There's a warm buzz in your skin and you give Swerve a lazy smile and two-finger salute for the newest drink creation he tailored for human consumption. Skids -the adventurer, the tryer, the “hold my beer” go-getter, is now pestering the bartender for his vast knowledge on Cybertronian drinks -specifically on each city-state’s most iconic drink and whether Swerve has the ingredients necessary to make each of them.
You should feel sort of trepidation when Skids latched on remaking that The Try Guys. God knows what will happen if Rodimus, Getaway, and Brainstorm should conspire together to make it true, but if two humans could survive through 46 different drinks (Apparently four US states have severe alcohol restrictions) then some hardy Cybertronians could do same. Right? Right?
You’re wondering if any of Cybertron’s city-states have similar restrictions when the empty seat is then taken up by Trailcutter.
“Hey there,” you say to him, smiling wide and pulse racing.
“Hey,” he says warmly before Swerve immediately comes over to take his order. His visor is brighter than usual, so he could have been hitting some cubes before he came over. Or...
You take a big gulp of your drink, face warming and your heart's slowing, and you fall back to watching Skids question Swerve as he mixes each order, chuckling at Skids rapt attention as Swerve deftly moves through various containers of bright liquids and metallic solids. Swerve swiftly drops off Trailcutter’s cube and piles on multiple Crayola-colored cubes on a tray and steps out of the bar, you give Skids a cheery wave as he left to catch Mirage. You’re very much aware of Trailcutter right next to you, shifting around before you hear a hiss of steam.
“I think this is yours,” and you turn to see Trailcutter pull out the concentric rings pendant that went missing that night and slides it over to your hand. You pick it up and turn it over, each ring shining brightly.
“You cleaned it?”
“Yeah,” His visor flashes brighter, optics visible with the intensity, his leg knocks yours. “Found it in my armor.”
The thought flashes and it’s from the same voice that cajoled the outfit-of-the-day ( None of the mechs have to know what you’re wearing underneath. ) and overrides the usual social filter and it says, “You know, I should check you still have it. The chain, I mean.”
“Uhhh…” His optics fizzle out one by one, it’s similar to a slow blink. “It’s… not in my habsuite?”
You laugh nervously, hoping you didn’t read him wrong, and you lean forward, trailing your fingers up his arm, lingering on edges and dips, “Could be with you right now. Hiding in one of the seams or right underneath.”
Over the roar of the bar, you feel a buzz as your fingers rest near the shoulder. He quickly tips back the rest of the cube and sends you a crooked smile that sends your pulse racing again, “Let’s go then.”
Trailcutter swipes his glossa over the parted flesh, dipping inside, and you grip his helm tighter. He wasn’t sure what he expected when he saw you and Skids at Swerve’s in a corner, but… not this.
Not that he’s complaining. Not at all.
The half-filled storage room’s dark except for the glow from his biolights and those flare up as you whisper filthy details on how he’s doing with his faceplate between your thighs. Your skin, when his servos are stripped down to the protoform, is warm and soft, like silicon but much more malleable -almost like a very supple protoform, strangely enough.
And then he registers the words you’re now saying: filthier things about what you’re going to do to him.
He groans, thinking about all those scenarios, and his spike throbs in agreement, already dripping with pre-fluid and eager to start.
Trailcutter circles the fleshy nub and a sharp inhale cuts off your dirty talk. He looks up from between your legs and your outfit is rumpled from being pushed up to your waist. Your pantyhose torn from his armored servos (You laugh off his sheepish sorry, “Those things? I’ve got a bunch of them back in my room.”) and your valve is framed by something called crotchless panties. The way the simple garment allowed access is similar enough to a Cybertronian cover under the pelvic plating, but the sight of your flesh opening up makes it far more erotic in its strangeness.
He spreads your thighs wider and cups your ass with one servo and the other slides from your knee along your thigh, and brushes over the wet flesh. You whimper as he pushes a thick digit inside and nips along the meat of those soft thighs.
He wants to peel off those clothes to kiss and nip and suck on your heated flesh and leave a trail of taps until he reaches up to your lips and pushes into your tight, willing body. He wants to know if you can fully take him. He wants to frag you until you’re dripping with transfluid down your thighs and-
-and Rodimus and Ultra Magnus are comming him. At the same time.
::Have you seen, Y/N? She was last spotted at Swerve’s with you and Skids.::
::Hey!! This is your captain speaking and we need our resident human and her awesome skills at other organics.::
“Frag,” he spits and pushes another digit inside, pumping faster, and swiping his glossa over the nub. You keen loudly and he feels slight pressure from your heels digging into his back plating as he finds a spot that made your insides clench and attacks it, curling over it.
“Please, please, please. Don’t you dare fucking stop,” you hiss as your communicator beeps loudly and insistently. Your digits dig into the back of his helm, some scrapping over his neck near a port and it sends a jolt down to his weeping spike. You let out a weak moan and your thighs tense and tightened around his helm. Your valve quivers wetly around him.
He’s hoping to Primus you just overloaded and dials down the pressure. You shouldn’t be charged up if you’re walking into the next disaster the Lost Light hits on an intergalactic state. Again.
“Rodimus to Y/N, do you read?” It must be serious if they triggered the override. “We got a situation with the Doloric-” the rest of the report’s cut off when you slam a hand over the communicator and immediately reply, “Yes, I’m here. Just… give me a moment.”
You stare at him with a flush face and such a disheveled look… while he’s on his haunches with your lubricant on his faceplate and spike ready for the next round that’s not happening.
“So…” his voice is laced with static and attempts to clear it, “You’re good?”