As someone new to transformer fics, I'd love a fic where Mirage and the reader learn what the others name for body parts are (hand/servo, etc.) And obviously Mirage uses it as an opportunity to put the moves on the reader.
yall are so creative with these i legit opened my mouth when i read that...... such a good idea omg lets go (im so deep in that shit i legit remember most robot names for these body parts without having to look em up lmao)
"That's a chassis."
You let out a sigh as Mirage pointed at another part of his metal body. You knew you wouldn't be able to remember all these ridiculously strange names, but still wanted to be a good student, especially because you asked him to teach you.
"Mine's a bit bigger than the ones your little boys have."
And there it was. His constant bragging, showing-off, comments that indicated he was damn aware he was better than humans.
You raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him, not having to look up that much because he was sitting on his... aft. Or something.
"Helm, face plate, optics, pedes, tank..." He kept pointing at random body parts of his, naming them as fast as he could just to get to the most interesting ones he could use to finally rizz you up.
"'m surprised you don't have a diploma for being the best teacher ever, Mirage," you muttered under your breath shamelessly, sarcasm dripping from your tongue as you stood there with your arms crossed on your chest.
He liked the way you said his name, even if it wasn't in a particularly nice tone.
"No speaking unless you're being spoken to, miss," he reprimanded you like a strict teacher would, using his best Optimus Prime voice. Then, before you could talk back, he extended his left arm, putting it right in front of your face. He made a fist but allowed his middle finger to stay up, "What's this called?" he asked you, even though you haven't gone through this particular body part yet.
"Flipping someone off, sir," you answered in an overly eager, sweet tone, as if you were trying to sound like the teacher's pet.
You calling him sir made his spark skip a beat or two.
"Wrong." He lowered his hand and placed it on his metal thigh with a soft clang. He shook his helm in fake disappointment, letting out a long sigh. "It's a digit. And what do we do with digits?" he continued in a teacher's voice, making a specific motion with his servo to encourage you to answer his question, even though he automatically did so in his mind.
We put them inside disobedient girls.
"We flip people off, sir," you responded in a fake innocent, childish tone, straightening your back and smiling widely as if waiting for praise for giving him a good answer. It made you cringe internally but you also thought it was funny so the choice whether to continue talking like that or just leave was easy to make.
He snorted at your words, shaking his head in amusement once more as he brought his servo to your body and flicked your arm gently with his two digits.
"That's what we do with 'em."
"Oh, fuck off." You smacked his servo before he could pull it away from you. Even though you could barely feel the flick of his robot fingers, you still massaged your arm, hoping it'd make him feel at least a little bit bad, and he'd stop bullying you.
"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" He raised his optical ridge at your words, not being able to fight back a teasing smirk forming on his lips.
You could kiss me with that mouth.
As soon as the thought appeared in his mind, he immediately got rid of it, not letting it distract him.
"Tibulen, cadulen..." he began naming other body parts, and there was no way in hell you'd be able to remember those. "Glossa..." He stuck his metal tongue out, pointing at it lazily with his index digit.
A question popped up in your head, "You got saliva?"
For the first time, you were actually curious about something, expecting an actual, truthful response, but instead you got what Mirage was best at. Sarcasm.
"Oh, yeah, our saliva's made out of corrosive acid actually. Cool stuff." He shrugged nonchalantly as if what he just said was nothing. "Want me to spit on you so you can get the drill?" he asked overly casually, already slightly leaning in your direction.
He was having so much fun...
You grimaced at his question, even though you knew he was most likely joking. Most likely.
"Pass," you murmured under your breath.
"...But there are other ways you could... feel it."
His time to shine has come which he was very much aware of.
His unnecessarily mysterious tone made you snort quietly, an eyebrow involuntarily raised as you asked him with amusement dancing on your tongue, "Care to share?"
He tilted his head with a very, very sly smirk on his lips, which partly gave you an answer to your question. The realisation almost made your face drop but you contained yourself, and just rolled your eyes at his silent offer, pretending not to notice the heat spreading across your own cheeks.
"No."
"I didn't say anything," he responded in an amused, innocent tone, raising his servos in a defensive gesture.
"Yeah, but your eyes said a lot," you argued, the sudden shift in your confidence making you unable to find the situation as funny as before.
He made an unbelievable amount of butterflies awaken and fly around in your stomach, and as pleasant as it felt, you couldn't show him that.
"Optics," he corrected you immediately, playful superiority in his tone coming back just in time to crush you once more. He leaned in, making the gap between your faces a lot smaller than before. "And I'm pretty sure you're just imaginin' things," he added teasingly, the smirk almost challenging you.
His plan was working.
"Am I?" You tilted your head slightly to the left, your gaze never leaving his blue optics.
The intensity of your eye contact made him back off just a bit, before he shook his head in both amusement and surprise at the sudden comeback of your confidence.
"We're not done yet," he just said, which may have sounded like a warning but you felt like he was talking about something else than this game you were both playing. "I didn't show you everything," he explained, even though this lesson about his anatomy was the smallest thing occupying his mind at the moment.
You refrained yourself from frowning, feeling pretty sure that he'd already named every single body part of his possible, but you didn't want him to notice how little attention you were actually paying. So you just nodded, getting ready to hear more of that very interesting stuff.
"...Ever seen a metal dick?"
Your jaw almost dropped when your brain registered his shameless question. You couldn't even say anything to that, just unsurely shaking your head to show him that you, in fact, have never seen a metal dick.
And you thought he was about to offer to present one to you just now, but he just let out an amused noise. "Too bad."
And with these words, he transformed into a silver Porsche and drove past you towards the exit of the garage, leaving you confused, breathless, and wanting something more...
might make a part 2 for this with smut if you want
1K notes
·
View notes
In a Different Light
[Ao3 Mirror]
Pairing: Ramattra/Reader
Rating: Explicit
WC: 9,256
Warnings: Super vanilla + size difference
He’d become fixated, completely focused on a group of soldiers hiding behind a line of armored vehicles. If he could just dislodge them, they’d have an uncontested avenue deeper into the city. He knows he can rush them, can get in close and punch straight through their cover. He peaks, HUD picking up each heat signature before him- more soldiers to the right than the left.
