One Night In Robotropolis

You’re shaking.

In disbelief at what you’re even considering.

You have only yourself to blame. You suggested this.

Of course, it’s the only card they have left to play. How could you say no to them?

The ends will justify the means, certainly. Even at the cost of your own dignity.

Still... You should learn how to say no, once in a while.

You sigh and close your eyes, collecting your thoughts in between cracks of thunder, pounding rain, standing on the steps of Dr. Robotnik’s kingdom—a forbidden domain, a place of danger.

Beyond these walls is a man who is somehow human, yet also machine. A man who has you in his sights. A man you fear.

Keyword here, "man". He is still just a man.
Right?

Your ruminations are interrupted by the sudden creak and shift of the mechanical doors opening, and you almost jump. You play it cool, shaking off the anxiety as you walk into the lion’s den.

There’s vulnerable, and then there’s totally helpless. You.

You remind yourself to stay calm. He can smell fear. Heck, he might be scared too, right? Doubtful.

Who would be scared of you? 

Whatever, enough rambling.

A few steps into the dreary industrial palace—the place he calls home—you stop suddenly in the darkness, not that you were moving particularly fast before. A large, round figure stands in front of you, red eyes glowing brightly.

Through that wicked light revealing his face, you see him wearing a wide, almost gentle grin, sitting below that ridiculous moustache.

You know that look.

“My,” he booms to greet you, stopping you in your tracks, breaking your train of thought. “What a surprise.”

You swallow. Funny enough, you gather that for once, he’s trying not to be intimidating, almost making an effort to be casual—after all, this is his court—but he is truly a presence that commands respect. And, still pretty bad at being casual.

“Tell me,” he continues, “what brings you here on this... lovely evening?"

You shift, and blush, as he keeps you in your sights. At this point, you can tell he's trying to mask his interest with a bit of smugness. Defense mechanism of his you've picked up on.

Too bad the cat's got your tongue. You try to get the words out, but they’re just not coming. You’ve rehearsed this a hundred times. Your mouth is dry and you're screwed.

“Ah, you’re speechless,” he comments. “Not to fret—I love a guessing game.” He steps toward you slowly, deliberately, and soft lights automatically flicker on with each step. He’s now fully visible. As are you.

He grins even wider, and you catch him looking you up and down. Embarrassed, you  adjust your shirt to avoid showing any cleavage.

Jeez, they were right. He really is into you, you think to yourself. 

He exhales, drinking you in and continuing to scan you.
“Would I be optimistic,” he inquires, “to think you’d be… open to joining the winning team, at long last?”

You close your eyes, hear your heart racing, and find your voice for a brief moment. “I, uh… maybe,” you manage to stammer. Great. You had more to say—until you made the fatal error of opening your eyes again and saw him staring into them. 

He glides a gloved hand over your forehead, pushing your hair out of the way. You feel like you could faint.

“Well, then,” he chuckles darkly, “I gather you may be interested in something else in the immediate.” He exhales and looks you up and down again. “Perhaps even something else, just as mutually beneficial?”

Spit it out. Spit it out. Spit it out.

You finally say, shakily, to Dr. Robotnik: “I want you.”

The words echo down the hallway—in your head, in his metallic ears. He stifles a grin, biting his lip.

“Ah,” he shudders, simmering. Those three words have activated something powerful in him. He puts his hand under your chin, lifting your eyes to meet his.
In a low whisper, he continues, “Could you say that one more time?”

You breathe.

Remember, this is for the mission. Right?

“I want you,” you repeat in a slightly louder whisper.

Not a complete lie, you realize. He is kind of cute.

He presses his forehead to yours, gently. You feel like you might explode.

“What else?” he asks. “Tell me what I can do for you.”

A beat.

You find the strength to use your words again and decide to be honest.

“Take me.”

He strokes the back of your head. In one sudden movement, cups your chin and kisses you powerfully. It's breath-taking.

No turning back now.

Your legs are trembling. You hold onto him, embracing him, your mind racing. Your arms are around the enemy—the man you swore you’d depose. A wicked, cruel man.

And yet you relish the fact that his organic hand is now firmly planted on your breast, his metallic hand traveling to your hip, his tongue buried your mouth.

He pulls back just enough to leave you breathless, his lips parting from yours before he lowers his face to your neck, nuzzling close. You feel the slow warmth of his breath as he inhales your scent, lingering there as though savoring the moment. A quiet thrill runs through you—sudden, dangerous.

“Come with me,” he commands, softly against your ear. Seconds later, he lifts you effortlessly into his arms, cradling you bridal-style, and strides swiftly down the corridor toward a dimly lit lift at the far end of the hall. His breathing is heavy with anticipation, his grip firm and possessive. As the doors slide open, he glances down at you with a wide, unmistakably satisfied smile—one that makes it clear he already believes you belong to him.

Well, you didn’t plan on this, but you’re not complaining either.

He holds you close as the lift comes to a halt, still carrying you like his life depends on it. “Finally,” he mutters to himself as the doors open. He runs—faster than any fat guy you’ve ever seen—down the hallway.

