Turned-On Solarflare
Featuring Mirage

Tiredly, Solarflare staggered down the corridor to her room. Her wings fairly ached; enough so that she feared they would fall off if she even tried to move them. So they dragged behind her, making an awful screeching noise as the tips grazed the eye-sore orange tile. Fourteen hours in the air – how could Powerglide stand it?

Oh, that’s right – his wings weren’t loaded with tons of acute sensors. And when he transformed, they disengaged from his mind, not like her own, which remained connected to her core consciousness. Perhaps she should have taken that shower, but she feared that if she went under, she wouldn’t get up, and whomever was on patrol the next day would find her snoring amongst the wax and soap.

Talons skimming the wall in an effort to remain standing, Flare finally reached her destination. She had enough strength to punch the access code and slip through the door before it was even all the way open. Mirage looked up as she entered, his feet propped up on the low table, a reader in one hand. He immediately set these aside and rose quickly to catch her as the grey femme spun around and almost fell backwards onto the couch.

“Whoa. Are you all right, Flare?”

“Trr’d,” she mumbled into the crook of his arm, feeling almost boneless. “F’teen h’rs.”

The Ligier smiled softly, gathering his bondmate into his arms, lifting her up and carrying her with ease to the couch. Somehow, he managed to turn her about so that she was sitting in his lap, facing away. With gentle hands, he began to soothe away the sores in her plating, alleviate the servo-weariness that was nearly spark-deep.

At first, all she could think about was how good it felt to not feel the minute details of her armor. Mirage’s slim black hands, his noble hands, were working their usual magic. Slowly, the aches and pains went away, and she could feel her tiredness fade into nothingness; her spine straightened, as did her wings. And then his hands were gone.

Surprised, she turned, arching her brow ridge quizzically. “Don’t stop,” she implored.

Mirage tilted his head and grinned in that endearing way of his. “Just wanted to see if you were still conscious.”

Playfully, she squirmed in his lap. “Of course.”

“Then turn around.”

She did as she was told. This time, when his hands came back, they were reaching around to her front, easing across her holsters and running teasingly along her hips. He leaned forward, resting his chin on her right strut, his lips nipping at the piece of her helm that curved around her jaw.

“Raj …” she breathed.

“Quiet,” he whispered in her audio, slipping one hand between her legs, the other reaching up towards her chestplate. “I’m doing all the work tonight.”

Suddenly, she wasn’t tired anymore. Pulsing pleasure energy flew through her circuits; she moaned, arching against his hands. He was so damn good, that spy of hers. Reaching over, she hit the light sensor, plunging them into total darkness and let him have his way with her.