Work Text:
He is steady and patient when he checks you over, and you wonder if it is because he is in his element. You are certain of it, in fact, and you spend days trying to map the lines of the shift, from cautious to careful, in the manner of your gameplay, in the sketches of the campaigns you write, in the details of the side characters and NPCs you find yourself trying to build.
You hate it. You like it. You know it's making you better at your work, creative and not.
It's harder and harder to ignore the more often you see him, and it's hard to avoid seeing him as often as you end up needing to—Equius is a professional first, and a perfectionist and pervert second, so his craftsmanship is always exquisite, detailed, and...maybe a little unnecessary. Not that you're complaining, when you're technically the one benefiting (although, you would have to argue, it is actually all of Alternia that benefits from your...upgrades).
In your opinion, it would be easier to ignore whatever he's stirring up inside you if he was just the teensiest bit worse about it. If he demanded that you let him check your entire setup, if he required it in the arrogant way of all the other arrogant highbloods you've ever met. If he didn't insist on calling you the client the entire time he serviced you (hah!) in such a respectful tone that it nearly had you charging forward to lock horns with him then and there.
It's hard not to require him to do a little more servicing of the sort you're starting to think you might like from him. "He'd probably enjoy it," you grumble to yourself, almost resentful, and take yourself in hand to try and drive the mental images out and away.
Actually...wait.
He probably would enjoy it, wouldn't he?
Hm.
You have one of the best orgasms of your life that day, and turn up to your next scheduled appointment at his workshop with something of a plan in mind.
"I believe that concludes our business together," Equius says. You take a moment to appreciate his outfit while he starts to ramble on about something—the jumpsuit already looks hot on him, but he's made it look even better today by sliding off the sleeves and tying them around his waist. It's a pity he didn't ditch the shirt, but the tanktop he's in doesn't hide a single inch of very lickable troll.
This is what he's done to me, you think, somewhat despairing. Shit. He's still talking.
"—and I think we ought to schedule our next appointment for—"
"—actually," you say, cutting him off. "I think there might be some issues with my concupiscent parts. They've been seeing a fair amount of use, and I want to make sure they're in good shape."
He's a professional. He's always very professional.
That doesn't stop him from being very easy to read.
Blue rushes up his face, all but painting his cranium support and setting his soundcatchers to glow, his pinchplaces heavy with his own hue and a sheen of sweat rising on his skin. He must be feeling lightpanned from that, you think, incredibly amused. "Your—your concupiscent parts—but—I mean—"
"I know I said I was only going to agree to your 'highly recommended but absolutely not mandatory' check-up once every two seasons, but I want to make sure everything's in good working order. I'm sure you can respect my wish as a client? Live up to the standards of your manufacture?" It's so difficult to not let your shit-eating grin show, but at least you don't have to worry about hiding your wiggly. He's probably two seconds from popping one, just on the basis of your current tone.
He nods at you, as if all other words have failed him, and pulls on a fresh pair of gloves. You're kind enough not to comment on the way he's already sweat through the tanktop, the fresh towel he'd wrapped over his shoulders, and the one he has to pat himself down with before he can pull on the gloves.
Although, it's a bit too much to expect you not to comment on the shaking hands if he doesn't get those in order soon. He'll never forgive himself if he fucks up your delicate machinery, and you'll never forgive him if he fucks up your bulge instead of gets fucked by it.
You're pleasantly surprised when you don't have to comment, and then less surprised when you think about it a little bit harder. Of course he wouldn't dare risk some of his self-proclaimed "finest work". Trying to think about his thought process still doesn't stop you from shivering when he runs a gloved fingertip along the seam of your nook, a movement that somehow, easily, in one! stroke! coaxes your bulge out.
You're also fighting the urge to moan. "Haha, wow, shit...you really did design every inch of this, huh?"
The blue blush on his soundcatchers is even more visible from this angle (you, up on his examination table, him, all but kneeling in front of you), and you fight the urge to toy with them. Or bite them. Probably bite them. "I have a number of techniques to make my examinations easier on the client, as I detailed for you in our first session. Further information is in the manual I gave you, and I believe it would behoove you to do some reading—"
"It's more interesting coming from the man himself," you tell him, and there goes that blush again. You hope he's left some blood for his bulge. He also does a cute little straightening of his shoulders, like that praise is enough to make his day. Aw. Fuck. You're totally going to wreck him. "So, uh, hey—how'd you make my bulge anyway? It's hooked up and everything...I know it works. So?"
"It is all clearly outlined—"
"In the manual, yes, you said. I still want to hear it from you first. It's way more interesting. I said." You flash him the grin that you (embarrassingly recently) realized had the power to make more than a few limb supports weak.
It...seems to work on him? You're second guessing yourself a little, now, but he starts talking. "The core is one of my specialties—metallic, and calibrated to match your temperature more precisely, especially when you enter a state of arousal. It has increased flexibility on par with an actual bulge, and the work I did connecting your nervous system applies here as well. You ought to have complete control over it—subconscious control when you are, ah, focused elsewhere, and more control than an average troll would when your attention is on it and its fine motor skills?"
