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You see a fuckass lizard man on a game convention accompanied by a brooding man who has clearly overslept

WDYD?

Chemistry

Inspired by art from @/jackthepeeper here

Rated: Mature | Warnings: Richard calls reader 'princess' but still gn (trust me in none affectionate way), reader calls Richard 'dick'

Richard Sterling is the classic beautiful knight, the sort to save a princess from a high tower guarded by a fearsome dragon. It is undeniable his beauty, storybook to the letter, yet you find yourself unable to trust a pretty face like most do. Most ladies would think you are being too cautious, clearly you should be swooning and falling over him. It is made to seem like something is wrong with you, which you are not going to feel about! Father says to trust your instincts; trust and verify.

Richard Sterling probably sees you as the princess in need of saving, Florian did too, but you are quite clear that his assistance will only be called upon if necessary.

As one who practices the art of escape as, once the great Houdini did, you have not always needed rescuing.

Jose Baden and you have come up with plenty of ideas of how to use your talents combined when dealing with the most difficult hunters to contain. A bit of confusion can do wonders against those like Ivy or Percy.

You are not sure Richard— Dick, you call him when he gets on your nerves— Gets it, yet your luck has been shit as he has been saving your ass far too much. Jose had thought he could tease you about it but you make it very clear to him to stop.

This last match would have nearly cost you if he had not stayed behind to save you from Discipline. It was risky but it got a tie.

“There is no need for thanks,” Bowing, “After all, any princess needs a knight.”

“Not a princess or prince, pretty boy.” Florian has a hero complex, easy to deal with. Richard, you think would be the same way but there's something off. Heroic deeds yet it is like he is playing a practiced role. Florian at least wants to save people though he seems to get off on it. Fucking weirdos all in this place, at least they put their differences aside to survive.

“My apologies for assuming. It could not be helped given your current circumstances of late.”

“We all have bad days… or weeks.” Mumbling with this pleasure, “Just have to go practice.”

“If you are in of company—”

“William is already joining me.” You cut him off, “See you whenever.” Going to the left of the intersecting hallway and heading to your room.

“Farwell, princess.” That last part is said with a sly smirk.

All of your lockpicks have been used, Jack is relentless, and Night Watch is quick with chairing. Duo hunters are always a pain in the ass to get through as certain hunter combinations make or break a match.

Both Jack and Night Watch's abilities are a great combo and there are only four remaining survivors…

The Knight is containing the hunters as they decide to tag team against the newest survivor. You use this opportunity to save Luca and Lucky Guy from their chairs, Luca has the crowbar but the dungeon location is a mystery currently on the snow version of the Arms Factory map.

You could leave Richard, he has helped you but he a dick about it as he calls you “princess”. Luca pings no dungeon where he went to and Lucky Guy pings the hunter is on him.

“Evening, princess.” Richard finds you decoding in the factory, you see the hunters did a number on him before both hunters saw Lucky Guy who shot Night Watch with a flare. Merc's armbands will only get him so far. “Might I request a touch from the fair nimble-fingered princess?”

“Ew, why do you talk like that?” You hate his laugh that makes him wheeze in pain, “Stop that. Here,” Handing him Demi’s Dovlin you bought, “Drink this it will help the pain.”

“Wine? Rather unwise to be inebriated in our current situation.”

“Dick, it will heal you. I don't know how but does so fucking drink it!”

“As my princess wishes. Perhaps after, we could enjoy a glass of wine later?”

You stare at so long enough to fuck up the cipher for a second, “Get us a win and maybe I will entertain that.”

Holy shit… A tie… You cannot believe the… Lucky Guy and Luca are cheering while you are completely flabbergasted. A two-person kite and the dungeon were found just in time.

Dick got his dinner and wine because that win was impressive. The dinner was added because you want food with your wine.

You figure dinner in the sunroom is safe. Though private and often reserved for tea parties, at night you found it to be the best spot to gaze upon the stars.

“Princess,” Dinner and wine, “There is no reason to shy away.” It makes you both too bold and stupid.

You have slept with Florian. He is attractive and you are weak for a man in uniform. Slept with Mike too, he made you laugh your first week here. Made out with Mary during a Valentine's Day celebration. In short, you are not surprised you are on the floor with the pretty boy playing knight. Without the vest, his blouse partly open, and his tight pants not leaving anything to guesswork; his is gorgeous.

“I'm not shy. You're just so much.” You open his shirt as he takes off his trousers and shoes. “A lot much.” Your fuzzy brain from drinking is not giving you the ability to form proper words or find the right one. You are not the type to drink, socially you drink rarely, so your tolerance is low. Especially given the vintage is from Antonio's secret stash he tries to hide in the wine cellar.

