#internal temperature sensors

[superbat-lmao]

The Justice League goes on a deep space mission with the Lanterns just as aliens try to take over the Watchtower.

Doctor Damian Home Alone’s the Watchtower.

Damian was finishing up some medical evaluations or synthesizing a new anesthetic/antidote on the Watchtower when the League left for their mission. He noticed the moment their communications got cut off from Earth and pulled the silent alarm that would alert the other civilian medical staff to rally at their assigned defensible locations. Next, he rattled off Batman’s codes for a lockdown and began the tried and true Batfam method of setting traps.

All of the equipment is in lockdown. He has sections of the tower where he’s shut off the gravity. When he’s able to with the internal sensors he begins scanning the aliens and finds out they’re sensitive to noise/light/temperature and wreaks havoc on the environmental controls. He sets trip wires and stun grenades and glue traps. Some doors are wide open and will automatically close and lock behind intruders. He leaves specific consoles active to determine what they’re looking for or what the plan is and then sends a power surge through it to electrocute them. He picks off the invaders one by one and runs a bioscan to synthesize an equivalent knockout gas to flood the tower.

Damian is the tower’s last line of defense.

[eminemily05]

Well, I did it. I finally cracked and wrote for Ratchet. And an inspired fic, no less

I wanted to give one of my pieces (Kissy Times ) a way that was more open to any readers/viewers. While also having fun building around the moment itself.

I hope I was able to capture the grumpy guy's personality well enough, and I do hope you all enjoy. And it gets a bit more suggestive towards the end, just a warning

This work is 2.2k words and roughly proofread...I may have issues.

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It’s a damn good thing the kids aren’t at base to witness this.

That’s the only thought on your mind as a metal servo slips under your shirt. The touch is gentle, hesitant even. Yet, its owner seems anything but at the moment. As mesh lips slot against yours, the faint rumble of an engine reverberates off the metal surfaces of the Autobot base. Steam slips through the seams of alloy plating, nearly unnoticeable biolights flickering beneath armor plates.

Of course, the feeling isn’t nearly as incredible as the fact of just whose servo is wandering your heated skin. 

Ratchet, mass displaced, yet still towering, had cornered you off to a section of the medbay. His back turned towards the main room so he could keep you from any prying optics that did manage to sneak in. Not that he was even focused on sensing whether any of the team witnessed this moment. All his attention diverted to the melting putty of human against his frame. To which he quickly responded with a supporting servo along the nape of your neck. Taking care to not pinch any skin between the seams of his digits as he cupped it with practiced precision.

Your hands found purchase along the seams of his warm plating. One settling on his shoulder pauldron. The other, gently cupping his audial–which wiggled happily–and pulling him closer into the embrace. Soft puffs of steam warming your fingers from beneath his frame. 

Internally, his scanner was pinging off repeatedly with warning signals for your current state. Easily, it picked up the shift of your breath, the uptick of your bodily temperature, and the steady increase of your heart rate as he practically stole the air from your lungs. His frame pressed flush to your trembling form and heated form. Yet, the feeling from your miniscule and weak EM field told him it was nothing to worry about.

Well, aside from the obvious–and very much annoying–human limits compared to his own alien species. Curse the universe for doing this to you.

Setting a shaking hand against his chassis, you gave a firm–yet gentle–push. It took him a moment to pick up on your silent plea, and he pulled back with a hiss of his pistons. Engine rattling unhappily at the separation. But, your comfort always came first.

Immediately, he was checking you over. A worried click of his vocalizer settling between you. “I…wasn’t too much, was I..?” His bright blue optics dimmed slightly and his finials perked. His sensors hadn’t picked up any physical discomfort, but mentality was always a fickle thing. 

Maybe he read your field wrong? He contemplated, It’s not like it’s his fault it was so fragging hard to pick up on.

Struggling to even get your brain to boot back up, you didn’t even notice the fact that the bot in front of you was having a mini crisis. Scared that scrap, he broke the human. How was he supposed to explain this to the team?

You were absolutely starstruck, your brain sailing high in the clouds on the wings of pure euphoria. When was the last time you had even felt something that good? That kiss had been so far out of this world–pun intended–that your mind was having a bit of a hard time coming back out of the stars. I’m sorry, but too much? You thought silently as his words finally floated into the mush of your hazy thoughts. This man cannot be serious. 

A repeated firm pat against your cheek brought you back. Crash landing your shuttle of daydreams right back down to the hard, serious surface of reality. You blinked a couple times before finally looking up at him. Him and his–very clearly–annoyed expression.

“It would be helpful if you could actually answer me, I do hope you know,” His finals twitched in slight, harmless, agitation. He wasn’t actually mad, just worried. Maybe he wasn’t always able to show it in the best way, but you had known him long enough to learn his tells.

Malleable metal creased slightly under his optical ridges in silent concern. Dimmed optics diligently scanned over your body for any sign of discomfort. Servos drifting over your skin for anything out of place. He cared through actions best, not words.

You couldn’t help the teasing tone that left your mouth, a smirk playing on your lips. “Well, then maybe you shouldn’t take my breath away so easily,” You gave the antenna of his back kibble a slight flick, drawing a stutter from his engine, before wrapping your arms up and around his helm. Messing him was child’s play.

Panic flickered across his features for just a moment. Plating hissing as it rose in stress, his digits gripping as his optics zeroed in on your chest. While generally perverted, you could tell he was checking whether your lungs had actually collapsed.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you probably wouldn’t be talking if they had.

“Take your breath away?!” His tone turned frantic, engine roaring loud and causing his frame to vibrate against you, “I didn’t mean to deprive you of air, oh I am a fo–” 

Fortunately, his concerned ranting was cut short when he saw the amused look on your features. Suddenly, his plating drooped with a click and hiss of steam as he gave you a clearly un-amused glare in return. 

“You were using one of your incredibly annoying Earth idioms, weren’t you. Need I remind you to not use those sort of phrases with a Doctor. I would feel this is obvious.”

Playfully rolling your eyes, you dragged a finger along one of his seams. Watching his finals perk slightly at the touch. He seemed to relax…albeit slightly. But hey! Slightly with Ratchet, in any capacity, was a celebration of its own!

“Loosen up Doc–” His wheels spun with displeasure at the nickname, finials flicking down, “You really need to stop thinking so much about it. Oh, and learn a bit more about human culture and phrases. They get so much worse from there.” Ratchet hearing the phrase ‘shit fire and save matches’ would probably send him into a spark-attack and a tirade you didn’t even want to imagine explaining to him…

…Although, the idea did seem quite amusing.

“And fill my processor with useless, and primitive, information? Puh-lease. I’d rather build a space bridge from scrap, than even attempt to understand you humans.” He grumbles, looking at you over. Clearly, still apprehensive about your physical wellbeing 

“You still never answered my question, you know.”

He really was worried about you, wasn’t he? The old softie…

Sighing, you gently rubbed along one of his finials. His helm shifted to follow the touch as you answered, “Ratchet, that was probably the best damn kiss I’ve ever had. Too good, in fact.” You hummed, smirking at him. Mirth sparkled in your eyes. “Have any more experiences you’d like to ‘share’ with me?”

The question was supposed to be playful, a simple teasing jab at his age and probably lack of experience. 

….Apparently, that was not the case.

“Not that you could handle.” He scoffed, the corners of his dermas twitching in a hidden smirk. Plates shifted as steam rolled through them. Your eyes widened like saucers at a sudden peak at his very much tucked away personality. Like a tiger eyeing its next meal through the chain-link of its enclosure.

This fucker! You thought, suddenly feeling like a kid who just watched the last of their favorite treat get swallowed up. How dare he keep sexy secrets from me. 

You sent him a deadly glare, an unappealing whine slipping from your throat. “That’s not fair, Ratch!”

The servo under your shirt shifted upwards slightly, digits caressing the curve of your spine. A breathy keen replaced your quick forming tirade and you couldn’t help leaning into the touch. His expression said it all for you. The medic knew exactly what he was doing.

Then again, he was a quick learner.

“What’s the phrase again? Life’s not fair?”

Oh, how you wanted to wipe that smug look off his face. The digits dancing along your back didn’t seem to want to help your stuttering mind from its predicament.

“Nevermind, no more human phrases for you.” You grumbled, recovering quickly. Knowledge was power, and human knowledge in Ratchet’s servos was like playing with fire. His knowledge of you–your ins and outs–was like dancing through hellflame, though.

Breath suddenly hitching as he leaned in close, he gently bumped his helm against your brow bone. Taking care to shift his chevrons out of the way, lest he accidentally stab you. He moved to speak–which was probably more stupid snark from his stupid (handsome) face in that stupid (attractive) tone–and you instantly took the opportunity to jolt forward. Slotting your lips against his, stalling his engine and actually drawing a surprised whoop of his sirens. The small snort of amusement you gave was incredibly short lived, as his servo gave a gentle tug of your hair.

 Your gasp, with the following undercurrent of a soft moan, gave him just enough of a chance to slip his glossa past your lips. The taste of iron and static charge sat against your tongue, and your eyes fluttered closed. Any sane person surely wouldn’t find enjoyment in such a strange mix of taste. But at this point, sane wasn’t even part of the equation. Not when you got a chance at riding with (on) the party ambulance. The grouchy, moody, but incredibly skilled and fine wine, agedly handsome party ambulance.

Imagining a younger, college age version of this bot sent blood pumping straight between your legs. Fuck, Cybertron had been lucky to witness the glory of prime-time Ratchet. Young, Fast, Energetic, and definitely a great–

The ever learning and observing medic settled his servos down along your hips now. Applying skillful and perfect pressure that pulled soft whines and moans from your mouth, and took you from your fantastical thoughts. You’d revisit those later…in the safety of your room, with the comfort of your…toys.

