Mirage smelled of fancy polish, rare metals, sweet engex, and lies. He stank of the establishment, of exorbitant galas, ornamental upgrades, and haughty self-importance.
Beneath it all was a telltale odor, that of a mech pathetically out of place and clinging to pride because it was all he had left.
Mirage was intoxicating.
“You reek,” Mirage muttered as he clung to Rattrap’s hips and thrust up harder, his spike throbbing a desperate beat.
“Yeah?” Rattrap smirked and leaned forward, his hands braced on that pretty, polished chestplate. “So do you.”
“Not ta my sensors it ain’t.” Rattrap dragged his lips along the curve of Mirage’s jaw, his fingers rapping a nonsense rhythm. “Must be that ya like it, given the way yer squirmin’.”
Mirage vented hotly, his grip tightening. “It is release. Nothing more.”
“Mmm. Keep telling yourself that, towerling.” Rattrap bit into his intake, denta leaving impressions in the dermal metal. Mirage shuddered. “Just remember which of us crawled into the other’s berth first.”
Newsflash: it hadn’t been Rattrap.
Mmm. And there is was again. That sweet scent of confusion and lust and desperation.
Rattrap fragging loved it.
“This means nothing,” Mirage gritted out even as he writhed and charged danced visibly over his armor. As his engine purred closer toward overload.
Rattrap chuckled and lapped at the impression his fangs left behind. “We’ll see.”