Who says Firefly and Transformers don't mix?

[lstarrunner]

***Happy Dance in Chair***

I entered my first fanfiction challenge in April: Interspecies Relations at Mecha_Erotica. And the announcement was made today: I won! Yay! I don't win things very often and the banner is very very shiny!




Gotta love the Bumblebee 'Bot! He is fearless, but smarter than Jayne.

The fic is entitled "Exercise in Translation"; there are warnings posted on it, take them seriously.

Take my love, take my land,
Take me where I cannot stand!
I don't care, I'm still free,
You can't take the sky from me!
Take me out into the black,
Tell 'em I ain't comin' back!
Burn the land and boil the sea,
You can't take the sky from me!

Exercise in Translation

Rating: NC-17, detailed physical intimacy. DETAILED. You have been warned. Written for the April Interspecies Challenge at Mecha_Erotica.

Pairing: Cybertronian Mech/Earthly Woman. Jazz/Prowl implied.

Disclaimer: Only the character Mitzi York is original. References to real humans are all celebrities whom this author wishes were more well-known. Transformers belong to corporations, not me.

Note: In this universe, Transformers are real, not a comic, cartoon or movie. Their back-story is the G1 cartoon up to but not including TFTM with one change: assumes the governments and media of the world quickly tired of dealing openly with the 'Bots and proceeded to treat sightings of Transformers the same way they treat other alien sightings, with denial and ridicule. "Keeps them from compromising our security," Red Alert would say. Firefly was a TV show in 2002 that resulted in a movie called Serenity in 2005. Comic and Sci-fi Conventions happen regularly and sometimes the crew of Serenity makes an appearance.

-:-radio transmission-:-

"What are you supposed to be, anyway?" a rich voice asked from behind him in the Serenity cast autograph line.

Bumblebee had a disorienting moment where he really couldn't call up an answer from his processor. Some of the story Jazz cooked up for him presented itself. "Ummm, Go-Bot?" He turned to look at the human.

"Which one?" she said, looking him up and down.

"Taxi-Bot," he replied, taking in her Browncoat gear. She was striking in her own right: just under 6 feet tall, athletic, shapely. A real beauty. The Zoe costume of tight khaki pants, trim maroon shirt, and leather vest set her off nicely. "You look great, Zoe!"

"Thanks!" she said as she looked him over curiously. "Wow, you put a lot of work into this. Impressive. Shouldn't Taxi-Bot have some checkered thing on his chest though instead of this?" she waved at his Autobot insignia. "Haven't seen anything from that cartoon in ages. Still, you look good. Is this actually metal?" She sounded genuinely curious and even appreciative, touching his chestplate lightly. She checked him out thoroughly.

Bumblebee felt self-conscious but pleased by her attention. He'd drawn a few other looks and even compliments since he arrived, but this was different somehow. Not dismissive. She seemed to like what she saw. "Yes, it is. It's part of my armor," he said, then thought he shouldn't have. He dropped his optics to the floor.

She whistled softly. "That's dedication. I'm impressed. Me? I found the vest on-line and the rest in random shops around town. Nothing custom."

The line in front of them moved a bit. They shuffled along with it. Bumblebee thought he could feel her looking at him again, so he turned around.

"I'm Mitzi," she volunteered, offering her right hand in that gesture of greeting he'd seen humans use and looking up to his optics, "Mitzi York."

Bumblebee gently took her hand in his, remembering to use the right one this time, and moved it up and down slightly. "I'm Bumblebee." He smiled.

She smiled back. "Oh, I've read some of your posts on Fireflyfans! You're that Bumblebee, right? I just can't imagine that's a very common username. I'm ZoeSister." Her smile broadened.

Bumblebee felt encouraged. He wasn't often in a position to appreciate the attention of a pretty girl. That was Spike's job. As the line moved, they talked about their experiences as Browncoats: how they got hooked on the 'verse, their favorite scenes, their favorite characters...

"So, why didn't you come as Jayne? Jayne costumes are easy: old tee shirt, cargo pants, heavy boots..." She paused but he didn't answer immediately, so she continued, "You talk about being in the army in some of your posts, you could've used parts of old uniforms if you wanted."

Bumblebee's CPU raced. Surely he'd learned something about interaction from the human media over the years. What might a young man say who wanted to keep this warrior-woman's attention and not talk details of his service... "But then I'd look like everybody else and you wouldn't have looked at me twice."

She smiled and looked away, patted his forearm. "Can't deny that, I suppose."

They were next in line. Bumblebee's costume drew compliments and questions from each of the cast and a couple of 'wrong fandoms' from jealous people immediately behind them. Bumblebee didn't care: he was the only Autobot small enough to pass for a large man in a larger suit and second only to Jazz in his love of the 'verse. Jazz had gotten not only Bumblebee, Blaster and Cosmos hooked on the show when it aired, but even Prowl, Ironhide and Prime. They decided the Browncoats were fighting for the same thing the Autobots were: freedom to choose their own lives. Freedom they hadn't had since the Decepticons started to literally steal power for themselves, trying to control all the energon on Cybertron. So, Bumblebee had a list of specific autographs to get for the others: Summer Glau for Cosmos and Blaster who felt she was the voice of their favorite ship, Jewel Stait for Ironhide and Optimus who loved Kaylee because she loved everything, Gina Torres for Prowl who saw some of his dedication to Prime in Zoe's to the Captain, and Ron Glass for Jazz who had his own ideas about the Shepherd's back-story. When the actors remarked on the odd names, Bumblebee was prepared: "They're our call signs." The answer seemed to sit well with them -- he'd have to thank Jazz again.