He doesn’t see the one four stories above them.
”Down!” He recognizes your voice, but doesn’t respond, doesn’t move. He can handle this, doesn’t need your tactical input-
And your arms close around his waist. What? He looks down, takes his optics off the enemy- and he feels your heel kick behind his knee. It’s not nearly enough to buckle him- but he allows himself to go down anyway, dropping into a heap back behind the barricade.
The bullet cuts through a ribbon cable.
You sink back into the seat, weight falling off your shoulders. Under the roar of the engines sliding from VTOL to forward propulsion, your sigh is completely inaudible, utterly silent to everyone. Everyone except Ramattra’s sensitive audials. You close your eyes and lean back, yet unaware of his gaze on you. He watches your pulse reading slow from its rabbit-fast battle-ready pace, lets his optics linger on the long line of your throat. The skin there is thin enough he could feel your heartbeat. His servos itch to reach out and try it.
He had let you pull him down. Why? A snap decision he hadn't even processed consciously. But why did he trust you that much? He scours his deeply-rooted runtimes, searching for what it was about you that had tipped that reaction in your favor. In his favor, given the cable that sparks brightly at the corner of his optics.
He'd nearly crushed you, only landing on his elbow at the last moment. You must've known how badly he could've hurt you; your eyes were wide, breath held in your chest as you looked up to him.
He was touching you. Your arms were still wrapped around his chassis, hands splayed near the sensitive column of his spine, legs aligned with his body, one hooked around his thigh. His hand at your hip. In the peaking lines between your armor, everywhere your skin touched his metal he could feel your heat, your heartbeat.
For a moment, all you could do is stare at each other. For a moment, he couldn't seem to focus on his objective.
You slowly unwound your hold, but don't quite take your hands off him. They end up holding the broad ribs of his armor. He's... glad. He liked the contact. He squeezed your hip, relished in the soft give of your skin and fat and muscle.
"Sniper," You had finally breathed- and the spell was broken. Back to work.
The rest of the squad cheers and chats jovially, an easy mission. He would agree, more or less. As far as he can tell, the only casualty was his own shattered cosmetic cabling- an effortless fix for another time, for now he simply disconnects the damaged cable. But you aren't celebrating with them. The entire flight, you've kept your head back and eyes closed, swaying softly with turbulence. He can tell you're not asleep. Even if his HUD wasn't keeping him painfully aware of your vitals, he watches your hands rub at the corners of your armor plating the entire time, watches the twinges of your expression.
Pain? Ramattra wonders. Had he hurt you after all?
His GPS pings an alert for their probable arrival a few minutes before the engines shift again. When they do, it jostles you up, leaving you grabbing the supports around you as the ship comes in to land. His gyros keep him steady, never having to look away from his study of you. Without fanfare, the cargo door opens and most of the troops pile out. You stand, grab your gear-
and you look back at him. A little smile, a slight nod. He cannot smile back, would not if he could, but he nods in turn at you. You leave, following the line of soldiers ahead of you.
Only when everyone else has left does Ramattra stand.
Your quarters are blessedly quiet, at least compared to the open bustle of the barracks. The insulation between walls is thin, built for structural support, not individual solitude. At least in the lower officers quarters. The higher-ups are probably given more leeway on creature comforts. You heard once that Doomfist has a hot tub in every base.
You’d kill for a hot tub right now.
Still, it's quiet and secluded enough for you to drop your gear and close the door behind you. The ceramic of your armor clicks against the metal door frame as you lean back. Even the slight shift of your weight off your feet brings relief- as does the cold metal that presses to the nape of your neck, the backs of your arms.
He was warmer. Still much too cool to be mistaken as anything organic, but still... warmer than you had expected. The buzzing of his CPUs must radiate enough heat to bring him just above the freezing metal you had expected. He had moved more, too- the spinning of his fans had made him vibrate softly under your fingertips, but more shocking than that, it was as though he was breathing, a rhythmic movement of his chest. Some kind of ventilation, you’d guess.
You close your eyes. The fall onto your back had knocked the wind out of you- but the weight of him had never landed. No, he had perched over you, balanced on one sturdy arm, the cables of his mane dangling- the matte black making the stark white of his faceplate almost glow. You're sure it's just lights from his LEDs, but in the black shadows you'd swear you saw the red of his HUD in his optics. And he was touching you- cool fingers had somehow wound up between the hard lines of your armor, slipped right up under your shirt. Five mechanical fingers that squeezed so gently, so unnecessarily.
His presence around Talon was... sporadic at best- and you'd never actually worked with him before. His disdain for humans was common knowledge, but so when you'd been assigned to his team you had no way to anticipate that outcome. And yet it wasn’t… unwelcome.
With a groan you stand up again- no use pondering it fully geared-up at least. Your forearm guards come off easily, with satisfying clicks. You toss the plating onto your bunk; you’ll have to inspect it later- given the fall you’d had, you might already need to replace some of it. Next, your boots- which clatter together as you kick them away.
You reach up over your shoulder to undo the chestplate- and hiss with pain. Your upper back lights up with sore muscles, not yet ready to be used again. Fuck, okay. You’ll get back to that one, you guess. Instead, you twist your arm behind your low back and undo the armor over your belly.
Your door clangs- loud enough for you to jump. What the fuck? Who would be bothering you now? You hastily drop that piece onto the same pile and turn the handle-
Oh.
He's out of place this deep in Talon's barracks. He seems to know this, adjusting his posture to stand tall before you- a defensive stance against the curious eyes of your fellow soldiers that pass by. At full height he just about touches the upper edge of the door frame, making you have to tip your head back just to look at him this close. Even though there's no malice in his stance, your skin prickles.
As much as you were captivated by your little shared moment in the street, Ramattra is still your boss, more or less- his alliances with Talon are much further up the food chain than you- and there's no good formal reason for him to be here. So, you treat him as though he's one of the council. Someone way, way above your pay grade with enough power to end you and never even see paperwork for it. You stand up straight and square your shoulders, lower your gaze with a perfectly canned "Yes, Sir?"
