#ramatron x reader

[korpuskat]

Chosen Avatar - Part 1

[Ao3 Mirror] Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (GN, has a vagina) Rating: E WC: 2.1k Contents: PWP & Megatron Ramattra. Transformers-typical size difference. >Part 2 ===

There were a few things that had been at the top of your mind when you first saw him after this… transformation. It should’ve been his size. Instead, it was the glowing purple of his faceplate, the darkened slits that hid his optics now illuminated, radiating a brilliant royal shade- and for the first time, you could see his gaze settle on you. It had stolen your breath then, but now it’s even worse.

His optics rake over your nude form and it makes you embarrassed. A kind of shyness you haven’t felt with him in so long-- but like this? Everything is new.

He’s hardly done anything, hardly can do anything. With the aleatory effects of this gift, he’s much too big for his previous methods. No, you’ve had to get… creative. His thumb- massive and gray and strange and new- sweeps over your body, petting at your chest, then down over your ribs, brushing roughly between your legs. It’s crude, no precision at all, and yet still as painfully effective as his touch has always been on you.

He stops there over the heat of your sex, lets you whimper and rut against his cool metal.

“I thought you were small before,” He coos, his deepened, reverberating voice only makes you shiver harder in the palm of his hand. “Look at you now, aching for just the tip of one finger…” This, too, is alien now- a harsher tone that distorts his speech, like it’s been fed through an old speaker somewhere further down in his throat than it has been before.

“Rama…” You whine, grabbing at the edges of his rubber inlays. “Please…”

Ramattra hums, and even this noise has been altered by his new power, but does nothing to sate the heat in your belly.

“Here.” He says, and picks you up with his other hand. You make some sound in protest as being handled so casually, but honestly, the fact he lifts you even easier than before, that he just grabbed you like a doll— you whimper softly as he adjusts you, pushes you to lay back against the base of his thumb. This would be strange enough, except his fingers curl possessively towards you. The tip of his pinky sliding up along your thigh. It’s a good pressure, even if the angle is unusual.

Why he’s moved you becomes obvious only a minute later. His palm lowers, brings you level with his hips- and you watch, entranced as his other hand pulls off his pelvic plate.

What lies beneath is nothing like it was before. It had once been made specifically for you, for your tiny, fragile, human body- all purple translucent silicone and delightful waves, little nodules of firmness with his inlaid lights, now his cock stands as a monstrous obelisk, longer than you are tall. It’s dull silver, the same as his body though you aren’t sure if it is also now entirely metal, but it stands out with the base painted in that new red accent. The head is longer, less rounded and more pointed like an arrow, complete with a half-dozen more, smaller ridges beneath the head, almost making it look like a double sided key through the middle of the shaft. Below that, seams that match the ones on his faceplate run down the rest of the length- each glowing softly with purple light. And none of that is even what holds your attention.

“That’s certainly new.” Ramattra muses, gaze settling on the exact same feature this gift has given him. With his other hand, he touches the tip of his cock- and his fingertip comes away slick. A tiny slit in the head leaks a silvery purple fluid that slides lazily over the oblong head. Lubricant, some still functioning objective part of your mind supplies, but given the dubious origin of Ramattra’s benefactor, you can’t help but wonder if it is actually precum. Gods, you hope so. Heat builds in your belly, leaves unable to stop yourself from rutting against his finger as you watch him gently prod at his appendage. He smears the fluid across the tip, making it shiny and faintly purple- and heat rushes from his vents.

Cautiously, he curls two fingers around himself, uses the lubricant to ease his stroke. Above you, Ramattra moans- a shuddering soft little noise that you’d almost miss if you weren’t listening. And that alone is enough to make you grind harder against his fingertip.

You hear it as he turns, pistons shifting just so his gaze moves back to you. He watches, purple optics burning as you work yourself against his smooth new exterior- and when you tip your head back to look up at him, his chest rumbles in wordless praise. His grasp on himself adjusts, the slick noises of his fist gliding through lubricant even louder- and his finger presses harder into your skin. You gasp, brace yourself against the base of his thumb, nails digging into the little seams between plates as he rocks the finger against you.

