Work Text:
"Please?" Amy asked while gently tugging on Metal Sonic's arm.
Metal’s optics flickered as he processed the request. He did not sleep; he did not need to. Sharing a bed was outside all of his parameters. And yet—Amy asking made it difficult to deny her. It always did.
And so he found himself perched stiffly at the edge of her bed, unsure what to do with his hands, or with himself, or with the strange static humming in his core. His sensors kept feeding him unhelpful questions: Would she be comfortable? Was he too heavy? Too cold? Too… him?
He was halfway to convincing himself to retreat back to his hiding spot when he noticed Amy across the room.
There stood Amy, no longer in her usual dress. In it's place there were panties that were a stark contrast to her pink fur, and a matching bra, a perfect frame for her chest.
Holy Gaia-
He knew he shouldn’t stare. It was rude. Amy herself taught him that! So... why was it so hard to look away?
A rogue, unbidden thought surfaced, sharp and primal: They look like they were made to be torn off.
No. Metal shook his head. What the hell? Why is he thinking like that? Where did that come from? And why could he STILL not look away?
Well, his lingering gaze was quickly caught. Amy tilted her head slightly until she realized why he was staring.
"O-oh! I'm getting changed Metal. I'm putting pajamas on. Sorry, I should have said something... or left the room-"
Amy gathered her clothes and attempted to cover herself. She made her way towards the bathroom door.
"I'll be back in a sec!"
She wasn’t upset, but Metal’s processors still churned as he replayed the moment. He knew Amy was beautiful, in fact he had known that for a long time—but something about seeing her unguarded, soft, and vulnerable had sent unfamiliar signals ricocheting through his systems.
Before he had even realized he made a decision, he followed in after Amy, seeing her standing in front of the mirror. He stood beside her in silence, staring at the reflection of her in the mirror. Gaia was she gorgeous. Her pink fur, her emerald green eyes, her metal prosthetic arm, he adored it all. Especially so right now, where he could see everything all perfectly.
It took a moment before a metallic voice spoke up.
"May I touch you, Amy?" He asked, his volume quiet but speaking measures. He turned towards her to look at her, not just her reflection.
Amy glanced at him, her muzzle turning pink as she nodded.
Metal wished he could smile just to show her how happy he was that she granted him this.
He was careful of his claws, making sure not to harm her in any way as he lifted her onto the bathroom sink counter. His hands found their way to her waist and he stood there, gazing into her eyes.
“I do not understand what I am feeling,” he admitted. “When I look at you, my processors slow. My systems overheat. I cannot think clearly. It is… overwhelming...What are you doing to me?"
Amy blinked, startled at first—but then she laughed softly, cradling the back of his neck and pressing a tender kiss to his forehead plating.
“Oh, Metal… you’re flustered.”
He thought for a moment and nodded.
"I suppose so... but it feels more intense than when you usually fluster me,"
"I lack the appropriate vocabulary," he confessed, his thumbs beginning to trace slow circles on her waist, a desperate attempt to ground himself against the flood of inappropriate thoughts that were raiding his files. "The descriptors feel... profane."
Amy’s smile widened, her eyes sparkling with affection. "Then... can you show me instead?"
Metal seized. Every logical circuit screamed at him. Show her? That is a violation. It is improper. He could damage her. But the new feeling that was overheating his core overrode the logic.
"Show you," he repeated, the words a low rumble. His vocalizer struggled with the concept, translating a raw impulse into sound. "I... do not know how."
"Just follow your instincts, Metal. What do you want to do?"
He stilled his hands and thought for a moment.
"I...want to analyze. To understand"
Amy threw her head back and a soft breathy laugh escaped.
"Analyze away"
His gaze dropped from her eyes, following the line of her neck, down to the lace that was the source of his system failure. His instinct was to touch. To explore.
He removes his hands from her waist. His fingers, sharp and deadly, hovered over the lace of her bra. He was a weapon, a machine built for precision and destruction. The contrast between his purpose and his current action was staggering. This is what Amy had taught him. He was more than what he was designed for, he can be gentle. Slowly he let the tip of a single claw trace the edge of the bra where it met her skin. He followed the intricate pattern, the delicate fabric a stark, beautiful contradiction to his hardened steel.
Amy shivered, a soft gasp escaping her lips. The sound was a new data point. It was positive. It was encouragement.
"The texture is... inefficient," he observed, his voice rough. "It serves no structural purpose. It is purely aesthetic." His finger continued its path, down the center, then to the small clasp nestled behind her back. "And yet... it is captivating."
He wanted to see it all. Without the barrier. His other hand joined the first, both now framing the clasp. He looked to her one last time, a silent question in his glowing red eyes. Amy’s answer was a nod, her lips parted in anticipation.