His optics drop before he can override it; somehow he did not expect you to be undressing. Even with your undershirt still on under the white Talon armor, his thoughts race, circuitry threatening to overclock. At your voice, however, Ramattra makes a noise of disgust, shifts his head as if scowling. "Enough of that, save it for Akande." You blink, lift your sight back to his faceplate as though it made any difference in reading him. He must've already cleaned up; there once was post-battle grime, but it's already been wiped away. You look to his cabled mane- and there, too, his damaged ribbon cable is gone. "I came to speak with you." Suspicion rises again in your chest, even as he clarifies, "Informally."
Informally in Talon usually meant some kind of internal politicking that you avoided as best you could. Somehow, that doesn't feel right here- why the fuck would he have use for you?- but you don't let down your guard just yet. The instinct to tack on sir to the end of the question is so strong it nearly slips out. "What about?"
"I came to apologize." What? You bristle; if he means to apologize for touching you, well, he certainly did not wrong you by any means. "And to thank you. May I?" He motions past you and despite how much you absolutely should not be inviting Null Sector's leader into your quarters, you do so anyway.
Your room is hardly larger than a supply closet; it's positively cramped with both you and an R-7000 standing in the meager floor space. It makes his movements awkward, aware of his large, sharply pointed feet; even if your armored boots were still on, having him step on your toes would be unpleasant. Without, much worse. So, Ramattra gives you an easy solution: "Please, sit."
It doesn't help your pained neck at all, nor the growing sense of unease. Still, you perch yourself on the edge of your mattress and watch as he adjusts his cowl. "What did you need to apologize for?"
"First, I wanted to thank you for assisting me. I should have seen the sniper, or at least considered the probability, given the terrain." His voice box makes a spit of noise, not unlike clearing his throat. "I came to apologize for... scaring you, when you pulled me from the sniper's view. It was unintentional."
Scared? You can't resist a barking laugh, "That's all? I knew I was risking dropping a big heap of omnic on me. I mean, I'm really glad you were quick enough to catch yourself and all, but really, there's nothing to apologize for, you didn't hurt me."
He waits a beat, considering his words carefully. "You seemed particularly stunned afterwards."
Ah. He noticed. Your cheeks burn. "I guess. You did too, though."
"I had just been shot at and had to trust that a human had my best interest in mind." He tips his head, "If you did not fear being injured, then why?"
"Um," You rub at your neck, chase your thoughts for any acceptable response. "I was- just surprised. You were... very close."
His response is quick as he leans in towards you. “And you were not afraid?”
What is that inflection in his voice? Did he want you to be? You stare at him, try desperately to read his immovable faceplate. You bite your lip- and unbeknownst to you, Ramattra's optics tick downwards to watch. "No, I wasn't."
You must've picked right, because his voice box hums a little noise of acknowledgement, a light nod following. "I see." He murmurs, then abruptly straightens up again. "Regardless, I came to give my gratitude and offer repayment." You would tell him that it's literally your job, that you'd hope he would've done the same for you, but once more Ramattra's head tips, then nods just off to your right. "Is your armor ill-fitting?"
You blink, then look- and find yourself rubbing at your neck once more. "Oh! I mean, kind of; all Talon armor is pre-made. Mostly I'm just a bit sore."
"May I?"
He steps forward without waiting for your answer, but doesn't actually touch you. Once again, you're very close to him. This time, he's standing, towering over you with his full height from where you sit. He's offering, your mind stumbles over it, replays his touch to your hip. "Um, s-sure."
He already knows where the release to your armor is; his large fingers pressing into the divot before you can even begin to direct him. "Oh," you slip out, then awkwardly shake off each half, shoving them off the edge of the bed. His hands move towards your shoulders- and hesitate. He'd been quick to step closer, to dig into the protective paneling, but the actual prospect of touching you, even through the thin material of your undershirt, must make him pause. It's short lived- and his hands are cold enough you can feel it through the cloth.
You suppress a jolt at his temperature- but then he squeezes and all rational thought is expelled from your mind. The aching muscles of your shoulders have no choice but to surrender to his unflinching, metal kneads. It takes everything, everything that you have to not moan- and still he manages to pull a stifled inhale from you.
At once his fingers freeze, “Do you need me to stop?”
”No.” It’s all whine, a desperate plea to chase that same mind-melting touch. So, he continues on. Cool, smooth fingers pressing into taut muscle, loosening up knots with surgical precision. And when he adjusts his angle, steps a little closer and digs in again, you do let yourself moan.
He doesn’t stop- but you feel the tremble in his hands and his fans kick up their speed, humming louder in the relative quiet of your room. He adjusts again, moves to the outer parts of your upper arms- and when he squeezes there the sharp, near painful relief shoots all the way down to your fingertips. Your eyes are all but rolling in their sockets, it's all too easy to let your lids drop, your whole body swaying with each movement of his hands.
He presses into your upper back, in the tight space between shoulder blade and spine- and you don't resist the urge to lean forward. You aren't sure where exactly your forehead lands, but his metal is pleasantly cool. The vibration from his ventilation hums directly into your skull. It's soothing white noise- and you want more. Slowly, enough to make sure he can see you moving, you raise each hand and place them on the outer edge of his thighs. There, the refreshing touch of his metal is covered by dark-colored canvas, but the cloth does little to mute the hum of his inner machinery.
It makes your hands tingle- and it makes his vents crank open another notch. Beneath your forehead, his surface chills even more as coolant rushes through his systems.
The question of why rolls over your head, though the clarity of thought comes and goes with Ramattra's touch. It could be just some kind of curiosity or ultimately innocent fascination with the physicality of human flesh- something you doubt he's had much chance to experience outside of combat- but if he were not an omnic, the implication of his tentative exploration feels... obvious.
On one hand, Null Sector's leader was rarely around your base, the shame and embarrassment of being wrong about his intentions would only occasionally be relevant, but on the other...
