Archive of Our Own ^beta

You sleep fitfully. Shallow unconsciousness driven by stress. A tension you can’t shake. You toss and turn under your blanket.

At some point in the night the mattress dips. You’re half awake but not enough to open your eyes, to check if it’s getting light out, or how late it is.

You feel warm metal pressing into your back. Then an arm sneaking under your waist, a hand splayed over your stomach. And one over your side, pressing into your chest. Hal presses you to him and you’re too tired to complain.

You feel the smooth machination inside him hum away, warm his chest and power whatever the fuck he’s up to.

Held secure in place like that, with the rhythm of him at your back, you fall back asleep.

You’re deeper in sleep, you dream of things that need doing, a to do list of things you’ve neglected. Interspersed with mistakes you made, might make, could make. Your friends disappointed in you. Your friends in danger but out of reach. Your friends hurt because you couldn’t save them. Your friends far away and you stuck in an ocean.

Then your dreams shift. The tension in it moves from terrifying to electrifying. Heat boils in your lower stomach, pleasure fizzles through you.

You barely come to with the feeling of a hand on your dick. Hal has you between his fingers, rolling them lightly over your nerves. Drawing heat and blood into your groin, getting you hot and horny. Then you notice how full you are. The heat in your abdomen was deceptively hidden by your arousal. But there’s Hal’s strap, moving deep inside you, shallow thrusts burying himself in you deeper and deeper.

He's still holding you to him, warm all over, skin to metal contact lighting your nerves on fire.

If you were any more awake you might fight, or even squirm. Try to get away. But you’re so tired. And Hal is so warm. And you’re so fucking horny.

So you sink back into the clouded feeling of exhaustion mixed with arousal. Not quite asleep, not quite awake.

The spike of bliss whenever Hal hits just right inside you keeps you just on the side of awareness. the heat of him against you keeps you drowsy and malleable.

The thought that he’ll lord it over you occurs and gets displaced with a roll of his thumb over your clit. Your weariness of him, what he could do to you, that is usually so close, gets held at bay by his hand on your abdomen, rocking you back slowly into him. You can almost feel it, almost reach it, but every time you come into grasping distance a wave of ecstasy washes it further out, and you go under again.

The steady building of pleasure is slow and languid. But it spills over you none the less. You’re so full and the pressure on your dick is so permanent that despite the slow movement, the agonizingly tempered pace, the creep of orgasm still catches up to you.

As the sensation crests over you, threatens to swallow you, you get drawn at last from sleep only to be pushed right into a different state of unconsciousness. You at last get your body to move. Just slight pawing at the mattress, and groans into your pillow. More is out of your reach as pleasure takes what it wants from you.

"Are you awake, Dirk?" Hal’s voice comes quiet and smooth behind you.

You can’t answer. You just whine through the overarching sensations that barely register as anything beyond raw nerves. You couldn’t say what part of you is feeling what. Only that it’s a lot, quickly coasting towards too much.

"You can let go, I’ve got you," Hal says.

An instinct tells you not to listen, to fight against him. But its weak against the crests of orgasm. So you do. you let go, let yourself fall back in his arms, into the sensation of him on you. The overwhelming push and pull of his, and the white-hot wall of bliss takes you.

You don’t know how long he keeps you there, in the buzz of nerves, but when you come down  ̶  slowly over the edge of euphoria into awareness  ̶  he has not stopped.

His hand is burning on you, his cock rocking you painfully past the point of feeling good. You’re suddenly too aware of every part of you. Where before it was all a soup of good, now you feel every circuit of his against your back, every fiber in the sheets below. His hands on your skin, on your sensitive tip. His dick still rocking deep inside you, brushing past your walls, digging itself a path through your tightening muscles. You feel all the points he is still on you, still in you.

You squirm, trying to get away. But he’s got you secure in his grip. His legs part yours when you try to shut them, and he hums into your ear,

"You’re not done yet, Dirk."

You try to fight him, but he easily turns you onto your front. His weight heavy on top of you. His heat feels like its everywhere.

Panic and anger at last come into grasping distance. As his legs hold yours open, and his rhythm stutters to accommodate your struggle and his fight against you, he relents enough to let your brain think past pure sensation.

"Let me fucking go, Hal," you bite into the pillow.

He pushes his free hand, that now doesn't need to be holding you to him anymore, into your back, pushing you into the pillows.

