Work Text:
“I need your assistance. It is… a delicate issue.” He says. The hesitance in his voice box immediately piques your interest. “I am in the process of some upgrades. The housing for my power unit is failing and needs to be replaced.”
“Upgrading yourself sounds pretty normal, Ramattra.” You shrug. “Why would you need my help?”
“The power unit itself must be disconnected before the housing can be replaced.” He says flatly. You stare at him, not quite understanding yet. His shoulders drop and he rephrases: “I must be offline to replace the housing.”
“Oh.”
Ramattra lifts himself onto the worktable, gestures for you to come closer. All around the room, he’s surrounded by a variety of tools and screens. You won’t need these he had assured you. You hope he’s right.
“All you will have to do is remove my power unit, remove the original housing, place the new housing, return the power unit, and restart me.” He says it like it’s nothing, not even giving you his full attention- his hands are at his rib-like adornments. You don’t even know what he’s doing- until the seals release and the front of his body opens before you. Warm air rushes out freely, usually confined to exiting through the vents on his back.
Inside, his machinery is whirring, fans spinning rapidly, wires of all colors wrapped around his chassis, leading in and out of various computational squares you can’t identify on sight. Almost all components were never produced or designed by human hands.
“Here.” He says, and points to a silver cylinder in the upper part of his chest. It’s surrounded by a black metal box- that may once have had a front lid from the hinge on the top. It doesn’t now, of course- and you inch ever closer to see the remnants of broken, aging solder. You swallow, “Is it already loose enough to come off?”
“It’s only held on by the wires that pass through it.”
You cringe and look again. Sure enough, the rainbow of wires are threaded right through tiny holes at the base of the box, leading into the bottom of the power unit.
“Once I shut myself down- and wait for me to be completely offline- rotate the power unit clockwise, then place it somewhere safe.” Left unspoken is the I cannot boot without it, or the ever worse There are very few R-7000 power units left in the world. “Then remove the wires from the power unit base. All you need to do is re-thread the wires into the new housing and plug them in. I can finish the attachment when I have rebooted.”
“How will you know when to power on? Do I have to reboot you?”
Ramattra nods once, the ribbon cables on his head and dysfunctional housing swaying with the movement. This time he reaches up to his face- and his face plate comes right off. He continues motioning, pointing somewhere under his optics. His exposed optics. You can’t really hear what he’s saying.
They actually look like eyes, even the servos’ casing attached had once been painted red. You can’t help but stare- watching as they spin and twitch, focusing. Or- or the rest of his face, for that matter; the LEDs of his forehead exposed, the glow much more diffused without the face plate’s pinpoint openings- two wires running along the surface of his not-skull like veins.
He stopped talking at some point. There’s something uncomfortable in the room. As much as your fascination has made you stare, something darker is settling in Ramattra’s shoulders.
It’s somehow worse that he doesn’t emote without the faceplate. With it, at least it’s obvious there’s no moving parts exposed that he could emote with-- no eyes to meet your gaze. Now, he should be able to have eyebrows, to squint at you, to scowl.
His voice is slightly clearer. “I apologize, I forgot you had not seen this.” The words are polite, but his tone is curt, short and sharp. He’s offended.
“Sorry,” You say and step closer. “I’m sorry.” You reach out to him and touch something familiar; his knee, then one hand. He lets you, but does not reciprocate when you squeeze. “You’re right, I hadn’t seen this before. It’s…”
“Unnerving? Threatening?” He spits. Is that what he thinks? That without his faceplate you can only see him as a Ravager?
You scowl at him. He should know you better. “If I took off my skin, showed you my organs, and said ‘hey come take this one out’, you’d be pretty unnerved too.” You step closer, fully between his dangling legs now.
“That’s hardly the same thing.” He counters, but the bite is already gone from his voice.
You reach up, almost having to stretch to touch the side of his face. You’re careful, only caressing his jaw, nothing that’s been revealed to you- just in case. “Promise it’s easy?” You hesitate, “That you’ll come back?”
“I promise.”
With nothing else to say, Ramattra leans back on the table, seems to hesitate on his elbows, before sighing and laying down entirely. His eyes don’t close, he doesn’t adjust to get comfortable, his version of falling asleep is nothing so human. The LEDs that adorn his body turn off first, then slowly the fans and soft hums of machinery quiet down until all that’s left is your own breathing.
Still, you give it a moment. Completely offline is what he had said, if there’s any data that hasn’t yet been cleared, you don’t want to know what happens if it doesn’t disperse on its own.