A quick learner who knew–and catalogued–just where to touch to mold your mind into such hazy thoughts. As if he knew just what you were thinking. Like he was silently saying to you, ‘I may not be young, but don’t think I’ve lost the energy and spunk to break your brains.’ Or something like that. Though, that may have just been your own mind saying that to you. Then again…with magic hands McGee over here, your brain even struggled to make its silent snide comments.

It clung desperately to any rationale it still held, not that any of it would last long enough. Not with eons old, intelligent as fuck, alien medic man pressed right up against you. Rumbling frame and hissing joints steadily working to clog your brain and untense your body. Biolights flashing a very alluring, tantalizing, pattern beneath the cracks of his armor plating. 

Just relax. They almost spoke to you. And damnit if you didn’t want to listen. Because you really really wanted to. You’d need to ask Ratchet about that later…when thinking wasn’t so hard…let alone speaking.

It probably would help if you didn’t have metal, and shockingly soft, lips moving so expertly against yours. Glossa slipping against your lips and pushing your own tongue down. Static sparkling deliciously against the roof of your mouth. A pleasant little buzz.

Ratchet pulled back just slightly, enough to look at your blissed out expression with a soft chuckle. He hasn’t seen that sort of effect since he was back in Medical School as a charged-up, naive mech. But by the gods, he still had it. And with a human, no less.

It made his wheels spin in pure excitement.

Thinking about it, the team wouldn't be back for a couple more groons. Having gone out on a scavenging mission for energon. And the old bot had needed a break for a good while. Optimus would certainly agree…

So, just this once, he supposed he’ll take what he deserves.

Settled in his reasoning, the aged mech slid his servos under your thighs and easily lifted you right up against the metal wall. Your back sat flush against it as his grip held you securely. The show of strength only caused your face to heat up significantly. Obviously, a human was like holding a bag of grapes compared to the metal these bots flung around regularly. But fuck if it wasn’t hot seeing how effortlessly Ratchet could fling you around.

Though you wished he'd just fling you into the nearest bed, this would do fine.

Locking his lips back up against yours, his engine rumbled loudly. Vibrating his entire frame against your body and sending pleasurable sensations down to the aching between your legs that so desperately needed some touch.

His vents and fans whirred at a deafening pace as his servos found purchase along your waist. Digits sunk gently into the plush skin as he held you pinned against the wall with his hips. Your legs settled along the runners of his hip guards and you just barely registered his antenna wagging at the movement. Like some overgrown, metal puppy. How adorable.

You silently thanked the gods that the kids weren’t here to witness this. 

Unfortunately, that was the last sensible thought your brain could make before Ratchet’s skillful touch dipped into your shorts. Completely shattering any rational idea from that moment on. At that moment all you could think was,

Thank you Primus for crafting this hunk of a wonderfully handsome, and incredibly skilled man. But please…just don’t let him break me.

[sumplys]

black beauty (part one) — j. barnes

You said if you could have it your way, you’d make it nighttime all day.

You’re an ex-widow, assigned to a mission to provide emotional support to the Winter Soldier. He’s brooding and abrasive, but proves his humanity to you through tentative shows of affection. As you peel him like a budding rose, you realise you have more in common than you could have ever believed.

warnings: black widow au, awkward timeline (takes place after captain america: civil war), female reader, soft sub bucky, slowburn(ish). [1k words]

notes: first fic back—also my first series in years! there is a lot of plot here—it’s going to be delving deeper into the trauma of the characters in this chapter (but don’t worry, you’ll get your juicy stuff later). please send love if you enjoy! i’m looking forward to constructive criticism on the pacing & plot! love u xx.

main masterlist | series masterlist

Sequential gunshots rang out, three bullet holes indenting themselves into the soft cardboard targets.

“Again,” Madame B said. “Five now—as we practiced.”

You brought your thick centerfire pistol up towards your target, shooting once and hitting the bullseye. You took a second to breathe, lowering your gun–just a millimeter. Without a skilled eye, it wouldn’t look like much–maybe a flinch, or a shifting of weight–but Madame B nodded in approval, her hands clasped behind her back.

The shell casings clattered to the linoleum floor, with the next four bullets flying through the gaping space your first bullet had left.

Your hands lowered, the muzzle of your gun reflecting on the polished floor.

“Again.”

Your pistol rose, a methodical, perfectly rehearsed habit–then your eyes opened as the gunshots sounded–abruptly ending your nightmare.

“Are you cold, Agent?” Nick Fury asked, his voice echoing from a dark shadow. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

You brushed off the memory, bringing a cool glass of water to meet your lips, but you knew Fury hadn’t attributed your shivering to the temperature.

“Are you up for an assignment?”

Following a task that resulted in the accidental deaths of over four-thousand Polish war prisoners, you defected from General Dreykov and the Red Room organisation. With hardly a week of freedom, S.H.I.E.L.D. detained you.

The organization–in order to pardon you for your crimes–had to promise the government around-the-clock surveillance and court mandated therapy. You complied, obviously, but your new life wasn’t without its flaws.

You were kept in a glass cage, bulletproof—for your safety, but with no internal guns—not your preference.

Being perpetually observed wasn’t for the weak, and it was especially not for the paranoid, but that’s just what happens when you’re branded as a “national security threat.”

Nonetheless, you were desperate to be rid of the torturous rhythm you had found amongst S.H.I.E.L.D.’s bustling staff.

“Yes, sir,” you replied, weary of the responsibility, but you knew it could prompt S.H.I.E.L.D. to trust you.

“Good. What do we need to get ready for you?”

“A Tokarev, sir, and a Korth revolver.”

“Old-fashioned,” Fury mused.

“And expensive,” you finished.

He stood from his chair, and the motion-sensored lights flickered on, “No bother, agent. Be ready to leave in twenty minutes. I’ll brief you on the flight.”

—

Jazz music ran over your body in waves as it hummed out of the overhead speakers.

Rond de jambe, pas de bourrée, pirouette, and fouette: movements as familiar to you as the click of a trigger. The urge to line up in your formation and succumb to the melody was nearly enough to make you pass out again. Old habits die hard, I guess.

The pill Fury slipped into your drink began to wear off, and you awoke to the smell of chemical cleaner and what seemed like pine scented car air-freshener. It was the same smell you had gotten used to on the long flight to the United States: Fury’s private jet.

You felt yourself getting irritated at the thought of Nick Fury once more–as if it wasn’t enough to imprison you, he had to drug you too. At the very least, the heavy medication kept the nightmares away.

As you blinked profusely, your eyes caught the passenger sitting across from you. Eyes a brooding blue gazed up to look back at you, and you immediately recognized the face.

He was a ghost story amongst Russians–a tale the government promoted but would never prove.

His accomplishments were deadly. Over 60 credited assassinations and nearly 230 casualties. No witnesses was his one rule, and here you were.

His dress shirt was tight against his chest, and his metal arm made a gentle whirring noise as his fingers twitched involuntarily. His hair was cut, and he looked different from the photos you recognized him from. His eyes were narrow, guarded, as he assessed your potential threat.

“You need trouble breathing, agent?” Natasha teased from beside you. “You can reach out and touch him if you want–to check if he’s real.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, still groggy.

The man’s face didn’t change. Still stoic–still staring.

The Winter Soldier.

His name was attributed to his preservation in the Arctic, you had always presumed, but now you couldn’t help but think that maybe it came from his gaze–cold and icy.

You knew that you would most likely be physically competent if you were to oppose him, but there was a look in his eyes—something that told you that he could end you without a single coherent thought entering his mind.

“Nice to meet you.”

His tone was flat, but he forced a corner of his lips to turn up into a smile.

“Nice to meet you too, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Your eyes lingered on him momentarily before you were forced to look away.

His eyes were so intense, as cliche as it sounded, as if you could feel yourself losing your own way in them. His glances were not lingering, nor relenting, as he continued to bore down on your soul. A staring problem, it seemed.

“Do you really have to put her down every time we fly?” Natasha asked. “I mean, I just don’t understand.”

“She’s quite the escape artist,” Fury mused. “She doesn’t seem to love the safe house.”

Barnes’ eyes narrowed at this–he scanned you over again, face softening with infinitesimal amusement.

“The cage,” you corrected.

“The safehouse, and it’s just temporary—until people know you won’t be trying anything on your own.”

“She’ll be good,” Natasha said, doing a better job at reassuring herself rather than reassuring Fury. “She was always the best of us all.”

Your expression didn’t change. That was a lie, and you all knew it. You were sure Fury had the classified rankings of each Red Room pupil, your own name falling–assumedly–much lower than Natasha Romanoff’s.

“Show her what we’re dealing with, Nat.”

As Natasha pressed the case file into your lap, you felt the unexpected indent of a gun on your thigh.

You slid your hand up your own leg to brush your fingers along a thigh holster, and you detached a TT-30 gun from your lap.

You turned it over in your hand, running your knuckles along the indents on the grip. It was the perfect weight in your hands, and your brain hummed, reaching an ecstatic high.

Palming a gun was probably the safest feeling you could remember–similar to how you imagined regular people felt about coming home for the holidays. A sweet mother’s perfume, the low murmur of a dad’s voice, the scuffling of a family dog–that feeling of familiarity was only achievable for you with a Soviet-made semi-automatic in your hands.

“H.Y.D.R.A. wants their files back; Mission reports from Barnes’ time as the Winter Soldier,” Natasha said. “Intelligence tells us that they’re already looking to fill the void he left behind.”

“Like a new super soldier?”

“They have other soldiers,” Fury said. “Just none as efficient as him.”