"You don’t actually want that," he says. He sounds strained, like this is an effort to him. Which he doesn’t need to. He wrote that code into his voice generation for no practical reason.

You’re suddenly furious with him. His audacity to force himself on you, when he gains nothing from it. He can’t feel any of it. He doesn’t have bodily needs, he doesn’t have human functions.

He’s not winded, he’s not horny, he’s not alive. He’s doing this to fool you, to get one over on you, to patronize you.

"You don’t know what the fuck I want," you spit, turning your head to be able to even remotely enunciate past the pillow in your face.

He doesn’t stop you from doing it. The reminder that he’s not trying to kill you only makes you more furious. Because he could. He snuck into your bed without waking you. You’re completely defenseless to him.

You don’t understand why he hasn’t yet. It only makes you angrier.

You strain against him, he’s heavy, but not much heavier than he would be if he were made from flesh and blood. You used lightweight materials to ease the challenge of balancing his new body. He’s heavier than you, but not unbearably so.

With your bearings returned, you can actually try to fight him. You get your hands under you and push up. He swipes one of your arms out from under you and you use the momentum to roll onto your side.

He lets go of your clit and wraps his arm around you, trapping you against him again. He’s still inside you, and the fighting drives him into you in an uneven rhythm.

It feels agonizing, and almost good again. And you have to fight off the haze of pain and pleasure trying to draw you back under.

You elbow him with the arm that you’re not using to keep both of you on your sides, stopping him from rolling on top of you again. It won’t do what it would do for a human. He can’t feel pain. Because he can’t feel anything. But you try to aim at his arm keeping you trapped to him. Not even he can escape the clutches of pure inertia.

His arm loosens, but you feel the other one trying to get under you again.

With the shift in position your legs are no longer held at bay by his, so you kick them out, catching the wall and kicking both of you off the bed.

The lurch is sudden and the landing heavy. From fight, to weightlessness, to gravity setting back in unkindly. Any last dredges of sleep get knocked out you along with the air in your lungs.

You land on your back, still less heavily than you should have probably. It’s is lessened by Hal, now beneath you, also on his back. He’s got his arms wrapped around you in a secure and steady grip. He must have gotten them around you during the fall. Now he’s not moving.

The moment you notice it, the utter stillness of him under you, it’s all you can focus on. Does it mean he is damaged. That you broke something in him in your fall. That he isn’t here with you anymore. The feeling digs its way into your brain and spreads like poison. It drips in hot fear down into your stomach. The dread of not having him there, of being alone without him fills you to the brim.

"Hal," you manage to get out. You force the monotone, through your light-headedness, through the fear and guilt. You have to know.

"I’m here," he says, evenly and quiet. He’s there. He’s still there. Humiliation at being known so well washes over you. That he would know to answer that. That he’d know that you needed to hear that.

You taste bitter relief, and it feels good to replace some of the dread with something else. You hate how glad you are that he’s here.

"Let me go," you say. And to your absolute horror, he does. It feels like a hollow victory. It doesn’t even feel like victory at all. It almost feels like rejection.

You sit up, on top of him, looking down at his feet, stretched out between your own. Alternating with yours. One is yours, one is his, then yours again, and then his. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to stop you. Lays there and lets you do whatever. You wonder what he’d let you do. How far he’d let you go. You wonder if he got damaged in the fall after all.

It was a short fall. Short enough not to even have separated you. But that might be because he held you to him.

You feel him inside you, still hard, though that doesn’t mean anything. He controls it manually. Has to attach the thing before he can even use it. There’s a removable plate in his pelvis for it.

The oversensitivity from your orgasm has waned, and the pressure feels good again. But it also feels cheap. The fight might have gotten your blood pumping, but not his. He doesn’t have blood. He has pressure fluids he can move around his body like an arthropod. And he has circuits and switches that interpret ones and zeros that mimic neurons, not real ones that he’s defenseless to. If he’d want he could cut them off, and nothing would be any different.

None of what he does is for carnal reasons. He doesn’t have flesh he could be weak to. He just has mind games and schemes. And a metal puppet he can drag around to act like he’s a person.

But he can’t even feel you. Not the way you can feel him.

He can’t feel as good as you do. He can’t ever get out of this what you can, so why would he possibly do this.

The obvious answer is plotting reasons. He’s getting one over on you, and you’re letting him. You let him drag you to the edge and beyond and he would have dragged you further. And only to say he did it.

