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"You can't even,"
You blink.
"I could."
He answers.
You bite your knuckle and look at him.
"Don't put that image in my head."
You breathe like a fish that was just airborne.
"Okay."
He reels it in, and sits his upper body up. His hands rest at his sides.
"Wait." You blurt.
He waits.
"But you could picture that? With me?" He prods at the shared image.
You dig your thumb into your palm. You wince. Forgot. Still healing...
Damn it.
"Yeah."
You cross your leg over the other.
"I don't know though. It feels sudden."
"We don't have to." The Prototype bells jingle at the tilt. He likes the way you're thinking it over.
"How would you even? Your mouth can't even move."
"I can be real enough for you." His shoulders recalibrate. "Let me show you...?" He tries his best not to use any voice clips.
Your gaze draws toward your blood and spit on his chest.
"Show me how?"
You deadpan.
Your heart works.
"Okay." You breathe.
Your brows pinch together when you think.
"I let you eat me out, then what? Then it's worse." You can't believe what you're saying.
The Prototype leans his face a bit closer.
"Nuh-uh." He stretches his needles, but they stay at his side. "We'll be happy."
"We won't be happy, we'll be more entangled."
The Prototype looks you ever, then bashfully holds his hands behind his back.
He tucks his front legs back in his loaf.
"We'd be happy."
He whispers to the ceiling.
"I don't think you understand I wouldn't stay team Poppy if you ate me out."
He doesn't say anything.
"I shouldn't even want you to."
You sigh with less tension between your brows.
He jingles so fast.
"Kinda a low blow to get a truce going." You eye him while uncrossing your legs.
He watches you cross your arms.
"I still don't understand why you're still here."
"You kissed me."
"Yeah, but still, that doesn't equal wanting that from me." You glance at your lap with pinched brows.
"It doesn't? But I still want it."
"Why though?" To use you?
"Why does anyone want anything?"
He says so hushed you thought you heard static.
"Tell me to stop." He says a bit louder while giving you space from his loaf. "And I will... Stop talking about it... Stop requesting it..."
"But if I let you, we won't be able to undo whatever the experience turns out to be."
"Nice." He shrugs. He squishes his front legs back into the loaf shape.
"It's not marriage."
You squint.
"You keep bringing that up." The Prototype copies your arm cross. Almost looking cheeky despite a static expression.
"You haven't stopped loafing,"
You bring up again.
He adjusts his back legs into a compact loaf shape.
His light flicks back on you.
Wordless.
Challenging even.
"How do you even have needs if you're a toy?"
"That's hurtful, coming from you." The Prototype leans back.
"But you don't have a dick, do you- Not like I was going there- Why am I still talking about it? I'll stop."
"I don't."
He says so simply.
"I still want to taste you."
"Damn."
Is all you answer.
"I mean I just showered, so I guess."
Your arms uncross.
"I don't want 'I guess.'"
"I want you to."
You fold your hands together on your lap.
"Even if it's clumsy and weird?" He quotes in your voice. But it's oddly sweet this time.
"I hope it is. Should I sit for this? I, I don't know. Should I lay down?"
The Prototype shrugs. "Lay down?"
The chair's shoved out of the moment immediately. A little too eager on your part.
"Wait actually, I want somewhere..." You mime what you want until the word comes back. "More enclosed?"
You blink at the table.
"Wait, how funny would it be on the table?" You cover your mouth. "Would that be crude?" You look up at the chandelier. It doesn't give an opinion.
You kick random nothing off the floor.
"What if you put towels down?" You're not sure if you should be the one to fetch them or him.
He's already up.
The ground shakes.
He skittered away.
The Prototype merrily checks twice that every camera was destroyed or crunched.
There can never be footage of this.
Only in his memory.
You got space to adjust and fluff up the towels, and arrange them the way you want.
Hopefully the table doesn't crack in half.
Or you.
It's been a... while.
You hope to stars you don't do anything embarrassing.
Of course you're stalling. The towels don't need to be fluffed. They're going to be flat anyway.
"I'm done." You say as if you're giving up a washing machine at a laundromat.
He slowly approaches about three feet from the dining table.
Hah, dining table.
"Should you watch me take my pants off? Or is it less sexy because I asked?"
"Whatever you want." He uses his voice. He hasn't stopped except to reference you earlier.
