Sam Body

• Glancing at his face again when his grumbling engine noise deepens, you feel heat creeping across your cheeks. Those yellow optics are unwavering. Calculating. Reminding you that some of your coworkers are in relationships with their mechs. Though, yours is only ever polite and distant. Still uncomfortable with you washing him if you had to guess, though you suppose you get it. If the tables were turned, you’re pretty sure you’d want to crawl into a little hole and die of mortification. Makes you imagine one of them deciding to return the favor and letting themselves into the locker rooms. Trying to go in a shower stall with their caretaker while insisting on taking care of them.

• “What are you smiling about?” He asks, grimacing at how gruff the words come out and you sink your teeth into your bottom lip to make him frown. And you inhale when he smoothes a servo over your lip, your expression making him sure he shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have touched you so casually. Like he had a right to. “Never mind,” he mutters, looking away as you stare at him. But Primus, your lip was soft. Warm. Optics flicking to your face and away, his denta clench. Whole frame straining to be still when you lay a hand on his thigh and shift to accidentally brush against his modesty panel until he’s venting raggedly. Overheating. ‘Just imagining if one of you guys tried to wash one of us. You know, tit for tat,’ you whisper, your field a confusing tangle of heat and embarrassment. Doesn’t know what that phrase means exactly, but he can guess from the context.

• Can’t tell from his expression what he’s thinking, but then he’s always like that. In his own world so you can’t really get a read on him. You’re not even sure that he particularly likes you. Especially since he’s always watching you. Usually frowning. Shoulders lifting in an awkward shrug, you keep washing him. If you were bolder, you could try flirting with him, but you’re almost certain that he’s not the adventurous type. Too by the books and withdrawn. He’d probably just stare at you and frown if you tried to hit on him. Like he’s doing right now to make this almost painful. “What would you do if a mech tried that?” He asks slowly, voice even gruffer than normal. Maybe disturbed by the idea.

• Plating ruffling slightly as he tips his face into the spray, he reaches for the soap, lathering up his free hand before offering it to you. Feeling your tiny hands on his as you scoop up handfuls of suds and it’s so cute he feels almost out of control. Jaw clenching, he steals a glance as you slide your hands down your body, over your chest, between your thighs as his plating heats. Venting raggedly, he grimaces at himself as you chirp and hum. Softly singing some hauntingly cheerful tune as you wash yourself and he watches your hands sliding over your soft skin. Has no idea when he’d started really noticing you. When you’d gone from some helpless alien creature, to something more. Knows it’s inappropriate, though. That you’re completely dependent on him, unable to understand him. So fantasizing about you? Wanting you? It feels blasphemous.

• Skin prickling as he vents against you, it’s getting harder and harder to pretend you’re okay. That you’re not on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Scared all the time in this strange, hostile place. The only thing you’re sure of at all is him. That he’ll protect you, but even then, he’s forced into the arena regularly. Forced to leave you and every time you’re so scared that he won’t come back. Heart racing as you try to fight down the rising panic attack, you’re singing to yourself. Trying to distract yourself from the fear and anxiety. And he somehow knows. Lifting you higher as he growls softly, his deep voice thrumming and clicking over alien syllables that you know you’ll never be able to mimic.

• Feeling your field start to prickle him with fear, his head lowers and his mouth brushes against your soft body. Trying to ignore the hunger that never quite goes away when he’s touching you now. Though you’ve never responded to his field, to his need. Feels you tremble against him, a tiny hand smoothing over his cheek as you chirp. Holding onto him instead of trying to push him away, but then he’s all you have like you’re all he has. Venting against your warmth, he gives in to the urge to nuzzle against you. Murmuring softly that he has you as your field settles. Maybe he’s too alien, too other, for you to ever want him. Maybe he’ll never be anything more than your protector. Tells himself he’s okay with that, but he knows it’s a lie.