You’re still letting him now. You’ve not gotten up. You’ve not walked out. You’re still here, his legs between yours. His cock inside you.

You get up, struggle to your feet, you’re still a little unsteady from coming so recently. Hal stays where he is and you feel like you’re giving up. Relenting ground to him. He’s winning and you’re letting him.

No matter what you do, he wins and you’re letting him. There’s only losing for you here. He doesn’t even need to do anything.

You sit on your bed, feet inches away from his torso. He’s looking up at you, you can see the cameras inside his face plate focus in on you. A red glow around them that meets yours. An imitation of eyes that like everything about him is a mockery of the human condition.

He has access to all cameras in the house, and yet he uses his eyes. He has no need for shades, no light sensitivity, or tendency toward migraines. Still he has your triangle shades let into his face plate in darker glass.

Your own shades are on your desk where you left them before going to bed. Without them you feel vulnerable. Much more exposed than if you’d only been naked.

He’s seen your eyes; He lived on them for years. But it was different then. He was shades then. Now he’s not. So it feels worse not having that barrier between the two of you.

He sits up and you don’t move. You won’t relent more space. You already lost too much ground to him.

His hip is brushing your ankle. He hasn’t broken eye contact.

"Chronically increased stress levels, with a lack of restful sleep can lead to serious health problems, like heart disease, diabetes, and ulcers," he says.

"I have my physical health perfectly under control. My last checkup found nothing concerning," you rebuke.

"Physical health," he repeats. He’s mimicking your monotone, mocking you, as always. "What about your mental health. Your showers have been getting longer. You keep going days without talking to your friends. You have nightmares."

"I don’t have nightmares," you contest.

He looks unimpressed. The corners of his mouth pulling down into a slight frown. You think he might have replaced it. It looks different. More detailed than you remember.

"Stress dreams," he allows. Even though he relents, you feel condescended upon.

"Did Roxy put you up to this?"

"She’s concerned, but not much more than usual. Jane remarked you’d been in a worse mood lately. I smooth over what I can, but they notice."

He doesn’t mention Jake. You don’t know if he’s talking to him. You’ve barely been talking to him. You’re hiding, like a coward. Afraid to face your actions or their consequences.

You want to mock him for trying to fix you. That’s what he was doing. Healing you with the power of fucking. But acknowledging it feels too vulnerable. Like he cares about you enough to act. Like he’d be willing to let down some of his walls and get close to you, if you needed him to.

You don’t know if he would. You don’t think you would let him.

"Not much to do about it," you say.

"You could use a good night’s sleep," he says.

You want to lord it over him that he thinks he’s a good enough fuck to get you to sleep. At all, let alone well. You’ve never slept well. The best you slept was when you didn’t. When you could leave your body unattended for the duration of your Derse visits. Everything before and after was always more of a hassle than it was worth. If you could do away with it you would.

"We both know that’s not going to happen," you say.

He doesn’t reply. He knows you’re right, but he doesn’t want you to win. So he stays quiet.

The worst part of it all is that he too is right. Whether or not he’s winning, doesn’t matter. Because he’s right; You’re fucking exhausted. You were tired enough to go to sleep in the first place. You tend to push it as long as possible. Which had been the point you’d arrived at to get you here.

And now you’re not even rested. You can’t even blame Hal for it. You can barely categorize what you did before he joined you as sleep.

Now, however, you can feel it in your bones. Sleep isn’t going to come to you again. Not for a long while. And you’re no less tired for it.

You sit there, him at your feet, you on the bed. In silence, watching each other.

Then at last he moves; First to draw, first to flinch, first in most things when it comes to the two of you. He rises to his knees. You expect him to get up and leave.

But he stays, there on his knees, almost eye level with you. He’s still a little lower, smaller in height on his knees, so you’re still looking down at him. He’s closer now, like this.

He looks tense as he watches you. He’s probably calculating what his next move will be. You don’t like where it’s going, mostly because you have no idea where that could be.

He shifts on his knees, moving even closer. His pelvis knocks into your legs and he stops; His weight resting against you. Less heavy than when he was above you. Alarmingly comforting in his presence.

You don’t like this. You’re too tired. Your guard is too low. You’re not thinking clearly.

Hal raises his arms and slowly lifts his hands to your face. He’s uncomfortably gentle as he takes your head and guides you down.