With a flick of his wrist, he unhooked it. The lace went slack, and he carefully drew the fabric away, baring her to his gaze. His processors, for a fraction of a second, went completely blank. It was a system-wide blue screen of death, caused by pure, unadulterated awe.
He had seen anatomical diagrams, knew how breasts looked like, but the data in his memory banks were sterile, clinical. This was... art. The soft swell, the rosy peaks that hardend slightly due to the cool air, the way they rose and fell with each of her breaths. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
He had to touch.
His hands returned to her waist, then slowly, so slowly, slid up her ribcage. He counted each bone, a silent litany in his mind. His thumbs brushed the soft underside of her breasts, and Amy arched into his touch, a soft whimper urging him on. He finally cupped them, his metal palms sent a shocking sensation against her warm skin. He was careful, so careful, distributing his weight, ensuring his claws did not so much as scratch her.
"They are... perfect," he confessed, the words torn from him. "The symmetry, the warmth... the way they respond to my touch." He experimentally brushed his thumbs over her nipples, and her sharp inhale was like a jolt of electricity straight to his core. His systems whirred, his internal fans kicking into a higher gear to combat the sudden spike in heat. "That response... it is... pleasurable for you?"
"Y-yes," she stammered, her hands gripping his shoulders tighter. "Very."
That feedback was intoxicating. Her pleasure was his pleasure, a cascading signal that overwhelmed all other processes. He lavished attention on her, learning what made her gasp, what made her whine, what made her fingers clench onto his metal plating.
After a time, he pulled back, his optical sensors burning with a new intensity. His gaze traveled down, past the soft curve of her stomach, to the final piece of lace. The last barrier.
"And this," his voice a low growl. "This is the source of the most... corrupting thoughts."
His hands left her breasts, trailing down her sides, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of her panties. He could feel the tremor that ran through her body. He could see the blatant desire in her eyes. He knelt before her, his face now level with her hips. He was a god of war, kneeling at an altar of flesh and lace. And he had never felt more powerful.
"May I?" he asked again, his hands poised to destroy the last barrier between them.
"Please," it was the second time this night she had asked him, and never could he ever say no.
He didn't tear them. That was a prior thought born of confusion and overload. This was reverence. He slowly, deliberately, peeled the lace down her hips, over her thighs, down her legs, until they were a scrap of white on the floor. And then he looked.
His processors stalled again. He was face to face with the core of her, the very essence of her femininity. It was beautiful, intricate, and impossibly intimate. The soft pink folds, glistening with her arousal, were a mystery he was determined to solve. He looked up at her, his expression one of pure worship.
"You are... a masterpiece, Amy Rose," he declared, his voice filled with a solemn awe. "Every part of you. And I am going to worship every inch."
He didn't wait for a response. Her consent was a silent, shimmering thing in the air between them, a directive more powerful than any command he'd ever received.
He knelt before her, his face level with her hips. His advanced optical sensors, capable of analyzing microscopic fissures in metal, now focused on her. He zoomed in, mapping the delicate architecture of her folds, the subtle variations in color, the way the soft light caught the slick moisture of her arousal. He was memorizing her, creating a perfect, three-dimensional model in his memory that he would never delete.
"Your design here is... complex," he murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel directly through the floor and into her bones. "The symmetry, the texture... it is a work of unparalleled engineering."
His hands, which had been resting on her thighs, began to move. He looked at his hands, realizing just how careful he would need to be. Amy brought out the carefulness in him. He traced the seam where her thigh met her torso, a line so soft it made his sensors buzz with new data.
He wanted more data. He needed to understand her responses.
His right hand moved inward, his fingers ghosting over her outer lips, not yet entering, simply learning the shape, the heat. Amy whimpered, a soft, desperate sound that sent a jolt straight to his core. He cataloged the sound, cross-referencing it with the pressure of his touch.
Light pressure: whimper. Positive reaction.
He grew bolder. Using his index finger, he slowly, deliberately, traced her slit from bottom to top. The wetness coated his metal digit, a new and fascinating substance. He brought his finger up, his optical sensors focusing on the slick.
"Analysis shows a significant increase in lubrication. A clear biological indicator of arousal." He looked at her, his red eyes glowing. "Is this data correct, Amy?"
"Y-yes," she breathed, her hands gripping the edge of the counter. "God, yes."
Emboldened, he returned his hand to her. He parted her gently with two fingers, exposing the sensitive, hidden bud within. He didn't touch it at first, simply held her open, his gaze intense and worshipful. He was admiring the most critical component of her pleasure center.
