In Chainsaw Man, Power lets Denji fondle and squeeze her breasts for helping her. She lets him squeeze them three times for the three things he has done for her.
The Lost Light Liasion lets the bots of your choice fondle her breasts and lets them squeeze a certain number of for three amount of times they’ve saved her ass/helped her.
Who are the bots and how do they react?
(If this happened, Ultra Magnus would be so on top of this since there would be mechs that would purposely create trouble to "save" the resident human. He's gonna nip that in the bud since the Lost Light already has too much chaotic energy. So nudity scenarios with Giant!Liaison because I love that concept a lot.)
Whirl eyes your chest in a manner that wouldn't feel off on a gemologist appraising someone's antique jewelry, optic narrowed in serious consideration as he pokes your left boob.
"I don't see the appeal." Whirl taps a claw on his own impressive chest. "My bazongas are bigger."
"Yeah, but can yours bounce?"
"Touché, Fleshlight." Whirl hums, optic following your chest's jiggling motions as you cup and squeeze the soft flesh. "Touché."
Ambulon brushes his servos over the uncovered skin. It's soft and warm and strangely like a really supple protoform. The specialized sensors in his digits and palms pick up your biochemistry, and it buzzes pleasantly to his neural-net.
He filters the temperature readings, hydration levels, and other basic information from the passive scans to just concentrate on the sensation of the innate elasticity, how his digits can press into your protoform, and how it contorts and flexes.
You can't manually shut off your nerves, nor can you inwardly self-manipulate how you perceive sensation. Apparently, in your species a dimmed or lacking pain response is attributed to a sensory-perception defect.
Ambulon is curious how you function on the paltry information from the medical books in your bookcase is very limiting. Theory doesn't always match to application. In general, organics are messy and squishy and so full of so many liquids, but he had traced over the skeleton and muscle tissue within the diagrams, and can't help the heretical thoughts of the familiarity of the structures.
You can't show him the innards of your frame under your guidance; self-surgery is a wonderment to humans but it's common amongst Cybertronian medics. At least well-trained ones or the very experienced ones that survived their ventures.
(Pharma was many, many things, but he had ensured that his staff was well-equipped and well-trained under his perfectionist ways. Even the ex-Decepticon.
Ambulon, to this day, can't tell what was real or falsified by the surgeon. How much was simmering beneath his old CMO...)
He chases away the thought by exploring other areas. Humans are just softer than Cybertronians by design. Some parts are more so than others as he traces your abdomen and your chest area, thumbing over a teat.
"Does your species have something like this?" You ask, voice hitches.
"Under the old regime," his voice takes on a teaching cadence, "supplementary refineries were deemed obsolete and phased out. Very few frames, think of older schematics off Cybertron or cohorts too far away from public refineries and production, were... allowed to keep such things." Ambulon remembers one of his old gestaltmates, his refineries kept them alive in the combiner process. "It helps refine lower-grades of Energon, even near-usable ones, to something consumable."
Based on the emotion on your face, you're interested in the strange similarities as well.
Swerve's vents sputter as he coughs out a weak cheer and is overwhelmed by Tailgate's complete enthusiasm. Getaway also claps, but Swerve could feel the heat from the mech's plating, despite how unruffled the escapologist appeared.
You twirl around as Swerve sends a quick prayer to the Guiding Hand at the expanse of your back and your bare legs as the fabric floats and takes its sweet time to settle back down.
Tailgate immediately makes a beeline to fuss over the dress and attaches the rest of the accessories.
"You're okay if I adjust the front?" Tailgate asks.
"Go for it, short stack." You admire the glinting gems and subtle, beautiful swirls in the mirror.
And without any sense of shame or embarrassment, Tailgate does it. The minibot pulls it and you up. Swerve takes a large gulp of the complementary cocktail when it turns skin-tight, pressing into your flesh.
"Short stack," you wheeze and your chest heaves. "You're squeezing me here."
Getaway crosses his arms, fingers digging into his plates. He isn't as nonchalant as he tries to be.
"Give me a moment." Tailgate clips on the thin, glossy strands of jewelry over all your body. "I have to get this on before I fix it completely."
When the mech finishes, you look far more stunning and Swerve's vocalizer simply clicks, so he makes it up by whistling and clapping. It isn't missed that Tailgate is used to casual touch as he gives an arm to help you down the podium. Plus, the mech has quite an eye for 'off-world' fashion.
One of the attendants admires Tailgate's handiwork, clicking at a rapid pace as feathers ruffle and soothe, and Swerve hopes that the rest of the team is almost done with whatever they're doing.
"What do you guys think?" You ask, calm with even talons near your face, painting your lips and applying geometric patterns down your cheeks and neck. Whatever the attendant had done to your eyes had made them larger, brighter.
You look something out of old folktales from the outer rings of city-states as the metal strands clink pleasantly as you move, the fabric languidly shifts in a strange, fluid way, defying gravity, rippling across your bare skin like a living covering.
"You look good, Y/N," Getaway says, quite casually. "But I think that set there would look even better."
The burnt gold body jewelry in the case behind you is a dead ringer for Getaway's faceplate. The escapologist gives no other reaction to the flat fields and stares from Swerve and Tailgate, just a happy curve of brightened optics.