"Yeah, I've noticed that. It's great. Keep going?"
"Right, yes, well—part of the work in, er, hooking you up? was ensuring that all necessary connections were made, which included your gene bladder, of course—certain things needed to be reinforced, or reshaped, or remade, to fit in—regardless, I was able to preserve and install it functionally, which aids in your ability to produce slurry—"
"And how."
"—and, er—"
"What's the stuff around the robot bit?" This is as close to a Zahhak mating call as you can manage, and you'd like to pride yourself on the efforts you're making to fluster him, but all you've been able to do for the past entire conversation is fight to keep your expression steady as he gently, carefully, delicately reviews every inch of you, bulge and sheath and nook. It feels so good! You're not sure how to take it! "And my nook?"
"Ah—well spotted, those are in fact the same material? It's—that was tricky, as the self-lubrication properties of troll concupiscent parts are not easy to replicate, and I was also attempting to mimic the approximate consistency of a troll nook and bulge, without sacrificing the necessary structural integrity to the self-lubrication? It took—"
You headbutt him. It's not exactly the most definitively pitch declarative move, but locking horns with you is a proposition that most trolls don't really manage to take. And headbutting gets the point across, and, well—you kind of? like the way his eyes light up when you challenge him a little?
"Ah, I see," he says, and his hand curls a little tighter around his "marvel of modern troll cybernetics and engineerieing" as he stares up at you. "This is intended to be a flirtation?"
"It's, uh—yeah. But. Maybe a bit more? Than that?"
"More than a flirtation? So a solicitation of sorts, then?"
You're getting infuriated. Gods fucking damn, you are going to have such good pitch sex with him. "More than that."
The blush goes a bit brighter. "A...relationship, then?"
"Yup," you tell him, and you're rewarded once more with the light in his eyes. "Now I need you to finish servicing me, yeah? I think you said something about oralflexors, and, uh—sensory organs?"
"A tongue is one of the strongest muscles, and also one of the most well-suited to exploring—"
"Uh huh," you say, and guide his head down. He's pretty fucking enthusiastic here, too! And professional, if the careful way he runs his tongue over your nook, around the edges of your sheath, and finally up your bulge is anything to go by.
"After I finish my examination of your bulge," he tells you, his mouth stained with bronze, "I would like to do a thorough inspection of your nook. With my tongue."
"You'd better," and fuck, he does something that ought to be illegal that makes you try to thrust into his throat. "It, it's not—I'm fully intending to sink my bulge into that tight nook of yours."
He moans around your bulge (when the fuck did he manage to fully swallow your bulge? Shit! He's right at the base of your length, lips brushing your sheath, and it's all you can do not to thrust down his throat. He'd probably enjoy that. He's probably getting off on all of it! You catch his hair, tugging the tie out of it just to watch the silky curtain fall around his perfect jawline, and roll your hips a little more, just to hear the sound of his machinery and watch the way his eyes haze over.
"Are you—you're jerking off already, aren't you—fuck—"
He sucks on your bulge again, hollowing out as he draws you deep into his throat—and then he pulls back slow, the chill of him all over and around you leaving you groaning. You're not sure how he's doing it, his tongue tracing little movements around you like you were something intricate, precious, delicate, like you hadn't just fucked up his whole carefully calibrated schedule for the rest of the night, probably, like—
Fuck, like he wanted you pitch, nearly as badly as you wanted him.
"Hope I'm not messing with any of your plans?" You're trying for airypushered, but you're worried it comes out needing.
You didn't need to worry; he pulls back and his expression is almost sweetly solemn. "I book time into my schedule for extra repairs. Also, ah—I, often, need some time. To myself. After our sessions."
"Holy shit," you say, your gazeorbs wide. "Have you been jerking off thinking about me?"
"You are very attractive," he says, and then he can't seem to meet your gaze anymore. "And I am quite proud of my extensive work—"
"Annnnd back into the pitch!" You tug on one of his horns, guiding him a little lower. As much fun as it would be to come in his mouth, you want him to eat you out first, you want to spill all of your loads (as many of them as possible) right into his nook. Actually, you're pretty excited to see how many rounds you can go for? And—
Equius' tongue—oralflexor! His stupid highblood words invading your thinkpan—is as good a tool as any, and he's inspecting every single inch of your nook like it's his job to. Haha, wait. But, yeah—he's so good at this, catching at all of your senses and nerves, leaving you breathless and trying to grind down against his very clever mouth. "More, fuck—"
He obliges. Professional to the last!
You do appreciate that about him. Greatly, in fact—even more so when you've got him on his front over his worktable, when you spread him out on the examination table with his support limbs in the air, spread wide, your hips rolling down into him as you fuck him, harder and harder, when you sit him in your lap and have him ride you—
—when you coax him into showing you a few tricks that your new body can do while you're buried inside him, the vibrations and coiling and rippling that your new hardware can do—
—when you curl up around him as the day breaks over the pair of you—
—when you wake up with him curled up around you.
He is steady and patient. You think you can really start to appreciate that. In a kismesis.
Maybe.
Probably.
(absolutely.)