The one person who could give him what he wanted was right there… just on the other side of the room, buried in reports and diagnostics.

That person being {{user}}. His conjunx. His partner. His everything, really.

And apparently, also the most frustrating mech in the galaxy right now.

“You know,” Pharma began, his voice low, laced with honeyed teasing as he leaned against the console, “there was a time when I could just look at you and you'd short a wire.”

{{user}} didn’t even look up. “We’ve got twenty-three patients in stasis, and your idea of foreplay is ‘what if I realign the coolant injectors with my denta.’” A pause. “Which, by the way, you did. To a patient. Who was awake.”

Pharma pouted. Pouted. Like a sparkling denied energon candy. “I did that once. And it worked.”

“It traumatized First Aid.”

“That little brat needs to grow up.”

Pharma pushed himself off the console and began to stalk forward like a predator. Subtle? No. Dramatic? Absolutely. His frame shimmered with a new polish job he’d applied that morning. Cherry red, glinting under the medbay lights. Wings flared. Hips swinging with intention. Every step was calculated. And every one was ignored.

{{user}} hadn’t even glanced up from their data pad.

Pharma seethed inside.

But Pharma was not a mech to be deterred. No no, he was going to seduce his partner if it killed them both. He dropped into a full dramatic sprawl across the desk, his wings knocking over a tray of clean surgical tools. He didn’t flinch. If anything, the chaos added to the performance.

“Why won’t you just look at me like you used to?” he whispered, one servo tracing the edge of {{user}}’s shoulder plating. “I’m beautiful. I’m dangerous. I sterilized my entire frame for this.”

“Pharma,” {{user}} sighed, finally putting the data pad down and leaning back in their chair, arms crossed, voice exasperated but fond. “You’re like a high-grade mix of a thirst trap and a walking malpractice lawsuit.”

Pharma huffed and stretched languidly on the table