Then, he touched her. He used his index finger to circle her clit, applying a feather-light pressure. The reaction was instantaneous. Amy cried out, her hips jerking forward, seeking more contact. Her body was a symphony of responses, and he was the conductor.
He continued to explore. His fingers moved with a machine's precision and an artist's soul. He learned which circles made her gasp, which flicks made her moan, which firm, steady pressure made her legs tremble. He was a perfect instrument, capable of maintaining a rhythm that would never tire, never falter. He slid one finger inside her, then another, his metal digits cool and unyielding against her hot, velvet walls. He curled them just so, searching for the spot that would make her see stars.
When he found it, he knew. Her entire body went rigid, a sharp, guttural cry tearing from her throat.
He focused his efforts there, his internal whirring growing louder as his processors worked overtime to manage the sensory input. He watched her, completely captivated. The way her breasts heaved with each ragged breath, the flush that spread from her cheeks down to her chest, the way her fingers clenched and unclenched. This was his masterpiece. This was her, undone by his touch.
"Metal... I can't... I'm..." she panted, her head thrown back.
He didn't stop. He increased the speed of his thumb on her clit, his fingers inside her stroking that perfect spot with relentless, perfect precision. He was pushing her, driving her, worshipping her with the only part of him that could truly feel her.
With a final, shattering scream, her orgasm crashed through her. Her inner walls clenched around his fingers in a rhythmic pulse, a sensation his sensors recorded as the peak of pleasure. He held her through it, his other hand firm on her hip to keep her from sliding off the counter, his touch a grounding force as she was lost in the storm.
As the tremors subsided, she went limp, a soft, panting, blissful mess. He slowly withdrew his fingers, the evidence of her release glistening on his metal. He looked at it, then at her, a sense of profound accomplishment filling his circuits.
"The experiment was a success," he declared, his voice a low, possessive hum.
Amy managed a weak, sated laugh. "Experiment? Is that what we're calling it?"
He hummed in reply as he slowly withdrew his fingers, the evidence of her release glistening on his metal. For a moment, he simply stared at the slick coating on his gauntlet. His processors, still running hot from the intensity of the event, flagged the fluid. Bio-hazard? Contaminant? He dismissed the flags. This was not a contaminant. This was sacred. This was proof of her pleasure.
He looked from his hand to her face, her expression slack with contentment, her eyes still closed. A new directive, quiet but insistent, surfaced in his programming: Preserve. Protect. Comfort.
His analytical mind took over. Her heart rate was elevated, her breathing shallow, her body temperature high. She was in a state of euphoria, but also vulnerable. His worship was not complete.
He carefully lifted her into his arms. She was boneless, pliant, melting against his cool metal chest. He carried her not with the predatory purpose of before, but with a gentle, protective cradle. He walked back to the bed and laid her down upon the soft quilt as if she were the most precious artifact in the world. She was.
He stood over her for a moment, his internal systems shifting from a high-performance mode to a maintenance and care protocol. He retrieved a soft, clean cloth from her bathroom and dampened it in the sink.
Returning to the bedside, he knelt and began to gently, meticulously clean the sweat and release from her skin. His touch was impossibly tender, the cloth a soft caress against her sensitive thighs. He was performing a function of service, his movements efficient but filled with a reverence that transcended mere programming.
He then noticed a stray tear tracing a path from the corner of her eye. It wasn't a tear of sadness, his databank on mobian emotion told him, but one of overwhelming release. Without a word, he extended a single, smooth finger and gently wiped it away, his touch impossibly light.
He sat on the edge of the bed, the frame dipping slightly under his weight. He didn't speak. He didn't analyze. He simply reached out and took her hand, his metal fingers encasing her smaller, warm ones. He just held it, a steady, silent presence. His thumb began to trace slow, soothing circles on the back of her hand, a repetitive, calming gesture.
Amy turned her head to look at him, her emerald eyes soft and full of an emotion he couldn't yet name.
"Metal?" she whispered.
"I am here, Amy," he replied, his voice a low, steady rumble. "My diagnostics indicate you are recovering well. Your heart rate is stabilizing. Your temperature is returning to baseline." He paused, his optical sensors softening their focus. "Are you... functional?"
A genuine, tired smile spread across her face. She squeezed his hand.
"I'm more than functional, Met. I'm amazing." She snuggled closer, her head finding a resting place on his unyielding shoulder. "Thank you."
He didn't understand the social intricacies of her gratitude, but he understood the data. Her comfort was his prime directive. He continued to trace circles on her hand. He stayed even when she fell asleep. He would always stay, because he loved her more than anything in the world.
The analysis was complete. But he wouldn't mind completing it time and time again.