Chosen Avatar - Part 2
[Ao3 Mirror] Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (GN, has a vagina) Rating: E WC: 2.2k Contents: PWP & Megatron Ramattra. Transformers-typical size difference. > Part 1 ===
His shoulder becomes your second home. Only a week before, Ramattra would accompany you to bed-- at least until you fell asleep. Then, he’d slip away to do his work, to monitor his omnium, his battles. Even in this new form, you wanted him near, wanted to be able to touch him as you drifted off.
But more surprising was Ramattra’s insistence on it. Not just when you slept, either. You were always to be with him- on his shoulder was easiest, gave him use of both hands and with his cowl, you were quite comfortable, even cozy. It did mean you got to see him work. Where before, when you were almost as big as him, your hovering felt intrusive or bothersome, now you have a reserved, insisted upon front row seat to watch his fingers as sketch out a new design. You do so miss the purple enamel that had once coated the backs of his hands, though you'd never tell him such.
In turn, you gave Ramattra something as well. You would feel the tension rising in him first, a frustration that makes his movements rougher, stickier, his body just beginning to warm. Until he’d sigh- or more accurately modulate one, letting the hot air slip from his vents- and he would reach for you.
The first few times he was cordial enough to offer you his palm. He’s comfortable now. Perhaps too comfortable as he plucks you from his shoulder, moving to cradle you in both palms. Coolness takes you first, shivering softly at the loss of your nested fold of scarf, but looking up at him, at those purple optics you’re still not used to warms you enough.
“That bad?” You prompt him. Sometimes, talking about what’s gone wrong with his plan is enough to unstick him, but not today.
Ramattra hums in acknowledgement, tipping his head in thought. That’s all the response you get before he shifts his palms- forces you to slide into one hand entirely. You sputter a little in indignation, shifting as he wants you to- and he hums again, deep in his chassis. A pleased noise- and one finger-- wider than your forearm, gods how did your life end up like this-- touches your head.
He’s gentle, more cautious than you’d ever seen him with your body. But his finger moves on your head, slowly, painstakingly stroking down along your spine. Soon you give in to his curious affection, humming with contentment. It’s still strange, and perhaps always will be, but sitting Ramattra’s palm, basking in his single-finger touch? You have nothing to complain about.
Until he moves away. The hand that had been petting you moves back to his datapad, plucking the stylus from the table and beginning to draw anew. You shouldn’t bother him, you know- but Ramattra has also yet to put you back down, still trapped several feet off the surface of his desk. You huff, perhaps a little petulantly, then scoot back on his palm until you can comfortably lay down against his fingers.
That gets his attention again. Those purple optics sweep back to you, taking in your new position. Though he does not voice approval, his thumb moves, rubs against your cheek. You simile, lean into the touch- even lay a kiss to the smooth, gray metal. In turn, his thumb keeps moving; bigger than your fist, the cool panels of the digit slide down your neck, down the center of your chest, down to your belly. He pauses, pressing softly into the rounder, boneless flesh there- never enough to hurt, just enough pressure for him to feel how your body squishes beneath his touch.
His thumb sits on your stomach, pressing in so softly before easing off, like the most gentle, single-fingered kneading of a cat. You reach for him again, stroke along his digit- and his path changes again. He strokes up your body again, up to beneath your chin before stopping and sliding back down. This time, his fascination with your belly is set aside- his thumb keeps sliding along the length of your torso.
And it occurs to you that he’s petting you. Held in one hand, stroked with another- you’re nothing more than a mouse to him.
You blink and look up- only to find his optics have once again settled on the data pad, his other hand having picked up the stylus, sketching out lines bigger than you are. His hand does not stop. He keeps on moving his thumb, gliding against you in slow, even movements. Without looking, without even thinking about it. You can’t complain, won’t begin to reject the affection from him- so you relax into his palm, turn your head so you can watch him work while he pets you.
The pen draws, jotting down designs and notes in turns, scribbles of plans- and as he works, Ramattra's focus on you wavers. His thumb's pathing sways, sweeping down, down until he's stroking over your belly and thighs. It's still not bad- still affection, a pleasant weight on your body.
Until it stops. His stylus stills too, hovering just over the screen. You want to ask, the question builds on your throat- but Ramattra's thumb suddenly moves again. He presses down- squishes your thighs under his broad digit. It's not quite enough to hurt, just enough to have your soft flesh flattening out under hard metal plates. And then it stops. And starts again. He squeezes your thighs rhythmically, the pressure on, then off, then on.
He's thinking, you realize- rolling some idea around in his processors-- and you're the desk toy he's playing with.
The thought makes your face hot, makes your hands hold onto the ridges of his palm a little tighter. Worse- his thumb presses down again, harder. You wince, feel the ache in your femurs as Ramattra distractedly squeezes your thighs. Squirming under the metal is just enough to free you, because as soon as you manage to wiggle out from under the weight of him, his thumb slips between your thighs instead.
You open your mouth, ready to remind him that you're small and fragile in his own words, but Ramattra acts first.
His voice box all but purrs a rumbling, “Ah.”
You almost think it's intentional, that he's squeezed his way between your legs again to entertain himself. But his optics remain focused only on his datapad where his stylus suddenly begins moving again in quick, excited motions. And with it, his thumb again begins to stroke.
