#ramatron

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.