The food helped until the night grew longer and longer, more cups of wine poured, your inhibitions lowered, your tongue loose— There is an old saying ‘loose lips sink ships’ and boy was your ship sinking.

Richard seems to be able to hold his liquor, you envy him, he is so pretty and… Your mind is too fuzzy to figure out who leaned in first for the kiss.

By now, you both are on the floor near the large glass ceiling, two bottles empty, both glasses fallen and rolled somewhere, and both sitting under the stars. Romantic.

When he kisses you, it is the perfect kiss, you are swooning a bit. Perfect then demanding with his tongue in your mouth, his hands on your face keeping you in place so he can steal your breath.

The escalation was so close from how his hands wandered and groped you; your hands tugging at his clothes yet there was not much you could do in your current state. The kiss is hot and heavy, and you swear you are ready, then he stops. Not panicking or pushing you away abruptly, he is gentle and lays you under him.

“Richard?”

“As much as I would enjoy ravishing you,” You have no idea how he can speak so clearly with two bottles in both your systems, “However, I would much prefer our night of passion to be recalled not forgotten.”

And in the most gentle way, he did not sleep with you that night.

Princess. You hate being called that. You are no princess or prince in need of a knight. You see yourself more as the jester who struggled to amuse the crowd unless you were escaping impossible odds— Life-threatening ones often. Yet, to Richard, you are a princess running away from impossible horrors and narrowly escaping.

The a few ladies like him, a few of the guys, and you still believe under that facade is a dragon rather than a knight.

“Princess?” Answering the door surprised to see you there. The only visitors he gets usually is Vera (he likes her perfumes) and occasionally Margaretha (stress relief), and maybe Evelyn for a nightcap.

Here you are looking crossed with him, he does not resist when your hand touches his bare chest shoving him back, this allows you to enter his room and slam the door behind you.

“If you are looking to manipulate me into some alliance with you, well, you're a dumbass. Alliances will not help you. We have to all work together if we are going to survive this.” The rant is long as you jab your finger against his chest not noticing how he is allowing you to vent until you are out of words. You glare and then look down seeing where you are touching the knight.

It might not have been the best idea to corner him in a nice room that smells of perfume and is well organized— You pull your hand back realizing your hand is on his partially exposed chest. His usual fencing vest and sash are gone, his undershirt open making him look like a damn male lead of a romance novel cover.

You look away then point to the closed door in the heat of your anger about how things were different between you and him (he had even been in your room helping you with your hangover), you came upon him at an inappropriate time, “I uh, bye.”

“Wait,” Grabbing your hand and for the first time since that tonight over a week ago, you can feel his bare hand. “My apologies for being so forward; it lead to this miscommunication.”

You hate how eloquent he speaks, Norton might be rubbing off on you.

“You are correct about me seeking something from you, princess. We were close to it, however, it would be wrong for a gentleman to take advantage of a princess at their most vulnerable.”

“... You can just ask me for sex.”

He laughed, “How crude. Though I suppose a blunt request would have caused less stress.”

You roll your eyes, “Dick—”

“Richard, (Name).” His hand traveling up your arm, “I wish to bed you. If you wish, perhaps we can share our desires often with one another.”

You hum, “Friends with benefits?” Thinking it over for a second,  “Alright.” Not like there are strings attached or love involved.

Chemistry is just as vicious as love.

Desire can twist infatuation into obsession.

Sex with Richard is amazing! You were so sure the man was gonna chivalrously vanilla, not there is anything wrong with that but you have your tastes and thrills. Florian liked it when you poured candle wax on him, Mike liked how playful you can be, and Mary adored it when you let her use her mirror shard to slide against your skin (never cutting you). Richard is… Very experimental.

When his hand is wrapped around your throat; when his usual gentlemanly demeanor switches to this sadistic man who wants to break you; the fact he is thankful after the rough sex he takes care of you— Thinking about right now as you walk to your room is making you giddy.

You love it when he uses his sash to bind your wrists or use it as a leash, your next favorite is when he has you wear his helmet so you can not see making it partly difficult to breathe. It thrills, risks, and you both feel alive.

Sex is sex, the highly stressful situation and often traumatic matches, you find for a few hours it keeps you from attempting to set the manor on fire. It is a tool and the chemistry between you both is perfect. There is no love, Richard is a decent guy but not someone you can picture yourself in love with.

Even when the sight in your bedroom is him wearing his underlings and blouse, the seductive look of a promised bliss. The invitation of his finger beckons you to him.