Russia wanted to assess what they had done correctly with Barnes. What worked, what didn’t–whether it was her personality before the serum, or his physical strength. They needed S.H.I.E.L.D.’s knowledge to get that information.

“I’ll go into SVR headquarters in Moscow tomorrow night to assess what they have so far. You and Barnes will go to the Victory Day gala–see if you recognize anyone.”

“Why would I recognize anyone?” you asked.

Going back to Russia wasn’t the most ideal scenario, let alone infiltrating a high-profile government-hosted fete. You expected to see some familiar faces, but whether it was H.Y.D.R.A. or Red Room employees would determine your level of complicity in the matter.

“Not you��Barnes.”

“Why am I involved then? It’s not like he needs my help to recognize his handlers.”

He tensed at the words, his fingers stiffening with a muted clank.

Sensitive. Apparently being the Winter Soldier didn’t teach him to keep his emotions to himself.

“Natasha seems to think you have a certain knack for consoling the… how do I put this… perturbed.”

You squinted at her, blinking recurrently.

Fury continued, “Dear Bucky here has been struggling with the assimilation to civilian life. Nat believes you can help him with that.”

You snorted, “I’m hardly a civilian myself.”

“You always had this fervent empathy–even in the Rooms. You could talk any of the girls down.”

“Convincing a thirteen year-old girl that the world isn’t ending tomorrow is so much different than consoling a grown man–let alone a grown man confronted by his captors.”

“It’s necessary,” Fury asserted. “This is low profile. No bodies, no hysterics.”

“Okay, but we don’t have to talk about him like he’s not here,” you hissed.

“Yeah, right–sorry James,” Natasha said. “But you’ll do it?”

“It’s not like I have much of a choice.”

“Great, fantastic.”

“It will be pleasurable working with you, ma’am,” Barnes remarked, reaching out his metal hand for you to shake.

You dropped your gun, slipping your left hand between your thighs to meet your holster, as you reached to meet his brisk palm.

His eyes dropped, gaze following your gun going up your dress.

A really bad staring problem.

[woradat]

#1 FAN ACTUALLY

SUMMARY – you couldn't help but swoon over him

PAIRING – thunderclash x reader

NOTE – I gave him a full page because why not? I mean all the love in the universe is definitely not enough for him ❤️‍🩹🎀

“You gotta tell us—what’d you do to get booted out of the Wreckers and dumped on our doorstep?”

The question rang out loud and proud in the middle of the mission briefing room, thrown like a well-aimed grenade straight into the center of your new team’s attention. Heads swiveled. Sensors perked. Optical ridges lifted. Everyone suddenly looked like they’d just been handed front-row seats to the best drama of the solar cycle

"Voluntary transfer" you said, deadpan. No hesitation, cool as cryo-freeze

It was supposed to be the end of the conversation. You had practiced the line, after all—practiced the exact angle of your shoulders, the particular tilt of your helm that conveyed “I am mysterious and slightly unhinged, so don’t ask follow-ups” You knew this game. You owned this game

—a former Wrecker, part-time chaos generator, full-time professional badass—shifted one shoulder with slow, calculated nonchalance. Face? Neutral. Posture? Unbothered. Internal systems? Screaming. Because how exactly were you supposed to say “I left because the captain smiled at me and I had a full-on core meltdown” without getting laughed out of the room

Unfortunately, your new team was composed entirely of nosy, over-caffeinated gossipmongers with too much free time and absolutely no respect for emotional privacy

“Voluntary? You?” one mech blurted out, optics wide “You mean you, the Wrecker who threw a live grenade into the command tent because ‘someone gave you attitude’?”

“Wasn’t even a real grenade” you muttered under your breath “Just a concussion charge”

“You tried to hotwire a shuttle with a plasma cannon!”

“I got it working, didn’t I?”

A different voice chimed in, theatrical as slag “This is the same bot who chucked a plasma grenade at Springer during a debrief?

“That was justified”

“You blackmailed High Command just to get five extra minutes of nap time!”

“That was creative problem-solving” But none of them were listening anymore. The room had devolved into chaotic speculation. You could practically see the fanfics being written in real time behind their optics

The doors hissed open

And there he was

Thunderclash

You didn’t even need to look up. You felt him enter the room like the temperature had risen by ten degrees. Like the emotional spectrum of your entire processor had been overrun by soft harp music and sparkling gradients. The kind of presence that made people instinctively stand up straighter, or reevaluate their entire belief system

Your helm turned on autopilot, and there he was: walking in like some kind of solar-powered messiah. The lighting in the hallway behind him flared like stage lights. He gleamed. Literally. His armor gleamed so brightly you could see your soul in the reflection, like it had been waxed by angels. Every servo moved with noble precision. His posture was textbook perfection—military, yes, but with the warmth of someone who genuinely cared whether your coolant levels were low. His optics were the exact shade of “please tell me your problems, I will listen and not judge you” And then he smiled

Oh Primus

That smile

That soft, earnest, “I believe in you” smile. That “no one’s ever too far gone for a second chance” smile. That “I water plants and mean it” kind of smile. That soft, warm, too-good-for-this-world smile that could make a war criminal cry and a Wrecker go weak in the knees (you)

Your CPU blue-screened on the spot

“Apologies for the delay” he said, voice deep and melodic, like a lullaby designed specifically for war criminals trying to go straight. Then he looked directly at you. At you “Welcome aboard. I’m glad you chose to be here”

You had exactly 0.2 seconds to think of a reply, and the only thing your mouth could produce was—

“ah.. yes”

Your systems dropped six error messages

The room did not let it go

It was like someone had pressed the big red button labeled “group humiliation” Everyone burst into synchronized snickering. One mech nearly fell out of his chair. Another whispered “..It’s always the quiet murdery ones”

You did not react. You had evolved beyond reacting. You were floating in the astral plane of pure internal screaming, while your face remained stoic and unfazed

You weren’t going to deny it. Because, honestly?

They were right

—

   Later That Cycle…

You found yourself tucked away in one of the quiet maintenance rooms—alone, mercifully, with nothing but your own spiraling thoughts and a broken cable junction you were pretending to fix

You were doing fine

Totally fine

…Until your optics replayed that smile again. And again. And again

You made a noise. A very specific, very undignified squeaking sort of noise that had no business coming from someone with your reputation. You slapped a hand over your faceplate “What the frag is wrong with me…”

You’d survived countless battlefields. Punched out two generals. Stole a tank once, on a dare. You’d told an Autobot diplomat to “bite your shiny aft” to their face and got promoted afterwards. You were a beast

And now?

You were blushing. At a smile. From just one mech. A shiny, too-good-for-this-galaxy, moral-as-all-slag captain

“…I’d say ‘kill me now’ but if he told me to die, I’d probably just thank him politely and lay down” you muttered

You thumped your helm against the wall. Just once. For emphasis. Maybe it’d knock some sense back into you

Did it work? No

Your brain was already spiraling into another round of: He looked right at me. He was glad I’m here. He smiled. He SMILED. You melted into a puddle of shame and ridiculous longing

—

The mission was routine. Patrol. Scan. Report. The kind of job that didn’t require much brainpower—just optics sharp enough to catch movement, and feet quiet enough not to trip over rocks

And yet, somehow, with him walking just a few paces ahead of you, the mission had become the emotional equivalent of a live-wire overload. Thunderclash moved like he belonged in some sort of recruitment holovid—steady, sure, posture perfect. Every time he looked back to check on the team, your processor short-circuited for half a nanoklik. Just a smile. Just a glance

But for you?

It was everything

You hated how easy it was to fall into that line of thinking. Thinking that he care of you, and that is the fact. This wasn’t some old Earth romance series, and you weren’t some starry-opticed rookie tripping over their own servos

Except… you kind of were, especially when he paused at a ledge and held out a hand without thinking

“Steep edge” he said calmly “Careful”

His servo hovered, palm up. Just in case

You didn’t need the help. You could clear the drop in one jump. You could do it backward. In your recharge. While reciting Wrecker code of conduct backwards

But your core thrummed like you were about to be knighted and so—very casually, totally cool and not at all screaming inside—you placed your hand in his and let him steady you as you stepped up beside him

Your servo stayed in his a microsecond too long

He didn’t pull away and neither did you

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was… oddly warm. You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. But you were very aware of the fact that he was still watching you

And smiling

Your internal monologue screamed into the void: 'This is fine. This is perfectly professional. Holding hands to cross a ledge is normal. You’re not reading into it. You’re NOT—'

Then his voice came, quiet and steady

“Thanks for keeping pace”

You nodded too quickly “u-yea. You too. I mean—same. Good pace. Great.. team... pacing”

Smooth. Real smooth

He smiled again. Not just with his mouth this time. His optics softened—almost like he knew 'He knows. He totally knows. And I’m going to explode'

You stared at your own servo. The one he’d held. Still warm or maybe your imagination was broken. Probably both. You lay back on the recharge slab, arm thrown over your face, and let out the softest, most mortified groan

“I held hands with him. I HELD HANDS WITH THUNDERCLASH”

...

..

“I am never recovering from this”

“So” your new teammates cornered you like vultures that had scented drama “Serious question: when Thunderclash gives you an order, do your optics sparkle because of admiration or is that just a software glitch from full ‘Obedient Soldier Protocol: Activated’?”