Adam Baldwin looked up at him, clapped him on the back and handed him a handful of posters pre-signed by the cast, "We're grateful for your service to our country, son. Pass these along to your unit with our thanks."

Bumblebee smiled down at Adam. That struck him as unexpected because he was used to looking up at everyone in his world and in his processor Jayne was huge. He said genuinely, "Thank you, I will."

He hung around the table while Mitzi got her autographs, and took the camera she held out to him to get a picture of her with Gina Torres. Bumblebee handled the tiny digital camera gently. Because of hanging around with Spike so much he was well enough acquainted with human technology that he took a few pictures he thought were pretty good. In his CPU, he triggered his video recorder and saved the last few minutes that had passed through his optics, on the theory that Mitzi might like to have a copy of the snippet of her and Gina together. In Bumblebee's opinion, Mitzi was more intensely Zoe than Gina: darker skin and eyes, short simple hair that seemed more appropriate for an infantry soldier than Gina's gorgeous mane, and a bigger frame. Next to Mitzi, Gina was a lithe dancer and Mitzi the steady fighter. He shook his head as a strange image went though his processor.

-X-X-X-

-:-Bumblebee to Jazz. Everything all right out there?-:-

-:-Yeah, man, no worries. Did ya get through the line b'fore they left?-:-

-:-Yes! The Big Damn Heroes were great. I got our list of autographs and A.B. gave me 8 posters signed by the whole cast as a 'thank you' for our service to the country.-:-

-:-If only he knew, 'Bee! Shiny, though. Ya gonna be ready to head out soon?-:-

-:-In a while. Look, I have to go, Jazz. My new friend's heading back from the restroom, we're going to the vendor hall. Bumblebee out.-:-

Bumblebee could hear Jazz' smile get wider. -:-Wait a tick, here. New friend?-:- Jazz sounded amused, but when didn't he? -:-Did ya sell the Go-Bot fan story?-:-

-:-I think so. Well enough, anyway. Bumblebee out.-:-

-:-'Kay. Jazz out.-:-

-X-X-X-

They spent the rest of the afternoon together. Bumblebee let Mitzi talk him into joining a Serenity role-playing game. That turned out to be fun, but particularly weird for Bumblebee. For a few hours he was an Autobot pretending to be a man in a suit pretending to be a passenger with a past on a spaceship in a solar system that Skyfire assured him did not exist in the known reaches of space. He enjoyed the chance to continue to talk to Mitzi but had to admit he was relieved when his character ended up in a coma in the infirmary.

-:-Bumblebee-bot what's happenin'?-:- Jazz hailed him on the radio, -:-Ya been in there all day!-:- Jazz had patiently waited in the parking lot, wishing he could openly go in, too.

-:-Mitzi talked me into playing an RPG with her, but my character's in a coma.-:- Bumblebee felt a little guilty for not keeping Jazz quite as up-to-date as he knew Jazz wanted.

-:-We can't stay much longer, 'Bee. Gotta get back to the Ark 'fore Prowl gets worried.-:-

-:-Just a little while longer, Jazz? I'll bring the posters out to you if you want?-:-

-:-Tha's okay, 'Bee; I can't appreciate 'em as much in m' auto-mode, ya know? You can stay a little while longer, but be thinkin' to wrap it up.-:- Jazz didn't want to spoil Bumblebee's fun but also didn't want to go home to a righteously angry Prowl. They'd only gotten him to agree to their outing on the condition they not blow cover. Jazz was personally responsible for their relationship with the government and lately, the government wanted them completely out of sight and out of mind.

-:-Right. Bumblebee out.-:-

-:-Jazz out.-:-

Bumblebee felt a hand on his forearm again and found Mitzi trying to get him to make optic contact with her.

She wore a concerned expression. "Are you okay? You kinda zoned out for a minute there."

He smiled a little sheepishly. "I'm supposed to be in a coma! Sorry though, what did you say?"

"I said, 'how 'bout we go grab some dinner or something? Breakfast was a long time ago for me and we haven't had anything since the Browncoats events started at 9 this morning." Her expression was unreadable for Bumblebee.

"That would be out of character, you know, a Go-Bot eating human food." Maybe now would be the time to make his exit?

"You don't have to be in character all the time! In fact, I think I'm getting tired of this vest. Maybe I'll go up to my room and change before dinner." She looked away, like she was thinking about something else. Her expression reminded Bumblebee of Prowl when his logic circuits were telling him something he didn't like.

Before he could formulate a response - he really didn't want to leave yet - her expression changed. Now, she reminded him of Jazz when he was planning something Prowl wouldn't like. Bumblebee really hoped he was not playing the Prowl to her Jazz.

To the game master, she said, "Your junior mechanic just got herself electrocuted in the engine room. No chance of resuscitation. It's been fun, though, thanks." Over the groans of the other players - their senior mechanic was in the brig sleeping off a drinking binge - she took firm hold of one of Bumblebee's wrists and stood up. Unsure of what a young man would do, Bumblebee stood up with her. "Our comatose passenger just took a turn for the worse. I don't think he'll pull through." The GM waved them off with a smirk.