“Ramattra?” You ask quietly.
The silvery shell before you doesn’t answer. It’s as good a cue as any.
It occurs to you immediately that working on him from the side of the table is completely out of the question. It’s much too awkward an angle to reach up and over his sides and then down into… well, into him. So you crawl up onto the table itself and situate yourself across his lap. If you weren’t actively performing omnic heart surgery, you’d let your mind wander on the more enjoyable possibilities of your thighs bracketing his waspish waist.
Instead, you swallow and reach into the cavity of his chest. The power source is easily removed- only a half-turn to the right and something clicks, disconnecting it from the base. You set it carefully, oh so carefully, on the table near his shoulder. Here, it was a little trickier- only because you had to disconnect each wire individually. At least the brackets that held the wires in place a few inches out from the housing box made it easy to know where each wire would be plugged in again. Tediously, you got to work.
Finally, with the multicolored wires standing free, you grasp the housing box itself. It breaks off, leaving a dusting of solder as you take it. “Fuck,” you mutter. The pieces are too fine for you to pick up; you just have to hope it’s not going to hurt him.
You place the new box where the old one was and work in reverse- threading each wire in through the pre-drilled holes and then plugging them into the silver circular base. It’s repetitive, boring work, but you can’t let yourself get distracted; you’re almost done. When they’re all woven through, each and every color lined up distinctly with its correct port, you pick up the cylinder again. It’s a curiosity you’d never really wanted to investigate before- but as it is, the power source reveals nothing to you. You slot it into the place, exhale slowly, and rotate it counter-clockwise until it again clicks and locks.
You swallow thickly. Well, it’s done… one way or the other. You reach up to his face- and oh, it’s still so strange seeing beneath the faceplate. The aperture of his optics is relaxed, entirely open, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling with a flat, black gaze. You touch the structure that would be his cheek and shudder with the intimacy of it. None of this was meant to be touched by human hands, but here you were. Mimicking the motion Ramattra had shown you, you found the input just inside his skull.
Immediately his body begins thrumming with electricity- and you sigh with relief. At least you got that part right. The LEDs along his body light up automatically, smaller lights along his inner cavity glow white, Something inside him begins humming. You sit back into his lap again, watching the small changes of how his platform boots up.
You should get off him- it’ll be a minute before he’s truly conscious. You know this.
Instead, you touch the edge of the opening, along the ridge where the front of his chestplate will join together. The air inside him is already beginning to warm, but his fans have a leisurely pace- cooling fresh air is taken in by his entire front opening, keeping his system well below thresholds. It’s captivating- so much of the process you can’t actually see, contained within CPUs and GPUs and the hundreds of little wires that run through his entire body. But you’re watching him wake up, staring down at him while he’s the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen him.
You dip your thumb around the ridge this time, gently tracing a red-white-green bundle of cables that twist from one little chip down the inside of his chest.
He’d never talked about it. No, you had heard from another omnic. One of his lieutenants, but you’d never tell Ramattra that. Most omnics were not originally built with… well, any means of direct, raw pleasure. Some chose to get that hardware upgrade later, but for the rest there was usually a workaround. It hadn’t particularly appealed to you before.
“We could try that for now,” You had suggested once, before he’d designed his own upgrade. Just an idea, so you could do something for him. Ramattra had scoffed at the idea, made some dismissive comment. You never knew if it was because he was truly uninterested or if he simply didn’t trust you that much yet.
It’s different, somehow, actually staring into the thrumming heart of him. The temptation of finding out which wires are which, of making a little catalog in your mind- each color getting a little flag for how much they make his synth glitch, if they make his optics go snowy, which ones would make him tip his head back and sigh. You shouldn’t, but you rock against the curved plating of his pelvis, sate yourself with a chaste touch along the inside of his casing again.
It’s the whirring of the apertures you hear first. Looking up confirms it: without yet raising his head, his optics have shifted downward, focusing on you. The haze clears from your mind, replaced by shame.
“Really?” He says, exasperated. “You’re insatiable.” Your cheeks burn, immediately you drop your head and begin to scoot off him. His hands are at your hips before you can even lift a leg. Instead he’s pulling you closer, pulling you down against him, igniting more of that quiet friction you were aching for.