And you go to him all too willing to have an hour or two of escapism, to pretend you are not in some hellish manor, to have your thoughts halted and voice made horse from saying his name rather than from terror.

“Good princess.” He is going to ruin you within these four walls, strip you bare, ravish the princess in need of saving.

i love characters with prominent noses. the only reason i’ve ever given a character a small nose is to fulfill a diversity quota

Get me 70 likes and I will remove the shirt

Get me 50 likes and I will remove his pants

Ukrainian ram and zen on shopping spree or smth they still need to feed the pet (Genji)

Content under the cut is strictly 18+

MDNI

English is not my first language, I have very limited experience in writing fanfiction.

Antonio (Violinist) x GN!Reader

CWs: NSFW, readers anatomy is referred to as chest + h*le/entrance/s*x, reader may or may not wear makeup, reader wears tight clothes, reader drinks alcohol and gets intoxicated, reader perceives situation as dangerous, now that I think about it it can possibly be viewed as dubcon although not intended

Word count: 1903

You do this because you love yourself.

Of course that's the case. You doll yourself up before you go to the bar, a good long hour of preparation always includes a fragrant shower that leaves your body soft and well-moisturized, makes you feel like a divine being, a manifestation of raw beauty itself. After your skincare routine you settle in a plush chair in front of the mirror to do your makeup. It might not be much, just a small touch-up to accentuate your natural beauty or hide an aggravated pimple, it might be a lot if you're feeling fancy, a dramatic look feels like a fun bit of masquerading. You might skip this step altogether. You deserve it.

You do this because you hate yourself.

Every time you go there it starts the same and ends the same, too. You buy your own drink first to get in the mood, something you know will knock you out the fastest. It's been a while since you've last chosen your alcohol by taste instead of percentage. The glint of intoxication gives your eyes a catty appearance that few can resist, gives your spine a curve you rarely see in the mirror - an inviting shape, the small of your back begging to be caressed by a knowing palm. You can't afford it sober, with all your responsibilities your body's mental image contorts into a creature most resembling Atlas holding the world on his shoulders. No room for a hug at all.

Soon your figure finds itself in a sardine can of wet breaths, skin rubbing against skin through the skimpy outfits people usually wear to such places. The pheromones work you better than any substance you could ever try. You've been bought enough drinks by now to fit right in with the dancing crowd, your whole being traveling through it like plankton through the thick of the sea, hardly paying any attention to the way the jerky moves of someone against your flesh get replaced by a thoughtful sway of hips, a gentle touch that stops your slow drifting, slender hands gluing the bottom of your stomach to a muscled set of abs. You feel a pulsing vein where his bare skin dips under the rough fabric of his pants, the speeding heartbeat and a dishonest smile pulling tightly on his cheeks sober you up just enough for disgust to settle. You deserve it.

"What is a bella like you doing in a ditch like this?"

The smell of his sweat, tinged with woody cologne that's nearly overshadowed by the stench of smoke and a rich dry rye aroma - you write it off as him having drank a particularly strong unfiltered beer - all get into your head, and he gladly takes your laughter for an answer. With him having already taken your body in his arms you have to ask yourself what else he is planning to take from you. You deserve it, in any case.

The next however-long-he-wants you spend tightly pressed against his chest, barely able to keep up a simple dialogue, let alone count the time between him laying eyes on you and him taking you home. Your arms find his long hair, and something cracks in your fingers as you pass the locks between them, smooth strands turning into what feels like dry grass, and you furrow your eyebrow when you feel a spikelet somehow stuck in there as well. You don't pay much attention, though, as he quickly draws your thoughts elsewhere, asking if you like the music here. You press your cheek against the well-worn decorated leather collar of his coat and admit that you hate it, describing roughly what you actually enjoy. He picks a two-word description for the genre quicker than you're able to recall the name for it, and you're sure that he's just made it up. You laugh, because it's still spot-on.

"I'm a musician, you know. Maybe I could write you something you'd actually like?"

Do you really deserve it?

You still allow him to take you back to his place so he could play you something. The cold night air turns into chills slithering down your spine as you watch him pull his rusty motorcycle off the road to a non-distinct farmland, and his honeyed whisper in your ear promising that he "knows a spot" sounds less like a good prospect and more like finding yourself in 10 separate bags by the dawn. For now, you get comfortable as your back meets a cushy haystack and your vis-a-vis shuffles closer to you, trying to squeeze against and under your body so you're practically in his lap. Did he always have a violin with him?