You swallow and roll the dice. Your hands trace higher on his legs, over the straps there until you reach metal again. He all but trembles, deeply unused to soft human caresses- even more so to the seldom-touched ridges of his hips' plating. "Do you..." Your confidence slips- but Ramattra stares down at you so attentively, you can't help but continue, just to know "Would you prefer… more?"
His hands twitch against you. "If you are willing," He says it so slowly, so intentionally, he's talking to himself as much as to you. "I will take anything you would give."
Your shuddering inhale must please him, because he nearly purrs as he trails the tips of his fingers across your shoulder blades. Fuck. It’s hardly a question of what you would give, of if you are willing. You let go of him just long enough to grab the hem of your shirt and peel it off.
For a moment, your world is entirely black- and when you can see him again, half-bared to him, you're already shivering.
It's unfair to call it staring when omnics don't typically blink, but Ramattra's faceplate tips downward and doesn't lift- even as you scoot back on your flimsy mattress until you reach the headboard. Only then does he meet your gaze again. You can't see his optics, shadowed entirely by his stark white faceplate, but there's a heat about him, all his focus settled on you- and your heart races. He sees this, too, on his HUD- the spike in your pulse, in your breathing.
Ramattra waits only a moment, shamefully double-saving this moment to his memory files, then follows. Immediately one of his heavy, metal knees makes the hinges of the frame creak in protest. His attention snaps to one corner- almost furious for having interrupted his pursuit. It would be your luck to have your bed broken by an omnic war machine before you could even fuck him. But Ramattra slowly eases his full weight onto the frame- and despite the pitiful whining of your cheap frame, it holds up.
Which is good, because Ramattra wastes no time to lean over you- the staggering height difference between you barely mitigated by his new position with his knees on either side of your legs. Your heart is racing, pulse thrumming all the way down to your fingertips- and he hasn't even really touched you- but he's eager to correct that.
He reaches for you- and there's a breath of hang time. An infinite little moment between his rubber-padded palm touching your neck, a perfect little bookend to all that was before. Because cool metal circles the base of your throat- thumb and forefinger rubbing over the ridges of your collarbones and sliding on- until his palm presses to the center of your chest- and it's unlike anything you expected.
His touch is exploratory, cautious, gentle as his hand slides up your neck, away from where you had really wanted him to touch. Instead, the rounded tips of his fingers trace parallel lines up each side of your throat. He stops just below your jaw, where your pulse beats hard against the skin. Somehow, there's no threat to it- a Ravager is holding your carotid, your jugular- and you don't even want to run. No, he's turned the tables on you- you want more.
It's difficult to be patient with his exploration, but his fascination here must be sated, because Ramattra's head tips- and his other hand presses to your chest. It's still painfully chaste; he's much too high, fingertips caressing your collarbone. He shifts, presses the heel of his palm into your pec- and, oh, you're melting into him again, because you didn't even realize that, too, was sore. As much as you wish he'd do what you're thinking about, his massaging touch is far from unacceptable.
Instead, you let your eyelids drift close, rest your chin upon the hand still at your throat.
Ramattra hums at this, one thumb stroking over your jaw in a motion so affectionate it makes your heart hurt. His fingers linger there, at the edges of your face- while his other hand finally begins to move. The rubber grip of his palm slides over the top of your breast, but his wrist turns, skirts along the side. He presses there a little, feels the weight of your chest in his palm. Already your skin is lighting up, goosebumps racing along your arms- and Ramattra shifts his hand again.
One breast entirely in his hand, his metal still shockingly cold to the underside- and yet somehow, your nipple stands free between his thumb and forefinger. He's avoided it entirely so far- but between the chill of him and the tension rushing in your veins, it's hardened into a little point. He squeezes your chest and you don't stifle your sigh.
He watches his own hand as he slowly sweeps his thumb across the stiff peak of your nipple- how it bends under his touch- and with a gasp, it pops back up. At your whimper he looks back up to your face and does the same motion again, just to soak in your reaction. The weight of his gaze is not lost on you- every sensor in his array is focused on your body, your face, the little hitches in your breath as he drags his thumb in a circle instead.
Your response must be fascinating enough, because the hand at your throat finally travels downwards, mirroring the other. Just having both hands on you makes your heart race, but now you're all but trembling when he hasn't even used the other yet. You expect more slow sweeps. You do not expect him to pinch- your sensitive flesh caught between cold metal plates- and then to tug on them.
You squeal, arch into his hands- half to alleviate the ache he's produced, and half because it felt good. He only half lets up. "Is that too much?" His voice box is so quiet you nearly don't hear him.
"No," You can only gasp- and with his confidence assured, you break off into a whimper as he tweaks your nipples. It's strange- his hands have no give, no softness to them, each motion is only relentless pressure and the hard edges of each joint. It makes every touch more acute, harsher even with his slow, cautious approach.
"They're softer than I expected," He says- and he sounds so cool, almost unaffected by how he's already making you unravel. "And more sensitive."
Oh. Something falls into place. It's not just you. "Have you ever... done this before?"
"Not with a human." Another sweep of his thumb has you shuddering. His grasp loosens, your skin tingling as blood returns to where he'd held it.
His curiosity here must've been satisfied, as his hands slide off to your sides. With only the tips of his fingers skating over your skin so lightly, you squirm under him- and grab his forearms. He stills, glances up to you- "Ticklish," You explain, then press on his hands until his whole palm meets your skin. "Firmer."
Ramattra hums, nods once in acknowledgement. He doesn't have to be corrected twice; his study of your body continues with more pressure. "And you?" Methodical presses over each notch of your ribs, tracing along the lines of each- pressing into the unprotected flesh below them, feeling over the soft pouch of your stomach. No longer feather-light, now it's almost clinical, and you wonder if he's comparing your body to schematics in his head. It isn't until he pauses, squeezes at your hip- a mimic of the same touch from earlier- for you to realize he'd spoken to you.
Have you done this before? The answer is, truthfully, not in a while, never with someone who made your skin feel so electric. You lick your lips and guardedly answer, "Not with an omnic."