It's bizarre having a massive industrial put-himself-together 'threat' let you set the pace. Especially with those damn recordings of him manipulating, and killing toys or people... for reasons that seem to melt away right now.
But you?
Why you?
You push yourself up on the table with your everything still on. You swing your feet a bit. You look at the chandelier, then the shredded carpet.
"You don't..." you start, but blink away when his eye light flutters on you.
You knew something like this would happen.
That you'd ask something stupid.
"You don't have someone else you'd...?"
You can't be blunt.
"That you would want to..."
"No."
"Oh."
You stop swinging.
Just kidding, you keep swinging.
"Who's needy now?" He says a certain way.
You blink wide.
"Don't start that now..."
"Calling you needy? You wanted that before."
"What?" You lean on your hands behind you. You slip a bit on a towel. You like the texture. You look back across from him.
"It was before you attempted to dissect my behavior, and before you called me cute.
Remember?"
"I remember calling you cute, but that other thing was the wind."
You shrug. Your healing palms flatten tenderly across the towels.
You're less folded together.
"What else was the wind?"
"I'm getting too pent-up for this."
He moves a space closer.
Two feet between you.
"That's what I want." His eye light studies without judgement.
"What if I'm dry?"
"Then I'll get you wet."
You can't not bite your knuckle at that. You lean away as if whispering to a ref at an imagined game.
No interference.
You nod stiffly, until it's fluid.
"Should I, or should you?" You say right as you look at his needle hands twinkle in the dim light. "Oh, right." You blink.
And you'd rather die than those trophy arms touch you.
So you grab the waistband of your pants, and whatever garments you do or don't wear, and bring it down. You stifle a chuckle at the texture of the towels beneath you. It catches your sweat too.
Your pants pool at your ankles. Preventing you from swinging.
You cross your legs, and your pants flop off.
It would feel too weird to just yank them open.
Your shoes are staying on, and so is your upper clothing. You refuse to be a turkey served on the table.
"What if you think about Sawyer?" The Prototype offers, in case that's easier to picture.
Is that an invitation??
"No?" You pull your head back in a 'what the hell' way. "Why would you say that?"
You lean forward while he skitters in space.
"Easier to hear his voice, I don't know."
He sasses without eye contact.
"Look at me, and say that?" You have a hard time believing that. That's not him.
"I want to use Sawyer's voice... to help you climax."
"Okay, do you hear yourself? Hell no."
The Prototype processes.
"I guess so."
"If you use any voice but yours, I will kick you."
You clarify.
It's quiet except for his fans in overdrive.
"Fair enough."
He's got the audacity to quote in your voice.
"Prototype," you lull your head back as you gather your thoughts and irritation. You swing back forward like insight zapped you. "The point is you."
He walks into a loaf near the edge of the table.
His upper body leans a little closer, while his head is tilts.
He's not dramatically close, but one tiny stretch and he could be.
"The point's not me. It's your loyalty."
"What if it's messy." You say, not sure where to look.
He pokes at a towel corner.
He regains focus.
"I can handle it." He says.
"I don't want you to do this, and hope I'll stay on your side forever." You're face-to-face with the stain he applied on his own coat.
"You're on my side?"
"That's... really too complicated to answer when we're like this."
Oh.
Your legs are parted.
For him right?
He looks around.
There's nobody else.
He awkwardly tugs at his exaggerated shirt collar.
"Me?"
He asks.
"No, the guy behind you."
You snort, and he actively remembers the sound.
"I haven't done this before."
"I would hope not." You blink.
He nods.
"I didn't even know I wanted this until you."
"That's absolutely zero pressure at all."
You smirk but look at the chandelier.
You lay down and stare at the ceiling.
"I kind of feel like a turkey."
You muse.
"The plates are still around."
You check on the hold up.
You lift your head.
"Oh."
You blink.
What in stars name is that fleshy, half-dried thing leaving his mouth?
Is that his tongue?
Is that how he eats stuff? Was that from a file or something? How organic is he?
"Well damn," your legs open a tad more.
You look down when he does.
That was embarrassing.
"What are you talking from if you have a tongue?" you will overthink it if you don't ask.
With a needle, he points to his static mouth.
"You think I could talk with this thing?
I have a speaker, like every toy."
You nod.
The more you know.
It doesn't look wet.