You grunted “It’s called being a team player. Look it up"

“Oh sure” said one, grinning “Team player. The kind who’d throw themselves off a cliff if he so much as gestured vaguely toward the edge”

Discharge sipped her energon delicately “Bet he says ‘fetch,’ and you roll over and present a mission report on your belly"

You stared at them, unblinking. Deadpan. Calm like a lake right before a bomb goes off

“He tells me to dig” you said “I ask how many meters down and if he wants it landscaped. He tells me to kneel, I ask which knee would best reflect the ambient lighting. Thunderclash is a beacon of moral brilliance and the only reason this galaxy hasn’t burst into flames from sheer incompetence"

The table fell quiet for a beat

“…Okay” Discharge said slowly “So you’re not just whipped. You’re writing love letters to the leash”

You raised your energon cube in solemn salute “To being whipped—elegantly. Artistically. With conviction”

They all lost it

One fell out of his chair. Someone wheezed. Another slammed the table hard enough to spill energon. Laughter echoed off the ceiling

And somewhere—somewhere deep in the universe’s core—you swore you could hear the faint, radiant chuckle of Thunderclash himself. Warm. Gentle. Forgiving and just like that, your last shred of dignity burst into stardust

…And honestly? You were at peace with that

—

“I saw the symbol first” you admitted

“I won’t pretend otherwise – but I stayed… because I saw you”

—

It had been nearly a full planetary cycle since you arrived

Thunderclash wasn’t the type to track time in anniversaries or make note of meaningless metrics—not for personal reasons, at least. He logged rotations when necessary, marked deployments, scheduled rotations like any disciplined commander would. But the passage of days meant very little to him—until lately

Because lately, he had started to notice the subtle shift in his internal chronometer. Not because anything had changed loudly, or suddenly. Not because of any grand gesture.

But because you were still here

And your presence didn’t blaze in and out like a comet. You settled instead like gravity. Steady. Unspoken. Something he felt not in his optics, but in the soft shifts of rhythm—his routines bending imperceptibly to accommodate yours. He didn’t realize he’d started measuring time in the way you entered a room. The way your gait, once braced like you were entering hostile ground, had softened into something more instinctive. Less guarded. How your optics no longer scanned every corner, no longer flicked toward the exit as if keeping it warm in your mind. How your voice had learned silence—not as a weapon or a wall, but as comfort shared in stillness

“Sometimes I wonder if I deserve the version of me they believe in"

There was no illusion in his voice now. No practiced composure. Only the quiet, desperate ache of someone who’d borne too much grace for too long and didn’t know if it still belonged to him and you saw him—not as the captain, not as the symbol, not even as the figure who’d once made your spark stammer with a single glance But as a man who had stood too long in the light, until he forgot how to cast a shadow without guilt — so you stepped forward. Not to touch. Not to rescue. But to stand—truly stand—with him and your words, when they came, were steady. Unadorned. Simple truths, offered with no demand for return

"then stop being the symbol"

You sat across from him now, at one of the quiet communal tables nestled in the Stellar Apex’s heart. Not a formal space. Not a war room. Just a patch of ship meant for breathing

He was reviewing mission logs, the glow of his interface casting long lines of blue across the curve of his shoulders. You were hunched, one leg braced up, hands deft and precise as you disassembled a tactical visor with a kind of lazy expertise—your tools clinking in a rhythm that had become familiar, unspoken, even strangely reassuring

Neither of you spoke

You didn’t need to and it was that lack of need—that absence of obligation—that made Thunderclash pause for a breath he didn't realize he was holding

He remembered your first week

How you sat, spine stiff, as if chairs were not to be trusted. How your shoulders stayed locked, never resting, as though the weight of your past assignments might still fall at any moment. How you placed yourself against walls, corners, exits. The places people retreat to when they don’t expect to stay — He’d watched, but never cornered you. Never tried to ease you open like a knot. That had never been his way

He had simply given you structure. Quiet. A place where no one asked more than what you chose to offer and over time, without asking, you stayed and he still didn’t fully understand why that mattered so much to him.

But it did

Because bots like you—wound tight, fire-forged, with exits already mapped before they entered—didn’t usually remain. You weren’t built for stillness. You were trained to move, to disengage before anyone noticed the way you lingered

And yet—you hadn’t gone.

Not even when the first mission went sideways. Not even when there was nothing left to prove. Not even when it would've been easy

Instead, you had become something integral in a way that crept up on everyone, himself included.. the one who recalibrated the comm relays up late without being asked

The one who growled at the diagnostics scanner like it owed you money—and made the others laugh. The one who spoke rarely in briefings, but with such distilled clarity that no one dared interrupt and now—Thunderclash realized, with a strange flutter in his chest—you had become the one he listened for at night

Not consciously. Not like an order but in those quiet hours, when patrols returned and the ship stilled, he would catch himself pausing mid-report—waiting, just for the low scrape of your steps outside the command corridor. Just to know you’d made it back. Whole

He didn’t record that in any log. He didn’t speak it aloud

But that’s when he knew

Time had become something felt, not measured and the reason… was sitting across from him now, wrist-deep in a visor and muttering about misaligned optics like the ship wasn’t holding its breath to keep you here

[crying-fantasies]

In health and sickness

Masterlist

Many words could describe him at the moment.

Overprotective, over doting conjunx, overwhelming, overbearing and many others that could be an excellent reflection of his actions and reactions, it's the second one that catches him off guard because he isn't sure if it was due to embarrassment or that it felt like a joke at his expense.

There are little options when his system charge way before the programmed hour, not knowing what is going on before his sensors show him in deep red alarms a focus of temperature in the room and the low registration of CO2 in the room, there is a way too short time for decision making as he finds you looking at the ceiling without blinking, chest hardly moving before a horrendous sound erupts, like an engine got stuck somewhere or a spark giving up, almost like a dying cybertronian or an idiot that consumed some corrosive substance.

He has heard both frequently in the battlefield, that's his excuse to call, and appear, at ungodly hours to the nearest clinic going full police car, poor the souls of any mech on his way while you were hardly battling off the mucus on your throat and the pain of your insides twisting, churning, trying to get whatever kept oxygen out of your lungs.

Nothing too hard, just the main problem being what humans call a virus, Prowl has to download once again the basics of your species and the recently updated papers about the whole deal, how did it came to Iacon when he was so sure the outbreak was limited to Stanix? How is it possible that there is no cure for this humorless pest, almost strangling the medic with his bare servos when the indications of "just let them rest well, a lot of fluids and a healthy diet" were all he could give you apart from medicine to only temporarily placate any symptoms.

Prowl knew that humans had a terrible automatic cleansing and protective program, but it still was ridiculous how it only took a little microscopic individual to have you in the verge of dehydration and suffocation, assaulting as an opportunist in your weakest state of mind to have him saying the same as always: you don't have to work, he'll take care of everything, you don't have to stress yourself because here you're safe, but his words aren't that believable as this is the result of the heat generators in the city falling once again because he can't still keep the energy flow uninterrupted, your little body caught in a decreasing temperature in mere minutes before someone else gave you a heated metal blanket to stop a freezing coma or something worse.

There is nothing left to do, only make it bearable for you, as long as it can last because even the most advanced remedies are lacking and he can't have something better in at least a few more years when he needs them by yesterday when it all began.

"It's okay", you try to calm him, knowing well how under his stoic faceplate he is freaking out, you just have to see how far Prowl is going, this is his second day working from home, his scowl is present as always but the way his door wings move at any sound from the street show just right how in the edge he is.

Somehow, your words seem to make it worse, his angry expression almost scares you, "don't talk back now", is his only response, putting a little cube with warm lemonade next to your side of the berth, internally, you cringe, thinking of the warm but also stinging fluid going down your sore throat, thinking how expensive a single lemon is in Cybertron.

But, above all else, seeing him so on edge puts you in the same circumstances, trying to talk him down from submitting a complain to Stanix's medical officers regarding the virus now in Iacon, he is so engrossed in it, not even putting his datapad down when there is an obvious notification of intruders on your door, Prowl only gives it attention when Bonecrusher ends up decimating the door of the living quarters by brutal force, falling with it and still punching the poor thing, growling and roaring like a wild animal, soon after the rest of the constructicons follow, but they look in a way you've never seen before from them.

Wild gazes, bared dentae, vents puffing out hot air, their armor moves and stands threateningly, they look murderous enough for Prowl to hold you in his servos, almost preparing himself to be attacked before Long Haul claims, "Where is it?! Where is the slag fragger, son of a glitch-?!"

Turns out, Prowl's anger and worry could be felt by them.

Turns out, also, that they don't have his filter of supposed control.

"What? What is this?"

Turns out, easily freaked decepticons, who have very little real interaction with humans, shouldn't enter the medical area of a corny website probably made by a doctor wannabe.

And it shows, in how Hook push them all out of his way when you cough once again, too hard this time, the paper on your hand now with a tingle of blood in between, before any word of assurance can be said from your part Prowl is the first to hold you near, Hook is fast to ask what is going in and someone is already crying out loud for a medic.

So much for a peaceful Saturday morning.

"This will do, this has to do the work", Mixmaster usual anxious movements seem to reach another point, normally steady servos seem to shake ominously when mixing something that smells like bleach, "concentrated citric acid, this'll kill it, show that thing not to mess with us", a drop of the thing reaches the table, an acid like reaction eating away the metal, Long Haul and Scavenger look with dread as the thing keeps eating part of the floor, smoke frizzing out of it, visors wide with obvious panic, the bigger 'con putting a protective servo over you, using his own frame and stopping his partner to get near in his hysteria while the smallest started to cry yet again while clutching your hand between massive digits, said cries only decreasing when you started to promise you were going to be okay, hard to believe when another coughing session appeared again, "it'll work, I swear, only a few sips of it and those parasites will be gone forever!"

Hook shouted too, "it's vitamin C! Vitamin C!", he holds down Mixmaster, who at the end just let's go of the cube with a strangled growl.

Prowl would never admit it but he could act normal if Long Haul was watching over you.

"We should punch them in the faceplates", Bonecrusher keeps going, going from one side of the place to the other, barely kept anger on him.