You watch as the giant metal appendage rubs on you, nuzzling blindly between your legs. As thick as your forearm, the weight of it alone is thrilling. You adjust your position so he’s pressed right against your clit with every thrust, the underside of the finger slowly beginning to glisten with your own wetness.

“Yes,” He purrs, and you think it’s just how good his hand feels- lubricated and slick against himself. But as you look to him again. the light of his optics has darkened into a wine-like shade, locked perfectly onto your body writhing in his palm. Your grinding against him, your enjoyment of his body- that is the source of his pleasure. Heat surges through you, and if that wasn’t enough- “Keep going.” He urges you, his voice still new and staticky and rumbling and you can’t possibly deny him.

You dig your nails harder into his palm and meet each thrust- your noises a strained, staccato tempo in time with his movements, slowly building the pressure between your legs. It’s so imprecise, a blunt assault on your body that’s hotter more for the effort, for the slapdash connection you’ve forged than because of the sensation itself.

Until his digit slips too far up.

You choke; the plate of the last segment of his finger ends leaving you with a sudden little gap between his plates and with it, a complete lapse in pressure. This alone is jarring, but it’s the downstroke- the sudden return of the weight of him that makes your legs twitch around him.

And Ramattra- his head looming above you, so far away- does not miss this. In an instant, his motion changes, perfectly choreographed to rub the edge of the plate against your clit every single time. Like this, it’s not grinding, not the slow waves of incessant pressure, but an active stroke, flicking your clit like a switch-- one that keeps pace with the hand on his cock. And the pleasure shifts immediately, no longer a slow smoldering build, but a quick start tinderbox.

“Ramattra,” You gasp, clutching at him, hands scrabbling across cold metal as he ruts his finger against you- and in his lap his hand speeds up. Each stroke marked with a wet shlick of his own precum, the hum of his fans, the hiss of steam- and when you throw your head back all you see is purple. That gaze, knowing that he’s watching- it’s too much.

Your hips jump, desperately meeting each press of his fingertip, gasping, crying out his name as it pushes you over the edge. Your thighs tremble on each side of his finger, trying to clamp down on it and failing. When your body fails to keep its pace, his does not- keeping rubbing that edge of his plate over your clit again and again and again- dragging your high on and on in a merciless display for himself.

And Ramattra groans. Deep and loud, it vibrates through his entire frame, into every inch of your skin that touches his palm. You tear your eyes open, stare back up into his optics- blazing, burning orbs of light as his voice glitches, fights through static with every noise-

“A-ah.” His voicebox stutters, breaks as he fights to moan your name- and his body lurches forward. The purple light dims, flickers like a candle-- and you can’t even breathe as he cums. His hand works himself with a speed that must hurt, but from his chest he makes a noise you’d never known was him- like a radio going out of tune, pitched a half-step up- raw, unfiltered, erroneous data and he spills over himself.

His finger on your pussy finally stops, but there's no sleek offlining into a system reset- it's rough. All the air in his ventilation that was being pushed out suddenly reverses flow, his chest broadening in a desperate inhale. Silvery, lavender fluid coats his hand as his pace falters, slowing as he heaves, gasps through his orgasm in a way you’ve never seen him do before.

He keeps going- keeps stroking himself until his fingers tremble and another deep groan slips from his vocoder. He stops, lowering his hand to his hip and, gods you have no idea what this power has done to him because his cock twitches, a last few stray droplets of cum sliding down over his ridges, pouring down the seams in gorgeous, perfect streaks.

You shouldn’t, but your mind is still too lust hazed, still half grinding against his finger just from the sight of Ramattra’s cum. You reach out towards his soaked hand in a silent plea, grasping at the air. Whatever has changed in him means he must finally get his own afterglow, because Ramattra obliges, bringing his dripping palm to you. And oh, you shouldn’t, but there’s no logic in the world that could stop you from stumbling to the edge of his hand just to lean to the other and lick.

Your mouth tingles- and your first thought is fruit, that it’s sweet like juice. The second, however, is that it’s like licking a battery, but turned up to eleven-- like licking a car battery. It’s sour in a way you know isn’t physically possible, electricity manually activating your nerves in a way they aren’t meant to be. Tart and sparkling and it’s like grapes just before they’re about to ferment and damn Megatron because it’s not even bad.