She led him to the elevators in the lobby of the hotel. He was acutely aware of the fact that he should not be there. His processor was not presenting him with an acceptable way out. After a beep, one of the pairs of doors opened and she led him into the car after it cleared out. He wondered if he should be grateful no one else got in with them. It gave him a sense of the claustrophobia he knew some humans suffered: it seemed small and rickety compared to the elevators he was used to. He placed his hands on the bar at the back of the car and stretched his legs out in front of him. She pressed a button and the doors closed.

He turned off his optics for an astrosecond to concentrate better on his predicament. Mitzi had other plans for him. She kissed him.

He registered everything about it. The pressure of her right hand steadying her against his left shoulder plate. The softness of her clothing where her thigh brushed his left hand as it gripped the elevator bar. The texture of the leather of her vest where her chest touched his. The humidity of her breath against his face as she leant in. The temperature of her left hand on his cheek near the seam where his face met his helmet. The softness of her lips where they touched his. It was ... circuit-scrambling. He responded to her as best he could, moving his lip components along with hers.

After an eternal moment of that soft kiss, she pulled back a little and opened her eyes to look in his optics that he turned back on as they parted. "That's not latex," she whispered, studying his face.

He stopped cycling air through his cooling system.

The elevator stopped. The tell-tale beep sounded. Mitzi's eyes narrowed slightly. The doors started to open on an empty hallway. Thank Primus! floated through his otherwise blank processor.

She trailed her right hand down to his left as she stepped away from him. His dermal plating felt the lack of her presence now, bereft, where she had touched him. Every circuit in his arm sang as her fingers drifted down to his hand. He could feel her heartbeat through her fingers as she grasped two of his. Eyes never leaving his face, she drew him out of the elevator with her.

Academically, he knew he should leave. Get back in the elevator, press the button marked with an 'L1' for Lobby, leave the hotel and never, ever attend a human function of any kind ever again. If she hadn't already figured out he wasn't a man in a suit, she was perilously close to it now and he could imagine several ways in which that could go very badly. He tried to keep his expression blank.

Silently, she led him away from the elevator to a door near the end of the hall. Awkwardly, she took a card from her right back pocket with her left hand, unwilling to let go of him. She passed the card through a slot in the door causing a yellow then a green light to come on. She opened the door and ushered him in, finally loosing her grip on his fingers. Only after turning on the entry light, closing and locking the door, tuning the TV to a news channel, and returning to where he stood in the entryway to lay her hands on his chestplate did she speak again.

"This isn't a costume, is it?" she looked up into his optics from too close. And still not close enough. He didn't answer. "I wondered when I realized I couldn't see your eyes behind your mask."

His core temperature had risen; he resumed air flow across the fins. He wanted to touch her; he wanted to spend more time with this human. He gently placed his hands on her shoulders. "I want to tell you. I shouldn't." He stared into her beautiful eyes, the color of the motor-honey Ratchet let them use when they didn't have a chance to get their maintenance done on schedule. "Can you know a thing and not tell it, ever?"

"Only if you promise you'll see me again after I know it." Her tone was teasing.

"I will, if you still want to see me again after you know it." He tried to match her tone.

That look returned to her face, the one that said 'I-don't-like-my-own-logic'. She looked down his form slowly, stopping here and there. He waited, watching her. When her eyes traveled back up to his optics he found himself wishing he were already through with the telling.

"I'm from Cyb-" he began, and was shocked when she cut him off by moving her hands up to grasp the sides of his head and pull him down to kiss her. He off-lined his optics and wrapped his arms lightly around her shoulders, then let them drop a little lower to hold her against him. Her lips were soft and moist against his.

"You're so alive," she breathed against his cheek a tick later, "but metal. Do you feel me against your skin when I touch you?"

"Yes," he replied, as softly as she spoke. "I feel every micron of your contact." He moved his cheek against hers, optics still off. "It's a-" he could get used to being interrupted by kisses. It beat Bluestreak's chatter by a megamile!

This time, she took advantage of his shock. This one was no chaste kiss: she covered his mouth with hers and ran something wonderful over his lip components lightly. Tongue his processor supplied. Then she moved her whole body against his as she more forcefully explored his mouth with her tongue. He moaned softly. She seemed to take that as encouragement, backing farther into the room, pulling him with her. He wrapped his glossa gently around her tongue.

She stopped everything for an astrosecond. He wondered if he'd done something wrong and on-lined his optics. She broke the kiss to look at him again, moving her hands back down to his chest. As her eyes moved from his mouth up to his optics, he asked, "Was that bad?"

"No," she said, shaking her head once in what he'd learned to recognize as a negating motion, "just unexpected." She looked away from him to get her bearings in the room. When she looked back at him she added, "Let's try it again in a minute. What do you call that? It's not a tongue."

"The closest translation we've found is 'glossa'," he supplied.

She nodded as she backed out of their embrace. "Glossa. Okay." She gestured toward the room at large and then the little refrigerator, "Why don't you make yourself comfortable as you can. I put some decent drinking water and snacks in the fridge earlier, you're welcome to some if you want. I need to run to the bathroom a moment." And she left him for the little room.