“Your chambers?” you find the courage to ask, just trying to make some conversation.

“Yes,” he replies shortly, out of breath, struggling to hold you with one arm while using the other to hurriedly punch in his access code.

Access denied. He fat-fingered it.

“Ah, come on,” you hear him mutter under his breath, flustered, rushed, eager—slightly out of character for him.

Access granted.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, exhausted, rushing to the bed to lay you down.

Inside, a massive bed dominates the center of the vaulted chamber, the room decorated with an almost theatrical blend of royal luxury and romantic excess. Along the walls hang numerous professionally rendered portraits and carefully sculpted statues—each one, unsurprisingly, a flattering likeness of the Doctor.

But as your eyes adjust, you notice something more unsettling.
Mixed among the displays are printed surveillance photos of you, captured from different angles, different days. And near them hangs a large painted portrait—beautifully executed, undeniably striking, yet just a little too revealing for comfort—clearly depicting you. Hand-painted by… someone.

Good grief. He's got it bad.

Then, suddenly, he leaves you and runs to a series of screens on the other side of the room—cameras for the command center, feeds from all other parts of the palace, an open communication network with Snively. He kneels, grunts as he unplugs the entire system from the wall hurriedly, and tosses the plugs and connections to the floor like garbage. The screens go black. This man doesn't give a damn.

He turns back to you, propped up on his very comfortable bed, somehow looking sexier than you intended.

“No interruptions,” he commands to nobody in particular, as he marches toward you, locked-in, trying to get those shoulder pads and cape off as quickly as possible.

You blink. Within seconds, he is on you -- ravenous, grunting, trying desperately to unzip the rest his jumpsuit with one hand. His mouth is once more on yours, metallic hand on your wrist holding you to the bed, his obvious and trapped erection rubbing against your hip. Your head is swimming. What have you gotten yourself into?

He finally pulls back for air. “Forgive me,” he whispers, breath uneven, rising onto his knees as he focuses on undoing the stubborn fastenings of his many-layered jumpsuit—far too complicated to manage while multitasking.

“For what?” you ask, still catching your breath, fumbling with your own layers to help the process along.

It feels unbearably warm in the room—like the temperature has climbed past a hundred degrees—though you’re not entirely sure whether that’s real or just you.

Then you pause.

The weight of the moment settles in, sudden and undeniable. This is actually happening, and you’re not even sure what this fully means yet.

A quiet realization follows, sending a nervous flutter through your chest. 
You’ve never done this before.

While you drift off into thought again, he somehow manages to strip out of his layers in what feels like mere seconds. You’re jolted back to the moment as he turns his attention to you, helping you do the same with unmistakable urgency. Now kneeling over you, he shows no trace of hesitation or embarrassment—only pure, unmistakable desire. His gaze lingers as he gently lifts your shirt over your head, tossing it aside onto the far end of the bed with an almost boyish eagerness, like a child tearing open a long-awaited present. “You’re perfect,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Perfect,” he repeats, his voice softer this time.

Holding himself above you, he leans down and passionately kisses your neck, bites you, and simultaneously struggles to get your leggings off with his free hand. His mouth now traveling to your chest, he pulls your bottoms down just far enough (for the moment) to slide his hand inside you.
You tense and gasp as his touch moves further than anything you’ve ever experienced. He immediately notices, his expression shifting to concern, and stops at once. “What is—what is wrong?” he asks softly. “I’m sorry,” you say, catching your breath.

 “I’ve never done this before.” You might as well come clean.

His eyes widen. “…This—you mean intercourse?” You shake your head, suddenly worried you may have disappointed him. For a moment he simply stares, visibly startled, then inhales sharply, still trying to process what you’ve said.

A pause passes between you.

“You are certain this is what you want?” he asks, disbelief softening his voice. You nod. A slow smile spreads across his face. “Then I must change my strategy,” he replies, his tone warm with affection and care.
The spark of desire in his eyes remains unmistakable, but now it is tempered with something steadier—an unmistakable sense of responsibility.

He lays next to you, trailing his fingers along the curves your body for a moment, then, like a precious and fragile possession, holding you close. You even feel his so-called "metallic heart" beating a little. You know it can't be all metal.

“You—you want me to be your first?” he asks, genuine curiosity in his voice, as though half expecting you to say no. The tyrant of Robotropolis, worried about something so personal—almost unimaginable. “Not that I subscribe to traditions or notions of ‘purity’ tied to a first night,” he continues, “but I do believe it ought to be memorable… and, at the very least, pleasurable.”

You find yourself appreciating his words, even if they’re not what you expected—perhaps a side of him few ever see.

Maybe he really is more complicated than you thought.

The realization only steadies your resolve. You lean closer and kiss him, answering without hesitation.

“I admit,” he murmurs when the kiss breaks,

“I have entertained many fantasies about you… but I never quite accounted for this particular scenario.”

Your curiosity sparks, and the confession only heightens the warmth already building inside you. “Tell me one!,” you exclaim, smiling, unable to resist.