You watch his adam's apple move in sync with his hearty laughter as he throws his head back, his warm fingers sliding up your thighs, a tender gesture coming to a sharp end as his claws dig into the flesh around the ridges of your ilium. You suppose it's the blinding white pain that illuminates your dark corner of the hayloft when the bow touches the strings, but as you open your eyes after wincing your vision is captured by the way his fiery fingers operate the violin, the whole left side of his face drowning in golden light. In your enchanted state you almost wish to be it - right until the moment his other set of arms digs deeper under the warm safety of your clothes.

Your ears work slower than your eyes, and the sound of him calling you a galore of Italian diminutives gets drowned in the melody he plays, your thoughts follow the notes as the man dives to pin you against the fragrant haystack. "Tesoro" as he presses his foxy smile against your neck, sharp teeth sliding along your vein in a silent threat until he decides to grace your nerve endings with an open-mouthed kiss that starts under your ear and wraps around your jawline towards your throat, where he bites. "Cara mia" as the bow rips the song off the strained strings, and the sound drips down your legs that now hug the musician's waist, licking your shaking body, laying thick in the bottom of your belly and the back of your clouded mind. “Amore” as the fabric of your skin-tight top is peeled off your body, the violinist catching the galloping goosebumps in his warm hands, his hot breath snaking its way down your sternum giving you enough heat to not even shiver against the cold night air. "Dolcezza" as he uses both of his real hands to rip apart your underwear.

Deep in the sensory overload you barely register the “ding” of his belt buckles sliding against each other as his nimble fingers work his jeans open. You are, despite everything, painfully aware of his cock easily reaching all the way up to your navel when he lays himself against your body, clearly showing off. His hips buck expectantly, waiting for your eyes to dart upwards to meet his gaze, see how he licks his lips that stretch in an impossibly wide smile, accentuated by his facial hair. He wants you to maintain eye contact as he positions his tip to slide effortlessly against your hole, lingering there to rub between your legs just to make you shiver, to let you feel the twitch of him against the most delicate parts of you. As a cold breeze licks your stomach, you can feel the trail of pre he left while withdrawing from you, and a pulsing vein wrapped around his shaft, his speeding heartbeat rubbing against your heat further confirms that he's been dreaming of this moment for quite some time. You gasp as he finally pushes in.

He makes sure to go slow enough for you to feel every detail of his shape, down to the texture of his skin as he presses his cock deeper into you. The ridge where his glans ends teases your opening just right, the spread open muscle at the entrance tightening while your body obediently wraps itself around his shaft. He gets impatient quickly, indulging your hole with a slow thrust that pulls him in over the halfway mark before he withdraws just to dive in the next moment, hips bucking faster than he can get a reign of himself. His rhythm is flawless, though, toned hips working perfectly to stuff you with a dick that massages your every spot, pulsing veins meeting nerve endings in engorged walls. His mouth is glued to your chest, teeth digging into soft flesh just to sharpen your senses without quite leaving a mark, wet kisses cut off by desperate gasps and Italian curses as his cock twitches inside of you, thick shaft buried to the hilt in smooth muscle. He counts your ribs with a light touch of slender fingers that would dig into the plush flesh of your thighs the very next moment if you didn't feel one of them slither downward along the curves of your torso, dipping past your navel and traveling further south until he can massage your sex, the pad of his thumb rubbing against the most perfect spot in the most perfect rhythm. You see stars when his hand falls in sync with his thrusts, you turn to mush when the frequency deliberately fluctuates to create a symphony on the strings of your nerve endings. A drop of sweat peels off his chest to fall onto yours, and you can swear it evaporated on contact. There's a tight knot where your bodies connect.

“Sing for me, bella.”

You feel too many hands snaking around your body, your blood freezes when smooth bone wraps around your wrists, a moment of hesitation more than enough to pin you down. You're in no place to fight, though, as the musician quickly maneuvers your lower half, palms hooked under your knees until they're pressed into soft hay just next to your shoulders. He thrusts triumphantly, hissing when he sinks impossibly deeper, just half a centimeter enough to knock a pathetic whimper out of your lungs. He bites his lip while he bullies your hole, a heated whisper of inaudible Italian words crawling inside of your mind as the violinist presses his lips against your ear is enough to nearly push you over the peak, a deliberate thrust that drags a thick vein against your soft spot finishing the job. Your body sucks him in as it raptures, a slew of noises from your swollen lips is music to his ears as his cock twitches hard before spilling, pressing thick cum against the muscle he was fucking into just now. There's enough seed for a drop of it to escape your body while his hips are still practically glued to your ass, more so as he withdraws just enough for you to relax, sore joints creaking almost audibly. He doesn't pull out, though, even as he settles against your chest, long brown hair falling onto your torso to cover the glisten of sweat on your skin. Even in the dark of night you can see his eyes, half-lidded and full of admiration as he nuzzles against you, love seeping from every pore of his body.