You go in for another taste and Ramattra groans, apparently starting to come to his senses as he separates his hands, leaving you to collapse back against his fingers. Which is fine, as you immediately enjoy how the heat of your skin dissipates into his cool digits. Above you, you can see the plumes of steam still slipping from Ramattra’s vents, his optics dulled into an easy amethyst.

“That was… different.” He offers after a minute, his voice box slowly coming back to its regular working order, but still not pristine. “I’m not sure I appreciate this being messier.” He shifts his cum-coated hand, the fluid there slipping, shimmering in the light.

“Never seemed to bother you before.” You grin up at him, lazily lounging against one of his cleaner fingers and conjure images of how much of a mess you’ve left him with before- on cock and fingers and faceplate.

“I did not mind when it was your fluids.” Ramattra grumbles.

“Well,” You can’t help yourself, the endorphins making you too loose, too giddy to not prod at him. “Maybe you should have asked the alien warlord what he was going to do to your dick before accepting interdimensional power.”

A noise rumbles from Ramattra’s chest, something between a scoff and a laugh. “Yes, I’ll make sure to take notes for next time.” He rests there for a minute, content enough to relax and approach re-regulation and watch you do the same. Eventually, however. “I should clean up.”

You nod, stretch in his palm and prepare to climb down onto the floor-

His palm rises. You sink to your knees with the force of it, clutching at the seams below you as you turn, trying to figure out what he’s doing- and he brings you up to his shoulder. To his scarf. You blink a few times, but smile as you force your wobbling legs to work long enough to transfer yourself onto his frame.

The fabric is unwieldy to climb on, folded together in fat bunches that give way as you try to navigate them, reliant on the hard seams of Ramattra’s new body just to find a good perch. But the payoff is worth it. From here, his vent heat is everywhere. The steam has warmed the scarf thoroughly, leaving it toasty and soothing on your nude body. You don’t even have time to make a comment on how cozy he is before you’re slipping into an easy sleep.

[korpuskat]

Chosen Avatar - Part 2

[Ao3 Mirror] Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (GN, has a vagina) Rating: E WC: 2.2k Contents: PWP & Megatron Ramattra. Transformers-typical size difference. > Part 1 ===

His shoulder becomes your second home. Only a week before, Ramattra would accompany you to bed-- at least until you fell asleep. Then, he’d slip away to do his work, to monitor his omnium, his battles. Even in this new form, you wanted him near, wanted to be able to touch him as you drifted off.

But more surprising was Ramattra’s insistence on it. Not just when you slept, either. You were always to be with him- on his shoulder was easiest, gave him use of both hands and with his cowl, you were quite comfortable, even cozy. It did mean you got to see him work. Where before, when you were almost as big as him, your hovering felt intrusive or bothersome, now you have a reserved, insisted upon front row seat to watch his fingers as sketch out a new design. You do so miss the purple enamel that had once coated the backs of his hands, though you'd never tell him such.

In turn, you gave Ramattra something as well. You would feel the tension rising in him first, a frustration that makes his movements rougher, stickier, his body just beginning to warm. Until he’d sigh- or more accurately modulate one, letting the hot air slip from his vents- and he would reach for you.

The first few times he was cordial enough to offer you his palm. He’s comfortable now. Perhaps too comfortable as he plucks you from his shoulder, moving to cradle you in both palms. Coolness takes you first, shivering softly at the loss of your nested fold of scarf, but looking up at him, at those purple optics you’re still not used to warms you enough.

“That bad?” You prompt him. Sometimes, talking about what’s gone wrong with his plan is enough to unstick him, but not today.

Ramattra hums in acknowledgement, tipping his head in thought. That’s all the response you get before he shifts his palms- forces you to slide into one hand entirely. You sputter a little in indignation, shifting as he wants you to- and he hums again, deep in his chassis. A pleased noise- and one finger-- wider than your forearm, gods how did your life end up like this-- touches your head.

He’s gentle, more cautious than you’d ever seen him with your body. But his finger moves on your head, slowly, painstakingly stroking down along your spine. Soon you give in to his curious affection, humming with contentment. It’s still strange, and perhaps always will be, but sitting Ramattra’s palm, basking in his single-finger touch? You have nothing to complain about.