He seems to accept this- and to keep him from questioning further, you move to unlatch your right greave. Your bed frame complains once more as he scoots back- and then begins working on your left leg. When you're once more down to your under armor, he stops, half sits back onto his heels. The glow of his optics is hidden, but you have no doubt he's watching you intently, waiting for something. If he expects you to wilt and change your mind, you hope instead he's pleasantly surprised that you hook your thumbs into the soft elastic around your waist and roll off both your pants and underwear.
You're suddenly aware you don't know where to put your legs- sliding them back under him would be counterproductive. So, you be just a little bold, and let them lay half-open across his canvas-covered thighs. Ramattra shudders. A visible quake up his spine, ends in little twitches of his fingers. Fingers that immediately press to your skin, two at first, just above your knees, then the whole width of his palm is smoothing up your thighs.
Higher and higher up your leg, his thumbs skating along the ridge of the muscle at the top of your thigh, never dipping in too close. Even as he approaches your waist, so tantalizingly close to your apex, his hands slide out, over the curve of your hips. You whimper, voicing your displeasure at his continued teasing. Ramattra answers only with a soft humming and those same thumbs pressing in to find the divots of your hip bones.
As attentive as his touch is, it's not helping the ache in your belly. Under him you squirm, press your thighs together to sate your growing need.
This, too, does not go unnoticed. "Patience," He chides and slides his palms from your hips back up to your sides. "We could not linger earlier; I intend to take my time now."
Oh. It doesn't stop you from squeezing your thighs again, but you do resign yourself to his pace. Again he passes over your navel before traveling down; this time there's no more cloth to impede his exploration. His thumbs follow the curve of your pubic bone, coming so very close- before returning to the safety following the long muscles of your quadriceps. With a cant of his head, he's particularly fascinated by this part of you, following the imprints of his fingers as he strokes down your legs.
Once he reaches your knees, Ramattra slyly slides his thumbs inwards, between your tightly pressed thighs. This alone has you shivering, aching to think of another round of his slow mapping of your body- but the soft press of his hands against your legs, urging them outward has every thought fleeing your mind. Shame drives you to press one hand over your face, but offers no resistance to him opening your legs once more. This time, his route from your knees to your hips is no longer exploratory- it's measured. His pace is slow, agonizing- barely inching along your skin, sweeping his thumbs, pressing in when you get too excited; it's an intentional lesson in patience that borders on torture.
And finally- finally- he doesn't turn his touch away. Ramattra's gaze is fixed between your legs, watched as he finally touches you. He traces the sensitive, thin crease of your thigh first- the last line between pretendably-chaste exploration and something else.
And he charges right past that line.
Without any warning, he drags one fingertip right down the center of your pussy. You gasp- and he's skating over your clit, parting your lips, almost dipping into you- before pulling back. With so much teasing, one stroke alone has your body thrumming, heat spreading from your belly. Above you, Ramattra hums- and spreads your lips with his free hand.
The embarrassment of his hawkish observation of your sex doesn't have long to set in, because once more his fingers return to you. Two this time, swirling at your entrance to coat his cool metal in your wetness, before sliding upwards. When he circles your aching clit, you don't even try to stop the moan that escapes from deep within.
Behind his white faceplate, his optics snap upwards and watch your reaction. He's used to seeing humans' heart rates spike when he touched them, but never with such a sound accompanying it. It's... different. Another stroke over the nub, another noise from your lips confirms what he'd already suspected: he likes it. He wants to hear more.
It's just like with your chest. He's all hard metal, no squishing softness of skin and muscle and fat- wherever his fingers move, your body has no choice but to follow, to fold under the hardness of his form. Each leisurely swirl pushes at you more than rubs, compresses and bends your most sensitive skin in incessant, cruel rounds and it's like nothing else you've ever felt. And it's too much, all too quickly you're squirming away from his hand, desperate for a break from the onslaught.
He notices. Ramattra can't not notice when your languid moans warp into sharp whines, when your hips that were grinding impatiently against his fingers, instead begin arching away from his touch. He pulls away, ceases the minuscule contact- and immediately your body relaxes, hips raising up towards him again. Was he being too rough? He recalibrates, actuators hardly moving at all when he meets the pulsing nub at the apex of your sex- and once more you're dancing backwards, face pinching. Yet as soon as he withdraws, another neglected, aching noise from your lips makes his frame shudder.
He almost scoffs; what a terribly human reaction- to flinch from his touch, then crave it as soon as he stops. He doesn’t understand why you’re doing this, but he can at least guess you’re not in any position to explain it to him.
Instead his touch wanders away, down along the creases of your body. A curiosity leads his fingers towards your opening and the wetness that has accumulated there. He traces the taut skin before him- and your heart hammers in your chest. He's so close, so close to being inside you. Your body burns under him, begs silently with every breath. With hardly any effort, his fingertips are coated in clear slickness once more- two shining strings between his digits as he examines them.
"Are most humans this... well-lubricated?"
"No," It comes out broken, your psyche unable to take any more of this- and your tone makes his faceplate lift. The slits of his optics are black, but you stare into them anyway and sob, "Please."
All five of his fingers dig into your thigh, a full-body shudder following your plea. Ah, now he understands. He leans forward, repositions himself over you, his massive frame entirely covering yours, but not quite touching. The heavy weight of his forearm lands next to your head as he murmurs- softer than you've ever heard his vocoder go- "Of course."
And he slides one finger into you.
You don't make a sound- your mouth falls open in mute relief- not even pleasure yet, just succor to your unrelenting need. Ramattra, however, stutters through a moan- the hand at your head curls into a fist, shaking with focus. Your body instinctively clenches around him, pulsing against the hard metal of his digit. As distracted as he is with your wet heat, he wastes no time in circulating the finger inside you- pressing against each wall, feeling the softness that surrounds every sensor, that ripples with each movement.
The first withdrawal is agonizing, the slow pull away, the half-second that you're nearly empty is unspeakable, an awful torment after finally knowing the shape of him. "I have you." He hushes before you can even whine. And he fulfills the promise, easing his finger back in. This time, you sigh- light and airy, lost under the sound of Ramattra's own ventilation.