He exhales, a quiet laugh slipping out as he glances away. “It’s not very interesting,” he says, almost sheepish, turning his head slightly—yet he continues anyway, clearly aware that his reluctance is only making you more eager to hear. 
"But, my favorite recurring thought of you is, with me, in my chair, in the command center, in the dark". Lowly, he continues, "and I can go on, if you'd like." He laughs again.

You're tickled. Heck, the FBI couldn't torture this sort of thing out of you. A movie in your head plays: 
He's saying your name, staring at surveillance imagery of you. Pleasuring himself.
Awesome.

You blush and shake the thought away. You can't deny that you really love the thought of someone carrying a torch for you like this, but... You've heard enough, for now.

Next to him, you turn his head to you with your hand.
You whisper to Ivo Julian Robotnik, eyes locked, with complete certainty: "I want you to be my first".

You barely finish the sentence before his mouth is somehow, nearly immediately in between your legs, thighs apart, his tongue desperately searching for you. You inhale sharply, your body involuntarily closing your legs around his face, his moustache tickling you.

He moans as he exhales, the vibration of his voice on your opening making you shiver.
He gently pulls your thighs apart again, ever so slightly, to avoid suffocation, but is now, all-in.

You're stifling your moans. You could scream, and, hell, you might at this point. Who would hear you? Who could blame you?

You arch your back, grasp his sheets, shout his name -- music to his ears. He doesn't have to imagine it anymore. It's real.
After a few moments, he comes up for air again. You smile a little when you notice he'd been stroking himself as he pleasured you.
He's been patient, hasn't he? Is it time to reward him?

You sit up as he stands up, a little woozy. You eye his impressive, persistent erection, now facing you, as he's still gently touching it at the tip, between his thumb and pointer finger.
You notice it's beginning to drip, like it might explode any minute. Poor guy needs some relief.

Before he can even react, you reach out and softly grip the shaft, running your fingers up and down, lightly. He shudders.

You look up, look him in the eyes, and still staring, you move your lips a little closer to kiss the tip, as he stares down at you in anticipation.
Your tongue gently taps the head, your lips wrapping around it, as he rests his hand on your hair, instead opting to tuck a tuft behind your ear, in order to resist the overwhelming urge to pull your head down on his knob.
Restraint is not his strong suit, but for this, he knows: he has no choice but to chase away the intrusive thoughts this time.

You somehow muster up the courage to engulf his swollen cock in your mouth, in full. He leans his head back as your lips touch his base, nose on his belly. Your reward is to hear him unleash a sound so primal, you'd swear it weren't human.

You slowly repeat the motion, swaying back, forth, back, forth, as he stands and interchanging shuddering breaths and little moans in response.

Suddenly, he retracts from your mouth without warning. "My apologies", he tells you, holding himself, avoiding disaster.
"I don't want to finish, not like this. I can't just yet".

Refocusing, he inhales, exhales, leans back down on the bed with you, shoulder-to-shoulder, using a thick finger to stroke your opening, up and down. He positions it to penetrate, but remains gentle, cautious.

"May I?" he asks, his voice softening.

You lay down in anticipation, and whimper a bit as his digit passes through.

"I know it's difficult, but avoid being tense", he counsels. "I won't hurt you. I promise."
You listen, look at his eyes, and inhale once more as he presses inside.
Initial awkwardness and discomfort is replaced very shortly with pleasure, ease, and a delightful, intense sensation.

He smiles, relieved, as you relax, moan, and continue the motion, practically grinding on his hand.
"Ah, she likes it," he sighs to himself.
First, slowly. Then faster. And yet, even faster.

This continues, until neither one of you can take this anymore.
Now, or never, you think to yourself.

Without hesitation, he climbs on top of you. Understanding, you open yourself.
"Go slow", you whisper.
Silently, he locates himself beneath his bulk, and brushes up against you, searching for the entry point.
Access granted, he thinks to himself.

He slides, gently, into you. He grunts, says your name, as the tightness and heat of your opening create an unimaginable experience for him. He shuts his eyes and reminds himself to show restraint, as you quiver and shake taking him, making little noises as you connect.

“I love you,” he murmurs under his breath carelessly, unwittingly, almost without realizing he dropped these words in the open air.
You don’t hear this accidental admission -- lost in the rhythm of your own breathless sounds, eyes closed, hands gripping his shoulders, wrapped in a world of your own. 

He's quietly relieved that the words went unnoticed.

He opens his eyes, and watches you tilt your head back as he very slightly moves uptempo.
Without warning, Julian realizes his limit is met. He briefly motions to retract once more from you, but isn't quick enough to outrun the explosion.

Quickly, he's overwhelmed, and lets go. He cums in you, shuddering, shaking, as he spills rope after rope inside.

Though he's finished, he's still buried deep in you, too spent to care about anything else. His bed, his life, his world is a mess, but it's the most perfect sight.

You look up at him, on top of you, both of you struggling to catch your breath in the afterglow.
A beat.

He looks up -- a flicker. The lights go out. It's dark.

"Whatever", Julian sighs. He turns over, embraces you, indifferent to this problem. You're here now.