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Across cloth dish towels, various arm and finger attachments were spread out, a set of gleaming bright chrome. Each item would be fully consistent with normal baker's tools, except they all had ball-jointed attachments meant to slot into a larger, robotic appendage. On the smaller end, there were miniature whisks (pinky and ring fingers). Towards the middle, yolk separators (middle and index). A miniature butane torch could attach as a thumb piece, stubby yet powerful enough for searing the crispy, caramelized top of a crème brûlée.
Robo-Ky hummed an off-key tune. Snatches of accordion music had blared on the local radio station, so his vocal synthesizers mimicked the reedy, squeezy trills with unnerving precision. Up, down. Violently cheerful oscillations. Fast, then a dead stop. The electronic bleat of his voice could even dive into arpeggios that would make the most ambitious, Pitchfork-lauded indie synth pop musicians turn green with envy.
One by one, each item was sanitized with a UV light and polished to a glowing sheen. Nothing else in the kitchen needed this level of sterilization. Nevertheless, this was his body. An extension of his brand new, off the press body. If you were supposed to treat your body like a temple, then he was aiming to scrub the entire cathedral, spires, and trellises like the Divine itself was about to pay a late notice visit.
He liked inventories. Arranging items from small to large satisfied some deeply held, software-binary checklist that made his mental programming beam with delight. Now that his kitchen supplies were in tip top shape, he wanted to dive into the next set of body parts: his penises. Plural. Some were silicone, which worked well for a while once they were able to adjust the stretchy harness for the strap-on. (He and his boyfriend had learned early on that harnesses depended on the tension generated by skin and flesh. Without any such padding, Robo-Ky and Venom had to rig an extra tight velcro band, with stippled cleat grips for the necessary friction, until the straps finally found some kind of purchase against seamless robotic chassis. The night that they accomplished this, they felt so exhausted and victorious that they went straight to bed, camo green silicone dick still flopping bonelessly against his cold thigh.)
In recent development, Robo-Ky was beginning to amass a collection of not one, not just a throuple, but a growing polycule of sensory phallic attachments. Unsurprisingly, if the giant dragon dildo industry flourished for collectors and furries alike, then naturally there would also be a burgeoning niche of engineers who built android dildonics. Venom and Robo-ky had spent nights going back and forth on the same laptop, studying the portfolios of international experts in this new technological field. They had spent many animated arguments hovering over the Paypal button, bickering over commission add-ons and personal engravings.
Good dick ain't cheap.
"Gotta be clean for my partner," whistled Robo-Ky, unbuttoning his chef's coat and switching this out for nothing. Undergarment lines were stenciled across his torso and thighs. He kept the pants on because they were more annoying to fold, but the chef's shirt could be easily hung on a peg as he exited the kitchen.
Robo-Ky continuing humming as he mounted the staircase towards the residential part of the bakery. Their shared apartment was modest, boasting one bedroom and one bathroom built to overlook the store. Each stair creaked and moaned in their own way. Robo-ky supposed that he would try to pull similar sounds out of his partner tonight.
How would he enter their shared bedroom? The classic stock answer would be to shout: HONEY! I'm hooooome!
Maybe too risky. This could shove the mood on the wrong foot, especially if Venom was going through a depression crash. Silence, Venom had explained, helped him move through the grief. Silence was not a consideration that Robo-Ky ever took into account before, but if it helped, then he would even go so far as to reduce his latent, background functions and power down into battery saving modes, which eased the internal fans. Anything to keep the peace. Anything to keep Venom.
Robo-Ky tapped his chin contemplatively. Perhaps Venom wouldn't even be in the mood for sex at all. Perhaps he needed a break, especially during the extra busy season of the Feast of St. Joseph. The upcoming local holiday meant they had both been working overtime to create trays after trays flowing with soft, delicate Zeppole di San Giuseppe.
("If you had smell receptors," said Venom, yesterday, heaving a sigh, "You would think that I bathed in maraschino cherries. It never ends. We got another order of 30. I am beginning to think monopolies are bad. . ."
And off he went, using his trained killer's hands to pipe dollops of fresh honeyed cream into rounded, twisted puff pastry. Robo-Ky's job was to open the cherry jars. He was so good at opening the cherry jars. Probably the best. Undoubtedly.)
Yes. Perhaps Venom was tired. Robo-Ky vowed to clean his kit of dildoes in the bathroom without even bringing up the subject to his boyfriend.
When he entered the bathroom, he checked the usual place in the cabinet.
Strange.
They were missing. Typically, all parts fit into a special case with foam lining, which took up an entire shelf of the cabinet.
His eyes scanned the cabinet 23 more times in rapid succession, A.I. locking on with image recognition software. Robo-Ky scanned with such desperate intensity, he felt like he was being forced to pass a CAPTCHA test. Which of these images contains my penis? Apparently, none of them.