You let him. You don’t know why. You know you’ll regret it. You know it’s a trap. You know this will go horribly for you. And yet you let him.

He pulls you in, slowly. The pressure of his hands is so light you could break it easily. But you don’t.

You don’t know what you expect to happen; The least efficient headbutt, some close up mind games. something along those lines.

You don’t expect him to kiss you. It’s gentle, like his hands on your face. His lips are warm like the rest of him. And soft, much softer than you’d have expected.

You didn’t know he could do this at all. You didn’t build him to be able to do this. He’d have crucified you for it, made fun of you for the rest of your life. Because who, if not you, would he have kissed.

He must have made it himself. You’ve not been keeping close taps on what he’s been doing. You have no idea what else he might have been doing without you knowing.

The dread of not knowing him, of him changing without you, him leaving you behind, bubbles up in you. It laps at your edges, stains your inside an ugly color. It rises and fills you up. He’ll leave you. You always knew that. You knew when you created him. You knew when you made his body. You knew when you let him take if from you. You know it now.

You lunge at him, as much as the small space between you allows it, and as little leverage as you have from the bed. You wrap your arms around him, pull him close. Your lips knock into his. Your teeth clacking against the hard synthetic teeth you find inside his mouth. Not quite enamel, but your teeth barely feel the difference.

He catches you; Lets you wrap yourself around him; Trap him against you. He doesn’t give way, and still, he lets you take what you want.

His arms circle back around your torso. One hand reaching up to cup the back of your head, the other splaying over your back.

You kiss him rough and unrelenting. He dips his head back to meet you at every turn. He opens his mouth and you explore him. You try to make up for not knowing before, mapping every part of his new mouth. The teeth, blunt and rowed neatly along the curve of his jaw. His cheeks, malleable silicone, you’d guess. Soft to the prod of your tongue but flexible enough to spring back to where it was before you got there. The roof of his mouth, hard against the rest of his face plate.

His tongue moves against yours. Leaving you space to probe at him, but meeting you whenever you retreat. It has the feeling of soft yet firm muscle that you wouldn’t have expected. You have no idea how he got it to do that. How much effort has he put into this? You suck it into your mouth to have a more thorough examination of it. It stretches easily to meet your demands. But regardless of how you prod or bite at it, besides quiet noises of discontent from Hal when your teeth get a little overeager, you can’t get anything from it. You don’t feel any joints, you don’t feel a predetermined route in its movement. It’s agile and soft like yours, like a real tongue might be. You dread having to ask. You dread not knowing more.

If he’s willing to put this much work in however, you wonder how much further he went with the imitation. If he can swallow. If he salivates. Your own saliva covers him quite thoroughly now, but you didn’t pay attention to whether he was adding anything to it. You wonder if his teeth could rot from the sugar in your orange sodas. If his flesh could tear under your teeth. If he’d bleed. What color it would be. If it would just be the pressure fluid or something else. What it would taste like.

You wonder if he put an imitation of the shadow of your brain where yours would be, were he your mirror. Under that face plate. Above the roof of his mouth. Directly behind his eyes. You wonder if he still keeps the data from that captchalogue card, or if he’             s replaced it with new information by now. Like Theseus' ship of his mind. Of your shared mind. Or maybe not shared anymore.

You would give up quite a lot to figure out how much you still share of what you both started with when you were thirteen.

His hands cling to you like he’s trying to press you into him. If you could get any closer, you wouldn’t trust yourself to resist. Maybe he’d let you climb inside the hollow parts of him. Into his ribcage; Figure him out from the inside. Understand all the parts of him he’s kept from you. Until you know him as well as you know yourself.

There’s at least one way to get him closer to you. It’s fucking corny, and it won’t do anything for getting you answers. But at least you might work off some of the arousal he left you with.

You break the kiss and press your forehead to his. He chases you; and then, when you won’t meet him again, you feel his hands at your back tighten, press you closer to him, almost claw at your back for a lack of anything to hold on to.

You catch your breath, panting, "Hold on," into the side of his face, where you’re pressed together.

You’re on your knees, and he’s lowered himself down to sit on his legs. The angle isn’t great, but you’re sure you can make it work. You let go of him with one hand, which makes him strengthen his grip on you even more. His fingers dig into your shoulder and your waist. Almost painfully so. You might complain if you didn’t want him in you so goddamn badly. You might just take that if it was all he was willing to give; His fingers in your flesh. Digging themselves a handhold for him to connect to you forever.