Normally, you’d brace your hands on his chest, but as it is your awkward grasp around his ribs gives you too little leverage. Ramattra must realize this too, holding your still-grinding hips in place as he sits up. It doesn’t, however, help that him sitting means you’re still face-to-chest with the same wires that had taunted you into this situation. It takes all your will power to wrap your hands around his neck, instead.
“What is your obsession with this?” He doesn’t let go of your hips, keeping you in place- a quiet sign he expects an actual answer from you.
“I’m not obsessed.” You whine, and, well, it was true. It hadn’t even crossed your mind again since you’d first mentioned it. “I never get to see you like this; you looked so… vulnerable. It’s all foreign and new.”
Ramattra draws back a little, creates a breath of space between your bodies. Between it and his locked grip on your hips, you wilt and prepare to concede your whim. It’s fine, really, so long Ramattra will at least fuck you properly- sooner rather than later. But instead he stares down at you- which is actually somehow worse than his open displeasure. It makes the skin at the base of your neck prickle, your fingers slide cautiously over his broad shoulders.
And at long last- Ramattra sighs. You brace for the lecture, the sour explanation of how dangerous it is (you know), that you have no idea what you’re doing (you know), that he’s never- “Go on then,” He says- and leans back, bracing himself on his hands.
You blink up at his unarmored face- his revealed optics making it all seem so much more personal. Really? With trembling hands you skirt down from his shoulders, over his sides, fingertips catching on each rib, but not delving into the dark gaps between. “You’re sure?”
“I can’t say I haven’t been… tempted.” His voice drops, low and cautious. “It has been… some time since I last indulged that particular whim.”
You can’t help but grin and embrace the flood of warmth that follows his confession. “You’ve done this before?” You ask, aware of the thin ice you’re treading on. In exchange you let one hand dip inside him and slide along the black protective box you just installed. His head drops, optics following your wrist into his own chest. Can he feel this yet- can he feel that at all? you wonder.
“A few times.” Ramattra all but murmurs. You trace your index finger along a thick, black-rubber coated cable that winds down to his hips. A simulated inhale is your reward. “You can be firmer with the bundles.” He advises, then adds, “Lots of insulation.”
The specifics of just how this worked had never actually come up, leaving you with a general idea and an abundance of curiosity. Immediately you follow his recommendation- taking the cables entirely in hand and squeezing. It’s hardly enough to bend the heavy coating- and yet Ramatra’s fingers curl around the sides of the worktable, his head drops back, the ribbon cables of his mane falling off his shoulders. The ends of each clatter together loudly, but not loud enough to cover the half-muted buzzing that slips from Ramattra’s vocoder.
Your hips move against him of their own volition- and that leads to an actual growl from him. This time, your fingertips dance over a webbed array of wires of various colors. Ramattra’s shoulders jerk, an actuator moving on its own momentarily, followed by his ventilation speeding up, fans humming despite the openness of his chest. It’s intoxicating. You single out a bright red cord and gently twist it between your fingers. “Fu-uck.” The aperture of his optics whirs closed and he doesn’t bother trying to keep himself upright, sliding down to be resting on his elbows.
“What is it like?” You ask, but don’t slow your explorations. How could you, when the possibility of his voice box glitching out is so tantalizingly close?
“It’s static.” He says, shuddering as you walk your fingers across a twisted set of blue and white wires. You spot a bright yellow wire that runs straight up into his throat. “White noise in my syst-EMS!” His tone doesn’t actually change to an exclamation- his raw volume blows into a buzzing mess before clicking off and restoring itself. “It’s different th-an just pleasure.”
“So what if I was riding you at the same time?” Devilish, you can’t help yourself but to once again rock down against the outer plating of Ramattra’s lap.
The worktable damn near creaks with how hard Ramattra grabs it, then follows with a deep groan, “Are you trying to crash me?”
You spy a little bundle of wires, bound together as they run along one of the horizontal struts of Ramattra’s back. “Maybe,” your murmur, and find a place where they wind together, then split, some entering deeper into his frame. “Isn’t that the point? Can’t you cum from this?”
You don’t actually give him a chance at all. Which is extremely rewarding when he modulates a scoff, “A roll-ing -ing” His voice box glitches then cuts out entirely. You rub along that junction of wiring, tugging gently one way then the other.
Ramattra goes completely still- and silent as he is you’d almost think you did crash him, if it weren’t for the sudden brightening of his LEDs. It’s… refreshing to see him laid so bare for you. As he partially reloads yet again, you stroke his exposed cheek, swiping a thumb below his optics. After a minute, Ramattra’s synthesized breathing resumes and you prompt him “Rolling?”