He'd seen plenty of hotel rooms in human media. He never imagined he'd be in one. It seemed to match pretty closely what they depicted: thin, nondescript carpet under his feet; a berth, tiny and fluffy by Cybertronian standards; a weak-looking chair, a television, and some furniture with drawers. This one had an area near the hallway door that had a little sink and a refrigerator. His systems were fine: he'd topped up his fuel and all his fluids before he left the Ark with Jazz the night before. He looked curiously at the berth. The word bed drifted through his processor, he thought that was the human word for it, but somehow it was also a verb. Some of the 'Bots had taken it up and would say they were going to 'bed down' for recharge which he knew was different from what Ironhide meant when he teased Prowl for finally letting Jazz 'bed' him...

I'm hangin' out with Blue too much, he shook his head at himself, rambling in my own CPU.

He thought he should sit down to wait. That was what humans did, right? But the chair was out of the question: his skidplate might fit but there was no way it would bear his weight. The bed might be sturdy enough, but that seemed...presumptuous, somehow. He settled beside the bed on the floor with his legs folded under him. Just as he turned his attention to the television, Mitzi finished up and exited the bathroom. He watched as she went to the refrigerator.

"You sure you don't want anything?" She asked, glancing at him after she noticed the contents of the little cold-box were untouched.

He smiled and shook his head in that human gesture. He didn't get attended to very often like that; he usually did the attending on others. It felt...nice.

"Suit yourself," she said, getting a bottle of water and some sort of sustenance for herself. Then she came over and looked down at him on the floor. "You can sit on the bed, you know. You're my guest." Her tone held a bit of indignation.

He didn't understand why she didn't seem to like him on the floor, and said so. "This is probably better for me - I'm heavier than I look."

"Suit yourself," she repeated with a shrug, and sat on the side of the bed nearest him, stretching her legs out briefly before folding them up in front of her. This put them nearly shoulder to shoulder. Bumblebee definitely liked that. "I hate to eat in front of you, but I'm really hungry."

That statement made little sense to him, so he just looked at her, admiring her. She looked away, pretending to be interested in the news a moment. As she opened her bottle of water she encouraged him to speak, "What exactly are you? You started to tell me; I apologize for interrupting earlier."

"No apology needed - interrupt me like that anytime! I - I've never been very bold about it when I've..." he had to increase airflow over his cooling systems. "Never been bold about pursuing physical intimacy." That turn of phrase drew her eyes back to his face. Now it was his turn to pretend interest in the TV. "Ah, I'm a transformer, a mechanoid. Person. Entity. My body is electromechanical where yours is biological and... I have a processor that allows my spark to control my body and interact with my surroundings where you have a brain that does a similar thing for yours... your spirit, soul... Whatever word you choose for your spark. We've found many translations for that, even in just this one language." He paused, knowing that was a touchy subject for many humans, matters of the spark. It didn't seem to bother her, so he continued. "I'm from a place far from here, called Cybertron. A different planet." She snorted at that, seeming to choke on her water. He looked back at her, concerned, turning his torso and raising his arms to offer assistance if she needed it. She patted her chest with one hand and made what he recognized as 'go on' motions with the other one, her snack and bottle of water placed carefully against her legs on the bed. He turned back toward the television. "It's beautiful, really, but compared to Earth it's desolate. It doesn't orbit one star, either, it's solitary and part of a different arm of the galaxy." He paused, thinking he'd never be allowed out of the Ark again.

"So, how'd you get here?"

"I joined a group called the Autobots," he looked down and gestured at the symbol on his chest, "they were fighting to keep another group, called Decepticons, from taking control of all the energon - energy - on the planet and forcing everyone to comply with their..." He paused, never having personally tried to describe the Decepticon's goals in this language the words were not readily accessible. "Ideal of Order. They even developed something called a 'robosmasher' that forcibly alters a transformer's programming to serve their purposes."

She swallowed the last bit of her food; he watched her throat work as she took in a mouthful of water. It was fascinating to him, how these biological creatures worked in some ways so much like his kind. She continued to face the television. "It's the same story every time," she said, "someone always wants to make over the world according to his own ideas, as if he has any right to dictate how others live their lives."

"Exactly," he said, amazed that she seemed to understand so readily. She's a Browncoat, she's thought about this. "Life -- even mechanoid life -- cannot be perfectly orderly! Forcing order on it, kills it. Makes it just existence, not living." He shook his head again, to get back on topic. "Running low on energon, a group of us set off to try to find a new source of it, to bring back to Cybertron to fuel the resistance. We were being starved out! We were pursued, then boarded by the 'Cons and crashed here, a long time ago. Something happened and literally jarred our ship back on-line. Our base - the remains of our ship - really is in Oregon like I said in my posts. I really am the smallest 'Bot in my unit and specialize in recon. I can go places the others are too big for, in their mech forms."

"Mech forms? Short for Mechanoid? Right. What other forms do you have?" She was looking at him again, he could tell.

He turned to face her fully again, leaning his shoulder on the wall beside the bed. He found he liked looking slightly up at her like this, the angle was excellent. He also appreciated that she seemed to place importance on meeting his optics with her eyes. "We each have one, sometimes two, alternate forms. Those of us here on Earth were rebuilt so that our alternates pass for human vehicles. I have only one: a Volkswagen. My friend Jazz looks like a Porsche, Prowl's a Datsun, Ironhide's a van..." he trailed off. This might be too much for her.