Your body slowly releases its harsh grasp, relaxing into his slow, careful pace- sliding easily with every stroke, the soft noise of your slickness making your face burn. As the harsh peak of your need mellows into Ramattra's pleasurable touch, you're once more met with the impassive mask of his stark white faceplate. He's so close, you think you should be able to see his optics behind the faceplate- you want to see them- but he's blocking the only light in the room, casting his entire face in shadow, save for the mild, red lighting from the LEDs around his head.
He's gorgeous up close; all sleek lines and crisp enamel. Here and there are tiny nicks on his plating, like scars marking his body. Where you pant against him, his metal fogs- can he feel that? He's too far- and you wrap your arms around him to pull him closer.
You didn't realize how worked up he already was. Even to your fevered skin, Ramattra is warm, streams of hot air escaping past your forearms. He is actually enjoying this. The realization makes your pussy tighten around him once more- and in turn he curls the finger inside you.
You buck against him, the rush of pleasure driving any reservations from your mind as you thread one hand into the thick, black cables of his mane and lick at the pistons of his neck. The effect is immediate- his head drops down beside you entirely, bringing his shoulder even close to your mouth. Near your ear, Ramattra's voicebox rumbles, somewhere between a purr and a growl- the intent lost beneath a wave of static. And not to be outdone, he slips a second wide finger inside you.
The stretch pulls a moan from your lips, made louder by reverberating off Ramattra's shoulder plates. Two of his fingers already makes you feel pleasantly full, a respectable length and girth to them made even better with his attentive exploration of the hidden parts of your cunt- very aware of how every curl of his fingers makes your body sing for him.
And it does sing. Inside you, Ramattra gently spreads his fingers, urging your body to stretch even more, pressing ever harder into the soft flesh of your pussy- and you're helpless as you writhe beneath him. You don't even do it intentionally- raising one leg to press harder against his chassis. Perhaps, if his voice box was not right next to your ear, you'd have missed the spit of static that follows.
But you don't miss it. As lust-hazed as your mind is, all you can truly think about is how unfair it is that he's shown you so little. The hand not tangled into his wire-hair slides down his back, skirts around hot air vents, and dips between each silvery rib. The touch makes him shudder- a minute shaking of his rig that you wouldn't have even felt if he weren't fully pressed to your sternum. You linger at the thin hourglass of his waist, squeezing the thick, black cabling there appreciatively-- and first, Ramattra's hips faulter, a burst of erroneous data coming from the wiring you'd handled, then Ramattra groans, loud and almost droning as his stuttering hips meet the soft skin of your thigh. The shape of his lower plating means really only the top ridge is digging into you, but any discomfort is more than outweighed by his fans kicking up again.
You're ready for him- grabbing the last silver bar over his hip and guiding him closer. He doesn't resist at all. Without a single word, he follows, allows you to match the pace of his own fingers to have him rut against you in perfect time. He's almost fucking you; the proximity of him, the shape of his fingers- and suddenly you need it. To know what he looks like, feels like-- if he has one at all (though you hope he does, please, please-)
Ramattra pauses his thus far near perfect fingering- and you almost sigh with relief- he must have the same idea. Instead, he shifts his wrist- and the pad at the base of his thumb meets your clit. It's a pleasant shock- and when his fingers resume their thrusting, rhythmic pulling against you, you understand what he's done. Every tiny twitch of your hips makes your clit rub against his palm, and with his merciless knowledge of how to make you squirm, it's all he needs to make you gasp and clutch at him tighter.
All at once you're close, hardly more than a passenger to your own undoing. Each curl of his fingers is targeted, a planned attack on the sensitive innermost parts of your body- and with the uncommanded ruts of your hips, he's making you just as complicit in the rising fever of your need, using your own reactions against you- His plating meets your thigh again- and something like a moan spits from his voice box, a choked, half-buzzing noise that has you gasping, aching-
The noise you make is hardly human, barely recognizable as speech. "Wait," And yet the effect is immediate, before you can even croak out a clearer "Wait," he's already stopped, every joint locking up save for the turn of his head- and the lights on his faceplate burn bright, an unspoken question waiting there. He waits, silent, as you shiver and breathe, letting the hard edge of your desire die down before you can find any intelligible words, separated by harsh pants. "Can you?” Less intelligible than you had hoped. “Can you… fuck me?”
The lights on his forehead actually flicker, blinking asymmetrically as soon as the words leave your lips. His systems are in disarray, faulting, replaying your request until Ramattra has to halt the processes manually. It takes him much too long to croak out a barely understandable, static-fuzzed "Yes."
The withdrawal of his fingers from your pussy is agonizing, the last ring of muscle inside you desperately clenching against their retreat. The iron will it takes to keep your noises inside is physically painful, but somehow you think if you were to moan and plead that he let you cum now, he might actually short out. As it is, Ramattra is barely keeping it together. His hand is actually shaking as he releases the shiny plate over his groin, the soft hiss of pneumatics accompanying the distorted sigh from his vocoder. His dark paneling joins your armor on the floor and-
oh.
The first thing you notice is the lights. It's mostly thick, translucent purple silicone wrapped around a suspended mesh sensor array with red inlaid LEDs dotted under the surface that are nearly maroon through the pigment. The second thing is that it's massive. As big as his frame is, his cock is somehow bigger than you expect. It’s not quite the same shape as a human cock; the first rounded ridge is almost right, if only for the fact that it entirely circles the length. Behind it, two more ridges sit further down the shaft.
You can't help but reach for it. The groan that rumbles from his synth is just icing on the cake. "How...?" Fuck, you can't even close your hand around it, thumb and middle finger easily a full inch apart.
"I made it." He admits with a sigh. The tug of your skin on the dry silicone is awkward, but Ramattra shudders and rocks into your touch all the same. Until he seemingly remembers he was knuckle deep in you for several minutes- and shoos your hand aside just long enough to wipe your own fluids on himself. Purple with little red lights and glistening with your arousal- it's nearly enough to make you moan at the sight alone. It is enough when you stroke him again- and this time your hand glides over his smooth surface with ease. Ramattra feels the difference too, his head dropping forward as a plume of steam escapes from a hidden vent.