There’s almost no pressure to it, certainly no intent beyond whatever pleasure the feeling of your body on his plating is giving him. Careless, the motion lost on him entirely- and yet is so very obvious to you. His thumb slides almost along its same path- up and down in slow, continuous rolls of his joints. You can hear them whirr softly, actuators humming away just beneath the surface armor.
His touch is light, meant to be soothing- and was, until you had been forced to move. Now- now he’s skimming between your legs, brushing teasingly across sensitive inner thighs and your clothed sex.
You could, of course, just move your legs back. But you sink your teeth into your lip and lay there, once again reveling in the absurd notion of a thumb whose last segment is bigger than a mailbox is petting you. That the steel being before you- looming over you as he writes- is holding you in one hand.
You shiver. It shouldn’t be hot. It shouldn’t. You shouldn’t just accept this change that’s happened to him, but you really shouldn’t be horny about it. That knowledge, of course, doesn’t stop your legs from trembling, your hips from arching into his next pass.
Ramattra doesn’t even notice. Too absorbed in his work to feel your tiny nails digging into the rubber pads of his palms-- if he can feel that at all. Are you too small now? Is that sensory input too minuscule to even be detected by his systems?
His thumb keeps moving, though never quite smoothly. Ramattra isn’t paying attention, gives no thought into keeping his pets even and rhythmic. No, he wavers, pauses- long enough to make the heat in your belly ache- before resuming, stroking faster or slower with a seeming randomness. With the minimal pressure it’s already a horrible tease, but with his inconsistent pace?
Ramattra pauses again- this time his thumb settling over one thigh, not even touching your pussy. Even rocking your hips does nothing to give you that pressure you crave. Above you, his head dips as he examines something on the data pad- he leans forward, focused- and your need gets the better of you.
The noise is miniscule, a soft little whine that hardly even leaves your throat.
Click. All at once, everything is purple, his gazing burning down on you.
Something rumbles in him, almost a laugh as he tips his head, one giant lock of cable falling free from his scarf. His thumb shifts upwards, enough to push at your shirt, slipping under the fabric. “Go on then.”
It’s all the encouragement you need. You strip readily in his palm, tossing your clothes down onto his desk. He doesn’t even wait for you to settle; as soon as your legs part he slips his thumb between them.
You shudder, gasp under his touch. It’s so much more raw without the barrier of your clothes. In no time at all his smooth dark plate is shining and slick with your arousal as he rocks it against you. No longer worried about distracting him, you let yourself moan and rut into his rhythm.
Again, Ramattra makes a noise- a deep humming vibration from his chest. The light of his optics dims softly as he watches your form writhe on his hand, enjoying his touch. He has always loved this sight; your love for him of all omnics has confounded him, but your desire for him was unimaginable, something he treasured, a sight to be saved over and over again to his memory. He could not understand how you could need his touch so badly then, but now? He should be basking in your gasps, indulging in each desperate thrust of your hips. You need him with such unmasked enthusiasm… and yet…
A dangerous impulse curls through Ramattra’s circuits.
He thinks… you could need him more.
And Ramattra turns away from you. His gaze slips back to his designs, to the stylus he had set down to watch your indecent display.
You shudder as the light of his optic moves from you. You want to protest, but his thumb has not stopped moving. As soon as you open your mouth to question why, it slides, catching the ridge of the plate against your clit. The shot of hot pleasure that radiates in your belly is short-lived- as soon as you begin to relax into his touch, Ramattra loses his rhythm. Pausing, stuttering, or not quite stroking far enough to catch that edge again, pressure just too light or just too hard- his pace is unsatisfying, teasing.
“Ramattra...” You whine, pushing your hips up against his thumb.
And Ramattra shushes you. A staticky noise spits from his voice box, his voice rougher with this new body's overlay. His body rumbles with the “Shhh,” a soft vibration that filters down to this fingertips and does not help at all with your growing need. “Let me finish this...”
The words make your body ache, a burning pit unsated with his transparent lie. There's no apology in his voice, nor does he set you down to truly focus. His stylus slides over the blueprints in a perfect synchronicity with his thumb over you. Each sweeping new line is a swirling stroke against your clit, every quick scribbling note are short, staccato pets-
You moan softly, hoping to catch his attention- but other than momentary draw of his optics, the knowing lilt of his head, he keeps his faux concentration on the screen before him.
It's not so much the teasing-- Ramattra had always been determined to squeeze every ounce of pleasure he could from you when given the opportunity. But then you had been his sole focus. Here, he doesn't even have to look at you, barely has to move at all to make your hips jump and flinch. He does little more than rotate a singular joint and you're melting into his massive hands.
Like a toy, the thought echoes again, has you shivering into his touch. There's nothing to do but endure, no escape except to wait for Ramattra's desire for more to outpace yours.
So you dig your fingers into his palm, throw your head back and rut against him. It’s not enough- he’s making sure it’s not nearly enough- but you chase that pleasure anyway, because it’s good. A rush of friction that has you hissing, hands scrabbling across his smooth panels, legs wrapping around the digit thicker thicker than your arm. "Ramattra," You whine as you grind, swivel your hips desperately, body heating and aching for release-
And his joint locks in place, no longer dancing away to keep the pressure light. It’s just enough, enough for you to cant your hips and rut for that base pleasure and cum in his palm, crying out as your fingernails bite into the tiny crevasses between his plates. When you open your eyes again, you’re bathed in his purple light.