“Don't know what you were doing there at the bar, bella, but you deserve so much better. Stay away from hell-holes like that, promise? Do it because I love you.”

Looking at my user nervously sweating

Jack the pepper or Jack the rapper or Jack the jacker or maybe actually Jack the Ripper?

Okay 👍

Gift for my friend 🎁

RAMATTRA HEADCANONS

!! 18+ • MDNI

!! gn! reader, DomTop!rammy, SubBottom! reader, degrading, rammy w/o p and w/ p because :3, not proofread but does it have to be if its hcs?

!! guys I wovb him..

RAMATTRA WHO...

Doesn't quite understand why humans are so desperate to cum.

I mean he wasn't built with that intention in mind, obviously. So he isn't equipped with those parts.

But he does enjoy watching you come undone in his large hands.

Fucking degrading ass tease.

Slowly pumping his cold fingers in and out of you as he goes on about how stupid it is.

How desperate you are some such a simple action and some desperate words.

He gets turns on from it though, you can 100% tell.

His metal heats up, you can hear the fans go off.

His voice seems off too. Like whatever makes him speak seems to malfunction

I'm 1000% sure he, at some point, will install himself a dick.

One that syncs with him and allows him to accurately understand what it's like.

Will he tell you where he got it?

No

Don't even try finding out behind his back. Will not work.

Surprises you with it one day while you're particularly desperate from him working you with his fingers.

"You're so pitiful. So weak for something so simple... Let's see how well you can handle this.."

But the moment he slips his big cock inside you, and his sensors fire like crazy, it clicks.

He gets it.

He really gets it.

Man gets overwhelmed at first and he has to take it slow

Of course he tries to make it seem like he's going slow for your sake, but you can hear his voice module start fucking up a little.

How shaky it sounds, how low it's dropped.

But he tries to play it off.

"This is what you get off to? This is what drives humans to insanity..? Pitiful."

Ramattra definitely grips you tight enough to leave bruises too as he slowly thrusts into you.

The less overstimulated he gets, however, the faster he goes as he chases his high with you.

When you plead for more, he scoffs.

"You humans are never satisfied, always begging for more, always seeking your highs.."

But he gives in because he can't stop fucking you.

He loves the feeling of you around him, loves how you tighten every time he hits the right spot.

He's addicted to you.

And when he finally cums (because you better believe he has one that shoots a substance similar to human sperm) he short circuits a little.

He literally has to reboot after he does aftercare.

Holds you in his arms as he does. And when he's back online, he gets embarrassed when you start lightly teasing him.

"Okay, I get it. Maybe it isn't.. as bad as I thought it'd be."

Gabriel Reyes who treasured you so sweetly even during the toughest times of Overwatch. Gabriel Reyes who cooked you hearty homemade meals and twirled you around to music in the kitchen when the sun came down.

Reaper who follows you home in a wisp of smoke at night - making sure you’re home safe but not being able to tear his eyes away from the empty space in the bed beside you. His space.

You must be so cold, without him there. But when he looks down at his freezing, clawed gauntlets - no longer the warm weathered skin they used to be - he surmises that you’d be safest away from the Reaper.

sorry if this is like so insane but ur human ramattra design lowkey looks like me and it freaked me out for a second. amazing art lol

Honestly, from the bottom of my heart, you must be a gorgeous human being and I wish you a great day

(also please specify if you enjoy seeing a character looking like you or it makes you uncomfortable, I'm not really sure what to do in either case (it's my first time living) but I feel like I need to know :') )

English is not my first language, I have a very limited experience in writing

CWs: none

Zenyatta/GN!Reader

Summary: fluffy description of you painting Zenyatta's portrait (you love him) (nothing much really happens, I just wanted to be nice to him)

"Zenyatta," your soft voice cuts the silence with way less certainty than you have in your brush strokes, "are you meditating right now, as I draw you?"

"I find it to be the easiest way to pass time while being completely motionless. So yes... Why do you ask?" You heard the sharp wheeze of his vizors' shutters opening and, even though his stature remained still, you knew he was, in fact, startled awake. Joints locked to hold the pose perfectly, he was the best muse you could've hoped for.

"I just thought that would be very in-character," your eyes scan the thoughtful expression he's permanently frozen in, and you catch yourself reading way too much into the emotionless faceplate, denying the omnic a chance to actually express himself. Humans love their assumptions. "You can stop holding the pose so diligently, you know. It's a portrait, not a still life."