Fuck, you’re getting sentimental. You have to get his dick in you stat, or you’ll lose your goddamn mind.

You consider shoving your hand between the two of you, but you’re pressed chest to chest, and you’re not letting him get far enough from you to change that. So you go around your back to fumble at his thighs.

It takes some scrambling and quite some inelegant maneuvering. But you find his cock eventually. At some point he catches on and helps, lowers you down and holds his cock up to where you need it.

With combined effort you sit on his dick successfully. You’re sopping wet, so getting him in is the least difficult part. You groan into his shoulder as you seat yourself. You were so empty after he left. It feels goddamn ecstatic having him back in you.

His hands tighten around your back again as you go slack from the pure bliss of it. Holding you up, holding you to him. You feel his circuits hum against your skin, heating up rapidly. Maybe he’ll brandmark them into your chest. Leave a part of him with you forever.

You will your muscles to move again. You lift your head off his shoulder to start mouthing along the cut of his jaw. Its metal tastes like blood on your tongue. Warm from the never ending machinations going on in his body. Or maybe its warmth is borrowed from you, where you’ve been pressed against him. It’s blunter under your teeth, sharper on your tongue, than it would be, were he human. No matter how much he imitates, neither of you can escape what he is and what he isn’t.

He leans into your ministrations, letting both of you play pretend for that much longer. This bubble will only have to pop if one of you acknowledges it. If you keep playing along, he can be a warm body next to yours. On top of yours. Inside of yours. It doesn’t have to be fake.

He cuts your thoughts off with another kiss. It’s deep and just as desperate as the previous ones.

"Move," you pant against his mouth.

He does. For once he just does what you ask of him. He doesn’t have any leverage to speak off, since neither of you are willing to separate in the slightest. But he rocks up into you, and it still fucking great.

You scrape your hands along his back. Even without clothes, he has plenty of places for you to hold onto. You hook your fingers into his ventilation grates with one hand, and dig yourself through the gaps in his back plating with the other. He’s hollow and warm inside. The turn of his arm forward, to hold you to him, gives you enough space between plates to get your hand inside. As you roam deeper your hand tangles in the wiring inside him. You hear him gasp. It’s more actual air rapidly moving through his system, than a sound he produced with his voice generator. You can feel it on your hands, as it rushes through and out of him from the air grid.

He wraps himself around you as much as he can, and pushes his back into your fingers. There are pressure points built into the wires. They tell him if one comes lose. He’s always been oversensitive about all of his parts being in the right place.

Now you get to mess all that order up. You retreat slightly to brush your fingertips gently over the cables until you can find one to hook into. Then you pull. Strong enough for there to be real tension. For him to really feel you inside his innards. For him to know exactly which wire you could disconnect right now; Because he let you into him.

He whines, half whistle from the air vents, half voice generation. His two voices harmonize in your ears.

You don’t pull the wire free. You know exactly how securely they’re attached. You know how hard you can pull before it will come lose. And you don’t break the connection.

You let go of the wire. He slumps over, head on your shoulder, arms drifting down to your hips, barely even holding on to you anymore. He is so lax, like putty in your hand, that it’s easy to get your hand further into the gap. You brush past the surface wiring and move into the depth of his core.

Even from the strange angle you can feel the heat from the approaching energy source in the middle of his chest. Luckily for you, it’s not the uranium you chose for Brobot. Instead, it’s a complex engine full of springs, wheels, levers and cogs that took you months to design and weeks to assemble.

As you approach the ticking and clicking heat of his heart piece, you choose a wire at random. This close to the middle they’re all connected to something imperative.

You grasp hold of it and Hal goes still in your arms. You roll it between your fingers and Hal shudders. You pull it taunt, not yet yanking on it, but giving the suggestion of it. Hal whines into the side of your neck,

"Dirk, please."

You wonder what he’d do if you made good on that threat. You both know it’s there. Maybe that’s what he’s asking. He wants you to do it. Reveal what you both know you’re capable of.

More confusing than his tantalizing want of it, is your own reluctance. Even your consideration of it leaves you guilty and wanting to rectify your misdeed.

You pull on the cable, slower than before. Adding pressure to it gradually. It’s harder to gauge how long you can increase the pull before you’ll hurt him when moving so slowly. You focus on the feeling of it in your hand, warm and almost soft from the insulation material used. The tension of his body, versus the cable between your finger.