"Hmmmmm." She studied him again. "Volkswagen. Right." She leaned toward him, placing her hands on his shoulders. She rested her forehead against his, which set his systems cycling faster -- she couldn't know it, but that was a particularly intimate gesture among mechs. Her eyes seemed to be on his lip components. "I've never kissed a Volkswagen before. Can't say I've even imagined it. You are certainly not like any other Volkswagen on the planet, are you." It didn't sound much like a question, so he didn't answer. He put his hands lightly on her waist. "I've also never wanted to jump someone I just met."

Bumblebee had never heard that turn of phrase before, but somehow it made his circuits sing, made him aware of the feeling of the coolant in his lines, the cycling of his fuel pump, the vibration of every servo in his frame. He wanted more contact with her. Boldly, he lifted her from her perch and moved to place her on his lap. She complied, somehow maintaining the contact with his forehead and moving her legs to straddle his. "I'm not sure what that means, but-"

She kissed him again. Optics off-line, he thought Primus, that's good! Her body temperature had gone up a bit since the last one, but his plating was warming up to help cool his internal systems, so now she felt cooler to his touch. It was thrilling. She moved her hands over his chestplate as she again slipped her tongue past his lips. She found the edges of his armor and gently brushed the exposed cables with her hands.

He moaned and opened his mouth to allow her better access, running his hands up and down her sides. He wrapped his glossa around her tongue again; this time, she was prepared. She gently drew it into her mouth with her tongue. It was strange, but exciting. Her mouth was cool and wet where his own felt hot and dry. She did something with her tongue that trapped his glossa against the roof of her mouth. Coupled with what she was doing with her hands -- he thought his CPU might shut down.

She broke the kiss. "Is that okay?" she asked, concerned. He nodded without bringing his optics on-line. He moved one hand up to her head, enjoying the feeling of her hair under his fingers and palm, and pulled her back to him, kissing her forehead, then her nose and her lips, experimenting with his glossa against her lips and teeth this time. He moved down to her neck. She arched her back, bringing more of her abdomen into contact with his and making it easier for him to access her throat. His engine started to purr and he hoped she found the feeling pleasant against her body. He gently nipped at the edge of a bone barely covered by her skin -- collarbone flitted through his CPU, so he knew he was still on-line -- and let his glossa curl into the hollow at the base of her neck, lip components moving against the ridges on either side.

She had both hands under his chestplate near his shoulders, gently stroking the cables and coolant lines she found there, and exciting all the circuits in the area. He could feel the vibrations of every little mechanism in his arms and legs speeding up, warming his skin everywhere, especially where she was touching him.

She seemed to like what he was doing: her breath speeding up, her strokes growing more confident, her body pressing more firmly against his. He could feel her heartbeat through her clothing, against his chest and abdomen, his upper legs, his hand on the small of her back, more so even through the touch of her hands and wrists inside his plating. He ran a finger experimentally under the bottom edge of her vest at her back, encountered an opposing edge of the cloth of her pants. He kissed around the side of her neck, at the limit of what her shirt would allow. He ghosted his glossa over her skin there and she drew in a sharp breath. A brief image from Firefly flashed in his memory of Inara with the Counselor and it dawned on him that although she was touching every bit of his skin directly, he was not touching much of hers.

The thought seemed to hit her nearly simultaneously. Maybe physical intimacy isn't so different between forms he thought. She gently drew her hands from under his chestplate and pulled back slightly, finding his mouth with hers and moving to unbuckle one side of her vest. He moved both his hands down to her waist, broke the kiss and on-lined his optics to see what she was doing.

"Stupid vest," she muttered as she finally wiggled the first buckle loose, "too many buckles."

"Let me," he offered, now that he was sure of what needed to be done. He rested his forehead against hers, completely drawing her attention back, and started to deftly work the tiny buckles on each side of her vest at once. She raised her hands to his neck, tenderly stroking the sturdy cables that held his head on his body. He didn't need his optics, so he turned them back off and kissed her lips again. He shuddered as she found a major motivity cable. "Now what?" he asked when there were no more buckles to undo.

"Watch me," she said huskily, standing up. He could do that as long as she'd let him!

She took a few steps away from him, pulling the vest over her head as she moved. She dropped it on the floor. She turned away from him, giving him a great view of her back side - he hadn't noticed before how visually pleasing the shape of her aft was. When she turned back to face him, she was unbuttoning her shirt, exposing more of her beautiful dark skin. Before she removed her shirt completely, she sat on the edge of the bed, in profile to him. She was doing something to her boots. He got up on his knees to get a better angle.

"Wanna help?" she said, a twinkle in her eye as she looked at him out of the side of it.

"How can I?" he replied, leaning toward her and placing a hand on the bed near her to steady himself.

"Turn the TV off and we'll work somethin' out."

He didn't have to stand up to reach the remote where she'd left it on the bed. For an astrosecond he thought his fingers might be too large to work the buttons - I have the smallest hands of any 'Bot! - they weren't though, and he found the button sensibly marked 'Power'. The TV winked off. He turned his full attention back to Mitzi only to find she'd finished with her footwear and stood back up in front of him. She had her shirt off and was dropping it on the floor. He reached for her with both hands.

"'Bee!" she exclaimed, giggling a little. He found that encouraging and ran the index finger of each hand under the waistband of her pants from the small of her back around each side. She squirmed lithely and placed her hands on his shoulders.