"Please," You can barely make yourself let go of him. He follows your hand as it falls between your legs, slips through your wetness in desperation to ease your need. "Ramattra..."
"It was," His voice box pops. A harsh little noise, then silence as it frantically reboots. When he speaks again, it's clearer- and there's something in his tone you don't recognize. "... not made for human dimensions."
"I don't care." You whine, grasping at his side once again. But he remains unmoved, his hands planted firmly on his knees, faceplate trained on you. His hesitance draws you out of your haze of lust, higher thinking forcing its way through your mind. Concern- it was concern in his voice. Ah. "If it's too much, I'll tell you. We can-" You swallow, and consider the possibilities that follow, "we can try something else."
And when this doesn't quite sway him, frustration takes control again. With a pitiful whine you present yourself to him again, a meager "Please, I need you." your final offering.
The actuators in his hands whine. A pressure warning pops into his HUD and is dismissed before he can even process it. "Yes." He rasps- it's agonizing how slowly he crawls over you, but the joy that he's moving at all is all you can really think about. "If you require me to stop, inform me immediately." You nod vigorously, almost missing how his voice drops, "I did not come here to harm you."
There's no time to consider the tenderness that laces his vocals, because he slides the head of his cock between your lips once, twice. The motion alone has your hands grabbing at him- and your breath all together stops as he begins to push.
He's big. Even with his mind-melting fingering, it stings as he slowly breeches you. His force is slow and even, but merciless. He does not pause at all as the widest part of his cock stretches you open, makes your face pinch together, thighs locking around Ramattra's thin waist. There's a high pitched little noise somewhere- and you can’t tell if it’s coming from you or Ramattra. As uncomfortable as it is for you, it must be heavenly for him. And yet he continues on- not a single stutter to his patient approach.
Relief washes over you when his hard hips meet yours- and above you Ramattra sighs. You're so full. All the way behind your navel- if pressed below your belly, you'd be able to feel him inside you-- if you could let go of him long enough to try. And it's tight- and truly you could redefine the word, with how harshly your walls cling to him, how you can feel every ridge, where every light is, just because it has slightly less give.
"You are..." He begins, vocalizer rumbling close to your ear. Simultaneously, you shift your hips, trying to ease the pressure that fills you up. Even such little motion cuts him off, makes him press his cool faceplate against your shoulder. His voice cuts through with another tone, like a radio station going out. "Sublime." One large hand lands at your hip, holds you close as he rocks against you. Fully buried as he is, all you can do is gasp and cling to him, digging your fingers into the gaps between his ribs. "It's like a current." He murmurs, almost in disbelief.
His comment is so strange, so stunned at your pussy, it pulls a delighted laugh from you despite how it makes you ache again. You move one hand from his back- and your knuckles hurt for how hard you'd been gripping him- to slide into the cables of his mane again. Ramattra purrs approvingly, a rumble that fills his entire body, permeates into you at every point of contact. He rocks with you again, and as much as you need him to stop moving, if he actually stilled you might just combust.
It hardly takes more than your hand moving to his hip and guiding him into a real stroke- even if you have to grit your teeth and hiss at his half withdrawal. The sound makes him lift his head, turn the dark slits of his optics towards you. He watches as you nod and urge him on with your calves on his thighs. He's slow, keeps that same agonizing pace- easing back into you with as much caution as the first time.
With the stretch already easing, the balance of discomfort to pleasure shifts- and you're closing your eyes, letting the ripple of electricity coast through you with each little motion he makes. Now, it's your turn to sigh, that fullness returning to you- pressed up against the deepest parts of you. When he lowers his head again, his faceplate is not buried into your shoulder this time. No, his LEDs are warm against your forehead, strange with the cool metal between each light. This close, you can hear the soft whirrs of his optics moving and re-focusing. Your breath fogs the white ceramic of his faceplate. If he minds, he doesn't say anything.
He keeps the rhythm on his own now, slow and even until he's sliding freely inside you without any hint of resistance, until you're needing. Words escape you as you clutch at him, press your forehead harder to his, whine with each glacial motion. He hums again, shifts his weight onto one arm- so careful to not break the intimate little connection he'd forged- to hold your hip with one hand. You can't see his optics through the narrow slits, but every sensor is centered on you as he so carefully moves quicker.
"Is this alright?" His voice hardly makes it out of his synth, so low and quiet- and so easily drowned out with your moaning. He’s still so gentle, even with his endeavor to please you in faster strokes, they’re each guarded, measured with careful calculations. There’s no force to them at all.
You can't seem to figure out where you want to hold him; both your hands bury into his cabled hair and stroke there, twist until a stunned little noise breaks free of his vocoder, then releases, fan down until you can hold at his shoulders, at the long pistons that would be collarbones. It isn't enough. Your hands skitter onward, over his arms, his sides, over and between the broad silver struts, in the black recesses between and back up. It takes everything to twist your hands into his cowl and beg. "More, please," Your lips brush his face, "Harder."
Ramattra's entire frame shudders, the hand at your hip pulling you ever closer, once more burying himself to the hilt. "Your…" He rasps, still shaking. "Penchant towards self-destruction is… astounding."
Where he had previously chided you with patience, it seems he has all but run out. The need is taking over him as well, because he doesn't even try to dissuade you at all as he completely moves himself. No longer laid nearly on top of you, his large form stretches over you like a breathing metal canopy, bracing himself with one hand on the wall. He keeps the other hand on your hips- and his next thrust brings stars to the backs of your eyelids. All metal, no give; his hips meet yours with a new vigor. But even more, his altered angle forces one light node up against your front wall. He doesn't even have time to ask if it's good before you're gabbing at his smooth forearm, twisting one hand into your sheets. His name slips from your mouth in a plea, but you can't even understand what you're asking for. "Ramattra,"
Above you Ramattra purrs, the pleased little hum from his vocalizer vibrating out into your room. Beneath you, your bed creaks pathetically- above you, the clasps at the end of his hair-cables clack together, announcing his pace to your neighbors- and you don't care. All you can focus on is the rhythm of his body against yours, the staticy noises that slip from his vocalizer unbidden, where the pad of his palm has caught your skin, holding you exactly where he wants you. And where he wants you has your toes curling, your eyes fighting to stay open. Heat coils in your belly, and it's still not enough.