From left to right: There was the tube of toothpaste, flawlessly squeezed at the far end and distributed so evenly, you'd think the owner was some kind of cold killer. There was the floss. A couple crinkly wrappers for 23-gauge syringes. Toothbrush. Vial of testosterone. Band-aids. Anti-acne zit stickers, from a cosmetics company specializing in darker skin tones. Sharps container. But no dildo kit.
Deeply perturbed, Robo-Ky fired up his fine motor cylinders to slowly, achingly slowly, close the cabinet door with a silent touch.
Nowhere else to go but the bedroom.
Maybe his partner could explain--
"My lord," cried out a voice. A voice that sounded like his partner. His partner, who had been the one to stress the exclusivity of their relationship.
Trembling slightly, Robo-Ky ran a quick thermal scan.
No one but Venom was occupying the room. Robo-Ky knew his partner's thermal pattern like the back of his hands. Maybe more. Hands weren't that interesting.
A blossom of orange-red heat registered in the scan, positioned at crotch-level.
"Zato, Zato, Zato," and the stammering didn't stop, "Master, please." A deep, aching sob. "Fuck me, please, yes, like that--"
On molten hot reflex, Robo-Ky whipped the door open.
"HEY!" Robo-Ky barked out.
Venom's motions jerked to a sudden halt. Pure guilt.
Right away, Robo-Ky could tell something was off. Venom's bare chest was still heaving from exertion, causing his chest scars to pull shiny and taut, yet his arms were covered. He was wearing his white bolero, a holdover from his Assassin's Guild glory days. Not a good sign. The last time Robo-Ky had seen this outfit was when he was still a mechanical head, disembodied and disempowered. He certainly felt powerless at the sight of his boyfriend.
"I--" Can't explain. Venom was too smart to try arguing out of this. Shame radiated off his flushed face.
Robo-Ky wasn't done. "WHERE do you get off on fucking me over with MY hogs?!" He kicked off his pants angrily because his metal frame was beginning to overheat.
A strangled noise fell out of Venom's open mouth, half-cough "Hhaghk.." None of the typical elegance. Just caught red-handed. Maybe stunned by the way that Robo-Ky referred to his own dicks.
Several tons of furious machine clambered onto the bed, kicking aside a tangle of bedsheets until furious headlights stared at Venom.
Titanium strength mode was activated, gripping Venom's wrist with enough force to buckle down a rocket launcher. Eyes widening, Venom instinctively strained against the grip. His assassin's mind ran frantic calculations. Breaking free would require snapping bone at the wrist. The trapped animal reflex wanted to snap right out, even at the cost of his baker's hands. The masochistic side of him felt the onset of slick heat beading at the juncture of his thighs.
"Am I not enough," and Robo-Ky frenetically bunched up the open fly of Venom's white trousers, before yanking them off with enough force to cause Venom's thighs to involuntarily tremble. He threw the trousers over the side of the bed. "For you?? You'd go back? If he took you, you'd go back?"
Bleary pain mixed with resignation. Venom blinked. He blinked again, hard. His tongue felt like concrete. His head lolled forward, raising a curtain of white and blue insignia hair to drape over his pained expression. He looked so much like his old self. Pitiful.
Something seemed to break in Robo-Ky. All functions were normal, but it felt like a wind-up key had snapped off inside, too deep for a pair of pliers to fish out.
"Then why me? You couldn't even fuck me over with the real deal?"
Anguish crossed Venom's hands, where he flexed helplessly, clenching at air. He was still pinned down by enough force to brake a magnet train.
"It wasn't supposed to be him. I just wanted to take care of myself quickly. I'm--" He shuddered violently.
Robo-Ky leaned in until they were forehead to forehead, a horrible parody of their previous intimacy.
Angry red light like a traffic stop pressed against his retinas. They left after-images of neon fluorescent dots swimming in Venom's vision.
"I wanna fuck the thought of Zato right out of your skull," said Robo-Ky. His plated eyes flashed red again.
"Don't fuck my skull," gasped Venom, light-headed on the cusp of a migraine.
"EW! GROSS! Obviously I'm not going to literally put -it- in your skull! Who's the dumb netorare robot here, huh?? I shouldn't know metaphors better than you do!"
"No," said Venom. "No, I suppose not." He turned his face. There was a tight, blistered quality to his speech.
"You're about to cry," said Robo-Ky, dispassionately.
"Fuck me. I-- I want you-- Fuck me."
Sizzling red anger. "Beg me to fuck you. Beg me like you'd beg Zato."
"Choke me," and the tears streamed openly. "Slap me, tell me you're leaving."
"I said beg. Do not make me forgive you right now."
"Over there. Under the duvet. That's-- that was the Hitachi custom. Put it on. Fuck my brains out," said Venom, desperately. Wretched language. That's all he deserved. None of the dignity of a grown man could clothe him from his partner's judgment. He cast off any right to dignity the minute he had unpacked his old Guild attire for a premeditated sexual fantasy.
Two quick clicks and it was in place. The custom dildo was still hot from battery mode. Robo-Ky could infer that his partner had been teasing the edges of his slick folds; anything less than a light graze would have rocketed him straight to the finish line with Hitachi vibrator's powerful tremors.
