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You’ve always been fascinated by the omnics. Maybe fascinated is the wrong word, too clinical, too other. Fascinated isn’t the right word. You’ve always had an understanding, you suppose. While most of the world fought the omnic crisis, your parents fought for omnic rights, raised you to respect the differences and similarities between your kind.
You spent your teens shoulder to shoulder with omnics and humans alike, protesting, demanding better rights for the oppressed. It doesn’t seem to be helping, not really. You aren’t sure you’ll even see peace in your lifetime, and you’re only in your mid twenties. It’s a shame.
You’ve met - and dated - plenty of humans, plenty of omnics. But nobody, nobody has held your gaze like the man - is he a man? - currently standing opposite you.
You aren’t sure whether or not you’re genuinely frightened of him; you know who he is, what he’s capable of, but it isn’t exactly fear that has you caught. It’s the way he’s surveying you, arms crossed, unsure whether to be impressed or not.
“You’re the human who has been helping my people.” It’s a blunt assessment: if he could look you up and down almost dismissively, he would be. You’re not sure if he’s unimpressed.
“Yes?” You’re not sure if that’s the right answer, or enough of an answer, but it’s the one he gets. You’re sure there are plenty of humans who are more than happy to help omnics, but he seems to have singled you out.
“Why?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.” This is the truth, wholeheartedly you believe this, and it shows in the way you say it. Maybe he recognises that, too, stepping closer to you, assessing.
“You aren’t afraid of me.”
It’s a statement, not a question. You don’t need to answer it, but you shake your head regardless. Just to make sure he knows that you aren’t. You’re a lot of things, feeling a lot of things, but fear isn’t one of them.
“Odd.” He’s observing you now, head at a half tilt as he surveys you. “You don’t feel fear when you look at me. Admiration, perhaps? Or something more?”
You feel a blush colour your cheeks; how easily he’s managed to read you. It’s almost shameful, but yes. Admiration and desire are warring against your better sensibilities in your mind. Warring, and winning.
“Your silence is… damning.” He sounds almost amused, uncrossing his arms.
“Are you going to hurt me?” You don’t think he will, not truly, but a small voice in the back of your mind is a little concerned. You know his reputation for what he thinks of your kind. You don’t want to read him wrong.
“You haven’t done a single thing to warrant it.” He says finally, a hand coming up to brush your cheek; he’s being deliberately careful, very aware of his strength in comparison to yours.
“I’m human.” You point out softly.
“You’re you.” He replies, leaning down to touch his forehead to yours.
You want to kiss him so badly, even if that makes no sense; omnics don’t have lips, don’t have mouths like humans do. Luckily he can read you very well.
“You can. I’ll still feel it.” He’s encouraging you now, gentle in his tone. It almost surprises you, how gentle he is. It’s maybe that gentleness that encourages you to finally lean in and press your lips to where his mouth would be, if he had one.
His hand caresses your face again, then leaves it to trail down your side, settling on your waist. The irony doesn’t escape him - he was designed as a Ravager, to kill humans. And here he is, gently touching you as though you’re precious. Maybe you are, to him.
Every spot you kiss sets his sensors ablaze, the strange feeling of desire for you growing and growing as he backs you up against the wall. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, trusting him implicitly as he once again rests his forehead against yours.
One hand stays on your waist, but the other is exploring, his synthetic fingers strangely warm as he slides them across your hip, unzipping your pants, tugging them down slightly and sliding his hand inside, caressing your thigh slowly.
“Look at you…”
It’s praise, not disgust, that fills his voice, his fingers rubbing you through the thin fabric of your panties; you can’t help the whimper that falls from your lips at the touch.
His thumb brushes deliberately slowly across your clit, insistent. A hum of approval comes from him the moment you whimper again.
“So needy…” Those curious fingers slide your panties to the side with ease, caressing your wetness. “I wonder…”
You want to ask him what he’s thinking. You don’t get a chance; he’s quick to show you, sliding a single finger inside your soaked entrance, resting it there for a moment before adding a second. That alone would be enough to have you weak in the knees, but that’s not all. Of course not. He’s almost stroking your sensitive inner walls, doing that frankly adorable head tilt again as he watches you whimper and moan for him.