"You still have too many layers on, Mitzi," he teased, his volume low, enjoying the sound of her name passing his vocalizer. His fingers found the closure of her slacks at the front. He'd seen Spike button a jacket enough times that he was confident with this and performed his first unbutton event smoothly. He encountered a second button, facing inboard, and dealt with it, too. The zipper was a concept he'd seen in advertisements and managed cleanly.

No longer sure of how to proceed with her clothing, he looked up at her. She was so close! He ran his hands up over her ribs, marveling at the smoothness of her skin, getting the impression that it was stretched over a frame not so different from his own. Kneeling, he was at the perfect height to kiss her neck again, so he did. He worked his thumbs up under the last garment on her upper body. Bra registered in his CPU, and he remembered it was the source of some comedic routines he'd heard: infamously hard to separate from the wearer. She was working her hands over and into his shoulder joints, sending distracting, processor-scrambling sensations everywhere. Struggling valiantly to focus on his hands, optics off, he rested his face on her shoulder and found the clasp with his left hand. There seemed to be some sort of little hooks...using both hands, he relieved the tension in the band and "Got it!" he said softly against her collar bone in triumph as the hooks came free.

She chuckled. "Good work!" she said and kissed the side of his helm, right at the seam that was the base of his transceiver - one of the horns of his helmet. He shuddered. "Like that?" she asked, then did it again before he could answer.

"Primus!" he exclaimed, shuddering again, and nuzzled his face into the side of her neck, taking that horn out of easy reach of her mouth. He felt more than heard her small laugh: felt it in his hands on her body as he moved them back around her ribs to the front, felt it in the shake of her thighs against his chestplate. As his thumbs caressed the skin that had recently been covered by her bra, she shuddered. He gently grasped the lingering garment and moved to remove it, which required her to remove her hands from him. He on-lined his optics, feeling immediately bereft of her touch as they leaned slightly apart.

She backed away a step, leaving him holding the scrap of precisely-formed cloth. He could only watch in fascination as she slid her pants over her thighs, down her lower legs and stepped out of them, leaving them empty and lifeless on the floor with her other coverings. He dropped her bra on top of her shirt. One even smaller scrap of cloth remained, seeming to cling desperately to her hips, covering the last bit of her body.

Panty drifted through his processor. For a few ticks, the only sounds he could hear were his own engine and cooling system cycling. Every system in his body was running strong, either in a state of excitation or working to cool and sustain those that were.

"Well," she said, "I can't say I've had that effect on anyone before."

"You're...stunning..." he admitted.

"I'm glad you find me so," she purred, then grabbed the cover from the bed in both hands and pulled it off onto the floor near her feet. "Come here," she beckoned with one hand.

Devastator couldn't have kept him away from her. He got to his feet carefully and slowly closed the distance between them. She grasped both his wrists, placing his hands on her hips. Mitzi looked up into his optics again, her fingertips tracing his rear window. "Take them off," she breathed. He didn't understand the plural, but that was unimportant. He gently hooked his thumbs into the slim elastic on either side and pushed the garment down her body, caressing her legs as he did so, ending up on his knees in front of her again.

Every inch of her body was exposed and waiting for his touch. He trembled at the thought. It was exhilarating. He captured her mouth with his, nipping softly at her lips, resting his hands on her thighs briefly. She was working her hands into his shoulders again and it was making every system thrum. He massaged her aft with his hands, finding it to be outside his experience: firm and soft at once. Tires came closest in his experience, and he had a stray thought that maybe a Lamborghini's leather seats might approach it, but he had doubts.

Although she seemed to enjoy what he was doing, it wasn't getting a strong reaction, and he suddenly became convinced that he wanted one. Wanted to hear her cry his name in passion. He'd watched enough human media to be convinced it was common when a woman was truly pleased by her lover. He moved his kissing from her mouth to her neck, causing her to arch her back a little. She squeezed a power cable and for a moment he was afraid he might go off-line, but his engine sped up a little and he stayed alert. He kept one hand on her aft and moved the other around front, to brush against the short hair there that had been covered by her panty. Smooth skin underneath, so he let his fingers follow the line where leg met abdomen that tended to be a particularly sensitive seam on a mech and found that it made her tremble. Meanwhile, he kissed and stroked the skin of her neck with his glossa, over her collarbones and down to one side of her chest. Breast winked through his CPU; he didn't know if it was right, but didn't care. He kissed it and manipulated the tip with his glossa. That seemed to distract her somewhat.

Further exploration of the upper leg seam proved fruitful: the temperature of the skin was higher, the texture changed a bit and when he tentatively mapped the outline of the small orifice he found there, she gasped and completely stopped the ministrations inside his shoulders. My hands are too large for this. Then he smiled to himself where he'd been kissing her: he had an idea.

He moved the hand on her aft up a little higher on her back and moved the other to firmly grasp her thigh. He turned both of them in place and, kissing his way down her abdomen, lifted her a little to lay her down on the bed. He moved the hand from her back to her belly and knelt lower there at the edge of the bed.

She found her voice. "You don't have to-" she began, sitting up a little against the pressure of his palm.

"What?" he asked, looking up at her briefly. "Do you think you'll like it?"

She met his optics, with an expression that seemed to him completely out of place, considering the circumstances: embarrassment. She nodded, almost shyly, biting her lower lip.

"I want to make you feel...as much pleasure as possible. You're figuring out my design just fine - an overload is in my near future if you keep it up - let me try to do the same for you." He took it as a good sign that his words made her shiver.