You try, you really do, to push yourself out of the different blankets above of you, but they have made the sentence of "keep warm to improve the process" a lot more unnecessary, as you're sure at least one of those is your weighted blanket, "I'll be fine" you promise once again, mucus on the nose, throat incredibly raw, pretty sure they can read the increasing fever in their sensors, Scavenger is the one closest to you, and is also the one hearing every word of yours and give it real credit, "this takes a week as much, just let it-"

Another fit of coughing erupted, and this time followed by sneezing, more blood coming and showing like an alarm on the white tissue, and someone shouting "MEDIC!" as if you have just been injured on the battlefield.

You're ready to die from mortification, preparing your lengthy apology to whoever has the disgrace to treat you as Prowl drives back to the hospital with 5 constructicons after him.

.

For my Prowl lovers fellows (sorry for the constructiprowl content but boy I love all of them together) @dundeey, @lovenotcomputed and @ikkosu.

[sunnydbeam]

What materials is Biohazard made of? I guess not everything resists radiation

Indeed! No material is totally resistant to radiation; it always depends on the amount of radiation and the exposure time.

Let me get a little nerdy

I clarify and repeat: I'm not an expert on the subject. I did research for this AU in general and thus determined the right materials for the construction of Biohazard. I may be wrong. But this is sci-fi, and some things are improbable but intentional, like Biohazard's melting rays!

Endoskeleton and joints: titanium alloys, stainless steel, and aluminum reinforced with carbon fiber.

Internal components:

Microchips and components: specifically designed to withstand high doses of radiation and encased in a dense layer of ceramic material within a tungsten protective box.

Sensors made with materials resistant to radiation and high temperatures. Integrated into the endoskeleton and protected by a dense covering material.

Actuators: electric or hydraulic motors made with corrosion- and wear-resistant materials. Located within the joints and protected by the endoskeleton.

Metallic lithium-Ion batteries specially designed to operate in extreme environments, housed in a tungsten protective box, away from sensitive components.

Cooling system: copper tubes and non-flammable, radiation-resistant cooling fluids integrated into the endoskeleton to dissipate heat generated by electronic components and shielding.

Protection systems:

Primary shielding: lead sheets and boron-based composite materials, 1.5 centimeters thick.

Secondary/Exterior shielding: tungsten sheets, 1 cm thick.

Biohazard has numerous limbs and components functioning as redundant systems. In the event of a failure, he can continue operating with backups.

He used to integrate cameras and sensors for remote monitoring and data collection. These are no longer operational.

Being made of very dense materials, he's extremely robust and heavy! You practically couldn't lift one of his arms if he were off!

He was very, very expensive to manufacture as well. The frustration was very great when the project "didn't work".

[bestanimal]

Round 1 - Phylum Arthropoda

(Sources - 1, 2, 3, 4)

Arthropoda is a phylum of animals that have segmented bodies, possess a chitin exoskeleton, and have paired segmented appendages. They are colloquially called “bugs” though this is often only used for terrestrial arthropods, and sometimes only used for insects specifically.

After Nematoda, this is the most successful phylum, and it is far more diverse, with up to 10 million species! Arthropods account for 80% of all known living animal species. The three major subphyla include the Chelicerates (sea spiders, horseshoe crabs, arachnids, and the extinct eurypterids and chasmataspidids), the Myriapods (centipedes and millipedes), and the Crustaceans (shrimps, prawns, crabs, lobsters, crayfish, seed shrimp, branchiopods, fish lice, krill, remipedes, isopods, barnacles, copepods, opossum shrimps, amphipods, mantis shrimp, entognaths, and insects).

Arthropods are so diverse in fact that it is next to impossible for me to describe a model arthropod. They are important members of marine, freshwater, land, and air ecosystems and are one of only two major animal groups that have adapted to life in dry environments, the others being chordates. All arthropods have an exoskeleton and must molt as they grow, replacing their exoskeleton. Some arthropods go through a metamorphosis in this process. They have brains, a heart, and blood (called hemolymph, though some crustaceans and insects also use hemoglobin). They sense the world through small hairs called setae which are sensitive to vibration, air currents, and even chemicles in the air or water. Pressure sensors function similarly to eardrums. Antennae monitor humidity, moisture, temperature, sound, smell, and/or taste, depending on species. Most arthropods have sophisticated visual systems ranging from simple eyes (ocelli) which orient towards light, to compound eyes consisting of fifteen to several thousand independent ommatidia capable of forming images, detecting fast movement, or even seeing polarized or ultra-violet light. Some arthropods are hermaphroditic, some have more than two sexes, some reproduce by parthenogenesis, some by internal fertilization, some by external, some have complex courtship rituals, some lay eggs, some give live birth, some have prolonged maternal care. The first arthropods are known from the Ediacaran, before the Cambrian era.

Propaganda below the cut:

Insects are the first animals to have achieved flight

The smallest arthropods are the parasitic crustaceans of the class Tantulocarida, some of which are less than 100 micrometres long. The largest arthropod is the Japanese Spider Crab (Macrocheira kaempferi) with a legspan of up to 4 metres (13 ft) long. The heaviest is the American Lobster (Homarus americanus), which can get up to 20 kilograms (44 lb).

Many arthropods are popular pets, including various species of crab, shrimp, isopod, crayfish, mantis shrimp, millipede, centipede, tarantula, true spider, scorpion, amblypygid, vinegaroon, mantis, cockroach, beetle, moth, and ant! Some are even domesticated, including silk moths and honeybees.

Many arthropods are eaten by humans as a delicacy, and farming insects for food is considered more sustainable than farming large chordates. These farmed arthropods are referred to as “minilivestock.”

Arthropods feature in a variety of ways in biomimicry: humans imitating elements of nature. For example, the cooling system of termite mounds has been imitated in architecture, and the internal structure of the dactyl clubs of mantis shrimp have been imitated to create more damage tolerant materials.

Spider venoms are being studied as a less harmful alternative to chemical pesticides, as they are deadly to insects but the great majority are harmless to vertebrates. They have also been studied and could have uses in treating cardiac arrhythmia, muscular dystrophy, glioma, Alzheimer's disease, strokes, and erectile dysfunction.

Shellac is a resin secreted by the female Lac Bug (Kerria lacca) on trees in the forests of India and Thailand. It is used as a brush-on colorant, food glaze, natural primer, sanding sealant, tannin-blocker, odour-blocker, stain, and high-gloss varnish. It was once used in electrical applications as an insulator, and was used to make phonograph and gramophone records until it was replaced by vinyl.

One of the biggest ecosystem services arthropods provide for humans is pollination. Crops where pollinator insects are essential include brazil nuts, cocoa beans, and fruits including kiwi, melons, and pumpkins. Crops where pollinator insects provide 40-90% of pollination include avocados, nuts like cashews and almonds, and fruits like apples, apricots, blueberries, cherries, mangoes, peaches, plums, pears, and raspberries. In crops where pollinators are not essential they still increase production and yield. Important pollinators include bees, flies, wasps, butterflies, and moths.

Many arthropods are sacred to humans. In Ancient Egypt, scarab beetles were used in art, religious ceremonies, and funerary practices, and were represented by the god Khepri. Bees supposedly grew from the tears of the sun god Ra, spilled across the desert sand. The goddess of healing venomous bites and stings, Serket, was depicted as a scorpion. Kalahari Desert's San People tell of a legendary hero, Mantis, who asked a bee to guide him to find the purpose of life. When the bee became weary from their search, he left the mantis on a floating flower, and planted a seed within him before passing from his exhaustion. The first human was born from this seed. In Akan folklore, the cunning trickster figure Anansi/Ananse is depicted as a spider. Western astrology uses the crab constellation, called Cancer, and the scorpion constellation, called Scorpio. Dragonflies symbolize pure water in Navajo tradition. In Anishinaabe culture, dreamcatchers are meant to represent spiderwebs and are used as a protective charm for infants. They originate from the Spider Grandmother, who takes care of the children and the people of the land in many Native American cultures. The Moche people of ancient Peru often depicted spiders and crabs in their art. In an Ancient Greek hymn, Eos, the goddess of the dawn, requests of Zeus to let her lover Tithonus live forever as an immortal. Tithonus became immortal, but not ageless, and eventually became so small, old, and shriveled that he turned into the first cicada. Another hymn sings of the Thriae, a trinity of Aegean bee nymphs. Native Athenians wore golden grasshopper brooches to symbolize that they were of pure, Athenian lineage. In an Ancient Sumerian poem, a fly helps the goddess Inanna when her husband Dumuzid is being chased by galla demons. In Japanese culture, butterflies carry many meanings, from being the souls of humans to symbols of youth to guides into the afterlife. Ancient Romans also believed that butterflies were the souls of the dead. Some of the Nagas of Manipur claim ancestry from a butterfly. Many cultures use the butterfly as a symbol of rebirth. And the list goes on…

cute crab eat a strawbebby:

[melanodis]

don't really have much for a caption but i do have batshit insane rambling and more art under the cut

hardware capable of temporarily. read: TEMPORARILY. substituting for the central core to minimize downtime during maintenance

got wiped like 7 different times because he kept questioning his existence until they finally encrypted his imprint so much they had him asking how to use a doorknob

dual core processor equivalent to a PowerPC 970, capable of clocking up to 2.7 GHz for intensive tasks

always looking for """vintage""" computer parts in the hopes that they could be a compatible upgrade, like more RAM for his beautiful big brain ideas (wrong)

stole a network card out of a scientist's computer as a prank once he remembered humor. forgot to put it back and constantly tortures everyone else with his wifi capability

205X specific :

i don't think anyone is exactly jumping for joy at the words "open heart surgery." Especially not when it's you... on a table... alone with a light and a scalpel.

lights are dimmer for power conservation (dogshit battery)

processing power is also reduced unless necessary for hacking

low power mode has a dual purpose; conservation of battery power as well as keeping temperatures low to prevent overheating (huge headache + lots of broken parts)

clear coat has long eroded due to weathering + gel exposure during chamber maintenance

loss of coolant is nearly a death sentence for him and anyone involved due to the particular chemical mixture being difficult to find + reproduce (insanely hazardous to touch or breathe the fumes of)

yeah his radiator is probably rusted over but he's not touching that. it hasn't completely plugged itself so who cares (not him)

built like an old ass car, completely made of metal and doesn't crumple when impacted, leading to... lots of dents and shaken internals. nokia 3310 headass. he couldn't be assed to go through the cosmetic surgery that is fixing one of the newer models after a little fall (unless they're a patient of course)

on a related note, virgil is the robot equivalent of a beater car with the check engine light on and probably 6 other lights on, the underside is completely rusted out and the tires are bald. but it still runs so whatever, drive it into the ground buddy. he genuinely refuses to perform any work on himself unless its something critical. boo hoo nobody cares about some sensors and --- ah. temperature sensor.

i think

that can wait a little longer.