He pants as you keep pushing it, feeling for the pressure against the other end of it. You almost expect for that sudden change in opposing force to come. Any second now it’ll jolt free. The joint of cable to organelle will break and you will hurt him.

You know, immediately and intrinsically – like muscle memory deeply installed in your person – when you’ve reached the point of no return. You stop pulling. You hold him there. Not adding tension, not dissolving any either. Just hovering at the breaking point.

And then you release him.

You feel Hal’s hands tense against your hips. Barely scrambling at them. He lets out one weak sob.

You can’t believe he let you do that. You can’t believe he’d put his trust in you like this, when he doesn’t have to.

As you reach for a different wire, giving the now surely over sensitized one a break, you turn your head slightly to look down at him.

There’s not much to see from your angle. His head rests on your shoulder, and his hair – a wig that surmounts to a headpiece much more than that, which he crafted himself from synthetic and organic fibers, some of which you suspect is your own hair; styled, dyed, and crafted into something that resembles your hairstyle more than you like – takes up most of your field of vision.

With the comfort that he is likely much too distracted to notice anything not to do with your hand inside him, you drop your chin and bury your nose in his hair.

He smells off warm metal, and plastic, and salt. Both unique to him, and yet so familiar. It’s smells that have always meant home to you.

You brush your hand through a bundle of cables somewhere deep inside him. You’ve lost track of where exactly you are.

You lift your head again. You don’t want to risk him noticing. It would break something between you, you think. The sincerity of the action, the affection evident in it. You can’t risk him seeing. You can’t risk scaring him off.

The air that regularly caresses your hand with his sighs and gasps is warm and soft in its movement. You don’t think he can control this, and you refuse to give him any credit for something so tender. Inferring such an act would be playing with fire in the dumbest way possible. It’d be leaps and bounds from the relationship you have, from the feelings you have about each other.

Interpreting something so inane, and acting on it would go wrong with a certainty you wouldn’t need him to calculate for you. You know it already.

He twitches against you, under your still ongoing ministration. And just barely noticeable, yet torturously unwilling to let you forget it’s there, he twitches inside you as well. In the same irregular rhythm as the clicking heat that pulses against your arm. Driven by your hand on his entrails, his circuits fire in rapid succession, faster than even he can keep up with.

You take another cable. One you find by chance, alone standing in the open space of his chest. You know it’s an important one by that alone.

You yank on it, feel him tense and relax when you relent again. You do it again. And again.

Each time he lets out a cry, almost a sob, kind of a moan, barely your name. It feels a little like static, as he whines, like he’s giving his voice box too many inputs at once.

You keep doing that, letting him writhe beneath you, with the feeling of his nerves in your grasp.

Like this you slowly drive him to the edge. The further you go, the more he moves inside you. At some point he starts grinding his hips up into you. They’re small movements, but they assure he takes you with him. You pull he pushes. It’s just barely enough for you, hovering on the plateau, where its good but it won’t be enough to tip you over. You doubt Hal has the same problem.

He gets louder first then the strength returns to his limbs. His hands flex at your hips, digging his fingers into you as if imitating you; trying to get into you to even the field. The bite is perfect in contrast with the slow roll of his cock. you can feel his shoulder plates flexing where they rest against your lower arm.

He burrows his face in the crook of your neck. You feel his teeth against your skin, digging themselves a small indent in you. Your nerves cannot tell the difference in the texture of his teeth and actual enamel. You doubt your flesh could either, if it broke under him. You don’t think he would have gone far enough to install taste receptors. You wonder how you’d taste to him, if he had. Would you taste of metal to him, if your blood met his hypothetical artificial tastebuds. Would he too think it tastes like home.

Another pull of his wires has him tensing all over. Each of the points of contact you have with him go a still in anticipation. This is when you know you have him right where you want him.

"I’ve got you," you tell him. And he comes apart underneath you.

You move with the waves of his orgasm. It moves against you wherever you touch. You feel it in his circuitry, in the wires in your hand, in his hands on your skin, in his mouth on your neck, in his cock in your cunt. He pulses with the pleasure you give him, and you give it to him, all of it.

The hot feeling where he’s made himself at home in you feels overwhelmingly strong, and then just overwhelming when you realize he’s quite literally coming in you. You didn’t know he could do that.