“I wonder… could you take more?”
“Y-yes!” You aren’t quite sure you know what he means; you’re making an educated guess, and you hope you’re right.
A low chuckle at your eagerness as he keeps sliding those fingers in and out of you; his other hand leaves your waist to untie the drawstring of the loose pants he wore; he lets them fall, baring himself to your admittedly curious gaze.
You aren’t sure what you had expected, but you hadn’t expected his… appendage… to be so humanoid. It’s a sleek jet colour, like the rest of him, with purple - you assume wiring, but it passes for veins, honestly. The tip is leaking a clear fluid, obviously a lubricant to allow for such couplings. He has rarely seen a usage for it, but you? You make it clear to him why he has such an appendage to begin with. All the better to make you his.
“Hmm…” He grips his length in his free hand, stroking it to full hardness in rhythm with his fingers inside you. “Such a sweet, obedient little thing, aren’t you? Tell me, precious one, what do you want?”
You shiver with want for him, the pleasure of his fingers inside you almost too much.
“I want… I want you… please…”
You know he’d be smirking if he could.
“Such nice manners,” he purrs, removing his fingers from you, lifting them to your lips. “Clean.”
Obediently, you part your lips for him, letting him press his fingers into your mouth; you suck them clean, slowly. It gives you the idea of what sucking his cock would be like, but you know he won’t let you, not this time. You’re both far too needy for one another for any more foreplay. It’s almost a shame.
Next time, you tell yourself. If you’re lucky enough to get a next time. More importantly now, you focus on him, the way he’s teasingly rubbing the head of his length against your wetness.
“Are you ready for me?”
“Yes-“ you breathe, moving to wrap one leg around his slim waist, giving him better access to you.
Another low chuckle as he lifts you with his free hand, the one that was recently inside you, the other guiding himself inside you.
Your head tilts back against the wall, lips parted as he slides into you slowly, inch by inch. Oh, he feels so good, filling and stretching you in just the right ways. You can feel him pulsing and throbbing inside you, more so than if he was human.
“You like that?” The pulsing seems to intensify somehow, just as he starts to move inside you. Perfect timing, if you were foolish enough to believe it was coincidence. You know he’s doing this somehow, deliberately, but you can’t complain.
You moan your response.
“Look how wet you are for me…” He seems pleased, smug, not remotely disgusted, as he starts to build up a steady pace.
He feels so, so good inside you, you can’t even speak, can only make frankly pathetic noises as he fills you, over and over, with little regard for any sort of exhaustion a human might feel. The idea that his stamina will far outlast yours only enthrals you further, makes you wetter and tighter around him.
He’s still holding you up against the wall, but moves you away from it without pulling out of you, setting you down on the closest surface before he continues; the new positioning allows him to get deeper inside you, hitting that sweet spot each and every time.
“Oh, god…” you moan out, and he hums disapproval.
“God? There is no god here, precious one. Only me, and I am not as merciful.” He finishes the sentence by picking up his pace, harder and faster, deeper inside you until you feel as if you can’t take any more, because he’s right. There is no god here, just you and him, and the way he’s making you feel in this precise moment, that you never want to end.
Only, it will. It will end; you can feel yourself getting closer and closer to that sweet release, tightening around him almost painfully, eyes dropping closed as you soak him. You want to keep your eyes open so you can look at him, but it’s impossible to do so when you feel so overwhelmed, so full and so pleasured.
He knows this, doesn’t even mind that you can’t look at him, because he’s getting close too, closer with every hard, deep thrust into your still tightening cunt, the added lubricant of your release making it easier for him to get deeper into you.
He almost moans when he cums - almost. It’s somewhere between a moan and a growl, but it’s still the most gorgeous sound you’ve ever heard, the way he grips your waist and his hips almost stutter to a stop, filling you with hot, wet ropes of whatever he releases.
“I like you.” He says finally as he pulls out of you; his cock almost retracts back as he pulls his trousers back into place.
“Y-you do?” You’re still panting on the table, trying to catch your breath, whatever makes up his cum and your own leaking out of you onto the polished wood.
“I do.” He nods, helps you sit up. “You can stay.”
In spite of your exhaustion, you laugh, gazing at him with something like adoration.