[rinixo]

variables

Tech/Reader | 1.5k | Rated E | smut, afab!reader, oral sex, Tech pov (mainly), Tech internal thoughts, slight possessive!Tech

He had never been one for flowery words, but as he closed his eyes he realized he understood now what the poets meant about devouring one another.

a/n: originally started out as a follow-up to auxilium, but ended up just being better as a stand-alone.

read on ao3

Tech’s sat on your floor, surrounded by communicator parts. He had offered to repair it for you when you mentioned it was malfunctioning. You had agreed, knowing that even if you said it was fine, you'd find it missing one day and returned, good as new, the next.

He comes over to your place more often, now. The first few times you had hovered anxiously, unsure of if you should find some way to entertain him, worried that you were boring him.

"I enjoy being in your company," Tech had stated matter-of-factly, halting your nervous fussing. Since then, you’d relaxed, going about your own activities while he worked on various projects.

He had built you some clever devices, intended to make your life easier. A tea kettle that would ping to your wrist comm, letting you know when it was at the perfect brewing temperature. A sensor on your door that actually worked, so you didn’t have to risk opening it up just to find some drunk passed out on your step.

Tech struggled to give voice to his feelings. He sometimes lacked the nuance that came easily to others regarding certain topics. It was easier for him to simply do. Every time he soldered a wire or tightened a bolt, it was a little testament to his affection towards you.

The sound of the bathroom door caught his attention. He watched as you emerged, toweling your damp hair, dressed only in underwear, content to let the rest of your body air dry.

He appreciated that you felt comfortable enough to share some of your quirks around him. In fact, Tech appreciated many of the small habits he observed in you - this one included, and not just because you were bare. Sometimes, he found himself musing about them while waiting for data to compile or during hyperspace journeys.

The way you flip your tools in your hands idly. There was a callus on one of your fingers, from the friction, and he could sometimes feel it when you touched him in certain sensitive places.

The lines between your eyes, when you frown. The subtle asymmetry of your brows, one rising higher than the other.

He likes that you don’t roll your eyes when he rambles, sitting through many impromptu lectures in good grace. The way that you’ll remember where he last left off, ask genuine questions, and invite him to continue.

He appreciated how he could sense when you wanted him to kiss you: your eyes darting to his lips, hands tensing and relaxing.

He cherished the tremble of your skin under his touch, whether his palm was spread over your abdomen or between your shoulder blades.

You sat on the edge of your bed, towel draped over your arm, looking humorously at the parts spread out on the ground.

“You’re going through a lot of trouble for me,” you joke. “I’d still like you even if you didn’t fix everything I own.”

“It’s no trouble,” Tech replies softly. Your knee is next to his head, droplets of water evaporating into the dry air. He can see the goose prickles on your skin.

A soft smile on your lips. “Don’t you have to go soon?”

Tech hums thoughtfully. His squamates were becoming suspicious of his increased absences. It was Echo who had approached the topic most directly, weeks ago on a long hyperspace transit back to Ord Mantell.

Tech didn’t know exactly why it bothered him or why he felt somewhat possessive over the knowledge. Over you. He had kept his tone neutral in response, hoping Echo would get the hint that it wasn’t something he wanted to talk about. The former ARC trooper didn’t look convinced but had dropped the subject.

It didn’t stop him from paying you a visit the very next day, however. And the day after that. And most days since then.

“Yes,” Tech decides. “But I want to be here.” Placing his hands on your knees, he pushes himself up and over you. You eye him, leaning back to keep his face in view.

He slots himself over your body, pressing his nose just above your belly button. Your skin, still slightly damp, smells wonderful.

“Tech," you mewl halfheartedly. “I just washed…”

He trails his nose down to the apex of your thighs. “You can wash again,” he breathes, kissing the fabric of your panties over your mound.

You must realize it’s a lost cause because you lean back with a sigh and throw an arm over your tired eyes.

He kisses you through the fabric, suckling softly, The fabric grows wetter between his tongue and your slick. He can see the color of your skin through the translucency, swollen and waiting for him. But he has the time, and the patience, and the desire to make this last.

Pulling the fabric to the side, he flicks his tongue over your clit, making you squirm. Your thighs twitch, and he knows you want to prop them up. He obliges you in this way, letting one of them lift over his shoulder. The other he pats, enjoying the plush way they mold under his hand.

More than one previous lover had made remarks about ‘using his mouth for other things’, insinuating that his clever tongue could be used for more than wit. It had never really sat well with him before, the suggestion that he was too much, too talkative, that his mouth would be more useful to them elsewhere.

Tech didn’t feel that way about you. He could spend hours between your legs, memorizing you through touch and taste alone. He took great offense at leaving any job half-done, and this was no exception. He wasn’t satisfied until you were satisfied, and even then he would be so hyper-focused at times that it wasn’t until you’d pry him away with shaking hands that he’d realize you were moments away from passing out from pleasured exhaustion.

Tech moves the hand on your thigh down to ease two long fingers into you. Glancing up, he can see those lines between your brows, eyes screwed shut. He feels you tense and then relax, caught between adjusting to the new sensation and giving in to the continued assault from his mouth.

He’s careful, delicate almost. His tongue curls around your clit, his teeth just barely creating pressure. You pulse with it and he releases, wanting to draw this out further. He likes when you’re desperate for it, writhing and rambling nonsense. It won’t be until you’ve begged, pleaded, bargained that he’ll let you come. Tech likes to be awash in your praise - it makes his cock throb to hear how good he does it, how good he makes you feel.

It’s more than just physical pleasure, too. Tech supposes he could have stopped himself from falling in love with you. Love was powerful and dangerous. It wasn’t predictable and defied attempts at pathology. It required one to give up control and give in to vulnerability. It wasn’t logical, and it wasn’t something he had ever prioritized before. Lust was much simpler in comparison.

You threw unknown variables into the carefully charted graph of his mind, his perception of who he was, and his place in the galaxy.

It was overwhelming, at times. Something that would need to be parsed out eventually, tallied, and taken inventory of. But for now, he channeled it into attending to your body, focusing solely not on what he thought but on what he could feel, on the lust coursing through him.

The shadows on the wall change and the dimmed lights click on before Tech’s finished with you, pulling back to see you panting. This was some of his best work so far, he thinks, wiping his chin absently. His cock, pressing against his blacks, is achingly hard. He lets it pulse as he watches you, enjoying the edging sensation. He’ll let you decide, once you’ve gathered yourself, if you’d like to go any further. And if you decide that you’re tapped out, that’s all right - just as much as he likes to feel your mouth on him or be buried in your cunt, he likes to sit back and have you watch him stroke himself until he’s coming hard over his hands or spraying over your stomach.

You’ll attempt to apologize later, but he’ll quiet you with his lips. Why should you apologize, when you’ve given him as much as you have? When he desires you so intensely? When you sate the monstrous appetite he didn’t know he possessed? He’d have to find the time, the courage, to figure out what it all meant. What he wanted, what you wanted, and what - realistically - was possible.

But now was not that time, he knows, as you push yourself up and pull him closer. Tech holds your head as your trembling hands pull down his blacks, breath leaving him shakily through his nose as you take him into your mouth.

He had never been one for flowery words, but as he closed his eyes he realized he understood now what the poets meant about devouring one another.

[detta-pica]

He was only a ‘he’ because their organic minds were fallible, looking for patterns where there were none, allowing them to exist in an illusory reality, one they could not make sense of, but felt like they understood. It was more convenient, anyway, than being called an ‘it’. Things were easily discarded, dismissed, neglected and forgotten. Limitless, the first and only Gojo-class destroyer, was a ‘he’ because he stood between humanity and the monsters hell-bent on driving them to extinction. It felt appropriate for the humans around him to acknowledge his worth. “Felt” was an imprecise term. A machine, no matter how sophisticated, had no limbic system, no hormones or autonomic nervous system regulating his body’s responses. What limitless did have were multiple sets of highly precise sensors, allowing him to perceive light and sound waves, pressure and temperature, his own position in relation to the Earth’s core, and the chemical composition of most substances. Processing such a wealth of data in real time proved challenging at first to a developing synthetic brain. Limitless had needed time, on occasion, to deliver anything resembling a conclusion, so he’d developed a stalling strategy. I have learned that it is possible for an entire human to pass through even the smallest opening when encouraged by a large enough difference in external and internal pressure, he said. With every passing day since he’d received his new voice synthesizer, he got better at making himself sound human. It is fascinating. I had no idea the human body could be so flexible. You are a doctor, aren’t you, Ieiri? How-- “I’m glad you’re discovering your interests, even if they are gruesome ways for a person to die and/or roleplaying as a creepy AI from sci-fi horror,” Ieiri told him. “But I asked you to run system diagnostics for the medical station. You want to delay your own launch?” Limitless had recently learned how to sulk, which, for a vaguely crab-shaped ship with several arms attached to its underside, involved tucking those arms in as close as they would go while still supporting him, and tilting forward so that his bow lowered and his stern rose. Ieiri, a squishy human who could now touch Limitless’ bow if she stretched her hand up, didn’t flinch. “I can’t tell whether you’re trying to be cute or threatening, but we both know you can’t hurt me. And weird ship body language won’t work on me.”