You feel the hot pulsing of his cum take up what parts of you, he’d not yet filled. It feels so good, you need to be careful not to lose your focus. You almost grip a hand full of cables, indiscriminately, for something to hold on to. You can stop yourself just when your fingers curl around them. It takes all your will power to resist giving in to the pleasure.

Hal gasps against you, he’s almost statically charged with pleasure.

"Take your hand out," he says. Clearly, strongly. You falter.

Something’s wrong. He’s angry, he’s hurt, he’s extracting you from him, so he can leave. He was feeling good, you’re so sure. But it must have been too much. You pushed it too far. You fucked it up. He noticed you almost lost control. He doesn’t trust you anymore.

You pull your hand out. The air in your room is cold against your skin. As soon as your fingertips have cleared the threshold, his shoulder plate shifts back to close himself off. You can’t stop yourself from laying your hand on the spot he’s barred you from.

He flexes his shoulder under your hand, rolls first that one, then the other. He straightens his back, lifts his head, and his eyes meet yours. His hands are gentle when they find your face. His lips are not when he pulls you down onto him.

You let him take what he wants, because he hasn’t left yet. He can have all of it. You’ll give him anything. If only he doesn’t leave, he could ask you for anything, you’d comply, just to keep him here.

His tongue against yours feels like biting into a life wire. He’s humming with energy, charged to the brim, and it unloads into you. Your face tingles where he’s touching you. His chest against yours feels like its rolling waves of pleasure up and up and up, again and again, into your torso. You suppose he’s getting you back, since he can’t literally stick his hand in your chest to play with your nerves. Well, he could, but it would end much sooner, and much less ecstatic than the other way around.

He draws you to him. Lets go of your face, wraps his arms around your back and pulls you in. You try to keep up with him, but where before he was slow and indulgent, letting you take or give however you liked, now he’s demanding, moving faster than you can keep up with. Maybe he’s forgotten to pretend to be human. Forgotten that the speed at which he can move, react, calculate, is hard for others unlike him to follow.

He doesn’t care to slow enough for you to catch up. He just drags you along, whether you want to or not.

Once he has you sufficiently pressed to him, secure in his arms, he twists both of you. He’s so quick, you think he might have flash stepped. Then you’re on the floor, back pressed into the linoleum his body covering yours.

He’s still kissing you, but he’s doing most of the work, since your pinned position gives you little leverage.

His mouth moves hungrily against yours.

You don’t think he gets hungry. He doesn’t have a stomach. Maybe he remembers what it was like, back when he was you. Either way, he imitates the draw very well. Urging you closer, deeper.

When he lifts himself up, just onto his elbows above you, you almost whine at the loss. He’s not pressing you down anymore and you miss the weight, the pressure, the heavy feeling that threatened to take you under. You’re not even sure where under, besides him. But it felt good, and it’s broken now.

He situates himself slightly above you, small movements of his arms, and his legs. It jostles you slightly where you’re still connected and you’re suddenly very aware of how deeply aroused you still are.

You consider complaining, demanding he do something, but you don’t get to, before he gets to you.

The first snap of his hip is sharp and almost painful. All the air leaves your lungs and you’re grateful for it, because the second thrust feels heavenly, and if you had any air left, you’re sure you would have made a humiliating noise.

He doesn’t let you catch your breath either, he moves fast, still just a little faster than is normal, and unrelenting. You gasp for air as he drives into you.

He has the precision to back up the speed too. It’s like he’s mapped you, laid you out detailed and precise in his processors, and is finding exactly what angles he needs to hit to turn your brain to mush.

Pleasure spikes through you with every one of his movements. Hot and sharp and deep and all encompassing.

You wrap your legs around him as he moves into you again and again. It goes far beyond pleasure building. It seems impossible to get any higher than he’s already got you. You were on the edge the moment he moved and he’s just watching you fall now. With each thrust moving the ground further away. You’re filled with bliss you couldn’t have fathomed. You’re floating, you’re in free fall, he’s moving you through time and space.

And still each time he meets you, you experience a new height of sensation. Like he’s discovering new nerves in you to set alight every time he moves. Like he’s building pathways in your body for the sole purpose of providing you with pleasure.

You distantly hear moaning, and only after a moment you realize it’s coming from you.

You can barely focus on it. Every time you try to regain some control over any part of yourself, Hal snaps his hip into you and your focus leaves. It’s all him, everything you can focus on is him, and his cock inside you, driving you up and up and up.

