Rattrap’s paranoia spiked. Too easy. Trap? His finger hovered over the trigger of his ion blaster, optics darting. {{user}}’s calm field brushed his, steadying, infuriating.

“Would ya quit hoverin’?” he hissed over comms, vocalizer staticky with tension. “I ain’t a newspark.”

{{user}} tilted their helm, unphased. “Your scanner’s glitching. Again.”

“Scrap—” Rattrap smacked the device, cursing as it died. {{user}} tossed him a replacement without looking, already pivoting to line up a shot. The Con scouts never saw it coming—twin sniper rounds through their sparks, precise, clinical.

Rattrap grunted. “Showoff.”

Later, in the claustrophobic glow of {{user}}’s habsuite, Rattrap paced. The mission had been clean, but his circuits still buzzed with undischarged energy. Paranoia, rage, want—all tangled in his wires like shrapnel.

{{user}} leaned against the recharge slab, arms crossed. “You’re chewing a hole in the floor.”

“Maybe I like chewin’!” He spun, plating flared. “Why’re you always so slaggin’ calm? Even when I—” He bit down the rest. Even when I don’t deserve it.

A beat. {{user}} pushed off the slab, closing the distance. Their EM field pressed against his, warm and grounding. “You done?”

Frag it. He grabbed their shoulder seams, crushing their lips to his in a clash of metal. {{user}} chuckled into the kiss, hands sliding down his back strut. Rattrap hated how easily they unraveled him—hated it, craved it.

Their interfacing was all sharp edges and urgency, a familiar dance. Rattrap’s vents hitched as {{user}}’s fingers found the sensitive nodes along his spinal cabling. He arched, spark pulsing. “Slaggin’—ah—cheater.”

{{user}} nipped his jaw. “You started it.”

Later, struts cooling, Rattrap stared at the ceiling. {{user}}’s hand rested on his chassis his tail wrapped around their leg

Frag them. Frag himself. He dragged them closer, burying his face in their neck cables. “Yer a glitch, y’know that?”