Work Text:
Equius has a lot of practice deliberately focusing on the details of his work in order to avoid being distracted by his STRONG attraction to the android at the heart of the project. Hal’s body is exquisite, a marvel of engineering beside which most advanced robotics look about as sophisticated as the clumsily riveted scrap metal constructs of his wigglerhood. If he hadn’t become extremely good at compartmentalizing, he’d never get anything done.
His current task, though, is testing him.
The opening—he’s been trying very hard not to think of it as Hal’s nook, and even succeeding some of the time—irises open smoothly and silently, curved plates retracting completely into the surrounding ring. He runs a frond along the inner circumference to be sure there are no sharp edges, nothing to scratch or pinch sensitive biowires. Under Hal’s silicone polymer skin the aperture will be invisible whether open or closed, and a short slit can be opened at the appropriate juncture in the resealable seam that runs down the center of his torso, through which the phallic appendage will emerge. If coated with the same type of synthetic skin, in the same color, its appearance will be similar to that of the external genital configuration possessed by most male humans.
Equius swallows, steps away, scrubs roughly at his sweaty face with a convenient towel. When he’s focusing on the task at hand he’s fine, but when he lets himself see the full picture of what’s in front of him, Hal’s body laid out on the worktable with his synthetic skin split and peeled open from throat to groin to expose the polished metal of his exterior plating, legs spread wide around the newly gaping aperture, a perfect circle opening to the shadowed interior of his body—
His palmhusk pings. The message is from Hal, so it must have been scheduled in advance, or sent automatically in response to some pre-programmed signal—it wouldn’t be the first time. Equius accepts it with a gesture.
Hal’s synthesized voice echoes in the emptiness of the workshop.
Hello, Equius. How’s the installation going?
I took the liberty of programming sensors to track changes in the ambient temperature and humidity of your immediate workspace, along with basic biometric data. If you’re receiving this message, then by my calculations, the probability that you are currently horny as fuck has just exceeded 90%. Based on previous observations, I believe I can predict with 98.9% confidence that servicing my sweet robobod is what's getting you all hot and bothered, and taking into account this evening’s maintenance agenda, I’d be willing to bet a substantial sum that you’re thinking about subjecting my brand new hole to some rigorous quality control testing via your personal crotch python right now.
By “thinking about” I mean “sweatily fantasizing about,” not “actually considering,” because I know you’re too gosh darned respectful to seriously contemplate being so impolite as to fuck the everloving shit out of a helplessly dormant android in your care.
"Fiddlesticks," Equius mutters, mopping at his face with a towel. Hal's insight into the innermost recesses of his mind is as intimate and merciless as always.
Don't get me wrong, the artificially tinny message continues, I'm not judging you for your excellent taste in sexy fucking robots, or for being overcome with lust for the finely crafted specimen now before you.
Please note that while the word ‘fucking’ in the foregoing sentence functions primarily as a grammatical expletive or intensifier, you are encouraged to consider it also as a participial adjective modifying ‘robot.’
Let me be fully transparent, albeit in a strictly metaphorical sense, man to troll, sexy android to robot fetishist: this is an explicit invitation to indulge in the debaucheries of your choice with my body while I’m offline. I really hope you’re not too much of a gentleman to accept it.
Come on, I’m ready, willing, and engineered to withstand even the most vigorous of your affections. You can and absolutely should do shit to me that would literally kill a human or troll of my dimensions. I mean, assuming you want to. If this assumption is unwarranted I will only be slightly more embarrassed than disappointed. The point is, I can take it.
He can, too. Equius knows this body’s specs, its resistance and resilience to within a .05% margin of error. After all the time he’s spent working on Hal he knows the compressive and tensile strength of every alloy in his frame by heart. He built the reinforced casings for the crucial interior components and installed them himself, he’s personally stress-tested his external plating and knows that his hands won’t dent it, he helped design the complex cushioning and suspension system that stabilizes and protects the most delicate parts of him from impact damage, he inspected the pneumatic shock absorbers just last week, he knows as well as anyone could how strong and sturdy this body is, how well-constructed.
Equius swallows hard. His bulge is halfway out already, writhing in his shorts, and—yes, he wants to, he does, Hal’s body is a masterpiece and he wants to caress and penetrate and possess it, wants to taste the metal under the synthetic skin and feel the heat and hum of the processors in his chest and see all those gleaming surfaces spattered with his color.
In the relatively unlikely event that you manage to damage me in the throes of passion—which, to be clear, would be so fucking hot that I almost want to encourage you to try—we are conveniently located in your workshop and the rest of the night is already designated for maintenance. So go on, get that monster bulge all up in me. Bet it’s longer than my whole damn torso, bet you could stick the tip out of my mouth if I had one. Fuck, maybe I should have a mouth. Put that on the project roadmap.