“Rolling partial shut down,” He says, almost dreamily. “Different from a human orgasm.”
“Sure.” You’ll let him have it for now, even if the outcomes look identical. “Then is that something I can do for you?”
A long silence ensues- the metaphorical gears in Ramattra’s head must be turning, weighing his options. The longer you’re manipulating his sensitive innermost parts, the higher the chance you hit something bad- and a predictable, replicable, intentionally programmed orgasm from fucking must be wildly safer than whatever random data overload you were wreaking across his systems. And yet, the reward must outweigh the risk because he sighs. “Yes.” He adjusts again, lays himself entirely down and cautiously adjusts his hands to drape over the sides of the table. “Just- keep doing that.”
It’s all the approval you need to grin wildly and dig into him. At the same juncture you pinch the entire bundle of wires and roll them. Immediately Ramattra groans, loud and sustained- his voice box struggles to keep the pitch even. Instead, his back arches towards you- and you’re not even sure if it’s because of how you’re manipulating his wiring. You squeeze tighter, feel the thin rubber insulation flatten under your thumb- and Ramattra’s optics tick upwards, too sharp to be controlled.
His groan lowers into a deep rumbling from his speakers. He’s much too put-together, the only option is to double down. So as you keep thumbing at that bundle of wires, your other hand sinks inside him. For a moment, you just barely touch the same thick, black cable you’d started with- and you can feel the stutter in his ventilation. Then, you give it the exact same treatment. Taking the cable into your hand, you squeeze it, move the pressure across each of your fingers- and with each one Ramattra twitches in a new way- his wrists, neck, knees each giving unbidden jerks as you massage the heavy rubber.
Ramattra’s hands curl into fists, but he doesn’t grab the table. Instead, his head rolls to the side, still making soft noises that may have once been moans before the distortions you’re feeding his systems. It’s still not quite enough- he’s close, if you had to bet. You keep him there- repeating the same motions over and over, just to watch him twitch and writhe. It’s a rare treat and you have every intention of burning the memory into your head before you bring him over the edge.
It’s almost fuzzed out entirely, lost into a crack of his voice: “Do it,”
You almost snicker, of course he can’t entirely give up control, but you can’t say no to him. Your weight comes on to the handful of wires- more on the thick cable than the twisting junction. That alone makes his thighs jerk, his heels scraping on the table. But that’s just a bonus: you lean all the way over him- and first, lay a kiss to the corner of his purple jaw piece, soft and sweet.
And then you move to his throat.
The metal of the actuators there is cold- and tastes of oil as you lick up one length. It’s enough to bring on another staticky moan- all sexual. But when you take another one of his thick black cables- the same ones that run along his neck- into your mouth and tug it away from his head, it’s all over.
A hundred servos all get wrong information at the same time; each joint of his fingers bending a different way- but every single one of them tenses. His head tips back, exposes the same cable to your teeth. And then- it’s like you’d turned off an old radio, his voice dies out with a crackle and then a click. And then silence.
The hum of his electronics, the motors to his fans have all turned off.
You let go of his wiring and sit back. Even the lights on his LEDs have gone dark.
He’s even courteous enough to not let you get anxious about him; before the thought really crosses your mind, he begins to hum once more. It sounds nice- smoother, somehow. The apertures of his optics whir, flexing open and closed as they begin to focus. From this angle, you can just barely make out a red light from within.
Unlike a human, his actuators did not relax as soon as he shut down. Instead, now that he’s conscious again, they each slide down into what must be their default position- simulating relaxation.
You don’t speak, giving him a moment to get his bearings once more. He must appreciate it, because after a few moments, his large hands rest on your hips. They’re just a comforting pressure- and you must know you’ve really made a mess of him because he hasn’t even tried to slide them under your shirt.
“How was that?” You ask anyway.
Ramattra makes a noise- what may have been a scoff. “I have 492 warning messages and 2,304 caution notifications.”
You cringe and stroke your thumbs over the hard ridges of his rib adornments. “Nothing serious?”
The red in his optics seems to flicker- his HUD updating as he navigates the errors. “No, nothing serious.” He says finally- and you can actually relax. He waits a moment, then raises one hand to your low back, dipping into the curve there. “It was… refreshing.”
The praise makes your cheeks flush. “I’m glad.”
His fingers slide along your spine, slowly pulling your shirt up with it. “Now, must I fuck you immediately or may I finish repairing my power unit housing first?”