"More, more," You pant- pulling at his hips with your calves. The sore reality of getting fucked hard by a Ravager is completely gone from your mind- tomorrow's pain has nothing on the haze of desire that leaves you with only harder, deeper, more.
Whatever reply Ramattra has is lost, the noise from his synth a harsh tone that sounds more like a modem than speech. He complies immediately, his next thrust pushing you further up the bed, pressing hard enough against your cervix to make you gasp. The sheets aren't enough, you need to feel more of him- so you grab at his hand again, at his chest, where he's become positively warm. "Fuck, fuck, Rama-ah- I-" Every word broken by a snap of his hips, by the little eek, eek, eek of your mattress frame. Each thrust has your eyes rolling, panting, keening little noises because you can't stop them- and the coil is so close, so tightly wound-
and somewhere, you hear a coin dink onto the floor, hear it spin on the floor. It's so odd you can't make sense of it- can’t give it more than half a thought because you’re so close all you can focus on is the boiling desire that’s taken over your blood- until Ramattra's hips meet yours again.
And for a half-moment you're in free fall, weightless. For one heartbeat, Ramattra is moving away from you- or, no, you’re somehow moving away from him.
You stare, wide-eyed at the dark slits of Ramattra's optics- until one metal hand slips under your shoulders, faster than you can think. He catches you, but not before you’re almost inverted.
A glance up tells you exactly what you expect: the front half of your frame has collapsed, the legs have fallen flat against the floor. Fuck. It doesn't matter; that need has not been sated in the least. You shift your hips against his, shake his hand off you, and brace one arm between your head and the wall. "Don't care."
If he's planning on hesitating, you don't give him a chance. With a grab at the hand still at your waist, you clench around his cock. A real, true moan rips from his vocalizer and all caution is thrown to the wind. He holds your ass up off the slanted mattress with one hand, keeps you so perfectly stabilized as he ruts into you. Any semblance of order or careful intent is lost; the instinctual chase of pleasure has taken both of you. All you can do is lock your legs behind his thin waist and ride out each thrust, rising to meet him where you can. So hard and quick you can barely keep up with his pace, leaving you squirming beneath him, twisting your fingers into your hair as the heat rises again.
Your mind narrows down to a point, "Please, please- don't stop, fuck- Ramattra-"
Another groan from his throat and he grabs your waist with both hands. No longer just thrusting- he's all but pulling you up off the floor, spearing you onto himself over and over. He uses you like an oversized toy, fucking into you with abandon. And you hadn't even realized just how large his hands were. His thumb reaches right across your thigh, parts your lips to press against your clit. He strokes in time with his hips- and you're gone.
With him supporting most of your weight, you arch into the air- and clench down on him hard. Something in his throat pops before a groan cuts in. He doesn't stop moving, even as your walls flutter around him, as your voice goes hoarse. One hand leaves your hips- and something flutters down across one shoulder. You fight against the waves of ecstasy- each crashing over you, drowning out your senses in liquid pleasure- just enough to crack your eyes open as he peaks.
His body freezes, joints twitching out of sync, fragments of uncommanded movements while his voice breaks, a harsh tone pouring out before it clicks off entirely. You squeeze around him again- launching another wave for yourself- and above you, Ramattra's lights flicker, twinkle like stars- and then turn off. Offlined. Good. You join him shortly, closing your eyes and surrendering to the pleasant warmth that surrounds you.
When you wake again, you're right-side up. It takes a series of barely-coordinated blinks to clear your vision. It's somehow more disorienting than having been nearly upside-down to begin with. More so, you're not in your bed. No, you're wrapped up in your sheets, but you're firmly in Ramattra's lap- who has ended up sitting cross-legged next to the remains of your bed frame. It's... surprisingly cozy. The sheets soften up the hardest angles of his body and keep you warm while his frame regulates itself back to its usual cool temperatures.
"My apologies," He says in lieu of greeting. "It seemed impertinent to leave you... there."
From the forty-five degree angle of your mattress and how it's squished up against the wall. A white dust has spilled over your pillows- and it takes you much too long to piece together the Ramattra-fist-sized hole in your drywall. A tentative touch to your hair confirms flecks of paint and plaster. Yeah. You could imagine you probably didn't look very comfortable.
"Thanks," is what you try to say, but it comes out a rough rasp. You swallow several times to ease the dryness in your throat, but Ramattra seems to hum in appreciation. In all fairness, you had been all but screaming his name. A noble way to lose your voice. "Thanks," and this time, it sounds human enough.
"And I am sorry for damaging your quarters." He modulated a noise not unlike clearing his throat. "I may have gotten carried away."
You can only grin and slur your words. "S'okay, it's all cheap 'n Talon maintenance is fast." Honestly, it’s a compliment. Maybe a little inconvenient, but hey. Who else can say they made the leader of Null Sector cum so hard he dug his fingers into your literal wall and shut down? You shift in his lap, lay your head more comfortably against his shoulder. When you settle, he holds you closer. "Benefits of no questions asked type of work." Once more his only reply is a quiet hum of acknowledgement. It's an easy silence- save for the quiet whirr of Ramattra's fans, which have returned to their normal pace. Only when you absolutely need to know do you risk asking, "Can you stay? For a bit longer?"
He pauses, considers the question. He shouldn’t, truthfully. This excursion has already gone well past what he had planned for. But there’s something nagging at his logic circuits, the same little impulse that had made him fall at your command. It had saved his life before- and gotten him here. When has he ever been able to deny himself his curiosities?
"Yes. I have time." He says and pulls you closer to him still, until he can feel every rise and fall of your chest, despite the blanket between your bodies. Internally, he sends a message that he'll be unavailable for a debrief with Akande.
This time, it's you that hums as you bury your face into the pistons of his neck and close your eyes.
-----
Sequel
743 notes
·
View notes