primus, feel that vibration.”
The red optics still surrounding him didn't register as anything more than another sensation that urged his cycling ventilators into faster rotations, adding to the heat of his systems even as they tried to cool him off.
He panted; drawing his hand over his lips. Down his chin. Over the powerlines in his neck. And his whimper rose and fell with each dip and rise. His hypesensitive fingers picking up each groove in the metal and cabling.
He wished Hound were here to watch.
Yes, he decided, Hound would make this experience so much more pleasurable. He should get up and look for him.
But he couldn't find his feet in the wash of sensations. His gyroscopic sensors lighted with just as much data as the rest of him, and he couldn't maintain his balance. Even the observers' laughter rippled through his frame, making him moan with need.
“Wave that aft, baby! We want to see more!”
Overload struck; a blistering burn that blasted his optics offline, and seized his ventilators. His engine ground to a halt, eliciting a scream from his vocalizer as the sensations coursed along his circuits. He writhed on the ground, panting, shrieking, slamming down onto his side, scraping against the rough tarmac and grit and grime that comprised of Cybertron's surface.
He was aware of the droning of other engines as the Decepticons left, the spectacle over.
He waited.
For what he wasn't entirely sure.
He needed to be somewhere, but right then laying on that ground sounded as good a place as any.
Hound.
Right. He was going to go find Hound.
And that meant getting up. Even though the ground felt so good against his plating.
Hound was a good reason to get up though.
So he did, staggering to his feet, the light breeze continuing to play havoc on his sensors, even the grit in his joints and ports made him tremble with pleasure.
And transforming...
He couldn't move for nearly a ten breem after his mag plates settled on the tarmac; overload seemed a distant dream as his frame settled into its current shape. He couldn't even bring himself to activate the plates, knowing how the stimsticks would magnify the magnetic properties and send him over the edge again.
Which would really be nice right then as his circuits sang with need, but he wanted Hound to share the experience.
His mag plates came to life with a hum that made him quake and shiver, engine stuttering. He shoved off, wrapped in a cushion of magnets and air. Every movement spiraled around him, catching one sensor and cascading through to the others. The simplest of air currents, had him twisting and turning on the tarmac, needy whines squealing from his belts and vocalizer. His contortions whipped him against buildings and poles. Drove him into piles of scrap. He was giddy by the time he reached open landscape, laughing at the feel of the air flowing over his tail fin and windshield.
Overload finally drove him completely off the road.
****
Mirage finally eased himself to the berth. He hissed at the feeling of the padding rasping across his plating, still hyperactive sensors unable to compensate for the overflow. Ratchet had declared that it served him fragging right if he blew all his sensor arrays from overload.
“Four slagging stimsticks at once, Mirage, what the frag were you thinking?”
The patrol that had found him were sure to have already spread his predicament around the base.
He didn't even want to think of meeting with Jazz when he came back online. The saboteur's silent ,livid fury at not having been called was certain to not be any cooler come the morning cycle. Jazz didn't get mad often, but when he did... Primus alone save the poor fool on the other end of his wrath.
Hound sat down on the edge of the berth, optics dancing in mirth. He didn't touch Mirage, but his very proximity and nearby motions, pushed undulations through the spy's systems and sensors. The scout seemed to know the effect of his presence, for he shifted very little.
“How was it, Mirage?”
Mirage draped his arm over his optics, wincing as he scraped his faceplating. “Why do you have to ask that, Hound?”
Hound had one of those smiles, big and never seeming to be able to get any bigger, but he always managed to surprise Mirage with a larger grin. Just as he did now. “Well, I never thought you'd stoop down to our level. How many did you take? Heard Ratchet was fritzed because you overdosed on them.” The scout tilted his head. “Two? Three?”
“Four,” Mirage softly answered.
He scowled at Hound's soft chuckle. “You know you're only supposed to use one, right?”
“How would you know anything about that?”
Hound trailed a light caress over Mirage's chassis. The spy gritted his dental plates, grunting at the exquisitely painful feel of Hound's hands on him. “Well, I'm only a simple tracker, Mirage. I'm subject to the temptation of using stimsticks.” The scout leaned down, his lips close to the blue crest. “Wanna try it again? This time only a proper dose.”
Mirage glared at his lover. “Do I even want to know where you got one?”
The green mech, lifted his hand, spreading his fingers to reveal what lay between them. “Not one, but four.”