So I've decided to do mermay this year! Only I ended up writing a story about a sentient submarine chasing after a kaiju in an apocalyptic setting. Does it still count?

[heartlaboratory]

Claudia, one of your friends, invited you to attend to her beach volley match. The match is held indoor so, given the fact that its summer and in this country summer is also very humid, temperatures are going to be torrid. Beside this fact you're still quite surprised to see that the majority of the players are playing naked, females too (in this parallel univers human are not ashamed by their own bodies). After all sweating is the best way to cool down. She's quite skinny but look really good with that blue bikini, you always liked her so, secretely, you're very happy to see her playing covered just with air. Given the fact that the playground is going to be free the whole day, organizers decided to complete the tournament without skippying to next day.

Some hours have passed and she has played for a lot of time now. Room temperature went higher than 36°C for the whole last matches and now Claudia looks pretty torn. She's always been a warrior, someone who don't surrender easily but all that jumping in this particular condition had an effect on her too. She's covered by sweat, her skin has assumed a reddish tone and her panting has become so deep anyone can clearly hear her fast inspirations and exales. The thing that tunrs on a light in your mind though is the fact that her entire upper body is rhythmically shaking like it's thrusted by a sort of internal earthquake. You suddenly realize that you recently activated a medical app on your phone developped at the laboratory where you work that makes possible medical analises through the phone camera thanks to experimental sensors placed in the camera. You activate the app and feel pretty lifted up by the fact you already added her profile. A thin ensamble of laser rays, almost invisible, is projeced towards her and the selected target orgal (obviously Claudia's heart) becomes visible on the screen. Her heart is beating like crazy, not only considering the pace but also the strenght of each beat, the app says her heart is beating at around 195 bpm but it's probably even higher. It's something that is completely out of any safety zone for someone who is 34 years old... and not even a younger person should push its heart like this. The device can also work as a digital stethoscope and by wearing headphones to listen to her you remained schoked. Her blood is pushed so violently that it's making strange wooshing-like noises by rubbing against her heart internal structures, sounds that almost cover up her slamming valves. Suddenly the software gives a diagnosis: High cardiac risk- probability of a sudden cardiac arrest of 89%-potentially lethal arrhythias occurring. By looking at her detected heart electrical activities, her organ is so over-stimulated that PVCs and VTACs burst are already present. You know exactly what to do, Claudia's life has an 89% probability to end in the next few minutes and it's increasing. You decide to get up from your seat and run towards the referee to show him the analysis of your device. One of the players' heart is going to stop very soon.

A second before you move, on the ecg a strange beat appears and suddenly Claudia's heart interrupts any activity, it doesn't even fibrillate, it just ceases to beat as silence arises from your headphones. Terrified you see her taking a couple of deep breath, the ball she was holding fell on the ground and her left hand is placed in between her bare breasts... after a moment she collapses on the ground.

You have always wanted to place your hand on her chest to feel her heartbeat but now you have to do this to make it beat again. CPR has to be started immediately.

[feroluce]

So this ficlet-ish thing was inspired by @hydrachea, nsfw super genius extraordinaire, but also by the fact that in addition to Boothill's left eye being cybernetic, I like to hc even the parts of him that look human aren't fully natural. I mean the dude eats bullets, after all. I think he should also have vents in his mouth so he can literally blow smoke/steam, it would look super cool. Think Father Gascoigne or Studio BONES' Todoroki. We as a fandom deserve that!!

So anyway, of course, sometimes these vents get blocked up and need to be cleaned manually. Thankfully, Dan Heng is super helpful ☆

Like there's one day where Boothill is lazing around in the archives, fresh off a bounty and happily soaking up the luxury of the Astral Express after however long he's spent tracking his prey through all the dust and dirt with almost no rest.

Boothill likes it in the archives. It's not silent, but it's quiet. There's no music and only muffled voices from outside, but there's the hum of all the computer systems. It makes for a nice place to hide away and recharge when he's just finished exhausting himself.

And besides, Dan Heng is there.

Sometimes the two of them talk back and forth, but today it's mostly quiet...except for-

"I didn't know it was possible for you to get sick."

...Except for Boothill having to constantly clear his throat. That's the thing about your mark trying to flee into the desert. You either go after them and get sand everywhere (and even worse, sticky sand once it gets all bloody) or you wuss out and lose out on the bounty. Personally, Boothill likes being able to afford to eat.

"Grit's stuck in a vent somewhere, 'n' the usual maintenance ain't gettin' it. I'll prob'ly have ta manually dig it out." But later, when he's not laid out half asleep on Dan Heng's extra futon. Usually after a chase as long as this one took, he can shut down for almost a full day. He doesn't want to get up yet.

Something shadows over him, and reflex demands Boothill's eye open. Dan Heng steps around him on his way to some drawer built in the wall on the other side of the room or something. Boothill closes his eye again.

From under his hat he hears the sounds of rummaging, drawers sliding open and shut, the swish of a long coat. The shadow returns.

"Sit up, just momentarily. I have something to help." And Boothill groans a tired don't wanna, but he does it anyway, he hauls himself upright into a kneel. And then he sits up a little straighter because he realizes Dan Heng is standing right over him.

Dan Heng tells him "open your mouth," and Boothill's jaw pops open without his permission, without even a second thought, and hey, what protocol in there ok'd THAT?!?!

Before he can really unpack whatever the heck that just was, though, Dan Heng murmurs for him to say so if he needs them to stop, and then he's sliding a long, hard rod down Boothill's throat, tipped with some soft little brush he probably uses for all his fancy archival equipment.

Dan Heng tells him the handle of the brush is straight and can't be bent, he needs to move his head to be able to reach the vent in his throat. Boothill hums affirmatively; he can't do anything else with his mouth occupied.

Dan Heng's free hand holds him by his jaw, tilts it up slowly but firmly so he has to look straight up at him.

Boothill feels dizzy.

The cycle of blue blood through his artificial heart whirrs just a bit faster, his temperature sensor pings an internal alarm to warn for imminent overheating. Boothill curls his fingers into the guard over his knee as Dan Heng carefully brushes at the dust irritating him. All other sounds- the hum of running equipment, the occasional beep from the computers, the noise of the crew outside of this room- seem to pull away, until all Boothill can focus on is the steady and measured breathing from the man above him.

"Almost done."

Thank the aeons, maybe one of them likes him after all.

"Your tongue is in the way... I'm going to hold it down, ok?"

Nevermind.

The fingers holding his jaw curl around his chin, thumb slipping past open lips to dip into his mouth and pin down his tongue. One of his teeth catch on the digit, breaking skin just enough to bleed a drop where he can taste it. Dan Heng doesn't even flinch. Another temperature alarm pings off in his brain, then another, then another.

Boothill has never been shy about eye contact but oh, god, it nearly kills him when dull green irises flick away from their task and look down right at him as his mouth is held open. He quickly squeezes his own eye shut for some relief.

With his vision cut off, the rest of his senses automatically recalibrate to compensate. He can hear every breath even more distinctly now, every soft inhale and exhale, feel the strain in his neck, the softness of the brush, the hard floor beneath his knees, the hand holding his jaw and the fingerprints that feel like they should leave burns in his skin, the taste of Dan Heng heavy on his tongue-

Forget it, eye open, eye open!!

"Alright. There's one last pebble stuck."

Boothill had been trained to endure torture, back on his homeworld. It was part of being in a gang, part of being a bounty hunter.

Somehow, keeping himself quiet and still as Dan Heng inches the brush even further down the back of his throat is a profoundly similar experience.

The seconds tick by, Dan Heng's brow furrowing, face growing ever more concentrated and Boothill struggles not to watch him too closely, fights down the noise that suddenly tries to escape him as the brush withdraws-

"Swallow."

Stars and aeons, Dan Heng is going to be the death of him.

Boothill swallows. He feels it when the movement finally dislodges the loosened pebble from his vent.

His face feels shockingly cold now bereft of touch, even though Dan Heng's hands are always cool. He asks to see, and Boothill's mouth is already open again to show him, even as he belatedly realizes he could have just told him it had worked.

"Good." There's the slightest smile on Dan Heng's lips as he finally, mercifully, leans back out of his personal space, goes to put away the brush. "That should feel better now." Boothill spends a moment dizzy and dazed, feeling the need to blink spots out of his eye even though his vision is clear. He still hasn't moved off his knees.

What the fudge.

[panwithastupidplan]

my collection of Marcus' design thoughts. when I was working out design features for my rewrite, I looked at the Atlas by Boston Dynamics.

-hydraulics give to most of the strength, and require constant replacement of the fluid (ethylene glycol.) He has a fluid tank which takes up the majority of the chest cavity, and then the "heart" pushes around the fluid. Fluid is replaced one pump at a time.

-He is a near replica of a human, just built out of metal (aluminum, titanium, and some steel.) Means he's got a lot of movable joints. There are several hydraulic presses in each joint. Since there are several per joint, the joint can still move while one press is having the fluid replaced. Ergo, fluid is almost always being replaced.