"You...mechs...have orgasms?" she said it as if the word itself were powerful.

Bumblebee was drawn to caress her face. "The way you say that word, I want to say 'yes' although I haven't learned about the human equivalent of our energy flares. Tell me afterward if I bring you to one, and I'll do the same. Call it an exercise in translation." It pleased him that she closed her eyes, nuzzled against his palm a moment, then lay back on the bed. He rested his hand back on her abdomen, feeling the movement of her musculature as she breathed deeply. He crouched a little lower, gently moving one of her legs aside with his other hand.

He kissed her opening, finding the feeling of the short curls exotic against his dermal plating. Mitzi trembled again. Bumblebee off-lined his optics. He kissed the little nub at the forward end of the orifice and heard her gasp. He flicked his glossa over it and felt its temperature rise further. He explored the whole area with his lips and glossa, and when dipping it into the orifice drew a wordless exclamation from her, he knew he was on the right track. Over and over he caressed the inside of her body with his glossa, twining it gently around the knob of firm flesh deep inside. He heard her pulling at the bedding with her hands, then Mitzi moaned his name and he felt his energy field build higher. The area grew wetter and its temperature rose as he stimulated it. She writhed against him, and seemed to be wanting to sit up. He let her, but moved both hands to grasp her hips and continue his ministrations. She caressed the sides of his helm with her hands, then grabbed both his horns. That made him moan, even made him pause in his activity.

"'Bee!" She pulled his head up by her grip on his transceivers. He turned his optics back on to look at her. The skin of her face was darker than before, and covered with a fine sheen of moisture. He noticed that her lips looked a little swollen and wondered if that was from kissing him. "Let me lay down on the floor," she said, "I want you to lay beside me now."

Unsure of what she thought he could do for her in that position, he complied. He registered that his plating temperature was now notably above her temperature; his core was approaching overheating levels. She stretched herself out on the cover from the berth as far to one side of the small space as she could and drew him down beside her. Enthralled, he watched her. She closed her eyes, so he off-lined his optics. "You're so warm," she said, then claimed his mouth with hers as she traced the outline of each of his windows she could reach. His systems were singing with her heartbeat in every line of fluid and current and gear. He wanted her to feel this good. As he again twined his glossa with her tongue, he moved his right arm, that he was lying on, to allow that hand to caress her nearest breast. He moved his left arm, completely free, to trail down her body from her face, over her collar bone and breast, to her hip. She shuddered; his engine picked up another notch. His energy field crackled. He hoped he was affecting her as much as she affected him. She pulled his body a little more over hers and guided his left hand down toward the orifice he'd been attending before. Her legs were open to allow his touch. He stroked the area. That wasn't what she wanted. She pressed on his hand with hers, hard. He didn't understand. She drew his glossa into her mouth and did that amazing thing again, somehow changing the pressure against it drastically and moaned along with him. Then he got it - she wanted him to do with his fingers what he'd done with his glossa.

He didn't actually need to reclaim his glossa to use his vocalizer, so he didn't. "I don't want to hurt you," he said. It was muffled by her mouth against his, but he was sure she made it out. She gave a tiny shake of her head and moaned again, raising her hips a little and changing the angle against his hand. He barely inserted the tip of one finger. She gasped, releasing his glossa. He stroked the sides of the opening cautiously, feeling her heartbeat strongly through that contact. It seemed in perfect time to the vibrations in his body, and he felt the thrumming in his arm get stronger.

Apparently she did, too. She arched her body a little harder. "More," she breathed, moving both of her hands to stroke his transceivers again. He complied, slipping the finger farther in and sending energy purposefully into the motion of disengaged transformation gears inside his wrist and fingers. "Oh," she breathed, arching her back and massaging his transceivers, the seams, and the sides of the center ridge of his helmet. He leant down and mouthed the side of her neck, flicking at beads of sweat with his glossa. His temperature continued to rise as systems cycled faster. She moved her hips and he matched that rhythm with the motion of his hand. He found it pleasing that she seemed to be a self-lubricating system, cool and wet to his hot and dry. The thrumming in his body was still matching her heartbeat. It amazed him how two completely alien systems could fall into a cooperative pattern so easily. Suddenly her breathing grew ragged and she started breathing his name, like a mantra: "'Bee. Don't. Stop." She stopped moving her hands and just held onto his horns, her voice growing higher in pitch and louder in volume. His energy field grew, warming his plating further. She moved her head quickly, devouring his mouth for a moment before crying out as a wave of cool fluid poured over his hand from her body. She held perfectly still except for breathing, so he did, too.

She relaxed her grip on his transceivers and kissed his mouth lightly. "That." Dry kiss to his nose ridge, "Was." Dry kiss to his right optic, "Wow." Dry kiss to his left optic, "Your turn." Bumblebee brought his optics on-line to look at her, not sure what to make of her words. He noted the muscles beginning the move to bring her legs together, so he removed his hand from between them, resting it on her hip.

"Does that mean..." suddenly he felt shy about asking. Didn't know where it came from, but her coyness about it had infected him somehow. Humans have so many taboos!

"Yes, that was... intense for me," she shuddered and closed her eyes briefly. She ran her hands down his helm to trace the seam between the yellow and the white around his face. "Never actually had an orgasm the first time with a new lover before."

He didn't know how to answer that, so he didn't, but his systems responded by speeding up yet again. He was close to overcharge.