Until he moves away. The hand that had been petting you moves back to his datapad, plucking the stylus from the table and beginning to draw anew. You shouldn’t bother him, you know- but Ramattra has also yet to put you back down, still trapped several feet off the surface of his desk. You huff, perhaps a little petulantly, then scoot back on his palm until you can comfortably lay down against his fingers.

That gets his attention again. Those purple optics sweep back to you, taking in your new position. Though he does not voice approval, his thumb moves, rubs against your cheek. You simile, lean into the touch- even lay a kiss to the smooth, gray metal. In turn, his thumb keeps moving; bigger than your fist, the cool panels of the digit slide down your neck, down the center of your chest, down to your belly. He pauses, pressing softly into the rounder, boneless flesh there- never enough to hurt, just enough pressure for him to feel how your body squishes beneath his touch.

His thumb sits on your stomach, pressing in so softly before easing off, like the most gentle, single-fingered kneading of a cat. You reach for him again, stroke along his digit- and his path changes again. He strokes up your body again, up to beneath your chin before stopping and sliding back down. This time, his fascination with your belly is set aside- his thumb keeps sliding along the length of your torso.

And it occurs to you that he’s petting you. Held in one hand, stroked with another- you’re nothing more than a mouse to him.

You blink and look up- only to find his optics have once again settled on the data pad, his other hand having picked up the stylus, sketching out lines bigger than you are. His hand does not stop. He keeps on moving his thumb, gliding against you in slow, even movements. Without looking, without even thinking about it. You can’t complain, won’t begin to reject the affection from him- so you relax into his palm, turn your head so you can watch him work while he pets you.

The pen draws, jotting down designs and notes in turns, scribbles of plans- and as he works, Ramattra's focus on you wavers. His thumb's pathing sways, sweeping down, down until he's stroking over your belly and thighs. It's still not bad- still affection, a pleasant weight on your body.

Until it stops. His stylus stills too, hovering just over the screen. You want to ask, the question builds on your throat- but Ramattra's thumb suddenly moves again. He presses down- squishes your thighs under his broad digit. It's not quite enough to hurt, just enough to have your soft flesh flattening out under hard metal plates. And then it stops. And starts again. He squeezes your thighs rhythmically, the pressure on, then off, then on.

He's thinking, you realize- rolling some idea around in his processors-- and you're the desk toy he's playing with.

The thought makes your face hot, makes your hands hold onto the ridges of his palm a little tighter. Worse- his thumb presses down again, harder. You wince, feel the ache in your femurs as Ramattra distractedly squeezes your thighs. Squirming under the metal is just enough to free you, because as soon as you manage to wiggle out from under the weight of him, his thumb slips between your thighs instead.

You open your mouth, ready to remind him that you're small and fragile in his own words, but Ramattra acts first.

His voice box all but purrs a rumbling, “Ah.”

You almost think it's intentional, that he's squeezed his way between your legs again to entertain himself. But his optics remain focused only on his datapad where his stylus suddenly begins moving again in quick, excited motions. And with it, his thumb again begins to stroke.

There’s almost no pressure to it, certainly no intent beyond whatever pleasure the feeling of your body on his plating is giving him. Careless, the motion lost on him entirely- and yet is so very obvious to you. His thumb slides almost along its same path- up and down in slow, continuous rolls of his joints. You can hear them whirr softly, actuators humming away just beneath the surface armor.

His touch is light, meant to be soothing- and was, until you had been forced to move. Now- now he’s skimming between your legs, brushing teasingly across sensitive inner thighs and your clothed sex.

You could, of course, just move your legs back. But you sink your teeth into your lip and lay there, once again reveling in the absurd notion of a thumb whose last segment is bigger than a mailbox is petting you. That the steel being before you- looming over you as he writes- is holding you in one hand.

You shiver. It shouldn’t be hot. It shouldn’t. You shouldn’t just accept this change that’s happened to him, but you really shouldn’t be horny about it. That knowledge, of course, doesn’t stop your legs from trembling, your hips from arching into his next pass.

Ramattra doesn’t even notice. Too absorbed in his work to feel your tiny nails digging into the rubber pads of his palms-- if he can feel that at all. Are you too small now? Is that sensory input too minuscule to even be detected by his systems?