Your words hang heavy in the air, accidentally bearing more meaning than intended. No matter how hopeful Zenyatta might be towards humans, there's still a soft pleasure for him in knowing that to you he's never been a "thing", something that he's been considered one too many times in his life. You care enough for him to always be a person.

The monk imitates a cough, rubbing the scruff of his neck as his joints click free one by one. He stretches, and you recognize him moving in a deliberately animated way to ease the tension. "I suppose I misunderstood the nature of having a portrait painted," his voice is calm, soothing even, "But if I move, wouldn't that interrupt your drawing?"

"I just want you to be yourself," you stumble on your words, trying to pick the right meaning, the snowball of your thoughts growing more and more dangerous the lower your eyes crawl along the shapes of the omnic's body. He's incredibly pleasant to look at, a perfect amalgam of form and function, the golden ratio personified. He looked effortlessly divine in every pose he chose, and drawing him felt like breathing - a need, something you'd die without.

You have to chase the fleeting thought as you note the way he tightens the grip on his knee, a pang of strictness that brings you back to reality. "...Just be yourself. I know you don't usually meditate completely still, do you now?"

He chuckles, bringing his fingers up to cover the place his mouth would occupy. "That is truly unlike of me. If you insist..." You track the orb he effortlessly levitates out of place as it makes its way around his arm, coming to rest a few inches above the pool of his palm. He toys with it, spinning the ornate object in place without touching it as he tilts his head to the side. Looks deeper into the magic he possesses, tries desperately to connect to the energy hidden beyond the interaction that looks so simple under his command.

There's warmth in your chest, a fuzzy feeling that somehow feels akin to the way a ray of sunshine hugs Zenyatta's form with upmost care. The composition of the portrait finally falls into place: your muse has always been so much beyond the expressionless metal flesh that a mere thought of his true glory makes yor heart swell.

Surprisingly, omnics turn out to be way more open to the idea of having portraits of them painted than you'd expect. While Echo might just be curious, the monks of Shambali see it as a form of meditation, a way of pondering their existence no camera would be capable of. There's still slight unease when your prying eyes trace the net of their battle scars, picking apart every hastily plastered wound to translate their pain into art. You explain, mostly just to confirm your own thoughts, that it's the highest form of love.

English is not my first language, I've never written a fanfic before

Ramattra x GN!Reader

CWs: Slight NSFW(?)

Summary: Ramattra enjoys having repairs done to him way too much

You cautiously reach deeper inside, with your hand disappearing up to the elbow in his chest cavity through a small opening in his midriff, each section of his "abs" detachable if need be.

There's enough room to wiggle your soft flesh without touching the surrounding machinery. You're sat in his lap, with his visors burying holes in your forehead from underneath the emotionless plate of his face. The pressure is driving you wild, and you lose yourself briefly trying to decide which is hotter: his insides, where the scorching wind from his fans licks your skin, already sleek with sweat, or your cheeks, flush with embarrassment.

You're not an engineer. Far from possessing any meaningful prowess in mechanics, only having fixed house appliances a couple times in your entire life. But you're the best thing he can count on, and the task is more than simple: you just have to replace an extremely distinct knob just under his shoulder blade, easily accessible from the inside if you are lucky to have hands small enough to fit through the access hole. He sighs, flexing his giant palm idly. If he wanted, he could've closed his fingers around your thigh with ease.

You locate the knob, feel its melted form and unscrew it as carefully as you can while the edge of his armor digs into your skin, drastically reducing the freedom of movement you have. With your fingers tiptoeing around a ruined part of his, your eyes track every movement of the rest of the omnic's body. You don't trust him, just as much as he doesn't trust you. He sighs, his giant frame shuddering, vents creaking open and fans whirring louder as his head comes to rest against the wall he's leaning onto. You continue.

The knob falls into your palm eventually, and you can almost feel his disappointment of being empty as you retrieve it, completely pulling your hand out of the oven of his chest. He puts a heavy hand on your hip - a gesture you interpret as him making sure you don't run off without installing the new part in place of the ruined one. You shift against his thigh, and he grips harder as you plunge your hand back inside, bolder now than before.

Rough movements of your palm, metal being dragged against his insides as you try to insert the new knob where it belongs, failing miserably. He groans, and you feel every single one of his slender fingers dig into your flesh. You are sloppy, way too confident, a stray wire catching onto your finger as you screw in the knob. His heavy breathing replaces all your senses, leaving only the task at hand and the heat enveloping your body. Why would an omnic breathe anyway?