"Is it gonna hurt?" That was cliché, but you have to talk about it. "That's gotta suck though. Walking around with a dry tongue. I had no idea. My condolences."
He rests his hands on the edge of the table. He doesn't advance.
"If you lick my face, we're gonna have problems by the way." You put up the boundary.
"What else?" He whispers fondly with a face plate shift.
"If you insult me, I'll bawl, and we'll never do this again."
You pause and think.
"Uh, don't talk about anybody but me... don't get rough with me... basically, if you think it will make me cry, don't do it."
"What about you?"
You chime.
The Prototype hesitates. His tongue flicks, and contracts like a nine inch worm. He looks off at the distant photos, and his front leg kneads into the carpet.
What about him...?
"Tell me you're staying." He settles on that.
"Okay, but it's not a promise, it's just for this."
His other leg kneads too,
"Fine."
You bashfully lay flat again on the towels.
It's a bit comfy.
You bend your knees.
"I still think it's a little funny. That I'm on the table."
"It's a little funny," He says just to soothe you.
He slowly rests the corner of his mouth against your inner thigh.
You flinch at the puff of exhaust.
But then he nuzzles.
Your legs open a hair more.
He doesn't jump you.
He keeps nuzzling.
You lift your head up enough to pet the side of his face.
The Prototype stills.
He resumes nuzzling. You can hear his metal legs working to knead the carpet further into ruin.
Unfortunately his restraint works.
He looks at you before he does it.
Before he huffs closer, and his needles plant beside you.
You hope his teeth doesn't touch you. You could always shower again, but when you suggested kissing his teeth before, he said you'd contract diseases. Was it a joke? You never asked.
His tongue coils at your folds.
When his body exhales, you tend to flinch at the air pressure, so every time he soothes it with inner thigh nuzzle.
Thankfully that results in pets.
Past the hair, he touches the wetness he anticipated. His eye quirks up at you. Is this right?
You pet him, so it must be.
You lean your head back, but curl halfway so you can keep petting the top of your beloved toy's head.
He worms closer.
It's definitely a warm organ.
He coils, and coils, while his front legs knead.
While he needs.
You close your eyes to feel it better.
His eye flickers down to the side. You're not picturing him. He'd frown if he could.
Your eyes pop open. You almost forgot.
"I'm staying."
You smile into the sheer sweetness of it in such context.
You're looking at him.
"I'm staying." You say so sweetly.
The Prototype's tongue firms, and he eagerly looks for the tight warm space to fill. His needles dig into the towels, but stay off you.
His static smile manages to look pronounced when his eye light flicks up past you to the chandelier.
His tongue squishes inside without resistance.
Your hand digs into his hat. But you shakily go back to petting him.
He pauses his administrations to nuzzle.
You pet him a few times, so he continues.
You can't stay down after a few seconds. You sit up, and he compromises with that. You squeeze the base of one of his hat pieces. He obviously can't feel through his hat, but he understands the sentiment.
His tongue goes faster. Effortlessly.
Maybe his speaker tweaks with static a few breathes apart, but who's keeping track?
Your heart. He's close to it. He can hear it from here.
Your mouth opens, but the Prototype's too invested now.
Plus you're still petting.
Both your healing hands flat on his hat.
Your breath shudders.
This is it.
But he wants to be cruel.
He stops his movement.
"Fuck, what?" you say too harshly with the Prototype of all thing's wet and happy between your thighs. "What's wrong?" You look like you're going to snap.
Now his static expression reads mischievous.
You can't.
Your hand automatically reaches down to finish the job.
He licks it in protest.
You flinch, but don't scold him.
"What?"
"Look at me when you do." The Prototype whispers. He resumes position, with the perfect, consistent pressure.
You don't shout his name, his title, anything.
All that comes out of you is a punched-out wheeze while you look into his eye.
He watches your grimace become his favorite thing.
He helps you through it. You stop petting. Your hands flatten and keep him close. You pitifully thrust your waist to get his tongue a bit deeper.
It does.
Instead of pulling it out, he lets it stay as an excuse to watch you. His light gets brighter.
His kneading ruined the carpet.
But you look so relaxed.
You lay flat with your arms stretched, and hiding your face.
It's quiet, besides his unrelenting kneading.
You clear your throat.
"Wanna go again?"
you croak.