His thumb keeps moving, though never quite smoothly. Ramattra isn’t paying attention, gives no thought into keeping his pets even and rhythmic. No, he wavers, pauses- long enough to make the heat in your belly ache- before resuming, stroking faster or slower with a seeming randomness. With the minimal pressure it’s already a horrible tease, but with his inconsistent pace?

Ramattra pauses again- this time his thumb settling over one thigh, not even touching your pussy. Even rocking your hips does nothing to give you that pressure you crave. Above you, his head dips as he examines something on the data pad- he leans forward, focused- and your need gets the better of you.

The noise is miniscule, a soft little whine that hardly even leaves your throat.

Click. All at once, everything is purple, his gazing burning down on you.

Something rumbles in him, almost a laugh as he tips his head, one giant lock of cable falling free from his scarf. His thumb shifts upwards, enough to push at your shirt, slipping under the fabric. “Go on then.”

It’s all the encouragement you need. You strip readily in his palm, tossing your clothes down onto his desk. He doesn’t even wait for you to settle; as soon as your legs part he slips his thumb between them.

You shudder, gasp under his touch. It’s so much more raw without the barrier of your clothes. In no time at all his smooth dark plate is shining and slick with your arousal as he rocks it against you. No longer worried about distracting him, you let yourself moan and rut into his rhythm.

Again, Ramattra makes a noise- a deep humming vibration from his chest. The light of his optics dims softly as he watches your form writhe on his hand, enjoying his touch. He has always loved this sight; your love for him of all omnics has confounded him, but your desire for him was unimaginable, something he treasured, a sight to be saved over and over again to his memory. He could not understand how you could need his touch so badly then, but now? He should be basking in your gasps, indulging in each desperate thrust of your hips. You need him with such unmasked enthusiasm… and yet…

A dangerous impulse curls through Ramattra’s circuits.

He thinks… you could need him more.

And Ramattra turns away from you. His gaze slips back to his designs, to the stylus he had set down to watch your indecent display.

You shudder as the light of his optic moves from you. You want to protest, but his thumb has not stopped moving. As soon as you open your mouth to question why, it slides, catching the ridge of the plate against your clit. The shot of hot pleasure that radiates in your belly is short-lived- as soon as you begin to relax into his touch, Ramattra loses his rhythm. Pausing, stuttering, or not quite stroking far enough to catch that edge again, pressure just too light or just too hard- his pace is unsatisfying, teasing.

“Ramattra...” You whine, pushing your hips up against his thumb.

And Ramattra shushes you. A staticky noise spits from his voice box, his voice rougher with this new body's overlay. His body rumbles with the “Shhh,” a soft vibration that filters down to this fingertips and does not help at all with your growing need. “Let me finish this...”

The words make your body ache, a burning pit unsated with his transparent lie. There's no apology in his voice, nor does he set you down to truly focus. His stylus slides over the blueprints in a perfect synchronicity with his thumb over you. Each sweeping new line is a swirling stroke against your clit, every quick scribbling note are short, staccato pets-

You moan softly, hoping to catch his attention- but other than momentary draw of his optics, the knowing lilt of his head, he keeps his faux concentration on the screen before him.

It's not so much the teasing-- Ramattra had always been determined to squeeze every ounce of pleasure he could from you when given the opportunity. But then you had been his sole focus. Here, he doesn't even have to look at you, barely has to move at all to make your hips jump and flinch. He does little more than rotate a singular joint and you're melting into his massive hands.

Like a toy, the thought echoes again, has you shivering into his touch. There's nothing to do but endure, no escape except to wait for Ramattra's desire for more to outpace yours.

So you dig your fingers into his palm, throw your head back and rut against him. It’s not enough- he’s making sure it’s not nearly enough- but you chase that pleasure anyway, because it’s good. A rush of friction that has you hissing, hands scrabbling across his smooth panels, legs wrapping around the digit thicker thicker than your arm. "Ramattra," You whine as you grind, swivel your hips desperately, body heating and aching for release-

And his joint locks in place, no longer dancing away to keep the pressure light. It’s just enough, enough for you to cant your hips and rut for that base pleasure and cum in his palm, crying out as your fingernails bite into the tiny crevasses between his plates. When you open your eyes again, you’re bathed in his purple light.