This time you can't even get your hand out without trouble. You're stuck in a rat king of his inner workings, your fingers slithering along the edges of his machinery, tracing thick wires in an attempt to find a way out of the endless loops, and to your horror you feel him tighten around you, heavy breaths turning into gasps and whimpers as you become more frantic, trying to free your hand from the scorching hot trap. Your lower body comes flush against the plate covering his groin as he drags you with both hands now, moving your flesh closer to his metal torso, deliberately grinding against the softness of your belly - you are too scared, too concentrated on the wires ensnaring your wrist to read him. You think he is in pain.

Your ass is the perfect size to fit in his palm, meat squeezing between his fingers as he holds you in place while his hips buck to meet your welcoming curves. He moans, silver caps on the ends of his flat cable "hair" clanking against his shoulders as he throws his head back and relaxes as suddenly as if he'd pressed his own power button.

You remain in his lap, playing with the limp wires until he wakes up.

What if I just started posting imagines while I'm busy with commissions and can't draw for fun?

Got the 197th out of 300 Ramattra busts for my upcoming birthday 🎂

You know what? I love you *interrupts commissions to draw more human war robot man*

If you ever see username RAMSROSETOY in overwatch 2 that is NOT me DEFINITELY don't @ me because I play like shit I MEAN THAT COMPLETELY UNRELATED PERSON PLAYS LIKE SHIT

He doesn't look scary. He has quite a welcoming presence, in fact, until you look closer and note the frown lines, the tiny wrinkles that outline the memory of a snarl, the roar of battle forever plastered on his face. Until the scars adorning his features are not there as neat details, but a reminder of gushing wounds splitting his face in pieces, and a promise of healing.

Despite what you'd expect, he has an inquisitive look to him, curious with a mischievous glint to his eye, extremely masculine, but not ungroomed, and in his gaze he always holds not a threat, but a challenge.

Black tight sweater

Coupling

Rating: Explicit | Warnings: None

art by @/JackThePeeper on tumblr and twt | Ao3 crosspost

“Come now, human. Make yourself useful.”

It is no surprise he takes control of the situation by commanding you. Orders are easy to give, easy to follow, they do not require you to think as all thinking is done for you. This he knows you will appreciate given the situation.

This arrangement has been weeks in planning; though on his side he spent months gathering the necessary information for this. It is only natural for a human to want intimacy, it is a basic need that can range from mental to physical connections. Ramattra is aware that you are discovering these needs, learning about yourself beyond the armor your consciousness can connect to. You know only of metal, killing, and the code that binds you to honor.

You find comfort in compliance, in how you knee between his open warming legs, your hands lacking experience as you take his cock and grasp it. It obviously is modeled after a silicone dildo, you are fascinated by the attention to detail to be pleasurable to the person receiving insertion... Will he enjoy this too?

“Gentle, this is no sword to wield.” His even tone keeps you from acting out of your character. You do not shy away yet you want to as you lack skill in this field.

“One hand will be enough. The rest you will use your mouth.”

Orders. You follow them to the letter as you use your mouth to take in what you can, pushing yourself to take more even when it makes tears build up at the corner of your eyes, your hand moving up and down.

“You have no practice with this sort of task.” Ramattra is not saying it as an insult but rather an observation, it is no surprise. Ramattra has never coupled with a human, the few videos he watched with omnic and human enacting sexual actions were… Limited. He has to guess the rest and create the purple silicone cock. It is optional for both himself and you, though seeing you struggle to take over half of it makes him consider reducing its size.

“Does it feel good for you?” You ask while gathering your breath. You heard the pick up of his fans, the static of his voice module as you believed he groaned, but you had to be sure.

“It does. You require practice but this is enough to lubricant me.”

You nod as you stand up and undress. There is nothing sexy about how you undress, it is only efficient and carefully folded on the floor. Ramattra can see the many scars, some old and some new, it is a reminder you know nothing but suffering. Forced to be a soldier and then tossed away when there was no use for you. Ramattra knows well your mannerisms in the years you have been around him, though you stand before him bare and at attention as if for inspiration, your eyes are looking away as his fingers touch your scars. He had caused some of these when the two of you were enemies— Strange how you told him you did not see him as an enemy but an opponent as enemies implies an emotional component. You held no hate towards him, you found yourself more often agreeing with him.

“I apologize for not maintaining a more desirable skin.”

“This is desirable, (Name).” Ramattra is quick to tell you. “Do you enjoy this?”

You nod slowly as one hand, his thumb, rubbing and flicking your nipple, “... May you… Hold me?” Being touched is… Different. You are not sure if you want to stop or keep coming, but you know you need him to hold you. Ramattra stops to allow you to join him on the bed with your back against his chest, his cock rubbing your ass. “Continue.” Soft, nervous, your hands grip his thighs as he guides you to open your legs. It is strange the vulnerability of this, it has your heart racing yet the way Ramattra touches you with extreme care as if you are made of glass makes you feel… Loved.