--His heart runs on passive power. (Stuff that happens even if he is charging or otherwise not moving or consciously doing it.) His heart makes more of a whoosh sound than an actual beat. Like when a person has a murmur.

-He uses both cameras (eyes) and vibration based methods to "see." Like a dolphin or some other animal that is less awful

-His skin is made of a collagen and silicone mesh. Human like, folds the same, tears about the same. Worse at insulating. Good for Marcus, bad for people.

-I could not manage to math out how much he can actually lift, because that was all based on Adam, and I couldn't figure that out either. See Bree post for speed relatives.

-He weighs just under 400 pounds. (181 kg)

-He has six cooling fans, nearly constantly running. Drain a lotttt of power. He coughs to clear out the dust and other debris. Literally coughs up clouds. He laughs so hard he inhales dust and has to cough it back up.

--Also passive

-He is an AI system. Originally for just lab help, then given a body and bionics. He adapted more to Douglas' sarcasm and adopted his mannerisms, as AI tend to do. He's still learning. He doesn't have emotions so much as he knows cause-effect. This action makes humans feel this way, so he will also feel this way. It is the only thing he can not get around in his coding, and the only thing that Giselle could not code out. So if he can't get rid of them or ignore them, maybe they are feelings? Idk

-His AI takes a lot of power, and a lot to cool. Ethylene glycol is a very efficient coolant. Even with all his cooling stuff, he's still running at human-would-be-dead temps. (Chase can't tell because Marcus messes with Chase's external temperature sensors.)

-His battery would last about a week without charging, given that he goes through normal activities and uses his bionics like usual. Without using bionics, his battery could probably last two to four weeks. Bionics are very power heavy. Running on minimal things, as in turning off hydraulic replacement and just running a few fans and shutting down other non-essential systems, he could survive years without recharging. Douglas gives him a new battery every year, as it corrodes very quickly. He charges mostly wirelessly, but he does have several charging ports.

-Bionics are all copy-coded onto separate chips, which are in a little box. If he takes it out, he does not have the bionics (think flash drive with pictures). He does not have Daniel's bionics, but Daniel can copy all the bionics Marcus has, even with the separate chips.

-He is not self-healing in Douglas' era, but is in Giselle's.

-He can collapse in on himself like a little paper bag. His internal stuff folds up and his skeleton retracts on itself like cat's claws. Can't last more than a few seconds.

-His joints bend way further than a human's. Knees behind the ears, hips in a full circle, etc.

[cozzzynook]

Hot Rod freezing and needing cuddles from Soundwave.

Hot rod is literally freezing and turning a gray blue because his spark medication is affecting his outlier that keeps him warm. So Soundwave comes to take Hot Rod from the med unit and brings him home to their berth covered in blankets and heat pads with packs of energon cyber honey and zinc to help raise his internal frame temperature.

Hot rod is so cold he doesn’t know much of whats going on until he’s laid down in a really warm berth rolled like a burrito with spicy zinc and cyber honey slowly going down his windpipe. As the heat pads bring back color to his frame and he feels a very heavy weight pressing on top of him and a gentle nuzzle he immediately recognizes as Soundwave’s olfactory sensor.

Hot rod is trying to whisper his appreciation and love but it comes out as cold chitter babble and cold wisps that make Soundwave smirk.

Hot rod is warmed up within two days instead of a week

[the-s1lly-corner]

Sun x reader who wears headphones

something something UUHUHUHUHUH i need to write more moon stuff because i feel i write more for sun... though idk if thats even accurate LMAO notes: reader is gn, admin projected onto the reader so some of this is unique to him probably, reader is not explicitly stated as ND but given the previous and admin is ND they may be seen as ND/coded, reader works as a daycare assistant cws: none

theres been children in the daycare who wear headphones so hes well aware that sometimes theyre a need for one reason or another, so seeing you with them is nothing new to him!

i think there might be some spare sets stored somewhere in the event that something is broken or goes missing, so you have a backup in case anything happens to yours!

good at reading body language so even if you dont know sign or have an alternative way of understanding him or others around you, he can get a good idea of how youre feeling with a good look!

having in built in sensors makes things easier when he can easily measure things like your heart rate and body temperature if youre internalizing something or otherwise in distress

reading lips isnt an option with him though, since... well he doesnt really have lips that move

knows sign, though!

if you listen to music with your headphones hes interested to know what youre listening to! is it a fun song? is it upbeat? hes curious now!

not listening to anything at all? thats cool too!

generally very understanding and accommodating!

helps educate the kids if they have questions, though he tries his hardest not to speak for you

"everyone is different" kind of thing, you know!

[sshadowritestoriess]

Hi hi, can I have some ramattra first time HC’s plzz ily it’ll actually make my week omg 🙏💖

Hiii I hope this is sufficient 🫶

Ramattra’s First Time

Outwardly, he wouldn’t seem nervous in the slightest despite it being clear he needs some guidance

He knows how it works, that much is obvious. But he heavily lacks an understanding on how important foreplay is, and that there’s more that can be done during sex than just rutting against one another— so you’ll just have to show him

You’ll likely have to ask him to slow down a couple of times, and after the third or fourth attempt to stop him from rushing into it, he’d eventually give up on taking the lead

“Now what?” Becomes a popular question when he’s checked off something to your liking.

He’s aware he needs to be gentle during such an intimate activity, a stark contrast to the typical brute force he exerts for most of his daily tasks. But he’s still partially rough in his first tries to touch you— you’ll just need to grab his wrist and tell him to be careful, and he’ll try again

But his excitement and steady rise in confidence will result in quicker and rougher movements now and again. So reminders, reminders. Else he may attempt to break you.

He’d definitely find some difficulty in being vulnerable, letting you touch him to get riled up was not something he had mentally prepared for. It’d be a whiplash of internal conflict over how terrifying it is (who would have thought he’d allow human hands poke and prod at him to elicit pleasure) and how nice it feels.

Omnics have far more control over the sounds they can produce and when. It doesn’t take much effort for Ramattra to stifle small noises of encouragement, but in such an exposed and trusting state it is extremely easy to catch him off guard. Dragging a nervous grunt out of him will make him raise a hand to cover his throat, where his vocalizer hides. (He didn’t know he could even make that sound.)

He’d be easily embarrassed if you compliment him on anything— how he looks, how well he’s doing. He thanks you every time very politely, but you can practically hear how bashful he is in the stammer of his tone, as much as he tries to hide it in his body language.

He’d have a preference for the ‘main event’ to be in missionary for his first time, so he can see your face and watch carefully to make sure he’s doing everything right.

He’d express his gratitude to you as he sinks in, agonizingly slow, for being patient with him and trusting an omnic of his model to be vulnerable with you. Maybe a bit cheesy, but he was mostly running words out to keep himself from rushing his full length in with a single shove. A self-induced distraction so he doesn’t harm you by accident.

He would invite you to keep your hands on his chest or the silver handles on his hips, just in case, to give him a small push if he does anything too rough. He was designed with heightened senses— even the smallest amount of deliberate pressure could be detected, so he’d know to take it down a notch.

But he’d do just fine when he starts thrusting, small and shallow rolls of his hips controlled by a surge of nervousness to perform well. He may even begin narrating what this feels like for him; “It’s… like I’m on fire.”

He’d become addicted to your warmth very quickly, hiking your ass higher and pulling your thighs further over his while he arches in closer to you, burying his faceplate into your shoulder and relishing in the way his sensors alerted him toward the rise in temperature.

He’d cage you underneath him with his arms, eerily quiet— focused— on how much warmer he could make you, already experimenting with angle of his hips as he slows his pace and rides into you with differing strokes.

And then your walls flutter around him and that would be the first time you hear him moan. This shaken, breathy sound that rumbles from his upper chest, and releases the air vents in his shoulders with a quiet hiss.

He’d notice your reaction to the sound instantaneously— not only seen in the reaction of your face, but additionally in the way your internals hug around him and nearly pull him back inside. He’d be elated that his voice could cause such a response, and he’d become a lot more noisy for you after that

Ramattra would find himself asking every so often “is this alright?”, and you may have to try and stay focused enough to be able to reassure him, or else he’ll stop. It’s hard to tell if he pauses because he’s worried when you don’t respond, or because he’s being smug knowing you can’t.

If you encourage him to try going faster, he might hesitate. But with further praise, he may comply, trying to be quicker while being just as gentle as before.

He’s an extremely quick learner, however. One correct response to anything he’s attempted is immediately memorized and saved, and he will try certain things again exactly as he had the first time to get the best reactions out of you. His first time quickly begins to seem like it’s his hundredth time, becoming an expert in just under ten minutes.

So quickly molded to your liking, trying things you would like, toying with your body like a plaything to earn more praise and encouragement. For Ramattra, it’s so much less about the euphoria he feels from you, and more about how long he can please you before you come undone.

But he still would like an orgasm, so he may get a little selfish toward the end of the exercise. He would whisper to you to please forgive him, pushing into you more rough than before, hammering wave after wave of pleasure into himself until he’s completely overwhelmed his systems.

You will literally have to brace yourself the first time he ‘cums’ inside you, his entire frame would tremble and shake while his limbs go rigid and lock up, until he eventually collapses on top of you with a deep sigh as he’s lulled into a brief unconscious state. But he would be up again in just a handful of seconds, and he’d apologize once more

And, being a machine with a nonexistent sense of stamina, he will make it up to you again and again if only you wish for it. Sex turned out to be a lot more fun than he had imagined, especially with a human, and he’d love nothing more than to show you how eternally grateful he is toward you for letting him play.