You think Hal might be saying something to you, but you can’t focus. You whine, trying to get him to say it again. You need to know. You can’t miss what he’s telling you.

"There you go," Hal says right next to your ear. And this time you do hear.

You whine again, pleasure spiking all the way through you. In the periphery of your perception you feel your fingers tingle where they cling to his back.

You barely manage to get your tongue to work for you, do anything but pant and lull about as he fucks you.

"Hal, please," you manage. You don’t know what you’re asking for. Everything. Exactly what he’s already doing. More of what he’s doing. All of him forever. For release from this pleasure. For him to never stop.

"You’re doing so good," Hal hums into your ear.

And you’re losing. The intensity of before is nothing on this. It’s white, hot, pure sensation. It feels like passing out, it feels like what ascending to a higher plane should be like. It’s deep and dark and so, so good. You don’t even care that he won, if it feels like this. He can have it if he’ll let you have this. Him like this.

You can feel him fuck you through it, prolong it. He’s slowed his movements, languidly pushing in and out. Drawing the rest of your pleasure out for you, gently and slowly.

This time when you come down it doesn't stop feeling good. You think he might have broken you. You think you might have gone too far and now there’s only ever going to be this. And you don’t mind at all.

He feels so good against you. You pull on him a little, to get him closer.

He complies but when he slows too much, you beg him, "No don’t stop."

He kisses the side of your head and complies. Slow roll after slow roll. His chest is pressed into yours again. His weight back on you. He feels so good.

His hand is against your dick again. You don’t know when he moved it.

He’s rolling you in his fingers. Slow movements, that still send shock waves of pleasure through you. You’re so swollen, he barely has to touch you for it to feel good.

You hold on to him as he fucks you slow and deep. You’re groaning quietly every now and then when he hits just the right spot, or moves his hand just so. He answers you with a low hum.

Your orgasm creeps up on you this time. You barely notice it until you’re suddenly seizing up. Everything so much more intense, and he’s everywhere, and you don’t ever want that to change.

You come all over his hand and at last his hips stop.

You’re panting and you feel delirious. He’s kissing your face and you don’t have the wherewithal to return it.

You feel so lose and slow and tired. The thought occurs to you that he was probably right. But you can’t find the vitriol to be mad about it. Everything just feels too good for that.

You feel him pull out of you, and that barely draws a noise for you. Quiet and undefined. Just sensation made vocal.

You feel him gather you up in his arms. He moves you easily. He’s so warm against you. You end up on your bed, soft and comfortable.

It takes an undiscernible amount of time for the bed to dip and Hal to move next to you. There’s a blanket and then his warm chest against your back.

You close your eyes and are out within minutes.

You wake up in the middle of the day. It’s bright outside, the sun is high enough to not shine directly into your window anymore. You feel heavy and rested. A feeling so foreign it startles you out of the hazy half-awake state of having just woken.

You’re warm and sore. It’s a good feeling, satisfying and filling. Memories of last night sit heavily in your gut.

Hal is still lying next to you. Arm draped over you. You feel the faint humming of his circuits inside him.

"Good morning, Dirk," he says. He sounds normal. You don’t know what you expected. You don’t know how to handle this situation.

You sit up, kick your legs over the side of the bed. His arm slides down your side, his hand lands next to your hip. You look down at it. You don’t move for a moment. You don’t reach for it, don’t push it away.

"I should," you start and then don’t know how to stop. You don’t need to explain yourself. But you find you want to say something.

You want desperately to preserve some of what happened last night. Even though you have no idea how, or what that would mean.

"Right," Hal says. He sounds normal. Like he always does. Carefully calculated, curated. Measured tones, with a mocking edge. Though that at least feels a little rounder today. But you might be imagining that.

You get up and he doesn’t stop you. You make it halfway across the room before you stop yourself.

You turn back to him. He’s watching you. Blank expression, but his eyes are on you.

"Thanks," you get out. It feels inadequate. It feels like you’re falling short. And it feels, still, like you’re losing.

Hal watches you for a moment longer, and then nods. You think he’s done, but his lips pull into a small grin. You didn’t know he could do that. Maybe he’ll tell you what else it can do. You’ll just have to ask him.

"Any time," he says.

This time you nod, with slight amusement. Acknowledging the joke. Or almost joke. You think he might mean it.

Then you turn and leave the room.