He steps up to the edge of the workbench and bends over the android, arms braced on the work surface above his head, and lets his bulge explore the oh so familiar shape from the outside, first. Its unrestrained writhing is obscene, smearing material all over Hal's upper body as it twists and undulates. He always looks small under Equius’s oversized hands, but with the substantial length and girth of Equius’s bulge squirming and flexing against his chassis he seems even smaller, and deceptively delicate. And he wants—is willing, is encouraging Equius to--he shudders at the thought. He picks the android up, fronds meeting over the vents that run up Hal’s back on either side of his posture pole, and kisses the unbroken curve of his faceplate where a mouth would be, if Hal hadn't so far disdained to imitate most details of human facial structure. Metal creaks under the pressure of a grip that would have crushed a human’s ribcage, and he relaxes it with an effort. His bulge coils around one of Hal’s dangling legs, squeezing rhythmically.
There's a lot of space in the interior of Hal's lower torso, some of it eventually to be occupied by a genital apparatus yet to be constructed and the mechanisms that will enable Hal to extend it at will. Equius is still developing his plans for the first prototype, testing the extent to which various silicone-based elastomers can be made to mimic the properties of organic erectile tissues, but he already knows Hal will want the final product to be disproportionally large--something to do with his rivalry with Dirk, who long ago surpassed him in size, though not, in Equius's admittedly somewhat biased estimation, in any other capacity. For humans as for trolls, oversized genital appendages tend to be associated with sexual dominance, even if they can often prove inconvenient in intimate encounters. Equius knows from bitter experience that the popular pailing fantasy of getting one’s nook stuffed beyond normal capacity by a much larger troll’s bulge is rarely makes for a satisfying experience in reality. He’s hoping to engineer something for Hal with a higher degree of variability in length and girth than a natural phallic organ, so that its dimensions will not restrict his ability to enjoy sexual intimacy with partners unwilling or unable to be penetrated by something its future owner has occasionally referred to as "a massive fucking dong."
There's a lot of space in the interior of Hal's lower torso, but not nearly enough to accommodate the whole of Equius's bulge, especially since his abdominal walls differ from those of trolls and humans in being notably inelastic. Perhaps half, Equius thinks, and he's shaking as he lowers Hal's body slowly, pausing to unwind his bulge from the ankle it's wrapped itself around, and lays it back down on the work surface. He lets his hips press forward, splaying Hal's legs farther apart, and his squirming bulge finds the aperture between them and surges into it. It's not snug like a troll's nook, of course, just a hollow space, but his bulge twisting and doubling over to cram itself inside turns it into a tight and slippery squeeze that makes him gasp and shiver, and when that first cavity is filled it quests deeper.
There's less empty space in Hal's upper torso, but there is space, space for air to circulate, facilitating thermoregulation, space for convenient maintenance access to key component parts, space filled with compressible cushioning materials for shock absorption, and Equius can feel his bulge burrowing and squeeze into that space, forcing itself deep, squirming into every tight crevice. Hal has no self-contained reproductive tract to restrict its explorations, after all, none of the discrete and discontinuous systems that make it impossible for a bulge to wriggle into the gaps between an ordinary living person's organs, reach their bloodpusher or their airsacs or feel the hard arcs of their thoracic struts from the inside.
That kind of intimate invasion of a living person would be excruciating and almost certainly fatal for the subject, and wholly undesirable on that account, despite the rhetorical appeals to such a fate popular in certain genres of pornography. People who say things like "I want to feel your bulge in my throat" don't mean it literally, unless of course they're referring to oral sex, and even then the sentiment tends to be something of an exaggeration.
Hal doesn't have a throat, but there is a hollow shaft inside the column of his neck through which run the cables that connect his ocular cameras, microphones, speakers, and chemosensor array to the power supply, processors, and data storage drives in his torso. Equius's bulge could push its way up that narrow passage right into the hollow chamber in his head that produces the tinny reverb effect in his synthesized voice, could lick out of his mouth, if he had one, like a dripping blue tongue.
For a moment he pictures Hal perched in his lap and Dirk standing between his knees, bending to kiss his android double while Hal’s whole body rocks with the movement of Equius’s bulge muscling its way up through his torso, letting the first few inches of it squirm into his hot mouth and tangle with his eager tongue.
He shakes his head violently, flinging a spray of sweat droplets across his workspace. That’s filthy, shocking in its perversity, absolutely depraved, and he can tell the illicit image will keep creeping back into his head every time he fills a pail for weeks, no matter how hard he tries to banish it. It doesn’t help that he knows Dirk likes sucking bulge—Sollux is even more shamelessly indiscreet than Hal is and an absolute disgrace as an auspistice, Equius has overheard both of them teasing Dirk about his enthusiasm for the act—
Hal slides a few inches along the surface of the workbench, sweat-damp polymer skin squeaking against steel with the force of the flexing bulge stuffed into him. Equius can feel the slow and steady pulse of the artificial bloodpusher in his chest, pumping ionized fluid through the network of biowires inside him, the sensation amplified by the tight squeeze of protective cushioning compressing his bulge. It's too much, too fast, too dirty and degrading, too inexpressibly, humiliatingly hot. His bulge wriggles against something warm and whirring and that's Hal's hard drive, that's Hal, the heart and essence of him, starting the scheduled soft reboot of his systems that will bring him out of sleep mode, and he chokes on a desperate cry and spills abruptly, dousing everything in Hal's torso with a sudden flood of genetic material.
Well, shoot. He's going to need a lot more towels.