"I know how you like this," said Robo-Ky. Winding up to pitch. Punchline incoming.
Venom whimpered.
"You think you deserve this nice? Easy? Pleasurable? Or you want it hard? Because you're just too hardcore for a nice bakery with your nice, loyal boyfriend--" With the plug connection in his crotch socket, the appendage began twitching to life with full sensory spread.
"Make it hurt," begged Venom. He was so wet, it felt repulsive, soaking down to the sheets.
"Or maybe I should just jack off without even touching you? Cum on your whore face--" Robo-Ky's superstrength grip released Venom's wrists, gliding over his motorized cock with a mocking, wide palmed jerk-off motion.
Hands freed, Venom clawed at his partner's shoulders, hoisting himself up to straddle Robo-Ky's cock. He pushed his cock in without hesitation, a jagged half-glide that tore at his inner walls. Natural lubrication couldn't ease the burn. Too much, too fast. All on purpose.
"Wait-- don't do that, you're gonna-- you're gonna tear something--!!" Anger sizzled out, replaced by alarm. And a sharp arousal. Robo-Ky whined high-pitched, machine gears rutting, suddenly helpless. Nothing like this had ever clamped so tightly, like they were going to drown apart if they didn't slot their bodies together.
"Tell me to stop. Tell me it's over," said Venom, using his core muscles to pound himself onto his lover's cock violently, the slap of flesh on metal thighs ringing obscenely. He lifted. Sharp intake of breath. He slammed back down. Over and over, until a thin trickle of reddish, viscous warmth coursed from his entrance. But he wouldn't stop, not for the stinging, not for the burning stretch.
Zapped with stimulation, Robo-Ky emitted a high keening noise, like a coffee grinder. All his internal fans blew at maximum speed, adding to the whirring and crackling sounds of machinery. He cried out his names for Venom, the ones that would make Venom try to hide a smile behind his hair. He cried out a lot of things that he actually meant. None of the fucked up hate sex dialogue. He begged, like his words were hands and knees; he begged like an animal.
They both came violently, snaps of latent tension rippling down Venom's spine. Fluid reservoir activated, and hot streams of synthetic cum jetted into Venom.
In the post-nut eye of the storm, time seemed like a still frame, a single cel-shaded page.
And Venom dragged his battered body off the motorized cock, falling to the side against their elbows. Fresh bruises bloomed. They saw at the same time: Venom had thrust himself onto his partner so viciously that a thin stream of blood flowed from his entrance onto their bedsheets. Both men flinched.
Reality hurtled down to earth with concussive force.
Venom burst into tears, bawling.
"No-- sweetheart--" Robo-Ky gasped, enveloping his arms around his partner. A litany of "no, no, no," agony to the point where neither could tell who was speaking, who was choked up.
"I earned this," said Venom.
"You--" How many emotions could a robot hold before spontaneous combustion? Many, all in conflict, all clamoring to be the main center of attention. "Stop. Stop it."
This is the place where words failed, so Robo-Ky took it upon himself to stroke Venom's back slowly. Not an easy feat, not when grief wracked his shoulders, loud and long sobs that resembled convulsion.
What felt like hours (but Robo-Ky's internal clock told him, 11 minutes and 21.09 seconds) passed until Venom was too dehydrated to cry. His body went limp and stilled.
Robo-Ky leaned forward to press his forehead against Venom's.
"Hey," he said, but not very softly. Not for lack of trying. His volume modulators needed a tune-up after the night's events.
Venom hiccuped.
"I was pretty mad. I'm still kind of mad."
This earned a nod in response.
"You know, if you're really going to repent, I want you to try and stick it out with me. Like I don't actually think Zato's coming to steal you or anything, but. I reaaaally don't think we should just break up about it."
"I don't want--" Dry throat. Scratchy. "I don't want to be that person. Who would've hurt you. Before we met."
"Oh, yeah?" Not a time to get snippy. Backtracking, Robo-Ky said, "Y-Yeah. I meant yeah. I know you don't. I, uh. Flipped out pretty hard, you weren't actually sucking off Zato in our marital bed or anything. I mean." Miserably, he offered, "Did you want to do kinky roleplay or something? Put a leather belt blindfold on me? Damn it, they built me too early to give me the long, blond ponytail."
"I want to get better at loving you."
Like a bullet to the heart. "You? You do?"
"I love you. I'm very bad at it. But I love you."
Robo-Ky's eyes glowed soft. Night light. "That's why I'm staying."
He removed his Hitachi attachment, wincing at the dried blood on the length. Carefully, he propped up a soft, downy pillow beneath his lover's sore head.
"I'm getting you a glass of water, some wet wipes for-- both of us, actually-- and? You need food? Carbon based for your lifeform?"
"Aspirin," whispered Venom.
"Okay." His plated eyes looked at his boyfriend searchingly, before leaning down and nuzzling Venom's neck. Venom sighed, like a valve had released pressure.
They were going to be all right.