"So, how can I ...bring you...release?" She asked, rolling toward him. Then, when he could only look at her without answering, she moved her hands to his shoulders and rolled him onto his back.

He sought and found her right hand with his left, and brought it up to his mouth, kissing her palm and then tracing each finger with his glossa. Listening to his coolant rushing through his lines, it dawned on him what would easily do it.

She was watching him intently. She shuddered violently. "I want to cause you aftershocks like that," she said, "I want to short your circuits!"

You already have he thought, but couldn't get it to his vocalizer. He rested her hand on his cheek again - she seemed to like to touch his face anyway - and put both hands on her hips to guide her to straddle his waist. She was looking into his optics again. "You're beautiful," he vocalized while he kissed her hand again. He could feel the vibration throughout his frame, could feel it where it transferred into her body. He opened his mouth to vocalize properly this time: "Do you feel that? All my systems pulsing with yours." She nodded. "The source and center is my spark chamber, inside my chest. Remember how you worked your hands into my shoulders earlier? If you do that again, and touch my spark chamber, your heart beat is probably strong enough right now to carry that rhythm to my spark chamber and ... short my circuits."

He turned his optics back off and let his hands rest on her thighs. Her skin was so cool and smooth and cushioning, he didn't want to stop touching her. Every sensor was active, every molecule waiting to thrill to her touch.

"Guide me?" she asked breathlessly, leaning forward over him.

He really didn't want to move at all. She'd put aside innumerable taboos for him, he could overcome this one. Spark chambers were supposed to be hidden, touched only after a relationship was well-established and stable, the last demonstration of trust between a couple. Gently, he pushed her a little farther down his body so she was sitting astride his thighs. Then, he guided her hands to the edge where the yellow ridge beneath his windshield ended. "Under my windshield, up and to the left a little. Nearly on my fore-aft centerline. You should be able to trace the largest power cable up to it." He was shaking, the vibrations from all his pumps and servos so strong now he feared he might fly apart. His engine sounded loud in the small room.

She traced the seal of his windshield with her fingertips, then leant down and started to wiggle her hands under it in earnest. Every cord, every cable she touched sent waves of pleasure through his sensors, cooling and exciting at once.

She found his main power feed, brushing against it. "Mitzi," his vocals sounded needy to his own audios. Now he was the one gripping the bedding with outflung hands.

"You're so warm, Bumblebee," she murmured to him, grasping the cable firmly with one hand and working her other one further up along it, brushing countless other cables and sensors along the way, carrying the excitation deeper into his core. She rested her forehead against his windshield.

"Oh Primus!" and "Mitzi! That's it!" he exclaimed as she suddenly found and wrapped her hand around his spark chamber. His systems hit their highest rates, engine redlining; his electromagnetic field flared violently. A blue light swelled up out of him, filling the room briefly. He lost track of time and space.

His cooling system cycled. He could hear the fluid flowing, feel his fuel pump running and his engine idling. Mitzi gently stroked his spark chamber once more, and his body shook. He groaned, more tiredly than appreciatively, and she must have understood because she quickly withdrew her hands from where she was elbow-deep in his body, touching as little of his internals as she could.

"Are you ...okay?" she trailed off, almost not completing the question. She sounded afraid, and for a moment he couldn't imagine why.

"Oh, Mitzi! Yes," he vocalized, drawing her up to lay beside him, tucking a corner of the cover down over his shoulder so she could lay her head on its softness instead of the metal of his armor. He kissed her forehead. "That was...spark-flickering."

"Let's rest a little while, and see what else we can get up to tonight?" she said muzzily, snuggling down into the bedcover and pressing herself more firmly against his side panel.

He curled his right arm up under his head. With his left arm down her back, her head on his shoulder, and her body pressed exquisitely against him, he was content to recharge a while.

-X-X-X-

-:-Jazz to Bumblebee.-:- Pause. -:-Bumblebee? Where in the Pit are ya?-:-

He chose not to answer.

-:-'Bee, why does m' scan show yer aft on the sixth floor?-:-

He seriously considered turning his radio completely off.

-:-How much did ya tell her?-:-

He didn't know Jazz had a clipped tone. -:-More than you know, Jazz.-:-

-:-I'll see ya back at the Ark, 'Bee.-:-

-:-Jazz, we both know you're bluffing. When she comes back on-line, I'll come out. I'm sure she wants to meet you. But I don't have it in me to just walk out while she's recharging.-:-

-:-'Bee, I gotta know. Did you...?-:-

-:-Primus! Jazz!-:-

No response. That had to be a first: Jazz speechless. Should have denied it passed his CPU. Bumblebee waited a full breem for Jazz to respond. -:-Jazz? Are you all right?-:-

-:-I'm fine, man, jus' fine. Shocked. But fine. Wow.-:-

-:-How much trouble am I gonna be in?-:-

-:-Dunno. There's quite a pot ridin' on Tracks 'cause he's a smooth talker. We're talkin' barrels o' high grade. I don' believe anyone bet on you. Hnnn. Come to think of it, Prowl may've...logical 'cause yer small, ya know? If he did, that could save yer aft.-:-

That was too much to process. -:-Bumblebee out.-:- Then Seaspray never told anyone else... drifted through his processor, followed by, wonder what the bet is actually on...

-:-Alright, Romeo. Jazz out.-:-

As of 24AUG2008, this fic has a sequel: Preferred Means of Communication