Weapon to weapon, he had thought you to be a new type of omnic made to fight for human masters. One that bled, a semi-organic robot. No, your warframe is part of you, the way a sword is viewed as an extension of the wielder. Using what is called Transference to dream of not what you are but what you can be. A weapon forged from childhood, forced to slumber and dream of killing.

There is a saying ‘Misery loves company’, Ramattra found the shared misery a comfort and you used it to build a bridge between him and you.

Your moans are not loud, they are breathless and pitchy at times but not loud. The stickiness between your legs as you shiver as he keeps going until you are struggling to handle the force of your orgasm. It is like a storm wrecking everything in its path, Ramattra delights in the display as he guides you through it until you slump against him looking completely ruined.

There is more to be done, more to explore and experience, you feel on fire and eager with newfound fascination. You appreciate Ramattra's patience and how he turns you around to face him, he is careful and yet makes sure not to be so gentle you will complain. You groan when his hold is firm, you tell him while high on endorphins that you want his mark all over you. You kiss his face plate, grip the back of his shoulders, bottom lifted as he positions you. His fingers did well in preparing you, he made sure to research human anatomy just for you and how to make a first-time experience pleasant, there is no pain though there is the oddness of being filled in a unique manner.

Is this what it means to be connected? To find the matching piece of your soul? You might cry if you continue thinking about it, you tell him to move with clear fascination in your voice. The wonderment of being made for another, you feel made for Ramattra. It is an honor adding to the pleasure shared, your voice louder inspiring him to lay you down on your back.

“Ramattra,” His hand pinning both your wrists above your head, “More, Stars, more.” You want every inch of him a part of you, if possible to link with him using the Transference— Yet you know doing so is impossible and invasive for him, you would not mind him within your mind.

The pace is faster, metal on flesh, the ambiance of his fans and voice along with your rising voice and skin is something you envy him to be able to record. To capture everything with accuracy rather than emotional alterations, you do not want to forget. You want to do this every day until it is imprinted onto your very being.

You do not last long, you take note to work on that, as your orgasm has you writhing and calling out the only being that matters in this moment. Ramattra takes a bit longer as he has gone through every possible outcome and adjusted to adapt to be satisfying in bed. Oh, he is proud of himself to have you a mess under him, other positions taken to see how far he can go until your mind is broken. His systems are quick to regulate as your body starts building up the bioelectricity, without your Volt frame you could burn the bed. Ramattra can handle the low-grade shock but the bed cannot. He eases you to calm down, to grip him as he has you now laying on your side facing him with your leg hooked over his waist.

The warning message, static, your spark is edging him to an end he is trying to avoid, he wants to prolong this for a moment longer. But he is not given it as your third release has both you and him fall to darkness.

You wake in another room staring out a window overlooking a city then realize you are in your warframe in the workshop. It is embarrassing that you blackout so hard you are linked to your frame. It is not hard to go back to your physical body, which is done after placing the warframe in a meditation pose, you are just flustered.

Waking yourself back in your physical body and being heavily aware of the position has you sore primarily in your legs. Not to mention the synthetic cum inside of you is dipping out of you as Ramattra's cock returns to its sheathe. You hate having to move as you find this like moving after an intense sparring sensation with Genji. You at least can say you feel happy, you hope Ramattra does too or at least relaxed. Moving his body is rather humorous as he had shut down completely, yet it is emotional as he is completely vulnerable. You sit on the bed watching his body start to reboot, eyes following the sounds of his systems then at his face plate as the lights on his head glow then his optics making sounds of adjustments.

“(Name).” Seeing you watching and then smiling at him.

“Are you well?”

“A question I should be asking you,” He remains lying down as his body needs to do a scan after your electrical shock and orgasm have overloaded him. “I will be fine in a moment.”

“I am well,” Then you shake your head realizing that was very formal sounding, “I enjoyed it.”

“As did I.”

“It would probably be best to do this with the frame next time to reduce likely short circuits.”

Silence then Ramattra speaks up, “Your frame has the capability to—”

“No! Uh… Not at first… I modified it in case you would find our coupling more…Pleasurable that way.”

Ramattra had not thought to use your warframe given the way you used it only for combat, a mindset for battle you slip into. Here he had made his anatomical adjustments and so did you. “Only if you wish to do so. This however is preferable.” His hand comes up to cup the side of your face that you tilt your head towards with appreciation.

Just realized I've never posted my Ramattras here! I'm physically unable to draw robots but here you go